#them mentioning cement in the next song and the first song being called cement….. crying

[peteytheparrot]

Gnawing at my cage foaming at the mouth why the FUCK is the Everybody is going to heaven album by Citizen SO FUCKING GOODDDDDD GEGRGRGRGRGGAAHAHAGHAGSHAGH LIKE EVERY SONG BLENDS INTO EACHOTHER AND THEYRE ALL COHESIVE AND TELL A FULL STORY HELLOOO????? WHY ISNT THIS ALBUM MORE POPULAR?????

[knivesareout]

My Best Decision

Pairing: Javier Peña x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Smut (18!!!+), Oral sex (fem receiving), Unprotected sex, Filth, Possible typos and bad usage of commas.

A/N: I have a whole ass universe to these two tucked away somewhere in my mind and this scene felt like it needed to be written so here we are. I haven’t written anything substantial in years so pls be nice to me, thanks. You can also read it on AO3 here. Big thanks to @dirty-holy-things​ for being a general gem of a friend and proofreading this for me. Hope y’all enjoy!!!

Summary: Time to yourselves is something hard to come by for you and Javi. When his dad offers to take your little one for the night, you have a few things in mind on what you can fill the quiet with.

Texas was a different kind of hot, you quickly came to realize. Colombia had been sticky and humid, the feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin the absolute worst. Texas came with a dry heat compared to Colombia and it was a change that was welcome in your book.

It’d been about two years now in Laredo and it always made you wonder when you’d stop comparing the two places. It’s not like you lived in Colombia all that long, anyway; just the time it took to complete your Master’s Degree and a few months after, staying behind with Javier until his assignment with the DEA was over. Javi had warned you of all the different things moving to Texas entailed when the decision had been made, even offering up a few other options- like Miami, where Steve had tried to entice the two of you to join him and Connie and their kids. But, Texas had felt right for some reason. Being close to Javier’s father and having that sense of family was something you craved and so, Laredo became home.

Once you had your first child, it just cemented that moving to Texas had been the right decision. Javi had been a mess in the delivery room, pacing constantly and offering to get you anything every 10 seconds. It would’ve been funnier if you weren’t in pain and almost screaming at him to fuck off. Your daughter was born screaming and crying into the world, Javi’s tears unstoppable as he cut the cord and passed her over to you, the gentle grip on her so tender and careful. 

The sight of Chucho crying when he’d met your little girl at the hospital, whispering to her how spoiled she was going to be by her abuelo, was something you’d never forget and with Javi rolling his eyes behind his father’s back, you knew he was going to be just as bad as his father, if not worse, and he was. Tiny little Emilia Anaís Peña had the two men wrapped around her finger the second she yawned, her fists popping out of the blanket she was wrapped in, in search of a finger to hold on to. 

Now, at just six months, your little girl was a handful and that was putting it lightly. She was crawling everywhere and yanking on anything she could get her hands on, and that included yours and Javi’s hair. A moment of peace was hard to come by, her cries loud and piercing if no one was paying attention to her. Javier was always the first one to give into her pleas, placating her wails with quiet songs sung under his breath and a soothing hand across her back. She was a daddy’s girl and you couldn’t even find it in you to be upset about it, the sight always putting an instant smile on your face. 

It was crazy to think there was a time where you believed something like this wasn’t possible- the family, the house together, and anything really beyond a late night hook-up with Javier. Yet, here you were, and Emilia was the perfect blend of you two as you caught her dark eyes slowly drifting close on Javier’s shoulder. 

“Javi?” You ask, shuffling the bills that cluttered your kitchen table into a neat pile and setting them aside to go through after dinner.

“Yeah baby?” He slowly turns to glance at you, his hand spanning across your daughter’s back as he holds her to his chest. You could already see the drool mark on his salmon colored shirt and smile softly to yourself. It was still early, and any sleep she got was a blessing. 3am wake up calls were getting tiring and Javi was taking the brunt of them, letting you sleep.

“I was thinking,” you start, walking towards him to brush a fallen strand of hair across Emilia’s forehead as she breathes in slowly. “Maybe Chucho could take Emilia tonight? He called earlier and mentioned I sounded tired, asked if we needed a break. I thought it would be nice to have a night to ourselves. Maybe actually catch up on sleep, watch a movie.”

You would’ve been offended at Javier’s father calling you out, a quiet chuckle escaping you when he brought it up, but you knew he was right. Sleep was a myth at this point and it was only made worse now as Emilia was slowly starting to get her teeth in. You told him you’d let him know what Javier thought by lunch time, giving him a quiet thank you before you’d hung up. 

The look on Javi’s face was one you knew well. It was his thinking face. Brows furrowed in thought, lips pursed. He was silently going over the pros and cons of being away from your daughter for the first time, his lips pursed. “It’s gonna have to happen at some point, right? I guess that’s fine,” he finally acquiesces, hiking Emilia higher up on his chest while she snoozes. “Call my dad and let him know we’ll be over in an hour. I’ve got a few things I need to finish up.” With a kiss to your forehead, he turns out of the kitchen and whispers quietly to Emilia that her ‘daddy was going to miss her so much’.

You nod mostly to yourself as he leaves, watching as he heads through the house to no doubt hole himself up in the office with Emilia on his chest while he read over papers he needed to grade. There wasn’t a task he did day-to-day where he didn’t try to have Emilia with him. He’d take her to class with him if you didn’t physically remove her from his side in the mornings. Watching Javier hand her over to Chucho would be interesting and you smirk as you walk back to the kitchen to call your father-in-law, a little pep to your step as you thought about all the things you could do in the next 24 hours.

__

The handoff had been hilarious, your giggles quiet behind your hand as you watched your daughter reach for her grandfather with a giant smile on her face and paying no mind to Javi’s scowl. Emilia was just as smitten with her abuelo as she was with her father and she wasn’t nearly as torn up about the goodbye as Javier was. She’d giggled and waved bye with the help of Chucho as you’d left and it almost looked like Javier wanted to cry. He’d huffed once you were back in his truck and remained quiet on the short drive back to your house, your hand reaching for his in a comforting squeeze. 

The house seemed strange, feeling almost empty, without Emilia’s presence despite her toys being scattered throughout the living room. Some part of you felt guilty at your excitement to finally have a night without your daughter but, it was needed and you’d be damned if you didn’t try to make the most of it. Locking the door behind you once Javier was sitting on the couch, you kicked your shoes off and sat down to curl yourself into his side, his arm wrapping around you tight.

“Are you gonna mope around until we pick her up tomorrow?” You tease him, reaching up to tilt Javier’s gaze towards your own.

A slow smile breaks across his features and he shakes his head, looking guilty. “No. I’m sorry,” he sighs, taking your hand from his chin to lace your fingers together. “It’s just weird and I know it’s something that we’ll have to do but I just. Miss her.” 

“I know, Javi,” you nod, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Why don’t we take a nap and then I’ll make us lunch and we can just bask in the quietness for a little bit, hm?”

“Yeah, that sounds,” he yawns, making you chuckle. “Good. Yeah, a nap sounds good.”

As you push yourself up off the couch and stretch, Javi’s calloused fingers reach out and brush across the bare skin of your hip, your t-shirt raising with the stretch of your arms and the feeling of his hands on you sends a slight shiver up your spine. It’d been far too long since the two of you managed to be intimate, your mind blanking on the last time it wasn’t just hurried hands and covered mouths to muffle the moans and grunts from seeking a quick release before running off towards Emilia’s cries.

It’s like Javi’s tiredness is suddenly forgotten, the bareness of your skin a reminder that he hasn’t touched you in so long. A smirk slides across his lips while his hand travels further up your shirt, squeezing along your side until his fingers skim across the underside of your left breast and this thumb seeks out the hardened peak of your nipple to pull between his nimble fingers. 

“Javi,” his name is quiet on your lips and you’re not sure if he even heard it until you feel his hand engulf the entirety of your breast and he squeezes and kneads the sensitive flesh in answer.

“Please.”

In a flash, Javier is pulling you down onto his lap where he still sits on the couch and you’re almost winded at the move as you sit on his strong thighs to steady yourself.

You hate that you want to stop this and move it to the bedroom where his back won’t hurt as bad, where you both can spread out and enjoy each other because the spontaneity of it all is sexy and a call back to your time in Colombia where you and Javi couldn’t get enough of each other. 

When you don’t automatically start grinding down onto his lap, Javi glances up at you curiously, “What’s wrong, baby?

“Take me to bed?”

He gets it then with a quick nod and you know he’s thinking the same things you are and pulls you close to his chest as he moves off the couch and slides you back down to the ground. Taking your hand in his, he guides the two of you down the hallway towards your bedroom. It’s almost comical, the eagerness of your steps, and he presses you against the wall just next to the door of the room once you’re inside. 

“Can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner when you suggested dropping off Emilia at my dad’s,” he breathes against your ear, hands falling to your hips and squeezing them tight. 

You laugh against his ear, his mouth moving across your neck and his lips trailing across your collarbone to sponge heavy kisses on any bare skin he can find. “Kinda figured it was an unspoken thing. I’ll be more blunt next time,” you grin, running a hand through his dark hair and tugging him away from your neck to lock your gaze with his. “Fuck me, Javi. I’ve missed your cock, baby. Please.” 

His eyebrows raise in surprise at your bluntness but he wastes no time, pulling you away from the wall to back you up against the foot of your bed where you fall back, your hands reaching back to catch your fall. Biting your lip as you watch Javi’s chest heave, the tight pink shirt stretched across his chest, your legs instantly pressing together in search of some relief. Even just looking at him has you wet between your thighs and the movement isn’t lost on him. 

Javier is quick to undress, his clothes haphazardly tossed to the side, leaving him in only his boxers where his cock is straining against the seam in the middle. Seeing his clear arousal causes another wave of wetness to pool between your legs and you crook a finger, hoping to entice him to come closer. Kneeling on the bed, he brings you up with him to lay against the pillows and trails a finger down your thin t-shirt to where your leggings sit on your stomach, tracing along the waistband. 

“Tell me what you want, hermosa,” Javi asks you quietly, nose nudging against your cheek while his fingers dip just slightly under the fabric. 

Normally you weren’t so bold, but with how pent up you were there was no hesitation to your voice when you spoke up, turning to look him in the eye. “I want your mouth on my pussy, Javi. Then I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk the next day.” His fingers still against your skin, the side of his mouth quirking up and he sat up suddenly, yanking down your shorts along with your underwear to leave you bare from the waist below. 

“So wet for me already, hm?” Javier spreads your legs wider, putting you on display for him and your body is shameless in the way it opens itself for his greedy eyes. Your hands slide up your tummy and under your shirt to grasp at your breasts, tugging on your nipples while you watch him watch you. 

Rough hands smooth up your thighs as Javi moves to settle himself between your legs. Your eyes follow his movements, watching as he licks his lips once he pulls your pussy lips apart and sighs softly to himself. “Most beautiful pussy I’ve ever seen,” he makes sure to tell you before flicking your clit with his tongue. 

Javi is relentless in the way he eats you out, mouth sloppy and slick after just a moment and when he looks up at you from his place between your thighs, you can see how debauched he already is. You blink quickly as Javi spits on your pussy, bringing a finger up to rub the wetness against your clit and you cry out. Your hands move from your chest to grip the comforter below you and you pant his name like a prayer once his two of his fingers slowly slide inside of you. 

“It’s been so long, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out a bit before I slide my cock in you.” Javi’s voice is rough, scratchy and you bare down against his fingers once he starts a slow rhythm of fucking you. “You always take me so well though. Like your pussy was made for me.” 

“Want your cock, Javi. Please,” you plead in reply, your left hand releasing the comforter from your grip and sliding it through his hair and tugging softly to get his attention, hoping he would look up and see the desperation on your face. 

Javier pays you no mind. His fingers start fucking you in earnest, a third slipping in next to the other two thick digits and you can slowly feel your orgasm building. A slow simmer through your body, like a current that was waiting to crash. Your whines fill the room, along with the wet sound of his fingers fucking you. Once his thumb starts rubbing your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, you feel like you’re about to tip over the edge. 

“Come on baby, can feel you squeezing my fingers so fucking tight. Come on my fingers. Come.”

At the sound of his voice, something snaps inside of you and you cry out his name as wave after wave of pleasure wracks through your body. Your body pulses around his fingers, back taut as you ride his hand. 

Javier’s voice is soft as he coaxes you through your release, “Such a good girl. So good for me, aren’t you?” Peppering kisses across your thighs and up your tummy, he slowly slides his fingers out of you and into his mouth to lick them clean.

The sight is obscene as you watch him, your body still pulsing from your release. A smug grin is painted across Javier’s face and you bring a hand through the damp hair on his forehead and push it out of his eyes. “God that was good,” you laugh, scratching at his scalp. 

“Thanks for the glowing review, querida.” Javier kisses his way up your stomach, tugging at your shirt that had been bunched up under your arms to finally rid you of the last bit of material that was blocking your body from his.

You can taste yourself on his lips when they finally meet, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip before kissing you slowly. The kiss is languid and soft, your hands grasping at Javier’s back to pull his chest to your own. Your hands wander down to his hips, tugging at the band of his boxers with a frustrated groan when you can’t manage to pull them down all the way and you move away from his lips, “Javi, take them off. Fuck, please. I need to feel you.”

Javier pulls away just enough to tug down his boxers and kick them off before he’s descending back on to you, his cock hard and wet at the tip smearing across your thigh. Your hips move around as you try and line him up, a whine slipping past your lips, desperate. It’d been too long since you’d been able to fully appreciate the heavy weight of him inside you and you were needy, body wanton and open for him.

“Baby, calm down. I’ve got you. Shhh,” he quiets you, a quick kiss to your lips. 

Your eyes widen as you feel the tip of his cock running through the slit of your soaked pussy, the head catching on your clit and you cry out as he continues to tease you. The feeling is torture and you dig your nails into his back, a silent plea that you need more. Javier seems to get the message and presses into your cunt, the thickness of him splitting you open in the best way. He’s wide and long, the perfect fit and once he’s bottomed out you feel pure euphoria at the pleasure it brings you. 

“Shit you feel so good, squeezing me so tight,” Javier  grunts, his hips slowly starting a rhythm as he fucks into you. The slapping of skin fills the room, his cock slick with your arousal.

No one had ever felt as good as Javi did and he knew it, the smug bastard. You nod quickly, agreeing with him as you were at his mercy. “So good, Javi. So good. Harder, please.”

He’s quick to comply, his hips fucking into yours at a brutal pace. His hands pull your thighs up at an angle that makes your vision blurry, calves thrown around his shoulders and he’s relentless as he thrusts into you. You watch him lick at the pad of his thumb, the digit finding your wet clit quickly and he rubs in time with his thrusts. 

A moan catches in your throat as your climax nears, head dug into the pillow beneath your head, legs going rigid against him and you tighten around his cock as you cum, Javi’s filthy words muttered low. “God you feel so fucking good around me, squeezing me like this. Cum for me baby, fuck fuck fuck-,” and he finds his own release just behind your own, spilling hot and wet inside your cunt. 

Your body feels boneless, the tips of your fingers numb as you drag them across Javi’s back as he breathes slow and hot against your neck trying to catch his breath. Feeling starts to return to your limbs, and you card your fingers through the sweaty curls at the back of Javi’s head. “You still got it there Agent Peña,” you tease, tugging the short hairs up to get him to look at you.

The look on his face is pure annoyance and you give him your biggest shit-eating grin as he shakes his head and slowly pulls out of you with a groan before sliding next to you and tugging you into his side. “You’re lucky I love you,” Javier grumbles, arm wrapped around you and fingertips trailing along your upper arm in a soothing motion.

“I love you too,” you sigh against this chest, tucked underneath his chin. “How many more rounds do you think we can get in before we have to pick up Emilia tomorrow?”

Javi pauses before he answers and hums to himself, knowing he’s genuinely thinking about it putting a smile on your face. “Gonna shoot for 5 but, I’m an old man now so who knows huh?” He digs his fingers into your side, tickling you. 

“Shut up and go to sleep, Javi. I’m tired.” You pat at his chest blindly as you yawn, kissing his chest once you’re more settled under the blankets.

He grumbles quietly to himself but is out like a light a few beats later, snoring softly in your ear, filling the silence of the unusually quiet house. Your hands trace carefully along his chest, mind already filling with other things you two can get up to before you pick up your daughter, wondering if you still had your toys stashed away somewhere.

[kurinoot]

care less more

-> his visits are short and are punctuated by the hectic and taciturn. the only thing the budding musician can associate about you is a rebound and the cold, disheveled sheets, and he plans to keep it exactly that way.

pairing: semi x reader

themes and warnings: smut, angst-ish woohoo, cheating, mentions of rough sex, dacryphilia, fingering if u squint

wc: 1.5k

notes: another wip posted woot woot so this piece is my submission for the church of meian’s songfic-themed tune june collab! this song is heavily inspired by olivia o’ brien’s song entitled ‘care less more’ and I HIGHLY suggest that you play it while reading mwehehe. also, thank you so much to @chibi-chanforever, @latrombone​, @oneblonded​​, and @spacesevyn​ for beta-ing this baby! also, take note that the ones in quoted bold italic are some of the lyrics in the song!

chant: care less more by olivia o’ brien

 The distilled moans and wet sounds of skin slapping against skin reverberate throughout the room in a hasty fashion.

“You receive me so well—ugh” you hear Semi groan as his hips continue ramming into your wet, gummy walls, hands clenching at the crumpled sheets and face scrunching at the growing tight sensation welling up against his pistoning cock. Moans effortlessly and wantonly fall out of your lips and fill his ears like a crisp staccato of notes.

He slams his lips against your quivering ones, muffling any possible sounds as he continues to hit your sweet spots. “Oi, you better keep it down low if we don’t want to be found out.” he growls lowly against your lips before pulling at your bottom lip with his teeth.

It has been months ever since he has begun this rendezvous with you, punctuated by crumpled sheets, unregistered phone numbers, and desperate love making.

Except, there’s no love and no strings attached.

You nod at his bequest, trying to ease and soothe yourself at the incessant onslaught of his cock jamming into your core. You run your fingers against his broad chest, instantly clutching them on the expanse of his broad shoulders brimming with sweat as he continues his intense jutting of his hips against yours.

“S-So good, Eita—”

“We don’t use first names here—ngh—I thought—hng—we made it clear last time.”

“I-I’m sorry—ah!”

His hips sharply stutter against you, going harder and harsher at the prospect of his first name ringing against his eardrums. His muscles become more tense, hands tightly gripping your waist as he accepts your half-hearted apology with a rough snap of his hips. It’s no use to him when he knows that you’ll still cry out at his ministrations, so what’s the point?

Might as well fuck you rough anyway while he still has the time.

His breathing becomes more labored and the sweat in his body began falling like droplets of rain. It is no different for you, eyes welling up with more tears and moans slipping out of your sinful mouth ever so carelessly at the rough feel of his dick ramming inside you.

“S-Semi, I—” you choke on your words as his fluttering pace leaves your senses culminating in intense, hot flashes of white.

“Are you going to cum?”

Your muscles and throat tense at the sudden question right while he’s hot-headedly thrusting into the throes of the wet ring of your walls. He has you all whining, toes curling, and creaming beyond comprehension, sweat-riddled fingers digging themselves further into the threshold of his muscle-clad arms.

“Cum for me.”

“You look at me, you see her face. No, you don't like me; I'm just there to hold her place”

Tears have long since stained your face, mixing with eyeliner and mascara to form emotion-riddled trails streaking down your face, which seep into the pillows underneath you, painting you into an inkblot masterpiece

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groans, sharp pupils burning as they fall upon your wide, quivering ones. You’re not stupid; you understand the intentions behind his words, eagerly nodding at his comment.

You mean her? you reply knowingly in the back of your head and accentuating ‘her’ all intentionally, knowing that you’re just a look-alike that he’d willingly fuck in place of his complacent girlfriend. But you shrug it all off because as much as you hate being a placeholder, you can’t help but be content to have this clandestine rendezvous with him. Nevertheless, butterflies violently rattle against your insides at his double-edged words.

“Hope I distract you enough from the girl that you love 'cause I've been doing the same, you're just a boy that I 'ah'”

You’re not clueless to know and understand that he will never see you in a spotlight beyond the platonic boundary, if you can even call this relationship a platonic one. Sure, you already knew what you were getting yourself into, but the sting and longing in your heart only grows more and more as he continues to use you as nothing but a hole to fuck with when he’s bored and unsatisfied with the woman that he treasures and claims is all his.

You can then feel the tips of his fingers as they explore along the side of your waist and then dig further into the deep recesses of your cunt, adding fuel to the fire as he strums and presses along the swollen nub of your bundle of nerves while he continues to push his dick into you.

“Please, please, please,” you whine in desperation, followed by strings of incoherent babbles as your calves tense and clench, ensnaring his hips tighter and closer into yours and probing his cock to inch way deeper into unexplored territory than last time.

Call reality a bitch whenever you want, but this is miles better than only being another fan lost in the sprawling ocean of other fans.

You can’t have him as your other half? Be a VIP Semi Eita cockwarmer then.

Poor girlfriend having no knowledge that he’s drilling another hole besides hers, you lament in your thoughts as he continues drilling into your wet cavern.

“So close!”

He further cements his grip on you, calloused and nimble fingers letting go of your clit as his hips snap erratically, feeling the growing crest of the wave inching him closer to nirvana.

“G-Gonna fucking cum—holy fuck—cumming!” you scream out, the growing wave of your climax nearing its zenith.

“Good. Then fucking do it.”

With the last snap of his hips finally probing your deepest spots, your fingers dig into his steady arms right as he stutters his hips, plunging into you a few more times before you feel the warmth of his cum bleeding through the latex. A stifled, guttural groan twitches out of his throat, with knuckles turning white as his hands clench the sheets tightly from the climax bursting out of the seams of his groin. You break right at his clutch, gushing right against his twitching cock as your entire being becomes sore and flaring in heat afterwards.

Labored breathing and panting envelops the entire room, the smell of sex and sweat emanating from both of you altogether as his head dips right in the crook of your neck in exhaustion. His breath tickling against your sweat-matted skin only leaves you trembling more as your toes curl and your fingers numbly grasp the sheets tightly, hushed whimpers leaving your sore, dry lips.

He stills in for a couple of minutes, hips still stuttering to let his climax subside bit by bit while he tries to regain some energy before he pulls out of your warmth. Your cum continues to gush out of your pussy, the wet ring of muscle still twitching at the loss of contact.

“Why you wasting all of your time laying next to me? If you really wanted it so bad it's where you'd be”

“This never happened.”

His voice, albeit tired, says it firmly, his words empty and emotionless, like he always does after every meeting that you have with him. You wearily nod at his words, uttering a cold “Of course. No biggie,” right before you let yourself drown in the comfort of the thick pillow lying beneath your head and the thin sheets enveloping your body. 

Of course you know very well how this entire rendezvous can overthrow his career as a musician if you’re not careful enough. Heck, his entire career and image will be in shambles once even a single speck of mistake exposes him and his illicit affairs with you.

He rests for a couple more minutes, breathing slowly steadying back to normal before you hear him ruffle through the sheets. Your head’s all buried in the comfort of the make-up stained pillow, but you can ascertain that he’s already preparing to leave, judging by the sound of his belt clicking back and the once heap of clothes finding its way back to his tall, unabashed figure.

“Why you wasting all of your time busy texting me? If you don't want what's best for me”

The familiar ringtone of your phone beside you flashes right before your eyes. Your hand flimsily picks up your phone just as you hear the door open and close subsequently with considerable force as you read the message softly.

Semi <3: I’ll text you the next schedule :) and try to be less noisy next time.

You can only laugh dryly at his usual message, the growing crack in your heart only reverberating further as you choke at the oncoming onslaught of tears running through your face once again, but for an entirely different reason. Your chest heaves heavily, breathing in mouthfuls of air in an attempt to calm yourself down.

You swallow the lump in your throat, more tears inching away from your swollen, make-up stained eyes as you realize that you willingly let him into your personal life and then realize further that he’s way beyond bone-deep in you. You reluctantly open his message, numb fingers typing a reply trying to ease the hole in your heart.

You: okay :)

As soon as your thumb hits send, your hand languidly places the phone right back beneath your pillow as your tears finally broke through the dilapidated state of your emotions

You could care less but it was already obvious that you care a lot more than what is expected as you cry out every bit of frustrations into the cold, love-devoid sheets.

taglist (answer this form if you want to be included!): @hqintheclub​ @kinsurou @rosesandtoshi @anime-nymph​ @hogwarts--imagines​ @semisgroupie​ @kurosukii​ @bunbyy​ @wisenerdcreator​ @hismilkbread​ @bucinhajime​​

✖ tune june collab mlist ✖ church of meian collab mlist ✖ my potion rack mlist ✖

[hermannsthumb]

"different young (rebound) hunk on his arm every week…newton geiszler who?" CAN YOU WRITE THIS FIC PLEASE? Hermann as the new heartthrob of the science world, cheekbones that can cut glass, baby gay scientists everywhere using appalling math-related pick-up lines in an attempt to be the booty call of the week. Newton catches a glimpse of him at a fundraiser and the Precursors have to stop him from crying with lust.

so tragically I plotted a whole fic for this and then came back and realized this prompt involves PRU but I liked my idea too much so unfortunately I won’t be filling the PRU part 😔 but I DO love heartthrob hermann sooooooooo. this can be pre-PRU if you want to make it sad actually CW for drinking and mild allusion to not sfw stuff. when will these boys talk about their feelings?

