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pleom · 5 years ago

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swimmer!bang chan [M]

Warnings: heavy angst, mentions and descriptions of depression, emotional abuse, family issues, graphic descriptions of sexual content (cunnilingus, unprotected sex, handjobs, loss of virginity)

Word Count: 8.7k

Something inside you burns. It throbs and pummels against you from the inside-out, wholly unwelcoming, though you wouldn’t say you suffer. You wouldn’t say it’s painful, either. This feeling engulfs you, blending with your senses and the way they interact with each other. Physically, you’d say it’s another part of the experience. Coupled with the vibrations (dull and wide-spaced,) the muffled sounds, the incessant screeching and tapping and cramping and pulling and—

You gasp for breath—a whistle blows—and you can’t swim.

“Y/N, out,” your coach motions for you.

The students around you move hesitantly, but ultimately part for you to exit. Your vision is still blurry, but you manage to pull yourself up the ladder without slipping. You slip on the way to the locker room though, and embarrassedly throw yourself behind the door and onto a bench without abandon.

Your eyes sting, and are probably more red than they usually are after practice. Your skin grays and itches as it slowly dries, so you take a towel to assist both matters. When the only thing keeping your body from fully shrugging off the remaining water is what slides off the tips of your hair, you fling the cloth over your head and sit there, slouched and effectively closing out the rest of the world.

The moments of before are already starting to feel fake—a blur of imagined happenings. The only thing you can clearly recall is your errors, constant and public for all to see (and they did, they most definitely did.) Your lungs cry with the remnants of salt and bleach, and your chest burns with discontent. Discontent that you almost drowned; discontent that your coach didn’t let you drown. (You’ll also be hearing that from your sister later on, when you’ll come home probably coughing and aching, and you can see it already: her prideful and mocking gestures, her feigning concern and doubting your abilities. You sit here, chest gaping, and you know you’ll have no argument against her. She was born with knowledge you had yet to achieve.)

A voice makes you jump. “Are you okay?”

You hope with every fiber of your being you aren’t the person who the question is being directed to. You let it fly over your head, and rub the fabric over your hair to look inconspicuous. Wet footsteps seem to bound straight for you, and in what feels like a second, a shadow peeks from underneath your towel. There’s no use acting like you’re no one, because someone’s standing right before you and seems dead-set on getting you to interact with them.

“Hey.”

Lifting your head, you take in the sight of Chan, all broad-shouldered and pale-skinned to the point you might blame the chemicals in the pool for it. He stands shirtless, though as dry as your throat feels. His class must be after yours.

He doesn’t know you (though you know of him) and it’s clear on his face. Why he bothers to question you, you don’t know. You shouldn’t look that out of place, since a few students like to hide and hang out in the locker rooms alone sometimes. Guess you couldn’t pass off as one of them.

“You don’t look so good,” he says, “Was Coach hard on you? I always tell Dad to go easy on the new swimmers but he never does…”

He sheepishly wrings his towel over his shoulder. It takes you a moment to absorb his words, but when you do, you’re quick to react.

“No, no he doesn’t,” you hesitate, “How did you know I was new here?”

“I come here almost every day to help my dad mentor the students. ‘Think I’d recognize a face like yours.” he takes a step back and seems to take in the look of you. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you shuffle in your seat nonetheless. “Did you just transfer?”

You wince at the question and shake your head. You’re too embarrassed to reveal that you have been enrolled since the start, which for sure would make the air between you even more awkward. You quickly flip the conversation to be less you-focused. “So, you help your dad train the students? You must be under a lot of pressure.”

The coach is pretty ruthless. Every interaction with him leaves your skin feeling prickly; every command and scold, his directions, and even his praises—superficial amidst a deeper frustration. You can imagine an inkling of what he must be around his own son, if he’s anything like your own parents.

Chan tilts his head as if in deep consideration, but ultimately shrugs. He takes you by surprise when he breaks into a slight smile. “No, not really. I’m just here to help, as long as someone succeeds at something new, we mark that as a win in our books. Pressuring anyone helps no one.”

You eye the entrance to the pool. His words don’t really match up to your experiences, and you feel a slight jealousy for those who wound up so lucky. Maybe it’s because you’re a late bloomer, if you can even call it that. His father must’ve been shocked at seeing a girl your age floundering at what most have already nailed down.

“It must be nice having a professional help lead you down their path, the only reason why I took this class is so I could finally have a useful skill under my belt,” you can’t help yourself from rambling, so you shut your lips tight once you realize you’ve nearly thrown a pity party for yourself. Cautiously, you glance at Chan and hope he’s been distracted by one thing or another, or grew bored of you once you opened your mouth. Neither seem to be the case, though he looks at you with mild astonishment.

He motions for you to give him your name, and you do, reluctantly, cautiously, as though you’re making a deal that you can’t take back. When you do, he grins with a face of understanding and gives you his hand to shake. This all feels entirely foreign, disconcerting, and you can’t tell if the wetness between your fingers is nervous sweat or remnants of the pool. You have no time to think about it, because you separate when another whistle blows and students begin to file into the locker room.

Chan’s already left with a grin and a wave, and you’re left tugging on your school clothes with your heart beating waves of fire.

Chan has been on your mind ever since, though that is not exactly a feat. You tend to overthink and hyperfocus on the inane—it’s a fault your family has never let you forget. It’s what brings you to the situation at hand right now.

You come home late, after spending your time at the nearby café to sort out your school work. What you forgot to do was sort out your emotions (crucial mistake) and immediately your mother is hounding your every move. You make a snide comment, under your breath, about the state of the house: it feeds you more despair than actual food.

It ends there.

A snap here, a threat there, and you wish you had left as soon as you came. Your house’s front door slams shut behind you and you swallow that hard lump in your throat the best you can. Here, you’re so focused on that insignificant little action, one of pain and only pride, that you miss the tears and the ringing in your ears and it’s all useless. You’re useless.

The sleeves on your shirt have grown damp from all the wiping, and a thought comes: why not get it all wet? You’re already a hose of emotions, and your mother will yell at your weaknesses; the uncontrollable. Giving her a proper reason to scream seems sensible. Maybe you should empower yourself before she can impose her power on you.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you stride towards the school and mentally rummage through different ways of justifying your actions. Who cares if they don’t make sense?

You don’t.

The school pool’s entrance is surprisingly easy to get through. The inside feels especially hollow without the fuss of your classmates and coach. Every step carries its own reverb, and you momentarily hold your breath in case it does, too. But even so, the emptiness of the pool has a strange serenity to it. You bathe in it wholly.

You can’t bathe for too long, so you kick off your shoes and get right to it. You toe the edge of the pool and examine its reflections. You keep your eyes off yourself, only tracing along the ceiling lights and the stars spotted from the window. When the moon starts slowly inching into the view, you plunge.

The water whirls around you in both a menacing and tantalizing way. It plugs all of your senses and you let it. It soothes; it stings. And when you start feeling lightheaded, you resurface.

It takes a while for the blur to leave your eyes and the pounding to leave your ears. However, even with all this sensory overload, you feel blithe, and a full-belly laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t want it to. This is the happiest you’ve felt in months.

Just as quickly, it ends. Abruptly, because someone has made themselves known with a loud clang. It rings from the locker room, and before you can pull yourself out of the water and hide, the door swings open and reveals—

Chan.

He’s already down to his swimwear, and looks unsurprised by your presence here. In fact, he looks somewhat pleased. “You’ve started without me.”

You’re a bit too stunned to respond, and the position of you both suddenly starts weighing on you. You’re on school grounds, way past its lockdown. The dip in the pool has definitely cleared your mind some, and you know now that what you are doing is trespassing. Maybe alone, you could’ve learned to reprimand yourself for doing so, swear to never do it again. But here you are, and there’s a witness.

Chan chuckles, clearly not running through the same thoughts in his own head. Instead, he walks over to your side and kneels, extending his hand. “Need some help?”

You can’t bring it in yourself to argue, so you take his hand and let him pull you out. You collapse very sloppily onto the tiles, the weight of your soaked clothes dragging you down. There’s silence. Your heartbeat slows once you realize Chan’s not intending on pulling any tricks. (At least you hope.)

“I won’t tell,” Chan eases your thoughts, “as long as you tell me the reason why you’re here.”

Despite saying this, there’s no urgency or force behind his words. You don’t feel pressured to answer, so you pay no mind when you do. “Wanted some time alone for myself and this was the closest thing in mind.”

“Did you know the door to the pool would be open?”

“No, not at all.”

Chan hums. He doesn’t seem suspicious of you. He doesn’t question you after that. Instead, he takes a couple steps back, “Well… if that’s all…”

He races forward and dives into the water, splashing your legs in the process. He disappears for a moment, then breaks the surface into a breastroke. He moves languidly, though sharp enough to slice straight through the liquid.

It’s a harsh contrast to you. You start to feel uncomfortable and misplaced now that the son of your coach displays his skill. Imagining yourself in his spot feels daunting, and you have to fight your instincts to just grab your shoes and run.

Back home.

The thought makes you shiver.

“Hey,” Chan floats up to you on his back. “You wanted swimming lessons, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” You’re nervous to see where this is going.

He smiles. “So hop in.”

Your parents didn’t question why you came home late that night. Nor why your clothes were mildly wet. Your sister gave her routine insult–slash–brag and was on her way. You certainly didn’t complain, now that you were left to your own devices, and on it the screen pings with a new message, one from Chan, whose contact you have yet to save.

You stay up all night responding to his texts.

When the next day comes, your loneliness hits harder than usual. You had forgotten what it was like interacting with people for a period of time longer than the length of class. You find yourself looking over your shoulder more often for a glimpse of Chan, even while swimming. And surprisingly, you don’t get yelled at by the coach for being so sidetracked. You’ve accumulated more praises, though you still sense it’s from a place of pitiful obligation.

You come home earlier than usual.

“So you’ve just given up on your education now, huh?”

“What?”

Your head snaps up at your mother’s voice. She stands as volatile as ever, hands splayed over her hips. The house smells flowery; she’s making her special rose petal flan—something she only does as a treat for herself, when things for her are going exceptionally well. These days come rare but welcomed, because usually then she’s as sensitive and motherly as one can be.

Yet today is the total opposite. And you get an inkling as to why: your English test sheet, laid on the kitchen counter.

You wince. Of course she had snooped through your room and saw your failure peeking through your garbage bin.

“I gave you so many chances, so many chances, let you drop out of math for God’s sake! And this is how you repay me? Failing your tests and coming home early? Did you even go to the library today? Have you ever studied in your entire life?!”

Your mom shows no sign of ever stopping her tirade. Her neck seems to have grown redder by the second. Your sister arrives just in time to catch the next part, no doubt excited to have her ego fed as per usual.

“We’ve moved cities, exchanged schools, and transferred jobs, just so you could have the opportunity your sister had. Do you think life was easy for her when we all lived in that garbage bin we called an apartment? Do you think she let that dissuade her from acing her studies and receiving that scholarship?” Your mother points at your sister then, and the looks on both of their faces hit you with two different senses of shame, both equally strong. “Are you honestly willing to undo all of your sister’s hard work? This is how you want to end your senior year? This is how you planned to enter adulthood?”

And with that she takes your paper and shreds it. She leaves you for the living room, sparing not one glance at the way your lips tremble and eyes glisten. It hurts, but in a way, you’re glad she doesn’t notice. It’d only stack another disappointment onto that pile she holds. Your sister’s grown bored of looking at you too, and trots off behind your mother.

Despite your blues, the sun is still up. So you exit the front door and sit on the steps. You wish you had it in you to fight back, no matter how disastrous that might end out to be. Because what your mother doesn’t realize is that it all piles up. You never asked to move to a new city, this late into high school. Everyone’s already bound and wound tight around each others’ fingers—friends, best friends, lovers, all things you’ve rarely experienced due to your momentary presence. You have your acquaintances, those who you would probably refer to as ‘friends,’ but they’re surface-level at best, not people you could ever rely on.

But that’s all she thinks you’re good for: never achieving, or attaining, or accomplishing, only to ever rely on others.

Impulsively, you pull out your cell phone and reach out to the only person nearby that you can.

TO: BANG CHAN

Just had an argument with my mom :(

Not feeling good…

FROM: BANG CHAN

Oh, no :(( are you okay?

Wanna come over and swim? Help clear your head?

The pool doors are open

Legally, this time :p

The slightest grin stretches over your face.

“And that’s how you do a butterfly stroke,”

The other kids of this program have begun to slowly disperse. They’re all younger—freshmen, probably—that make you want to douse your head in shame. The worst part of it all is that Chan isn’t even teaching them, they’ve all learned how to do the basic swimming strokes, and it makes it all the more obvious how lacking you are.

Chan had tried to placate you and tell you that most students aren’t paying attention to your mistakes, but you’re pretty sure that you saw one kid giggle when you came up for air.

As afternoon blends into evening, the lights indoors begin to feel more artificial. Chan pulls you over to a bench once most of the kids have gone home. This is when the awkwardness starts settling in.

“You should come here more often if you’re so worried about your skills, which, by the way, aren’t as bad as you think they are. No one is looking at you funny because of it.”

He pats you amiably on the shoulder. You shrug.

“I’ve already got too much on my plate. I usually go straight to the library to start on my homework. By the time I finish, it’s dinner time and I’ve got to make the switch over to the cafe to finish up my studies. An after-school swimming program can remain an afterthought, sorry,”

“Geez, no wonder I’ve never seen you walking around during class,” he gasps, “you’re up to your neck in work!”

“Yep,” you sigh. “Doesn’t even seem like it’s paying off.”

“How so?”

“My IQ is in the negatives,”

Chan jolts up as though he’s been caught asking an insensitive question, but just as quickly melts into himself. He gently slaps a hand on your arm, giggling. “No, it’s not! But for real, though…”

“I wasn’t lying,” you say, “Hours in the library, and yet I still fail.”

“It happens to the best of us, sometimes,”

“Sometimes being the key word,” you insist. “This isn’t sometimes.”

Chan is silent for a moment. “Be easy on yourself, it’s senior year, you’re allowed to make mistakes.”

