#this is the first fic i've posted in over five years so i'm kinda scared but hey!

[indigoforiver]

I wrote a fic for @garashirweek day 7 (AUs)! You can find it here on ao3, or read down below! Apologies in advance for the uh liberties I’ve taken with canon, but it had to be done for the human AU to work.

Title: Anyone Who Knew Anything

Rating: Gen

Summary: Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- their regular literature debates are the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day. The hidden truths of their relationship, too, are well-known to those who watch them.

i. a most interesting new friend

Though he’d only been practicing medicine in the area for four months, anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir. He came in for lunch there nearly every day of the week, unless a pressing medical emergency barred him, and everyone had the dubious pleasure of talking with him at least once. The man was gregarious, with a sunny smile and awkward charm, but he was plagued by an inability to ever, ever shut up that was amusing at best and mildly abrasive at worst. Despite that, Dr. Bashir was cautiously well-liked by Fontaine’s lunch crowd. That was why, when Elim Garak stepped into the cafe, glanced around briefly, and then made a beeline for the doctor, a startled and rather concerned hush fell over all assembled.

Anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s also knew of Elim Garak. He was a tailor, owned a shop across the road, and his wares were top-notch. But nobody trusted him. His movements were just a little too smooth and his mind was a little too clever for him to just be a tailor like he always insisted, and conversation with him felt like a battle that he always won. Rumor had it the man was from Cardassia, though his accent would never give it away, and if you caught the barkeep at just the right time she’d tell you that rumor also had it that he couldn’t go back. Everyone in the know gave him a wide berth, just in case, though nobody had bothered to warn the doctor to do the same. Sometimes talking to the doctor was difficult, as politeness seemed to fly completely over his head, and nobody wanted to be caught gossiping about the tailor, just in case. Garak never visited Fontaine’s during the lunch hour, anyway, so why bother?

The restaurant watched, near silent, as the tailor approached the doctor. On his part, Bashir was completely unaware, engrossed in a massive old book with a faded cover that nobody in Fontaine’s could recognize from a hole in the wall. The doctor’s literature habit was the only thing that could ever get him to stop talking, and the lunch crowd usually was grateful to see the doctor arrive with a book tucked under his arm. His favorites weren’t always in the mood for conversation, but saying no to him was difficult. “Like kicking a puppy,” everyone agreed.

Garak stopped next to the doctor’s table and stared down at him. He seemed to have forgotten his food in favor of reading- Bashir’s customary sandwich, ham and cheddar on wheat, sat on a plate pushed off to the side with only one bite missing, and his glass of iced tea was untouched and sweating condensation across the table.

He read on, oblivious, and Garak quirked a brow. “Excuse me,” he said, mild, and the doctor damn near jumped out of his skin.

All around the restaurant, patrons stifled their amusement as the doctor blinked in confusion and swung his gaze around to Garak, whose smirk could be mistaken for a smile. “Oh dear me. I do hope I’m not disturbing you overmuch.”

The doctor searched uselessly for something to say and, after a long moment of opening and closing his mouth, gave up. It was the first time anyone in Fontaine’s had ever seen him lost for words.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” the tailor continued, politely ignoring the doctor’s floundering, “that you enjoy classic literature, much like myself.” Then he paused for a moment and gasped, eyes comically wide. “Where are my manners? I am-”

“Mr. Garak,” Dr. Bashir interrupted, eager to finally get a word in. “I’ve heard of you- your clothes are quite good, if anyone trusts you enough to step foot in your shop.”

Sharp inhales and murmurs of dismay echoed around the restaurant, though nobody groaned louder at the tactless statement than the doctor himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, immediately apologetic, and everyone could see him flushing behind his hands. Luckily, the tailor didn’t appear to be offended, as he simply chuckled and took a seat in the chair across the table from the doctor. The contrast between them was striking- the doctor, wearing rumpled scrubs and sprawled over his chair, and the prim and proper tailor, sitting neatly upright.

“I see my reputation precedes me. But I am a simple tailor, nothing more.” Then Garak gestured to the book that sat open on the table. “Tell me, doctor, what is your opinion of the narrator’s preference for the color blue?”

Dr. Bashir, and indeed everyone in Fontaine’s, blinked in confusion. But the doctor rallied, rambling for nearly five minutes about the book that nobody else in the restaurant had ever heard of.

Then Garak raised a brow and demolished the doctor’s analysis in three neat sentences.

The doctor’s jaw dropped, face the absolute image of outrage. “Now you see here, Mr. Garak!” he protested, and they spent the next three quarters of an hour embroiled in a passionate argument over the book on the table as the rest of the cafe looked on in a potent mixture of abject confusion and extreme interest. The two of them left together, still bickering, and as soon as the doors swung shut behind them the restaurant burst into a flurry of conversation.

ii. waiting games

Before anyone knew it, the doctor and the tailor had established a pattern. Once a week they met for lunch and discussed literature, though their discussions really were mostly arguments. The rest of the usual crowd at Fontaine’s established a pattern too- one of observation. Something in the tailor seemed to loosen, just a little, when he was with the doctor, and somehow the doctor’s roughest edges were blunted by the tailor. They sat at their favorite table, in the warm glow of the sun, and argued, blind to the watchful eyes and ears of the restaurant. Occasionally Bashir was detained by his patients and arrived late or not at all, interrupting his own routine, and the tailor’s analysis was particularly cutting those days, displeasure plain to those accustomed to looking.