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

Hermann doesn’t like going out to bars at the best of times, least of all after he’s had the sort of exceptionally long day he’s had today (fighting his way through airports and hotel lobbies, fielding interview questions, having not even a minute’s break from Newton), but even he will admit that the one Newton has dragged him along to tonight could be far worse. The sorts of bars Newton fancied throughout their stint at the Hong Kong Shatterdome tended to be far hipper, far more becoming for a man of his (and, admittedly, Hermann’s) age, and likely aimed at tourists: pounding music, dark rooms, neon lighting, overpriced drinks, an inability to navigate through throngs of dancing bodies without bumping into at least half a dozen people. For that reason Hermann’s blood practically ran cold earlier that evening when, fresh out of their latest television interview, Newton insisted that Hermann needed to unwind a little. That Newton would help him unwind a little.

Hermann was pleasantly surprised to find that though the music (a live band) is still loud, and drink prices are still inflated, at least he can see Newton, and at least the few people dancing are dancing far away from them. And, well, perhaps it’s made him more amenable to (mostly) matching Newton drink-for-drink, and to indulging him in knocking back not one, but two rounds of the most disgusting-looking pink shots of all time, and— “Look, dude,” Newton declares, tossing an arm around Hermann’s shoulder. He’s shouting and leaning in too-close to Hermann, not because he’s intoxicated, but rather to be heard over the band, which has launched into a rather enthusiastic cover of some song Hermann’s sure he’s heard blaring from Newton’s iTunes before. His stubble tickles the shell of Hermann’s ear. “Just say it with me. It’s that easy. R-e-t-i-r-e-m—”

“We are thirty-five,” Hermann says. “We can’t just—”

“We absolutely can,” Newton says. He nudges his cocktail glass into Hermann’s chest, sloshing a bit of hot pink Watermelon Crush on his neat button-up. Hermann stifles a sigh; the shirt is brand new, bought just that morning for the interview, and will already be needing a wash. And smelling like liquified hard candy for the rest of the evening. “You and me, lying on a beach somewhere, sleeping in until noon every day, learning how to—to fish, or paint, or whatever the hell we want—”

“Not a beach,” Hermann says immediately. “I’m bloody well sick of beaches. Oceans, lakes, bays—no more."

Indulging Newton’s ridiculous little fantasy, even for a moment, is a mistake: Newton’s face lights up in a grin, and he tucks his arm around Hermann’s shoulder to pull Hermann flush against him. Hermann’s barstool wobbles dangerously. “Okay, no beaches. Far away from any coastline. The mountains, then.” It’d be just their luck, Hermann thinks, if the next Breach reopened far away from the ocean, too. Like it followed them somehow. “Let’s move to Switzerland or something and buy a log cabin or a cave and become weird recluses. I’ll learn how to ski, and you can grow a beard, and we can buy all our furniture at Ikea—” He frowns. “Is Ikea from Switzerland? Sweden? I haven’t been since college.”

“I don’t recall ever agreeing to move anywhere with you in the first place,” Hermann says, “let alone retire to do so. What on earth makes you think I’d follow you to Switzerland? I’ve no interest whatsoever in Switzerland.”

“Uh, because we’re best friends?” Newton says. “Anyway, what else would you do?”

“Anything,” Hermann says. He begins to tick off all the possibilities on his fingers while Newton watches him, unimpressed. “I could stay in Hong Kong—I’m sure they’d appreciate help monitoring what remains of the Breach. Or I could move back to England and resume my old teaching post, if they’d have me.” Hermann knows they’d have him; they’ve already sent him at least a dozen emails practically begging him to accept tenure. “Or back to Germany, with my parents.”

“I could totally do all that, too,” Newton says. “Well—not the Germany thing. No offense, dude, but your parents kinda suck. I don’t think I want them as my roommates.”

Hermann decides not to mention that the odds are very high they would not want Newton as a roommate, either. He’s tempted to ask Newton if he meant what he said about them being best friends—for Hermann can’t recall the last time someone called him their best friend, if ever—but Newton’s arm is slipping from his shoulders, and Newton is pulling out his mobile phone and tapping away frantically at it. Hermann feels strangely bereft without his touch. “Okay,” Newton says, his eyes scanning the screen, “Ikea was founded in Sweden, but they moved headquarters in—”

“Excuse me?”

Hermann and Newton both startle, Newton nearly dropping his phone, and the bartender who’d interrupted them smiles apologetically. He’s holding a pint of what appears to be beer. “Sorry to bother you guys,” he says to them, “but this is from the young man over there in the pink shirt.”

At the sight of the drink Newton brightens and puffs out his chest visibly. Bloody perfect, Hermann thinks. Just want Newton needs—another boost to his ego. “No sweat,” Newton says. He tosses his mobile to the bar counter casually and reaches to accept the glass. “Please tell him I’m super flattered, but—”

“Actually, sir,” the bartender interrupts, and—to Hermann’s surprise—slides the glass away from Newton’s grasp and over to Hermann. Hermann takes it without a word, not quite daring to believe it. Down the bar, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flash of a bright pink shirt, but he can’t quite make himself turn to acknowledge the mystery admirer. Is that rude of him? No one has ever sent him a drink before. He’s not quite sure of the etiquette. “It’s, um, not for you.”

Newton deflates like a popped balloon. A blush spreads across his cheeks, barely visible beneath his freckles, which have come out again in the spring sunlight now that they’re not spending all their time in the Shatterdome basement. Hermann likes the look of them; he thinks they’re sweet, and that if he traced his fingertip across them they’d make a pattern of some sort, like a constellation. Not that he ever would, of course. Newton would surely ridicule him. "Right, duh,” Newton says.

He waits until the bartender is gone to round on Hermann. “Dude!” he says, almost accusatory, “Fourth time this week!”

“It is not,” Hermann protests. It’s weak to his own ears: even he isn’t thick enough to miss the sudden influx of attention he’s gotten since their first television interview last month. Hermann was never exactly popular, never exactly the sort the drive people wild with lust or romantic longing, yet it seems as if he can’t go anywhere these days without turning a few heads (including mid-twentysomething heads, mortifyingly enough) and getting a few cellular numbers slipped into his hand. Yesterday, a young man on the metro asked Hermann if he might like to see a movie some time. The day before that, another man wearing a jean jacket full of enamel pins stepped up to Hermann in a Starbucks and asked him if he could ­call-cu-later. Last week, a starry-eyed college student stopped Hermann outside a hotel to ask him to sign his Calculus 3 textbook, excitedly telling Hermann he switched degrees to astrophysics not a few days prior after reading an interview with Hermann in a rather obscure pop science magazine, and had blushed when Hermann thanked him. Newton had laughed at that one, and advised the young man to give biology a shot instead. (Newton had gotten very cross when he was promptly ignored, and in referencing the incident later, rather bitterly called the student an annoying little punk.)

This is to say nothing, of course, of the multiple news articles (listicles, as Newton calls them) Newton has forced him to read about himself on something called Buzzfeed, which have apparently helped to cement Hermann’s fifteen minutes of fame. One was called Twelve Times Dr. Hermann Gottlieb Was A Fashion Icon and was accompanied with a rather embarrassing array of candid photos of Hermann. Newton has been particularly incensed over that one.

“It is,” Newton says. “At least third. You know, I think the worst part is that you’re not even getting laid. Dudes are throwing themselves at you left and right—”

“Am I meant to go home with any random stranger who shows me the briefest bit of attention?” Hermann snaps. “I like to think I have somewhat higher standards than that.” I’m not like you, he nearly adds, but decides that it might perhaps be too cruel, especially considering that Newton has not gotten a fraction of the attention Hermann has over the past month. He remembers what it used to be like in the Shatterdome, is all; Newton seemed to like anyone who would give him the time of day. Most of his romances didn’t fare well for that reason.

“I’m just saying you could, and you’re not,” Newton says.

Hermann taps his finger against the pint glass, watching bubbles release from the side and rise to the top. When he finally takes a sip, it makes him wrinkle his nose. He’s not usually much for drinking. “I don’t like IPAs,” he says.

“I’ll take it,” Newton says, and the corner of his mouth hitches up in a grin, “as long as your boyfriend won’t get offended.”

Considering that Newton has only just finished following up his two shots with a cocktail, Hermann questions the decision, but slides him the glass anyway. Newton starts on it at once. Hermann wonders if he’ll need to call them a rideshare back to their hotel tonight; he’s not sure he can manage guiding a intoxicated Newton through the streets of the city on foot, especially not after a day that’s been rather unkind on his hip. “Only I suppose I have trouble believing it,” Hermann admits.

“Believing what?” Newton says.

“That they’re genuinely interested,” Hermann says.

To Hermann’s surprise, Newton snorts. “Nah, dude. You’ve got—” He taps Hermann’s chest, and leaves his hand there. “—sex appeal. You’ve got the, like, soulful eyes, and the movie star eyelashes, and the cheekbones and—” He drags his fingertip along Hermann’s jaw, and Hermann masks his sharp flinch in a cough, hoping Newton can’t feel his face heating up. He doesn’t remember if Newton has ever touched his face before. It feels shockingly intimate. “People think it’s super hot.” He takes another sip of Hermann’s drink. "Plus, you’re so—like—uptight. It makes people wonder what you’re bottling up.”

Hermann arches an eyebrow. “Bottling up?”

“In a sexy way,” Newton clarifies.

He settles his hand back on Hermann’s chest. Hermann licks his lips. Has Newton wondered those sorts of things about him, too? “You’ve had—too much to drink,” he says.

“A little bit,” Newton agrees. “I’m right, though. I like this shirt, by the way, it’s a nice cut on you.” He toys with one of the shirt’s buttons, and when he speaks again it’s in a low voice that makes Hermann’s mouth feel strangely dry. Hermann has never heard it from him before. “Wanna go back to the hotel and rent a movie or something?”

He’s peering at Hermann through his eyelashes, smiling in an odd little way. How terribly close they are to each other, Hermann realizes. He can count every tiny scratch in Newton’s eyeglasses, every fleck of gold in his eyes, every freckle on his cheeks. He wonders if Newton really wants to rent a movie; he wonders what Newton would do if Hermann closed the inch between them, and... “I,” Hermann stammers, gaze fixed on Newton’s mouth (stained pinker from his drink), “er, yes, only—only I feel as if I ought to thank the gentleman who sent me—”

At once, Newton drops away from him. His face hardens. His smile hardens, too. “Oh, right. I forgot,” he says. He inclines his head down the bar. “Pink shirt, right?”

Hermann casts his eyes about, searching for the pink-shirted stranger. When he doesn’t immediately spot him, a small bubble of relief swells within him. Perhaps he left, perhaps he decided he’s not interested in Hermann after all, perhaps Hermann is free to go back to the hotel with Newton and watch a film and argue about retirement and… “Oh, there,” Newton says. A man catches Hermann’s eye and waves timidly. He’s wearing a pink button-up.

“Bugger,” Hermann mutters. His admirer is not unattractive—in fact, he’s the opposite, with curly hair and glasses even thicker than Newton’s—which Newton seems to notice, too. He claps Hermann on the shoulder, hard enough that Hermann sways with it.

“He’s totally cute,” Newton says, “and he’s totally into you. You gotta at least get his number.” He takes another large sip of Hermann’s drink. “Better yet, get yourself laid. You could use it.”

Hermann feels the oddest sense of whiplash. Just a minute prior, he was about to kiss Newton (and he was pretty sure Newton was going to kiss him back), and now Newton is practically throwing him at another man. Hermann does not want to get anyone’s phone number—he wants to fall asleep in his stiff hotel bed to some absolutely awful science-fiction movie Newton picks out. “Newton,” he says, “weren’t we going to—?”

“No biggie, we can do movie night tomorrow instead,” Newton says. He nudges Hermann’s calf with the toe of his boot, and holds out his cane to him. Hermann feels his heart begin to sink. “I won’t wait up for you. Just give me a heads up if he wants to go back to our place, and I’ll make sure to stay out longer.”

“I’m sure it’ll only take a moment,” Hermann says. He’ll make sure it only takes a moment.

“No biggie,” Newton repeats. He raises his glass to Hermann in a mock toast. “Good luck!”

When Hermann looks back over his shoulder, halfway to the man in the pink shirt, it’s to see Newton’s stool vacant, and the back of Newton’s leather jacket swishing out the bar doors.

[retvenkos]

“if i die, i’m haunting you - you’re not off the hook that easy”

requested

OKAY, FAM, HERE WE GO, TALKING ABOUT BEING BFFS WITH THE ONE AND ONLY KLAUS HARGREEVES...

first of all... good luck

klaus can just be... the most, so you’re patience would have to be something else.

BUT while you are the more calm out of the two of you, you also have those moments where you just want to go and klaus whines while you pull him to your next destination, promising it will be worth his while.

“i’ll have you know my expectations are very high.”

“we both know that’s a lie, klaus. you’d lick the cement if i told you that you could get high off of it.”

but honestly the two of you can make a party out of anything

if you go grocery shopping together, you’ll end up pushing him in the cart and he’ll just pick things off the shelves, opening chips and cookies while you try to find what you are looking for

you two crash diners a lot, and it’s the equivalent of having a high school theatre cast stop by, because you are just as obnoxious and the waitresses and waiters fight over who ends up serving you

if you go to the movies together, you definitely sneak in food and you either have to stop or join him when he starts to smoke in the back.

klaus is just chaotic, and the fact that you can keep up is truly astounding

oh, and we all know that you drive klaus everywhere, so be prepared for that

and, yes, he is 100% a backseat driver

and i’m so sorry, it’s annoying but if you try to tell him to stop, it just gets worse

it’s either backseat driving or he’s having arguments with ben (which you definitely weigh in on, despite only hearing half of the argument) and honestly, it’s a toss up between which is objectively worse.

oh, and i firmly believe that klaus either lives with you or is just crashing on your couch so often that it feels like he’s a permanent member of that place you call home

even though he’s constantly coming and going, your place is a constant in the chaos of his life, and it’s just so wholesome, okay?

but he’s also constantly stealing your clothes, so beware

“y’know, some people would be honored to have me wear their clothes.”

“really?”

“uh huh.”

“so then why do you have to steal mine? why not wear theirs?”

and on the first night he sleeps over, you wake up in the middle of the night because you hear him... crying?

and you’re groggy and tired (and possibly working off a hangover yourself), but you go over to him, expecting to see him up, sitting on the couch with the heels of his hands pushing against wide eyes, but instead, you find him... asleep

and you stand there, not sure if you should wake him or let him rest

was he resting, though, in this agony?

he wakes up, then, and you stay up the rest of the night, talking

nothing in particular, really

but you manage to talk about anything and everything, and you know klaus better than before

god, give this man a friend. he deserves it.

the best thing about you and klaus’ friendship is that he never has to do any stupid thing on his own, because you will 100% join him

or vehemently protest, talking him out of some of the worse decisions he tries to make

but whatever klaus gets up to, you are there because if you didn’t, klaus would definitely be dead at this point

miracles can happen

and if you ever meet his siblings (you know all about them, klaus loves to talk about his dysfunctional family), they commend you for putting up with him

you are seemingly the more put together one, but klaus will always remind you that you are just as much a mess as he is - he just wears insanity better

“i honestly don’t know how you do it. i tried to kill him at least three times when we were kids.” (diego, probably)

“yes, (y/n)’s a saint, we’re all aware.”

“jealous, are we? your family likes me better than they like you.”

“they don’t know you like i do.”

oh, and you and klaus definitely got matching tattoos once

do you regret it? maybe. did you remove it? hell no.

but you do threaten to, if klaus is being especially idiotic

“you wouldn’t dare.”

“you wanna bet?”

“you know i don’t have the money - i’m poor!”

“maybe if you hadn’t spent all that money on dope, you wouldn’t be.”

“and have self control? you know that’s not my brand.”

and i forgot to mention - you and klaus have the worst best taste in music

and you definitely spontaneously break out into song just to annoy each other and/or those around you

ben wants to off himself whenever you guys start but he’s already dead, so...

i think what is most poignant about your friendship is that the two of you can be your most true selves around each other

klaus is clearly not the greatest with real, raw feelings, but you have shown him time and time again that he can be vulnerable around you, and that is honestly so comforting to him

honestly? where would he be without you? you’re like the family he always needed, and he’s so  g l a d  that he found you and you decided he’s worth sticking around for

and, at the same time, the two of you can do dumb, stupid, and sometimes really bad stuff, and you don’t judge him for it - instead, you join him

i feel like everyone in klaus’ life holds the moral high ground, and while that is gives him something to work towards, it can also be really demoralizing

the fact that you are more on par with him but still keep him in check is definitely good for him - you’re not better, you just know a little better and you both still respect the other

that got kind of sappy, my bad. but klaus deserves a bff? you, him, and ben can be a holy trinity of chaos.

klaus is clearly the chaotic neutral of the group. 

just,,, please treat your bff kindly. threaten him, but be kind.

AND FLUFF ENSUES.

taglist: @babyplutoszx2

[just-another-ficwriter]

You And I

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Words: 3000ish

Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism, implies smut

Summary: It’s been 6 years since Y/N left town, 6 years since she broke Sweet Pea’s heart and they’re about to come face to face once again. Will she be able to win him back?

Notes: A request by @sleepingintheconstellations based on the song You and I by Lady Gaga, I hope I did it justice!

You ride into town the same way you left, alone on a motorcycle and a serpent jacket on your back.

Jaw clenched, fists tight, you ignore the feelings bubbling at the pit of your stomach.

You pass the welcoming sign, 'Riverdale the town with prep!' and scoffs at the thought.

There's no turning back now.

The bike slows naturally until it's stopped at the road side. You tells yourself it's just to think, a brief pause in your journey and not because you're so nervous your heartbeat is almost as loud as the engine.

You think about heading to the trailer park, but you aren't sure if the others even live there anymore. You wonder about the White Wyrm and the kind of greeting you'd get if you just walked through the doors. You eventually decide on heading to Pop's Chocklit Shoppe, the diner always being a safe haven amongst the chaos of the town and the idea of a strawberry milkshake helps cement your decision.

You roll into the car park with a lump in your throat and a weird sense of nostalgia. You’re surprised to see nothings changed, it’s oddly comforting and terrifying at the same time.

You inhale sharply, push back your shoulders and walk inside. Pop Tate’s smile is wide as he greets you and tells you he’s glad to see you back in town. Your walls start to come down at his familiar face but then he points to a booth a few rows back and suddenly your knees feel weak.

You can make out the flash of pink hair that she still hasn’t changed and his laugh is just as warm as ever as it fills the restaurant. Your first few steps are shaky but as you draw closer you gain more confidence, enough to slide into the booth next to a confused Toni Topaz with a smirk on your face.

“Hey strangers.” Fangs drops the fry that’s half way to his mouth, jaw hanging open while Toni looks like she doesn’t know whether to hug you or kick you off the seat. “Did you miss me?”

-

You stare at your cold burger, a meal you had craved so many times while you were half way across the world and now you had it, it sat barely touched. You’d started to drowned the pair out, they couldn’t stop talking yet they avoided the one thing you wanted to hear about most.

Once they’d gotten over their initial shock and Toni had thankful chosen to embrace you rather than push you away, they’d dove into all the things you’d missed while you’d been away.

You try to wait it out, wondering how long it would be before the bell above the door rings and it’s him walking through.

Because he must be coming.

Where ever Fangs and Toni were, Sweet Pea always followed. You hadn’t been in Riverdale for six years but if you were to pick one thing that hadn’t changed, it would be that fact.

But one hour turns into two and there’s only so much of listening about Serpent business and Cheryl Blossom you take before you get impatient and crack.

"So where is he?" You don’t need to say his name for them to instantly know who you’re talking about.

"Pea? Probably at the Wyrm." Toni shrugs like it’s obvious, and you knew you should have guessed.

"I see he still spends all his time drinking beer and playing pool." You roll your eyes, but there’s a lingering glint at the mention of your old hang out.

"You haven't heard?" Fangs shares a look with Toni before deciding to go ahead. “He owns it now."

—

Hands balled up into fists, your right foot bounces up and down while your mind races with endless possibilities.

Would he be as welcoming as Toni and Fangs? Doubtful.

Would he throw you out without a second thought? Possibly.

Thankfully when you'd eventually reached the bar the car park was more deserted than you'd anticipated but that hadn't stopped you from keeping your head low. You didn't need anyone recognising you. Not yet.

You stared at the old battered door, another thing that hadn't changed , and your stomach did somersaults.

You thought about just driving away, he would never even know, but that's not what you'd come here for.

You count to three, brace yourself whatever's about to come and walk inside.

The smell of alcohol hits you instantly and you recognise the faces of the stragglers hunched at the bar but their too drunk to even notice you.

You find him in the corner, back to you as he wipes over a table but he immediately senses your presence, his head lifting as the door swings closed behind you.

"We're closed!" He calls out but the sight of him steals all air from your lungs and it takes you a minute to recover.

"Even for me?" He recognised your voice instantly and the glass he's holding drops to the table with a thud.

He turns to you at an agonisingly slow place, like he doesn't want to see if you're really there and it makes your heart hurt. When his eyes finally reach yours they're full of shock until it dissolves into coldness. "Especially for you."

"That's harsh Pea." You're half joking, half serious but he just flinches when he hears his name fall from your lips. "You aren't even going to say hi?"

"Why are you here Y/N?" He stares dead at you, almost as if he's looking straight through you and it leaves you feeling unnerved.

"I thought we could talk." You offer, wringing your hands. Your voice is so fragile you're afraid it might crack, you'd never felt so vulnerable.

"I have nothing to say to you." He crosses his arms across his chest like an over grown defiant child and if it wasn't for the current situation you might have laughed at his stubbornness.

You hadn't expected this to be easy but he was making it unbelievable difficult.

"Then maybe we don't have to talk." Your voice drops a level as you revert to defence mode. You narrow your eyes at him, remember how this worked when ever he got mad at you before. "Remember that one time we closed down in this exact booth."

But that was six years ago and Sweet Pea wasn't in the mood for games tonight.

He lets out a deep sigh. It's loud and annoyed, and you realise he's quickly losing his patience. "No."

"I think you're lying." You tiptoe slowly around him, fingertips dancing along his shoulders and the back of his neck. "Maybe you need reminding-"

He grips your arm cutting you off, hand tight around your wrist and you swallow down the thick tension. You see a quick flash of temptation in his eyes but it's gone just as fast and they turn back to black.

He's pulling you towards the door before you can say anything else but you don't even bother to put up a fight. "You need to leave."

You stumble back into the darkness without another word, cheeks burning red as he slams the door shut behind you, the sound of the lock turning echoing throughout the car park.

"Well that went well." You mumble to yourself, kicking an empty beer can before finding your way back to your bike.

-

You stare up at the diner front from where you're sat on your bike. The giant neon 'P' flickers on and off now and then but your mind is too far away to even notice.

Toni had let you stay with her and Cheryl for the night and where you'd been thankful, you'd slipped out early without a single goodbye.

You'd need coffee to keep you awake but it had long gone cold as you watched the sun rise, the sky illuminated in oranges and yellows. You knew you should have already left but there was something calming about the quietness of Pop's at this time of day that kept you there.

Ever the night owl, Jughead Jones had passed by with a smile, happy to see you and you were grateful that he still hated small talk just as much as you when he disappeared inside minutes later leaving you alone once more with you lingering thoughts.

"So that's that then?" Toni's voice makes you jump, and you turn to find her frowning in disappointment.

"There's nothing here for me anymore T." You shrug your shoulders, obviously deflated at the thought. "I shouldn't have come back."

"I don't know how you expected him to react." Her eyes narrow as she gets straight to the point. You'd told her about your encounter with Sweet Pea the night before but you hadn't expected her to be so blunt when talking about it.

You look down in silence, fiddling with the zip on your leather jacket. "Guess I was just trying to be hopeful."

"So what now? You disappear for another six years?" Her blatant honestly catches you off guard, the harshness in her tone throwing you off. "How long are you going to keep running for?"

"What else am I suppose to do?" Your voice sounds louder in the vacant car park, more desperate as you throw your hands up in despair. You can feel your eyes start to prickle with tears and you bite down hard on your tongue. You weren't about to cry, not here, not now. Even if you were quickly losing all hope.

"Stay?" She suggests, as if the answer is so simple. "Show him you're serious about this."

Your heart rate quickens at the thought, and Toni watches you consider it. But she knows better than to push you into something and retreats, softening her take on tough love. "Fangs and I have a ‪Friday night‬ tradition of getting wasted at the Wyrm. There's still some of your old stuff at Thistle House if you wanted to join us. It's your choice."

She gives you one last look, a small sympathetic smile on her lips as she turns to leave without another word.

There's no need to say goodbye, she knows she'll see you later tonight. At least she hopes so anyway.

—

He senses your presence the minute you walk into the bar, the same way he had the night before.

