#song;come down soon by lizzy mcalpine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ma1dita · 9 months ago

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when the curtains close

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> love me dry | next -> asking for trouble words: 5.3k summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint (posted 5/14/24)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking.

In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why… why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be fine. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, Dad, not children. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere.

There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

#luke castellan x reader #trouble!verse #made by ma1dita ♥︎#pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst

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l0vergirlwrites · 7 months ago

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hold steady ; steve harrington

synopsis: life has hit you hard since the events of spring break. but the softness of steve reminds you that you’re not alone, & that you shouldn’t be ashamed for how you’re handling everything.

warnings: post-season 4 setting, descriptions of grief & guilt, mental health issues & trauma, written with fem!reader in mind (but can apply to other identities too)

wrote this while listening to role model’s song “so far gone” feat. lizzy mcalpine!

you’re being dramatic you internally told yourself in the mirror, trying to make yourself believe the statement so you’d calm down.

you weren’t sure what time it was. the house was quiet, aside from the soft hum of the cold air passing through the vents. you tried making the sound of it louder in your head in hopes it’d ground you. but it wasn’t working.

so, you continued to stand in the bathroom with the nightlight plugged into the wall, staring at yourself in the mirror’s reflection. you couldn’t get over how different you looked now in comparison to who you were before spring break. something inside you seemed to have died a bit more than last summer, & you could tell from whatever aura you were emitting.

you had originally came here to wash your face after one of your bad dreams; to remind yourself that you’re in the present, you’re safe (for now), & that the past can’t hurt you anymore—at least that’s what your therapist wants you to do, but it doesn’t help as much as you wished it would. you just hoped the sound of the sink running wouldn’t have woken up steve.

he’s been in a bad place like you, despite how hard he’s working to help rebuild hawkins. with soup kitchens, garage & yard sales, donation boxes littered at every street corner, & community programs that have emerged since the town was practically ripped apart, steve’s been doing what he can to help.

you know steve’s got good heart, so you weren’t surprised with how involved he’s been. but you also know how his tiredness has been eating him alive, interfering with his sleep & energy whenever he’s home. tonight was the first night he feel asleep at before midnight, & you didn’t want to disrupt his r.e.m. cycle.

so, if crying in the bathroom while clutching the counter meant that steve could continue sleeping without any interruptions, you’d do it.

luckily, most of your crying was silent except when the occasional hiccup or whimper escaped your lips. you tried keeping it together, but it was hard. the weight in your chest was excruciating, but you’ve been through this many times before, so you knew you could handle it.

you just needed to hold onto the counter tighter to stay upright & it would pass, right?

moments later, when another shaky breath was exhaled, you could hear a door creak open from the hallway, footsteps padding slowly along the soft cream carpet flooring, getting closer to where you were.

you heard a groggy voice call your name from behind the bathroom door in search of you.

you tried staying quiet, hoping he’d just go back to bed because you didn’t want to talk about it, but you knew he wouldn’t. steve insisted he slept better with you beside him.

“are you in there?” he asked, bending two fingers to knock softly on the wooden door.

you closed your eyes shut, feeling the weight on your chest pang heavier. “i-i’ll be back in a minute” you said as clear as you could, but the strain in your voice wasn’t convincing.

steve knew you, & sometimes you hated it.

“can i�� can i come in?” he hesitated, afraid of scaring you away.

you didn’t have to say anything because you knew he’d come in aways, soon finding you with your head hung low & knuckles white from your grip on the counter.

he didn’t have to say anything either as he came closer, his warm touch infiltrating your space as you felt his chest press into your spine, head nuzzling into your shoulder while his arms wrapped around your stomach. the feeling of him made you choke out a sob.

you felt like you didn’t deserve his sweetness, but your brain was lying to you.

“you don’t have to do this alone. unless you want to” he mumbled into your shoulder, treading carefully because he knew your pain all too well. it’s a hard thing to navigate & he doesn’t want you to feel cornered.

you shivered, tensing up again until you reminded yourself that it’s just steve, that he loves you, that you don’t need to hide—but it just feels like the opposite.

“i know” you said unevenly, breathing in but whimpering when your chest tightened uncomfortably. “everything is just… hard” was the best way you could put it.

steve nodded against you, kissing your shoulder as a way to tell you that he knows, that he hears you.

“i don’t want to feel this way forever” you cried, head dropping low again as your eyes pinched shut. “i just want to go back to before so badly. w-we don’t deserve this—all the shit we’ve dealt with—it’s so unfair” you begin to shake, chest raising up & down with a little more speed than before. the scars on your body burned with each passing second, as if they were still fresh from the claws of demo dogs & demo bats—flashes from the past you wish wouldn’t play in your brain.

with tears blurring your sight, you didn’t fight it when steve peeled your hands away from the counter, when he turned you to face him, or when he pulled you tightly to his chest, letting your face press into the crook of his neck & your hands bunch up the material of his t-shirt.

“i know, baby. we shouldn’t have gone through it. it’s not fair at all” steve agrees, shutting his eyes & letting out a shaky sigh into your hair because he feels the same way.

he feels the same anger & frustration & emptiness that you do. hell, he knows the whole party does too. it’s just how it is.

steve lets you cry as much as you need, lets you grip his back to hold steady & dampen his t-shirt because it helps remind him that you’re still here, that you didn’t face the fate that many others did during spring break & long before. that he still has you to love & work through the mass amounts of grief & fear that are still embedded inside you both.

“i’m sorry for waking you up” you sniffled loudly. “i know you’re exhausted”.

“don’t be. you needed me. i sensed it” he mainly said the last bit to make you scoff, laugh or anything of the sort. but it was true—he swore he had a sixth sense for you.

lifting your head back, brushing the tear stains from your eyes with the backs of your hands, steve continued giving you gentle touches. he knows that it’s calming for you.

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me” your lips frowned as you looked at him, his eyes shining a tiny bit from the nightlight.

“i feel like i can’t get back to normal. l-like i’m broken—stuck in a loop” you admitted, trying to find comfort in steven’s repetitive touches.

“you’re not broken,” steve started, moving a hand to hold your cheek, thumb smoothing against your skin. “you’re just healing. & no one expects you to be fine—i’m sure as hell not” he assured you, heart melting when you leaned into his hand.

opening your mouth to speak, the words won’t come out, as if they were stuck in your throat. so steve continued.

“what you went through…,” his bottom lip trembled at the thought, memories of all the blood & screaming & fear racing back. “you didn’t deserve any of it. i-if i could take that pain away, i would—in a heartbeat. b-but i can’t” his tone sounded defeated.

“i wish i could take yours away too” you breathed out, raising one of your hands up to run through his hair.

there was always a part of steve that blamed himself for what you went through. you had a part of you that felt the same thing.

“you always tell me that things take time—that as each day goes by, we’ll feel a little less hurt, a bit stronger than before,” he looked deep into your eyes, leaning his head closer to yours. “we just have to believe it. even if it feels like a lie sometimes” you nodded your head in agreement.

collapsing back into steve’s chest, you smiled a bit when you felt his cheek press into your hair. “i hope me talking about my… stuff… isn’t like weighing you down, you know? ‘cause i know you have your own—“

“hey, hey, hey,” he pulled you back, both of his hands holding your face now. “none of that, okay? i want you to talk to me about this—about anything you feel. i don’t hide from you, so you don’t gotta hide from me” he said sweetly but firmly, kissing your forehead before you could blink.

you couldn’t control the tears that brimmed your eyes, or the shaky sigh that left your lips at his words. you felt extremely lucky.

“i think i’m gonna need you to remind me of that sometimes. is that okay?” you asked, hands resting atop of steve’s chest while his brushed more of your tears away. the pain in your chest didn’t fully disappear, but it was better than nothing.

“more than okay” he smiled, pulling your face closer to his so he could kiss you, hoping it could melt away some of your pain for the night.

not long after, steve led you back to bed, just like you did for him the other night when he too had a meltdown. he pulled you to his chest when you both had settled under the comforter, your breath fanning his neck as you shut your eyes, trying to focus on the good & not the bad.

“i love you” you whispered in the dark, pressing a kiss to the skin of his collarbone.

he felt his heart skip a beat like clockwork at those words. “i love you too”.

#l0vergirlwrites💌#steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #steve stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #stranger things fanfic #stranger things netflix #joe keery #joe keery imagines #joe keery fanfiction

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delusionaldeadgirl · 4 months ago

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I’d Bleed Myself Dry For You

Spencer Reid x Famous Singer!reader

Summary: Spencer’s ex is a famous singer. Penelope’s favorite to be exact. After what happened to Maeve, Spencer didn’t share his love life. The team finds out after the fact.

Warnings: Sad, Use of Y/N

Excitedly, Penelope runs out of her “lair” up to Derek with her laptop. Seeing as though there weren’t any cases, the team was just doing paperwork at the BAU.

“Woah slow down Baby Girl. What’s going on?” Derek asked. “ONLY MY FAVORITE SINGER Y/N LIVE-STREAMING HER DC SHOW!”

Spencer’s ears perked up at the name. No one knew their history. He didn��t want to seem suspicious at the mention of her so he just went back to what he was doing.

Penelope opened up her laptop. The lights of the venue twinkled like stars. Almost as if they were shining on her through the screen. She knew every one of Y/N’s songs, everything about her, except her past shared life with their very own Boy Genius.

As the music began, Penelope leaned closer to the screen, her heart racing. The first few songs flew by as the crowd was loud with excitement. But when Y/N introduced a new track, an immediate hush fell over the audience.

“This next song is about love and loss, and how the memories still linger”. By now Derek, Emily and JJ had all surrounded Penelope’s laptop. As the music started, Spencer couldn’t help but look up from his work to listen to Y/N’s song. As soon as it started playing he noticed he didn’t recognize it. Which isn’t common given his eidetic memory.

“Pull the plug in September”

“I don’t wanna die in June”

As the song went on, those around couldn’t help but be captivated by her performance. Even Spencer. What really captured their attention was soon, on a screen behind Y/N, home videos began to play.

“And the funny thing is I would’ve married you if you had stuck around”

Y/N sang with tears in her eyes.

In the series of clips, moments unfolded—sunlit days in the park, laughter over coffee, and momentary glimpses of a tall figure with curly brown hair. The hand on Y/N’s shoulder, the way he fit in frame. Penelope recognized those slightly awkward mannerisms anywhere.

“Wait is that…?” She whispered, shifting her eyes to look at Derek. “What’s going on?” he asked as he noticed her shift in demeanor, JJ noticing as well.

“That’s Spencer! It has to be!” She whispered, not very quietly. Emily leaned closer to the screen, piecing it together. “So that’s why he gets quiet when we bring up his love life” She said.

Spencer unbeknownst to what they were saying was entranced by the sound coming out of Penelope’s speakers. The marriage lyric hitting the hardest. He knew she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He let his traumas and doubts get in the way of what for the first time ever, felt like true love.

As the song continued, the lyrics tugged at Spencer’s heart. It was clear that this song was about a love that slipped away, a love that still held weight. Their love, she missed him as much as he missed her. He felt so stupid.

“I had no choice in the matter. Why would I? It’s only the death of me”

The final lines washed over them like a wave, and when the applause erupted from the audience, Penelope sat back breathless. “I can’t believe this. How could he keep this from us?”

Spencer rushed out of the bullpen. Derek crossed his arms, “Looks like Pretty Boy has some explaining to do”.

Penelope nodded, sympathy settling in her chest. “We need to make sure he knows we’re here for him.” JJ added.

“Very true. However I am rooting on getting them back together” Penelope said.

They all share a giggle at a classic Penelope anecdote, wondering how Spencer is processing this.

a/n: this is a common fic theme i love so i wanted to add something of my own to it. i’m not a writer so please be nice.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #spencer reid x y/n #matthew gray gubler x reader #Spotify

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the-travelling-witch · 1 year ago

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𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐌‘𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄

summary: what kind of music the piercers/tattoo artists of my modern au would listen to

characters: piercer!/tattoo artist! xiao :: scara :: kazuha :: venti :: aether :: heizou

my modern au || genshin masterlist || the playlist

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎

melancholic and wistful/dreamy

black over-ears

When he felt like nobody around him understood him, Xiao fell into the comforting embrace of music, listening to artists who sang about the sentiments he kept to himself. It has always helped him express himself with pencil and pen though, letting the graphite tip dance over the paper more smoothly and less hesitantly. To this day, Xiao uses music to block out the world when it all gets too much and familiar tunes help him calm down.

死ぬのがいいわ- fuji kaze, exile- taylor swift/ bon iver, young and beautiful- lana del rey, gales of song- belle, the moon will sing- the crane wives

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀

indie rock

grey over-ears

Scara has been heavily influenced by Venti whose music could always be heard throughout their shared flat. While it vexed him at first, soon he found himself nodding along to the melodies, something his roommate noticed and then offered to share a Spotify account until Scara decided to make his own. And, although he’d rather die than admit it, despite how much he loathes his upbringing, he can’t deny that some classic pieces sneaked in between his usual rotation.

shake it out- florence + the machine, allies or enemies- the crane wives, too close- sir chloe , bohemian rhapsody- queen, winter- vivaldi

𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀

indie, folklore

old school white wired earphones

Kazuha loves to let his spirit rest as he absorbs the feelings artists pour into their music. For him, it’s important that he can connect to the story that’s being told, either through the lyrics or the sentiment the music conveys. He opts for rather calm songs that invite you to relax even if there’s a deeper meaning to the lyrics. Music is a way for him to create his peace of mind when he can’t be out and surrounded by the sound of nature.

feather- sabrina carpenter, cardigan- taylor swift, saw you in a dream- the japanese house, to the mountains- lizzy mcalpine, let’s fall in love for the night- finneas

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈

the definition of “listens to every genre” but has a soft spot for deep and tragic lyrics paired with a funky and upbeat sound

both over-ears and earbuds; also has a collection of old wired earphones tangled together (half of them are broken too)

Venti’s Spotify account is working overtime, that app is never closed. As a former band member, he knows how to play a variety of instruments and has tried a lot of styles himself, so he’s very open minded when it comes to new genres. He also absolutely kills it at karaoke nights, even if he’s already a few drinks in. Something might actually be wrong when he’s not nodding or singing along to the music playing in his head or tapping out the beat on whatever surface is closest. In general, handing Venti the aux is a fantastic idea because he can somehow always accurately gauge what music is the right mood for the given situation. He also judges films based on the soundtrack.