You’re tempted to say ‘No, I’m not allowed. I have never been allowed. I’ve been perpetually skidding along thin ice,’ but you swallow it.

“Ok but,” you start, slowly and cheekily. “I’ve yet to see you make a single mistake in the pool. What is it going to take to make the Great Bang Chan, son of an actual professional athlete, screw up?”

“If my friends got here,” he says with a smile. “They’ve always got tricks up their sleeves. Some that they can probably teach you.”

“They swim as well?”

“Yep, but definitely not as good as me as you might’ve guessed,” he jokingly flexes, laughing. Then he sobers. “They’re coming later, if that’s okay with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay with me?” You ask, but you’re already getting up to make yourself more presentable for their arrival. “That means more tutors for me.” And more judges.

There’s a moment of pleasant solitude between you and Chan before his friends trickle in. They enter in small enough numbers that it gives you time to familiarize yourself with them.

Seungmin came the earliest, the most diligent of the crew. He spoke gently and swam even softer. Felix and Jeongin toed after him, and flung water with utmost chaos. Others came and you observed, much too shy to delve into the same antics they toyed in. At times, Chan would climb out and chill with you, prompting the others to take a break and chat alongside. It all mended into a blur as the sky grew purple.

Over the days, you find the presence of Chan’s friends comforting. They’re friendly—obviously—with lighthearted races and pool tricks. They give you an experience you’ve been deprived of since you moved. They’ve taught you well, surprisingly. And it must have also come as a shock to your coach.

He approaches you one afternoon after class ends.

“Y/N, you were amazing out there,” he says. “Haven’t seen an improvement that big in a long while.”

Something about his statement rubs wrong on you. You take a step back, guarded.

“Thank you,” you say, making sure to send a polite smile his way. “Swimming has started to become more fun as the days go by. Really grateful to have made the exchange over here.”

“I’m glad as well. Honestly, I was a bit worried when you enrolled a bit late into this class. Have to keep the students all on the same page, and it’s hard to split the attention,” he sets a hand over your shoulder. “But it seems like you’ll be on the same level as the others in no time! Keep up the good work!”

And like that, your suspicions have been confirmed. Your stomach drops when he leaves, and you mentally beat yourself up for thinking you were in any way competent. A pity-compliment, that’s all that was. That’s all it ever is.

Chan rushes into the locker room and quickly changes into his swimwear. When he sees you, he smiles, pauses to wrap you up into a hug, and is out in the pool in no time. His father watches him from the sidelines fondly, with an expression that clearly holds pride and amazement.

You wonder if you will ever get that kind of look from your parents. Or anyone, for that matter.

That question is still up in the air, weeks later, when your sister intrudes on your swimming class one morning. She doesn’t interrupt or anything. She just quietly stands by the pool’s entrance and watches. You see her eyes trail over the other students and slowly back to you, making silent observations, none of them kind.

When you climb out and class is over, she pulls you to the side. She takes a moment to look you over. “So this is what you’ve picked up since you came here. Impressive.”

“Well, yeah,” you say, and try to move hurriedly to the locker room to escape her. She takes you by the arm, demanding. You struggle shoving her off. “I also need to pick up my books for next class, if you’ll excu—”

“Oh, you don’t have any class to go to right now,” she snaps. “I’ve called. You’re coming home with me for now.”

You freeze, and with satisfaction, your sister drops your arm. “Why?”

“It’s an emergency, one I thought you should know,” a small smile spreads across her lips, and your heart sinks. It can’t be a family emergency, right? Or else she’d be more panicked, right? But if it’s not, what can be so urgent that your sister would have to pick you up from school so early? “Just grab what you need for now so we can go.”

Hesitantly, you nod your head and follow her orders. When you are sat inside her car, you wait for her to disclose any information related to your early departure. She doesn’t feed your curiosity then, only drives slowly and silently down the road to your house. She makes a detour, picks a route that’s longer than your usual, and finally breaks the silence.

“You know how my scholarship gave our Mom a better opportunity at finding a job, right?” It’s a simple question, but set up dangerously and your sweat kicks in as you nod. “And since Dad isn’t the only one working anymore, we’ve got more money to spend, right?”

Right. This is a big jump from the past, when your father only made enough to cover the expenses of the bills and a few groceries. Your mother was met with job rejections left and right, and neither you nor your sister had the time or management to juggle grades as well as employment. At that time, your mother insisted that you focus more on school. She made promises that if one of you hit big, that would be enough of a reward for her. That all her stress and burdens would be paid off. You suppose it half came true. Financially, you were all rewarded.

But rather, all her stress and burdens were pushed in a different direction. You wonder what it’s like to be on the opposite side. You eye your sister, and nod your head to continue.

“So, initially, her plan was to save up to help you out once you graduated. Of course, she knew this was necessary, since there’s no way in hell you’d strike a full scholarship with, you know,” she throws you a sidelong glance, batting her eyelashes. Your hand tightens around your seatbelt. “But she realized, even with a new and improved environment, that your current habits probably wouldn’t strike you one at all. She was forgiving at first. Thought about paying half your tuition and taking a loan for the other. Welp. Then you dropped pre-calculus for swimming and made her rethink her life choices all over again. Good job!”

“Sis,” you hiss, “what does that mean?”

You can’t handle her bullshitting right now. Though you know she has all the time in the world for it. Your surroundings have begun to look unfamiliar, and the anxiety inside you strikes. That’s probably the effect she was going for.

“It means you’re fucked,” she lets out a loud laugh, “you’re not getting any help from her. Or Dad for that matter. Better start counting your pennies, sis!”

And just like that, the tightening in your chest explodes. You feel as though you’re suffocating, each intake of breath amounting to none. Your body grows hotter and you’re wracked with shivers, and stuck inside the cramped space of your sister’s car leaves you no space to handle your panic attack.

You’re overwhelmed by the thoughts of what’s to come. Getting into college—now a complete uncertainty—just to be lost in debt, and there’s nothing to do about it. You lack life experience. You’ve been holed up and relying on the bare minimum to get you by. The only moment you have been able to hold your head above the water, and your own family has dunked you back underneath. You’re struggling to win a sabotaged race.

“By the way, don’t tell Mom I told you,” your sister says, now pulling into your driveway. She chatters in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want the world to listen in on your conversation. “It’s our little secret. Just like how it was mine and hers.”

You find yourself not coming home at night. Where you stay is just about as much of a mystery to them as it is to you. You’ve huddled yourself in the locker rooms some nights, using sheets and water bottles as cushions. You’ve cornered yourself in classrooms. Hell, you’ve even holed yourself up in your family’s car, in the backseat, on the floor so that onlookers can’t peep and tattle your nightly whereabouts to your family (What a disgrace that would’ve been). But you’ve always made sure to come back home at the lick of dawn, just before the rest of them would get up and bang down your door looking for answers to ‘where’ve you been last night?’ and ‘what time did you get home?’ and you’d answer ‘the park’ or ‘friend’s’ or ‘convenience store,’ and ‘at midnight.’ Just late enough for it to be believable. No one’s ever up that late, and if one were, they’d probably be tired or drunk off their ass to notice your absence. No one’s ever called your bluff, a heartbreaking realization that you’ve come to appreciate.

Chan, though, walks into the pool at just the wrong time. You’ve just gotten used to the stench of bleach and chlorine when he nudges you awake on your makeshift bed of thin sheets and soaked homework paper. You dash up, searching and grabbing for your phone to check your alarms (How did you miss it? Was it on silent? A dead battery?). Chan chuckles as if your panic is the funniest thing he has ever seen.

“You’re fine, school’s not open till another hour and a half,” he picks up on your confusion. It seems to settle into his own features. He’s got swim trunks on, and a towel slung over his shoulder. From the corner of your eye, you note the darkness of a not-yet-risen sun. “I just decided to come in early for quick practice.”

An awkward pause and an understanding nod to himself later, he kneels. “Hey. What are you doing on the floor here?”

His eyebrows knit and his worry looks even more pronounced in this dark blue reflection of… life. How pitiful you must look. He’s probably wondering if you’re that dirt-poor, that sleeping on tile might be considered a luxury to you. But even so, you can’t bother to be embarrassed by yourself at the moment. He’s pulled you out of the comfort of unconsciousness, so now you’re fighting your natural reactions to the biting cold and solid ground.

It hurts. You’re sore and your face is blue and all you can think about is crying. It hurts that your options are either this or your home, and the fact that you chose this.

“I’m fine,” you nod meekly, “Just…napping,”

Too overwhelmed to map out a convincing lie, you prepare yourself for the defenses. This is going to sting Chan and you are sure going to regret it later, but fuck it. You’ll deal with the consequences once you’ve showered under hot water and mulled it over at breakfast.

Chan reaches for your shoulder, palm warm, and helps you sit up. “Why are you napping on the floor?”

“Because if I nap in the pool, I’ll drown.”

Chan almost cracks, and you consider that a victory. But he just as quickly wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest, one hand laying over your own. “Don’t joke about stuff like that. I’m serious. Are you okay? Did…something happen at home, again?”

Something’s always happening at home, and that’s the part that drives you nuts. Your old friends can handle you complaining about spontaneous spats with your sister every once in a while, but would go madder than you if they heard every single crisis that went down behind your walls. You have to bite and swallow every time.

You shake your head. “I tried swimming last night. It went about how’d you expect, and I knocked out on the floor immediately after. Not sure how you can do it, Chan. Honestly, everyday I respect you a little more.”

He chuckles, arm tightening around you for a pulse. “No one’s born a pro. And I promise you, you’re on your way to becoming one.”

You feel as though you’re on your way to becoming no one. You try to voice this as inconspicuous as possible.

“What if you disappoint someone because you’re not there yet?” you ask, “What if they wanted you to be a pro since the very beginning, and because you’re nowhere close, they end up mad?”

“Who’s mad? If it’s about my dad, I promise you he’s not—”

“No, it’s not him.Forget it.”

“Is it—” he inhales, “Is—Is your family upset? Is that why you’re here?”

You don’t respond. It’s enough of an answer.

“I’m not sure what they said to you, but just know they’re wrong. We all improve at our own pace, and we’re not better or worse for it. You need to give yourself patience, ignore them, just—”

“Chan, I can’t ignore them,” you snap. You pull yourself from Chan’s embrace and bury your face into your knees. Your eyes burn as the emotions take over you. It doesn’t hurt less as time goes on. “They make my life a living hell and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know how to do anything. I’m the very definition of useless, and the worst part is that they all know, but no one helps. I can’t leave them or else I’ll just end up… here.”

Sobs start to wrack through you, and you can’t do anything to stop it. You’re tired of wallowing in self-pity, in others’ pity, but you’re at a loss for what to do. You wish you weren’t an adult with the tendencies of a child, only there for others to look after. No one’s taught you what it takes for that transition to happen, to grow independant, to discover skills and utilize them. They’ve just thrown you in the deep end and disregarded you when you drowned. You wish you weren’t so helpless. You wish you had some help.

“I wish I knew what to say,” Chan murmurs. He’s wrapped his arms around his knees and seems to gaze into the pool. Every once in a while, he passes you a glance, but ultimately, he leaves you to yourself.

The sun has slowly started to rise, and the birds have begun to chirp. That’s your cue to get out of here, though even now you’re running behind schedule. Your eyes sting and you hope your walk back home is enough to soothe them back to normal.

Chan stands up when you do, and quickly interrupts you by the doorway. His face is sullen, concave, and heavy as though he bears the same amount of burdens that you do. Who’s to say he doesn’t?

“Just… We’ll figure this out, okay? Together.” He meets your eyes. “I’ll wait at the pool for you. As soon as they start acting up, come here immediately. Don’t let their words intimidate you.”

“Okay,” just when you think this conversation’s done, he pauses you again. A beat passes. Several. And then he leans in—

His lips press against yours, soft and warm, and are off in an instant. You don’t have enough time to savor the feeling.

He smiles and says, “I don’t want you to be in any danger, whether that be at home or otherwise, okay?”

You smile. An unnamed pressure lifts from your shoulders. “Okay.”

You feel a bit guilty, keeping Chan out of his own home during the nights and mornings. You have to fight to reassure yourself that this is out of his own volition. He certainly doesn’t seem bothered when he spots you on your way to the pool’s entrance. And he’s found ways to help the time pass faster. Be it games, studying, or making out.

Yep, he’s introduced a new activity to you, though you can’t really complain. But it doesn’t change the fact that the pool’s tile and linoleum, all cold and hard, is not meant for a person to sleep on. You’ve started checking the other for bruises and marks that could be left behind in your wakes, literally.

Over time, it’s become a routine. A sad one; one that shouldn’t be necessary, but you force yourself to think of it in a positive light. That’s also something he’s been teaching you while you stay: how to manage your inner thoughts, how to turn those demons into angels, even when the devil is really, really trying you. It’s helped ease your wounds, and you avoid your family enough for them to not reopen them.

Finally, that’s his last lesson. Family is both permanent and temporary, and you’d be glad to know that the permanent ones are those you keep, and hold tight, and never ought to lose. While temporary family could always be cut off, and should be, because what’s the point of family if they won’t be there for you all the time? He’s made sure to look you deep in your eyes when he said this, voice clear and low, and just a bit unsteady. You take your time digesting that one.

You’ve got trouble with your family, and one night, after more than a week’s passed, you get into trouble with someone else’s.

You had arrived at the pool a tad bit early, you supposed, and had already laid out all your blankets and card games when the entrance clanged open. You were about to reveal a new game you’d discover online to Chan, only to be met with a voice much deeper than his.

“Y/N.”

Your head snaps up and immediately blood rushes to your ears. Coach dangles a set of keys in his hand, and seems–rightly–surprised at your appearance. But you can see the moment he understood what he saw. A person’s pity can only extend so much, and you know exactly where yours lies.

You don’t even have to wince.

School break has just started, and of course you’re grounded.

On one hand, you’re happy you don’t have to face your coach after being caught trespassing. His face held a look of rage and disappointment, and you don’t want to witness that any more than you have to. The resemblance between him and Chan are uncanny.

But you’re home. That doesn’t spell out comfort for you at all.