Even after all this time, he's still drawn to you like a magnet and it terrifies him.

The first thing he noticed are the red fishnets. They ride high up your thighs, disappearing underneath your shorts before they appear again on your hips.

He remembers you owning an exact pair that he'd playfully ripped apart with his bare hands and briefly thinks about what it would be like to do it again.

He blinks away the thoughts.

You stride over to Toni and Fangs sat in their usual booth, your booth, without looking at anyone else, not even him, but plenty of people stare at you.

And it infuriates him.

He watches you for the rest of the night, high heels dangling over the edge of the seat, never once coming to the bar yourself, never giving him an ounce of attention.

He feels the corners of his lips automatically pulling up into a smile every time he hears your laugh and it makes him want to kick himself for being so stupid.

He watches you until you’re no longer there, disappearing while he’s too distracted to notice where you’ve gone and he tells himself he’s relieved but he can’t shake the disappointment manifesting deep down.

He doesn't see you again until he's kicked everyone out and the doors been locked. He's about to turn the lights off and call it a night when he catches a glimpse of red. His body tenses, ready to defend himself from whoever is lurking in the corner until he realises it's you and he's even more panicked than before.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” He lets go of a long, shaky breath. His voice is flat and you feel your hands go numb.

“I thought maybe you’d got sick of staring and wanted to talk?” You step into the light, drawing closer to him. He feels a flicker of anger, of course you had noticed. He doesn't know if he's more annoyed at himself for still showing interest or you for using it against him.

“I still have nothing to say to you.” He swallows. You're too close now. So close he can smell your perfume and it makes him want to forget why he's even mad at you in the first place. But his memory quickly reminds him of the heart break and he takes a step back.

“That’s fine, I have to plenty to say.” There's a hopeful smile on your lips but it falters as he stares back emotionless.

“I’m not exactly in a listening mood.” He turns away, eager for you to leave, for this situation to be over but you're not ready to give up yet.

“How about a bet?” You suggest, pointing towards the table behind him. "One game of pool. You win, I leave and I never come back.”

“And if you win?” He quirks an eyebrow at your suggested, slightly baffled at the idea.

“You hear me out, even if it’s just for five minutes.” You wait for his answer, heart slamming against your chest.

His eyes dart between you and pool cue leaning against the wall. There's a smug, annoyed part of him that knows he could win this easily and have you out of his life in minutes, but there's also a part of him that what's to let you win just to spend a little longer with you. "Deal.”

He doesn't know how he wants to play it yet.

—

“I win!” You drop the cue in triumphant, spinning around in some sort of victory dance before turning to face him and clearing your throat in embarrassment.

He huffs, trying to hid a smile. "You have five minutes.”

He watches your face fall and he notices how tired you look. "I hate that you’re so mad at me.”

“You have no idea.” He lets out a small laugh, it's humourless and empty but he can't help it. Your eyes meet his and you regret it the minute you see something broken hidden behind them

“I really am sorry.” The knot in your stomach tightens, you feel pathetic at your own words but you had nothing else to offer him.

“You think that fixes it? You just left without even telling me!” His voice is louder now, harsher than before. The rage in his eyes makes you flinch, years of pent up feelings spewing out. "I had to find out from Fangs!”

“I wanted to go travel, get out of town for a while.” You don't know why you said it, it sounds stupid even to you.

“It’s been six years Y/N!” He's livid with you, that you put the two of you in this situation, that you destroyed the relationship. He stares at you, the girl he once loved with everything he had, with so much confusion, so much pain that he automatically brings you to tears. "You didn’t even say goodbye!”

“Because it would have been too hard!” You scream at him with everything you have, the truth finally coming out. Sweet Pea would never leave Riverdale, you never would have stayed. Two people who had meant the world to each other but were destined for conflicting paths.

You couldn't bring yourself to say goodbye to him so you didn't. It was as simple as that. Only six years later the brown eyed serpent still plagued your thoughts and you knew you had to come home.

That you had to try and win him back.

You wait for him to reply but he says nothing, just stares again like he's looking straight into your soul. And then somethings clicks, and he moves so fast you don't have time to react.

His lips are warm, familiar but the impact of his mouth on yours knocks you off guard and leaves your lungs feeling empty of breath.

Once your lips meet it’s like he can’t get enough. He has one hand on the nape of your neck, the other gripping onto your hip pushing you back until your legs brush up against the pool table.

And as he lifts you up, tugging your legs around his waist you can’t help the moan that escapes. You grip fist fulls of his shirt, pulling him into you until he can’t get any closer but you arch your back anyway.

You can feel yourself coming apart underneath him, his face buried in your neck. He mumbles something you can’t make out before his tongue trails along your collarbone and your hands quickly find the hem of his shirt so you can scratch bare skin.

“I can’t stop thinking about you- and I hate it.” But there’s something lingering in his voice that tells you actually he doesn’t hate it at all.

“Sweets...” His name is more of a sigh than a word, you’re almost breathless, chest raising harshly up and down. “Less talking.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, his hand twisting in your hair so he can tilt your head back and attack your neck again.

—

He watches you carefully as button your shorts up, pulling his own shirt over his head. "Are you gonna leave again?”

“Not unless you tell me too.” You answer honestly.

“I don’t think I could go through it again.” His head dips from where he's still sat on the pool table, his bare legs swinging slightly as he plays with his hands.

“Does this mean you forgive me?” You cover his fingers with your own, holding on tight like you're scared he might disappear.

He thinks his answer over, rubbing circles on your skin with his thumb. "It means I’m willing to try.”

And that’s all you need to hear for your lips to find his again.

Sweet Pea Masterlist

Forever Taglist: @p-marie-sp

Sweet Pea Taglist: @80sand90simagine @wildberryyyy @hopelesslylosttheway

You And I Taglist: @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e

[guessimjoiningthespidermanfandom]

Rebirth and Rewrites

Peter Parker x bisexual!reader

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Peter Parker x black!reader

Peter Parker x villain!reader

Warning: Language, mentions of self harm, antidepressants, mentions of injuries, violence, anxiety attacks, depressing thoughts, mentions of parental neglect, self destructive behavior, mentions of weapons, mentions of bounty hunters, allusions of sex.

Word Count: 8.5k

Songs: dRuGz- Willow Smith, Money- Leikeli47, Only You (And You Alone)- The Platters, and Moonsickness- Penelope Scott.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this. Feeling like you’re disconnected from your body that is. Like in the Edge of Seventeen when Nadine says she gets this feeling like she’s looking down on herself from outside her body and she hates what she sees. That’s sort of how it felt. But this? This felt entirely different like I was in the wrong body but retained my soul, it couldn't be explained. It requires no explanation really if you understand it then great and if you don’t you don’t. ”

A/N: Sorry this took so long school got too be a bit much things are kinda slow but now they’re starting to get interesting. 

Series Masterlist  Previous Part   Next Part 

The shampoo bottles flew wildly around the bathroom along with everything else that wasn’t bolted down. I tried my best to put everything back in place but the second I’d put one thing down another thing was moving back up towards the ceiling. 

“No, no. No stop!” I spoke as if the inanimate objects would listen to me and stop moving. 

Fuck. No stop. Please.

Everything was swirling in a tornado like fashion above my head. I ducked down into the bathtub and just waited because it had to stop at some point. Right?

“Y/N?” I heard Carmen call. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I don’t think I’d have been able to speak if I tried. 

“Y/N open the door please” She asked softly followed by the sound of the doorknob rattling. 

I didn’t hear anything else for who knows how long could’ve been a second, 30 minutes, an hour I couldn’t tell. The door was slammed open. Startling me. Everything froze in the air for a few seconds before falling.

“Are you okay?” Carmen grabbing my shoulders. 

I nodded and shrugged her arms off me. Pushing myself up to stand on my legs. It was then and only then did I realize I was shaking.  

I opened my mouth to speak when there was a chime almost like the sound of a microwave. It felt like my eyes had zoomed out above my body. An aerial camera view. 

What I was experiencing was an out of body experience in the past. Like some Ebeneezer Scrooge type shit or a Raven Simone moment but backwards. 

I was shaking my hands flexing at my sides. Except for it wasn’t me me, it was another version of me passing off as another person that I could see full body.  

“Oh are you going to cry?” Heaven taunted. 

I watched as I blinked tears out my eyes. Anyone else would see this as a moment of weakness. However, I know I cried when I got really angry. And I mean really angry. Like rip your heart out, chew it up and spit it out angry. 

“Shut. Up.” I breathed looking down at my feet. 

“And what if I don’t you wanna snitch on me? Cry?” 

I knew the jist of what happened next. I was there when it actually happened. I beat her ass and got suspended. I just didn’t remember exactly how it happened or what exactly I did. 

The girl was still running her mouth but I wasn’t paying attention to that. I was watching her hands and her stance. That was something Wade taught me to watch someone’s body language, that way you could know when or if they were about to swing at you. 

 I threw a sharp right hook knocking Precious’s head into the locker. Right as Precious was about to go for my hair I was falling. 

The floor fell right from my feet and the scene that was once in front of me faded away. I wasn’t falling for long, my back slammed into the cold cement beneath me. 

“I thought you were supposed to be a good guy,” I laughed “Now you’re kicking me around for no reason at all?” Wait. I remember this. Why was it happening again? Why wasn’t it in the third person like the last? This was a core memory for me. My first encounter with Spidey. 

“You were stealing. It’s my job to stop crime,” 

I knew exactly what to do and say. I’d have to run over this like a practiced script. I pushed myself backwards with my hands. 

Oh yeah and who’s paying you to do that?

“No one, is I’m just a good person,” 

“Am I not a good person?” 

A cold sticky wet feeling engulfed my wrist. 

“You are a criminal and deserved to face the proper punishment,”

I rolled my eyes and grunted as I tried to pull my wrist out of whatever it was holding me to the ground. I used to think the webs actually came out of him which is disgusting. 

“Yeah, yeah sure can you hand me my bag so I can leave?” I teased.  

“Y/N!” A random voice called out. That wasn’t supposed to happen. 

“What was that?” Spiderman or Peter asked. I looked around trying to locate the voice. I heard my name called again before the only thing I could hear was a loud crack. 

I looked underneath me and the ground beneath my feet was split down the middle. I tried to pull my arm out of the webbing harder this time. The floor continued to split like a crack in a windshield before eventually consuming me and I was falling again.

As I was falling everything looked so beautiful. There were glowing orbs of light all around me. It was completely black except for the stars and orbs. 

It was then that realized I wasn’t falling anymore. It was the opposite. I was floating or stiled in place.

 I wanted to touch one of those bright spherical orbs I probably shouldn’t but I was going to do it anyway. I reached out towards it and my hand glided smoothly through the air. Or not air? This is space right? There’s no oxygen in space. Then how was I breathing?

My hands went straight through the orb leaving behind the same fire like ribbons from a few days ago and earlier today. The waves were fluid. They felt like nothing. Like a breeze maybe. Something that could possibly tickle if you endured enough of it. 

A large energy surge shot out the orb knocking me back. At least 100 feet once my arm was all the way through. It didn’t hurt though it was just strong. 

When I started moving back towards nothing in particular it felt like I was swimming. I began to laugh, I felt so free. 

 Multiple rings opened around me. I was circled with gold rings shooting off sparks. They looked like portals. To where I don’t know. There were some that looked like fiery pits of hell. Others were very colorful like a rave or rocky terrain. 

There was one that was calling me for some reason. Something told me to stop resisting the pull to stay where I was but I knew I couldn't. I pushed through the air. Well I guess I pulled myself towards it instead of pushed. I slid through like a knife through butter.

The first thing I felt was the coolness of the porcelain bathtub on my back. My head felt as if it was expanding inside my skull.  

I stepped in between all the shampoo bottles and hygiene products on the floor making my way out of the bathroom. I entered the living room not prepared to see Tony and Peter sitting there on the couch with some person I’d never seen. Who looked straight out of a Men in Black movie. 

“Oh shit.” I turned to Carmen grabbing her arm and dragging her down the hal l“What the fuck did you do?” 

“Where were you?” She answered my question with her own. Well two can play that game. And I believe I asked first. 

“What’d you do? Why'd you call them? Or if you didn't, why are they here? It was just a few bottles, I had it under control,” 

“I was freaking out that’s why! Where the hell were you?” 

“What are you talking about? I was in the bathroom. You saw me,” 

“You’ve been gone for 7 hours Y/N!” 

“What?” I shook my head. “No. What are you talking about?” 

“You’ve been gone for 7 hours and your eyes are glowing. What the hell is going on with you?” 

I pulled out my phone opening it to the camera app and my eyes were in fact glowing. I blinked very hard multiple times. Shaking my head until it cleared. What the fuck is happening.

I sent Peter, Tony, and the Agent J wannabe on their way with a few lies to clear the air. I’m sure Tony would want to play more of his mad scientist game on me but that’s a problem for another day. I was just going to read my book until I fell asleep. Last interaction I had with another human that day was Carmen patting my shoulder and saying “Welcome to the world of mutants, girl. Buckle up it’s a bumpy ride.” before walking away.  

I swear to whatever’s out there that I’m losing my mind. Like full on shave your head and move to New Mexico crazy. I’d open that can of worms later. 

“I don’t think I can love myself without sexualizing myself is that bad?” I asked, applying my lipgloss.

“I don’t necessarily think so, it’s common but if it gets out of hand, it can create lots of other problems,” MJ gave her input.

“Oh I definitely know all about the problems it can cause I just can’t stop, ” 

Carmen strolled into the bathroom. 

“Where’s the thing?” 

“What thing?”

“You know the,” She did a hand movement that I somehow understood. It wasn’t even remotely connected to what she was trying to convey either. 

“Oh! The face paint. It’s under the cabinet by Salem’s food bowls,” 

“What?” MJ questioned. “How did you get face paint from that?” 

I just shrugged. 

“I don’t know. We’re like connected or some shit,” 

I sat on the couch, Halloween playing on the TV but no one was paying attention. We were all on our phones. 

“Alright,” I sighed, pushing up from the couch. “I should be done at like 9 so that gives us like 11 to get there,” 

I promised my sisters I’d take them trick-or-treating. It’s been like this forever and I wasn’t going to back out now. Sapphire was actually dressed as Spiderman and for some reason I couldn’t tell if that made me wanna laugh or cry. Didn’t even know they made costumes for that guess that whole being sponsored by Tony thing was coming in clutch. 

I don’t know how it works anywhere else but in New York you gotta go trick-or-treating on the street. Everything is private property and you can’t just get buzzed in just for candy so you go in publicly owned places. 

“This is the last store for tonight, I gotta get back” I informed them.

Sapphire whined and I wrapped my arm around her pulling her into my side. 

“Cmon’ little superhero,” 

I stepped off to the side towards Aaliyah.

“For your sake I would not let her eat much candy if any tonight,” 

An half hour later and I was back at Carmen’s house. I really need to find somewhere else to stay. It's been too long here. 

After what felt like a million hours Harry finally showed up. 

“I’m driving,” I claimed moving towards the apartment door. 

“No you're not,” He stated.

“Oh really? Then why do I have the keys.” I lifted the keyring rattling it around. 

He let out an aspirated sigh. I could tell he wasn’t going to fight me on this. I'm sure he was just confused on how I even got them. 

Now there were two reasons I was driving. One because I had to make a detour and two I didn’t want to sit in Harry’s backseat because God knows what has happened back there. 

Back to the detour. It was Peter’s apartment complex. I'm surprised he agreed to come. had just brought it up to be polite. It was well known that parties weren’t really his scene. 

Harry held his hand out, palm facing up. There lied about seven bars. I’m honestly surprised he was sharing willingly. That was new. 

 Bri and Carmen as well as myself had no qualms about popping the xans. MJ didn't take any, just shook her head when offered, which I’m glad she’s too smart for drugs. So is Peter which is exactly why I pushed Harry’s hand away. Giving him a look daring him to even think about offering anything to him. 

Everyone had split up Carmen with MJ. Bri to honestly I don’t know where and Harry to I don’t think I want to know where. And Peter? He’s with me of course, couldn’t leave him by himself. 

“Where’s Ned I haven’t seen him in a while,” I decided to speak because I couldn’t stand the awkward silence in this bedroom I’d somehow backed myself into. 

“He said he’s been to one party this and that fits his quota for the year,” 

“Well I would’ve thought Liz’s thing met your quota too but here we are,” I could feel my brain slowing down and smiled slightly. Then I noticed how far away Peter was on the bed.

“You can get closer, I won’t bite,” I hummed. “Unless you want me to of course,” 

“What!?” He almost shouted.

“I’m kidding dude, calm down,” I laughed. The room fell into silence again save for the sound of the music vibrating throughout the house. I miss real house parties. But oh well this party where I wasn’t actually doing anything would have to do.  

“Just realized I never asked. What are you dressed as?”

“Han Solo,” He replied as if I was supposed to know who that was.

“Who?” I scrunched up my eyebrows. 

“You don’t know Han Solo?” 

I shook my head. I’m sure it looked a lot sloppier than I meant for it to be I just couldn’t really move my head

“From Star Wars?” He tried again.

“The only people I know from Star Wars are Princess Lelia, Luke Skywalker and that one robot motherfucker.”

It was hard not to smile as Peter rambled on about the Saga. I wasn’t really paying attention but he looked adorable. I was just staring at him and I’m sure if Harry or Carmen were here they’d tell me I looked like the embodiment of the heart eye emoji. It’s not like I liked him or anything he was just cute.  

That was until my burner vibrated against my lower leg. I used my arms to push myself up, excusing myself to take the call. 

“What’s up?” I asked. 

Wade’s voice boomed from the phone. 

“I know a guy that knows a guy who knows-“ He cut himself for the reason I could only assume was because of the crashing noise coming from inside the house. 

“Are you at a party?” 

“No,” I lied for no reason he wouldn’t care if I was.

“I’m not stupid just call me back when you’re not flirting with some fuckboy or high,” He choose to emphasize the last word. 

“I’m not high,” I’m not sure who exactly I was trying to convince. 

“You’re literally slurring right now. Don’t drink and drive kid,” 

“What?” I laughed at his attempt at a lecture or a safety tip whatever that was. 

“Don’t laugh, I'm trying to be a responsible adult. I think it’s about time.” 

I couldn’t remember when or how I got back inside but here I was surrounded by people with music bouncing off the wall fading in and out of consciousness and I had never felt more alone. It was kinda pathetic.

“I’ve never understood that calling people daddy shit it’s fucking weird-“ I cut my rambling off pushing my face against the car window enjoying its coolness. “English is the most unattractive language, like it’s so tame and dull and…” I trailed off letting my head fall back down as I lost control over my neck muscles for a second. 

“It’s just like- I just wanna be able to say-“ I sighed before starting up again “Vous avez l'air très attirant ce soir. Les choses que je te laisserais me faire,” 

I looked away and everyone besides MJ was looking at me with wide eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was driving or the fact I knew she spoke French. 

I realized it was definitely the latter when she spoke back in the same language. 

“Was that directed as a general thing or at Peter?” 

Thank God no one else understood us. I mean it wouldn’t have been that big of a deal I’d just have to endure a bit of teasing but it’s better to avoid the headache. 

“So are you going to let us in on your conversation or…” Harry questioned.

“Shut up,” I spoke to both Harry and MJ. “Drop Peter off first,” That was the last thing I muttered before falling deep into the vast clusterfuck of a land that is my subconscious. 

When I woke up I was on Carmen’s couch with a blanket draped over my waist. I clumsily reached for my phone just texting the last person I texted. To stimulate my mind.  

you: hi are you awake 

I couldn’t help but laugh at how much this seemed like a u up? text but this was in a completely different context. 

It took a minute but he responded.

p😜🤚: yeah are you okay?

you: im fine just bored 

p😜🤚: oh

p 😜🤚: well we can talk if you want too 

I couldn’t help but smile. Ugh what’s wrong with me. I knew better than to ask this because I wasn’t trying to catch feelings anytime soon but my dumbass did it anyway. 

you: can we ft

p: sure 

He apparently did see the cuts on my leg that one time because he just asked me about it. To which I  denied, denied, denied. Salem did it and that’s final. I only did it once anyway so who gives a fuck I’d gotten the urge to do it under control. Like I’d heard somewhere before there’s a difference between thinking about hurting yourself and wanting to hurt yourself. 

“You’re sure you’re okay though?” He asked one last time and I nodded my head. “Okay because I know all these changes in your body can be-“

“Changes?” I interrupted “Why are you making it sound like puberty,” l laughed. I wish I could convince myself whatever these mutations were are just puberty.  

“You know what I mean!” He let out a small laugh.

“Okay but puberty is really weird, why do humans need so much sweat,” I attempted to shift the conversation onto something that wasn’t my physical and mental wellbeing.

 Either Peter could tell I wasn’t going to give him shit or I really was just the master of getting out of things but it worked. I eventually fell asleep and when I woke up he was still on the phone.

“So you’re sending me to bounty hunt a bounty hunter who’s bounty hunting Mr. America?”

“Exactly,” 

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve heard all day,” 

“Hey you asked me to help you be grateful you little asshole,” Wade teased.

“Fuck you,” I laughed. “How long do I have?” 

“Two weeks top.” 

I hummed before hanging up.

Now the question was to do this alone or to bring someone else. I definitely haven’t been in the most stable of headspaces lately. There could be up to 4 Avengers and 1 bounty hunter. I’d have to be smart about this. I can’t believe that I’m about to say this but I need a plan. 

-Step one: Find Carmen and make her make a plan.-

Step one: Convince Tony to let me go on a solo mission. Giving me a reason to dip while having a whole buncha cool technological weapons at my disposal.

Step two: Disable the tracking in the weapons provided. 

Step three: Get a car.

Step four: Follow bounty guy to wherever they’re going. 

Step five: Take out the bounty guy. 

Step six: Talk to Captain America.

Step seven: Find Thor from Captain America. 

First I’d have to get out of detention. I would’ve been fine with detention if I had my phone. I don’t even know why I’m in here actually. I hadn’t gotten in trouble in a while. I was confused until Tony strolled into the room. Why couldn’t he meet anyone in a normal location just once. He always had to fucking abmush people. 

I had to hold back from rolling my eyes. 

“Yes?” I asked. 

“You said you were up for a solo op right?”

I nodded skeptically. 

“Well I have one for you next Friday,” 

“Go on,” I moved my arms under my torso to rest under my chin. 

It was just a simple drug bust in and out. He must’ve been really bored to go out of his way to try and stop something as miniscule as this. Probably didn’t think it through when he signed those accords. Now he literally can’t do anything without the whole world jumping his dick.  For now he’s living vicariously through Peter and I’m assuming. 

A simple drug bust isn’t something you really need to get ready for. Trying to find and possibly have to fight one Avenger let alone possibly 4 is something you have to be more than ready for. In every way possible. Including mentally.

“I think I want to go back on antidepressants,” I blurted, plopping back down on the couch with a bag of chips. 

“You’re being serious?” Carmen asked, pausing the TV.

“Yeah I mean what’s so surprising about that?” I unpaused it.

She paused it again turning towards me. 

“Why? What happened you said you hated all the side effects and would never take them again,” 

“Guess I changed my mind,” I shrugged “I just told you cause I know you know how to get them ‘s all,” 

“Okay.” She nodded and I could almost see her brain working behind her eyes. 

One thing about long term friends is they know when you don’t want to talk about something and they also know when they need to drop it. In the click of a few buttons on a keyboard I had an appointment with a psychiatrist. The fact she knew my insurance information is kinda scary though. Apparently I passed the test to get crazy people's medicine with flying colors. 

I was in Queens for many reasons, one of them being I wanted to spar with Felicia. She is not a sparring person she likes to fight but only when she has to, but I was able to convince her. It didn’t take much actually. She owes me after all 3:1.

She was sorta similar to Black Widow in fight styles and she was hard to beat.  With Captain America it’s easy, his fighting style is easy to evade, if I just avoid the shield and go for his legs I’d be good. Spiderman doesnt shield his left side when he goes to hit you and relies on his webs too much. Wanda she- I don’t know what she does actually but if I can get her to physically fight me instead of using powers I could easily take her down. That Falcon guy uses his legs a lot so aim for the wings. 

But Black Widow was agile. The strongest of them all because she doesn’t use strength you can tell from the videos I’d been analyzing she movies like a ballerina. Her fighting style is to not have one at all. 

I mean it was scary how similar she and Felicia were; they even both have Black in their name and suits. Despite neither of them being back which is funny. 

I was laid out on the panting. I rolled over onto my stomach grunting as I reached for my knife. I wasn’t done at least not yet. 

I slung my arm towards her and this time she didn’t catch it. I barely grazed her but it was enough to catch her off guard. I was able to get her pinned to the ground for like 15 seconds. 

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” I laughed.

“You could never,” Honestly I’m starting to believe that. Even when Olivia and I broke up she never got hostile towards me or anything. And her being hostile towards me is not something I’d enjoy. 

I’d have to be the clumsiest “agile” person I’d ever met. I fell walking down the steps to get back outside. I rolled and landed on my ankle but I’m sure it’d be fine. It only caused a slight discomfort when I put pressure on it. I’m just glad I could walk like this without having Felicia on my ass about it. 