Rumors spread, like always, but nobody knew anything conclusive. Despite the emotions that flitted constantly across the doctor’s face, he was remarkably difficult to read properly, and it seemed nobody but the doctor himself could even begin to comprehend Mr. Garak.

Someone suggested that maybe that was evidence enough, but he was quickly shushed by the rest of the lunch crowd. They would all know it when they saw it, but not a second before then.

iii. sunshine

Dr. Bashir was a perpetual optimist, always seeing the best in characters and their motives and arguing doggedly for happy, or at least hopeful, endings. Mr. Garak, by contrast, was only ever able to see gloom and doom in the novels he and his lunch companion read.

“My dear doctor,” he would say, and the barkeep would add a mark to the official tally. “You are entirely too generous.”

“My dear Mr. Garak,” Bashir would rebut, smile shining in the summer sun, and up crept the tally again. “You’re far too much a miser. But don’t worry- I can change that.”

iv. close encounters

“I must confess,” said Garak, like the words were being pulled from him beyond his control, “I find myself agreeing- this tale does, indeed, end well for the leading lady and her suitor.”

Bashir beamed and reached across the table for Garak’s hand, and to everyone’s shock, the tailor actually allowed it.

v. shadows

The next week, Garak waited nearly three hours for Bashir to arrive, and the furrow between his brows grew deeper and deeper as each minute passed. The light of the sun, which usually fell evenly over their regular table, had completely abandoned Garak by the time he gave up and stormed back to his tailoring shop.

He left his book behind.

vi. dashed

The barkeep scooped up the book for safekeeping in the lost and found behind the bar. Curious, she flipped through the novel, just to see if she could understand or even enjoy the dense literature the doctor and tailor argued over so passionately.

“Oh no,” she breathed. Page after page was annotated in Garak’s spidery hand, pointing out symbols of hope. The final annotation, a particularly long paragraph at the end of the last page of the novel, was scribbled out with dark black ink, as if it had personally offended the tailor with its mere existence, and the barkeep couldn’t help but wonder at the dashed possibilities.

vii. do no harm

Rumor at Fontaine’s had it that Dr. Bashir had lost a patient that day, and that was what kept him from meeting Garak. The barkeep shook her head sadly. When questioned why, she said, “He may have lost far more than that.”

viii. a matter of time

It was a long, long time before either the doctor or the tailor came back to the restaurant.

Fortunately for business, and for each other, they did come back. Eventually.

ix. last call

The lunch crowd had to grudgingly admit they liked Doctor Bashir more than anticipated when his presence during the midday meal was actually missed. Fontaine’s seemed too empty and quiet without the doctor’s perpetual babbling, and of course, some of the appeal of lunch was gone now that his arguments with the tailor had ceased. Everyone was worried about him, and none moreso than the doctor’s favorites. Gradually, slowly, they hatched a plan to coax the man back.

When Bashir returned to Fontaine’s, it was nighttime, and for the first time in the restaurant’s memory, the man wasn’t wearing scrubs or a white doctor’s coat. His off-duty clothes were well-worn and several years out of style, and the brittle expression on his usually smiling face didn’t vanish until he’d played three rounds of darts and drank two brightly-colored cocktails. Even then, everyone could tell that his good mood wouldn’t last. When his favorites- his friends- eventually had to return home to their families and happiness, the doctor remained behind until last call, sitting beneath a flickering hanging light at the bar with his head in his hands.

x. bashir, alone

After that, the doctor drifted back to lunches, like his presence in Fontaine’s was inevitable. Nobody dared ask about the tailor, for risk of offending him or upsetting him, and he was quieter and more rumpled than usual, sad lines worn around the corners of his mouth when he thought nobody was looking and a wistful quality to his voice in quieter moments. He begun haunting a different table, hidden away out of sight from where he used to sit with Garak, but his new corner seat was still illuminated by the sun.

xi. concerning garak

The restaurant had been able to convince Bashir to return, but they couldn’t say the same for Mr. Garak. Nobody even knew if the tailor was still in town until the barkeep bravely ventured to the man’s shop and caught sight of him sewing in front of a window. He wasn’t trusted, not really, but his friendship with the doctor had improved his standing with the lunch crowd enough that even his harshest critics couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. After all, Bashir had been the man’s only friend, and if he really was an exile, as rumor suggested, then he’d lost everything a second time. So when he finally emerged from hiding and came to Fontaine’s one midmorning, ordering a tea drink no one remembered him ordering before, well, was it any surprise that everyone had something to say about it? It was eventually agreed that Garak came back more polished, sharper than he’d ever been, dark hair slicked back and pale blue eyes filled with vicious mockery whenever anyone so much as thought of approaching him, and he gave lunch and therefore Doctor Bashir a wide berth. But Bashir kept odd hours, and avoiding lunch was no real guarantee of also avoiding the doctor.

The usual easy flow of conversation stuttered to a momentary stop when the door opened on one overcast fall day to reveal the doctor, scrambling in later than usual. Garak, sitting at the bar and poking at a garden salad, stiffened ever so slightly, and otherwise gave no indication of acknowledging the doctor’s presence. Bashir ordered the first thing off the lunch menu and spent his whole meal staring at Garak’s back with big wounded eyes, completely oblivious to the rest of the restaurant.