You and Chan send messages back and forth to each other consisting of “i miss you”s and “sorry that happened”s. You rant to him about how fed up you’ve been, and you feel relieved for the first time in a long while, because finally, someone is there to listen, judgement-free. Chan suggests sneaking into your house for the night a couple of times to see each other, but you reject, saying that your mother’s too eagle-eyed for that to happen.

Once break is over and school is back open, your family keeps their eyes locked on you like a hawk. You no longer can stop by the library for homework or studying, instead they demand you return back home immediately once school’s over. Your father insists on helping you study instead, and although you know it’s not out of the pure kindness of his heart, you accept it for the time being.

Swim class is awkward, now that both you and Coach Bang have to pretend to not have gone through that whole ordeal. But you can feel his gaze linger on you when you plunge underwater. You have no idea what he thinks of you now, after all this, and you’re too embarrassed to ask Chan.

One day, Chan approaches you before swim class begins.

“Mind if I take you out for a bit?” He asks. You slyly look at the clock ticking away by the door to the pool. You have just about a minute. Only a minute to get ready. “It’ll only be for a quick moment. You’ll be back in no time and if you don’t, I’ll cover for you.”

You squint suspiciously at Chan. “What’s this about?”

“A surprise. One my father will absolutely understand.”

When it puts it like that…

It’s a quick ride to where Chan ends up taking you: a bizarre little creek tucked behind several neighborhood houses. Its water runs fresh, uncontaminated by human interaction, feeding into the thick brushes of land and trees. It’s a beautiful sight indeed, but wholly inconsequential. You look to Chan for a clue as to why he brought you here.

He seems lost in himself and nature. Slowly, he jumps over to the rocks and gazes into the creek’s depth. For a moment, you think he’s just brought you to admire the scenery, so you’re shocked out of your own stupor when he speaks. “My father used to bring me here when I was a child. He used to bring the whole family out for a swim.”

You hum and silently make your way closer to him. He still dashes from one stone to another, calm and in thought. “My earliest memories of training began here. It was the best, surrounded by natural sounds and protected by the rocks. It isn’t too deep, just about perfect for my height and age. Eventually we started coming here less and less as my Dad took up calls and schedules. We all grew older and busier, till we just abandoned it. But sometimes I come here when I need to give myself a break and really think.”

You’re brushed shoulder-to-shoulder together now. Your balance isn’t as good as Chan’s, and you end up slipping and stepping into the creek every other second. He happily keeps a hand near your waist and hoists you back up whenever needed.

“Do your neighbors ever come here?”

“They’ve got their own gardens to tend to,” he nods towards the houses. “No one other than me has come here in at least a decade.”

He eyes you as he says this. It’s his own little safe haven. And if he’s so sure that no one has snuck in yet, that means you’re the first to enter it.

The realization makes you bow your head, flustered. Chan hums satisfactory by your side. You both listen to the birds coo and the bugs chitter, soaking in nature’s creations. When Chan notices you finally getting a bit restless, he takes your hand and leads you to the rocks. Your legs slightly dip inside the creek, its water soaking through your clothes, but you don’t mind. It’s coldness is welcomed as the sun soars higher into the sky.

“Here’s not like the pool,” Chan says, fingers toying with the ends of your hair. “There’s no chance anyone will catch us here.”

The implication is not lost on you, especially with the way he looks into your eyes as he speaks. Incidents of the past come to mind, but they’re quickly replaced by thoughts of the future, such as: his lips on yours, your hands in his, and most importantly—

“I know,” you hastily respond, “I know.”

And the moment is clear. His lips are definitely on yours, and your hands are in his, but also on his; and over his arms; and grasping his shoulders. And most importantly, his body surrounds you and he’s hugging you to his chest. Your breath runs low, and you can’t tell if it’s because of his arms or his lips.

Either way, you embrace it all.

He leans you on the rocks. He’s grinding and you feel something…hard, brush against you. It fills you with heat, both subtle and scorching and when he presses that against you again, his hand slowly travelling down your body, you stiffen and pull back.

“Chan, I—” You gasp, “I’ve never done this before…ever… and—”

“Hey,” He says, “It’s fine. We can stop if you want to.”

And he pauses, slightly moving backwards to give you some air to breathe in. You listen to your heart beat in your chest, use that rhythm to help calm you down. Once it slows, you’re still hot as before, though it spreads from somewhere deep in you.

“It’s—,” you stutter, “I want to do this. Now.”

A knowing grin spreads across Chan’s face, and he gently lowers himself over you, settles a kiss, quick and harmless, on your lips, then pushes onward.

It’s rough and gentle all at the same time. Both overwheling and manageable. You’re up to your hips in water, having slid down the rocks, but you can feel that you’re wet for other reasons.

Chan pulls backs and mouths at your neck, fingers unfastening the buttons of your clothing and tossing them haphazardly. You’re pretty sure you hear a couple splashes as he does so. He kisses down your chest, your tummy, and then hooks his arms around your bottom and lifts you. He helps you back on the rocks and holds you in place as he focuses on you.

“Turn over,” he commands. He’s still standing within the creek itself, chest level with your waist. The request takes its time to settle in your mind. When it does, your face starts to burn, but you follow his order nonetheless.

Like this, you lay flat on your stomach on the grass and your legs swing over the rocks and into the creek. Chan softly tugs your pants down, just far enough to expose you. He delicately places his hands on your cheeks and spreads them. And—

Oh.

That’s his tongue. And he’s dragging it over you in a way that makes your toes curl. You tighten around nothing, not until he does you the favor of adding his fingers to the mix. He slides them into you easily, pumping them while his tongue does its work on your clit.

And now you’re clawing at the grass and dirt and rocks. You can feel yourself lightly kicking Chan in the chest and shoulders, but he only squeezes your hips back, invitingly.

Soon, you’re cumming around his fingers and can’t help yourself from slowly sliding down the rocks and into the creek. Chan does his best to soften your descent, then turns you around to face him. His face is glimmering with both your and the creek’s wetness, hair laid down by sweat, lips plump from how much they’ve been pressed against you, God he just looks so erotic and amazing like this that you tug him in for a kiss. You taste yourself (at least you think that’s you) and it’s not the most pleasant, but you don’t mind because he doesn’t mind.

“Do you…?” You breathlessly motion for his member. He grins and looks down at you as if you’ve just asked him a silly question. And similarly, he plants a light kiss on your nose before diving for your lips again.

“Next time, baby,” he says, “Right now I just wanna feel you.:”

So he pulls you flush against him, arms roaming around your body. When you’re both red-faced from kissing the lights off each other, he helps you climb out of the creek.

Neither of you are really thinking when you hit the ground, him on top of you and his length sliding over your folds. He’s teasing, but you’re too excited to hold off for any longer, so you wrap your arms around him and pull him chest-to-chest, crying with your impatience.

With a chuckle, he gives in, sinking into you. You’re surprised at how well you take it. He fills you up so nicely, so intensely. Each thrust sends you into another fit of heat, your core burning and tightening around him. Chan nuzzles his face in your shoulder, and with every pump of his hips, he teethes at the skin of your neck.

Every feeling is amplified when he’s folded around you like this, and as time runs out, another orgasm makes its way through your body. Chan groans appreciatively and leans on his arms to plant kisses all over your lips, face, and neck.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Let it all out. Let me feel you.”

You cry out when he abruptly pulls out. He kneels beside you and wraps a hand around his length, hastily jerking himself to completion.

You watch in entrancement, the way his face scrunches up, and the way his whole member and fist shines and you’ve suddenly got a craving to put your lips on his dick.

You hesitantly bring a hand over to it first, to test the waters. His movement stutters, then slows down once he realizes what you’re trying to do. You sit up and bring your other hand to his cock. Cautiously, you start to pump them.

“Don’t be scared,” Chan chuckles, “You can squeeze harder.”

Your grip tighten, but not too much, and you try again. Small, airy grunts fall from his lips. His hips start thrusting with your hands. You watch as the head of his cock disappears and reappears into his foreskin, shimmering with the mix of you and his pre-cum. It’s strangely appetizing.

You lean down to put you mouth on Chan’s dick without much thought. His hardness is cushioned by your lips, and his skin is silkier than you initially imagined. But it’s at this moment you realize you have no idea what to do.

You look up at Chan, and he groans at the sight of you at this angle. But then, a fond smile makes its way on his face and he lifts a hand to gingerly comb through your hair.

“It’s okay,” he laughs affectionately, “I’ll teach you another time. For now…”

He brings his hand back to his cock and finishes himself off. You deflate a bit, disappointed you weren’t able to give him his orgasms that he so desperately deserves, especially after getting you there twice. But he’s already on the ground alongside you, holding your face in the palm of his hands and pulling you into a loving smooch.

“That was amazing,” he moans, drawing out the loudest kiss sound from both of your lips. You both giggle in response. “I couldn’t be more happy you decided to give yourself to me.”

“Wasn’t planning on giving myself to anyone other,” you say. You climb on top of Chan, squealing as you try to indulge in the high-famed post-sex cuddles you’ve heard so much about. Chan squeezes you back with the brightest and most-dimpled grin you’ve ever seen.

Eventually, the mirth wears off, as the wind picks up and you’re immediately reminded that you’re both outdoors, off-campus one might say, but most definitely not on school grounds, when you absolutely should be.

You lay back, groaning when you check the time. Late. “My mom is going to kill me.”

It seems as though you can’t stop making mistakes and screwing your chances. The school year is almost ending and you feel like your life might end with it. You try to think more positively, but as the seconds tick by with neither of you racing back towards the school, the worse you feel.

Chan shuffles about. “Your mother isn’t going to kill you.”

“How would you know?”

He pauses; takes a moment to inhale.

“I told my dad about what’s going on at home, hope that wasn’t intrusive,” he says, and your heart stops. “He understands what you’re going through and regrets acting that way. He’s willing to take it all back. In fact, he says you’ve gotten so good at swimming lately, that he wants you to help mentor the kids. It’s a paid opportunity.”

His hand falls over yours. “I’m also seeking ways to get you away from there. My home’s got a guest bedroom, and I’ve been convincing my mom to clear it out.”

“You mean…”

“I do,” he says, “Some of us are not blessed with the most supporting families, and that’s okay. Because you have people that care for you, we care for you, I care for you, even if your family…cares for you a bit less.”

It hurts to hear him say it. Hurts even deeper to know it’s true. But the warmth in his gaze soothes you even just a little bit.

The dangers of going home is always a threat that hangs over your head, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned since meeting Chan, it’s that you don’t always have to go alone.

When the time is clear, when you’ve found support and built up confidence, you confront your family.

You tell them that you’ve had it. You no longer keep your whereabouts a secret, you no longer let them intrude on you anymore. You tell them that you’ve found a job, that you’re now able to support yourself from here-on-out. You are no longer financially, emotionally, or physically bound to them whether they like it or not. When you’re done, you don’t even stay to observe their reactions, though you can hear your sister snickering over your shoulder.

Chan’s there to give you a ride to his house, once you’ve packed up enough for a week. He says he’ll accompany again next time. Or maybe there won’t be a next time.

You are rewarded for what you have achieved, rather than what you can, and you can leave the past remnants behind and rediscover yourself in a new way, confidently.

I must salute smut writers, because every single time i’ve attempted to write smut I’ve struggled, ugh… but anyways………….

hope you guys liked this! if you made it this far, that is. ^^ this was edited by @jaeminlore who was really kind enough to do so!

#bang chan #stray kids #bang chan scenarios #bang chan smut #skz smut #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids smut #bang chan angst #stray kids angst #skz angst #bang chan fluff #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #.mine

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illicitivywp · 4 years ago

Text

mal de vivre.

The morning that Harry wakes up and you're not sleeping peacefully beside him is the worst of his entire life.

He can sense that you're not there. The air still circulates whiffs of your caramel shampoo and the breeze of your automatic fan that you always insist on leaving on all night still whirs leisurely and tickles the back of his neck.

Regardless, the room is vacant. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that much.

For now, he remains entirely numb. Immune to the flooding sobs and intolerable agony and festering anger, he supposes it's in his best interest to stay like that for a while.

For a few days, at least. Until he can fully process your absence. He's not certain how long it takes the average person to wholly recognise an entire chunk of themselves missing, but he figures he's already suffered enough.

Surely, the universe isn't that cruel.

Your love is delightedly grand, and with its sudden unavailability, he feels so dejectedly vague.

He's clearly not perceiving time correctly, perhaps it's his distant concentration or maybe even his body's method of rejecting life and the wretched torture of its innate malice.

A few times, he's experienced sleep paralysis. The first, horrifying occasion is long-forgotten, when he was seven or so - it happened only after staying up until one in the morning to watch a horror movie that he'd been specifically warned not to watch and a towering vacuum of danger stood solid as stone at the end of his bed.

If it weren't for his fingertips subconsciously tracing featherlight scribes of your name on his forearm, he might reasonably assume he's haunted with the condition once again.

A clattering of paws on hard floorboards injects a little more reality into his thoughts, and he still can't bear, physically, to turn over and greet the sweet puppy you'd snuck home and surprised him with upon his arrival home from work around a year ago, knowing that his acceptance of a familiarly-shaped void is waiting just inches away.

Eventually, and after another chaotic scramble of claws in need of a cut, Chi is bouncing enthusiastically at his side and attempting an ambitious leap onto the mattress. She fails theatrically, landing in a resounding thud on her back and launching back to her feet, completely unaware of her owner's awaiting grief.

Masking his greatest fears with scooping a palm beneath Chi's belly and hauling her upwards to nestle into his chest, the reposition forces him to lay on his back (she's always detested laying on her side, especially when smothered with adoring cuddles) and, like the coward he truly is, his eyes focus adamantly on a random spot of the pale ceiling. With every minute shuffle, it becomes more and more achingly apparent that you're really not here.

And if everything runs correctly, you'll squirm and giggle graciously at his waking before returning his kiss, to his lips, this time, and he'll suggest applying a little moisturiser, like he always does, and you'll love him like you should.

When his eyelids snap open and his head curves breezily to your claimed side of the bed, he's somewhat unsurprised to confirm that his life truly has transformed to a dreadful bundle of tragedy. In your imposing place, is a neatly-made bed and an envelope.