I was already in the area so I decided to stop by Peters house just to see if he was home. Okay in all honesty, I wasn’t really in the area Felicia lives in an entirely different part of Queens. But he said I could stop by whenever and I’d like to say I’m a literal person. 

I winced when I put my foot all the way back down on the ground but I didn’t want to be interrogated. Peter does not know when to drop things. 

“Hey,” I spoke once he opened the door. 

“Hey?” He asked more than said as if he was surprised I was here. 

He just stood there staring for a few seconds too long.

“So can I come in? Or...” I tilted my head. 

“Oh,” He shook his head slightly as if shaking out his thoughts. 

“Oh, yeah come in,” He stepped out of the way. 

We both sat with our legs facing each other on his bottom bunk. Suddenly I became aware. 

Aware of the way I could feel all the fibers in the polyester blanket I sat on.

Aware of each sound around me, the slight wind just outside the window, the faint TV show I could hear from the apartment on the floor above, the air conditioning rattling. 

Aware of how I didn’t remember who I’d been or how where or why. 

Aware of how I had a purpose, how I should look to the sky for answers and when I could not look to the light I must look into our heart. The one collective heart we share. But I could not remember who we were. I wasn’t meant to remember who we were or what we were.

I wasn’t supposed to remember not yet. Not now. But soon or maybe never. They'll never take my power, even if I didn’t understand it yet. It was mine and mine to keep. 

Aware of the faint whisper of my name rang through the air. 

I didn’t appreciate the headache and tightness in my chest this awareness or insanity brought me. I needed a distraction. Not sure why this was the first thing that popped into my head but it was. 

“Your suit can record things right?”

“Yeah why?” 

“Does it record everything it’s around?”

The whispering only got closer and closer. My name being called out with a sense of urgency and grief. I couldn’t see. There was a difference between adrenaline and anxiety and this wasn’t the later. Something was seriously wrong and I had no idea what to do about it. Finally the voice got so loud it could not be ignored.

“Y/N!” I snapped my eyes up and tried to calm my breathing. 

“What?” I asked with more hostility than I intended. 

“It’s just you zoned out and started muttering something. It freaked me out,” 

I had to hold back from showing my confusion on my face. 

“Sorry,” I murmured sheepishly. I don’t know why I felt the need to apologize. It's like I was a walking ball of grief, guilt, and shame but it wasn’t my own. 

I’m not sure how long we sat there in silence before I felt the impending urge to escape but as soon as I put pressure on my foot the shock of the pain shooting to my leg wasn’t able to be concealed. I winced quietly but I know he heard me. 

In two seconds flat he was pestering me trying to figure out what was wrong. I ignored him and suddenly the fraying on the shoelaces of my combat boots was extremely interesting to me. 

“It’s nothing Peter, drop it,” I walked towards his closet. 

“It’s not nothing,” He sighed moving towards me. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?” 

Because if I told you then you’d tell Tony and I’d get taken off the solo op.

I just looked up at the ceiling and decided to change the topic with something I knew would get the target off of my back. 

“Why’d you never get me arrested?” 

“Huh?” He raised his eyebrows scrunching up his face.

“All the times you came after me as Thorn. You always let me get away, why?” 

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t see you get arrested I guess.” 

I hummed to his answer letting my hands roam through his closet. I picked up a pair of Hello Kitty pajama pants.

“When’d you get these?” I asked. 

He snatched them from my hands.

“Haha go ahead and make fun of me for them. Mr. Stark gave them to me.” 

I simply smiled.

”I was just going to say they were very cute actually ’m sure you looked adorable, but okay,”

I glanced back at him and his face had a light pink glow.

“You’re blushing!” I pointed out laughing.

“Am not,” He lied.

“Are too. I can tell you aren’t used to getting compliments,” I smiled. “That’s too bad though you deserve plenty of compliments,” I looked back up at the ceiling and noticed an attic or trap door. I hopped up a bit and his suit fell down as I hit the door. 

“How does everyone keep finding that?” I heard him ask.

“It’s a very you place to put it that’s why,” I mindlessly answered back.

“You heard me?” 

That’s snapped me out of whatever trance I was in. 

“What? Was I not supposed to?” As soon as the sentence left my mouth I heard a scream.

“Somethings wrong,” Peter announced. So he heard it too?

I felt drawn to it. Like I knew them or something. 

“Uh…” I stalled “I have to go. Sorry,” 

“Okay text me when you get back home,” He rushed out since I’d moved away so quickly. 

I was sure I was limping but the pain wasn’t as prevalent in my mind as the screaming was. I followed it as if it was a compass. I followed it to the middle of nowhere. It was just dry grass and about three trees caged by chain link fences and abandoned buildings. 

Whatever came over me faded as soon stepped off the sidewalk. The screaming subsided into nothing and it was like a tight grip around my chest slipping away. I’m really losing my mind oh my god. 

I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the bathtub all night focusing. I found when I focused hard enough I could move some of the things. It isn’t so much about imagining where you want something to go it was about believing it was already there. It hurt my head to do it though. I only moved about three things 4 inches. 

It was a possibility that I was going through a psychotic break or I could’ve really been moving things with my mind because of whatever radiation was in my body. A few days ago I apparently disappeared after there was a tornado of shampoo bottles flying around. Maybe I did that subconsciously somehow. 

I mean gamma rays literally invented the Hulk wherever he was. Who knows what they were doing to me. 

I eventually fell asleep halfway on and halfway off the couch. How I even got there in the first place I wasn’t sure. I upped the times I needed to go to the gym a day to 3 times. That would’ve been fine. I didn’t have like 50 missing assignments to turn in before the end of the semester. Which is in 2 weeks. 

It didn’t help that I felt like something bad was about to happen. Don’t know what but I feel it coming. I hummed to myself. Okay now back on track. It comes in handy to have smart friends, especially ones willing to help you get your work done. 

“Why are we at the park?” Peter asked as I tucked my legs back to swing even higher. 

“Because if you do work in an unusual place you get it done faster.”

“I’m not sure that’s tr-“ 

“It is true don’t question me,” 

“We're not even doing any work right now,” He pointed out. 

“If you swing higher than me we can start.” I knew he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

“Oh, you’re on,” He replied, putting both his hands on the swing’s chains. 

He didn’t beat me. I let him win because I got tired.

“Yeah right,” He laughed. 

“I did! You wouldn’t of won if I didn’t stop, I let you win out of pity” 

I actually managed to get 3 whole assignments done. School can be kinda fun when you have a teacher who doesn’t try to make you feel stupid. It’s way easier when you have the energy to try at all.

 You never realize how much walking you do in a day or how excruciating exercising is until your leg hurts. I was going to let it stop me though. There’s a reason people say walk it off to injuries. 

The entire structure of my plan had failed. Somehow, someone probably Peter, told Tony that I got hurt and I got taken off the solo op. 

After 30 minutes of me being annoying as fuck I got put back on. Only problem now was Peter was coming as a safety precaution.

Step 8: Figure out how to ditch Peter.

Fuck my life. Although everything else was falling apart I’d manage to get 40% of my assignment turned in. 

Friday came in a blink of an eye. I’d be the bait and Peter would just be the lookout. I wasn’t planning on going through with whatever I was supposed to be doing here. I just needed to disable the tracker in my communicator. I guess I was thinking straight because I didn’t hear or even see the guy move behind Peter. Not until I heard him call out.

“It’s a set up!” 

There was one thing I didn’t have to think about and that was running. It was my expert tactic. I knew it wouldn’t be fair to leave Peter. He might think he can take care of himself but he was too naive for his own good. 

“Wait!” He called out and I stopped behind an empty building.

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“Yeah but why-“ 

I interrupted him.

“I need to do something really important and Tony can’t know about it,” 

“Now you can go back but you can’t say a single thing about this to him. Just say the mission went wrong and I decided it was safer to ditch or something.”

I could see the conflict in his eyes.

“No,” 

Fuck. I felt my burner vibrate in my pocket. It was probably Carmen asking where I was. 

“No?” 

“Yeah cause I’m coming with you,” 

“I can’t ask you do to that,” 

“I know but I’m coming or I’ll tell Mr. Stark,” 

I knew he probably wouldn’t but I couldn’t risk the slim chance that he would. 

“Fine…” I breathed out. I didn’t have anytime to argue I’d just ditch him somewhere. 

I saw him quietly cheer. Clearly not understanding the severity of the situation. This wasn't some Vulture thing, this was very highly trained individuals. 

I dialed Carmen again.

“Hey… So we’ve got a plus one,” 

“What?” 

“You’ll see,” 

We were in the car for 12 fucking hours and we still weren’t there. I never realized how much Peter talked until now. We had no form of entertainment besides the radio. Carmen pulled over at a gas station so we could switch off and partially because Peter said he had to use the bathroom. 

While he was still inside Carmen spoke up for the first time in what felt like weeks.

“Why’d you bring Golden boy along?”

“Cause I didn't want him to get shot,” 

“Yeah I understand that part. Why didn’t you just like knock him out and dip,” 

“What why the fuck would I do that,” 

“You would’ve done it to anyone else. You’re getting all soft,” She poked my side and I flipped her off. 

“How’s that for soft?” As soon as the sentence came out of my mouth I heard the click of the door opening and it startled me a lot more than it should’ve. 

The rest of the ride was silent save from Peter asking home much longer we had to go before falling asleep. It was about 12 pm by the time we got there. After shaking both Carmen and Peter awake I headed up to knock on the door. 

A girl who looked about Aaliya’s age answered the door.

I smiled at her.

“Is your dad here I have to ask him something,” 

Now I knew for a fact he was here he was on house arrest. I was looking through the videos Peter’s suit had recorded and I found this giant guy at some airport in Germany who I was able to trace back to Scott Lang. 

That one guy who transferred all that money out of Vistacorp back to its consumers. It was pretty badass as far as nonviolent crimes go. 

I could see her playing my question over in her head deciding if she’d have to lie or not. I’m assuming she saw something somewhat trustworthy in me because I was sitting in his house on his couch. Trying to convince him to help me.  

“So let me get this straight. You have telekinetic and fire powers and had a dream that you believe is prophetic and you need me to tell you where Captain America is?” 

“Pretty much yeah,” 

“Okay uh wow,” He claimed standing up. I could tell he believed me. There wasn't a hint of distrust in his eyes. Which is good because I wasn’t lying.

“I want to help you, I do. But-“ 

“You don’t know where he is do you?” 

“No not exactly. I do have something though.” He replied standing up off the couch “Hold on let me get it,” He went rummaging around his house because coming back about a minute later. 

“No luck?” Carmen asked as she read my facial expression. 

I shook my head.

“All he gave me was this,” I held up the plastic plaque. 

“What are we even looking for anyway,” Peter asked. 

I could see Carmen shaking her head signaling me not to tell him. I didn’t. He’d find out sooner or later. I think we were too far from home to ditch him now.

“So are we paying or are we saving the cash?” Carmen asked.

“We can just save it probably let me go check,” 

The hotel was empty for the most part. Multiple rooms to choose from. It was always easier to make a get away if needed from the bottom floor and I chose to break into the one closest to the exit. 

“I call showering first,” Carmen spoke. 

I just waved her off plopping onto one of the Queen beds placed next to the air conditioner. Peter was just standing in the corner like he was nervous or something. 

“First “road trip” or something?” I teased.

“Kinda…” He trailed off as something caught his attention. “Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going,” 

Might as well.

“To find Captain America,” 

He looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

“Wait you’re being serious?”

“As a heart attack,” 

“I don’t think he likes me,” He looked down as he fidgeted with his hands. “I kinda stole his shield,” 

“So I’ve heard,” I giggled. 

I checked the communicator and the bounty hunter we were supposed to be hunting down was still in the same place. This could mean 1 of many things, either the tracker on them is broken or has been found, they found him already, or the whole communicator was broken. 

“Alright I’m done,” Carmen emerged from the bathroom. 

Peter being nice like he always is let me go next. Sometimes it concerns me how nice he is. Like he was planning something just like Canadians they all seem so nice but they’re just as racist as everyone else. But now I’m starting to believe he's just genuinely that good of a person. 

Which is refreshing. You don’t see too many good people nowadays. However the better of a person you are the more room you have to taint. And I knew for a fact I wouldn’t allow myself to be one of those people who did it. 

You know when you’re dreaming and there’s something or someone chasing you and you try to run but you never can. I would say that’s me, my entire essence. I’d been trying to out run my demons for so long never realizing that my only demon was myself. And no matter how bad I wanted to, I couldn’t outrun myself. Trust me I’ve tried. 

I couldn’t outrun the sudden ache moving throughout my body. I could always feel an anxiety attack right before it happened but remained powerless to stop it most of the time. 

Streams of water ran over my body mixing with the warm tears that ran down my face. I’m sure the water pressure overpowered my sobs from outside of the room but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hear the pathetic sounds. 

After my breathing went back to normal I stood in the mirror detangling my hair staring at each mark on my body. Whether it be a tattoo or scar or a mole I looked. I reminisced about the stories behind them, some a lot sadder than the rest. But somehow the marks I couldn’t remember were the saddest of them all.

It hurt to want to go back to life before everything went… just wrong, when you couldn’t even remember what it was like before then. 

It’s like I was numb before and crying felt good. Well it didn’t feel good but you know what I mean. It just felt good to know I could still feel.

I heard a knock at the door shaking myself out of my spiraling thoughts. I sniffled, wiping my nose, before tightening my towel around my waist and opening the door.

The first thing that hit me was the cool breeze of the hotel air conditioning contrasting against my warm skin. The second was Peter looking confused as ever holding some form of cloth in his hands.

“Oh I’m sorry, was I taking too long?” I looked back towards my clothes sitting on the counter grabbing them as if I was about to exit but in reality I still had no clothes on underneath this towel. “You can go hold on,” 

“No! Uh…”

“No what?” I smiled. 

“I came to bring...” He waved around what I could now see was a shirt.

I simply raised my eyebrows at him suspiciously.

“Here,” He thrusted the shirt into my hands. 

I looked down at the article of clothing in confusion.

“Thanks?” 

“I know you left it out here so…” He awkwardly clamped his hands together. 

“Thank you,” I replied, slowly shutting the door so he knew he could back off. For some reason I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. 

Smiles never lasted long for me. Something weird just always manages to happen every time I’m even remotely happy. 

I was in some form of a prison or detainment facility. There was thick glass everywhere so I’m assuming it was high security. I had the plaque from earlier today in my hand except it wasn’t my hand. Unless I have magically turned white, it was someone else. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this. Feeling like you’re disconnected from your body that is. Like in the Edge of Seventeen when Nadine says she gets this feeling like she’s looking down on herself from outside her body and she hates what she sees. That’s sort of how it felt. 

But this? This felt entirely different like I was in the wrong body but retained my soul, it couldn't be explained. It requires no explanation really if you understand it then great and if you don’t you don’t. 

The plaque had a seam that I hadn’t noticed before and it was hollow inside. I clutched in my right hand and kept walking.

 As soon as I entered a large room extending from the hall. That all too familiar siren sound played through my ears as a bright light stunted my vision. 

I was brought back to my body. Well I guess I just woke up because now I was all sweaty and sitting straight up on the bed like an idiot.

 I made my way to the bathroom and the light made me realize my eyes were glowing and so were my veins. I just blinked it out like I was trying to put contacts in and washed my face. 

Seriously what was happening to me I don’t want to end up like Hulk or Wanda and have everyone scared of me. But whatever this is couldn’t be controlled or understood. 

I woke the others up, as I was trying to figure out how to open the plaque I heard Carmen hiss loudly.

“Why’s the doorknob so hot?” She turned to me “Did you do this?” 

“No? How would I do that?” Maybe I did do it. I did lose my train of thought when I went to open the door. 

Still doesn’t explain the heat part, maybe it had something to do with the fire thing from Staten Island but I hadn’t done that again since that night. I was honestly starting to believe I made it up. 

I reached for a napkin to wipe the syrup off my hands. It was Carmen’s brilliant idea to stop at a Waffle House. All the time we spent here could’ve been used doing something actually productive. 

“So why are you trying to open that?” Peter asked, sliding closer to where I had the plaque laid out on the table. He asks too many questions. I didn’t wanna respond but I didn’t wanna be mean.

“Because,” I grunted as I struggled to pull apart the top and bottom. “I had a dream that there was something inside and now I wanna see if that’s true,” 

“A dream?” He questioned.

“Yeah a dream,” 

“Who was in it?”

“No one was in it,” I started to get annoyed for absolutely no reason. “Just finished your food,” I pointed at his plate.

“Fine…” He slid back over. 

I hit the seam of the plaque against the edge of the table and the bottom popped up. I let out a silent cheer and caught the attention of Carmen.

“What?” 

I flipped the opening over my palm and a rolled up piece of paper came out. 

“Look what I found,” 

“A clue,” Peter spoke.

“It’s not a clue this isn’t some TV adventure it’s just evidence,” Carmen spat. 

I unraveled it revealing a bunch of numbers. I think it’s either a phone number or coordinates. It wasn’t a phone number. I called it and some random Canadian person picked up. So the next option was coordinates.

“Are we sure this is the right place?” Carmen asked. Looking at the stranded house sitting some way down the street.

“If it’s not then oh well,” I shrugged, unhooking my seat belt. 

I leaned down to the slightly cracked passenger window. 

“Do not get out of this car.” I spat through my teeth. Neither of them knew how to listen and I had to let them know I meant business. 

I started towards the house, the gravel crunching under my feet before I turned back again.

“I mean it!” I called out before sprinting back into the house. 

The door creaked open as I pushed it open and I turned back to keep it from closing. The second I did it I knew it was the wrong decision to make. Literally anyone who knew anything about anything knew to not turn their back on unknown territory.

  I was being restrained by some invisible force that wasn’t invisible for long. There were scarlet or crimson waves making my tingle.

 It was more of a tickling feeling than a burning one. That feeling faded into another soon. I clamped my eyes shut, it felt like someone was using my head as a bowl using a spoon to try to scrape my brains out.

 I ended up overpowering whatever force was holding down my arms to hold my head. It was excruciating putting my hand there only made it worse. As soon as I made contact with the skin that loud siren noise like nails on a chalkboard racking through my brain caused me to double over in pain. I saw two legs above me and I heard someone’s voice saying.

“Wanda? What’s going on out there?” 

My vision blurred as I tried to swat at who was allegedly Wanda Maximoff the telekinetic girls legs. The one person I didn’t want to run into was over here melting my brain. I pushed myself up. I think I couldn’t really feel my muscles. I know for a fact my back hit something or maybe something hit my back. 

I heard more footsteps nearby and hushed whispers followed by a who are you and what do you want. I probably would’ve answered if I could but I don’t think I had the current ability to form a coherent sentence. 

“She doesn’t look like one of theirs. How do we know she’s here to hurt us?” I heard someone say. 

“I don’t know I can’t read her,” A voice I hadn’t heard before spoke. 

“What’s that mean?” 

I was stuck in place again. I couldn’t really see and I could feel anything but the tearing of my brain in half and the presence of another body in the room. My eyes were closed but I felt them get closer to me. Too close for my liking. My eyes shot open as soon as I heard. 

“Y/N?” 

I tried my best to lift my head to meet the redhead's eyes. 

“You know her Romanoff?” I heard the first guy from before speak. 

“Sort off?” She shrugged and reached out to pull me up to a sitting position. I let her. 

Romanoff. This was Natasha Romanoff aka Black Widow. She was here with Wanda along with who was most likely Captain America and she knew my name. 

“How-“ I swallowed some of my spit because of how dry my throat is. “How do you know my name?” 

She answered my question with a question of her own. 

“How’d you find this place? Most importantly why?” 

“I asked you first,” I narrowed my eyes. 

She had the audacity to chuckle at my statement. 

I glared at her which turned into some sort of staring contest until it was interrupted by some wannabe comedian.

“Are we interrupting some family reunion here or…” 

I flipped off the general direction of the voice off on instinct. 

Taglist: 

@tomdiddlyumptious​

[radiofreeyurick]

Thus The Man Continues to Fall

By Nick Yurick

20 years after the tragedy that shaped a generation now haunted by final days of the War that was spurred by it, and newly bereft of so many previously held sentiments, causes, or beliefs that felt so vital and true on that day, for many, all that remains is The Falling Man

Any adolescent on the verge of social awareness has to feel it coming. Though some may only be students of history out of obligation at that age, rather than genuine interest or concern, the patterns and shifts begin to take on palpable rhythms of causes and effects, ebbs and flows, and calms preceding storms. The moment when the News becomes a Documentary, replete with imagined underscoring, slow motion, and a dramatic voiceover. The moment when Life becomes History.

At 14 years of age I was already an aspiring multihyphenate. actor, artist, musician, perhaps educator, and on that day, and at this moment it seems, a journalist. Thus it remains a fitting coincidence that for me, Life became History when I was in second period school newspaper class. Much as my grandparents and parents had told me over the years of their “where were you” moments in experiencing the Bombing of Pearl Harbor and the Assassination of John F. Kennedy, mine took place as I struggled to upload photos of the first day of school from an already outdated late ‘90s digital camera. It is perhaps for this reason that, though my life and work since have spanned multiple fields and environments, from stage to screen to the classroom, it is still through the mind of a journalist that I revisit this day every year. Be it with my continued work as a student journalist in the years immediately following or later as one of millions of social media pundits in the years to come, I have felt compelled to revisit the facts of why and how every year. But as the History we’ve lived the past 20 years continues to make those answers more and more evasive, my fascination, and that of many others, has shifted to the actions of a different, and more functional, camera a thousand miles away. The camera held by a Pulitzer Prize winning Associated Press photographer named Richard Drew as he captured The Falling Man.

It is here that I must humble myself a bit, being well aware that the undying fascination with the image of this lone inverted figure has only increased in recent years. In a sardonic act of self-awareness I could just as well title this essay, “This 9/11, if You Read One Unqualified Take on ‘The Falling Man,’ Make it THIS one.” Day to day I am but one of millions who fight for stage and screen time, clicks, words, and any vague measure of digital real estate before taking a break to get back to my woodworking hobby. Thus I only ask that you read on with the knowledge that the History being lived by a 34 year old armchair philosopher as he chain smokes at his Chromebook is as real as the History being lived by the septuagenarian widower in the Oval Office. As it relates to The Falling Man though, for myself and many like me, today The Falling Man is all that remains of that day.

-Trajectories and Arrival Points

In analyzing any historical event, we are drawn to examine it in terms of the trajectory it puts us on and arrival point it leads us to. These consequences often take the forms of calls to action, causes to be taken up, or revelations about American society of the day. In any case, they tell us why the world we fell asleep in that evening, or that many didn’t live to, was different from the world in which we had awakened that morning. Pearl Harbor placed us on the trajectory of entering World War II, drawing the United States and its Allies into a global conflict of unprecedented scale and accelerating the end of the Great Depression, with the arrival point of the Nation’s emergence as a global leader and the establishment of “The American Dream” in the form of a higher standard of living than was previously accessible to many. The Assassination of John F. Kennedy placed us on the trajectory of increased escalation in Vietnam, leading to a new era of social unrest and mistrust in our institutions. Simultaneously the inspiration to carry forth what was considered the late President’s unfinished work, gave birth to heightened social activism and significant leaps forward in Civil Rights and Women’s Rights. This was largely seen through to the arrival points of our withdrawal from Vietnam, the Resignation of Nixon, and the dawn of “Morning in America” with the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980. Although every single historical event echoes eternally, in American Society we are accustomed to some feeling of victory or at least reprieve, as if the demons that emerged from these national tragedies have been temporarily vanquished in our day to day lives while we lick our collective finger to gingerly turn the page on the next chapter.

-The Curtain

It is, at this very moment, 12:26 PM on September the 7, 2021. It occurs to me that to write with such perceived urgency about another September Tuesday a score of years prior will hopefully become as passe and bland as any of the seemingly newfound conspiracies on Kennedy’s Assassination have now become. Yet I continue to do so, because as of now, the aforementioned page has yet to turn. In the previously mentioned epochs, though there were plenty who still saw through the folly of the “American Dream” and the falsehood of “Morning in America,” even an equitable specter to those has yet to emerge. The Election of Barack Obama seemed a fitting placeholder in 2008, but the quick return to the frustrations of petty political gridlock coupled with the now pyrrhic victory we found in the final defeat of Osama bin Laden, made immediately clear that this generation would be visited by no such specter. This absence may on the surface seem a failure on the part of the current proverbial page turners to do so, but is also a result of our increasingly short attention spans having already written so many of the remaining pages that there is no consensus on Which page we may now turn to, but only the widespread certainty that we can’t. Because one thing we have so much more of than those preceding generations, be it the Boomers post Pearl Harbor or the X-ers post Kennedy, is an inescapable curiosity about what may be written on them and more importantly a will to read it. Or in stronger terms, this generation now carries the burden of knowing that which may be on those pages could prove our only salvation, as none other has made itself apparent. Thus if historical events can be seen in terms of a curtain being pulled back and then drawn again while the stage is reset, now the curtain has gone up in flames.