Once the doctor and the tailor had gone, the cafe burst into speculative conversation. Surely, the consensus went, the tailor would never come back, now that he’d encountered the doctor.

The lunch crowd had never been more wrong, or more glad to be.

xii. fall

Though Doctor Bashir and Mr. Garak had returned to their old table and literature discussions, it was obvious to everyone in the know that things were not the same. The doctor stammered more, backpedaling and giving in far too easily when Garak pushed him, and the tailor was far too cutting and cruel to truly enjoy discussion for its own sake. The changing fall weather didn’t help either. Cloudy days cast long and heavy shadows across the table, adding weight to every awkward and frosty silence that would’ve before been filled by easy conversation.

Behind the bar, the tally board was dusty and neglected from lack of use, and every bet over the date of the next appearance of the elusive endearment ‘my dear’ fell through without success. The patrons, discontent, looked helplessly to the bartender for some plan of action, but she shook her head. They’d done all they could. The rest, now, was up to the doctor and the tailor.

xiii. handle with care

“I think the flocks of birds the author describes in the last third of the novel represent faith,” Dr. Bashir argued.

Garak rolled his eyes and scoffed. He was particularly prickly these days, and needed careful handling that not even the kind doctor could always provide. “Doctor, you are an optimist. Those birds represent faith disappearing- they do fly away, do they not?”

The restaurant, breath bated, froze in anticipation of the doctor’s response.

Bashir was undeterred by his companion’s bad attitude, and he offered the tailor a regretful smile. “Just because we don’t see faith doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Garak had a lot to say about that, but the doctor could not be swayed.

xiv. found

“I believe,” said Garak to the barkeep, during one of his early morning visits, “I left a book here, quite a while ago. Could you check for it?”

The barkeep nodded and headed into the back office, lingering a moment to pretend to search for the book she knew sat in a place of honor in the cafe’s lost and found, before picking the novel up reverently and returning it to the man waiting patiently at the bar.

The tailor gave her a peculiar little nod of his head and set off for his shop, book clutched tightly to his chest.

xv. know it when you see it

Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- they had been a fixture of the cafe’s lunch hour for ages, and were indeed perhaps the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day.

“- really now, you can’t possibly be saying the ships symbolize the end of the world!” Dr. Bashir protested, hands waving wildly. Mr. Garak, in contrast, was perfectly cool and collected as usual, observing his lunch companion with the faintest hint of a smirk.

“My dear doctor,” Garak started, and all of the restaurant inhaled. Under tables, coins and bills and IOUs changed hands, and the barkeep incremented the official tally, but Dr. Bashir and Mr. Garak continued their discussion, oblivious. They always were. “If you would simply place your antiquated notions of literature aside and take advantage of a broader perspective, you would easily see the true meaning of those ships as simply apocalyptic.”

Dr. Bashir scowled, though the almighty mess he made of his fluffy hair ruined the effect. “My perspective is plenty broad, although I couldn’t say the same of yours.” He settled back in his seat, taking an aggressive bite of his sandwich- turkey and swiss on rye.

Garak quirked a brow and leaned forward. “Oh?” he challenged.

Bashir swallowed hard and slammed his sandwich down. Turkey spilled out between slices of bread as the doctor mirrored his companion’s posture, save for his elbows on the table. “Yes,” he insisted, meeting Garak’s eyes without blinking.

A hush fell over the cafe. At the bar, the barkeep quickly and efficiently took bets. She had her routine down to a science by now, after much practice.

“Do enlighten me.”

Bashir grinned, hazel eyes sparking with fire. “From the very first chapter,” he began, and he proceeded to lose every spectator in the cafe. None of them, of course, had read the book that was being discussed- that wasn’t the draw. The draw was the life present in the youthful doctor, the thrill of the collected and private tailor Garak losing any of his poise and mystique, and, of course, the illicit bets. It was rumored that one of Dr. Bashir’s friends had made thousands of dollars from predicting the outcome of the literary arguments, though of course the honorable barkeep would never confirm or deny such a thing.

At his table, the doctor reached the final pitch of his argument. “So you see, my dear Mr. Garak-” again, money exchanged hands under tables all around the restaurant, and the official tally was updated- “those ships don’t represent the end of the world. They represent a beginning.” The doctor searched for any hint of emotion in the tailor’s face, but he seemed to be unmoved. Bashir’s eyes squeezed closed, and when he finally opened them again they glimmered with tears in the tentative rays of unseasonable sunshine. “Elim, those ships represent hope.”

Never before had the cafe been so silent. Nobody who knew anything so much as dared to breathe out of turn as slowly, ever so slowly, the tailor brought his hand forward to rest atop the doctor’s. “Julian,” he murmured, with the faintest hint of a genuine smile, and when the doctor sighed in relief and victory, the rest of the cafe sighed with him.

Gradually, the soft clinking of dishes and the hum of conversation returned to the restaurant. Bashir and Garak continued their lunch as Julian and Elim, and anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s could tell you exactly why.