夜に駆ける- yoasobi, people watching- conan gray, kingdom dance- alan menken, u- belle/millennium parade, icarus- bastille

𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

(80s) rock and metal or pop

rose-gold or white earbuds

For Aether, listening to music is the time he can let his (gorgeous) hair down. While he’s normally busy making sure everyone else is okay and is doing fine, he seldom takes the time to take care of himself. So when he can lean back and turn up the volume, it’s a very welcome breath of fresh air. The deep base and powerful voices help catalyse any feelings that might have built up over time, and, just maybe, the songs and lyrics are familiar from the time he was lost and confused about what his place in the world was. Yet, he can also appreciate the catchy tunes of popular pop songs that get stuck in his head.

killer queen- queen, master of puppets- metallica, one step closer- linkin park, valentine- måneskin, paradise- sophie and the giants/ purple disco machine

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔

your local girl group stan

branded earbuds (ahem ahem airpods)

Heizou is a very energetic person and it shows in his music taste. Not only are his playlists full of upbeat kpop girl group bangers, he also knows just about all of the corresponding dances. More often than not, you can hear him humming and whistling along even when he doesn’t have his earbuds in. It’s also a great gateway to interacting with customers; you better believe Heizou is already halfway into a conversation when he catches a glimpse of a photocard.

fancy- twice, eta- newjeans, unforgiven- le sserrafim, queencard- (g)-idle, zimzalabim- red velvet

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

➺ send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

Genshin Impact: @mccnstruck @teyvattales @silentmoths @ainescribe @meimeimeirin @dustofthedailylife @nsojbbkkm @kazuuhhaaaa @inufinuf @ynverse @nico707 @boba-is-a-soup @hellithides @ryuryuryuyurboat @the-guardian-kitsune

Modern Au: @r0ttenhearts @bananasquash @hoshiwitch @franaby

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heartofwritiing · 1 year ago

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home is wherever you are tonight

paring: cc!wilbur soot x fem!reader

summary: its your birthday, a day you dread every year due to bad memories, and wilbur manages to change your mindset.

authors note: this has been sitting in my drafts since march and i forgot about it oops. this is completely self indulgent. Ive dreaded my birthday for the past five years because of personal reasons… i thought maybe writing a non-shitty fake birthday would make me feel better so, it did lol. enjoy!! :)

warnings: self indulgent, mentions of childhood trama, negative past events, mentions of toxic family, fluff, Wilbur being the cutest-best boyfriend, hurt-comfort, yes the title is a lyric from a lizzy mcalpine song.. unedited!

The day had come. the day you dreaded every year for as long as you could remember. it was your birthday.

Most people would be elated about turning another year older, to celebrate but not you. Instead, it filled you with utter disinterest and resentment. To you, it was just another day on the calendar.

Ever since you could remember you’ve just hated your birthday. Each year just felt like they got worse and worse with the number of times You had been let down. Whether it was by family drama or people just forgetting. It was the same every year. So when you finally moved away from your toxic relatives you pretty much forget about it. Only remembering when you'd get a text from your parents to wish you a happy birthday. At least they remembered now that you were gone...

You were relieved when no one at work had brought it up. you never really talked to your coworkers about your personal life, you weren't that type of person. Still, you were grateful the only attention you got today was from one of your peers Matt, asking about the printer in the office not working right.

When you walked into your flat, what you weren’t expecting was too see your boyfriend standing near the door waiting for you.

“why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” Wilbur asks in a slightly offended tone.

The front door hasn’t even shut yet and he’s caught you completely off guard with his question. Your heart drops in your stomach.

“hello to you too,” you snort, putting your bag down and sliding your jacket off. "And how'd you even know?" Avoiding the question. Cause that will make this better.

he sighs.

“Answer the question please, love,”

You’re toeing off the uncomfortable shoes you were required to wear at your job as you blankly bink back at him.

You can tell by the frowned expression on his face that he wasn’t just gonna let you drop this anytime soon. His arms are crossed over his sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as his curls fall around his eyes.

“maybe because it's not a big deal,” you shrugged. Wilbur stops you with a hand on your shoulder before you can escape to your shared room. It wasn't forceful but gentle, his eyes asking you to stay, talk, anything. You just wanted to go to bed and sleep until your shift tomorrow and just forget about this whole day.

"What do you mean by that?" he asks. "I don't particularly like my birthday but still celebrate with friends, family, and loved ones."

There it was.

You wanted to avoid this.

"Look, I don't want to pressure you into talking about this, you can tell me when you're ready. I can tell how uncomfortable you got when I asked you outright why you didn't say anything about it being your birthday, I'm sorry..."

You could tell he was just confused and who could blame him. You had only been dating for about a year and finally moved in together last month. He didn't want to pressure you into anything you weren't ready for, which was one of the many things you adored about him. Always so patient and thoughtful about your feelings and well-being.

There was no avoiding it now as he asked the question. Your heart beating in your ears.

“Why don’t you like your birthday, love?”

“well…” you began, but you could feel the lump in your throat forming as you thought carefully how to put it. You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “I just, have a lot of trauma revolving around today,”

Wilbur has moved slowly towards you now, almost like you were a spooked animal and he was trying to calm you. He listened carefully as you spoke slowly.

“my parents fought a lot growing up, and even on my birthday they just didn’t seem to care, even for one day, so i mostly spent my birthdays alone.”

The look in his eyes says it all. He feels so heartbroken for you. You collapsed into his chest and he wrapped you in his arms, squeezing you firmly and you felt the weight in your chest fading.

"Well listen, I got you your favorite type of cake, a good bottle of wine, not that cheap shit, the really nice one we liked. we're gonna sit on the couch and eat, and you can tell me all about your day." he pauses only to bring your face out from his chest to look you in your eyes. "and then, we're gonna cuddle and I'm gonna tell you how much I love and appreciate you."

With that, he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs and kisses your nose softly. You swear that press of his lips was what made you cave. You began to break down in front of him.

Wilbur's hands seem to be the only thing keeping you upright at the moment. If he wasn't holding you, you were sure you would have fallen to your knees by now. You sob silently as you take his wrists in your hands but don't remove them from your cheeks. The intensity of the long work day and all the recurring memories this day brought you every year, combined with Wilbur's sweet gestures and words made you break.

You felt everything come down on you all at once, yet there Wilbur was, always waiting for you at the end of the day. Always there to comfort you and support you. So these weren’t sad tears no, they were happy tears. Finally, you found someone who cherished you and cared for you enough.

@trashcanduck @merakiwi @addxms @ax-y10 @highstonedcat

#wilbur soot x reader #fanfiction #wilbur soot x fem!reader #cc!wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fanfiction #x reader #fluff #mcyt imagine #birthday fic 🥳#self insert

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slowlyfoggydestiny · 21 days ago

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Inspired and encouraged by @bekkachaos it was hard since my playlist currently has 77 songs lol but I try no to pick variety and different to the usuals you find (like you are in love by Taylor swift which is buddie hymn )

Here some snippet of the songs and my favorite lyrics

Cupid by Xana

I am freaking out

Loving something that can be taken from me

@lover-of-mine has no one but two amazing edits that leave no doubt about how buddie this song is.

2. Ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine

Touch me like nobody else does Lovely To just lay here with you

same as the one before you have to see the buddie edit is just so so good

3. Risk by Gracie Abrams

Too soon to tell you I love you You're the risk, I'm gonna take it

4.Someone to stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic

Will you fix me up? Will you show me hope? At the end of the day, we're helpless Can you keep me close? Can you love me most?

aka the ultimate first kiss song for me that exactly part bridge post bridge

5. Hold me like a grudge by Fall out boys

The world is always spinning, and I can't keep up, woah Faster and faster, can't do it on my own Part-time soulmate, full-time problem, yeah So, hold me like a grudge

6. Defenseless by Louis Tomlinson

No, you don't have to keep on being strong for me and you Acting like you feel no pain, you know I know you do And I can't get inside When you're lost in your pride But you don't have a thing to prove

season 5 buddie anyone?

7. Bad omens by 5SOS

These bad omens, I look right through them That's what you do when you love somebody

a tiktok edit made me

8. Work song by Hozier

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

9. Everywhere , Everything by Noah Kahan

Everywhere, everything, I wanna love you 'Til we're food for the worms to eat 'Til our fingers decompose, keep my hands in yours

10.Helicopter by Maisie Peters

Just forgive me, if I hover close I'm a helicopter, 'cause I love you so

Very Eddie pov if you ask me

comment your buddie songs, i love to find new ones

also tagging some mutuals and people i like in case they wanna make theirs although i probably missed a few because of me memory but if you see this is you can use it as tag and tag me :) .

@lonelychicago @bidisasterevankinard @eddiebabygirldiaz @spaceprincessem @lover-of-mine @eddiediaaz @imtheiliad @dr-shortsighted-owl @cal-daisies-and-briars @littlespoonevan @dangerpronebuddie @tizniz @pirrusstuff @rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @chaosandwolves @caramelcalum

#Spotify #polls #buddie #911

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nolita-fairytale · 2 years ago

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comfort & chaos | carmy berzatto x fem!reader | chapter three: heat waves

summary: after a bad date, you find yourself on carmy's doorstep. (the five times carmen berzatto fell in love with you a little and the one time he finally told you)

warnings: so much pining you may be entitled to compensation after reading this, swearing, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns, drinking & smoking, suggestive language, mentions of covid-19, eventual smut.

word count: 3.5k

listen to: i like me better - lauv | ceilings - lizzy mcalpine | heat waves - glass animals (i'm sorry but this song invented sexual tension. full stop.) better than i know myself - del water gap

read: chapter two

“sometimes all I think about is you, late nights in the middle of june…” (heat waves – glass animals)

June 2021

You: Hey, I’m in your neighborhood. You around?

Carmy: Yeah, what’s up?

You: Want some company?

Carmy: 👍

You: Heading your way.

Carmy: It started raining. Be careful.

You: I noticed. Thanks, dad.

Carmy: 🙄

You’re not ready to go home yet as you head towards Carmy’s apartment. You’re not sure why you thought it was a good idea to download a dating app the other week… and you’re trying your best not to read into the fact that your first thought was to reach out to Carmy. Hesitant to tell him, you figure you’ll just surprise him by showing up like this – all dressed up.

It’s not like he’s your boyfriend. He probably won’t even notice, you think to yourself.

You hope he just doesn’t say anything – so that you don’t have to tell him you were on a date – but as soon as the torrential downpour starts, there’s no way he won’t say anything. You're only a block and a half away, so you decide to power through, storm be damned.

“Woah,” he says, as soon as he opens the door.

“‘Looks like you got caught in the rain’ woah, or…like a ‘you look overdressed’ kinda woah?” you ask back, your hair beginning to drip on the carpet.

“Both?” he offers up, trying his best to make it seem like he’s not checking you out. “You’re uh… fancy.”

“Yeah…” you trail off, not sure how much you’re going to reveal. It’s just not something you’ve really talked about yet and you’re ambivalent about how he may react. Hell, you’re ambivalent about how you feel about it too.

But Carmy hasn’t invited you in yet either, blocking your pathway as he tries not to make it blatantly obvious that he’s gawking at you. “I uh… sort of had a date.”

“Oh,” he mutters, before stepping aside to invite you in.

He takes a beat, watching you carefully as you enter his apartment.

“How’d it go?” he asks, hesitantly.

“Uh… not great,” you admit, with a shrug. “But I’m not sure what I expected either. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Oh! Yeah sure,” he nods, hurrying into his bedroom.

Carmy mentally scolds himself for even asking. Would you really be here on his doorstep if it had gone well? He knows the answer, but what feels unfamiliar is the tight feeling that’s lodged itself in his chest.

He wonders when you started dating. It’s not like you’d said anything about it to him. It’s not like you owed it to him to say anything either. Were you on those apps he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around? Or maybe one of those investment banker fuckos that had come into the restaurant a few weeks ago. He’d been this close to burning the whole place down when he noticed one of them practically undressing you with their eyes as you’d walked by from your visit with another table.

Carmy returns to you with a pair of sweatpants and one of his pristine white t-shirts, his eyes fixed on you as you remove your shoes. The kitchen overhead is the only light that’s on, leaving most of the apartment lit only by the TV. You can see a few cigarette butts that have been aimlessly thrown across the ashtray he keeps on his coffee table, and you know he’s been smoking tonight.

“Pasta Grannies?” is all you ask, gesturing towards the TV.

“Yeah,” he nods. It’s as if he’s just remembered that he’s holding a dry pair of clothes for you, a look of panic plastered on his face. “Shit. I forgot. Here.”

“Thanks, Carm,” you say, taking them and disappearing into the bathroom for a quick change.