This so-called Curtain can come in the form of where we as a society now place our faith, or more specifically, what entity we trust to lead us to the aforementioned arrival point. With most national tragedies our instinct is to place our trust in our leaders, imploring them to step up when our faith in our own security has crumbled. Alhough with 9/11 we became quickly aware that we lacked an FDR to guide us through the darkness through Fireside Chats, we still entertained the notion that we were to have some faith in the very idea of Leadership itself, however personally distasteful or incompetent we found that Leader to be. By 2004 however, the leadership of George W. Bush had not only failed to bring us a perceptible victory in our immediate cause in Afghanistan, but had begun an entirely new sideshow in Iraq the previous year. This was the beginning of what has fittingly been referred to as “The Forever War,” where battles are not simply initiated by belligerents and ended by victors, but fought on eternally, perverting the traditional goal of final victory as we previously knew it. And if there is an end, it will likely be celebrated by none, if any, who were present when it began. This Forever War began to be seen as such during the Presidency of Barack Obama. While a controversial election in 2000 had already lead many of my generation to view the failed leadership of his predecessor Bush as a clerical error of sorts, we also blamed the misfortune of Our Generation’s Moment having taken place before we had come of age to elect Our Generation’s President. And yet the Page remained unturned. The aforementioned killing of Osama bin Laden did little to quell the Forever War, and domestically we were afforded mere scraps in the form of slightly more accessible healthcare for the few capable of navigating a bureaucratic system now more inconsistent and Byzantine than ever. Meanwhile societal issues such as racial equity and LGBT+ rights only achieved progress as a result of the larger culture elevating them to the status of the baseline right thing to do, but only when it saw fit. All of that being the case, 2016 arrived with an all too ideal stage set for the rise of Donald Trump, or more fittingly the fall of Leadership and the sheer laughibility that it ever represented a concept worthy of a generation’s trust. Even with Trump’s replacement by Joe Biden after the bitterly contested 2020 election, the ensuing Insurrection of January 6, 2021 cemented the new reality: there is now no such thing as Leadership, but only who You choose to believe.

Thus the Man continues to Fall…

-The Meaning of We

Two months prior to this writing, our nation celebrated the 245th year of its independence with the usual bombast we’ve become accustomed to. However each year for many the “bombs bursting in air” referred to in song seem to ring more and more hollow, as does the song itself. The hollowness of these verses seems a far cry from the days of ubiquitous flag waving and the shared sense of national pride we experienced twenty years ago. An outside force having done our country such grievous harm, we were called upon to show that world that We, the victims, truly represented the way of right and justice, while They, the aggressors, were but barbarous heathens, lashing out against the world’s brightest beacon of Freedom. We sought to show that our National identity embodied the supreme ideal of the civilized and just world we should aspire to, and that our way of life, the American Way, was anathema to the ways of those who employed violence and terror as a means to achieve their interests. This has long been what we’ve been taught to believe of our Nation, especially when such destruction has been brought to our shores, as if to say, “We are not like them, We would never do this. We are America, and to be American is to be on the side of Good.” Alas, as the Curtain’s smoldering remnants now hang in tatters, through the lazily wafting smoke we have seen America’s failings writ large in the ashes. Not only those we would previously chalk up to “a different time,” or “another generation,” but those being carried out as we speak. Thus Patriotism, as a concept defined by a faith in the unfailing virtue of one’s country, has experienced a superficial rebirth in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, only to be followed by a slow death in the years since.

It is here that we must revisit those previously mentioned pages in our History which we failed to turn, those unread or forgotten chapters that may not have fit into the collective identity that we wished to cultivate. For the History we once read was often presented to us as in a sanitized narrative, compiled as a companion piece to the definition of Patriotism we were compelled to accept. The heroic vision we once held of America during World War II, as saviors from unprecedented evils on either side of the globe, has now been graffitied over in these pages with stories of her persecution and internment of Japanese-Americans, an injustice not even acknowledged for nearly fifty years after. On other pages, the names of millions of European Jews who were turned away from our shores early in the war, many to their deaths, are now scrawled hastily in desperation, as though hoping that someone, in some distant year, may someday bear witness and validate their humanity as our country, and even one of our most venerated Leaders personally, failed to in their lifetimes. Even still, the pages following the war, heralding the establishment of the American Dream, now contain detailed revelations of redlining, “white flight,” and the practices that excluded People of Color from being included in the idyllic America we were thought to have achieved during this period. 

Indeed this alternate chapter continues through the 1960s and to this day, where the America that was thought to have humbly shown remorse and emerged as a global leader in Civil Rights, redressing the atrocities of Slavery and Jim Crow, is seen to have done so with the upmost reluctance. This America instead sought to bolster its image by now phasing out more blatant forms of discrimination in favor of practices more pervasive and insidious. Wage discrimation served to keep People of Color impoverished and desperate, effectively prohibiting them from moving to areas with better access to education and opportunities. With limited access to education, cycles of generational poverty continued this trend. In the face of poverty, those suffering were often forced to turn to the drug trade or other forms of criminal enterprise as a means of achieving even a glimmer of the prosperity that was supposed to define this chapter in American History or even to sustain the very lives of themselves and their families. And when “Morning in America” dawned in the 1980s, also did the rise of the “War on Drugs,” which further criminalized and demonized the only means of income that many already living in poverty had at their disposal. Meanwhile the introduction of crack cocaine to the inner cities provided a more abundant and addictive product to target, leading to harsher prison sentences for those peddling the substance and more debilitated addicts left in its wake. 

But America watched as First Lady Nancy Reagan appeared on television's most popular sitcom of the day, Diff’rent Strokes. In the Very Special episode, Mrs. Reagan’s obliviously grandmotherly voice comforted the precocious and diminutive young protagonist Arnold, an African-American child of the same poverty the American Dream shunned, now in the care of a wealthy white benefactor (and played by Gary Coleman who himself later symbolized an exploitative and predatory entertainment industry), along along with millions of other wayward youths at risk of falling victim to the ongoing drug epidemic, ironically fueled and enabled by the same America that created it. Arnold, and any of those watching could always, “Just Say No.” As though it were a choice. As though any of it were ever a choice. As though choice wouldn’t soon prove to be as illusory as the American Dream was to so many others who experienced naught but cold dark nights during “Morning in America.” As though the concept of choice wouldn’t also be blamed for the plight of LGBTQ+ Americans whose lives were destroyed by the AIDS epidemic that was stigmatized and swept under the rug by this same administration during this period. 

In the past twenty years, these undercurrents that eroded the notion of Patriotism in the fifty years prior now flow freely on the surface. Though these preceding chapters, ones that told of these racial, economic, and cultural struggles, were written on scraps of hotel paper or the backs of envelopes by those who lived them, now these stories grab headlines. Headlines that reveal now more than ever the long held role of the police in maintaining these systems of oppression, as well as the consistent biases ingrained in them against the communities they were sworn to protect. Though the Patriotism that flared so brightly after 9/11 was accompanied by an increased reverence toward law enforcement officers, many having lost their lives in those towers, the ensuing decades revealed their institution’s role in excluding so many from the justice and civility our Patriotic ideal was supposed to stand for, instead embroiling them in lives lived in terror from the violence the country was supposed to stand against. So now the iconic waving flag of stars and stripes turns on its side, as the stars fade and the stripes turn to the vertical walls of the doomed Twin Towers, split by one helpless, inverted figure.

Thus the Man continues to Fall…

-Truth, War, and the War on Truth

Last night as I readied myself for bed, I opened the News app on my iPhone one last time before turning in. Though my at times masochistic addiction to the news cycle had been in a remission of sorts after the emotional burnout of a pandemic filled year, it has experienced a brief relapse of late. I sometimes view it as a quest for positivity, a search for hope, and some indication, any indication, that things are getting better, but more often it’s simply to make sure I haven’t missed the last bad thing to have happened. Indeed such an addiction is far more possible now as the news is more accessible than ever. I’ve often thought that my generation’s predilection for ‘90s nostalgia wasn’t a mere longing for our childhood or for a pre-9/11 America, but a wish to return to a time when escaping the often horrific barrage of news stories was as simple as tossing a newspaper into the recycling bin or switching off the TV. But with more and more of our very existence taking place online, the news has become inextricably intertwined with it to the point that to disconnect would risk severing our ties with our work, our activities and our socialization. Perhaps too this nostalgia is linked to a time when the news by and large represented the truth, or at least the basic facts of the day. Though valid criticisms of media biases have long existed, widespread disdain for factual storytelling is at an all time high and consensus on any voice, even one voice, we can trust is nonexistent. My generation will likely be the last to even remember a reliably comforting presence like Peter Jennings reporting the events of 9/11, or our parents’ memories or Walter Cronkite tearfully informed us of the killing of Kennedy, or the multitude of trusted local radio announcers tasked with delivering the tragic news that broke on December 7, 1941. Much like the idea of Leadership, loss of faith in The Truth is another backdrop against which the Man continues to Fall…

What struck me though about the news story that appeared on the smudged touch screen of my iPhone yesterday evening was its similarity to one that may have appeared next to a coffee stained newspaper on our kitchen table any morning before I departed for 4th grade in 1996. Further, I tell you this was never where and when anyone who had lived through the past twenty-five years would still expect to see the headline: “Taliban Whip Women Protesting Interim Government.” This is what losing a War looks like.

It is for good reason that the Second World War has been referred to as “America’s Last Good War,” and that the War in Vietnam led to an all around loss of faith in war itself as an instrument of foreign policy and a means of progressing our causes. And with America’s participation in War taking on the form of quick and focused operations, isolated police actions, and distantly coordinated air strikes since then, the large scale mobilization against Afghanistan in the Fall of 2001 (rumored at the time to be leading to Congress’s first formal Declaration of War since 1941) cheered by vengeance seeking Patriots, perhaps now to be the Last Patriots, was equally as necessary and noble in beginning what was sure to become known as “America’s First Good War of the 21st Century?” For when, albeit not for ten years, American forces finally decimated Al Qaeda and killed Osama bin Laden, did America not cheer and celebrate throughout her streets, no doubt inspiring many a tear to trickle down the withered cheeks of those who recalled witnessing such on VJ Day in their much younger years, now assured safety in their homeland? For surely a further ten years mired in the unforgiving deserts and treacherous hillsides of the region, as thousands more of our soldiers shed their blood upon the land and return dismembered, traumatized, or not at all, surely that gained our country some unheralded boon to our interests, any strategic advantage, or the meanest notion of progress in the lives of our citizens or more importantly the people whose country we occupied for two decades? Why then, does America’s last plane departing from Kabul Airport nearly a score of years after the first of hers rained bombs not so far from it, instead truly feel like the final Fall of our long dying faith in War itself?

Because when I read a headline from Afghanistan last night, in high definition through the tired eyes of a young man feeling far older than he had earned any right to, and it remained (even after 20 years of frantically advancing and retreating soldiers, deafening blasts from bombs and improvised explosives, and so much more sanguine blood streaming from wounded flesh of all the colors of the world) so dissimilar from one that would have flashed onto a comparatively fuzzy television screen to meet the cheery eyes of an enthusiastically Patriotic Cub Scout, proud of the Leader his parents would take part in reelecting later that year (though, ironically, this Leader would himself have his own part to play in our collective loss of faith in Leadership), well...I simply could feel no other way. This is what losing a war looks like…

...and thus the Man continues to Fall.

 And while our country losing its faith in War should be welcomed as a sign of progress and our collective evolution toward the civilization that was to serve as a cornerstone of our now-fallen Patriotism, it can only be truly welcomed when it is replaced instead by a renewed and sincere faith in Peace! And perhaps in global affairs, in a nominal and superficial sense, Peace is gaining some believers, though I can’t confidently believe all hold this faith sincerely as much as out of a cynically held tool of self-preservation until the war profiteers who pull their strings find new markets for their wares. But America’s faith in Violence is now stronger than ever. Carried out now by citizens on our streets rather than soldiers across the world, by police in squad cars rather than infantry in tanks, and now, perhaps imperceptibly, by viruses in our lungs spreading freely through uncovered orifi, violence is embraced by America as a whole in ways that make any notion that anyone this violent nation killed halfway across the world made us safer these last twenty years. In that same period, a new record for the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history has been set, first by a disturbed and alienated college student in Virginia, then by a would-be terrorist with a history of hate crimes at an LGBT+ nightclub in Orlando, and finally by his immediate usurper of this horrific distinction who just the following year rained bullets down from a modified assault rifle upon concertgoers in Las Vegas while perched far above them in his hotel room. Expanding our scope to the top five shootings, the other two on the list took place during just this past decade, the first carried out upon children by a mentally ill youth at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, and the other at a church in Texas, by a resentful and misogynistic former spouse of one of the parishioners, a uniquely American demon consumed with wanting. In each instance the tired argument, dating back to the pre-9/11 massacre at Columbine and beyond, was made, that our government’s comparatively lax laws on gun ownership were to blame, but after the killings at Sandy Hook in 2012 changed nothing in that regard, that argument has felt increasingly futile. After all, when a country does fails to restrict such instruments of death after they’re used to murder 27 children, it doesn’t really want to. And to blame the mere presence of guns sidesteps the truth at the root of these shootings: modern America breeds killers, and more effective ones than ever.  

But while Americans react to the violence perpetrated by mass shootings with condemnation and abhorrence, the violence carried out by an increasingly militarized police force breeds division and itself, violent rhetoric as the calls to find more peaceful solutions to making our streets safer are met with calls for more violence and diversions of blame to the victims themselves. This rash of violence was once countered with the statement that, “police brutality in America isn’t getting worse, it’s just getting filmed,” once again ignoring the forgotten chapters in our History in which we have now read that policing in America has played a part in targeting and criminalizing People of Color since its near inception. And as indeed everything is being filmed now, it permeates our culture to the point that it now builds upon itself influencing our every interaction, becoming a key talking point in the hate speech that now passes for political discourse. The result being the undeniable fact that the Fall of our Faith in War has not given way to the Rise of our Faith in Peace. Not in any meaningful way across the globe, and within our own borders it has shifted to a Rise in Faith in War upon Ourselves. And meanwhile…

...the Man continues to Fall…

-Tilling the Earth to Grow Softer Ground

...but where will he land?

In embarking on all of my writings, in contrast to the manner in which our country begins so many of its wars, I never do so without some intention of finding some source of hope or comfort, some path forward to progress, or, when setting out with the most optimistic of outlooks, perhaps a solution to the issues explored. While there was little to be had as I drafted the first few segments, it also became all the more necessary in the face of revisiting so much of the despair, confusion, and upheaval my fellow Americans and I have experienced these last twenty years as well as much of what those who came before did the decades examined prior. Thus it is fitting that while the preceding passages of this article were written in multiple sessions on my porch this week while the searing summer sun begins to give way to the first chilly autumn winds, I conclude this piece sitting on my bed as the first minutes of September the 11th, 2021 tick by. While many of the recent writings about Richard Drew’s iconic photograph have sought to confirm, or at investigate clues as to, the identity of its subject. In writing this piece I was reminded of so much of the American lives currently being lived now takes place in a culture where many are emboldened by the absence of names or faces. Thus to the notion that one would seek to identify this blurry, tragic figure, I retort: in a society where to be nameless and faceless can mean to be validated or even in some way seem enviable, what meaning could this man’s name and face possibly hold were it revealed to the masses? Instead it is perhaps better he continue his descent in anonymity and transubstantiate in our collective consciousness, and perhaps enjoy the comparative bliss felt only when one’s form shifts to that of a generational metaphor.

But as a now belabored metaphor, surely worn and windburned by his descent through my accountings of over a half-century’s worth of America’s broken promises, cheapened values, and hidden hatreds that were really in plain sight, he certainly deserves a softer place to land than the mattress that now serves as my roost, upon which I try to write one up for him. And from it I am reminded as well of the faiths that fell from our very homes, many of which we held our most steadfast trust. Our generation having now experienced the twin economic upheavals of the 2008 financial crisis and the ongoing Covid-19 pandemic, faith in our dreams has fallen. And when the fall of this faith was begun by the shortsightedness and bad advice of those who first told us to believe in our dreams, we have to believe our dreams were always meant to decline. Thus many of us have embraced decline, with rates of depression, addiction, and other mental illness climbing in recent years. This is but one factor in the fall of our faith in the preceding generations, but this is in no way a textbook shifting of blame to our parents and grandparents, for they too have never lived in a world like this either. Instead, having spent so many of their younger years in a state of Not Knowing (while we ironically know nothing but this feeling) the brief length of time they spent in a state of Knowing, having been taught so well History’s patterns, shifts, palpable rhythms of causes and effects, ebbs and flows, and calms preceding storms that they weathered in the America they thought they knew, became their addiction as well, their perceived wisdom now the opiate of their uncertainty. For me personally, my late father was the one who taught me the most about the components, currents, and forces that moved History and how they had been maintained. Thus after his passing in early 2016, the loss was made all the more crushing upon the election of Donald Trump later that year, now that he, who for so much of my life could always point back to an equivalent trajectory America had placed upon and determine some possible arrival point, was no longer with us. But even having asked him so many times in my youth, “so what does this mean now, dad?” I recall now how many more times in the final decade of his life, he could answer with little more than, “I don’t know Nick.” 

So perhaps I am also one of many for whom their faith in Wisdom has fallen as well. And since with the passing on of Wisdom our society traditionally passes on its culture, so with it has our Culture fallen as well. By now means in such a way that I would dare complain there has been a decline in the quality of our art, music, and films, but the notion of a shared culture of unassailable timeless classes has fallen. This may be for the best however, as the very subjective nature of art itself implies that any attempt to establish the undeniable supremacy of any work of art in such a way that spans generations, cultures, or life experiences serves to deny the validity of so many diverse tastes, sensibilities, and traditions as well as that of a work’s relevance when its purpose was only to encapsulate the cultural moment it was created in. So perhaps we should embrace the fact that our cultural landmarks are now determined more by individuals for themselves, and consist of niche classics, flavor of the day pop hits, and even tuneful inside jokes distributed across the vastness of the internet by among the varied enclaves of those who appreciate them. And even as part of a generation of young people who feel old, though many who had the luxury of experienced their brief stint in the state of Knowing will argue I haven’t earned that feeling, I remain a dedicated fan of the legendary musician Bruce Springsteen, it is perhaps fitting that his hopeful 2002 album “The Rising” would resonate far less in defining the musical outlook of the post-9/11 era than a 2003 release by his fellow New Jerseyans in the lesser-known punk band Thursday, titled “War All The Time.” Still with cultural moments all the more fleeting and tastes increasingly specific, one might say that each is now as obscure as the other, in contrast to the attention paid upon their initial release. The truth of course may be determined by which generation one comes from.

However this softer landing surface upon which our Man is to Land can only be created through generational cooperation, so let us finally unite in the experience of Not Knowing as we reluctantly celebrate the death of Wisdom, and perhaps even briefly entertain some illusion that the ground may yield when he reaches it, but bear each other through the realization we can instead only soften it by creating new institutions and redefining old ideas. 

For the failing of Leadership need not truly be failure if we instead build our Leaders from the ground up. Rather than following those who present themselves on a bully pulpit as such, follow those who present themselves in the places we already needed them to be and allowed us to find them there. That is to say, on our own streets in the neighborhoods we live in, serving the communities in which they have built their lives while helping others to build theirs. Find them in our own offices and factories, working side by side while gaining an understanding of the labor and dedication that truly builds a nation, a dedication they wouldn’t dare exploit. And task these leaders with creating ideologies of which they themselves will someday no longer be irrelevant symbols, as ideologies must now be based not upon whom among these privileged few we choose to vote into power, but upon which of the many more helpless we choose to heal of their suffering.

Further I implore you not to mourn the death of our faith in Patriotism if our New Patriots can now redefine their love for their country as no longer being a love for the vague and faceless notions of Freedom or exclusionary definitions of “We” that were allowed to make that Freedom a luxury so few were truly afforded. And when harsh economic forces and the predatory and cynical motivations of those who were allowed to write the chapters upon which the Old Patriotism was written seek to restrict that Freedom even further, let us redistribute it to the no longer huddled masses so they may no longer thirst for it. For the New Patriotism will be based in understanding that to love one’s country means to love every human being who resides within it, no matter their origin or status. This Patriotism understands that America need not merely be the name of a long dead sailor, given by white men to stolen land that once bore so many varied, beautiful, and sacred names for the vast and diverse locales that comprise it, but that America by definition is collection of the hopes, dreams, fears, and needs of three-hundred thirty or more million souls upon whose very existence building a fair and equitable society depends.

And if our faith in War is to truly fail and give way to sincere dedication to faith in Peace. Let the only faith in War that remains be faith in the War upon War, and the destruction of our faith in violence of all kinds. And let the War upon War be a war upon ignorance and selfishness, and allow a generation whose defining tragedy’s only arrival point was a larger and more prolonged tragedy breathe easier, with hope that the virus that destroyed their dreams, and took vast numbers of the preceding generations who once comforted them with their experience in the state of Knowing, will no longer dominate their futures. And if this love that defines the New Patriotism can be the motivating factor in facing our challenges with genuine concern and care for the well being and prosperity of all three-hundred thirty or more million souls for whom the freedom to lives of health and safety, joy and fulfillment, will now be by this new definition their birthright.

At last, when this War upon War has ended, not with a dubious arrival point, but on a glorious and eternal new trajectory, let us harken back to the ways the ends of Wars were written of in scripture, for to bend the sword into plowshares now takes on a greater and renewed urgency, as the need to till the Earth is essential in the necessary task of growing softer ground upon which someday, somehow...

...this Man will Land. 

[kittae]

The Talk

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x reader

Side characters: Min Yoongi

Summary: A drabble series where Taehyung is a successful artistic erotica actor but has to expand his areas of expertise in the rapidly evolving world of adult film. Lost and inexperienced in everything that doesn’t involve classy settings, flattering lighting and romantic scripts, he basically has to start from scratch to make it in the online porn community. As a highly demanded A-lister in that community, you take him under your wings (or better yet, between your legs).

Genre: Smut, fluff, a bit of comedy here and there. Maybe some angst, who knows.

words: 1806

A/N: This part is somewhat dialogue heavy!  Also my first attempt at a drabble series, if this is a success i might do this more in the future!

« previous — next »

“Wait, one more time. You want me to what?”

Yoongi looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, what with the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose so hard his nails leave indents.

“Don’t make me repeat myself three times, Taehyung, you heard me.”

“I’m sorry but hearing and understanding are two entirely different things.”

“It is to you, yes.”

“So let me get this straight,” he murmurs slowly, a pensive look on his face as he paces back and forth through his manager’s living room, “You want me to find a new specialty…”

“Mhmm.” Yoongi nods, eyes closed and brows furrowed as he deeply hopes with all his heart that his client’s thought-process would finally go in the direction of his own.

“...Which is BDSM. You want me to go from what I do now, to BDSM...”

Yoongi wants to cry. Or scream. Or quit. All of the above.

“For the last time, it’s not BDSM. It’s just a little degradation for God’s sake!” He grates through gritted teeth, “Why are you blowing this out of proportion?!”

“I’m not!” The younger man pouts, crossing his arms in front of his chest like a wronged child. “It’s filthy! I’m not doing that shit, I don’t want to!”

‘It doesn’t matter what you want, you little shit! You’re supposed to be a professional!’... Is what Yoongi would really, really like to say right now, but he doesn’t. He knows Taehyung, and this approach would only cement his stubbornness.

“Listen...TaeTae,” He starts after taking a deep breath, his voice soft and smooth in an effort to suppress the growing frustration churning in his chest, “You’re an extremely talented actor and you have so much going for you. All I’m saying is that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to expand your areas of expertise, right? Artistic erotica is great, I’m not saying that it’s not but the numbers are clearly stating that it’s not the most popular– are you even listening to me?!”

“Is this whiskey or perfume?” Taehyung muses as he picks up a fancy bottle from Yoongi’s shelf and opens the stopple to sniff it. He pulls a face. “It’s whiskey.”

Yoongi groans and drags a hand across his face in pure desperation. “Did you not get anything of what I was just trying to tell you?”

“Vas-t-en.” Taehyung says blankly, unimpressed with the kind of face his manager sports.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s French for ‘go away’.” He helpfully states.

“I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Yoongi hisses vehemently, poking a finger in his actor’s well-defined pecs to define every word, “I’m 72 different flavors of done with you.”

Taehyung just starts laughing at his manager’s highly critical stress levels and almost tackles him in a strong back hug, playfully shaking the older, but smaller man, “Aw, c’mon, hyung! Just relax, we’ll be fine! Loosen up a little– Hey, you wanna go to that new karaoke place?! I heard you can customize your hamburgers there!”

“Wow, incredible,” Yoongi stares out in front of him, looking dead inside as he hangs limp in Tae’s arms in acceptance of being his ragdoll, “We could both lose our jobs tomorrow but it’s fine because we can customize our hamburgers at Star Song Karaoke.”

Taehyung finally puts his friend out of his misery by releasing him and putting him back down. “Don’t be overdramatic, why wouldn’t we have jobs tomorrow? Women love artistic porn! It’s pretty, there’s hot guys, the lighting is nice and flattering for both and it focuses on the woman’s pleasure instead of the guy’s. There’s enough of that tasteless shit out there already, why do I have to do it?”