[adel-memes]

I'm sorry if you don't accept asks (if you don't, please ignore this). So I've been writing this fluffy fic about one of my OTPs in a fandom that is 20+ years old. I never post any of my fics, because I've always been quite private about my hobbies and never showed anything to anyone - but now, I kinda feel like I want to post it online? But 1) i'm scared similar plot may be already done before and 2) i'm just kinda shy about it. Like, on one hand, I want to share my work, but on the other hand, I don't want it to be noticed, you feel me? Sorry, just wanted to share

Actually I do love asks!!!! And nah I wont ignore ya >:) and dont mind me rambling a bit 😅😅

First of all, I'm glad you write stories about your otp & etc. Its very comforting to hear people have fun creating and writing about the things they love :DD

Though, I get it?? When it comes to not wanting to share and being private? That's kinda how I been more of the 'consumer/fan' side of fandoms for long long time, cause I've always been a bit shy with sharing my art and now writing? I also got this HUUUUUGE fear of accidentally copying someone else's idea or creating something that's already been done before. So I REALLYYYY get what you're saying my friend.

Although.. logically. What helped me get over that fear is.. how many times did we try to find the same AU? The same plot? The same tropes? For the same characters we love???

How many fics of "there was only one bed" or "mermaid AUs" or "soulmate AUs" do we see? How many times we found either high school or college AUs? Elemental AUs too? Pokemon? Magic? Space? The fake dating trope? The friends to lovers? Childhood friends? How many times did we want the same angsty fic that ended with the duo hugging or one falls asleep in the other's arms? How many times we wanted roommate AUs or superhero AUs?

Cause personally when I see two people or more create the same AU or use the same tropes, I get so excited. I don't think one is better than the other I just get so happy knowing more of the same AU I'm interested in exists. Also who's stopping you? You could write about your comfort duo or ship or trio or ot3 or anything, even if it's just YOU who likes it. The point of all of this creating is to have fun, isn't it? So have fun???

As long as you dont copy the SAME 100% EXACT thing of another person (like REALLY EXACT like 100% same plot same arc same words same same same) then?? Go off???? Create what you wanna see??

I'm literally in a fandom that possibly has 3 superhero AUs (one is my own wip too lmao) and like... many many modern AUs in another (one is ALSO my own wip pff) Heck even in Legend of Zelda, there are like.. 4 crossover AUs? Or five? With the same idea? All heroes meet and have to face some obstacle or just hang out. Do I love one more than the other? Nah cause you cant compare them. They have similar ideas but they're all their own AU with their own characterizations. One is more lighthearted, one is more serious, one is memey as heck. So on??

It's okay just gush and have fun, create what you want and have fun???? Just??? Create what you want?

(And even if you dont like it later in the future, you always have a chance to drop a wip and discontinue it. It's sad but it's okay to drop things, why let fear stop you from having fun? (HOPE THIS HELPS OUT AKSKED))

[jeagerism]

wish you were here

✒ word count : 4.2k

✒ characters : park jimin x reader

✒ warnings : sadness, like hella sadness im sorry, break up!au, reader just misses him lots, small amounts of fluff, cursing, seeing the person you love with someone new, first dates, moving on, crying

✒ summary : You're sitting in your bathtub eating marshmallows at 3 in the morning three weeks after the break up, and you're doing fine, you really are. But then, all of a sudden, you're crying and realising how much you miss him.

✒ author's note : as i wrote more and more i was like...hmmm. jimin. here is the completed fic im scared to post this didusissj but if i don't i might die so. hope u guys like dis one xoxo it's my first jimin imagine pls do not hurt me im trying :o

It's 6 p.m. on a Saturday when it happens.

The curtains are open slightly in the living room, rays of golden sunlight reaching just past where your feet rest on the couch. You're typing up an essay when Jimin slips through the door, toeing his shoes off. Five-fifty, just like clockwork. The coat he wears everyday goes on the same hook - third from the left. He shuffles over to the couch and presses his lips to the crown of your head, just like always.

It's easy to fall into routine.

Another episode of Sex Education plays in the background, long forgotten after an hour of staring at the same screen. You're pretty sure your brain is fried. But you'd made a promise to yourself that you'd finish this essay today, so you make due. 

"Hey." The way your lips stretch into a smile is hard to control, even more so when he copies your actions. He falls onto the couch beside you, leaning into the cushions with a hum. He smells like the strawberries and honey body wash in the bathroom.

You let your eyes study him for a few seconds, then go back to typing, and it's quiet, just like always. It feels normal. Nothing's different. 

Until it is.

"I think we should break up."

Of the five years you've known Jimin, you've been through a lot. And while most of it had been dealing with things much bigger than yourselves, bigger than romance and first kisses, you'd had your fair share of relationship issues.

But things were good. He would come home every day, smiling, press that same kiss to your forehead. Sit right beside you, leaning into your side, his warmth seeping into you. Sometimes he'd play with your fingers, a thing that kept him occupied and calm. You knew Jimin, you knew all his habits, what made him tick, how he acted when he was sad, or happy, or angry.

"Y/N?"

"I can't", you breathe out, so softly it's barely audible. And you wonder if he can even hear you. If he can hear the way you're trying to gather up everything you're feeling right now and trying to shove it down, down, down. "I don't understand? I need, can you-" 

And as much as you know Jimin, he knows you all the same. He knows you're panicking, and normally, he'd grab your hands and help you breathe. In for three, out for three. In for three out for three. He doesn't do that this time. He doesn't even look at you.