You examine your reflection in the mirror as you wring the excess water from your hair right into the sink. You take your time, tying your hair into a bun over the top of your head, immediately feeling at ease now that you��re here with him. While most of your makeup is gone, swept away by the rain, you feel much more like yourself in a pair of Carmy’s sweatpants that you ever felt in a fancy dress on that date. You hang your very wet dress over the shower curtain rod in Carmy’s bathroom to dry, before opening the door to rejoin him in the living room.

Carmy’s returned to the couch, his feet kicked up on the outside of the couch as he stretches out across it.

“Much better,” you comment, making your way towards him.

You settle into the couch with Carmy, curled up apart on opposite sides of the couch. It’s a comfortable pattern you’ve fallen into: hanging out, watching movies till 3 am while he smokes a few cigarettes to unwind from the day. You like this rhythm. And you like that it’s with him.

As another episode of Pasta Grannies begins, Carmy’s mind continues to race. He’s wracking his brain for any excuse to bring it up again – this whole, you dating thing.

He searches your face for any kind of in. He’s not sure what he’s looking for: a furrowed brow, a sigh of frustration, a look of dissatisfaction? Something he can ask about so that you’ll tell him more about your night. But as he examines you closely, trying his best to get a read on you, iit seems as if you’ve forgotten all about it, comfortably curled up on his shitty $50 dollar couch that he’d found at Goodwill.

“So… what was so bad about this date?” he finally manages to get out, surprising you.

You shrug, carelessly, “Men suck.”

Your answer makes him chuckle as he agrees with a, “Yeah, we do.”

You’re honestly surprised that he’s asking. You and Carmy had never really talked about dating – save for a few stories about your exes here and there. You got the impression that Carmy hadn’t dated a lot at all, nor did he seem all that interested in dating. At least that’s what you’ve figured, considering you spend all of your time together and he’s not once tried to make a move.

“Uh…” you start, figuring you’ll elaborate since he’s taken such an interest. “Just… not great conversationalist. The guy spent half the night trying to convince me that cryptocurrency was worth investing in and uh… I don’t know. Just wasn’t there for me, I guess.”

“What?”

“You know… that spark, I guess.”

And he does. He feels it every single time you look at him with your ‘you’re totally pissing me off and I hate how endearing it is’ look. He feels it on the rare occasion that he makes you laugh. Every time he makes you a new dish he’s working on and you tell him how annoying it is that he’s this damn good.

“Yeah, no I uh-. Sounds like it’d be important,” he offers up, suddenly feeling out of his league. It’s not like he can commiserate or agree with you from experience.

“You uh… wanna watch something else?” you ask him, quickly changing the subject.

“Sure, yeah,” he replies, tossing you the remote.

“Thank you,” you smile at him as you take it.

You begin scrolling through his smart TV’s apps, searching for a movie to put on in the background. The sounds of the rain falling harder and harder against his apartment windows fill his ears since nothing is playing in the background just yet. He doesn’t remember hearing about a storm, but it must’ve come on unexpectedly.

Carmy watches you as you explore your options, and he feels like his heart is going to explode out of his chest at the thought of some asshat sitting here on this couch with you – someone that’s not him. He swallows, suddenly aware that he’s clenching his fist. He relaxes it, beginning to fidget with a spare key chain that lays on the coffee table.

“You end up calling your brother?” you question, in reference to the last conversation you’d had about his Mikey.

You’d encouraged him to call, even though it seemed like Michael had been in touch lately.

“Yeah,” he sighs, disappointedly. “Didn’t pick up.”

“Sorry,” you sympathize, giving him an apologetic smile.

You decide on the first John Wick film when you learn that Carmy’s never seen it. You insist that it’s a classic and he tells you something along the lines of ‘that’s something my cousin would say.’ As the movie rolls on, you stretch your legs out, curling them in towards the back of the couch, while Carmy relaxes, taking up the space of the couch on the outside of you.

“I can’t believe you like this!” Carmy exclaims, gesturing towards the graphic depiction of violence on the TV. You watch Michael Nyqvist’s character shoot Willem Dafoe’s character multiple times, completely unphased, as he searches your face for any kind of emotional reaction.

“What?! Being a woman in a male dominated industry… I’ve found that watching action movies brings a sort of… catharsis to me,” you defend yourself playfully.

“So what you’re saying is… I’m sitting across from a psychopath?” he jokes, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s great.”

“Yeah,” you reply, matter of factly.

Carmy laughs dryly, his eyes flickering back to you. Your face, lit only by the dim cool hues of the television screen, seems more beautiful than ever. He wonders where the hell that thought came from, brushing it off like it’s nothing. Taking a more teasing tone, he lifts his head to ask:

“And how many times have you fantasized about doing that to me?”

You smirk, shaking your head as you reply, “You don’t want to know.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, letting out the smallest chuckle, before settling back into his spot on the couch. You laugh once again, enjoying this way more than your fancy dinner date.

You’re not sure how you’ve both managed to fall asleep in the midst of an action movie, but when you finally come to, you’re halfway through the second John Wick film and Carmy’s fast asleep. Your phone’s managed to fall on the floor, and you have to lean over Carmy’s legs to grab it.

“Shit what time is it?” he stirs, peeking an eye open as you lean over his feet, reaching for your phone. He finds the TV remote right next to him, hitting the pause button.

“Uh… 2 am,” you answer, sleepily, beginning to sit up. “I should probably go.”

“No, I’m not gonna make you uh-… you wanna take the bed?” he asks, mirroring your body language and sitting up with you too.

“Oh! No, it’s okay. I’m comfy right here,” you reply, returning to your spot on the couch.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reassure him.

“Okay uh…” he says, making his way up to his feet. “... let me get you a pillow and a blanket.”

“Thanks.”

It’s not that you wouldn’t take the bed, but you’d hate to kick him out of his own bed. And truthfully? You can’t stand the fact that he doesn’t even have a bed frame.

That’s right.

The man sleeps on a mattress on the floor.

As Carmy returns to you, pillow and thick comforter in hand, the only sounds that fill the room are the storm outside. You watch as he gently places the pillow down on the couch for you, and you thank him as you take the comforter, laying it across the couch.

The sounds of a low rumble of thunder fill your ears and you can feel the way the sound reverberates off of Carmy’s apartment.

“You sure you don’t want to take the bed?” Carmy asks you, running a tattooed hand through his messy curls.

“I’m sure,” you reply confidently.

“Okay,” he resigns himself. “Need anything else?”

Just you.

“No, Goodnight, Carmy,” you say, with a soft smile on your face.

“Goodnight,” he replies, with the slightest wave.

Carmy leaves you for his bedroom, closing the door behind him. You slide underneath the thick comforter he’s given you, closing your eyes in an attempt to lure yourself back into another slumber.

But it’s not so easy to fall asleep this time.

It’s funny… thinking about Carmy being in the next room. It’s not like you hadn’t fallen asleep together on the couch before. In fact, you’d napped on the couch with each other multiple times. And nothing had ever happened. You’d just slept. You wonder if you should’ve taken the bed. Should’ve told him to grow up and that you were both adults who could sleep in the same bed together without things getting weird. Unless…

All of a sudden, your mind is invaded with flashes of a fantasy: your fingers tangled in his perfect curls, his lips on yours, the way his body would feel on top of yours as you writhe underneath him…

Holy fuck. What are you thinking?! You and Carmy are just friends. Carmy doesn’t feel that way about you and you don’t feel that way about him, you think to yourself, snapping yourself out of the vision.

You go over the facts in your head, in an attempt to calm yourself down. You’ve been here before. He’s never made a move on you. You’ve never made a move on him.

You’re just friends.

Maybe you just need a cold glass of water… or a cold shower…

As you sit up to get a glass of water, you let out the smallest gasp as Carmy’s bedroom door swings open. He stands there, staring at you with unwavering eye contact – one of those long languid looks that used to think meant he hated you.

For a moment, then tension is thick. You hear another crack of thunder that shakes the floor as a bright flash of lightning from outside electrifies every molecule inside of his apartment. If anything were to happen between the two of you, it had to be now, right?

“Water,” is all he says.

“What?” you ask, trying your best to hide your surprise that that’s all he said.

“I-, I forgot water,” he stammers out, beelining for the kitchen. “Do you want some?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you reply as you rise to your feet.

You follow him into the kitchen area, maintaining your distance as you watch him fill up two glasses of water. You’re not sure what’s come over you tonight, but there’s something different inside of you. As he hands you the glass of water he’s filled for you, you could swear he gives you the most wistful look you’ve ever seen, making it impossible not to get lost in how blue his eyes are.

“You okay?” he asks you when you don’t take the glass of water.

Calm down, you think to yourself.

“Yeah, sorry. Just tired,” you whisper, finally taking the glass from him.

And just when you think this is all in your head and that Carmy’s going to return to his bedroom with a second thought about it, he doesn’t. He just stands there in the middle of the kitchen with you. He doesn’t take a sip of his water. He stays, his eyes fixed on you as the storm outside rages on, another crack of thunder ricocheting through the apartment.

It’s much louder this time – the loud booms and cracks of thunder alternating with brilliant flashes of lightning.

Carmy opens his mouth to say something as the room is temporarily lit by another flash, but he can’t figure out what to say either. It’s just the two of you, holding glasses of water in your hands, trying your fucking best not to drop them as you stare at each other. He doesn’t know what he’d even say to you:

You’re irresistible when you wear my clothes.

I’m holding onto this glass of water so tightly it may shatter.

I think I might love you.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t do anything.

He doesn’t take a step towards you and you don’t either.

You hope he can’t hear the shaking in your voice as you say, “Goodnight, Carmy. And uh, thanks. For the water.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, your words snapping him out of his head.

“Goodnight.”

As you wake the next morning, you can’t figure out what the hell had gotten into you last night. You almost crossed the line with him – with Carmy, with your best friend – threatening everything you’ve built together. You’re relieved that you didn’t, that neither of you said anything, because the idea of this ending scares the hell out of you.

“How’d you sleep?” Carmy asks as he comes out of his bedroom, his curls unruly and all kinds of wild.

In the light of day, you know it would’ve been a stupid idea – what could’ve happened seeming more and more preposterous the longer you think about it.

“Not great, but I’ve had worse,” you answer honestly.

“Should’ve taken the bed,” he points out, an ‘I told you so’ on the tip of his tongue.

“Carmy,” you sigh, unwillingly.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“No, what’s up?” he asks you, taking a few steps toward you. He’s not tall, but he towers over you as you remain seated on his couch. You rise to your feet so that you have a little ground to stand on as you muster up the courage to finally tell him.

“You need to get a bed frame. You’re a grown ass adult,” you demand, eliciting another dry laugh from him. You take a step towards him, closing some of the distance between the two of you. “And when that happens… I’ll take the bed.”

He shakes his head. He knows you’re right, and he can’t believe it’s taken this long for you to tell him.

“Heard, chef.”

It’s another few weeks before you let yourself go over to Carmy’s – partially because you like hanging out your place with him more, and partially because you’re terrified that whatever juju put those thoughts in your head that night may take you over again. But it doesn’t, and you’re more than pleasantly surprised to see that he’s purchased a bed frame. It’s nothing fancy – just bed slats and risers – but it’s a bed frame nonetheless.

“You ready?” Carmy asks you, as he’s just finished putting his shoes on.

“Yeah,” you reply, slipping off your jacket.

“There’s usually a ton of a/c in the shop. You might get cold?” he suggests.

The sight of your bare shoulders in the tank top you’re wearing causes his brain to short circuit for a second.

“Oh I know, but I like yours more,” you reply, reaching for one of his denim jackets that hangs on the coat hook.

He smiles, watching you slip into the jacket.

His jacket.

The one he let you borrow you the night he got promoted to CDC.

“Now I’m ready. What’re you gonna get by the way?” you ask curiously, in reference to the tattoo appointment you’re accompanying him to.

“Uh… was thinking like… a hand with a chef’s knife going through it. You know. On my hand,” he shares with you.

“You’re so weird,” you blurt out, even though you find it the most endearing.

He is. And yet, you’ve stuck around so far.

“Yeah, I am,” he chuckles to himself.

“He literally bought a bed for you!” Liz exclaims enthusiastically, one night after work.

“For himself,” you correct her in hushed tones, asking her to lower her voice.

“Uh no… for you. Because you told him to. And because he wants to get you in it… naked,” she replies. She lets out a frustrated groan before turning to you. “You know what me and Maya call you?”

“What?” you ask, bracing for whatever nickname she’s about to share with you.

“The Queen of Denial,” she says.

“What!?” you exclaim this time, defensively.

Liz chooses to ignore your response, knowing that your defensiveness comes from the fact that you know she’s right.

“Why are you going out on these dates with guys you don’t even like when Carmy is right there?” she asks you, pointing out the obvious.

“I-, I don’t know. I don’t get the sense that he’s interested in dating… anyone,” you admit, your voice softer this time.

“Well, have you asked him?” she states, as if she already knows the answer.

“We talked about it once,” you hesitate.

“Bullshit! The conversation about what Nate said doesn’t count!” she pushes you.

You sigh. There’s so much fear for you here: fear of losing him as your friend, fear of making yourself look like a fool, fear of letting Carmy love you.

Because it just feels safer not to acknowledge any of these things.

“I don’t know,” you admit, quietly. “After my last relationship I just… I don’t know if I'm ready, I guess. And then pandemic happened and it was a much welcomed break from dating. I didn’t expect… I didn’t think Carmy and I would get this close. I don’t want to fuck up what we have right now, you know? Dating other people feels like… lower stakes.”