A single, white envelope, stained by the sweet, flowing cursive that could flow only from your touch.

Chi leaps naturally to the spectacle, sniffing curiously at the letter and nudging it around a little, whilst Harry is so unexplainably pained that he's unable to move. Swallowing thickly, he's not certain word-for-word what lies in the confines of this envelope, but he does know it'll confirm your leaving him, and for some strange reason, he's relieved you left an explanation, at least.

A souvenir of you to hang onto forever, along with the millions of other items and memories of yours in his possession.

Carefully removing it from Chi's vicinity and replacing the object of her attention with a random squeaky toy that he'd discovered burrowed beneath his bed a few nights ago, he traces your exquisite handwriting with his fingertip and reads along with inaudible movements of his mouth; For Harry, mon amour.

In that moment, he realises profoundly that he'll never get to request hearing you say different words in your accent again.

The amount of times he implored relentlessly to hear je t'aime and have it accompanied with an endearing kiss is infinite.

Harry, my love,

I'm so incredibly sorry that I couldn't handle the pain.

Seeing your face cures any anguish I feel, but not this time.

I really, really tried; I know you did, too. I wanted it to work out, I prayed every day that our suffering would magically end and we could return to our love, I hoped that one day I would wake and cuddle you tightly and describe this awful nightmare I'd had.

Possibly, I may write to you in the future; please, don't try to contact me, it won't work and you know it's for the best. My family and close friends know where I am, where I will be, and they also know not to tell you if you ask.

I wish I could kiss all of your heartache away and protect you from all evil in this world, but I feel my presence is detrimental to your recovery.

My love for you is never-ending. Please be okay.

Forgive me and love someone else like you loved me. Let someone else love you like I loved you. Tellement, tellement.

Forever, I'll think of you and how unbelievably content I felt waking up next to you every day for seven-hundred and eighty (? - I'm estimating) mornings straight.

I will never, ever leave our love behind, and I adore you more than I can express. Your strength and resilience are admirable, and you are truly the best thing to ever happen to me.

Mon bébé, I miss you terribly.

Toujours, ton amour.

Chi tugs eagerly on her lead at the sight of the familiar entrance to her home, Harry in tow right behind. Sludgy snow muddies his shoes and soaks the hem of his jeans. His puppy's paws are undoubtedly drenched, too, but her fur is protected valiantly by her favourite jacket. He'd purchased it from a specialist store in France a year prior, and, since surprising her with the present upon his shared return, it'd become her primary option during the winter months.

Retrieving a reasonable pile of letters from his designated section, a rapid flick through displays bills, scams and all of the usual junk he usually receives. He offers his elderly neighbour a polite smile and holds open the door with his knee to construct a clear path for her exit.

He grimaces slightly at the teeth-shaped arc of damp dents into his mail - he hadn't particularly considered the repercussions of carrying it that way - and unclips Chi's lead, allowing her to run rampage through his airy apartment. Absently dropping his keys into its small dish of residence and taking a closer inspection at his post to infiltrate any wrong addresses or scams, he selects an apple from his fruit bowl and steals one firm chunk before noticing something peculiar.

Groomed eyebrows knitting together in confusion, he plucks one particular letter from the bunch and stacks it to the top. Perplexed by the sorely familiar curve of the writing scrawled on the front, his head shakes in denial - you wouldn't have, surely.

Discarding of all other mail on his kitchen counter, he's puzzled beyond belief; you'd left with no verbal warning and a letter that, admittedly, had been the source of several bouts of severe depression and, in spite of its awful affects, read dutifully every single day since your disappearance.

Rashly, he wishes you hadn't changed your phone number and email address shortly before leaving so he could possibly contact you regarding this mystery. However, he knows just as well as you clearly foresaw; his topic of discussion wouldn't be only the letter.

Tearing open the corner cautiously, he's incredibly delicate with checking inside the envelope once open to ensure it contains only his presumed note. Reviewing the front with a scouring gaze of disbelief, it really, truly has come from you.

He can't remember how many times he read each postcard that you'd gifted him with at the very beginning of your relationship. You'd recently made the permanent move from France to England, and, in a new country with limited knowledge of the native language, Harry had unintentionally become your beacon of comfort here.

With his fluent French and English, he was the perfect contender for kindly correcting your terminology and educating you on the essential etiquettes of Britain. Within weeks, however, your sweet smile had changed from an enjoyable sight during your frequent coffee shop meetings to something he craved.

He misses reading your silly, awful puns based around your home country, especially his favourite. A laughably unfunny joke paired with a matching scribble of the two of you; what do french fries do when they meet? They ketchup!

Harry,

I feel awful for waiting so long to speak to you again.

Your voice and your hugs. I've imagined them every single day.

I miss my Chi. How is she? I hope she's not missing her maman. Give her a kiss from me.

And the biggest kiss to yourself, because you deserve it, mon tout.

I'm inexplicably sorry for leaving so abruptly; I just couldn't take much more. The reminders were too much. Seeing your inconsolable pain every day was too much.

I'm so, so selfish, but I still believe allowing you to heal without my troubles was the best and easiest path for both of us.

I'm sure you noticed, but I may have stolen one of our pictures. It was your favourite, and that's why I had to choose that one, I suppose. Horrible, again.

I miss your dimples (and irritating you by poking them all the time). I miss your lips, they were so soft. No wonder you always bossed me around with the lip balm - I have my own now, I take it everywhere with me.

It smells like caramel.

Most of all, I miss your love. I've never known someone to love like you do. You were, are, and always will be, incredible.

Have you found someone to love yet?

Do you still think about me? If yes, please don't.

It's not fair of me to appear out of nowhere like this and not allow you a chance to reply. If you wish, post your letter to my maman's house - I'm not there, just to crush any other hope you have, but I'll receive it.

I'll be sorry forever, mon amour.

Sois gentil avec toi-même.

Câlins pour toujours, your baby.

Auriele,

I'm so thankful you decided to reach out again. I've missed you. Tellement, tellement.

Chi is brilliant, still eating everything and constantly in need of a haircut. She does miss you.

My hurt is still prevalent, I've accepted that it always will be. I truly don't believe it can be fixed again, but I'm still trying.

I spent the two weeks after your leaving searching for every single picture in existence of us. I cried so many times, I wish I could tell you that I'm wholly recovered and that you're fully forgiven, but I can't.

I think I counted them all. It's either three-hundred and seventy-seven or one-thousand, one-hundred and two (I have two sticky notes labelled pictures, I'm not sure which is correct.)

No one could ever love me like you do, tu es le meilleur.

I suppose that answers both of your questions.

Thank you for the chance to respond. I was incredibly confused when I received your thoughtful letter. I'm assuming by this one's destination being your maman's house, you're in France? You don't have to answer that. I would understand.

Mon bébé chéri, je t'aime.

Harry x

Harry,

It was the least I could do. I hurt you doubly and you never deserved that.

Tell her I love her. Buy her an ice cream for me (note the two dollars also enclosed in this envelope!)

There aren't enough apologies in the world to properly cover the extent of my mistakes, but I'll continue gathering as many as I can. And send them straight to you.

I also wish you could truthfully claim that you're okay, and I hope, with time, that you will be. It's all you ever deserved, mon chéri. You don't ever have to forgive me. I understand entirely if you hate me.

I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers were both low counts. I loved your face, as superficial as it sounds, but it truly was prettier than anything, and my favourite thing was always surrounding myself with it. Aussi longtemps que je pouvais.

My baby, I only tried my hardest to love you, and I sincerely hope I haven't ruined your idea of love so much that I'm your standard. Please, travel, find people to connect with, fall in love with a place, if not a person.

I bet Chi would love Spain. Australia, maybe? Thailand? Your choice entirely. You always were smarter than me (i.e. I left you - doesn't get much dumber.)

I am in France, feel free to ask any question you want about my current life if you decide to write back - you really don't have to. It's okay. You're still perfect.

Just not my address. It's so selfish of me to hide away from you when you're the one who deserves closure, but I'm not ready to share that information. Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you understand.

Tu me manques. Tu me manques ma maman et mon père. Tu me manques au cœur.

All my love, Auriele x

Every day, his thoughts are plagued with ideas of how to write his next letter. Your previous few communications ran smoothly; you seem incredibly apologetic and, as much as he would've gladly ignored the past tense use of 'love' in your most recent letter, he can't help but realise the difference from your first each time he reads it.

He's not certain why his first letter practically poured from his pen and before he knew it, it was sealed, posted and received. This time, however, he can't even construct a way to greet you.

Has distance and time really weakened your connection that much? His favourite childhood Disney movies would be ashamed.

The heartache you've endured together is insufferable, the bitterness remaining fresh and the misery continuing to roll onwards with him, and yet, you're both still alive. Perhaps, he should be a little more thankful.

He's tested out various support groups over the past few months; they appear to help in the moment, but once he returns home to a completely empty house, - aside from Chi - he realises all of his progress to be entirely fake.

How can he realistically recover from his insurmountable loss in solitude?

An apartment which used to breathe vibrant life and excitement for the future, diminished to nothing but silence.

He might as well have lost his house, too. Every second he spends there, surrounded by reminders of his grief, is draining. Of course, if he were a millionaire, he would've discovered a lovely, one bed flat with wide, open floors and windows. If he were a millionaire, though, maybe none of this agony would've ever happened.

He could’ve fixed it.

Regardless, he didn't, and now he returns home every single day, monotonous and finding solace only in rereading your letters and running through his local park with Chi, no matter the weather.

Sometimes, he hears the faint echo of your melodious voice ringing in his ear; mon doux bébé. For a moment, he believes you may be talking to him, but with a resounding giggle of contentment, you never were.

Within a month, he lost both of his sweet baby girls, and the pain is simply too much to comprehend.

Elle, mon cœur,

Firstly, I apologize for my late reply. This letter was, for some reason, incredibly difficult to write.

You hurt me never. Life hurt me, and it hurt you, too, and I'm sorry it's so cruel.

Chi adored her ice cream - vanilla, your favourite - and said thanks! (complimentary picture attached, for you).

Sympathy and apologies aren't a cure. I've received enough of them to know. I hope you have, too. We might not accept it and it might not heal our pain, but it is nice to know you have people by your side.

Mon amour, I would/could never come close to hatred for you. You are my entire heart, and you own everything within it.

I hope, one day, I can forgive you. I hope you can forgive me. We both made mistakes. We're both accountable, and so is fate. Unfortunately, it wasn't on our side, and we have to welcome that.

Your face is certainly Top Five list of physical attributes, which goes as followed:

1. your lips. I know I complained about them being dry all the time, but I miss them, still.

2. your eyes. Somewhere between the ocean and a cottage filled with flowers, they were paradise.

3. your thighs. I am a man - a broken one, but a man nonetheless - and they are certainly the most family-friendly feature I could think of.

4. your smile. Even on my darkest days, your smile was heaven. I hope you're smiling right now. I wish I could see it.

5. your face? All of the above and everything else. Was that cheating?

I wish I could leave here. I wish I could find a small, tropic island where Chi and I can get tipsy on Virgin Mary's and surf all day, but I feel it wouldn't be fair for both of us to run.

Although, Chi would certainly have a great time in Thailand. She told me so.

Did I mention she misses you? We miss you.

I have more questions than you can imagine. This is only my second letter, however, so I suppose I'll stick to three for now, (sorry for all the lists!)

How are you? Mentally? Physically?

Have you made new friends whilst you've been out there?

Would you ever visit London again?

I miss you forever.

Ton bébé.

Harry x

Harry,

It's more tough to write my letters than you might assume. No need to apologise, I understand.

Life is shit. I thought I had accepted that. I never imagined how evil it could be.

Chi, my baby, looks so pretty. I love her haircut (number 8694743? out of infinite).

I have heard my fair share of sympathy. At first, I felt bitter. They didn't understand what I had suffered, they didn't understand the pain I felt. With time, I realised that, sometimes, sorry is all you need to hear to feel a little better. To feel like you're managing life, at least.

I wish I could believe I deserve it, but I truly don't.

My mistakes seem perpetual. I'm constantly remembering new ones. Things I could've noticed faster, signs that I should've recognised. Yours are nothing. You made no mistakes, mon amour, please believe that. As much as fate has been my least favourite higher power for the past year, I agree about welcoming our own.

I would make a list of my personal favourites of your appearance, but I'd be here all day, and I'm meeting with a friend in an hour (your second question - check).

It wasn't fair for either of us to run. I think it's turned out for the best, however.

I can imagine Chi passed out on the beach. You both deserve a holiday. Go to Scotland, or something, at least. Just away from London.

I miss you both. Much more than I can express.

I'm well. Mentally; it's a struggle, but that's just life, I suppose. Physically; my sickness stopped a while ago. I hope your headaches did, too, but I've been searching for cures for those for a long time.

Yes! I've made quite a few close friends. They all know and love you. I'll tell them you asked.

London holds far too many memories for me to bear. You're the only one I can stand. Maybe one day.

Tellement de câlins.

Auriele.

The second your letter arrives and is read fully three times over, Harry's scrambling to collect his fancy paper and ink pen, thousands of ideas about how to reply brimming in his head.

Pen to paper, however, his mind is entirely blank.

You're inching closer to addressing the subject of your pain, and so is he. So far, the only discussions you've had regarding that difficult topic have ended either in awful arguments or uncontrollable, endless crying and they all occurred before your disappearance.

Since then, you've had ten months and seventeen days shared to mature from and process the situation. Perhaps, if you were to have a conversation about it now, it would be beneficial.

Harry is aware of the solution to his strange writer's block and urges to attempt to fix your hurt, but he's not quite sure if he's ready. Physically forcing himself up from his cluttered desk, he tries not to think of the main event when changing his sloppy t-shirt and joggers to jeans and a jumper; it's February, so the wind is still well and alive but, luckily for Chi and the duration of her walks, the temperatures are beginning to rise.

His destination is barely a thirty minute leisurely stroll through the city away, and he feels shameful to admit that this is his first visit in ten and a half months. Several times, he's gathered his courage to stand on the pavement, surveying the vast area but never making it closer than the protective fences.