Yoongi’s started massaging his temples to reduce the tension before his head will literally burst.

“Because it’s boring, Taehyung. Women don’t like that purely soft stuff anymore. They like to experiment and broaden their sexual interests and kinks. There’s been a huge increase of clicks on degradation videos by female users on online platforms and I suppose they watch it because they like it. So all I’m asking of you is to try and take this opportunity and go with the flow because this is a fickle business.”

There’s a pause where Taehyung looks like he finally gets the gravity of the situation and is about to say something that would take the weight off of Yoongi’s shoulders, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.

”With all due respect, I’m going to ignore everything you just sai–”

“Say cum dumpster.” Yoongi interrupts.

The younger staggers. “What?”

“Cum dumpster. Say it.”

“No! Why?!”

“You’re hopeless.” Yoongi concludes and thereby also that they’re fucked in the most ironic way of saying so. “Not every woman enjoys your kind of flower power glitter sunshine porn, Taehyung.”

“The women i shoot with enjoy it very much, though.” A cocky grin spreads across Taehyung’s handsome face and Yoongi decides to try one last time.

“What about the women who like to be called sluts and whores in bed but have to resort to bad porn with unattractive and talentless actors to get their share of sexual stimulation? Do you know the value your face holds? The mainstream porn needs that face, Taehyung. There are women out there that need to hear they’re a dirty slut in that deep ass voice of yours. Are you going to deny them that?”

“Woah, hyung! That’s impressive. Did you write this speech in advance?”

“Fine. Whatever, I give up. Do what you want, I don’t care.” Yoongi is so annoyed he starts talking in pout, pursed lips making him sound like an angry toddler. Exhausted to the core, he flops down on the couch with a deep sigh, his arms crossed in front of him as he resorts to brooding in silence.

Taehyung’s smug grin instantly transforms into a rectangular one upon hearing his manager speak like that. He’s entirely incapable of taking him seriously when he’s being like this.

Yoongi feels the weight of Taehyung letting himself fall into the cushions next to him, but chooses to ignore it. He’s still mad he won’t even give it a chance, much less hear him out for real.

Something nudges his arm.

“No.” Is his resolute response.

“Come oooon… You know you want to.” Taehyung sings as his long fingers tickle Yoongi’s.

“I said no.”

But Taehyung’s persistent. “The best way to settle an argument is…?”

“I’m not doing it, go away. Vallan or whatever the fuck it was you said earlier in French.”

“It’s vas-t-en, and I’m not leaving before you hold my hand.”

“You’re an annoying little shit, you know that?” Yoongi grumbles.

“And you’re a grumpy old man, now hold my hand grandpa.”

Yoongi manages to resist for thirty more seconds before he caves and lets Taehyung peel his hand from underneath the folding of his arms. It feels nice; Taehyung’s hands are always big and warm. He instantly feels his blood pressure drop.

“See? Isn’t this nice?” Taehyung beams as he intertwines their fingers tightly, making Yoongi grumble something unintelligible that either sounds like ‘I guess so.’ or ‘Get lost.’ Whichever it may be, he doesn’t make an effort to release himself from Taehyung’s grip, so it’s a win.

“You’re exhausting.” Yoongi mutters but subtly tightens his hold around Tae’s hand. It’s just a thing they do, he doesn’t remember when or why. It just helps to diffuse the tension, somehow. Makes them understand each other better.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Taehyung chuckles, “I should hear you out.”

“You can’t even take me seriously for one minute.”

“I’ll try to now.”

Yoongi hesitates, still irritated about how the younger treated him. He knows this might be his only chance to convince him, however. “Promise me you’ll listen to me. I’ll seriously quit if you don’t.”

“I promise,” Taehyung smiles, giving Yoongi’s hand a little reassuring squeeze.

He sighs, “Alright. Like I said those previous twenty times; artistic erotica is great, it’s beautiful, you’re the best in that category and that’s all dandy. But you have to realize that we’re dealing with a niche category here, not to mention that the production costs are expensive as fuck, which is why we can’t afford to put this on the free online market.”

Yoongi dares to take a peek at his actor’s face, which is often telling of what’s going on in his mind. His full brows are slightly furrowed, lips stretched in a serious line, eyes focused on him; his business face. Good.

“You’re not acting right now, right?” The manager asks for good measure.

“No, not right now.”

“Okay. Are you following?”

“Artistic porn is niche, production costs are expensive, no free online platforms possible. Got it.” Tae shoots him finger guns.

Yoongi’s brows shoot up slightly, coloring himself impressed. He usually can’t hold the guy’s attention for more than twenty seconds. “Uh, great. So what I’m saying is, it wouldn’t hurt to try out some new things we can experiment with to put your name on the mainstream porn market as well. Your networth right now is laughable and our only income comes from the sale of your films and nobody buys hard copies anymore these days.”

“That’s barely enough to cover the production costs anymore. We have to increase your online presence and we have to do it fast before some rookie with a good face and a 7 inch dick takes your place.”

“Mine is 7,5 inches.” Taehyung remarks as if that makes all the difference in the world.

“I- I know, Tae, and that’s uh, very good,” Yoongi awkwardly slips his hand out of Taehyung’s, “You’re a professional with experience, talent and a face and body most people would commit murder for but nobody knows you. Aside from, like, art students and middle-aged women who are still willing to pay fifty bucks for an erotic movie.”

Taehyung nods slowly and it looks like he finally understands the words that come out of Yoongi’s mouth. He looks uneasy, distressed even.  “So...When those people stop buying my films...”

“We’re bankrupt.” Yoongi shrugs, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he watches realisation dawn on Tae’s.

A good few seconds of silence ensue before Taehyung speaks again. “And we’re going to be okay if I...If I do de-degradation?”

Yoongi almost starts to feel sorry for him. “Listen, I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I know you feel safe and confident doing what you do now and that degradation is something else entirely. More like the opposite,” He chuckles sheepishly, “It’ll be completely out of your comfort zone, but we can start with something easier first.”

“something easier?” Taehyung’s interest is piqued.

“I’ve scheduled a shoot for tomorrow,” Yoongi grins mischievously, “I want you to meet someone.”

Heliotrope masterlist

[doom-dreaming]

Second’s Not The Same

A life together wouldn't have worked out. She was a Vault Hunter. He was the CEO of Atlas. But when they meet years later, one thing is clear. He's moved on. She hasn't.

Read it on Ao3 here! (Probably the best option because I have no idea what Tumblr is gonna do to the formatting.)

I would recommend listening to “Is There Somewhere” by Halsey while (or before or after) you read, as it was the song that inspired the whole thing.

WARNINGS: Infidelity in favor of the pairing.

******

It’s been years. She’s missed him. She says this openly. She has to fight back a stab of jealousy when she sees the simple golden band glinting on his finger. ...she doesn’t say this. “Seems like Atlas is treating you well.”

He nods, tipping back the rest of the drink in his hand. “Hasn’t been easy, but...what ever is, right?” He smiles.

It’s a goofy little lopsided thing; mostly lips, just a hint of perfect white teeth. It makes her heart beat faster and she decides to lose herself in her cocktail. Anything to avoid looking at him. To avoid feeling something.

“How about you? Any Vaults worth mentioning?”

She smiles into the brightly-colored drink on the bar in front of her. “It’s more waiting and following false leads than anything else.”

“Well, they don’t call it Vault hunting for no reason.” He smiles again, wider this time.

It’s more of a grin, really. He still looks so boyish, and she finds herself wishing she felt as young as he looks in that moment.

“But you...you’re doing alright? The rest of the team’s treating you okay?”

She feels a lump rise in her throat. Hearing that concern. Knowing he still cares. Pushing down everything but a smile, she nods. “They’re treating me like family.” The answer is honest. Which is why it chokes her up. Lilith, Axton, Gaige, Mordecai, all of them, even Krieg and Salvador; they’ve become her family. They’re the people she’ll fight and die alongside. They’re the people she’ll spend the rest of her life with.

Even though it could have been him. She can’t keep herself from looking at the ring on his finger again. It’s such an innocent thing. Just a plain band of metal. But it somehow carves out a hollow space in the pit of her stomach.

His words. Before the Vault. I’m interested in someone else. She knew what that had meant. But she hadn’t been ready. She’d been too eager to start her life. Her new life.

And she’d missed her chance. And he’d moved on. To... ...someone else.

Warm fingers on her arm jolt her out of her regrets. Warm...all except for the ring. The ring is icy against her skin. She has to fight with every muscle in her body to keep herself from pulling away.

“You sure you’re alright, Fi?”

Fi. It sounds like something out of a dream. Sure, the others use this nickname. But none of them say it quite the same way he does. She can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to see his face. It feels like she’s hit rock bottom already, but she knows that if she looks up, into his eyes, she’ll be able to fall even further.

“You know you can tell me, right?”

Something strangely foreign starts welling up inside her, boiling in her blood. Sadness. Anger. Nostalgia. ...hope. She doesn’t know whether to punch him or cry. Or both. So she just sits there, silent, wrestling with this unwelcome chimera of emotion.

She can feel him rubbing his thumb against her arm. She can imagine the expression on his face. So she still doesn’t look at him. She knows she won’t be able to hold back whatever’s trying to spill over if she does. Those mismatched eyes were always able to say more than his words ever could. And if his words alone were tearing her apart... She didn’t want to think about what his eyes would do.

“Fi, talk to me. Something’s wrong.” His voice is soft. So soft. Gentle.

And something clicks inside her. That bubbling feeling suddenly cements itself, dropping heavily into her gut. It’s the weight of realization. She knows what this is. It’s love.

And that’s when she looks at him.

“You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room… Flashing those eyes like highway signs. ...rest your head upon my shoulder, just wanna feel your lips against my skin...”

“...And I promised myself I wouldn’t let you...complete me.  I’m tryin’ not to let it show, that I don’t wanna let this go.  Is there somewhere you can meet me?  Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railings…  And you clutched my brain...and eased my ailing.”

“So...who is she?” Fiona nods to the ring. It’s sitting on the nightstand. Next to the bed. She wants to cover it with something. A pang of guilt slices through her.

He sighs and presses a kiss to her collar bone. “Is now really the time?”

No. It’s not. But she can’t just let it go. The last hour had been a beautiful distraction. She’d actually liked seeing his ECHO-eye glimmer online as she slipped out of her dress. The dress she’d bought specifically for this meeting. The dress that now lay crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The soft sheets. His warm body. How everything just came so naturally to them. How they’d fit so perfectly in each others’ curves. But she knows it’s going to be the last time as well as the first.

She needs something to remind her that they shouldn’t be here. Not like this. He isn’t hers to have. Not anymore. “Not telling me won’t make it any easier.”

He’s silent and she knows he’s studying her face. She just leans against his shoulder, tracing the tattoos across his chest. Memorizing him. Just in case it’s the last time she ever sees him again.

“We met about two years ago.” He begins quietly. “Through Atlas. It started as a...collaboration. On some weapon designs.”

Fiona swallows the sour taste in the back of her throat. Collaboration. Thrown together and forced to work as a team. It sounds too familiar.

“She and I had similar ideas. We liked working together. Started going out for coffee. Off-the-clock meetings turned into...”

She closes her eyes as he trails off. This hurts a lot more than she’d expected it to. Is she anything like me? she wants to ask. But she keeps her mouth shut because she doesn’t know what will come out if she opens it.

“I...waited for you, you know. Year after year, but you never...” He breathes out a shaky sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say I’m sorry.”

But he’s not. And that’s all she needs to know. That’s all she needs to tell her that it was her fault. Her fault for resisting. Her fault for waiting. Waiting so long that his hope ran out and he...gave up.

The silence that follows lasts for several long minutes. Eventually, he kisses the top of her head. She swallows, hoping that when she speaks, her voice won’t betray her emotion. “I should be the one apologizing. You...meant what you said.” She knows she doesn’t have to specify.

“I did.” His breath whispers through her hair. “And, if we’re being honest...”

She finally looks up, placing a finger across his lips. It’s hard to force a smile with the tears burning behind her eyes, but she does it anyway. “Just don’t say it, Rhys. It’s better if you don’t.” Because those words won’t change the fact that you’re going to be waking up with someone else for the rest of your life.

“Your girl’s got red in her cheeks, cause we’re somethin’ she can’t see. And I try to refrain...but you’re stuck in my brain, And all I do is cry and complain… Because second’s not the same.”

“I’m sorry but I fell in love tonight…  I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight…  You’re lookin’ like you fell in love tonight…  ...Can we pretend that we’re in love?”

Tag List: @corpseyb0nes @afterthedreamer @mischiefsilvertongue @marigold-magpie @tricerathotss @vanderlinde-exe @ayilachan @zipp0flare @luxury-of-insanity @omgzakoko

[talesofmetalandmagic]

For the BadThingsHappenBingo: “Kidnapping”, with Lorian, Elder Prince, and Dark Sun Gwyndolin

Proposed by: @reaper-apologist-andromeda Set in: requester’s verse. Characters: Lorian, Older Prince; Dark Sun Gwyndolin Ship: Lorilin TW: Mention of parental abuse Notes: Gwyndolin uses he/him pronouns

Synopsis: once lived a Saint named Aldrich, famed for his thirst for human flesh. He’s now long gone, burnt at the First Flame, but his followers live on, and to this day they still hunt innocent victims to offer to their lord the moment he eventually returns. No one is safe from them: not even the Elder Prince of the kingdom of Lothric.

It’s the first arrow that alerts him of the incoming danger. Lorian pulls the bridle to his chest and raises his open palm to impose silence. Once it’s done, he lowers the hand to his side, to the spot where his sword awaits to be drawn. -You know what to do.- he says. He doesn’t sound like a general, he realizes with a sudden gulp. His tone was too shaky, his eyes too low, and even his hand wasn’t straight enough. He can see the disappointed glare in Father’s eyes in every wrinkle of every tree. Piercing through him as if another arrow had been shot right into his skin. When the second arrow does strike, Lorian’s horse whines in pain despite not being the one hit. The man at his left sinks on the floor like a mannequin, a groan escaping his lips. -Reveal yourself!- Lorian calls. He raises his sword in the air, like the great warrior kings that populate the frescoes in the main halls. He has always felt so tiny, whenever he passed them by. He can only imagine what Lothric would feel in his stead. -Your highness!-. Lorian turns around, his ponytail whipping his face. -Look o— A third arrow strikes, and it hits him right in the chest. Next thing he sees is the pale grey sky, and the branches of the trees like cracks on the cement.

His knees are in his belly, feeling tight and as heavy as a boulder. His ponytail has come undone, and strands of stray hair fill his mouth and get stuck to his teeth. His hands are untied – strange enough, but not the proper moment to ponder. Lorian combs his hair with his fingers, panting through the cold. He’s thirsty, too thirsty to even form words. His mouth is dry, as if a layer of sand had remained stuck to his palate and tongue. Even opening his mouth, everything being so godsdamn dry, feels like pain on his dry lips. His cage is as tight as a column, and so rusted the mere touch leaves a thick stain of red on Lorian’s finger. And so are all the others, dozens upon dozens, filling every corner of the cave. A black-haired woman, clad in a ragged dress, lays curled up at his left, dozed off in a deep sleep that the prince can’t help but envy. A young ginger man is lost in sobbing at his right. -Hey.- the prince whispers. -Hush. Don’t cry. We’ll be fine.- But the young one doesn’t seem to acknowledge he even exists, and his sobbing echoes through the cavern – tens, dozens, hundreds of people are crying at the same time, and their voices seem to blend into a senseless cacophony of despair. The knife he’d carry at his belt is no longer: neither is his belt at all, for that matter, and the strings of his boots, his medallion with the symbol of the Way of Blue engraved into it, his hairband, have all been taken away. His medallion is precious, but not the rest: they didn’t do it for the money. They want me alive, he presumes. And a more welcoming thought picks up at the bottom of his mind. They haven’t recognized me. Somehow it feels comforting. And at the though of Father foolishly revealing himself, screaming “I’m the king” in his captors’ faces, he can’t resist but snicker. He will be fine. He won’t make that mistake. What will he do, however, is simply beyond him. Staying calm is the first logical step – think of Lothric, think of home, think of the people around him that need a stable and firm prince to hold onto. His chest itches where the arrow had struck him, but no blood seeps out. They must have really skilled clerics.

For a while, Lorian’s thoughts drift away into an Abyss of no light. He doesn’t recognize any of the faces of his guards among the prisoners that share his limited space. The ginger man at his side, however, has ceased his crying and allowed him to hold his hand. -Thank you, Your Majesty.- he says. -Maybe they will be looking for you. It’s said that His Majesty is highly protective of his offspring.- Offspring: the proper word to refer to both him and his little brother. He must be missing him indeed, from the now lonely bedchambers he’s been confined to all his life. Lorian gives a distracted nod, hoping a white lie wouldn’t tarnish his perfect, princely soul. Or bring some sort of comfort to the terrified youth. -The Aldrich Faithfuls are strong and fearsome, but highly disorganized.- Lorian whispers. -If there was a leader, I’d start with them.- Their leader is a long-dead Saint – if such a name even befits the monstrous creature – that found the utmost pleasure in eating human flesh. His followers share a shred of the same tradition, and limit their consumption to “human dregs”. Whatever those things even are: maybe they’re even closer cannibals than Aldrich, and the joke makes the young man chuckle.   -Listen.- Lorian suddenly says, and his cage rings as one of the Followers runs by its side and slams his shoulder against it. They converge towards the door, armed with longswords and axes and big hammers, golden Cleric Bells dangling on their belts. -They busted us!- a voice screams, but the blood-curdling scream that follows can only mean death. And a blinding white light – like the moon, Lorian thinks, and not even he knows how and why he came to that idea – fills the room, coming from the now open gates of the cavern. Their swords glisten as if they were made of silver. Their armors are garbed in white, looking as soft as clouds. And in the very middle of them there’s a child, no, a Godling, raising a small bow into the air, and a rain of arrows shines against the roof of the cave like a sky full of stars. -You’re free.- a stern female voice calls. An armored figure, clad in copper from their head to their toes, opens the door to his cage. -All of you. Run outside, do not look back. You’ll be reunited to your own soon enough.- Lorian takes a deep breath. -I’m Prince Lorian of Lothric.- he calls, but they do not seem to have heard. He suddenly feels tense, as if he expected a very familiar wooden blow to his palms. But I’m not there, and he’s not with me. The young figure, clad in a white tunic with silver accents, pulls at their bow again. A golden crown, in the shape of a blooming sun, covers their face up to the eyes. A golden crown he knows. -The Darkmoon!-. It’s the voice of the ginger man, wet in tears of joy. -He has come for us! Praise the Darkmoon and his Blades!- -Lady Sirris.- Gwyndolin’s smooth voice is like a song. -Lady Itoro. Left and right, surround them.- The woman in copper raises her arm to indicate she has understood. Another woman, clad in the traditional fashion of the Sunless Realms, draws an Estoc of her own towards a A black-haired woman lays on the ground, passed out and bleeding, a Greatsword still in the motionless hand. Lorian leaps to it and grabs it, welding it as if it was his own. Luckily, that one is still in the castle where it should be. Father would be rabid if he lost it, and he’d not even have another one forged. A lesson must be learned, boy, a voice repeats from the bottom of his mind. Lorian lashes at another sinner, plunging his sword right into his leg. And a second and third, always at the legs, before they even notice him. That’s panic for you, he thinks, and knocks another one down. The rain of arrows glows above him, and shines like ice or hail against a full moon.

Sweat drips down his face as he pants against the wall of the cavern, sticking to his long unkept hair. Yet again, a source of disdain – too good he’s not here and he will never know. Even so, Lorian has to remind himself of that, as a shadow looms over him and offers him a pale, open hand. He takes it without a second thought. As he has learned. -I thank you for your bravery, Prince Lorian.- The Darkmoon’s voice is high in pitch and gentle in tone, the opposite of what Lorian had been used to for a length he can hardly recall. He gives a timid shrug, shaking the rubble off his clothes. It feels as if he had been battling all his life. His muscles are sore, his heart seems to tremble within his ribcage, and his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. With what little voice he has, Lorian pants out a “thank you”; but not even he can hear it. Let alone the Divine himself.

-You were quick.- he adds. Then another, confused pause. -To intervene, I mean.- -And so were you.- Now that he’s standing, Gwyndolin looks smaller and much less imposing than before. Friendly, Lorian may add; and just as beautiful as the Moon that grants him his powers. -’Tis but the duty of the Darkmoon Blades. All of you are free, now.- The sun is setting in the farthest corner of the sky, and the clouds around it are lilac and smooth. Mother would love to paint them, if she still did. Maybe, Lorian tell himself as a means of consolation, just looking at them would be enough to make her content. The freed people are huddled in the nearby square, in groups of three to five, and the soft pitter-patter of their low chattering is a pleasant enough song to Lorian’s ears. -The Crown of Lothric will reward you greatly.- he says to the Godling by his side. Only one moment later does he realize – and he holds in place, covering his mouth as if he was ashamed. Because he is. He averts his eyes from Gwyndolin’s questioning expression, heart pounding again as if he was back into the cage. -I apologize, My Liege.-. He stares at his own feet, blinking frantically. -I didn’t mean to disrespect you. I meant no offense, I swear. Treating you like a mere mercenary…- Lorian can feel a stare at the bottom of his spine. Maybe it’s the crowd indeed, trying to figure out what the role of the bloody prince will be in that whole ordeal. Maybe it’s his father all the way from Lothric. He’s not present, nor will he be – Lorian knows, for he has lived by his side for more than twenty years – but he can still look at him from the castle, frowning and disappointed, black crevices in the depth of his pale white forehead as he sneers to his stupid, soft son. But there’s none in Gwyndolin’s smooth face – he can tell so, even with the sun-shaped crown that keeps his forehead covered. And there’s no wrinkles in his mouth either, as he offers him a pleasant expression. As sweet as ambrosia, which the Gods are said to eat. -No offense taken, Your Majesty.- Lorian almost jumps as the high-pitched, smooth voice reaches his ears again. As he expected no such thing. He had already prepared himself for that same, disappointed paternal growl. My father has such a growling voice because underneath his silk and furs, there’s but a beast, he would think whenever he was particularly angry at him. More and more frequently as the years passed, and the Flame flickered more, and Mother’s eyes were more and more forsaken. A skinny beast, with no claws and no fangs, but with a venomous tongue with a sharp aim, more similar to that of a snake than the dragons he so longingly coveted. But as he stares again at Gwyndolin’s tunic, and the slender reptilian forms that stick out from underneath, he starts to regret that analogy as well. For the snakes he sees are tender, and look at him with eyes no less sweet than a pup or a kitten. Lost in thought, he’s woken up again by the same, sweet tones. -Feel no remorse for your offer. I have no issues with your protocols and ways of doing. Nor do I expect to sindacate about the grateful will of parents whose child was taken from them.- There’s nothing to worry about in that regard. Lorian keeps the thought to himself, and whispers another, fainter “thank you”. Gwyndolin places his hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. -Now rest, Your Majesty. Soon all of you will be given a proper shelter, and reunited with your families.- -Have you heard the Darkmoon?- Lady Itoro repeats from a nearby post. -Everybody, keep calm. You’ll be fed and accommodated as soon as possible.- -Allow me to help you, My Liege. As the Crown Prince…- Lorian hesitates, grabbing the edge of his coat with sweaty hands. But Gwyndolin’s face, despite his covered eyes, means no harm. -Yes, Your Grace?- Lorian takes a deep breath, averting his gaze from the crowd. -…’tis my duty to help these poor people.- Gwyndolin opens a childlike hand and places it on his shoulder, pale and soft as silk right out of the cocoon. -Your presence is welcome, Prince Lorian. The blankets are over there. Soon, the soup will be ready, and we’ll need all hands possible to feed them quickly.- Lorian nods, and the eyes piercing his back seem to fade away. 

The soup is like a rainbow: thick red and yellow bell peppers, orange carrots, pale onions, bright green leaves of mint, and a pinch of violet to make it look prettier. Lorian mixes it up without a word, feeling the gentle smell in his nostrils. For an adventure, this one was short enough. And it ended well. Gwyndolin sits cross-legged on a rock, no higher than the commoners that surround him. He smiles at all of them as if he has known them all his life. Lorian pours another bowl and leans it towards the Godling’s face. -Here, My Liege.- -No need for that.- Gwyndolin gives a gentle, sweet chuckle. -You can call me Gwyndolin. But I thank you for the offer, Lorian. I could have used some more.- Lorian sits down, by his side, like two children exchanging smalltalk. He has the same pale skin Lothric and Father have – but he shares Lothric’s cold voice as well, and a gentility only worthy of a prince. -You have fed countless.-. Gwyndolin stares in front of himself, contemplative. -I can feel nothing but respect for a prince so hard-working.- Lorian can feel himself blush. He says nothing, but a part of him feels as if Gwyndolin already knows. They’re an intelligent one, and as ancestral as the world itself. What is a prince, next to a God? -Those people owe you greatly.- -And you.- Gwyndolin says. -You fought valiantly. And tonight, you too will return home.- Lorian nods, not willing to add any further words. -I will cherish the memory of this day.- he says. The Darkmoon looks at him oddly, and there’s no surprise: he has been kidnapped, he remembers, and there should be no fondness in the trauma of the countless around. Yet, he feels no remorse at being selfish for once. And Gwyndolin looks as gorgeous as he’s ever been, smiling by his side, as gentle as the moon. Could a prince aspire to a God? -Yet,- he ends up muttering, -I do not feel safe.- Gwyndolin nods, taking his hands into his own. -I understand. Breathe, Lorian. ’Tis all over.- Lorian nods again. Because it is, for once in his life.