Liz takes a moment to let you hear what you’ve just said, but with an unwavering determination, she’s not letting you off the hook.

“Sweetie, I love you. And I know you don’t want to get hurt again. But one of these days you are going to have to own up to what’s really going on between the two of you. Sooner rather than later. For all of our sakes,” she pleads.

She’s right.

You know she’s right.

But you’d also like getting to pretend, even for a little while.

Because pretending is easy… uncomplicated… and right now, it seems to work for both you and Carmy.

Fuck, you were fucked.

read chapter four

taglist: @allthefandomstogether @gaysludge @sobshoney @harrysmatcha @starbritestarlite @tpwkkmila @cool-girl-is-hot @nunya7394 @galaxyprincess51-blog @carmensberzattos @blue-weekends @the-nursery

#carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy x oc #the bear hulu #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto headcanon #the bear headcanon #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy berzatto fluff #comfort and chaos

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rrxnjun · 2 years ago

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liebestraum [park jisung]

if anyone asked park jisung if he believed in ghosts, he would say yes– for he saw longing grow legs and follow him.

pairing: park jisung x fem! reader genre: summer break au. coming of age, slice of life, angst, fluff warnings: mentions of parents' divorce, swearing word count: 11k (11.190) playlist: liebestraum - franz liszt / the gold - phoebe bridgers / our summer - txt / could cry just thinking about you - troye sivan / burning love - elvis presley / if not for you - maneskin / we'll never have sex - leith ross / christmas kids - roar / raindrops (an angel cried) - ariana grande / ceilings - lizzy mcalpine / the loneliest - maneskin / about you - the 1975

a/n: this is mainly for you, liebestraum anon <3 thank you so much for being the most supportive friend, i really enjoy talking with you. hope the wait was worth it and hope the fic doesn't disappoint. i think that if it wasn't for you, this fic would never see the light of day HAHA

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room, listening to the vinyl his aunt popped into the record player just a few minutes prior to leaving the room to get some tea for the guests that are arriving soon, Park Jisung wishes for the ground to swallow him whole and for the ceiling to fall down and bury him in the deepest depths of this house. His head starts to spin as he dives in deeper to the music, the classical tunes almost making him overthink more than he has before. He wonders what would happen if he just left the room, left his aunt’s house and ran away so far no one could ever find him.

He finds himself fantasizing about stuff like this a lot lately. Listening to classical music– because of course his aunt listens to music from the 19th century, she’s almost as old as the composers themselves– he wonders what came through the mind of the author of the song when he wrote such trivial melodies.

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room, listening to the vinyl his aunt popped into the player just a few minutes prior to leaving the room to get some tea for the guests that are arriving soon, Park Jisung drifts away to a soft slumber, deep enough to make him more tired, but light enough to wake him up when the doorbell rings and the obnoxious laughter of his dear aunt pierces through his ears.

His aunt wakes him up with a screech. Frankly, it hasn’t been that long since he’s fallen asleep and he truly doesn’t really know if it was his position on the floor that made her scream, or the fact that he’s embarrassing her in front of the guests by sleeping on the floor in the living room, but nonetheless, he’s quick to stand up and bow to the guests, trying hard to be respectful.

His aunt nervously chews on the inside of her cheek. Her smile is a little too forced when she introduces all of them to him, but he tries hard to ignore the fact that she looks like an utter clown, pretending her house is a beautiful, welcoming shrine, because laughing out loud at her antics would surely do him no good. See, Jisung doesn't like to anger his aunt. It’s not that he doesn't enjoy the silent treatment she gives him, finally letting him breathe in the quiet– the feeling of suffocating escaping him for once in a while– but he simply just doesn’t enjoy it when she only glares at him and doesn’t speak more words than a single sentence announcing when the dinner’s ready. It only serves to make him feel more alienated.

“Jisung, these are my friends from university,” his aunt recites, sounding rehearsed, and he bets she acted out the scene in her head a thousand times before falling asleep last night, so it’s all perfect when the actual moment happens in real life, “their names are Jinyoung and Nayeon, they met in university and got married a few years later.”

He hums, scamming the adults from head to toe, noticing the neat way they present themselves. He wonders if this is how his parents looked to strangers when they used to visit their old friends. The truth is, they never looked as neat and as in tune with each other as this couple does in his eyes– but maybe he just wasn’t able to perceive them this way due to the image he made of their marriage when they were at home.

Eyes traveling to the person behind them, the fringe falling to their forehead, he gets captivated by a mysterious look in their orbs, hands hidden in the pockets of their jacket. Jisung’s not too sure if his aunt caught him staring at the unintroduced guest– now, he will admit that he stared at the person, for they were a stranger to him and for no other reason– but he know for sure that they did, from how they squint their eyes at Jisung and offer him a teasing smile.

“Oh, and this is Y/N,” his aunt says, nudging the person closer to his nephew, as if to present a thing meant to solve all of his problems, “their child. They are staying for the summer, so I expect you two to hang out often, since you’re the same age and all!”

Looking at his aunt, a dead look mirroring his eyes, he hears the person– you– with a voice sweet but a little prickly, just like the smell of a Christmas tree his family used to have in their living room during December, ask a question that is easily able to beat him down to the ground in one second, despite not really knowing you long enough to be this affected by a single strand of words plastered together.

“Does this mean we have to be friends?” you say, eyeing his aunt. Jisung doesn't know if you two have met before, because he himself hasn’t been around his aunt this often, but the familiarity in your eyes tells him that this shouldn’t be your first time being around his aunt. He has no way of proving it, and since he doesn't care enough to ask, he may never actually know.

“That’s- that’s not what I was hinting at, but I’m sure you two would make good friends!” his aunt chirps, making him suddenly wonder if her friends even agreed on letting their child spend time with a boy they just saw for the first time, sleeping on the floor of his aunt’s living room. He doesn’t think his aunt actually cares about their opinion, though. He thinks she just desperately wants him out of the house sometimes. Truth be told, he doesn’t blame her. It wasn’t her fault that he had to suddenly waddle into her house, eat her food and sleep in the spare bedroom for the summer– if he was in his aunt’s shoes, he’d want his comfort back as well. She didn’t ask for this. And he doesn’t even know why she agreed in the first place. “You are quite similar and have a lot in common, is what I meant,” his aunt finishes, and Jisung cringes under her gaze, because in reality, how could she even know?

A sigh escapes your lips, eyes rolling as you look over at your parents and snicker. “Am I at least getting paid for hanging out with this loser?”

“Y/N, watch your mouth!” your mother snaps, an apologetic look in her eyes.

Truth is, though, the comment doesn’t affect him. At least not in the way it should– it doesn’t offend him, it doesn’t hurt. Instead, he grins, looking you dead in the eyes, already liking the foreign excitement in his bones that dares to make his life feel much more lively than it has while he was locked up in the spare bedroom of his aunt’s house.

“I’m Park Jisung.”

Your lips widen into a cheshire grin, Jisung’s surroundings suddenly disappearing into thin air, the adults in their own universe now, not heard of and not seen. Staring you into your eyes for a heartbeat, another few words escape his mouth as a premise, unknowingly setting the tone for the two of you already.

“Let’s hang out. Show me around. If I have fun, you get a tenner. If it sucks, you’re not getting paid for being friends with me. Deal?”

He doesn’t know if it was the money on the line, or if you saw something in him that interested you enough to keep on giving in. And after all this time, he doesn't think he’ll get an answer– it’s too far out of his reach, too far back in history. But somehow, in that moment, you took his hand and shook it, starting off something that made Park Jisung who he is today. The contact of your hand with his felt like electricity to the boy, the sudden courage disappearing right as he feels the softness of your palm, and when your eyes lock, he physically feels his knees buckle under him– that’s the effect you have on the boy.

Your roles are soon reversed when you’re brought back into reality by an adult’s voice, your hands losing contact as you break away, looking at your mother with a glare in your eyes.

“Look, Ms Park has a piano! Go and play something for us, sweetie.”

A pained sigh escapes your lips, seemingly already knowing you won’t get out of this no matter how hard you try or plead, slowly walking over to the instrument settled in the corner of the room, cracking your knuckles and humming to yourself, thinking of what song to play.

“Jisung plays too, actually!” his aunt chimes in, and he sighs, halting in his movements,

because one, he can’t play the piano, and two, the song rolling off your fingers is so beautiful, so melodic he secretly starts to hope that he did.

Park Jisung can’t believe himself in the very moment when he’s standing at the rocky beach with you, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck every few seconds in a poor attempt of calming down his nerves and the erracting beating of his heart. He’s only 18 and has no experience with girls, so he thinks this is the sheer effect of the fact that he can’t swim well and he’s afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you– he bets you’re not strong enough to bring out his drowning body out of the depths of the lake anyways, so it really must be fear that’s holding him down from undressing in front of you and jumping into the refreshing water.

“Come on, Park Jisung, what are you waiting for?” you jab at him, a sharp finger pointing straight to his ribs. Your top is already off, a peach-colored bikini top catching Jisung’s attention that he instantly averts and focuses on the shiny water instead, worried he’d get caught if his eyes lingered a bit more. Again, Park Jisung is only 18 and he barely leaves the house– the only girl in a bikini he’s ever seen were the actors in the movies he watched on TV or the characters in the anime he once binged watched in the middle of the night, and those curves were drawn-on, on top of that. He doesn’t know what to do around a girl, and holding a conversation is suddenly that harder when his eyes keep drifting towards your body.

“I- I can’t really swim,” he mumbles out, another set of scratching his neck taking place, the slowly burning skin on the sharp sun making him shift in discomfort.

“Fuck’s sake,” a curse escapes your mouth, the word catching the poor boy off-guard even more, since he’s not used to anyone speaking in that tone around him– with the exception of his parents when they argue, of course, but he’d rather not bring up the memory– and his big eyes scan you again, surprised and almost a little worried of your next actions, “well, I’m not getting 10 pounds this way, am I? Didn’t know the uptown boy can’t swim…” you mutter under your breath before you shake your head in disbelief and shrug off your shorts, throwing the clothing towards the beach towel sprawled out on the shore.

Now, Jisung tries really really hard not to look at your bum. That would be really embarrassing– truly humiliating– and he’s a gentleman, of course. And it doesn’t make it better that the whole journey here, you were rambling about your day and about how bored you are in this little village, and he found the scrunch of your nose so adorable, because now he has the crushing reality dawning up on him that he’s 18 and finally having a sexual awakening. No, he won’t stare at your body. He’s simply not allowed.

“What are you waiting for? Are you gonna go into the water in your clothes?” you ask again, looking him up and down when he doesn’t move.

“Oh, I was just thinking I could… you know, stay here and hang out by myself until you’re done swimming, or something…” he says, and the more words that spill out of his mouth, the more embarrassed he feels, because your gaze suddenly locks with his and you seem so amused by his rambling, you find his words so hilarious, he doesn’t miss a heartbeat before he sighs more-so to himself and takes off his shirt, clearing his throat awkwardly when he finds you staring at his naked skin.

“Glad you got the memo,” you muster up, shaking your head in disbelief and tying your hair up into a neat bun. “I swear it’s not that deep from the corners, you’re not gonna drown. Your aunt would kick my head off if I left you here to fry,” you mumble and Jisung hates how it sounds like you’re truly only here because you have to, because the more seconds he spends staring into your eyes trying to predict your next move, the more he wishes you were here because you were only slightly interested in spending time with the new kid in the village– him.

“Alright,” he mumbles, and when he’s finally only in his swimming suit, taking cautious steps and following you towards the water, he finds his anxiety levels rising, because the truth is, he’s never swam in a lake before. Sure, he’s been in pools– but those aren’t so scary. He can almost always feel the bottom of it under his feet and he knows they don’t get as deep. Surely, there is a little to no possibility of him drowning in a swimming pool. Lakes, however, are a different thing. He can’t reach the bottom, and if he does, the surface is disgusting and slippery and won’t help him to his feet– if he really got too stiff and panicked, he could die. And that’s perhaps what scares him the most as he takes the first step on the slick rock at the very edge of the water, the slight stumble of his feet only making him more aware of the reality that’s in front of him.

“You’re such a scaredy cat,” you tease him when you look at him from behind your shoulder, a grin on your face acting like a sucker punch towards Jisung’s gut. And the truth is, he’d be more relaxed if you just gave him a minute– to collect his thoughts, calm his erracting heartbeat as he’d tell himself that there’s nothing to worry about and that the water here truly isn’t as deep yet and the worst thing that could happen is that he lands on his ass, but you don’t give him a chance to do so as your hand slips into his– trying to steady him, as you walk deeper into the water.

Your soft hand in his, fingers intertwined, he finds himself holding on to you like a lifeline– because in his tragic imagination, you might as well be one– and the beating of his heart only gets faster when he gets painfully aware of the sweat pooling in the palms of his hand and the very apparent hesitance in his step. If you notice it, you don’t mention it– to which Jisung’s equal parts surprised and glad, and suddenly, his figure is waist-level in the water before he even has a chance to register it and your hand lets go of his, the momentarily hypnotization of your hold escaping him when he has to face you as he stands still in the cool liquid.

You’re staring at him with a flashy smile, expecting eyes waiting for him to react to you in any way– and when nothing comes, you must realize that he’s too starstrucked by your appearance to muster up anything coherent enough.

“You alright there?”

He finds himself nodding, a hum escaping his throat to accompany his response. It’s not enough for you, though, and the truth is, Park Jisung should’ve been prepared for this, since even the two days of knowing you must be enough to get to know the true intentions of your actions– because you tease him again, and even though the boy gets sulky easily, he doesn’t seem to find himself paying it much mind.