This time, though, he's determined to make it. And he will, with je t'aime's and sweet giggles bubbling in his ears.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

Auriele,

Life will continue to surprise us. It may be malicious, but it's also given me you, so I guess there are a few reasons to be grateful.

I think it's more like *8694744 out of infinite, and I'm sure she'll have many more unpleasant trips to the groomers in the future.

You are handling life impeccably, considering all. You deserve showers of recognition for just being here.

No one has ever been more deserving of my love, and no one ever will.

Please, don't blame yourself entirely. Yes, there were signs. Signs that we both should've seen earlier. We knew as much as everyone else. We can't know if things would be different if we'd noticed them, because they're not.

I'm glad you're enjoying life in France. Is it peaceful? Is it too far to ask if you're living with one of your new friends? What're their names, if you don't mind my asking?

If I were to go on holiday right now, Paris would be my first choice.

I'm glad you're feeling better, I hope you continue to improve mentally in the future. I wish you nothing but true happiness.

If you're ever here, I'd be honoured to see you again.

This might surprise you. Before I wrote this letter, I went to visit her.

I haven't since we were there together.

I talked to her for hours about my life and my pain and your letters and your pain and anything I'd love to say to you if I knew how. Meline always was the best listener, no offence to you. She just understands.

I miss her. I miss you. I miss my babies.

Please, send me a picture of you (always topping lists) in your next letter. I need to see you now. I bet you're glowing.

Toujours, Harry x

Harry, mon amour,

I feel as if I should address the end of your letter first, because I certainly wasn't expecting it. I cried a lot. I'm still crying as I write this.

It feels nice to feel.

I've been so numb to it all. I know I should sob every day, think of her every single second. I don't. That may make me an awful person, but I always preferred not to lie. Especially to you. I don't think the gravity has quite hit me yet.

Back to the normal, top to bottom of your letter.

My family is a gift. My parents, you and Meline, specifically. I've never admired anyone more.

I miss Chi. Especially today, for some reason. Send more pictures of her when you next write. (I enclosed an updated picture of me in town, if you hadn't noticed! It was taken last week.)

I had concerns. Concerns that I didn't follow up on. We knew something was wrong, but we did everything we could, right? We found help. We found medicine. Why didn't it work?

How fucking cruel can life possibly be?

It's much quieter than London. The air quality is visibly better. I am, actually. My closest friends are Leon and Aline. I'm living with them!

Paris is about as good a holiday as you can get. If I'm ever near you, whatever country it happens to be in, I'll be sure to see you.

The last part of your letter. I already touched upon it but not nearly enough.

I haven't said, heard or read her name in eleven months. I miss it. I miss your voice. And her laughs. She was so, so lively and enthusiastic for life.

It's so unfair that she didn't get the chance.

And I agree; she always was a fantastic listener. I told her about our issues more than I should've.

I wish I could hear her again. Her name wasn't Meline Risette Styles for nothing. Her laughs were so pretty. I could've listened on repeat.

I did. For a year.

I miss her.

I miss you. I miss your warmth. I miss your heart and your love and your smile and everything about you.

I miss normality.

When we thought things would be okay.

We were wrong, and hindsight, that's okay, too.

We will heal eventually, I trust that life can't take much more away from me.

Tout mon amour, Auriele x

Since that day, Harry's visited Meline every Sunday without fail - it's only been three weeks, but going in the first place was an unimaginable step.

He even combined Chi's walk with the most recent, and each time, entering, staying at and emerging from the cemetery becomes easier.

The first time, he paced through the gates several times before building the bravery to even step inside without running back. His flight or fight instinct had been touchy the whole time, bias towards flight the entire time.

He just wanted to be as far away from the source of his pain as possible.

At the same time, he just wanted his daughter back. Alive and healthy.

Once he'd settled, laid on the ground like a madman next to her grave, he never wanted to leave her again. He even brought her flowers and a little teddy bear from a shop he'd passed on his hurried journey there.

It was well and truly dark by the time he even considered returning home, because he'd rather be with his sweet baby than alone at home.

Now, Chi sniffs inquisitively around at the bundles of flowers placed on surrounding graves whilst Harry converses with his dead child's grave like she was as animated and eager as he remembered.

It's a little questionable for his sanity, but extremely helpful for his own mental health. And he's trying to fix them both.

He just wishes so much that he'd pushed for more tests in the hospital. If he could, he'd reject their diagnosis and prescription of heart medication and an inhaler for when her asthma flared up.

They claimed she had a weakened respiratory system and, subsequently, her heart didn't deal well under stress, mostly due to her premature birth.

They were correct.

However, they were entirely wrong when they sent you all home with a tub of medicine and advice to lower any potential stressors around her.

Harry remembers scoffing to himself; she was one, what could possibly be stressing her that much?

Apparently, a lot of things.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

There's truly nothing better.

Auriele,

I understand completely about any emotion feeling refreshing. For a while, I felt immune to it. I cried and I got angry, but nothing ever really set in.

I'm thankful that I can feel now and it doesn't destroy me.

You're not at all a bad person, or a bad parent. Often, I wish I could forget about her. And not just to remove the pain for a day or two. Also, I appreciate the honesty.

Important things must be talked about first. And while this paragraph isn't quite at the top of my letter, it certainly is my most admiritive.

You're so, so unbelievably beautiful. Even more so, now.

Your eyes are still paradise. That picture is stuck onto the cork board in the kitchen forever.

We did absolutely everything in our power to help our baby. As soon as we noticed an issue, we took her to the hospital. Maybe they accidentally underestimated her condition, maybe they just assumed it'd be treated with that medication.

Either way, we helped her as much as we could. And you were, are, and always will be the most incredible mother.

Meline was lucky, truly. She loved you so much.

As it turns out, life can be our greatest enemy. It's difficult to control and even harder to accept, but everything happens for a reason, I suppose.

Leon and Aline sound wonderful. I know it's not my place, but tell them I said thank you for being there for you? You don't have to.

I've never known someone deserve a full, healthy life more than our sweet girl, and it's an injustice to steal that opportunity from her at such a young age.

She would've been two next week. I'm sure you don't need reminding, but I'm still trying to handle my feelings about it. I already know her birthday is going to be the worst day since she died.

Meline Risette Styles deserves the world, as do you. Please don't be afraid to take it. You've earned it.

Her name still brings me so much joy; little honey, pleasant little laugh. It was such an apt description, in her short life.

Life can always take more, but it gives things that are so wonderful. Sois optimiste.

Tout mon amour et câlins, Harry x

wattpad:

#harry styles #letters #heartbreak #sad books #harry

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

Text

To Be Totally Locked Up By You

It’s not a big deal.

So, Clarke and Bellamy are sharing a Spotify account. They share plenty of things already. An apartment. A school. Buying rounds at the bar four blocks away. This is basically the same thing.

Until. Octavia tells them about the playlist. Joint music and both of their listening habits on full display, some ridiculous algorithm that leaves Clarke, quite suddenly, feeling more exposed than ever, sharing emotions and feelings, all set to a soundtrack.

—-

Rating: Teen Word Count: Nearly 8K AN: It’s happening! Admittedly sooner than I expected (I’m still only in season five, but the feelings. I’ve got them) and this is almost too autobiographical to be entirely fair, but I wrote this in like…four hours. So, here it is. Long-time Bellarke fic-reader, first-time Bellarke fic-writer. With lots of thoughts on Bellamy Blake’s curls. Joining a new fandom is exciting and terrifying.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

—-

“Why are you and my brother sharing a Spotify account?”

Clarke nearly breaks the pencil in her hand. She lifts her head slowly, not entirely surprised to find Octavia staring expectantly at her, arms crossed tightly enough that it’s very likely doing permanent damage to her ribs.

Possibly her lungs.

It’s been a very long time since Clarke took those anatomy classes.

“Well,” Octavia prompts, one eyebrow arching perfectly. “Yes or no question.” “How did you get in here?” “Did you not hear me come in?”

Clarke makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat, tugging her legs closer to her chest so she can rest her chin on her knees. She’s genuinely impressed with the state of Octavia’s right eyebrow. It appears to be defying gravity.

She doesn’t really know enough about gravity either.

Maybe she should make a list of the things she doesn’t know.

That seems inevitably depressing.

And Octavia is very clearly not going to move until she gets a response she wants, that stupid eyebrow and a pile of papers resting against her hip. Her phone is just barely hanging on in her back pocket, the soft vibration barely audible over the music coming from Clarke’s laptop speakers and the creaky pipes in their bathroom.

Bellamy is in the shower.

Clarke is at least sixty-seven percent positive Octavia planned her ambush that way.

“How do you even know about Bellamy’s Spotify account?” Clarke asks, burrowing further into the corner of the couch. “And seriously, did you pick our lock?” That eyebrow should be studied.

“I have a key,” Octavia drawls. “Obviously. So, your lock is fine and you can stop trying to deflect the important part of—” “—Why are you here?” Octavia gnashes her teeth, but there’s not really any threat there and Clarke only huffs slightly when she tosses her sketchbook on the coffee table. Because she knows that expression. The phone stops ringing. Only to start again.

“How many places are you going today?” Clarke asks knowingly, pointing at the open spot next to her.

There’s another round of huffing and flailing legs, Octavia’s left foot nearly colliding with both of Clarke’s knees, but that’s also impossibly familiar and nearly comfortable and—

“He thinks I should have a wedding cake,” Octavia mumbles. “Like an actual cake. Apparently it’s very historic—” “—Oh my God what an idiot.” “—There’s ancient nonsense involved and something about how that proved you were rich or something—” “—In Rome?” Octavia hums, eyes falling closed like she’s resigning herself to the horrendous ordeal of her older brother buying her a wedding cake. And, really, it’s almost nice. That’s a lie. It’s better than nice and just as expected as Octavia’s flailing limbs.

Because for as long as Clarke Griffin has known Bellamy Blake, since she met Octavia in an intro to stats class they both hated, she’s known several things about him.

One, he loves his little sister. More than anything. Two, he likes taking care of people. Octavia, especially, but at some point that also started to include Clarke, which is another nice thing and another vaguely overwhelming thing and—she doesn’t think about that. It is fine. Three, that same protective streak makes him certain he has to do things and provide things and that means driving Octavia crazy with possible wedding ideas.

And that leads to thing four: he’s an idiot and a nerd in an endearing sort of way that makes Clarke sure he didn’t have to look up that fact about Roman wedding cakes.

It also makes Clarke smile.

She ignores whatever happens to Octavia’s face.

“In Rome,” Octavia echoes. “Anyway that’s what we’re doing. Traipsing around the city and taste-testing cakes and—” “—That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly.” “Stop interrupting me, it will not distract me from my ultimate goal.” “Which is?” Octavia props herself up on her elbows, ignoring Clarke’s groan when she moves. “Do you know how expensive real wedding cakes are?” “That feels like a trick question. In Rome or—” Octavia sticks her whole tongue out when she responds, a noise that Clarke is sure will get stuck in her head for the rest of the day, The shower shuts off.

And Clarke’s mouth doesn’t go dry, per se, but she’s only momentarily worried that everyone in the apartment can hear the way her heart speeds up, falling into rhythm with her perfectly curated Spotify playlist and it hadn’t been much more than a suggestion, a monetary decision that made sense because—

“Jesus fuck Bell, put clothes on!”

Bellamy grins, another shift of eyebrows that Clarke is genuinely starting to resent, rivulets of water falling down either side of his face and dripping towards the towel wrapped around his waist. “Did you break in here, O?” “Used her key apparently,” Clarke mumbles, hoping the heat she can feel rising in her cheeks isn’t obvious.

Because thing number five Clarke has always know about Bellamy Blake is that she’s kind of..into Bellamy Blake. In a passing sort of way. That’s just happened to linger for years.

It’s his hair.

It’s far too curly.

It’s not—it’s more than that, it’s things one through four and a whole slew of other numbers she hasn’t come up with yet and how easy it’s been to live in the same space, both of them looking for roommates at the same time, mixing lives and remembering to buy creamer and always keeping an extra box of strawberry Special K in the back of the cupboard for breakfast-type emergencies, but Clarke likes to lie to herself and—

“Right, right, right,” Bellamy chuckles. “Well, she’s also ridiculously early.” Octavia scowls. “And standing here. Having a conversation you’re not actually a part of. Or invited to.” “Wow. Scathing.” “Do you wander around your apartment naked all the time?” “That’s not what’s happening. Obviously. Also, I live here. Why are you here so early?” “Just super psyched about cake.” “You’ll want to practice that some more before we leave. You might insult the baker in Brooklyn.” “You’re going to Brooklyn?” Clarke balks before she can stop herself, another noise out of Octavia that cannot possibly be good for her throat.

“The bakery got really good reviews.” “Oh my God you looked up bakery reviews.” Bellamy tilts his head, more drops of water that are equal parts horrible and far too distracting to be fair. “Was that supposed to be a question?”

“No, no, I am not even remotely surprised that’s exactly what you did.” Endeared, maybe. Perpetually. But not surprised.

Clarke doesn’t say that.

Octavia is far too busy swinging her feet back on the floor, a slightly different look than earlier and Clarke glances down to make sure her stomach hasn’t actually dropped. She’s still retained enough anatomical knowledge to know that it is supposed to stay in her body.

No drop.

And yet.

She can’t stop the butterflies or the nerves that rise up the back of her throat, another expression she’s far too familiar with.

“Fine,” Octavia snaps. “We will go to Brooklyn. We will taste test all the cakes—there better be hummingbird cake—” “—Who do you think I am, O?” Bellamy mumbles. It gets him a well-deserved eye roll.

Clarke’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You and Clarke are sharing a Spotify account!” Bellamy blinks. Once, twice, runs his fingers through his hair and maybe it’s just a Blake thing, this seeming ability to twist their bodies in wholly unnatural ways. “Do you know what that looks like?” “Like I wanted to save a couple bucks a month? So it would be easier to do cake-type things?” “Phrase that differently,” Clarke suggests, but Bellamy just smirks and the towel thing is really starting to become a problem. The whole liking him is becoming a problem. But she’s just as unsurprised that this is what Octavia wanted to talk about as she was that he looked up bakery reviews, so.