[galvatronsthighs]

Part four! Story under cut! <<PREVIOUS | FIRST | NEXT>>

The base was dark and no doubt abandoned.

Not that anyone would have rushed to help the lumbering shape anyway. Seems the Decepticons really did take to his orders when he told them to run and they fled from everything.

Of course they would, he’s a monster, he attacked them, some are dead because of him…. A soft ‘thwak’ brought Galvatron’s processor back to the moment. Cyclonus’s arm had come loose and flopped over his torn chest giving the ex-leader a nudge back to reality. With a soft grumble he shifted the two unconscious bodies a little more and continued on his way. His steps were loud and echoing, each door opened with a sound like claws trying to shred concrete, did they always sound like this? A few lights flickered dimly as if deciding if it was worth turning on just for them, probably not. The med bay had been messed with, while fleeing it seemed some of the Decepticons had saw fit to raid the place for some supplies. With a sigh like a old steam train finally choking out it’s last, Galvatron dropped his cargo onto two available berths and his systems screamed in relief. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for him, just two mecha? But his injuries were still rife from the battle they had just went through. It didn’t matter. They would heal. They always did. Applying some gentle percussive maintenance to the med bays systems Galvatron got the place humming with some weak attempt at life once more. He approached Scourge first, the mecha was undoubtedly lighter than himself and Cyclonus despite being the same size and the larger wing struts were just bigger targets, certainly during the fight they were. Galvatron shook his helm trying to rid himself of vague echoing memories of himself swinging wildly at Scourge, overtook in the desperate moment, and landing a few blows on the wings as he picked them up. His unconscious form didn’t move at the sensation of his wings being touched but Galvatron faltered, they bent and sagged in places they weren’t meant to. He did that. Just like Unicron said. Unicron was right about him. Galvatron dropped the wing and let it flop, as throbbing thoughts pounded at his processor making him stagger back and sink to the floor. His new spot was not much better either, just above him Cyclonus lay, bent and crooked. He did that. The monster. Pain called to him a sweet siren song, a delicate lullaby riding on waves of throbbing agony. Galvatron could feel the still slightly-wet cuts along his back, paint a small arc against the berth he leant on as his body lacked the energy, or the will, to fight much longer and it sagged over to the side, before collapsing the final distance down to the floor. Exhausted, wounded and tired in far too many ways there was nothing that could’ve kept Galvatron conscious for much longer. A weepy voice in the back of his helm hoped he wouldn’t wake up again and this would be over.

==

Waking up was a different matter. It felt as though cement had been poured into every available opening, every minute gap within his systems. Feeling almost literally dusty did not aid him in the slightest either. A breathy, dry groan escaped his vocal unit as Galvatron rolled to his front a little more. One hand, two hand, move, repeat. Galvatron almost crawled his way forwards a staggering, full, inch. By the AllSpark he was pathetic. Maybe he should repair some of his injuries… With slow and careful movements Galvatron pulled himself over to an adjacent room, the doorway providing him with a hold on either side to hoist himself up with. Sparks flew and energy crackled as his systems revolted at having such pressure and work put on them. Before his self-repair systems were second to none and these kind of injuries probably would have already been healed to a decent, manageable amount, but who was he kidding, that was all Unicron too, Unicron made him who he was, Unicron did it all, who was he without Unicron? Pathetic? Mistake? Aimless? Directionless? Nothing. Galvatron cringed and his systems groaned, no, no, not now, he should push the thoughts of that thing out of his processor. He wasn’t nothing without Unicron! He… he hadn’t even had the chance to try yet! That’s all! He can do it! He can do it… He can… try… Looking at the systems Galvatron had the dawning realisation he knew nothing about them, and absolutely nothing about what he could do to fix himself. The Auto-repair systems were shot, barely able to manage the most basic of repairs at best, everything here was a joke. No wonder it was his home. With a sigh, he decided it’d have to do.

Letting the system hum to life, Galvatron slid himself onto the berth and allowed it to work. Mostly superficial damages were being fixed, holes and bleeds in his external systems getting patched, his support structure also got a very basic once over, with cracks and breaks being welded back together and his cuts wiped and covered over. It tried to engage in a more thorough system repair, parts requesting access to his internal systems but the machine itself didn’t even have the capability to finish it’s own request. Galvatron decided it was adequate at what it was. He could move better and looked like nothing happened, that’s all he needed. It had handled the worst of it, and as long as he doesn’t over-stress it his self-repair system should be able to finish it off now. He did feel grateful to have the gashes on his face patched up however. They felt the worst. The only bit of outdoor light that graced the room had slithered along the wall and Galvatron frowned. The auto-repair system had shut off a while ago. He blacked out again, didn’t he? Galvatron heaved himself off the berth, grunting painfully as it still felt like a knife was wedged in his lower abdomen, if only the repair system fixed that. He had a mission. He had to repair his friends, he had to free them… he had to… save them… Quick Stepping into the adjacent room he came to a spluttering halt. Both Scourge and Cyclonus were fixed. Not a dent or a smudge on them. An analytical panel hanging from the ceiling was hooked up to both of them, it’s screen split as it displayed both of their vitals, but, the most curious aspect of all, both of them were strapped down, clamped to the berth. It’d be a miracle if they could even turn their heads with bonds so tight. A few attempts at a word formed in Galvatrons mouth but only escaped as the most faintest of sounds. Swinging around the berths Galvatron strode down between them, hand on the monitor he looked over the results it showed. “Finally woke up, eh?” Galvatron froze. He did not recognise that voice… no, wait… he did… deep in his systems… it was so long ago now… He could feel his spinal strut try to bunch up, fear overtook his spark, panic embedding itself in like a burrowing Scraplet. Another person. He’d have to talk! He’d have to do something! “Face me.” They were cold and commanding, yet a edge of curiosity peaked in their tone. Galvatron relaxed his systems and un-hunched himself. One hand refused to leave the monitor however, like a small safety blanket, with a twist of his pede’s he turned to face the voice. “Down here.” Nearer the end of the berths a small figure stood. Human. No, not quite. His memory circuits buzzed as a fresh load of static blared through them, but there were images to the static, sound too, he could just make it out. “S… s… sssssss… Sari?” How could he forget her name. The small hybrid had not grown an Earth-inch from the last time they’d met, when he was a different person. Her colours were dull however, greyed and a few streaks of dirt covered her. She had a scar over half of her face, optics cold and wary, her organic body was hard to see under layers of battle-grade armour forced upon her during cycles of battle. “So, you remember me huh? Your friends here didn’t seem to” Her eyes thinned as she glared at him, an icy glare probing him for answers. “O… oh… oh… I…” Galvatron’s words died in his vocal unit, his head pounding as he struggled to say something, anything. It didn’t help, not in the slightest, when Sari relaxed. The sudden, almost wrong, motion send Galvatron into a minor panic. “I’M SORRY!” He squealed. “Hey, hey, calm down” Sari held her hands up, but it did not help at all. “I’M SORRY!” He squealed again and the monitor was released from his grip. Galvatron sunk to his knees, his forehelm touching the ground as he practically tried to force himself into it, “I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” He continued to shriek. “ENOUGH!” Sari yelled, silencing him, “I’m not here to fight” Sari paused, waiting for an answer, but Galvatron just looked at her with wet optics and let out a quiet sniffle. “I mean, if I was, wouldn’t I have brought all the Autobots with me?” She tried again, Galvatron merely looked around the room, although his view was hampered by him keeping his face pressed to the ground, “Will you sit up?” Sari hissed a little annoyed. Galvatron obeyed. “I came here because I saw what happened. You fought these two, didn’t you?” She gestured to Cyclonus and Scourge on the berths. Galvatron nodded weakly, unable to look at the two motionless figures. “I saw you crying” She added as if it answered everything. Galvatron nodded again, the very mention of it practically provoking his systems to begin weeping once more, but a hasty sniffle managed to stop him from full-blown tears. “I’ve never seen a Decepticon do that… I’ve never heard you beg for forgiveness as you fight… My curiosity was peaked” She added. “Ah” Galvatron quietly choked out. “What’s going on?” Her voice turned stern and demanding again and she stepped forwards. “I’m sorry!” Galvatron whimpered quickly, “I deserve it! Whatever it is!” “What?” Sari backed up again, “Look, I’m… I…” She cocked her head and looked him over, “I won’t hurt you, I just want to know why the most feared monst… ah, Decepticons ever known were fighting amongst themselves while their leader bawled his optics out!” “It doesn’t matter… It was all for nothing… I couldn’t help them… I couldn’t save them…” Galvatron covered his head with his arms and curled up. “Save… them…? You’re talking about that planet-eating monster aren’t you?” Galvatron shrieked like he’d been shot, tears escaped from him freely. Did everyone know? No, everyone shouldn’t know, why should they? No one deserves this? No one deserves him! No one deserves that! Was Unicron common knowledge? Who was he hurting now? Oh, come on Galvatron, you know the answer to that! Everyone! Unicron’s hurting everyone! It’s all his fault! He left Unicron! He left and now Unicron has no toys! The room was empty when he looked back at it, no Cyclonus, no Scourge, no Sari. But there was a shadow, grinning as it seeped in through the ceiling. Unicron was hurting everyone! It’s all his fault! He should never have left! Galvatron was vaguely aware of himself shrieking. Sorry Unicron. Sorry. Sorry sorry! I don’t… Please don’t… Galvatron lunged at the shadow seeping in. Are you happy now Unicron? Yes, of course you are. He loved watching them fight. Are you happy now Unicron? Will you stop hurting them? I’ll be good. I’ll be good. Please. The shadow was gone and instead something blue and burning hit him in the head. Feeling like all his energy was gone anyway, Galvatron collapsed with a whimper. The room seemed a bit more normal now. Something was cycling air through it’s vents, hard. “Uuugh,” He groaned, “Ow” “Get up” The cold commanding tone jabbed into him like a dagger. “Yes Unicr-!” Galvatron blurted out with a harsh obedient tone, but that name tasted like vile, bitter poison and he gagged himself before completing it, but still stood up. Looking around the room once more, he found the source of the noise and the blue burning thing. Sari floated an arms length away, her own arm stretched out and in weapon-mode as she panted heavily. The floor where she once stood was suspiciously dented and new scratches littered the place, her and Galvatron. “Yes?” Galvatron croaked, notifications pinging in his processor that he’d obtained a few new lacerations and dents himself. Sari squinted back at him, she must have attacked him for screaming rather than answering, yes, that’s it, he deserved it anyway. “It is… that ‘moon-eating monster’, he… he controls us… well… he sort of made us too… he owns us...” Galvatron felt the words tumble out of his mouth freely now, no point in trying to bury the memory she knew of him anyway. “Is he still controlling you?” Sari refused to move, seemingly ready for a fight. “N...no! I don’t think so! He left me! I think so… W...wh… when I… I touched the AllSpark!” Galvatron felt his spark race and energon pump burn as words spilled from him, “I touched it and then I saw how bad everything was! It’s awful! I hate it! I… I hate him! He laughed at us! This is all funny to him! Like a game! He… he hurt me! He hurt US! He… Unicron did it, I was so stupid, I believed him, he said it was all going to…” Galvatron sunk back to the floor, hands sticking themselves to his helm as he groaned “I… just want all this pain to go… It’s… consuming… I… He… We...” Sari landing back on the ground sounded like two buildings falling over as the noise shattered the eerie silence left when Galvatron gave up the fight with his stuttering vocaliser and shut up. Her weapon was largely deactivated but the low-level glow from her palm betrayed it. She approached. Her hand touched his pede. A short blast from her jetpack and she was up on his knee guard, sat there, staring at him, like an Osmium Owl. Although Galvatron could only see her feet, he didn’t want to look at her he didn’t want to face her. Sari didn’t like that and hovered over until she took up his field of vision. She was angry. There was searing fury that would have sent the very stars cowering. “Unicron ate Earth” She snarled. Galvatron felt the panic rise again, his faceplates twitched uncontrollably, he tired glancing around, anything to avoid her, to avoid the boiling, squirming feel of empty horror, but she was not having it and followed his gaze. “My Father was on that planet. MY DAD!, and your ‘BOSS’ ate him AND my planet!” She shrieked, “That was CYCLES ago! SO MANY that my dad was still alive! Oh yeah, he’d be dead by now, it’s been too long for a ordinary human to live, but NO, that thing took him while he still breathed!” Sari reared back and punched him, her powered-up form decorating his forehelm with a hefty dent. “I tried approaching this calmly… nicely but… but you will show me EVERYTHING! THEN I will decide on what YOU THREE deserve!” Her fist crackled with a familiar blue energy prompting an equally familiar scene to play out in his head again. Drifting through space, angry, bitter, alone. Until that green light bathed the very void itself as he came to you. Only now, an angry girl stood by watching, waiting, judging...

[kateahontas]

JET Program Final Mission

Just a warning that this post is horrifically sappy. Please comment the amount of times you cringed or rolled your eyes and I'll eat a mint chocolate flavoured product for each one.

Matt sent the modems back to Softbank today, so the internet in our apartment is long-gone and that is a real occurrence to cement all the happenings right now.

JET Program Final Mission was on Saturday night. It was a great success in that it was a beautiful time, but it really sucked in terms of having to be a farewell party, meaning that we will be leaving the country and the date is approaching too quickly. 

The party was in a fancy hotel in Tachikawa and had a much too expensive price of 7,000 yen per person. We had absolutely no problem with people not being able to justify coming because of the price. A few non-English teachers from my school were present (teachers being present from my school at all that aren’t Kenichi is a huge thing in itself) and that made me tear up, because who knew you could mean anything when you often feel like you don’t?

Matt and I were officially announced and walked into a room of our pals standing and applauding. We were greeted by life-size print-outs of ourselves from our Australian wedding, who we of course got photos with part-way through the celebrations. We were shown to our seats and Party Master gave a few words. He is always self-appointed MC, and it’s definitely the most fitting. Matt and I had to give a speech in Japanese that we were not even secretly terrified about. It’s really difficult to articulate feelings to these people in English, and even more difficult to do it in Japanese. We did a lot of tag-teaming, involving giving messages directed at our schools. I said a chunk about Kenichi, and that was the only part I asked for assistance from a Japanese person for. I found a really fitting sentence in Japanese about having a telepathic relationship with someone, but I was unsure of the nuance. My chosen Japanese pal to lend me assistance was Miki, who was also present at the party. She has been so good to me over the years and speaks English pretty much fluently despite never having studied or lived abroad. Also, her children are adorable and her husband works at Matt’s school, so we’re all meant to be. She helped me in making the sentences a bit more coherent. It got a really great reaction at the party, so I was relieved.

Kenichi had told me the day before of the table Matt and I would be sitting at. Kenichi, in true Kenichi style, seated me next to him. Before we even made our speech, we were sitting at the table taking in the scenes and Kenichi turned to me and said “I can’t imagine my life without you” and that was really the beginning of the end for me personally. Kenichi drank throughout the night to try and deal with his emotions (which he has A LOT of) and it didn’t work at all. He became more emotional and was pretty much bursting into tears any time something happened.

There was a screen located to the right of the stage, and while the food was being brought out, a short presentation of our three years in Japan played. It was edited by a teacher from Matt’s school who has basically given her life to us. It featured all the photos we gave to Party Master a few weeks back, a million photos from our Japanese wedding party and also photos from our Australian wedding. The food started coming out and Kenichi made a quick toast so everyone could drink as much as possible. 

Kenichi had mentioned to me a few weeks earlier that he was preparing for some kind of performance. I assumed that a few teachers would do the same thing, but that was not the case. He presented a speech that contained four separate stories about our lives together while being backed on piano by another English teacher from my school (who I did not know even had such a talent?) The speech was in Japanese, but we are being promised copies of it in both Japanese and English. 

The first story was the story of the purple hair. About two and a half months before we came on JET, I had my hair dyed bright pink and purple. I always obviously had the intention of changing it before Japan (and actually only found out I had been accepted into the program the morning of the day I had my hair dyed). I worked at a Steiner school with the crazy hair, so nobody cared. ANYWAY, I entirely blame Ben for the story of the purple hair. He started messaging me a few months before we came to Japan (when my hair was bright and popping) and he told Kenichi about it EVEN THOUGH I had conveyed to him my full intentions to dye it brown before coming to Japan (because I am not an idiot). Kenichi has revealed to me on a few occasions that he was terrified to meet me, and it was exacerbated by me having purple hair. He thought he would have to tell me that I would not be able to show up to my school like that. He said he even practiced telling me in a stern voice (before he met me) to dye my hair brown. I imagine he practiced in front of a mirror, because that makes me do a weird side-smile.

The second story was the story of Otosan. Otosan is “father” in Japanese, but for the purpose of this story, we are referring to Otosan, the lovable hound who is the face of the Japanese phone company, Softbank. I needed a phone contract with Softbank, because of how deep my love for Otosan ran, even though I knew nothing about him. In our first week of being in Japan, Kenichi took us to the Softbank store in Tachikawa to get us both phone contracts. It took three hours and once I started working at my school, it didn’t take me long to realise that that kind of time is really precious for someone who works as much as Kenichi. Kenichi told the person signing us up at Softbank that I loved the pupper that was the face of their company, so they gave us a stuffed toy of Otosan that speaks in Japanese when you press his tail. We still have it and I will never forget such a gesture by a man who was probably properly flustered with us at the time, but never showed it.

The third story is the ongoing story of how Matthew knows everything. Kenichi was telling us about a Japanese celebrity once when we went out for dinner with him, and Matthew already knew who it was. This particular story isn’t so impressive. I believe the story of Matt having to reprogram the Rakuten Mobile page so that I could sign up with them is more impressive. Last week, Kenichi asked if I knew where a place was that is related to moving out stuff we have to do. I said “Matthew knows. He knows everything” and Kenichi said “ああ！さすがマシュー！" Which is just like “as expected, Matthew genius’d again”. I Kenichi would marry Matt if it were allowed.

The final story was the story about Kenichi’s birthday last year and Christmas. It took me a really long time to get to the point in our friendship where Kenichi invited us to his house. I tried really hard for a long time, thought that I was probably being a pushy jerk and then I backed off a bit, and Kenichi would be the one to initiate hangs, which was a huge break-through for me. We had already been to his house at least once before his birthday. His birthday party first took place at Kenichi’s favourite restaurant close to his house. Matt, myself and a few other teachers from my school (one an ex-teacher) were all there. We later went to Kenichi’s house where he showed off his Google Home and the cake was brought out. Matt helped Kenichi cut his cake and then I fed him his first bite of cake using a huge spoon and getting it everywhere. Then, everyone else also fed Kenichi one bite of cake each. We later found out that this isn’t normal for Japanese peoples’ birthdays. On Christmas eve last year, Kenichi invited Matt, myself and some other pals to a community centre that his parents run to make udon. We made udon noodles from scratch, cooked them, ate them, did some craft and had a really good time. Then on the way home, Kenichi took us to a hill nearby that had an amazing view of the entire area and we all hung out there for a bit. It was perfect at the time, because we really wanted to be in Australia for Christmas and we couldn’t, but we still got to spend it with our family anyway.

Finally, Kenichi broke into song for a bit for the last part of his performance, but I was already crying at that point.

Some time after his speech, Kenichi and I were talking at the table about all the times we’ve had. He said “there is another thing I remember clearly” and he went on to mention the night that Matt had to fly back to Australia to be with his mum. We had just spent Christmas in Perth, and had flown back to Tokyo the day before. Matt got a message from his brother saying that Matt’s mum had taken a turn for the worse, and things didn’t look so good. We were able to get Matt on a plane the following morning, but I had to stay here. We ended up apart for three weeks, then I went back to Perth for our wedding. The day after our wedding, I flew back to Japan alone to spend another three weeks away from Matt. On that first night, when Matt had just left to be with his mum, I was sitting on the couch in my pyjamas watching Gilmore Girls and I had just eaten avocado toast for dinner. I got a phone call from Kenichi who said “what are you doing? Come and meet me at a cafe in Tachikawa.” I got dressed and met him there about half an hour later. We spent three or four hours together talking about stuff and practicing Japanese and English. He said to me “this is going to be the hardest night for you and you shouldn’t be alone”. That whole period of time was unbelievably shit. I look back on it and I have no idea how I managed to function and go to work and be a person. When Kenichi brought that up at the party, I couldn’t even. I said to him “you saved me that night” and I told him how I don’t even know where the strength came from that got me through that. He said “you know that I have trouble just calling people up like that and asking them to hang out. I just don’t do it. I knew that you needed me that night” and the whole exchange is honestly going to be the thing that makes it impossible to get on the plane.

The food was fancy and tasty and difficult to eat consistently because we had to make the rounds. I tried to let all the teachers from my school know that it meant a whole few truckloads of existence that they attended. I hope they do know, because it’s true. 

I saw Miyo, a beautiful human who works in the office at Matt’s school for the last time, and it was so heartbreaking for the two of us that we just had to walk away from each other.

We were presented with a cake that had a beautiful chocolate message on it authored by Party Master. A retired teacher from Matt’s school who is a beautiful soul came up and gave us two pictures that he had painted the night before. One was of Matt’s school building, and the other was of the cafeteria at Matt’s school. They look amazing and they are framed and he said “never forget our school”. 

Kenichi and Kosuke presented us both with bouquets of flowers and some other people showered us in gifts. Cake was eaten, photos were taken and I only got to consume two alcoholic beverages. We gave our final speech and then it was time for the second party at everyone’s favourite sports themed karaoke place: BASEBALL.

Lico rocked up part-way through this party and she said “I want to sing Korn with you” we were like “you want to what?!” and it turned out she actually meant Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn”. We made dreams come true. We are going to karaoke with Lico and Kenichi on Sunday, so we have decided to show her some Korn then.

Kenichi and I sang Don’t Look Back in Anger because it’s our thing and he said “this is the second last time we’ll sing this” so the finale is definitely happening on Sunday! 

To be frank, it was too much and I would say I don’t deserve what these people do. Other feedback from other JETs confirms things we always thought were true: no other schools have a Party Master or a Kenichi or a Lico and I wonder about the inner workings of the universe and how your outfits might not always match, but I am sure you don’t look as shit as you think you do.

We are allowed a few repeats on Friday as Matt’s school is having their end of term party, and we are very much there and on Sunday too at karaoke.

[sending-the-message]

My Work Is Haunted by amcma10

For as long as I can remember I've always wanted to be a nurse. When I was a little girl I would transform my room into a make shift infirmary. All my dolls would be bandaged up and I would even construct IV poles complete with ziplock baggies full of water and straws connecting to my "patients".

Fast forward to present day. I now work in a long term care facility and contrary to popular belief they aren't all depressing places where families drop off once loved relatives and then forget about them. We have a terrific Activities Director who makes sure there is something special planned for our residents every day. I know this not because I actually get to witness it, but because the calendar of events is prominently displayed at the entrance and throughout the halls.

By the time I get to work, which is roughly 5 minutes before my 7p-7a shift most of the residents are finishing up with supper and after their meds are dispensed they retire to their rooms for the night.

What I have neglected to mention about my place of employment is that it actually consists of two buildings. The main building or A building is a large brick structure that sits right up against the main road and the back building aka B building is much smaller and is connected to the larger building by a long covered breezeway.

I work in the B building which is the newest part of our facility that was constructed during the late 80's. The main building is much older, originally constructed in 1952 and was once the only hospital in the small rural town where I live. It was run by Catholic nuns and saw it's fair share of tragedy and unimaginable heartache. Some of the "lifers", a term of endearment we give our long time employees who transitioned over to the LTC facility after the hospital shut down used to regale us with stories that were both hysterical and soul numbing. While those tales were often embellished I could reference some of the facts from our "death book".

I remember the first time I had to access this book, I had only been on the job for a week when one of our geriatric residents passed away. All deaths must be recorded with the following: name, date, age of deceased, time of death, next of kin, address, followed by our signature.

When the hospital was in operation the "manner of death" was also listed. So many young lives taken too soon by accidental drownings, gun shot wounds, stabbings, MVA. I hate that damn book and have been vocal about our need for a new one. Unfortunately this is the way things are done in my county and for now the death book stays.

If any of you have ever worked in LTC then you are well aware that if anything can go wrong it does go wrong after midnight. Confused residents fall out of the bed, scream out due to hallucinations, attempt to leave AMA etc. Anyone who thinks "night shift nurses" have it easy need to be throat punched.

In any case, when we have someone in need of a safety alarm such as a bed alarm or chair alarm there is only one place at my work that houses the spare equipment.

The old ER, or dungeon as we call it. It is in the basement portion of the main building that also houses the kitchen, custodial offices, employee break room, an old chapel and several conference rooms. I hate going down there and usually I enlist the help of one of the CNA's to accompany me. This was mainly just for safety reasons. Once, a drunk man was able to gain access to the back door where the time clock was located and was found passed out against a drink machine near the employee break room. He was completely oblivious to where he was when the cops showed up and took him off in handcuffs.