“A cat got your tongue?” you snicker, shaking your head at him.

For a second, Jisung debates on acting dumb– maybe more silence or a shrug of his shoulders would rile you up more, get you more annoyed– but he should’ve learned already that you’re always one step ahead of him, in more cases than one, when a splash of cold water hits his heated skin, making him hiss in shock.

Your laughter fills his ears as he watches you stand still in front of him, presumably not expecting much threat from the boy that’s barely able to move in the lake, but the angelic look on your face acts like a dopamine kick for the boy, vitamin D flowing through his veins as he reacts to your teasing with another splash of water, feet delicately chasing you around the lake, screeches coming out your throat like music to his ears on the sunny summer afternoon.

The water fight ends with him tripping over a stone as he tries to run away from you, and the shock on your face is evident– Jisung finds himself feeling endearment at the hint of you worrying about him– when you rush towards the boy and lean over his body sitting in the water, Jisung’s worst-case scenario coming to life right in front of your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask, a hand offered to him to get him back up on his feet.

And Jisung takes it, only to tug you down towards him, his body shielding you from the impact, but still hitting the ice-cold water of the lake. With your face only centimeters away from his, your annoyed, yet amused face causing him to grin, he finds himself laughing at your next remark.

“I take it as today’s worthy of a tenner then, Park Jisung. Having too much fun, aren’t you?”

To Park Jisung, summer feels like sleep and the humid air in his little room back home. He’s never really been anywhere on vacations or holidays, because frankly, with his father’s nature and his mother’s low income job, there wasn’t really much space to go somewhere and explore what it’s like to enjoy the summer heat instead of constantly angrily swearing at the weather. For that matter, Park Jisung never really enjoyed summer. He was always locked up in that small room, sometimes listening to his parents’ arguing– which he so desperately tried to ignore every time, but his heart did that weird hammering each time his father broke a glass or his mother raised her voice a bit louder than usual– and when his parents weren’t arguing, the house would be too quiet, making him overthink.

To Park Jisung, summer feels like overslept afternoons and boredom. He doesn’t know any better, and he would even pity himself, but the truth is, he thinks that’s embarrassing. People have it worse, after all– he’s just a teenager with no life purpose. Just like any other, right?

So when Jisung arrives at his aunt’s place for the summer– no longer having to listen to his parents’ arguing, because after 18 years of his life, they finally decided to call it quits and drag their son to the only relative he vaguely knows for the time being, until they figure everything out– he expects nothing more from the old house than what he experienced his whole growing up. He expects overslept afternoons and sweaty pajamas clinging to his back, humid air everywhere and the weird hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

To his surprise– and believe me, he didn’t really expect this at all– the summer before university is completely different, and he’s pleased with the change.

He wakes up late one afternoon, because he doesn’t expect anything exciting to happen in the time he spends asleep anyway, and when he drags his feet to the kitchen, body tense and hurting from the weird positions he found himself sleeping in, his mind is instantly sweeped of all the haziness when he founds your figure in his aunt’s house, laughing at the radio host babbling through the device.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” his aunt greets him from the corner of the room, and he’s suddenly too aware of his bed hair and the fact that his clothing is all wrinkled and his face is puffy, because he feels your eyes on him and he hates to know that you see him in such state. Not that he’s any eye candy any other day, of course– he just thinks you could’ve seen him in a more presentable light, that’s all.

“G’morning,” he mutters as he scratches the back of his neck and looks around the room, trying to grasp the events of 1PM– barely morning anymore.

“If you woke up earlier, you could’ve gone with us,” his aunt chirps in from the stove, swirling something sweet-smelling in a big pot. Her face is fawned over with a glaze of sweat and even the wide-open window does nothing to get the air to clear out– Jisung thinks that’s just the magic of summer. It’s always too hot, and the only thing you can do is complain.

“Where did you go?”

“To the forest,” you smile at him, seeing as he takes a few hesitant steps towards your figure, “we picked berries and now your aunt’s making jam. A classic village-like summer activity, don’t ya think?” you chirp, tugging your hair behind your ear as you pick through the big bowl and put away the berries that don’t look as good, choosing to not include them in the jam.

Jisung hums in agreement, still a little confused, as he takes another few steps around the room. Looking over his aunt’s shoulder, he sees the blood colored liquid boiling at the stove, the air even sweeter right above the steam, and he suddenly wonders if this is today’s activity. Looking over his shoulder at you, dressed in shorts and a tank top, he shrugs to himself– if it means that you’ll be over at his house the whole time the jam’s being made, he doesn’t mind helping out in the kitchen.

“Can you wash these?” you ask, pointing towards the bowl full of berries. He nods to your order and takes it over to the sink, carefully splashing water over the fruit and making sure each piece is clean– he doesn’ want to embarrass himself in front of you. Frankly, he doesn’t know what’s going on or how exactly jam is made, but you seem like you’re a regular in those activities– he doesn’t want you to think he’s a city guy with no knowledge of how the world works. Because that’s kind of true, but you don’t have to know that.

Bringing the bowl over to the table again, he watches as you look up at him from the next bowl you’re currently sorting through, raising your brows in question at his stare. The boy almost wants to look away from being caught, but he figures it’s too late anyway, so he challenges you and waits for you to jab at him or roll your eyes.

Instead, you pick up one berry from the bowl and press it up against his lips, an innocent smile playing with your features as you wait for him to eat it, looking at him with expecting eyes.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely magical,” Jisung replies, overly-exaggerated, seeing you grin. He steals himself another berry from the bowl, escaping from the playful slap you want to give to the palm of his hand, before he sits on the chair opposite of yours, silently watching you doing your task.

“Now, today’s events might not be as exciting, so you can save your next 10 pounds, but once your aunt’s hands get tired, you can take over and stir the jam while it cooks,” you explain, teasing him with your little inside joke– you’re not actually getting paid for hanging out with him. Not really, although Jisung did buy you ice cream on your way home from the lake the other day. So in a way, you are. Just not with real money.

“So fun!” he says, watching you as you roll your eyes.

The truth is, he doesn’t care much about what he does during the day. As long as you’re present, he’s satisfied.

To Park Jisung, summer feels like overslept afternoons, his little humid room back home and boredom. This afternoon, the smell of berries, the sound of the radio and your bubbly laugh when you tease him joins the mix– and he thinks those overpower the grudge he has against the season with such measures he prays every day feels like summer from now on.

The room is kind of chilly when Jisung rests his back against the tall bookshelf– the side of the furniture, so the shelves aren’t uncomfortable against his back– eyes glued to the pages of the book. He finds himself too immersed in the story to notice anyone coming into his aunt’s living room, too occupied with the sentences to hear the shuffling of your feet as you drag your legs across the house. His aunt always lets you in with no questions– you only knock on the door and smile at her when she opens it, slickly jumping inside and finding who you’re looking for in one of the few rooms of the house– more often than not, you catch Park Jisung off guard, but he is starting to get used to the euphoric surprise.

Jisung is an avid reader. He’s liked books since he was little, and it was the only thing he found himself spending money on growing up. When the amount of books he could read in one month became too big for him to keep buying more and more prints, his mother took him to the town to get him his own library card.

After looking through the bookshelf in his aunt’s house, he was surprised– and a little annoyed– at the fact that there were only romance books in store. He already finished the copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy he brought with himself when his parents sent him off, and he didn’t really think of bringing more. Finding his aunt’s bookshelf was like finding a treasure, only if the contents weren’t so disappointing. Still, a romance book is better than no book, he thinks, as he picks a familiar one up and sits on the floor, immersing himself into the story.

“What are you reading?” he suddenly hears, head snapping up to see you watching him from above, eyes skimming through the words.

“A book,” he responds, voice low, before his eyes are back on the pages.

“I can see that, genius,” you snicker, situating yourself next to him and resting your back against the bookshelf, “what book is it?” you pry more, and even though you are almost always the main object of Park Jisung’s attention and thoughts, this time, you are set to the second place as he continues to read the novel.

You are rewarded with silence, a thing that makes your brows furrow and a sigh escape your lips. You’re not used to this kind of treatment, it seems, and when the interested teenager doesn’t give you his time of the day, you have no other choice but to ask for it yourself, no matter how embarrassing it might feel. You’re okay with biting it down– you know he won’t try to tease you about it anyways.

“Jisung, give me attention,” you simply say, jabbing your finger to his thigh.

“I’m reading.”

“I came to visit you!” you act offended, an over-exaggerated sigh escaping your lips.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Jisung mumbles, still reading through the pages, although his focus is now a little thrown-off.

Giving yourself a few seconds to think, chewing on the inside of your cheek, you shrug. “Okay, then. Read it out loud, so I’m entertained too.”

“It’s the middle of the book, Y/N–”

“Come on, I read The great Gatsby before anyway,” you say as you nestle a little in your place, resting your back flush against the shelf again, “read for me so we don’t sit in silence,” you order.

Jisung spares you a glance, a second of eye contact enough for him to be convinced, huffing before he averts his eyes back to the book and clears his throat, reading aloud.

He doesn’t like to be the center of attention. He doesn’t like it when everyone’s eyes are on him and he feels them watching, he absolutely despises the fact that he’s the only thing you’re focused on as he reads through the words and his voice shakes a little at each passage. He feels his face heartening and sweat slowly forming on his forehead, each of his fingertips tingling with the fact that he’s the only thing you’re paying attention to right now, your only object of interest.

“He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete,” he reads, and when he feels your head resting on his shoulder, your soft hair tickling the sensitive skin of his neck, he almost jumps out of his own skin and crawls under the ground, because somewhere along the way, he admits in shame, in his imagination, you turned into the main character.

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room, listening to the vinyl you popped into the record player just a few minutes prior to leaving the room to get some tea from his aunt, Park Jisung no longer wishes for the ground to swallow him whole and for the ceiling to fall down and bury him in the deepest depths of this house. He listens deeply to the music– the loud guitars and the ringing of the drums, so dearly reminding him of the beating of his own heart that involuntarily matches the song somewhere between the verse and the chorus– and when you slip back inside, carrying a tray with two mugs in the very middle, Jisung’s eyes unconsciously watch you as you walk through the space. It’s a weird parallel that makes him snicker.

“Why are you just laying here?” you nudge him with your leg, his figure limp on the floor. “We didn’t come here to lay around, little boy.”

“Just give me a few more minutes,” he hums as he nods, looking at you from below, the curves of your face and the glow on the tips of your cheekbones making his heartbeat stummer for just a beat, an excited glint in his stomach making itself known when you grin at him and your eyes bear into his with an uncertain feeling of mischief and playfulness.

“Are you mentally preparing, or something?”

“Something like that,” he admits, sighing to himself when you offer him a hand and beg him to stand up with your eyes, your skin soft under his touch when he hosts himself up and stands aimlessly in the middle of the room.

You stand in front of him, stiff, for only a few seconds. The eye contact you share makes Jisung feel electrified, but he doesn’t find himself averting his gaze– he’s too scared that you’d find him cowardly, or too shy to meet your glances. And even though it might be true and your whole existence is of exciting importance to the boy, he doesn’t want to show it to you so bluntly, so he chooses to bury those hints and stand his ground, waiting for you to look away first. He didn’t expect you to take it as a challenge– but when his still body annoys you a bit too much, he earns himself a bump to his shoulder, the contact of your tightened fist making him break into a victorious grin.

“Move!”

Jisung takes a step to his left, seeing as you roll your eyes at his teasing manner– normally you’re the one taking the lead in playful banter, but he’s feeling bold today, energized with whatever spirit– and you notice, hating the way he has the upper hand over you for once, deciding to once again take the matters to your own hands and lead him through the situation, grabbing him by his hand and strongly pulling him towards either side of the room, rolling your hips in your place and jumping around, laughing when he doesn’t seem to obey your strategy.

“Jisung-ah! You promised,” you pout, the soft demand in your tone making the boy sigh in defeat and roll his eyes at you, because if you’re good at something, it’s using your words and taking advantage of his weakness for you. And so he does what you want him to, finally holding you more firmly when his hands miraculously find your waist and he dances with you to the rock music– jumping around and twirling the two of you in the middle of the room, because there aren’t many dance moves you can do to this kind of music unless you’re really skilled– and there it is, the wide grin settling onto your face, like a sweet, sweet reward to the boy.

Because even though you really wanted to have fun with Jisung– to get the promised tenner, you said– your mum didn’t let you go to the party in town, no matter how hard you pleaded and tried to reason with her that Jisung’s gonna be there with you to protect you. His aunt knew better than to believe the claim– if there’s someone needing protection, it’s her nephew, and being the one that’s supposed to do the job might be too much pressure for the poor boy.

And when you pouted and mourned about the fact while breaking the news to Jisung yesterday afternoon, he found himself promising you that you can have your own party at his house, dancing around and having even more fun listening to his aunt’s outdated records and drinking chamomile tea that’s surely better than whatever alcohol they are serving in the town.

He’s not a good dancer. The music is not his cup of tea. But hearing your laughter piercing through his eardrums whenever he dips you down or does a silly dance solo just to impress you with his playfulness, he finds himself being content.

He hasn’t laughed this hard in a long while. He says it’s because of your outrageous ideas.

Deep inside, though, he knows it’s because of your sole presence.

“You already finished The Great Gatsby?” you ask, your soft voice cutting through the solemn wind. Jisung glances up at you from his spot next to your figure, the two of you sitting under the tree behind his house, silence enveloping you two like a blanket, only disturbed by the chirping of birds and cicadas in the distance.

He nods. “I’m a fast reader,” he snickers.