“Also,” Bellamy adds, “Clarke already had Spotify premium. It made sense.” Octavia shakes her head. “You’ve got to live together to be on the same account.”

“I thought we already covered that you have a key to this apartment. The one where Clarke and I live. Together.” “It looks romantic. It looks—” Octavia waves a pair of clearly frustrated hands through the air. “—Domestic. Partnered and, like joint playlists and—” “—You know he gets unlimited skips now, right?” Clarke interrupts, a desperate attempt to end this conversation and, maybe, get Bellamy to put a shirt on.

“Don’t forget the no ads,” Bellamy grins. “That’s been a godsend.” “What an old sentence. Also, you’re a podcast dweeb.”

“Informed, princess. There’s a difference.” “Yuh huh. Whatever.” “As always, your arguments are well-structured and articulate.” She flips him off. He grins. Octavia makes a noise previously unheard by human ears.

“You two do know,” she hisses, “that everyone is talking now and—” “—You all need to find a hobby,” Bellamy groans. “And I did not tell you this to make you lose your mind.” Clarke perks up, something in the back of her brain startling at that particular string of words. “You told her?”

“Yeah. I mean—well, I know it’s not a ton of money saved, but it’s something and…” He trails off, dots of color on his face and eyes that are suddenly very preoccupied with the floor. “It was nice of you to offer. So, I looked up Brooklyn.”

The music gets louder.

Clarke is sure. She’s not sure how, but it seems to swell, the beat settling under her skin and in between her ribs, wrapping around a stomach that refuses to stay where it’s supposed to, flipping and flopping and feeling and, for a moment, she forgets Octavia is there.

For a moment she smiles at Bellamy and he smiles at her and there’s no smirk, nothing except the way his eyes crinkle slightly, half a head tilt and damp curls falling and it’s good and great and then—

Octavia coughs. Pointedly.

“Alright,” she sighs. “Well, I think it’s dumb and you guys should opt out of the joint playlist. It’s the absolute worst and definitely embarrassing.” “What?” Clarke asks.

“Do you not know?” “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Does Bell know about your secret Jonas love?” “What?!” Octavia throws her whole head back when she laughs, a sudden shift of emotion and the water falling off Bellamy’s elbow is starting to leave a small puddle on their floor. “Lincoln and I had it at first,” Octavia explains, “when we got it.” “You don’t think it’s a little hypocritical to be judging our Spotify purchases when you’ve got your own family plan?” Bellamy mutters. Octavia ignores him. “It’s some algorithm or something. I don’t know how it works, only that it takes all the songs you listen to all the time and turns it into a playlist that the entire family can listen to. In this case, that’s you guys. It’s very telling. About you know—you personally.” “I know Clarke personally,” Bellamy reasons.

“Do you, though?” “I really don’t know how many times we can talk about this apartment.”

“You don’t have to. Because you didn’t know about the Jonas Brothers, did you?” “I really don’t—” “—Exactly,” Octavia says. “Music is...emotional. Certain songs for certain feelings, things that were playing in specific memories. It’s—it’s a whole new avenue to getting a person. Listen to this. Clarke, tell me the truth, how long did you spend making this playlist?” Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. Not long, but it’s all kind of the same theme...Fleetwood Mac, Clapton, Jefferson Airplane. Good music to draw to.” “What’s the name of it?” “Of the playlist?” Octavia nods. Clarke scrunches her nose. “Music to sketch and avoid stress to,” she grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Bellamy’s staring at her. Gaping. Like he’s never seen her and it would be overwhelming even with a shirt on. As it is, Clarke swallows back the emotion taking up residence in the back of her throat, ignoring just how exposed she feels and— “You’re stressed?” he asks softly.

“Not really. Just end of the quarter and you know parents at the school—always think their kid deserves a better grade and I’ve got meetings all next week. So. It’s—” God, she’s going to kill Octavia. And write a strongly worded letter to Spotify. “I knew you guys were going out today. The music is a lot of my dad’s favorite stuff. Calms me down.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything else, a blessing and the single worst thing in the world, but the ends of his mouth curl up slightly and Clarke should stop looking at his mouth. Octavia grins like she won something.

“You should put clothes on Bell,” she says. “Don’t want to miss the baker in Brooklyn.” He salutes, all sarcasm and snark, eyes flitting back towards Clarke’s before he and Octavia leave and she lets the playlist repeat three times. He brings her back a slice of cake.

Octavia texts them both the next day.

Bellamy grumbles, cursing under his breath about the sanctity of Sundays and Clarke resists the urge to make jokes about the New York Times crossword puzzle or his obsession with finishing it every weekend.

She reads the text instead.

Octavia Blake, 11:42 a.m.: I think you guys should stage a bet. A music bet. About the joint playlist.

Clarke Griffin, 11:43 a.m.: Stop calling it that.

“Now, you’ve done it,” Bellamy murmurs, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper. There’s a pen stuck behind each one of his ears.

Octavia Blake, 11:45 a.m.: No. I won’t. It’s weird and you guys are weird and if you're going to commit to Spotify, then I think you should bet to see who can control the playlist.

“Don’t answer,” Bellamy suggests.

Clarke grunts.

Clarke Griffin, 11:46 a.m.: What kind of bet?

Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.: You guys can set terms. But basically see who can annoy who first with their musical tastes and seize control of the playlist.

“Why is your sister so violent at all times?” Clarke asks, but Bellamy just fills in another clue and it’s an admittedly interesting idea. She’s nothing if not perpetually competitive.

Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.: One musical genius to rule them all.

She kind of forgets about the bet.

Or, whatever.

Clarke’s too preoccupied with those meetings and the Wallace family continues to be the worst family at Mt. Weather, old money and far too many expectations, even for art elective classes that she promises won’t affect your child’s changes at the Ivy League, I swear, and her spine does not appreciate the way she’s sitting in her desk chair.

She’s got a free period, is seriously considering slumping forward and taking a nap when she hears footsteps moving through her doorway. And Clarke’s got every intention of telling whoever it is to fuck off, but she also knows those footsteps and she can hear a soft beat playing in the background, so her curiosity is piqued.

“Have you listened to it?” Bellamy asks, brandishing his phone and his tie is a little crooked.

“What are you doing here?” “Isn’t this the same conversation you had with Octavia?” Clarke rolls her eyes at the same time he drops onto the corner of her desk. She lets out a noise — a warning about paint and half-finished projects she’s got to move to the back of the room, but Bellamy just gives her a steady look and the beat is coming from his phone. “Plus,” he continues, “we just got back from the Museum—” “—Did you geek? “I was a responsible adult figure, princess.” She hums, doing her best to infused as much disbelief into the sound as she can. It’s an old nickname—older than the joint lease and breakfast emergencies, a past Clarke doesn’t always like to think about because they hadn’t always gotten along, but at some point the word had lost its sneer and gained its own look she’s started to covet just a bit.

She really needs to move those eleventh-grade acrylics.

“So, like on a scale of one to three-thousand, how much did you geek, then?” Bellamy clicks his tongue. “I’d never been to the Morgan. 3,000 B.C.! They had stuff from 3,000 B.C.! Scrolls and artifacts, actual jewelry. That is—” “—Old?” “Ancient,” he corrects. “Proper ancient.” “I’d give this geek out a two-thousand, six-hundred and forty-seven. Out of the previously discussed three thousand.” “Yeah, that seems about right.”

“And you had a soundtrack to go with it?” Clarke asks, nodding towards the still-musical phone.

“Kind of. Spotify caught up.” “To?” “Us.” It takes a moment for Clarke to figure out what he means, but then she’s taking a deep breath and trying to remember what she listened to in the last five days. A ridiculous amount of My Chemical Romance.

It’s been a week.

“I didn’t peg you for pop punk,” Bellamy laughs. “Or is MCR a different genre? I was never really sure how that worked.” Clarke groans, sliding further down her chair until his smile threatens to stretch the muscles in his face. She can’t flip him off in school.

“I think, technically, they’re more power punk,” Clarke says. “Or maybe emo—depending on what album the algorithm picked up on.” “What have you been listening to more of?” “Mostly Welcome to the Black Parade on loop.” “Is it Wallace? All your stress and—am I missing out on jam sessions?” “God, not if you call them that,” Clarke exclaims. He blushes again. She may make a list of all the times she can get Bellamy to blush. “But kind of. You’ve had those Model UN meetings after school, so I’ve been blasting music when I get home. I think Pike’s going to rat me out to the super eventually.” “Yeah, well, he’s a dick neighbor. So.” “And my options are limited. No scream-singing in the car when I take the Subway every day.” “You could start singing on the Subway.” Clarke chuckles, sitting up a little straighter. Her spine appreciates it. “Showtime on the downtown six.” “You might be able to make some money. Learn how to flip on the polls.” “I’d donate it to your cake fund. Also, did you call them MCR?” “Is that not right? O went through a very serious Hot Topic phase when she was in high school and I remember some of the lingo, so—” “—You are seriously the oldest man alive.” “Who’s your favorite Jonas Brother?” Clarke scoffs, the song changing and she doesn’t think it’s one of hers. “Frank Ocean?” “A genius.” “You know we don’t have to do this. The sharing playlist thing. It’s—well, O was being crazy, especially with that bet idea, and there’s got to be a way to opt out of it.” “Do you want to opt out of it?” The question seems to hang in the air around them.

And Clarke isn’t sure why it sounds impossibly important, like some line they’re crossing and can’t come back from, but she can’t shake the feeling or the admittedly lyrical genius of Frank Ocean. She turns the music up.

“It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” Bellamy asks. “Seeing what changes it picks up on and how the playlist evolves with what we’re into.” “Please stop talking about the playlist like it’s a sentient being.” “Fair, fair. But, uh—what do you say?” “To?” His fingers find the back of his hair, pushing curls away from his eyes and he’d left earlier than her that morning. That explains the glasses. He only wears his glasses when he’s tired.

Clarke knows that.

She knows...a lot about Bellamy. And not. Nothing about Frank Ocean, at least.

She’d like to.

She likes Frank Ocean.

She loves—

“If we only listen to the playlist, we’re not going to change it,” Clarke points out.

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan.” “At the risk of giving O any credit, it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it? That we keep listening to our own music during the day or night or whatever, but when we’re coming home from school we listen to the joint playlist. See what happens with it.”

“And are we trying to influence the playlist?” “That’s up to you, I guess.”

“Yeah, ok. Try to influence the playlist, see what we can force the other person to listen to and—” He tilts his head, a forced casualness that makes Clarke widen her eyes. “—Whoever eventually seizes control of the playlist with the majority of their songs by...O and Lincoln’s wedding wins.” “Wins? Wins what?” “I don’t know. Something at home. Or one of us can just pay for the other’s Spotify account.”

Clarke twists her lips, considering it. Bellamy’s eyebrows fly up expectantly. “Yeah, ok. We judge the playlist based on what we hear when we’re leaving school.” “Makes sense. And what happens if we leave school together? You going to share headphones with me?”

“Only if you’ll join my showtime brigade.” “Good name.” “Is that a yes?” He grins — another one of hers, which is vaguely possessive and a little insane, but Clarke’s heart is doing its best to beat its way out of her chest as well, so she figures the whole thing is kind of a wash at this point. “I will definitely join your showtime brigade,” Bellamy promises. “If only because I’m pretty confident in my ability to flip from the top bars.” “No you’re not.” “I’ve got upper-body strength you couldn’t even imagine.”

“Sure, sure. When do we start with our musical experiment?” “Today.” “Today?” “Today,” Bellamy repeats, as students start to file into the hallway and Clarke’s not all that upset with how her free period turned out. “I will pick you at exactly 3:15, Ms. Griffin. Be prepared for an introduction in modern classics. And 90s hip hop.” “I’m going to listen exclusively to pop punk for the rest of the week.” “May the algorithms ever be in your favor.”

“Idiot,” she calls, but he’s already walking away and none of her students look remotely surprised.

Raven slides the glass across the bar without a word. She doesn’t have to use words. Her face is judgmental enough.

Clarke sighs. “What?” “Did I say anything?” “Did you have to?”

Raven waggles a finger, more opinions and very obvious thoughts and Clarke knew it was only a matter of time. She blames intro to stats. It’s how she met Octavia, after all. Which is how she met Bellamy, which is how their friends group grew and evolved and there’s been good and bad and this bar and she’s fairly certain Raven has a very detailed bet with both Monty and Murphy about her and Bellamy.

They all know about the Spotify playlist.

“I guess not,” Raven admits. “Has anyone ever told you that your psychic tendencies are both terrifying and impressive?” “Not in so many words, no.” “What about your weird flirting rituals?” Clarke downs the drink — not sure if it’s actually meant for her and not worried either way. It burns the back of her throat, settling in the pit of her stomach with an almost audible thump, right next to her ever-expanding knowledge of Bellamy’s musical taste and his determination to shift the playlist. He’s been listening to nothing except It’s Tricky radio for the past three days.

She’s got to figure out how to fix this.

On several levels.

“It’s not flirting,” Clarke argues. “Or a ritual. That’s weird.” “You’re telling me.” “Buy me another drink.” “No,” Raven says. “Tell me about the ritual.” “Stop calling it that!” Clarke’s voice rises of its own accord, drawing more than a few curious glances and Bellamy looks up from where he’s talking to Lincoln and Octavia. She smiles. She doesn’t mean to.

Raven cackles.

“Oh God,” she mumbles, the words barely that, “so, how screwed are you? Like ballpark.” “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Have you figured out that he secretly loves the Goo Goo Dolls?” “How do you know that?” “You don’t?” “Oh my God,” Clarke groans.

Raven reaches a hand out, a move that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but feels far too heavy when it lands on Clarke’s forearm. “Slow down on the liquor, Griffin. You’re a lightweight. And I know that because the one night I was there—don’t make that face.” Clarke definitely makes a face. She’s a little buzzed. Cage Wallace is setting up a meeting with the school board. About her art classes. “Anyway,” Raven adds, “I was kind of...looking to get out of there quick, but he had music playing and—” “—He played music while you guys were hooking up?” “Nah, he let me shower. He was reading.” “Oh my God.” “Anyway. I don’t think he knew that I could hear the music and it was definitely an entire Goo Goo Dolls album. Straight through. Not even a mix.” “Huh.” “You act like you’re not fascinated by that.” “Should I be?” Clarke questions, but it’s another badly formed lie and the energy under her skin is starting to make her restless.