In order to get to where the spare equipment room is located you must go through the swinging metal doors leading to the old ER. Past the doors there are several round metal speaker systems that hang out from the top of the walls and an assortment of old signage directing patients to the front desk, bathrooms, exam rooms and the radiology department. It truly looks like you stepped into an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Trust me when I say that walking down these halls by yourself is extremely unsettling.

Any way, about the dungeon. One night last November I needed a bed alarm for one of our newer residents who had fallen out of bed twice within 3 hours. Its our policy after the 2nd documented fall then we institute soft restraint measures to prevent injury. Being short a CNA that particular night I was forced to retrieve the alarm myself since there had to always be one employee on the floor at all times and Grace, one of my "lifer's" was elbow deep in shit at that moment.

It was a little past midnight when I grabbed my coat exited out into the frigid night walking the breezeway leading into the main building. The door to the main building from the breezeway opened up to a dimly lit hallway where directly in front of the doors stood a single elevator. I observed that the elevator door leading upstairs to the main floors was open. Odd. Unless someone is entering the elevator or exiting it the door remain closed. As if reading my thoughts the elevator door slowly closed and I watched as the "up arrow" glowed brightly.

I'm one of those people who can generally get freaked out by the slightest thing so already I was dreading my trek down the hall to the equipment room. As I walked along the corridor leading to the swinging metal doors it felt like the heating system was on the brinks. I could almost see my breath that's how drastically the temperature change was. In that moment I remembered every horror/scary movie I had ever seen where a sudden drop in ambient temperature meant that ghosts were present. I tried humming the Pharrell Williams song "Happy" to keep my mind from going to those terrifying thoughts.

After pushing through the metal doors I thought I saw a glimpse of movement off to my right. Perhaps one of the other nurses or CNA's from the two upper floors were down here getting equipment as well and I chastised myself for being such a scaredy-cat.

I quickened my steps and made it to the door marked "Radiology" which was where all our extra equipment was stored. During the time the hospital was in operation this was where all the x-rays were performed and it still held some of the ancient machines. I could hear movement as if someone were pushing a wheelchair or stretcher out of the way and again relief washed over me.

I opened the door and was immediately struck with fear. There was no one else in the room! Despite its size I would have been able to see someone even if they were crouched down looking through one of the storage bins. The air again was even more frigid in the room, so cold in fact that I actually could see my breath in front of me.

It felt downright silly but I uttered a shrill "Hello?" as I took a few steps inside. The door slammed shut behind me. Panic was now reaching every cell of my body and I could hear and feel my heart as it bounded in my chest. My mind raced as I turned behind me and tried the door knob. It was locked! I was way past terrified at this point and started banging on the door shouting at the top of my lungs. My voice bounced off the sickening green cement blocks that made up the walls. "Help!" I continued to scream to no avail. Then it happened.

A voice, so soft and faint came from the other side of the door. "Is it time?"

I moved back from the door and detected movement from the other side however even with the dim fluorescent light fixtures in the hall there should have been a shadow.

I swallowed hard even though my mouth was dry and my throat burned from my screaming. I listened again, waiting and the voice a little louder asked "I'm ready to go, is it time?" After those words were again uttered the soft sniffles of a child crying echoed through the room I was in. I remained motionless, frozen by fear when I heard another voice, much older say "Come on Lily, this way." I could hear the sound of footsteps leading away from the door.

Not even a minute later the door opened behind me and I screamed when I heard my name. "Janie?" He looked bewildered. It was Steve, one of the new CNA's from the 2nd floor coming to get a wheelchair. I must have looked like a ghost myself as I'm sure all the color had drained from my face. "Jesus they need to get the heat fixed down here" he said as he moved past me to grab the chair.

"Could you wait, just a minute while I grab a chair alarm?" I asked. Steve looked at me funny before breaking into a grin. "Why? You scared?" he snickered. Asshole.

Nevertheless he waited while I grabbed the alarm and I hauled ass down the hall and then broke into a jog after exiting the building before punching the code to get into my own building.

I made it back to my nurse's station and handed the alarm to Grace, the older CNA who had been keeping a watch on the halls and told her to take it to room 301. When she rounded the hall I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the death book. I don't know why I was compelled to do so but after flipping through and skimming several names I saw what made my heart drop to my stomach. NAME: Lily Robertson DATE: October 5th 1958, AGE: 5 CAUSE OF DEATH: Blunt force trauma to the head. I now know without a doubt that my work is haunted and sadly it was not an isolated incident.

[just-another-ficwriter]

If The World Was Ending

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Words: 2500ish

Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, implied smut

Summary: With most people seeing you as the perfect Northside Girl Next Door and Sweet Pea being the living embodiment of a Bad Boy Southside Serpent you both knew you wouldn’t work out, you shouldn’t work out. That doesn’t stop you finding each other every time something bad happens in your lives.

Notes: I adore this song and I feel like my Archie imagine didn’t do it justice so here’s another version!

I was distracted and in traffic

I didn't feel it when the earthquake happened

But it really got me thinkin', were you out drinkin'?

Were you in the living room, chillin', watchin' television?

After Weatherbee had stormed into the school, claiming his territory back armed with a baseball bat and a team of his own, throwing out anyone who shouldn’t have been there, a new wave of panic and realisation had hit Sweet Pea.

Where were you?

He’d seen you in the crowds at the prison, desperately trying to push back people so he and the others could make it through but then Fangs had been shot and he’d lost sight of you, a million other things going through his mind.

His best friend was in the hospital and he wanted revenge. But blinded by the rage, he’d forgotten to make sure you were safe and now he felt his legs move faster as his mind failed to keep up. 

It's been a year now, think I've figured out how,

How to let you go and let communication die out

Sweet Pea had gotten good at blocking you out of his thoughts, ignoring you in the school halls after the two of you had decided to call it quits last year but right now you were all he could think about.

Were you safe? Were you still out on the streets? Had you made it home? Did you need his help?

Without realising it, he began running. He effortlessly made it to yours in minutes, banging on your door as he struggled to catch his breath.

I know, you know, we know you weren't

down for forever and it's fine

He had tears in his eyes as you opened the door, his whole body relaxing. Before you could even ask him what he was doing there he was crashing into you, arms wrapping around your shoulders, cementing you too him.

You melted into the embrace, your own arms wrapping around his waist, as your eyes watered at the mixed smell of smoke and blood.

Minutes passed before you pulled away, inspecting his face and body for injury before you spoke.

“Pea what are you doing here?”

I know, you know, we know we weren't

meant for each other and it's fine

“I had to know you were okay.” He sighed, his eyes refusing to met yours. He knew he shouldn’t have come, an old wound that had almost healed now ripped open again as he stood in front of you.

“How’s Fangs?” You avoided the pained look on his face as you changed the subject with the first thing you could think of and you regretted it instantly.

This time Sweet Pea did cry, a sob escaping from between his lips as he crashed to the floor and your heart broke alongside his. You followed him to your knees, giving him the comfort he so desperately needed as you let him get it all out.

But if the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

“I’m sorry.” He looked up with through wet eyelashes, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have come over but I had to make sure you were okay.”

“It’s okay Pea, I get it.” Your breathing picked up as he moved so his face was now in front of yours. “I was worried about you too.”

If the world was ending, you'd come over right?

The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight

And there wouldn't be a reason why

We would even have to say goodbye

Sweet Pea felt like the world stopped as you stared at him, pure concern for the Serpent evident in your eyes. He hadn’t know what to expect when he’d shown up tonight but it wasn’t what was about to happen next.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right? Right?

He leaned forward, his lips brushing lightly against yours in an impulse move before he pulled back. You scrunched your nose at the salty taste of his tears but even that didn’t stop you from pulling Sweet Pea back in, much to his surprise.

“Should we be doing this?” He mumbled against your lips, never quite breaking the connection.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right? Right?

“Our friend was shot, anything could have happened to us. I think that’s a good enough reason, right?” You weren’t sure whether you were trying to convince him or yourself but you grabbed his hand anyway, pulling him towards your room. 

-

I tried to imagine your reaction

It didn't scare me when the earthquake happened

But it really got me thinkin', the night we went drinkin'

Stumbled in the house and didn't make it past the kitchen

When you woke up the next morning Sweet Pea was gone, any trace of the night before disappearing with him.

So you went back to both avoiding eye contact in the hallways and awkward hellos when you somehow found yourselves in the same room.

When prom came around you cringed when Veronica and Betty suggested you go with Reggie. Your mind was screaming for you to refuse but you accepted simply based on the fact that you knew Sweet Pea would be there and you didn’t want him to see you alone. You’d be lying if you said your eyes didn’t drift over to where the serpent was stationed over Reggie’s shoulder as the two of you danced in circles.

Ah, it's been a year now, think I've figured out how

How to think about you without it rippin' my heart out

You frowned when Betty was announced as Prom Queen but she was no where to be seen. You saw your own fear reflected in the faces of your closest friends as Jughead rushed out of the gym and Archie and Veronica began to whisper with their heads close. You quickly excused yourself from Reggie before making your way to them.

“Guys what’s going on?” You felt the knot in your stomach tighten as Veronica’s face paled and Archie’s eyes began to scan the crowd.

“Jug things Betty found the Gargoyle King and followed him out.” Archie shook his head at the thought, annoyed that he hadn’t seen her leave.

“What? By herself-“ You were interrupted by Archie’s phone and he grabbed onto Ronnie as he read it out loud.

Found Betty, taking her to see my Dad, will explain everything later. Turns out the Gargoyle King set her up and the Black Hood tried to kill her, they disappeared before I got there but just be careful.

“Betty’s Dad is still alive?” Veronica’s questioned blurred into the background as your head began to spin. Two serial killers had been at the school, inches away from the room you were standing on and you only had one thought on your mind.

Sweet Pea.

And I know, you know, we know you weren't down for forever and it's fine

You said nothing to Archie and Veronica as you raced away from them, running to where Sweet Pea should have been to find him no where in sight. You searched the gym for what felt like a lifetime when it had only been ten minutes to find him at Fangs’ station instead, the two of them laughing at peoples costumes.

“S-Sweets?” Your voice was shaky, a sick feeling rising in your stomach as you ached to reach out to him.

“Uh Y/N...” He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between you and his friends.

“Sorry I uh-, Jug said the Black Hood and the Gargoyle King attacked Betty, they’ve gone now but I just thought you should know.” You turned away embarrassed, head turned to the floor as the heat rushed to your cheeks. The last thing you expected was Sweet Pea to grab your arm.

“If there are two serial killers out there, I’m not leaving your side.”

I know you, know we, know we weren't

meant for each other and it's fine

He ignored Archie as he’d offered you a lift home. He’s ignored Veronica as she asked if you wanted to spend the night at hers. And he ignored you as you clung onto his waist, riding on the back of his motorcycle and shouting that he’d taken the wrong turn.

“Pea what are we doing here?” You questioned him as you carefully got off the bike, knees slightly shaky from the adrenaline rush.

“I told you I wasn’t leaving you alone tonight.” He didn’t look at you as he unlocked his trailer door, holding it open for you as an invitation. “I was hoping you’d agree to staying here.”

But if the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

You reluctantly stepped inside, eyes narrowed as you looked around trying to recall if anything had changed since the last time you’d been here. You were about to turn around and argue that this wasn’t a good idea when you felt Sweet Pea behind you, and you couldn’t help but lean back and collapse into him. You could feel the warmth of his chest against your back, your breathing becoming unsteady as he snaked his arms around your waist pulling you closer to him and nuzzling his face into your neck. You squeezed your eyes shut, a soft moan sounding from your lips as he began to place slow kisses to any exposed skin.

For the first time in a while you felt safe.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

Sky'd be falling while I hold you tight

No, there wouldn't be a reason why

We would even have to say goodbye

“P-pea should we be doing this? After last time?” You should have pulled away, you should have gone with Archie or Veronica when they’d ask. You should have known another night with the tall dark haired Serpent would only end in misery, yet you had followed him anyway.

“Like I said earlier, there’s two serial killers out there, killing people we know, our friends, for no reason at all, we don’t know who could be next. I think that’s a good enough reason.” He paused so he could spin you around to him, the motion so fast it made you slightly dizzy. But it was nothing compared to the way you felt when Sweet Pea lifted your chin so you were looking straight at him. “Don’t you?”

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

The room became completely silent beside the sound of your own heartbeat drumming in your ear, your chest visibly raising up and down as you tried to think of a reason not to do this.

He was right, with Betty’s Dad now on the loose again as well as the Gargoyle King anyone could be their next victims, including the two of you.

You'd come over, right?

And if your world was ending, you wanted one more night with Sweet Pea.

You needed one more night with Sweet Pea.

You'd come over, you'd come over, you'd come over, right?

“Screw it.” You shook your head as he laughed, instantly winding your arms around his neck before jumping up and wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands caught your thighs, fingertips digging into you, both thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as he carried you to his bed.

-

I know, you know, we know, you weren't down for forever and it's fine

This time it was your turn to do a disappearing act. You watched in silence as Sweet Pea’s bare chest raised up and down, an ache to just reach over and touch him growing with every passing second. But you ignored it, instead grabbing your things and letting yourself out.

I know, you know, we know, we weren't meant for each other and it's fine

So it went back to avoiding each other and pretending like nothing had happened again. To broken hearts, and Sweet Pea’s longing states that he prayed you’d never notice. But Fangs noticed. Fangs always noticed and despite his attempts to get his best friend to do something about his feelings, it never worked.

But if the world was ending you'd come over right?

That was until two weeks later, when Toni began gathering the Serpents and Poisons to form a rescue team. You, Jughead, Betty, Veronica and Archie had all found yourselves being hunted in the woods by a pack of killers and Sweet Pea suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. His body worked in auto pilot after that and how he managed to drive a truck full of people into the woods at the sped he was going without any injures he’ll never know.

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

He watched in horror as Veronica and Archie appeared through the clearing, followed swiftly by you, Jug and Betty. He didn’t hear Cheryl when she demanded the others attack, all his surroundings became a blur as his hands trembled at the sight of your blood soaked dress and the way you leaned heavily on the other two for support.

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

A million emotions hit Sweet Pea as he ran to you, sobbing loudly as your body collapsed into his arms, his hands pressing heavily on your wound.

If the world was ending you’d come over right?

He couldn’t hide his anger as Jughead explained that you’d been tasked with sacrificing a member of the group, and of course you’d found a loophole in stabbing yourself instead of one of your friends. He never thought he could hate your selflessness until now.

The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight

He sat with you in the back of the truck as it sped towards the hospital, ignoring everyone else as he whispered how much you meant to him over and over again. One hand desperately tried to stop your bleeding as the other combed through your matted hair, his cheeks wet with tears.

If you made it through this, Sweet Pea was never letting you out of his sight again.

And there wouldn't be a reason why

we would even have to say goodbye

And if you didn’t, he knew he’d never forgive himself for it.

If the world was ending…

Sweet Pea Masterlist

[laviedecetteblink-blackpink-blog]

JENNIE X READER

I’ve written this first chapter almost a month ago. I’ve published it on differents facfictions’ websites. I hope you’ll like it. BTW, I accept requests! Feel free. This is the first of 11 chapters. This is kind of a novel and I’m already working on the second part of it. I’m not a native English speaker, I apologize if there are some mistakes.

Summary: You’re a college student. Jennie is your English professor, the woman about who you’ve been fantasizing the most during your senior college. Sometimes dreams really come true. (BTW, it’s pretty explicit).

Being alone is such a weird experience. You can think of millions of things and, in a certain way, they will make you happy or cry, for no reason because all of you’ve been thinking of were things that has never and will never happen. College is one of the periods in your life in which you think the most about unrealistic things, alone or not, and college’s classes are the best ones to do it. When you’re used to study at home and before every single class it doesn’t really matter if you participate in class or just fall asleep on your cold and rigid textbook.

Yet, there’s one subject that actually you do enjoy: English literature. But you don’t really like it because you love reading, even though you love doing it, the reason behind why you do fancy that 2 hours class it’s because of the teacher, Professor Kim.

Her petite height, pale and soft skin, amazing hair that today is in a ponytail… yup it’s easy to be a creep when it comes to that incredible woman. Right now she’s talking about some writers from New Zealand that you need to read for your next exam… You think that she also mentioned the fact that you need to write an essay about New Zealand writers, but you don’t really know… You’re really not paying attention, you’re just looking the way she articulates words by looking at her lips, imagining how her tongue sometimes slips out between her lips. They must be soft for sure and must taste incredibly well… and then there here is, a smile. Today her outfit it’s pretty provocative. A light blues dress, with some details on and a nice pair of black heels.

Now, you look at the digital clock that is right above the whiteboard “5:25 pm, Thursday” almost time to go home, some people might think. But not you, you’ll go to the library to study as much as you can, go to the college residence in which you’ve been living for the past 3 years, change, go for a run, and then comeback “home” and sleep. You’ve been doing this for the past 3 years, you’re used to it. Friends? Let’s say that classmates is a better word to associate them. But you’re happy, you can do whatever you want to do… Even thought, some company wouldn’t be bad.

5 minutes left of class and yet, everyone is starting to close their books, open their backpacks… While you’re still on your chair with your arms crossed, back  on the back of the chair, paying attention to the class, or that’s what you think you’re doing… You know that Professor Kim might be the only reason that you don’t actually skip class, or leave early. So, that’s why you never get up of your chair until Professor Kim says “Class over guys…” and then add things like “don’t do drugs” or “don’t drink too much unless is water”…  You hate and love to hear that, hate it because it’s going to be another week until you’ll be able to stare at her without being considered a creep, and love it because DAMN! That weird English accent of hers it’s sexy af.

Someone is calling you from behind but you don’t turn your face, Professor Kim is more interesting to look at. That someone starts to kick your seat… After 10 seconds you finally decides to turn around and here it is… Chicken, real name? Jisoo. That girl though… She’s nice and extremely funny but sometimes can be very obnoxious too, like in this case. She whispers “… Y/N take this”, and you as a fool grab the little piece of paper that she throws at you. She starts giggling. You look up to see if Professor Kim is looking at you, but she started to write things on the whiteboard. So, you proceed to open the secret piece of paper… You’re not surprise by what you see.

Of course that you’re not the only one who has that type of thoughts towards Mrs. Kim. You watch your classmates, or some of them, biting their lips while looking at her… Or writing on pieces of papers the things that they would do to her, like in this case… Some of these papers actually appears sometimes on your desk and the only thing that you do is reading them or looking at the drawing that the most “artistic people” in your class can actually do, things that you would actually would do to her but you don’t need to tell anyone, so you just put these pieces of paper inside a page of your book or throw it after the class is over.

This time you find just some words like “bang her”, “kiss her”, “hard”, “taste”, “bite her lips”, “and slap her” and “thongs or nothing?”  Surrounding Professor Kim name written right in the middle. You’re surprise that your classmates can’t even do a graphic but in this case everything is so clear, some have used some kind of colors to highlight the word “bang her” several times, if only they would put more effort on their studies as they do with every “gossip” paper you’ve come through... You’re going to throw this paper for sure.  

You look up again at the clock “5:32 pm”, Professor Kim is looking at her students and she seems to realize that almost no one has their books on their desks… She look at the clock and says the words that are so obnoxious for you to hear “Ok guys, CLASS IS OVER. Go home and don’t forget to give water to your plants at night because if you do it in the morning they’ll burn because of the sun”… Ok, that was the longest “senseless” thing that she has ever add. You think that she’s running out of short ideas or it’s just because she’s an English literature professor and she would say things twice as long for her own pleasure. 

Anyway, you grab your books put them inside you bag the same goes as well for pen, pencils, your phone… don’t even caring about the mess that you’re making inside your own backpack, and you’re ready to leave the classroom. While you’re walking through the row of desk that are on both sides, you’re being part of the queue that you need to respect in order to get out of that class, yet you still keep an eye on Professor Kim. 

She waved at few students and then started to clean the whiteboard, took some markers and put them inside her black Gucci purse. She even let her hair free and gosh, God only knows how gorgeous that woman can be by simply letting her hair laying on her back, shoulder…. and breasts. When you’re passing by Professor Kim desk in which she’s sitting on, you throw the paper inside the little trash can, and you just say “Goodbye Professor Kim” and she with a bright smile says “Goodbye Mrs. L/N” and wink… Yes a wink, you think you’ve never seen her winking…She might have not even winked at you, stupid imagination.

Out of class, it’s time to do some homework. At least the university library is inside the campus, so you just need to walk through the college park that is surrounded by the 5 buildings that form the university and that’s it. At least today didn’t rain and even though it’s almost 6 there’s still light. Walking through that park is an awesome experience, flowers almost everywhere, every kind of tree with flowers or fruits on. Even though the path is cement, it doesn’t ruin the beauty and quality of it.

 Finally you made it into the library, and you sit as far as you can from other students, you always chose the European literature section. The best thing about it is that this area in particular looks like a labyrinth made of old books, probably first editions, and cherry wood. If you didn’t know that well that space, you would probably get lost. You sit on a two seat desk, take your computer out from your backpack and some pens fall from your sack, you try to collect them, it seems that there’s nothing on the floor now, put your computer in front of you, you turn it on and you start doing your research about New Zealand writers. You plug your headphones on your laptop and start that R&B playlist that you keep updating. Listening to music is an activity that you really enjoy doing while studying.

 One hour has passed by. Your essay is almost finished, just the introduction and conclusion are missing… You lay back on your seat, move your head a little bit and close your eyes, letting the song that is right now playing try to heal your heart, your soul. Again, being alone sometimes gives you the right amount of peacefulness that every human being should have. You start thinking about life, homework, parents and how much you love cereal. You don’t know how your thoughts go from serious stuff to how much you love eating cereal.

 Your left shoulder is getting pretty warm now, “they must have turn off the air conditioner” you think. Your eyes still close and now that warm feeling is gone and has been substituted by a gentle tipping. “Okay, that cannot be the air conditioner… You must be sick or yesterday run started to hit you right now… Life” you think, but when you open your eyes and turn your gaze to your shoulder you look at this finger that is actually tipping the area… You get your gaze a little bit higher and a familiar face is the owner of that hand. It’s your classmate Rosé. In three years you don’t know how and why she got so pretty, those eyes that always are expressing happiness, her smile that is really bright and full of sincerity, her cute laugh that in inappropriate moments starts (like during tests) but the best thing is her voice, sweet. Seriously, you think that she might be the only person in this word whose beauty is right. Beautiful inside and outside.

 “Hey Y/N?” she takes off your left earphone, “… that’s why you wouldn’t answer me” she said with a smile. You’re still kind of shocked by how she knew you would have been there, what the heck? -  “Oh.. Yes, sure… Tell me, do you need any help Rosé?”. “Well, actually yes but I’m not sure..” she says. “So you think you need my help? Just tell me and I��ll see if I can help you…”. This conversation is awkward, Rosé has never asked you before to help her with anything. She’s one of the top students in your class. “Okay, Y/N in today class I just fell asleep, being part of the cheerleading team lately has been exhausting! We have a competition next week and sleeping is not involved! I didn’t even had the time to read something before class, well I actually have read something but was about this new Nintendo console and gosh! You have to see it!” and she kept talking and talking…

So you just stop her from saying another word. “Ok, forgetting about cheerleading and that toy for grown up kids…” she immediately interrupts you “A toy for grown up kids?! IT’S A NINTENDO IT NEVER GETS OLD, you just don’t understand, troll”. She just called you troll? What the f... 

“Ok, whatever, you need help with what?”. She takes your backpack that was on the seat next to you, puts it on the floor, sits and looks at you. “I need you to help me with English literature. I don’t like that subject and I don’t even like Professor Kim… I’ve been extremely busy as I’ve just told you and I was wondering if we can study together because reading has never being my thing, I prefer talking you know? Conversing about the subject itself, for me it would be easier to write my essays and study in general.. I don’t know? Would you help me?.” Now she’s holding her hands together like praying but in this case begging for your help… That she love talking is pretty obvious, at least she’s not asking you to do her “homework” and she’s nice to look at “here it comes again the pervert inside you Y/N” you say to yourself laughing a little bit. “Why are you laughing?! Are you laughing at me?!” she said while slapping your arm. “No, I was just thinking... Don’t worry, you can count on me.”

“I knew that you were nice! Also a little company won’t hurt you. Right? You’re always alone” she says with a comforting smile. “I guess so...” you reply. “…Uh. Ok, now I should go, you know cheerleading stuff, bye!” she jumps from the seat and disappears. That was weird how she got here without even getting lost, how she knew you would be there, the things she said. Life. 

You look at your computer clock “7:23pm” “it’s time to go!” you think. You put everything inside you backpack, disorganized as always, go outside the building, come back to your residence, get change and here you are running outside the campus. The city is wonderful at night, and running next to the river is a plus. It has a really movie feeling. The river that acts like a mirror and reflects every single light of the night. After one hour and a half, it’s time to come back home, you buy some instant ramen in a supermarket that is close to the university, run to your residence, get a shower while the water boils, and then it’s time to eat, watch some television and sleep.

To be continued...