“You must have liked the book,” you mumble, your head falling to his shoulder as you nestle in your place a little, the book in your lap still open as you engage in the conversation with him. You’re wearing a summer dress, your bruised knees on full display, and something about the air smelling like strawberries makes him think and wonder of the fact that this feels a little too much like a date, but he’s too afraid to let the thought ring out loud.

“Not really,” he states, “I don’t like romance novels.”

“You don’t?” you ask, the statement taking you off guard.

“No.”

“Why?”

“They’re not realistic,” he mutters under his nose.

“You don’t believe in love?” you ask, your eyes locking with his in a curious manner. The more he bears his eyes into yours, the more he watches as the glimmers in your orbs swim around and hypnotize him, the more he wishes he could say yes, the more he yearns to tell you that he does, he always has and he always will believe in love, but smiling to himself, more out of despair than out of anything, he shakes his head in disapproval and sees the shadow casting over your face, breaking him.

“Why?” you ask, the tone of your voice almost hurt, as if it was a question of life and death.

“Because… it doesn’t seem real. It’s all an illusion, a chemical reaction, even, it’s- it’s not forever, you know? It messes with your brain and makes you feel dizzy for a while, and then after a while, you realize you don’t feel the same anymore and it was all just a lack of judgment. I don’t think love exists,” he says, “or at least, I don’t think it can last.”

Your eyes watch him with a newly found sense, something in your brain turning fast as you chew on the inside of your cheek, and he can see it in your eyes– you want to disagree with him, you want to tell him that he’s stupid and silly and he doesn’t know anything, he’s just too burdened with what’s going on in his life and that he judges everything by the image of love that was fed to him by his parents; the love that didn’t last, the love that didn’t exist– but you don’t say anything along those lines, maybe in a quiet understanding, knowing it won’t change his mind, knowing it’s not your place to tell him otherwise.

Instead, you only bear your eyes back into the pages of your book and sigh. “I disagree. Because, Jisung, tell me,” you say, sighing before you continue, “how could it not be real, when everyone writes about it? When everyone sings about it, yearns for it and so desperately wants it? How could it not last when this book is older than any of us, yet it’s still considered one of the most trivial parts of romance?”

He watches you from above, the crown of your head now in his point of view when he listens to your voice. “You should be kissed often, and by someone who knows how,” you read, “isn’t that beautiful, Jisung? Isn’t that love? Don’t tell me it’s all an illusion.”

Your eyes don’t meet his when you speak those words. Not able to focus back on his own reading, he becomes painfully aware of your head on his shoulder again, the soft tickling of your hair against his neck– and he finds himself thinking that if love is an illusion, a chemical reaction, a lack of judgment, even– if love doesn’t last, if it’s all just a drunkenness that makes him dizzy, he doesn’t mind.

At the end of the day, what matters might just be the present moment. And if this doesn’t last, he’s content with how he’s feeling for you now– even though it might fizzle out, he’s grateful for the things you’ve taught him.

Park Jisung’s summer is filled with him staring at you in your summer dress, with him watching you when you ramble on and on about something that makes barely any sense in his brain, with you dancing around the room and playing the piano in his aunt’s living room, the melodies sometimes lullying him to dreams filled with your scent and your voice calling from him when he wakes from his slumber.

Your face is the image that fills his brain when he thinks of sunny days, and somewhere along the way, he stopped trying to conceal the subtle infatuation he has over you, for you no longer tease him for his gentle stares and allow him to admire you in silence.

Today, much like all other days, he finds himself in your company. Sitting in the meadow, side by side– you convinced him he’d like the sight, but he finds himself watching you smile instead– the smell of strawberries fills his nose when you take out your lip balm and put it on, your soft lips suddenly glistening with the moisture, a pinkish tint like a subtle overlay over your smile. Indulged into the motion, Jisung can’t seem to look away, and he could play it off as him so desperately wanting to know if the lip balm tastes as delicious as it smells, but suddenly, all he can think about it how he wants to kiss you and how if he doesn’t look away soon, he won’t be able to control the urge.

But Jisung’s always been too weak when it comes to you. Eyes glued to your lips, still talking about philosophical themes the boy could never wrap his mind around, never in a million years, the stream of words is suddenly cut off your lips when he presses his against them, tasting the sweetness off your skin. And his suspicions were correct– the lip balm is as tasty as it smells, yet, even better than he could expect, tasting more of strawberries dipped in honey– but in his mind, the sweetness you and not the lip balm, and when your palm meets his cheek and holds him in place, he feels close to falling apart right in your hold, a fragile pot full of love and affection for you only, eyes pressed shut from nerves.

He doesn’t think he’s a good kisser. It’s his first time and he never really thought about the action before– never had the opportunity or the right person to prompt the thought into his head. He tries hard to ignore the thought of him being bad at the action, because he doesn’t want to ruin this memory for himself, and as you pull away for a heartbeat and then press yourself into him once more, he finds himself forgetting the time, space and the whole universe– there’s only you, you, you.

And he could lie to himself and convince himself that he kissed you just to taste the strawberries on his tongue, but it’s far from the simple reality– he kissed you just to kiss you.

Not thinking of the future this holds to him, not thinking of the fact that one day, you’ll have to say goodbye. Not thinking of much more, not expecting any difference in your dynamic. Deep down, he doesn’t even really want things to change– he likes the stillness, the security it holds. He kissed you just to kiss you– it was that simple. The desire was too strong to hold back. It was gentle, it was sweetness, and he found himself wondering how come it took him such a while.

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room with you, listening to the silence ringing in his ears and making his brain wander, Park Jisung wishes for the ground to swallow him whole and for the ceiling to fall down and bury him in the deepest depths of this house. He hasn’t felt like this in a while, too enchanted with your presence to realize the weight of the situation, too immersed in the blissful unknowingness than paying attention to the stresses that even brought him to his aunt’s house in the first place, but his head starts to spin as he dives in deeper to his thoughts, letting the fear swallow him. He once again wonders what would happen if he just left the room, left his aunt’s house and ran away so far no one could ever find him– it’s a familiar tale now, but he’s never really quite reached the end.

“What are you thinking about?” your voice breaks him out of the tense slumber, his eyes growing wide as he snaps his head to watch you next to him, your orbs filled with tender care and worry. The outside world is slowly turning into a little less vibrant one, the summer nights growing colder with the undeniable fact of the season ending soon, autumn taking its place and Park Jisung’s own departure slowly burning at the tips of his toes.

He doesn’t like to think about it, but it’s inevitable. Maybe he should pay it more mind.

“Home,” he mumbles, squinting his eyes as he turns his head back straight and watches the spiderwebs in the corner, the weight of his words making the atmosphere thicker. “It’s not gonna be the same,” he adds, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

The silence doesn’t go away as your hand envelopes his, your fingers playing with his in a calming manner, yet still having a playful aura to it as you tug on the joints of his fingers and wave them around in the air, eyes focused on the way his palm fits into yours. “Isn’t that a good thing?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers.

And it’s true. He doesn’t know– fights and anger and bad temper is all he’s ever known, all he’s ever been used to. The silent treatment and the petty arguments are what raised him, and now that it’s gone, he wonders if it’s gonna make him feel better. The truth is, sometimes, feeling like this can feel essential. It feels safe to be so miserable, for when the bright times of him and his parents being okay and getting along happened, he’s always felt unsure, like the storm was about to happen each time; like he couldn’t be happy for long, because it felt uncomfortably unsafe, having the hunch that it’s gonna get bad again any time. Feeling numb was safe. It couldn’t get worse than that– it’s what made him comfortable with his sadness.

And if it’s true that it’s gonna be better now, just because his parents are gonna be separated and they’re not gonna be in contact, is it really okay for him to feel happy about that? Is it really the end? The calm after the storm of his childhood and growing up? And is it okay to feel secure in loneliness? To feel okay with seeing his mother wither away and his dad turning to alcohol every time he visits him in his new house? Because he can picture it now– he sees it clear as day, that this is how the situation’s gonna end up, and he doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you mumble, a poor attempt at soothing the boy.

He finds it hard to believe you. Sometimes he thinks you know everything– you’ve seen so much and taught him so much and told him so much about the world. But can you really know anything about a situation you’ve never encountered?

Still, his hopeless heart swells at your words, the comfort of your hand in his guarding him to reality. He thinks he made you up sometimes– he longed for something to comfort him so hard and for so long that the longing grew legs and followed him around, brightened up his withering days.

“I’m scared to come home,” he whispers, the tone barely audible in the so still room. He’s scared of what he’ll find. Sometimes he thinks he’s scared of the silence, for he was brought up in violent screams and doors always left a bit open– just in case. Is it going to be fine for him to find peace after the violence?

You lean up and watch the boy with eyes bigger than the whole universe, a soft smile playing with your features when your fingers trail the curve of his cheek. Jisung watches your lips and dreams of them on his, but there’s no use when you only trace the arch of his cupid's bone with the pad of your thumb, voice barely louder than a whisper, as if confiding him in a secret. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And with that, you’re gone. Like a dream. Your touch fades and your scent is forcefully dragged away from his nose.

After a few seconds, you play the piano for him again. He recognizes the song to be the same one you played on the first day you two met– and he wonders if it’s your favorite, or if you just don’t know how to play anything as well. The melody is often slow, romantic and idyllic, but builds into an intense complexity. Towards the end, the initial melody returns, bringing a sense of resolution and tranquility. He doesn’t know the name of the song– he’s never heard of it before meeting you– but in his soul, the feelings of love, longing and enchantment remain as he listens to the harmonies and passionate melody.

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room, listening to the song you play for him on the piano, so many words unsaid but hanging in the air, Park Jisung closes his eyes and feels a stray tear rolling down his cheek. The air smells of autumn when the breeze flows into the room through the open window, making the hairs on his arm stand up in attention, and his head starts to spin as he dives in deeper to the music, the classical tunes almost making him overthink more than he has before. He wonders what will happen if you left the room right now. If he’ll ever find you, wherever you are.

Laying on the floor of his aunt’s living room, listening to the song you play for him on the piano, so many words unsaid but hanging in the air, Park Jisung closes his eyes and lets himself fall into a soft slumber, the same way he did the first time you walked through the door to his life. During the sleep, he dreams of love.

Park Jisung opens his eyes on the last day of summer and feels coldness seeping into his bones. It’s not cold yet, the season hasn’t even ended, but there’s something about the aura of the morning that makes him crawl in his own skin and dread the day in front of him. After today, he’s supposed to come back home– he’s going to leave everything the summer taught him behind, in this little village, with his aunt he’s grown to adore more than he initially thought he could. It’s kind of depressing, if you really think about it, but Jisung would rather not think at all.

He sits up on the bed, burrowing his head into his palms and huffs heavily at the thoughts running through his brain. He’s not a morning person, sure, but he thinks perhaps his sudden mood change is the result of something completely else– something he doesn’t yet know and can’t quite put his finger on, can’t quite name.

Standing up and walking out of his room, naked feet in contact with the hardwood floor, the clique of the door feels unusually cold against his hand when he reaches for it, opening it and getting ready to face the day. He hasn’t said goodbye to you yet, but he knows he’ll have to today. It’s the last opportunity before he walks out of summer break for real, the last opportunity to see your smile and to hold you in his arms like he always yearned for whenever you were in his close proximity.

Yet, as he gets ready to take the first step out of the room, his feet come to contact with something sharp, a block-like object waiting for him outside of the door. Squinting below his toes, he finds a book on the hard tiles, picking it up and moving it closer up towards his nose. Reading over the title and the author’s name, his heart drops to his stomach, an unreasonable feeling of fear settling in his fingertips as he turns the page and reads through the contents, something scribbled on the first, worn-out page of the book catching his attention.

To my Jisung. Think of me when you read through the pages. You said you didn’t like romance novels, but I know you’re secretly a sucker for them. Always in your heart, Y/N.

A kiss mark in bright red is settled below the inscription, the lipstick stain he rarely ever seen you wear does nothing else than makes his heartbeat quicken and his fear intensify. He doesn’t have it confirmed yet, but in the depths of his mind and soul, he already knows– he knows it’s too late and you didn’t say goodbye before you left.

Still, his feet act before his brain does, his blurry vision ignored when he runs out of his aunt’s house and makes a jog towards the one you were staying at through the summer break. He puts on the first pair of shoes he finds at the doorstep and takes off, his aunt’s concerned yells ignored as he clutches the book to his chest, something about the beaten edges reminding him of the fact that it’s the one you always read in the shade under the single tree in the whole meadow, and it’s confirmed when he gets to your house– your parents’ car nowhere in sight, the windows shut and everything so intensely lonely.

And that’s when he allows himself to break– to fold at the grass in front of your house, to open the book and randomly find the sentence you quoted to him once, breaking his heart into a million different shatters. “You should be kissed often, and by someone who knows how,” he reads, and when his eyes trail over the next pages, he sees each one annotated, words scribbled on the sides of the pages, pretty quotes underlined. You left a piece of you with him, for him to keep, and he should feel lucky, for he has something to remember you by even though you’re long gone, but he just can’t get past the melody you played on the piano replaying over and over in his brain, reminding him that

you left without a goodbye and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he moves back home and you’re not going to be there, and oh how badly he wishes you kissed him for the last time yesterday, for he can’t remember how your lips felt against his anymore and he fears he may never feel the way he did when he was kissed by you ever again.

Rustling through the book, there’s a lone sheet of paper tucked behind the last page. Slowly walking home, head hung low, his eyes scanning the music sheet, the title of the song sits unfamiliar on his tongue when he repeats it under his breath like a broken mantra made to bring you back.