"I'm just not...happy. I'm not happy and I don't think I make you happy anymore, either."

But you do. He does, Jimin makes you so happy that sometimes you forget how to breathe. He makes you so happy that you love everything about him, even the things that drive you insane sometimes. So happy that you pick up the clothes he leaves on the floor after his shower, or place his shoes back neatly, or cook his favorite food for him whenever he asks.

These are the things you want to tell him. You want to tell him it all and more, but the only thing that comes out is :

"Okay."

Because what else can you say? He's just said that he's not happy with you anymore, and he's so close but farther away than ever, and he's not even looking at you.

In for three, out for three. But you still can't breathe. And this time, as his words fall on near deaf ears - something about "my stuff" and "sometime later" and "you stay, I'll go" - and he slips his shoes and coat back on, and it's quiet, it's not because you're happy.

You can't breathe because it hurts. You're not sure of how long you stay on the couch, computer running hot on your lap, a "Are you still watching" message on the tv. But when you finally look up, it's dark. 

And you take a breath. Dragging yourself to Jimin and your bedroom - your bedroom - takes more of an effort than you'll admit, but you get there. The pillow is cool against your burning cheek. You allow your eyes to close tight, because his side of the bed is never this cold.

All you can do is breathe. In for three, out for three. Something you'd learned from him, with him. 

It's all you can do to keep yourself from breaking.

He takes you on your first date in September.

It's bowling, which is a stereotypical first date, but it's him, so you don't really mind. 

Park Jimin is nervous. It's evident in the way he wipes his hands on his pants before he holds your hand. The way he gets quiet after laughing at one of your jokes, as if he's afraid of being too loud or happy.

"No fair!", you call, speaking through a pout. "You've got like, superhuman abilities or something. You're obviously gonna win." Crossing your arms, you shake your head. "I think we should label this as cheating."

Jimin chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not trying, though." 

You make a noise of protest. "That's even worse!" Leaning closer to him, a furrow in your eyebrows, you huff. "Are you saying I'm just plain ole bad at bowling, Park?"

"You said it, not me." It's the first joke he's made all night. You laugh, eyes closing just from the force. "I could, uh, I could help you? If you want. Since I'm so good and everything." The last part is said teasingly, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You stand, ruffling his hair with a smile. "Teach me then." By the time you've grabbed the ball you've been using the entire time, he's right behind you. Sticking your fingers in the holes, you twist it around lightly. 

"I see why you're so bad now." You turn, opening your mouth to defend yourself. "You're not even holding the ball right, you know."

"Well, I'm sorry I was never taught bowling ball holding basics. I didn't even know you could hold one of these-"

He interrupts you with a hand on your waist, delicate and soft. His fingers rest just above the top of your jeans, brushing against soft skin. "Like this", he murmurs. Jimin's other hand adjusts your own. "And then this." He keeps his hand atop yours, and brings your arm back, helping you swing it forward. You're so focused on how close he is that you don't notice you still need to let go of the ball.

Lips brushing against the side of your cheek, Jimin hums. You shiver. "You know, this doesn't actually work unless you let go of the ball when you swing, pretty girl." 

You feel like you're going to combust. Park Jimin just called you pretty. Park Jimin, the boy you've had a crush on for months. Called you pretty. Blinking, you swing your arm back with him again, and let it go when it comes forward. Not caring if the ball hits the pins or not, you rotate, until you're face to face with him. All soft, silky hair and lips that look as soft as pillows. 

"What?" He raises an eyebrow, another pretty flush spreading over his cheeks. 

"Can I kiss you?"

The noise that comes from him mirrors the shock on his face that quickly morphs into timidness. "Like you even have to ask, Y/N." 

His lips feel even softer than they look. You've had a first kiss before, but this is the only one that's felt right. Something in you tells you that means something. When you pull away, you're smiling, breathless.

"Hey", Jimin whispers, nodding his head behind you. "You knocked down all the pins."

As he walks you home, he holds your hand.

"I'm glad we got to do this", Jimin says, and his eyes don't meet your own until you squeeze his hand tight. You think about how he'd wrapped you up in the extra sweater he'd been wearing when he'd noticed you were cold. How he'd pulled you closer when walking down the sidewalk because people were bumping into you, and had held you that way the entire way back.

"Me too." You grin, watching the pink on his cheeks spread to his ears and down his neck. His smile mirrors yours regardless. 

Jimin sighs. "I'm, um, sorry if it was lame. I know bowling is kinda...well, kinda bland for a first date-"

"It was perfect." You let your fingers detangle as you back up. "Best first date I've ever had." 

His cheeks swell with a big, boyish grin. "Next time I'll take you to the arcade downtown." A smirk. "Maybe that time you can beat me in something."

You always thought that if Jimin ever left you, you'd cry.

Not that you thought of it often, but it still came up once or twice. Every time it did, he was always right there, with soothing words and soft lips pressed against the tip of your nose. 

So, the fact that you don't cry surprises you.

You don't cry, and a part of you thinks that, if you did, it would never stop. 

Your sadness turns into anger at every reminder of him around your apartment. There's traces of him everywhere, a forced memory no matter where you step. So you keep breathing. You take a breath. 

You take a breath when you see his lunchbox he took to work with him every day. When you visit your friends and they ask how plans for the yearly Halloween party you'd always throw with him are going. When you see a news article about him and the boy's album release. You breathe.