Raven nods. “Yes. Eventually that’s going to show up on the playlist too. I know. Or you could ambush him with the Goo Goo Dolls.” “What a sentence.” “Matchbox Twenty?” “Those are two different bands.” “Similar genres,” Raven reasons, Clarke waving down Miller for another round of something, anything. “And I’m trying to help you, here. Rule the playlist, rule the world, right?” “Or at least part of our roommate budget.” “Say roommates again like you don’t want to make out with his face.” “Jeez.” “Not an objection,” Raven points out at the same time Miller decides to show up. Clarke does her best to melt. It does not work.

“It is not,” Miller adds. “And—just in case you were looking for some more information. He’s been asking about your musical tastes too.” Maybe Clarke is drunk.

She wishes.

“Why?” “Search me,” Miller admits. “But a lot of it seemed to revolve around your favorite Jonas.” Clarke refuses to look at Raven for the rest of the night.

It goes. Days, weeks, the rest of April.

The music keeps on playing. Or, whatever.

She listens to more My Chemical Romance. Bellamy goes through a pretty serious ten-day spiral over Weezer that leads them both down some 90s-alt rabbit hole, both of them bobbing in rhythm while they do the dishes on a Thursday night.

At one point Octavia threatens to ruin it all, grabbing Clarke’s phone while they’re at the bar and announcing, “I am getting married, so I pick the music.” It ends with Carly Rae Jepsen on loop and a playlist that refuses to recover for the next two days.

Clarke comes home to Bellamy humming Run Away With Me while he folds laundry in the living. She spends no less than five seconds processing that before she starts matching socks.

They play the song fourteen times in a row.

He counts.

And she learns things. Raven had been right about the Goo Goo Dolls and Clarke girts her teeth when Bellamy asks “why are there so many Frozen songs on here now,” but that leads them to debating the merits of twisting traditional mythologies in Disney movies until Monty tells them to “shut up and drink.”

So, they do.

And then, May happens.

It’s not that Clarke often finds herself stressed enough to burst into tears as soon as she closes the apartment door behind her, but her stomach is churning and between self-important parents at school and her own parents—parent, singular—she’s an emotional, exhausted mess and—

“Oh, shit,” she sighs, sliding onto the floor. She hasn’t listened to the playlist all week. And she knows Bellamy won’t really care, but Clarke has started to depend on the structure and the ever-increasing knowledge and while she might not admit it, Arcade Fire probably would have done a pretty good job of psyching herself up for an afternoon with her mom.

As it is, Clarke spent the better part of the last six hours listening to backwards compliments and questions about that school of yours and not-so-humble brags about the cardiac center at Lenox Hill and the “opportunities you passed up, sweetheart.”

That sentence played on loop in Clarke’s head the entire train ride home.

She sniffles, a quick lip of suddenly dry lips because she’s started breathing out of her mouth too and—

“Clarke?” Her head bumps the door when she snaps it up, Bellamy standing there with curls that desperately need to be cut and glasses and he’s wearing socks. It makes Clarke’s pulse speed up and slow down at the same time.

She’s very glad she’s not a doctor.

“Hey, hey,” he says quickly, rushing into her space and there are already tears on her cheeks. She hates that. Bellamy drops in front of her, knees cracking and a hand on her shoulder, staring at her like she’s going to fall apart or break in half and neither is true. Clarke is just mad.

Pissed off, really.

She’s angry at her mom and the cardiac center with its looming benefit, Clarke’s lack of a date some black mark on the whole thing, apparently, far too many veiled suggestions that her own choices are less structured and real, because Clarke has made her own choices since she was eighteen and hated stats and she’s got a schedule and she can’t believe she forgot about the playlist. She’s harping on that. “And how was the esteemed Dr. Griffin today?” Bellamy asks knowingly. Clarke isn’t sure what sound she makes at that, but it might just be the audible version of gratitude, and he grins.

Exactly like she wants him to.

“Chock-full of opinions as always.” “Mmhm, I figured. You want to talk about it?” “Not really. She just—” Clarke grits her teeth, fighting against another wave of disappointment and could have been and every one of her muscles tightens when Bellamy’s lips ghost over her forehead.

That’s absurd.

It’s not the first time he’s done it. Or her. Quick displays of affection when things went well or things went bad and she can remember every single one. Which, honestly, is pretty telling, but she spent most of the day lying to her mom.

This shouldn’t be any different.

This is the complete opposite.

“Go ahead,’ Bellamy mutters.

“She’s just—God, Bell, she’s the worst and she’s so positive she’s right and I’m wrong, but she doesn’t even have the decency to really tell me I’m wrong and—” Clarke runs out of air. Bellamy brushes away the tears on her cheeks. “They’ve got this gala coming up and she wants me to come. She’s getting an award.” “Prestigious.” “Self-absorbed,” Clarke corrects. “The hospital she works at is awarding her for her work at the same hospital. I know it shouldn’t get to me. I do, but she kept talking, like she was going down a list of make Clarke feel like garbage and—” “—You don’t deserve to feel like garbage, princess.”

“Tell me mom that.”

“Here, give me your phone.” Clarke’s skull can’t cope with much more of this, but there’s an earnest edge to his voice that she’s never heard before and her phone suddenly feels impossibly heavy in her pocket. She pulls it out, willing her fingers not to tremble.

It takes him exactly twelve seconds to start playing music.

There’s no Arcade Fire. No Goo Goo Dolls or 90s hip hop.

“Fleetwood Mac?” Clarke whispers, Bellamy’s soft hum of agreement in her ear and she’s sure, eventually, they’ll get up. She’s not in a rush. “If you play Landslide,” Clark warns, “I will cry even more.”

“I can cope with that.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like another thing in a way that things shouldn’t be things. Not with roommates and weird bets and—“You know I do have some rhythm. I could...if you don’t want to show up to this thing by yourself.” Clarke doesn’t pull her head off his shoulder. She’s not sure when her head landed on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.” “It wouldn’t suck so bad.” “That's not true at all.” “I’m serious. We could make fun of people. Come up with ridiculous backstories. Wow them with our Fred and Ginger ways.” “You sound very confident in your dancing talent.” He kisses the top of her hair.

“That’d be nice,” Clarke says, voice a little scratchy and she’s not sure if that’s because of the day or the week or how goddamn comfortable his shoulder his. “And you’re going to ruin the playlist algorithm with this.” “I’ll live.” “Good.”

Dr. Abby Griffin’s eyes get very wide when Clarke and Bellamy show up at Gotham Hall.

They dance. They drink undoubtedly expensive champagne. They dance some more.

She smiles.

A lot.

And Bellamy doesn’t ask before handing Clarke one side of his headphones as soon as they slide into the Uber back home, her eyes fluttering shut while the music drowns out the sounds of the city on their way home.

She gets really annoyed with him one week and plays the original Broadway cast recording of Cats every night while she’s asleep.

He hates that she can’t ever remember to turn the AC off when she leaves the apartment. So, he plays Bizet from Carmen every time she walks in for a four-day stretch.

It takes another two days for the playlist to realize neither one of them is mad anymore.

At some point around Memorial Day they both realize they love Ben Folds.

Bellamy plays a ridiculous fake piano.

Clarke sings the Regina Spektor parts on all their duets.

They blast Killer Queen on a Saturday afternoon in June after Cage Wallace’s kid graduates.

Clarke stands on the couch, hands thrown in the air and something akin to joy leaping up her spine, Bellamy shouting lyrics from the kitchen while he blends...something.

It presumably has alcohol in it.

Or, more alcohol.

It’s a celebration.

And it doesn’t take long for Pike to start banging on their shared well, but neither of them move to to turn own the music, just sing louder. Bellamy grins when Clarke throws a pillow at the wall, shouting “take that dick,” like Pike can hear them over Freddie Mercury.

She almost falls over.

It is...patently stupid and inherently romantic and Bellamy is impossibly solid behind her, cotton t-shirt not doing much to distract from the planes of his chest and—

“What was that about upper body strength?” she breathes.

Bellamy laughs into her shoulder blade, nosing at the top of her shirt, and there must be hair in his face, but he doesn’t seem all that upset by it, which is only messing with her head a little bit. His fingers splay across her hip, tugging Clarke back to the floor.

His glasses are falling down the bridge of her nose.

Clarke presses up on her toes, suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than her and how clear his eyes are when he looks at her — more earnest energy and a flick of his tongue between his lips, like he’s waiting for whatever she does next and only a little impatient.

“A solid save.” Bellamy barks out a laugh, head falling close to Clarke’s, and it takes everything in her not to card her fingers through his hair. That lasts about four seconds.

If even.

Her calves are still aching, but she doesn’t back down and she doesn’t think and for one of those four seconds she’s absolutely positive Bellamy is going to kiss her. He doesn’t blink, just stays impossibly still, except for the flutter of his fingers and the way they push under the hem of her shirt and—

“Turn your fucking music down!”

They both jump back, like they’ve been shocked, Clarke wincing when her legs slam into the front of the couch.

“Are you ok?” Bellamy asks, but she’s already nodding and any sense of joy has rather quickly morphed into something much worse. Regret. That’s the word for it.

She’s neither a doctor nor an English teacher.

“Fine, fine,” Clarke stammers. “I, uh—I’m going to turn the music down, ok?”

“Nah, Clarke—fuck that guy, c’mon, it’s…” “It’s really loud, Bell.” He’s setting a record for not blinking, she’s sure. He stares at her—a little appraising and just a hint wary, the moment drifting away as the song fades out. Clarke swallows.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy agrees. It still doesn’t sound like the words he’s saying. “What do you think about celebratory David Bowie?” “Good call. You going to keep mixing?” “10-4, princess.”

“Idiot.” He grins, a quick twist of eyebrows and squeeze of his hand, but Clarke can’t help to think that the end of the school year may also be the end of something else.

Octavia’s getting married in two weeks.

Her dress is blue.

And it makes her boobs look great, which Clarke isn’t focused on, but Raven’s mentioned it enough that eventually she agrees and she’s happy.

Octavia is getting married.

It’s sunny. It’s warm. There’s already music playing, soft and melodic outside the door where they’re waiting, Raven’s far-too-knowing stare boring into the back of Clarke’s head.

“Don’t do that,” she warns, and she doesn’t have to turn to know Raven rolls her eyes.

“I’m still not saying anything.” “Again, you didn’t have to.” “The experiment ends today, right?” “You say that like you don’t know. “And what did we learn?” Clarke turns around. It’s a mistake, she knows, but part of her has also been dreading today, which is pretty fucked up. All things considered. Octavia looks gorgeous.

She’s got a five-dollar bet with Murphy that Bellamy will cry.

Bellamy’s definitely going to cry.

“You’re supposed to learn something in an experiment,” Raven says. “Even one as weird as this one. With all its flirting. You seriously haven’t made out with him yet?” “No.” Raven crows, Clarke grimacing at the admission that isn’t really that because everyone knows and she’s always known and—she bets he looks very good in his tuxedo. “Oh, god you’re an idiot,” Raven exhales. “But seriously, did you learn things? That he—”

“Yes to the Goo Goo Dolls. Slide is a very predictable favorite, but it’s been on the playlist since the get. He knows way more lyrics than he should. O had a pop punk phase too and he’s way too confident in his own rhythm, but sometimes he’s good at dancing. His mom used to listen to a lot of ballads and Karen Carpenter makes him feel emotions, but mostly at Christmas, so that hasn’t really affected the playlist and—what? You’re doing that thing with your face.” “Am I just?” “Nothing’s going to change, Rae,” Clarke cuts in. “We’re going to keep our musical preferences and our separate playlists and one of us will pay for no ads.” “Seriously, tell him how much you want to kiss him.”

“Shut up.”

And the photographer sounds like he’s on his way back. With Octavia. Who certainly does not want to hear about Clarke’s unrequited feelings for her brother. On her wedding day.

Priorities, Clarke’s got them.

“We had some fun and—well, O was kind of right. It was like getting a chance to…” “See into his music-loving soul?” “I really like Arcade Fire now.” Raven hums noncommittally and Clarke can practically hear the gears in her mind turning, but she’d been right about the photographer and maybe they’ll all just cry over Octavia.

She’s beaming.

And there will be hummingbird cake at this reception.

“You guys ready?” Octavia asks.

Clarke nods, ignoring Raven’s expression. “Definitely.”

He cries.

Clarke gets five dollars.

She doesn’t have any pockets in her dress.

That feels like a sign.

Strictly speaking, Clarke hasn’t been to too many weddings. A family friend when she was a kid. Her mom’s. This one.

And yet.

She’s positive that this is the most beautiful wedding she’s ever been to or could ever go to and part of that is because of the music and part is because of how often she’s noticed Bellamy smiling and most of it is because he keeps glancing her way.

It’s a very blue dress.

She’s still holding a five-dollar bill.

And there is a whole schedule — toasts and more tears, posing for photos and ignoring the way her stomach flutters when she spends an inordinate amount of time glancing Bellamy’s direction. Octavia laughs. She and Lincoln flit from table to table, a hint of tradition in a wedding that is still them and this family and—

“You want to dance?” She’s sitting at the head table, a glass of half-finished champagne in front of her and they haven’t cut the cake yet, but Clarke figures that's soon. Bellamy doesn’t blink. Again. One side of his mouth tugs up, fluttering his fingers in her space until she feels her own smile stretch and maybe her stomach should just be studied.

There’s color on Bellamy’s cheeks.

Clarke never got around to making that list.

“Don’t leave hanging, princess,” Bellamy says. “They’re playing good music.”

He’s not wrong.

It is good music. It’s...oddly familiar music. And Clarke had been too happy to really notice it before, but now that she’s listening, she hasn’t heard anything that’s not hers and—

“Oh my God, you idiot.” He laughs. Loud. And honest. And one-hundred percent hers. The sound sinking into the very center of her, where everything else she’s ever loved has taken root, a foundation for the rest of it, for all of it, for a family.