He promises himself to learn how to play it on the piano one day, just so he could hear it again. There’s an inkling feeling in him that the song might be important.

Wobbling through the classroom, happy that the bell finally rang and he can go home, Park Jisung hears his name called from the mouth of his Creative writing professor, much to his dismay, making him stop in his tracks and follow his voice with a low sigh. It’s Friday and it’s raining outside, meaning that if he won’t catch the last tram home, he’ll have to run through the rain without an umbrella, and that really wasn’t on his checklist for the week.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he hates this class or his Creative writing professor in the slightest. It’s quite the opposite, really– this class serves good to his vivid imagination and the daydreaming he practices every night before sleeping and sometimes even when he takes a long shower. His professor is nice as well– young enough to understand the minds that are filling the classroom, only getting his master’s degree recently– but still mature enough to lead the class in a way that makes everyone respect him in a healthy way. But today, on a rainy, gray Friday, after the last class of the week, Jisung really doesn’t feel like talking to Mr Kim in the slightest.

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” Jisung asks as soon as the classroom empties itself out and he is standing face to face with his professor. The man nods, taking his glasses off and putting them onto his desk, quickly turning around to his student again and only starting to talk once he makes sure the classroom is completely empty, just to stay confidential.

“Yes, I did,” he says. Humming under his breath as he turns around again, he searches through the papers sitting on the desk, seemingly looking for the ones that belong to Jisung, and clears his breath as he faces the boy again and furrows his brows at the writing on the paper.

“Is something wrong?” Jisung asks, full of concern. The truth is that the Creative writing class is one of the only classes that maintain his grades below the lowest level– the one that gets you kicked out of the university– and the face his professor’s currently making is surely not a one that seeps of satisfaction. It’s only natural for Jisung to feel worried, because with how badly he’s doing in Physics, he surely can’t afford to get a bad grade even in a class that’s supposed to come easily to him.

“No, no,” Mr Kim shakes his head in a hurry to quickly calm his student down, “it’s just…” trailing off, his eyes swiftly moving across the letters Jisung finished writing a few weeks ago, just a day before handing the first part of his assignment in, reading the first few lines over one more time. Jisung finds himself feeling irritated and frustrated, for his professor should be the one that’s good with words, but in this situation, he feels like he’s not telling him anything.

“What is it, then?” he asks, diving straight in. If he gets it out of him now, he might even catch the last tram, as long as he runs to the tram stop…

“Look, Jisung. What I’m going to tell you now might not make you happy, but I think it’s crucial for you,” he says, looking kindly, yet still firmly at the boy, “your writing… I like it. Quite honestly, I find it phenomenal. You have a way with words that just… when you explain feelings, you go into depths and details, and I find that really interesting from a boy like you.”

Jisung doesn’t know what the premise of his words are, and the sudden praise catches him off-guard, since he thought he’s going to get scolded. Furrowing his brows and muttering low words of appreciation, his professor continues with his little ment, finally clarifying his intentions. “But I have an issue with this,” he says, pointing to the papers in his hands, meeting eyes with Jisung again, “it’s not that it’s bad. Not at all, I said what I said, I really find your writing the best in this class. However, I think it lacks something.”

Stepping from one foot to the other, Jisung chews on the inside of his cheek, confused. “And what does it lack, sir?”

“Emotion,” he deadpans, looking straight into his eyes. The words surprise him, making him furrow his brows at the explanation, mumbling in confusion.

“But… but you just said I describe emotions well?”

“That’s true, Jisung, however… Your works are full of emotion, but I don’t think those emotions are yours. You’re describing something you don’t feel, something you don’t understand, and that makes me feel like you’re trying to sell me something you’re constantly having to make yourself believe is real,” Mr Kim answers, switching his tone into a more considerate one, “I like your imagination, I like the plot, however, this all means that your writing lacks any real depth.”

Jisung gasps at the harsh words, the reality of them making him sink a little in his place. “I thought a lot about the plot and the intentions of the characters, I really don’t know what I did wrong–”

“If this was any other student in this classroom that handed in this work, I’d praise them for outdoing themselves. It’s good. It’s almost perfect, I’d say, and I mean that. But when it comes to you, Jisung…” he trails off again, trying to find the right words, “I think you can do better. I know you can do better, only if you actually cared a bit about the things you write. Did you enjoy writing this? Did you like this work?”

“I… I did- I think I do?” he stammers, answer sounding almost like a question,

Mr Kim stares at him for a while, almost as if he’s trying to make the boy realize the lies he’s telling from his own mouth right now, but when it doesn’t come, he just sighs and offers him the papers, watching the boy take them into his hold and stare at him, completely oblivious.

“Jisung, you’re writing like you have to do it. It doesn’t mean anything to you. At least this story doesn’t. And you know, I can see it in your words, it’s- you’re describing everything so deeply and so beautifully, but at the end of the day, you don’t like or care for anything you write, and that’s why it feels extraordinarily empty,” he says, watching the boys eyes widen and his lips form into a pout, nodding softly at his professor’s words.

“Does that mean… I’m gonna get a bad grade on my final assignment?” Jisung asks, lost.

Sighing, Mr Kim shakes his head and gazes at his student with eyes like an endless pool of honesty. “I want you to hand in something else. Don’t worry about getting in the deadlines, I’ll wait for you and grade this at the end of the semester. All I want is for you to write a story that means something to you. Don’t worry about the prompt, even, if that’s what’s making you feel limited. Just make me believe what you’re writing, Jisung.”

Nodding, Jisung finally understands the whole point of what his professor is telling him. Truth be told, Mr Kim is right– he does not care a bit about the story he wrote. While he can admit that he did a good job on it, he did well at writing about ghosts– the prompt for this semester’s final work (they focused on horror and mystery in literature this year)– he is ready to throw the papers into his drawer and never think of them again, for he just wrote what he was supposed to without giving it any minor significance. He might have described the emotions of the characters well, he might have used pretty words and astonishing abbreviations, but at the end of the day, if someone asked him how much the story he wrote means to him, he’d tell them that it mattered to him no more than a homework he had to complete.

“I understand, Mr Kim. I’ll… I’ll try again,” he says, nodding.

He’s rewarded by a gentle smile coming from his mentor, an expression full of understatement and honest care for his student. Taking a step back from him and leaning on the desk, the professor hints that he can go now, offering him one last sentence of condolence before he sets him out of the classroom.

“I’d hate for your talent to go to waste, Jisung.”

Smiling, although a little tight-lipped, the boy slowly walks to the door, nodding one last time before he leaves. “I’ll try not to disappoint, sir.”

The halls of the university are dark due to the stormy clouds shielding the sun from offering the light to the world. Sighing and checking the time on his phone, Jisung notices that he missed his last tram and the only way he can get home now is to jog through the pouring rain. Opening the glass door of the university building, grunting as he puts the hood of his jacket over his head, he runs through the falling raindrops, still thinking of the words his professor told him in the classroom just a few minutes ago.

Not looking in front of him as he runs, his body bumps into someone, making him utter honest, yet quick apologies as he jogs off after making sure the person is okay and didn’t drop anything, hating the way wet clothing sticks to his skin, making him feel almost a little claustrophobic. In the frantic hurry to get home as soon as possible, the boy doesn’t notice he dropped something on the floor–

the papers containing the latest story he wrote for the final assignment of his Creative writing class. Sitting in a puddle, somewhere in the middle of the street, the letters wash away with the afternoon rain, metaphorically erasing everything he wrote and didn’t care about in the past, moving him forward into a new direction.

Still, he looks behind his shoulder, ready to collect them from the ground just in case he might need them for something in the future, only to find the back of the person he just bumped into running away, a stack of white, water-stained A4 papers in their hands. Their walk is all too familiar to Jisung, the back of their head reminding him of something he’s experienced in the past, the sway of their hips and the jolt in their step making warmth erupt in his stomach at the fond memory that makes itself creep back into the boy’s head.

“It can’t be…” he mumbles.

The thought still fresh in his brain, the speculations making thoughts run around his mind faster than the speed of light, he opens up another Word document on his laptop as soon as he takes off his shoes in his mother’s new apartment, fingertips on fire. To write about something he cares for? Putting his everything into words that would mean something to him? It doesn’t seem as difficult right now.

Ghosts. The topic he found difficult to write about, for he’s never experienced anything paranormal before. He only tried to mimic everything he’s read about.

If anyone asked Park Jisung if he believed in ghosts, he’d tell them yes, however– for he has seen longing grow legs and follow him.

To write something he cares about, he decides– he’ll write about you.

He’ll write about the summer that even now, after so many months, feels like a dream.

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seb-in-the-shadows · 7 days ago

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🥀 Doomsday 🥀

For @ravenwind-75 - for the record this was actually my first time hearing this song and OML - it’s so good and made for perfect angst inspiration! Thanks so much! ☺️ I really hope you like it.

Rating: General Audiences / Teen

Tags: Angst, Drama. Break ups, Heartbreak. Songfic. Drabble, WIP. (Characters are 16-17 in this fic).

A/N: Inspired by Lizzie McAlpine’s ‘Doomsday.’ I wrote this WIP with my OC Aria in mind, but will write a more neutral reader version soon. She/Her pronouns, but few descriptors of her so feel free to self insert! Ngl this got me to write lol, I havent written angst in a while so I hope it’s good

Aria knew something was coming.

She just hadn’t known this was.

For weeks now, Sebastian had been different. Subtle things at first—his touch a fraction less certain, his words a little too measured, his gaze slipping away too soon when she caught him watching her.

In the way his lips lingered as though to memorise her as opposed to a lover’s kiss.

But then it became something more. His embraces grew fewer and further between, holding her less tightly. Excuses when she sought him out. A coolness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. A distance she didn’t understand.

At first, she excused it was stress. Their sixth year was ending, and uncertainty loomed ahead. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe he was just in his head, working through whatever turmoil always seemed to plague him. She had to guess, because he had slowly stopped telling her.

Nothing could have prepared her for the moment it had finally happened.

The Undercroft was silent save for the low flicker of torchlight lining the walls, casting shifting shadows across the cool stone walls. Aria sat there, nearly numb save for the way her heart already ached. Watching him gear himself up towards something she’d been denying the looming presence of. The bowel of blackness that had been weighing them down over their heads.

The sense of finality had hit her the moment she began watching the way he refused to meet her eyes, Aria could no longer deny what had been creeping at the edges of her heart.

Sebastian was going to leave her.

She felt it.

And yet, she still asked. Because some desperate part of her still needed to hear him deny it. Her palms felt clammy, far too hot. Her heart clenching uncomfortably with each beat.

“You’ve been different,” she said, arms crossing over her chest more tightly, as if she could hold herself together with sheer force. “For weeks now, you’ve been—off. I don’t—” She swallowed hard. “Did I do something wrong?”

Sebastian flinched, just barely, but his expression remained carefully guarded.

“No,” he said, voice stiff. “You didn’t do anything.”

Aria’s feet moved before she gave them permission to, taking a step forward toward him.

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Aria, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Her voice cracked slightly, desperate eyes scanning over him for a glimpse of a sign.

“Don’t ask you to let me in? Ask you to be honest with me?”

Silence.

His jaw clenched, but he still wouldn’t look at her.

And then, finally—

“We can’t keep doing this.”

It hit her like a physical blow to her chest. Her stomach churning.

Aria actually staggered a step back.

The room felt too small, too quiet, the words echoing in her head like the tolling of a bell. The weight crushing on her chest as the room felt dizzying. Her knees weak.

Sebastian kept his face impassive, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his grip as his fists curled at his sides.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

When her eyes desperately scanned his form for any trace, any glimpse of love of any kind… she felt as though she was met with a machine. Bile ross in her throat that she fought back for some semblance of dignity.

She stared at him, trying to make sense of it.

“I don’t—”

Her throat felt raw, like she’d swallowed glass.

“Are you—Sebastian, what are you saying?”

He forced himself to meet her gaze, his brown eyes distant, shuttered.

“I’m saying this is over.”

Something inside her cracked.

Her breath came too fast, her hands trembling where they hung at her sides.

“But why?”

She asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t even talk to me. I don’t—”

She shook her head, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to breathe.

“Did I—was this—”

Had she been blind? Had she been foolish, throwing herself so completely into him, into them, only to have it be nothing? Had she imagined their closeness? Had she mistaken something fleeting for something real?

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “It just—” He exhaled sharply, eyes flicking away from hers. “It wasn’t what I thought it was.”

Aria recoiled. Her throat tightened and finally the first silent tear stung in her eyes.

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

Was that true? Had she been wrong about him?

Had she been wrong about everything? A pressure in her head built as she attempted and failed to stop herself from crying.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“So that’s it?”

She said, voice shaking.

“After everything, you just—what? Changed your mind?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t fight for her.

For them.

And that was what hurt the most.

Aria would have bled herself dry for him over and over again. Would have bled herself dry in that moment just to see him look on her with the same reverence he once had. To see the warmth return to those brown eyes that she loved so completely, so fully. To feel the warmth of his touch seeking hers, desperate to keep her close.

Elusive as ghosts, she questioned her own reality with the crushing weight of what seemed to be his.

Aria took a step back, blinking rapidly as her vision blurred.

“I should’ve known,”

She murmured bitterly.

“I should’ve known this was all in my head. That I was blind to what was right in front of me.”

Sebastian stiffened, his entire body going rigid.

She let out a shaky breath, laughing weakly at herself.

“Merlin, I’m so stupid. I stood by you through everything. I fought for you when no one else would. I—I loved you.”