Because you are angry with him. Angry for making you waste your time, making you think that it was you and him. That he still loved you, and that you knew him.

Going back in your head, everything had seemed fine. The two of you hardly fought, you told each other I love you every morning and every night. You still had your weekly movie nights every Friday. You laughed together. 

Nothing had changed, right? You knew him, right?

A week after he's been gone, it hits you that you never knew him that well at all.

You didn't even know him well enough to tell that he was falling out of love with you.

Two weeks after the breakup, and you no longer feel angry. You feel the dragging feeling of sadness creep up on you again. The anger probably would've stayed, but he'd come to get his stuff earlier in the week. 

He forgets a few things, but you don't say anything. Why don't you say anything?

Getting used to life without him is a process. You forget that you don't have to buy those off brand crackers he likes. You never wake up in the morning to his humming in the shower. Things...change.

The bed was never this big, was it? It always seemed small, small enough that the two of you always crowded together, legs tangled together, arms around waists.

Now, it's massive. You pull the blanket up to your chin, and even though you probably shouldn't, you press your cheek into his pillow. 

When you fall asleep, you dream of him.

His skin is bathed in moonlight, pale and soft. The two of you sit in the big clawfoot bathtub, the one you both loved, empty and fully clothed. He's quiet, and anyone else would think that's because it's nearing three in the morning, but you know him. You recognize the subtle shaking of his hands, the sweat beading at his hairline even though it was freezing inside the apartment, the way he taps his fingers together in rhythm.

You know him.

"Hey." It's the first word spoken since you'd sat down. He's facing you, curls going every which way from attempting to sleep earlier. Holding up the bag you'd snagged before you'd followed him in here, you grin. "Want some marshmallows?"

Jimin's lips twitch into a smile, and even though it disappears as quickly as it came, it's something. Massive hand plunging into the bag, he grabs a handful and proceeds to shove a few in his mouth. You settle for popping them in one by one; the small, colorful bits melt on your tongue. 

The bag empties faster than expected, so soon you have nothing to occupy yourselves. As you start to suggest opening the other bag in the pantry, he speaks.

"It's happening again", his shoulders rise up to his ears. His hands rest in between his knees, tangled together, fidgeting.

With a heavy sigh, you lay a hand across his own. "I know." Jimin's eyes meet yours, honey colored and exhausted. The bags under his eyes are more prominent than they have been, and although it's not as bad as the last few times, it's still bad.

"I don't want it to happen again."

And well, you don't quite know what to say to that. Because you don't either. This feeling was always with him, always simmering underneath the surface. It never completely disappeared, but it did get easier to deal with. It was bearable, almost nonexistent at times.

You know it hurts him, and him hurting makes you hurt. He deserves so much good, he is too good, to have so much weight on his shoulders. To be plagued with so much anxiety and pain, and for what? You don't even know the answer.

No one is perfect, as living with him for this many years often reminds you. He's definitely not. He leaves his shoes in the middle of the floor. He forgets to replace the tissue when the roll runs out. He's never had a plant that's lasted more than a week, because he's either not here or just forgets. 

So no, he's not perfect. But you know damn well he's the closest thing to it you have.

"I'll be here." You swallow, fingers slotting in between his. "I am here. No matter what, rain or shine, you know that." Jimin lifts the side of his lips into a smile. "I love you."

Switching in his spot, he turns, leaning back against your chest, rejoining your hands soon after. "I know." He brushes his lips across your knuckles. "I love you, too."

Your other hand combs through his hair, twirling curls around your fingers like thread.

The two of you don't retire to your bed until the sun begins to peak over the horizon.

You wake up with sweat beading at your hairline.

In for three, out for three.

You ignore the phantom taste of marshmallows on your tongue. A shaky hand pushes the blankets off of your body, and you're taking the familiar path to the kitchen before you can really think. There's a bag of mini marshmallows where they always are. You grab them, tearing a whole in the top as you walk towards the bathroom. 

When your back meets the familiar chill of the tub, you can feel the way your throat begins closing up. But you push it away with a hand full of marshmallows, which distracts you from the aching burn settled deep in your chest.

You've never done this alone. Every time you've sat in this exact same position, marshmallows in hand, he's been here. But there's always time for change. At least that's what you tell yourself.

You'd spent all your time in this tub with Jimin. There weren't any more of those times. No more late night baths where you just talked about your days. No more pic nics on the living room floor when you didn't feel like going out. No more hugs or I love you's or simply just seeing him across the room. 

And another. In for three, out for three. Focus on something else. Anything else but him. Your eyes switch from the wall to the bottle of soap on the ledge of the tub. Strawberries and honey. His favorite. Something else. The two towels hanging on the rack, one yellow and one red. You remember picking them out the night you moved in. It's getting harder to see with the tears in your eyes, but it's fine. It's fine.

Because you don't miss him. You can't, because the smell of strawberries and honey are fading from the pillow that's beside yours. The red towel hasn't been used in a month. There's never a box of off-brand crackers with his name on them in the cabinet anymore. And he's not here.

And you can't wish that he is. 

September is different this time.

The streets are full of people, and you're filled with a happy sort of warmth as you wait outside of a coffee shop. Rubbing your hands together, you blow warm air on them to rid yourself of the numbness starting to creep in. It's the type of cold that sets in slowly. You nudge your nose against the scarf you're wearing with a shiver.