Her voice cracked, raw with emotion. I would have married you.

“And you never even—”

She bit her lip, willing herself to stop.

Because she couldn’t bear to finish that sentence.

Couldn’t bear to say aloud what she was starting to believe.

That maybe he never truly loved her at all.

Sebastian’s fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. But his face—his face remained cold, distant, unreadable.

A clean break.

It was what he needed to do.

Because if he faltered, if he let himself feel this, if he let himself look at her the way he wanted to—

She needed to go. Needed to be free of him.

He inhaled, forced steel into his spine, and spoke the final words that would sever whatever they had left.

“You’ll be alright, Aria.”

And then he turned and left. Swift as it felt cruel.

Aria stood there, staring at the door long after it had closed, her breath shallow and uneven. Reminding herself to take a breath as she found herself gasping for air, as if she’d quietly been drowning. Her throat sore and thick with sobs as slowly, like the weight of it all was finally crashing down, she collapsed to her knees.

Tears slid down her face, silent and ceaseless, as she pressed her hands over her mouth.

She had loved him.

She had believed in him.

And he had walked away.

Not looking back.

Not fighting for what they had.

And she couldn’t help but wonder—

Had she ever truly known him at all?

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x oc #Sebastian x Aria #hogwarts legacy #angst #fanfiction #drabble #song fic #sebastian sallow x mc #Sebastian Sallow angst #hl

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websterss · 1 year ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄 𝟏/𝟒 — 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You never thought much of it, Ethan's need to help you, the way he was always nice, too nice sometimes, you never thought much of it until he killed you one night. Not only did Ethan have to worry about your friends suspecting foul play, but he also had to worry himself about the fact he could see, hear, and touch you. You haunt him until he confesses to the group about what he did.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): A bit graphic, mentions of blood and dying, angst, implications of non-con smut, but no actual smut at the end sorry.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2,726

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Ethan Landry x fem!Ghost!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed! I based this off the song by Lizzy McAlpine - Doomsday

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You never would have seen it coming. The knife. The costume, the way you yanked on the mask and met eyes with your worst fear possible. Your trust and confidence in Ethan was lost in the span of a solid night. The night you let him into your tiny apartment. A night you assumed would have been filled with studying, teasing, and eventually a good night kiss because your feelings for the dork grew over the months of getting to know him. You didn’t see it coming because you never believed someone like him could hold so much hate and evil in their heart, in his eyes. The same eyes you felt comfortable staring into, but now, stared into them with fear.

Ethan sat at the edge of your bed, the knife twiddling in his left, the bracelet he ripped off you in his right. He looked at the trail of blood you were leaving behind. Your faint cries and whimpers could be heard down the hall. He closed his eyes, guilt eating him alive for what he had to finish out.

No witnesses left alive, his father's words echoed through his mind. The fucked up part…you weren’t even on their list. You weren’t part of the plan, but you were getting too attached to the idea of seeing a future with him, and his dad didn’t like it. The fucked up conversation he had with him replaying like a broken record.

“She has nothing to do with this!” Ethan argued.

“If you don’t do it, I will and I won’t be so gentle about it. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at her…It has to be you. Maybe then you’ll learn to listen to me when I tell you not to do something. Do it soon and do it fast!”

“Dad…she has nothing to do with this.”

“I told you not to get attached to anyone and what’s the first thing you did! Get rid of her or I will!” Ethan stumbled back as his dad shoved a ghostface mask into his chest.

He was brought back to the current mask in his hands, he sighed, standing up. Knowing he was only dragging this on further, and making you suffer more than he intended for you to. It was supposed to be quick, but then you yanked on the mask and he lost his mind.

Your heart spiked hearing his boots on the tile. You willed yourself to crawl faster but the loss of blood was draining your energy and strength. Ethan looked left at the wall, it was hard to watch you. He had to give it to you though, you were determined to escape…even if you only made it about ten feet from your room.

“Y/n…” He closed his eyes. His voice was slightly cracking.

“Noo…” You pleaded. Your cries increased as you pushed against the floor. Your hand kept slipping though. The blood gave you no friction to push yourself further. The door was right there…it was right there.

“You’re not gonna get to the door. You’re not, I’m sorry.” He sighed.

“I will, I will.” You cried.

“Not with where I stabbed you. That wound was intentional.” He informed.

It only made you cry harder. Your vision blurred from the tears falling down your face, onto the floor. The door was becoming difficult to see now. “I-I can. I just need to push myself.” You groaned, then screeched when you felt a gentle hand turn you onto your back. You tried pushing him off but it was no use at this point. Your fate was doomed.

“Please.” You pushed against his clothed chest. He leans down to press a kiss against your temple, then you feel the harsh insert of his knife entering your wound once more. Your gasp falls heavily against his ears. You begin to choke on your own blood in an attempt to get a single word out. He pulls the knife out and watches as your chest starts to rise and fall even slower now. “W-Why?” You mustered before your breathing grew shallow, and your eyes dilated. The last thing you saw before the world fell into a dark void, was the fall of a tear roll down his cheek.

The group still couldn’t come to terms with your death even as they stood before your casket. The small ceremony was beautiful. Your parents thanked those who came to show their love and respect. The group could see right through your parent's facade though. Trying to be strong but in reality they were torn at the loss of their child. Seeking revenge and justice for you. They had no clue who had it out for you, for them.

The group did though. They knew the real cause of your death. They knew who was back. They just didn’t know who stood behind the mask this time, and why they decided you had to be the first victim to their blade. Ghostface was back, and your smiling portrait staring back at them was enough to send them a message. No one was safe.

They each took turns laying a white rose into your grave. Chad even went beyond the rose and pressed his kissed fingertips to your portrait. Saying his farewells to you, silently promising under his breath. “We’re gonna get this son of a bitch for you, Y/L/N. I’ll see to it.” He shed a tear, his heart heavy for losing his beloved game night partner. For losing another amazing friend in his life. He couldn’t bear being there any longer than he wanted to. He needed to go let off some steam before he himself more than likely pummeled someone into their own grave. The niche joke was probably too soon thought of, but he was so angry for you. He wanted someone to pay. He patted Ethan letting him know that they’d all be at Sam’s and Tara’s if he wanted to join them.

It had been Ethan however, who stayed a few minutes behind. Guilt was all he felt as he was staring at your casket in the ground. Then at your picture that practically mocked him, as if you’d say. “They’re gonna find out eventually ya know.” Ethan’s heart sank as he caught sight of movement from his peripheral. Then the voice kept speaking. “This is some serious out-of-body experience I’m going through right now. Like this shit is crazy.” You tilt your head watching your casket be buried by dirt. “I never thought I’d be attending my own funeral, yet here I am.”

“I’m dreaming.” Ethan finally got a good look at you.

“Afraid not.” You examine your portrait on the stand. Pouting slightly for your own loss. “At least Mom picked a decent picture. High school senior picture. Not bad.” You smile at the picture of yourself and whip around to face the curly-haired man who killed you. The reaction you were getting from him was priceless. It’s like he’d seen a ghost or something- oh wait he did!

“What is this?” He muttered under his breath. He looked around wondering if anyone else could see you.

“I don’t know but I’m enjoying every second.” You smirked.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I am.” You gestured to your grave and picture. Ethan rolled his eyes at your sarcastic smile.

“No. Dead as is gone. Not whatever this is!” He gestured to all of you. “I didn’t ask to be haunted by your ghost.”

“Well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions!.” You feign empathy.

“Why are you still here?”

“Hell should I know…All I remember was seeing you cry, then everything went dark. The next thing I know I’m falling face first into the grass over there, and see all of you here, mourning me.” You shrug.

“This can’t be happening to me…” Ethan shakes his head and walks off from your grave. "This has got be be one of worst things to happen to me."

“You’re one to talk…” You shove past him trying to get ahead of his pace. But it was that singular moment of physical contact that had you both stopping in place. Ethan stares wildly at the back of your head, watching your back straighten, and then you turn to face him with eyes just as big and confused as his.

“Did you feel that?” You broke the tension.

“You touched me.” Ethan palmed where your shoulder bumped into his. You copied him.

“I can touch you?” You questioned.

“This really can’t be happening.” His breath labored, his hands feeling clammy. He couldn’t process this in its entirety due to how fast everything was shifting and moving along.

He just watched you get buried and now he was having a verbal, somehow physical conversation with you. He swore he was losing his mind because you shouldn’t have been able to see, speak, or touch him. Yet he had you back for just a moment, or however long this would last, but you could touch him, and he could feel you. No pure thoughts ran sanely through his head. Yet it was one glance at your empty wrist and everything all came back to him. “This can’t be happening to me.” He spoke quickly then dragged you back to his dorm.

You would have questioned him and where he was taking you but you were just as lost and confused as he was, but as far as you knew he was the only one who could help you and see you. As much as you were against the idea of receiving his help, you let him drag you along with him.

One minute you were meeting your demise, and the next you were back as a ghost being dragged by Ethan to his dorm. And now your back was pressed up his door as he frantically turned his side of the dorm upside down. You relaxed back into the door, your head thrown back as Ethan went on a rampant search.

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"I know I have it. I took it off you..." Ethan whispered to himself, but it caught your attention nonetheless. You pushed off the door and stepped closer to him.

"Took what off me?" Your breathing quickened as you glanced down at yourself. "Ethan, what did you take off me?"

Ethan sighed heavily as he crawled out from searching under his bed. Then stood up straight again. He looked around his belongings, then at last patted down his jeans. You watched as he dug into his pockets and sighed in relief when his fingers collided with what he had been searching for.

"This!" Ethan pulled it out for you to see. You rubbed your clammy palms against your jeans because dangling from his fingertips was your bracelet, your gold one. The one you never took off. The one you were wearing the other night.

"M-My bracelet..." You gasped. You subconsciously rubbed the empty part of your wrist, not feeling it against your skin because it wasn't there to begin with. You didn't pass over with it on, to where you were right now. Was this some fucked up form of limbo you were stuck in. The in-between. You didn't know what this was, but all you knew was that all the emotions, the fear, knowing you weren't gonna get to see the light of day came rushing back. You stumbled back and slammed into the door, sliding down it, until you were sat on the carpet. You only stared defeated as Ethan fiddled with the small chain. He didn't know what to say.

What does one say to their ghost?

Sorry, I killed you.

"I think you're tethered to it." Ethan came and sat beside you. Copying your position. He offered the bracelet to you, but when he tried to gently place it on your open palm it fell right through you. You both locked eyes, then looked down at the fallen band. "You can't touch it..." No shit, sherlock.

"I didn't die with it." You swallowed thickly. "It wasn't a part of me that night." You assumed. It felt like the only reasonable thing to make sense. "I didn't even notice you took it off...I didn't die with it on, so presumably, it didn't cross me with." You gesture to it as Ethan goes to pick it up again. "It's still mine though, it belongs to me. So if I'm back for whatever reason that may be, that is one of them." You pressed your fingertip to the top of his right hand. Ethan's eyes fell down to your touch because that was one thing he still couldn't comprehend, being able to feel you. It was too much to take in, in one day, but he was even more shocked by your next words. "I'm gonna make your life miserable." You took your hand back and stared off towards the window, letting the sun bask over your form, but you wished for nothing more than to feel its warmth hit you because all you felt now was cold, anger, and hatred for the guy who called himself your friend.

"No one knows it was me." He turned to you. A dark glint in his eyes cast over the innocent boyish charm he was trying to portray, now you knew it was nothing but an act, and you fell victim to it. He draped an arm across your lap, getting as close and personal as he could. You held his gaze but leaned back the slightest bit. "No one heard you scream that night, and no one's gonna hear you now. So whatever plan you got up in that head of yours. It won't see the light of day, you know why?" He tilted his head, reaching a hand up to caress your cheek gently. "Because you didn't." You wanted nothing more than to smack that twisted smile off his lips.

"You're gonna wish you hadn't killed me." Your eyes didn't falter away from his own, but Ethan shook his head as a tear fell down your face.

"Oh yeah, and why is that?" He pulled away but tugged on your waist, inching you up onto his lap. You placed your hands on his chest to steady yourself. If he was this cynical and twisted as he was showing himself to be, you figured the direction of where this afternoon was heading for you. He wanted you when you were alive, no doubt he wanted you the same now too, but dead. You felt just as doomed the minute you shoved your shoulder into his at the cemetery.

"Cause I'm gonna drive you to insanity. I'll make you confess to what you did. You won't know a peaceful night's sleep after today." You situated yourself better on his lap.

"Is that a threat, baby?" The sick bastard was enjoying this.

"It's a promise..." You leaned down and whispered to him softly.

"I'll hold you to it then." Ethan stood up, making you slip out of his lap. Then stood up, towering over your ghostly self again. To the oblivious eyes, he looked less threatening without the costume and mask, but after knowing everything you did now. His tall build drawing closer as your back hit the door again scared you more than anything. You shouldn't have been so frightened by him, you were dead, and the worst part had passed, but he trapped you in place. You felt just as helpless and vulnerable as you were that night. If his looming frame didn't put you at ease, neither did the words that he spoke in your ear. You visibly cringed as his breath tickled your ear.

"No one heard you scream then, and they won't hear you now. So scream as loud as you want tonight, but no one will come." You felt numb as he started pressing gentle kisses to your neck. You'd have thought that your demise was violent. That the worst part was over, but as you stood there, trying to hang on to any hope that there was still some good in him somewhere. You knew that the worst had only just begun. That you didn't get a choice in this matter and it all started with the death of you.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x fem!reader #ethan landry imagines #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry series #my gif #writings by juls #writings by juls: ethan landry

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