People around you pass by with smiles, arms full of bags or holding others hands. It's peaceful.

"You're going to drop them!"

Glancing up, your eyes dart around until they find the source of the noise. There's a part of you that wishes you hadn't. A part of you that wants to shove your nose back into the fabric around your neck. 

Seeing Park Jimin is...weird.

There's a certain type of irony in the way that you see him during your first September without him. It twists and tears at you with bleeding fists.

"Jimin, let me carry some!"

The girl next to him is pretty. She's more than pretty. Jealousy ebbs in your chest for a mere moment at the smile he gives her, the way his eyes sparkle. Remembering how he used to look at you like that pours salt onto the wound. 

His hair is blond now. He looks good. Jimin had always looked good, though. There's no doubt in your mind that he's one of the prettiest people you've ever met. But he looks good. He looks like he's glowing. He looks...happy.

I'm just not...happy anymore.

"I've got it", he laughs, leaning his head back with a smile. Turning, he regains his grip on the bags, switching his gaze over, over, over. "See, like…" His eyes are sparkling. He looks happy. Is this what he meant?

I'm not happy and I don't think I make you happy anymore, either.

"Y/N?"

You quickly avert your eyes, turning and stuffing your hands into your pockets with a huff of breath you can see in the cold air. For a second, you can hear his footsteps getting closer. Of all the ways you thought you'd bump into him, it was safe to say this wasn't on the list. Seeing him wasn't on the list at all. Avoiding the problem until it went away seemed like a good enough plan.

Just as you're ready to turn around and face him, even if you really do not want to, a hand lands on your shoulder. Gentle.

The endless run on thoughts of what you're going to say become muddled as you open your eyes. 

"Sorry it took so long. Since someone wanted peppermint hot chocolate, even though they were obviously going to be running out, I had to wait a little longer." The corner of his lips lift into a grin. "Didn't mind though. Anything for you, I suppose." 

You shake your head with a smile as he hands you the cup. "Thank you." The drink warms your hands, the numbness melting away. 

"Ready to go?"

Jimin's behind you. Jimin is behind you with a girl who may not even be his girlfriend, but a girl who makes him happy. Makes him smile. 

And you think you're a little okay with it. 

You don't really have a choice, but. It's easier to swallow than you'd expected. 

You've learned to live without him. And even though there's a piece of you screaming and throwing a fit like a child that just wants and wants, you don't break. 

"Yeah. I am."

Pivoting, you walk forward. He's still relatively far away, but close enough that you can see him in your peripheral vision. Close enough that you make eye contact once more as he readjusts the bags in his arms. Close enough that you see the sparkle in his eyes.

You take a breath as your shoulders pass, mere inches of space between you. He still feels far away.

In for three, out for three. Breathe in.

It smells like strawberries and honey.

You smack your lips together as you continue on.

You're craving marshmallows.

Two Months Before

Park Jimin is scared.

Which isn't something he'd normally admit so easily. But, given the circumstances, he doesn't think too much of it.

Filling his cheeks with air, he gnaws on his bottom lip in thought. He's been chewing on it for so long he'll probably tear a whole in it, but he can't help it. Thinking back on the conversation he'd had hours before scares him. Leaves him with an unsettling feeling in his stomach. Anxious, deadly butterflies.

"How're things with Y/N?" Taehyung sits back, sipping from a stark white coffee mug. "Not that we don't see you guys every two weeks, but, you know."

Jimin laughs, shaking his head. "They're good. She's good, amazing." He's smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. 

"God, stop looking like a lovesick fool", his friend teases. He tilts his head, scoffing. "Propose already." Jimin must look as lost as he feels, because Taehyung raises an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He blinks, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm good. I guess I just...never thought about it. Marriage and stuff. I mean, I have, I just…" He shrugs, eyebrows furrowed. "Never really thought about it too in detail." Why does his stomach feel like this?

"Do you want to marry her?"

"Yes." The answer is instant. Something hidden underneath, but something all known. 

Taehyung smiles. "That was pretty fast. Are you sure you've never thought about it?"

Jimin wets his lips, clearing his throat. "Guess it just...doesn't make sense with anyone else. It makes sense with her though. It feels right."

The blue haired male across from him smirks, huffing out a laugh. "Guess you'll need a ring then, huh?"

Marriage had always been a far away concept. Something to be worried about later down the line. It seemed like, without even realising it, down the line had come sooner than he expected. He's known Y/N for five years, and while every moment has been one he wouldn't give up, it's sped by so fast. 

But when he thinks about it, it doesn't make sense if it isn't her. Nothing makes sense if it's not her. If he closes his eyes and pictures his wedding day, no matter what, in every scenario, every way you look at it, she's the one walking down the aisle. Every time. It's her.

Jimin reaches into the dresser drawer beside the bed, feeling around until he finds what he's searching for. His fingers brush against the velvet box he'd shoved in there an hour earlier. When he brings it out, the butterflies in his stomach have friends. 

He wants to marry her. He wants to do it right. He wants to put this ring on her finger and watch her eyes light up. And plan the wedding with her and discuss color schemes and where to seat guests at the reception. Wants to kiss her in front of a room of people as his wife for the first time. He wants to adopt a dog and buy a house with a backyard.

Park Jimin wants to do all of this, and he wants it to feel right, and it only feels right with her.

But if she said no. If she didn't want him the way he wanted her. Park Jimin is terrifyingly in love with her. The type of love that makes him crazy. That makes him wake up early just to pull her back into his arms, because he knows how she likes being held. Because he knows her.

So if she didn't need him like he needed her, he doesn't think he'd be able to handle it. Because she may be able to walk away and find someone new, but he won't.

She's it for him. This is it for him. He doesn't think there's ever gonna be anyone else. 

He's loved her every day since the moment he met her.

The not wanting is what might tear him to pieces. Can nervous butterflies die?

The sound of keys turning in lock nab his attention, and he jumps to his feet, heart in his throat. Something in him aches. "Jimin? I'm home!"

Rubbing his thumb over the velvet box once more, he slips it back into the drawer, way in the back. He closes it, and breathes. In for three, out for three. Jimin looks up, and puts on a smile, even with this ache.

He loves her.

"Coming!"

✒ tags : @lysjeon @goldenlilyz @savageprince7

[zuppizup]

I wanted to ask about your writing process, but I saw your recent answer saying you often get a ways in before major reworks. I've never written a fic but your (and others') works inspired me to just put the words down, and I'm finding myself in the same boat. 60k in and I just spent an hour rewriting two paragraphs of the first chapter that made me go edit this tiny detail into the rest of the work. Do you always complete before you post?? Such strength!

Hurray for more fic! I’m so excited for you. Canot wait to read what you come up with!

Hmm... so, my New Year’s resolution was supposed to be “no posting fics until I finish them”. Which, like most resolutions, I clearly failed at.

eeep

I’m kinda giving myself a pass because Husk was only supposed to be a oneshot, Five Times was just random drabbles and now Zoom-mates is pure dumb crack.

But with ‘plotty’ fics, I really do try and hold off before posting. As you have experienced, sometimes you get an epiphany really far in and I find that’s basically impossible to change once I’ve published. With my canon divergence WIP 50K words in, I made was one small change early on but it had a Butterfly Effect on everything else. Having the shower thought that practically undid all that prior work did scare me into revisiting my resolution.

Regardless of when I do post, I never publish something without having an ending. There might be some details I need to work out along the way but I’ll always know how I’m getting everyone out of the jam I put them in.

(I do all my notes in spreadsheets, because I find it easier to move plot points around than in Word or Google Docs. I also like to plan out timelines and dates, which is way easier for me to manage in a spreadsheet.)

Do you always complete before you post??

To answer your question... yes and no.

I love the fandom interaction and I get excited to share new stuff, so I sometimes can’t resist posting a work in progress, however, I tend to do this with my lighter stuff.

Yeah, I know I said I hadn’t finished Husk before posting...

(Which is another reason I often have at least two fics on the go at once. It helps me avoid block, but also allows me to get that little adrenaline rush of kudos/comments and still keep working on the more intense stuff.)

If I’ve got something that I know is going to be really long or has some pretty intricate plot points, then I plan on holding off on posting that until I’ve ‘finished’ the fic. So I’ll start post when there’s no more plot stuff to write, just editing for typos, overused words etc.

Everyone has their own process, and I think it’s interesting how different people stay motivated! My process has definitely evolved over time and I’m sure it will continue to. 

What are other people’s processes? How do you guys avoid block and keep motivated?

[beca-mitchell]

So say I planned on writing a story about some characters from Euphoria, I kinda know what's gonna happen and have a feeling of how it's gonna go, and so I start writing it.

I'm a slow writer tho, and get distracted for literal months before coming back to it. I know this about myself so I usually plan my stories all the way thru and they're usually not long lest I don't finish them.

This one, however, I believed in it. I knew I wanted it to have lots of words, like 7k per chapter, three or four chapters (which is lenghty for me), just because of the density of the events.

So I start and sort of have an outline of the first chapter, but the themes kinda evolve as I'm working and the story is even more complex now. I work on it on and off, literally like five or six weeks of solid writing scattered over the stretch of a year roughly.

Now I have like 9.5k words of first chapter, and still expect it to be something like 12, 13k words by the time I'm finished just with this first chapter. And I've planned for all the next few chapters to be longer, just so the story can sort of have a nice pace.

And my question is, should I post this first chapter and release the next ones as I complete them, or should I try and finish the story first?

Because I've had bad experiences posting multichapter stories before finishing them, and with how I'm progressing with this one it may be finished in less than a year or by 2026 at the earliest. On the other hand, I'm scared the next seasons of the show will come out and if I post the whole story at some point in the future the characters I'm writing about may already be dead or something. Idk if you follow that show but two special episodes were released in like january and they already made my story not cannon-compliant.

Anyway, idk, I just want some advice.

hmm that’s an interesting conundrum. i definitely relate to you though, i go through bursts of inspiration and solid writing, then nothing for stretches of time. 

i think you should do whatever feels most comfortable, which—i know! that’s probably not much advice at all. but i think with fic writing and fandom stuff...you should put as little strain on yourself as possible. you’re doing this for free! and for your own enjoyment as much as anybody else’s. so i think if you’re wary of what might happen in upcoming episodes, you should def wait. especially if you feel like you’re going to be responsive in your writing and you really care about it being canon-compliant.