A Spotify premium family plan.

“You keep complimenting me like that and—” “—Did you do this?” “Did I do what?”

Her hand finds his, warm fingers and slightly callused skin. Clarke can’t stop shaking her head. It’s absurd. It’s vaguely romantic.

“Is this…” she starts, but Bellamy smirks and she’s a lost cause.

In a far more romantic sort of way.

She jumps up, closing the already minimal amount of space between them and, to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He might still be smirking. Clarke can feel the curve of his lips as soon as hers land on them, a little cautious at first, but that lasts about one verse of whatever Jonas Brothers song is playing and then it’s all mingled breaths and an arm slung around his shoulders, fingers in his hair and the sudden swipe of his tongue.

Clarke arches her back, desperate to feel as much of him as she can, like that will ground her or remind her that it’s really happening.

He tilts his head, changes angles and cups her face. It’s soft and bruising and a perfect contradiction that leaves her pushing up further in her heels, pulling on Bellamy’s curls until he groans against her and she’s going to think about that on loop for the rest of the night.

The room spins.

Clarke’s only seventy-two percent certain she’s not the one spinning.

It doesn’t seem to end. They don’t seem to end. She can’t tell where his hands stop, moving across the expanse of her back and tracing across skin, as if he’s memorizing every shift, every way she rocks against him, trying to fill the space with him and them and— “Oh my God, finally,” Octavia cries.

Clarke snickers, Bellamy’s head dropping to the curve of her jaw, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Still smirking. “Huh,” he muses. “Look at that.” “Don’t be smug,” Clarke chides. “I’m wooing you, was that not obvious?” She leans back, expecting a wholly confident expression, only to be met with something slightly hopeful and a little young and yearning and, really, the only thing to do is kiss him. Again. So, she does. Again.

And it’s good and great and exactly what she thought it would be when she thought about this, far more often than she ever would admit to.

But it’s also...something else. It’s the perfect chord and a well-constructed bridge and the song she wants to play on repeat forever, a favorite she knows she won’t get sick of, until the melody finds its way into her memory and her.

Full stop.

“Yeah, it was,” she whispers. “Is this—” “You know when you first offered to go half on this premium thing, I really was in it for the money.” “It’s like an extra ten bucks a month,” Miller yells. Both Octavia and Raven swat at his side.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy admits, “But I wanted to help O and I was sure this would help and then the playlist thing came up and I just—” He shrugs, another brush of his fingers over Clarke’s arm. “—Well, it was...you know you hum under your breath? Constantly. Every song. Even the ones you said you didn’t like. And you’ve got drawing playlists and I can’t believe how strongly you feel about All Time Low.” “They’re good,” Clarke shouts. More than a few members of the peanut gallery let out exasperated sighs.

Bellamy kisses her hair. “I know. I know. And that’s been—the first time O talked about you, I figured you were some uptight—” “—Am I still being wooed? I am a fun person!” “Let me finish. You were old money and plans and structure and I thought I had to hate you on principle. But then. Clarke, you’re—ok, yeah, you like some structure and plans, but there’s so much more and it’s...every single time you start dancing to David Bowie I think I love you a little more.”

She’s not sure what sound she makes.

An exhale and a sigh and a give — into the feelings and the want and he’s not done.

“So, uh, it hasn’t been easy. It took a lot of repeat plays. But yeah, to answer your question. This is the playlist and it’s our playlist, with...mostly your music because—” He scrunches his nose. It makes the freckles more obvious. “You’ve gotten under my skin, princess. So has your music. And the Frozen soundtrack isn’t that bad.” “Get that in writing,” Octavia demands.

“Shut up, O,” Bellamy grumbles. She flips him off. The photographer takes a picture. “Anything to add?” he asks, an undercurrent of misplaced nerves that she doesn’t understand at first. She hasn’t said anything back.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s—” she starts, shaking her head and she kisses him before she answers. Third time’s the charm, or something. "I love you too.”

There are cheers. And louder music. A ridiculous bass line and shutter snaps and—

“We going to dance?” “Did I not ask first?” Clarke hums, already tugging him towards the floor and she’s got high hopes of his hand never leaving hers. For the rest of the night. If not longer. “Semantics,” she says. “C’mon, this is definitely a good song.”

Her favorite Jonas Brother is Joe.

She tells him while they’re tugging clothes off, stumbling down the hallway of their apartment.

“Don’t mention that again.” “10-4,” Clarke laughs, but the words get caught between them and she very quickly forgets about anything other than the noise Bellamy makes when she moves her hands into his hair.

They never opt out of the family playlist.

And it takes a few weeks for the algorithm to catch up, but eventually it’s a pretty even split, his and hers and theirs, all perfectly curated in replayable format.

#bellarke ff #bellarke fan fiction #bellarke #bellamy x clarke #the 100 #just casually inflicting my jonas opinions on new fandoms #oh hai new fandom #i've got thoughts and feelings about bellamy blake's hair #so here they are #there's kissing #that's my jam #laura writes bellarke #laura writes

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mythicamagic · 6 years ago

Text

Confetti - Jumin x MC Oneshot

Rated T - Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Romance

Sometimes nightmares unearth things Jumin would rather leave buried. Luckily his fiancée knows a thing or two about untangling red threads. Jumin x MC oneshot

As always, you can read my stuff on Ao3 and Fanfiction. Net via the same username.

AN: I've added to this every time I've felt anxious or depressed lately, just a bit at a time. It's a lil one-shot with hurt/comfort themes but there are possessive Jumin moments just to let you know. Hope you enjoy.

Confetti

Within a beautiful, tastefully furnished penthouse- where wealth practically plastered the walls- a clock ticked monotonously. The faint hum from a fish tank appeared to be the only other noise, but further in, a man with tousled dark hair slept deeply, quiet breaths escaping him.

A frown marred his brow.

Lithe fingers stretched out over the white satin sheets, unconsciously searching. When his palm met nothing but fading warmth, an uneasy breath hissed out from between his teeth.

In the deep recesses of his mind, Jumin Han's consciousness hung suspended in the air. He lay atop countless threads, which stretched out far beyond his sight into hovering darkness.

He didn't feel much alarm about this. The dream was quite familiar. Sometimes revisiting this place could be a comfort to the workaholic. It was easier to slip under the heavy waters of sleep and quiet his constantly turning mind if the expected awaited him. But like everything in his life, the dream had a way of…turning on him.

Those vaguely comforting red threads, that slipped through his fingers like fine hair- tightened. They shifted beneath him, disturbed by something. Jumin's dulled eyes widened as his lungs constricted in sleep. Old anxieties were rising. Something was wrong.

His palm slid over the mattress again. Where-

The threads slid over his wrist, pinning it down. One coiled around his neck- and he yanked at it with his free hand in frustration.

This is my dream, don't be difficult.

Thin material stretched tighter, cutting into skin as more looped around his limbs. Jumin tried to move, but it felt useless to struggle. Blunt nails clawed at the one constricting his throat. Choking, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think rationally.

The bed. Why was the bed empty?

Red threads slipped over his eyes and strung tight, plastering his lashes shut. He grit his teeth, gasping, something clogging his throat now even as the life was squeezed from him. Bereft of air, he scrambled with dizziness, kicking his legs out uselessly. Strips of red crumpled out from within his lungs, spreading up his windpipe like a party trick waiting to be pulled from a sleeve. But it hurt.

His eyes hurt. His hands hurt. Everything-

She's gone.

Jumin launched himself up into an upright position, panting. His chest heaved. Stormy grey eyes stared wide, unseeing. Sweat clung to his brow. His dark bedroom awaited him, but he paid it no mind- swinging his gaze to the empty space beside him.

Throwing the covers off, he left the bed, something drumming hard and fast in his temples. His heart refused to quiet, hammering in sync with the drum until his entire body felt like it were hearing a call to run. Even in the waking world he could still feel the red threads, stretching tight over his torso and throat. They only seemed to worsen the more rooms he checked, finding each of them empty.

She wasn't in the living room or even the kitchen. Elizabeth 3rd raised her head, blinking groggily at his sudden entrance. Jumin paused, muttering quietly for her to go back to sleep.

He turned on his heel, desperation clawing at him. Had she left? No- she couldn't, wouldn't-

Would she?

Jumin ripped open the door to his penthouse, rushing out into the hall. He'd search every damn room of the building if that's what it took.

Logic scattered to the wind, and he took the stairs. Belatedly, he realised he'd left his phone in his room. He should go back. He should pick it up and dial for security to see if she'd left the building. They could check the CCTV footage, or he could take the obvious route and call his fiancée.

But the threads felt like they were contorting around his veins, replacing them with thin, tenuous ribbons. He could barely breathe or think, he just felt an intense need to find. Find that which was precious to him-

Jumin's hand latched onto the threshold of a door. It was only the second floor down from the penthouse. He panted heavily, staring through the open doorway.

She stood before the floor-length windows, bathed in moonlight in her nightgown. She looked out at the cities various lights peacefully. The exquisite form of her registered in Jumin's wild eyes, until it seeped into his consciousness, calming him. He leaned his shoulder against the threshold, slowly trying to collect himself.

"Jumin?"

Her voice had his frayed attention snapping towards her once more. His breathing hitched. The angel with the moon at her back looked concerned. He straightened, padding forward with slow, measured steps.

Nothing in his controlled expression hinted at the explosion of nerves just a few moments ago. He felt quite confident in his appearance. He could put the wild raven locks down to bed hair.

"You were gone," he stated quietly, padding closer. "You should have woken me, my love-"

"After all the paperwork you tackled today?" Amusement clouded her beautiful voice that he clung to like a lifeline. "No way would I disturb your sleep. Go back to bed."

"Not without you," there's almost a growl in his velvety voice, saying it in an exhale. His heart thundered in his chest once more as he finally stopped before her.

She considered him then, the lazy contentment in her expression vanishing. "Jumin…you're shaking. Are you alright?"

Raven hair fell across his brow and into his lashes, slightly obscuring his eyes. Jumin forced himself to relax his shoulders and lift his head. His hands trembled enough that he doesn't trust himself to touch her. "Naturally I'm fine-"

"Did you have another nightmare?" She inquired softly, making his abdomen jump. The threads tightened insidiously around him.

Raising his brows, a signature haughty look entered his gaze. "I've told you before, but it's quite impossible for me to experience such wild fantasies. My mind is too rationale to conjure fanciful things," he forced a quip into his tone, curving his lips up.

Her own eyes turned flat. "Jumin, you draw up plans for cat toys in your spare time. Your mind is very capable of conjuring many weird and wonderful things," she deadpanned, and he was wholly unprepared for her touch as she reached up. Her fingers brushed the raven hair over his brow aside, before stroking gently down his cheek and jaw.

A muscle jumped in his neck. He exhaled in a rush, eyes shaking as powerful feelings warred inside him. He adored her so much. The rush of adrenalin inside him came flooding back. He wanted so badly to just-

"What's wrong? You can tell me," she gently coaxed.

No he couldn't. Because he'd already told her of the red threads and had promised to work on them. She was to be his wife. He acted every day as though he'd been cured, because he'd wanted to be worthy of her.

But the threads were starting to loop around her wrists the longer she touched him. Knew him. Loved him. Soon he'd draw her into his web completely and she'd never escape.

"I love you," Jumin murmured thickly in answer.

Her gaze searched his stoic expression carefully, before his arms came up, pressing his hands against the cool glass on either side of her. Lean muscle shifted as he drew closer, a dusty want brightening the grey of his eyes.

The problem was that he loved her deeply, but was too selfish to cut the threads currently sliding around her shoulders as they hung off him. Shaky breaths danced over her parted lips- before closing the distance in a rush, he claimed her mouth and swallowed her inhale.

He coaxed her mouth to part wider with his tongue, brushing it inside. She tasted vaguely of mint toothpaste, which was unsurprising since they'd retired to bed. Yet even something so mundane sent off his adoration like a burst of fireworks. Jumin kissed her hungrily with fervour, almost bruising in his force. She made a noise when his hips rocked- pinning her against the glass completely, bodies meeting.

Jumin pulled away from her mouth, kissing down her jaw and neck.

"J-ah!" His teeth nipped, scraping harshly over her skin. Firm lips latched onto it then, sucking until red hickeys bloomed over the expanse of her collarbone. "Jumin…" she tried again.

"Yes, my love?" Jumin murmured, he lightly traced the contours of her face, brushing knuckles down her jaw. "Do you desire something from me? I can give you anything, you know. I've said so many times that you can be greedy, so much more greedy. Ask and you shall receive." He muttered, kissing her cheek.

"Or are you feeling it so much that you can't help but say my name?" His voice turned huskier in a matter of seconds, the timbre effectively sending a shiver down her spine.

"N-no, that's not it," she panted, and he jolted when her warmth pressed closer. Belatedly he realised she'd been clinging to him the entire time.

Dark brows drew together, a red thread tightening around his face. "What is it? Was I making a strange expression?"

She shook her head slowly, gazing up at him. "…You look scared."

Belatedly, he realised he was shaking. Or maybe he'd never really stopped.

He eased back just a touch. "That's not- I don't." He denied, feeling stifled.

"Is it those red threads again?" She murmured suddenly. Jumin jolted, a guilty feeling worming its way around his stomach. They hadn't spoken about them In so long. He'd been certain he'd be alright. Nothing had happened to threaten their relationship.

Just one stupid dream and an empty bed.

His beloved sighed, brushing her hand through his silky hair. "Let's go back upstairs." Jumin hesitated to release her until she raised her head and slid her hand to his shoulder. "Jumin," she said in a firmer voice that had his breath faltering.

True he very much enjoyed his control and lifting her against surfaces, binding her hands or worshipping her body. But just a simple change in her tone and the heat of her eyes had him weak in the knees. Like a starving wolf, he eased off her but lingered close, shadowing her steps upstairs.

She took his hand without fear and led the way. When she squeezed his fingers, he felt the desire to rest his forehead against the nape of her neck. Truly, he would never be worthy of her.

Upon reaching the penthouse, the red strings eased their grip around him. Jumin exhaled, blinking when his fiancée led him to the couch, placing her hands on his chest and easing him down to sit. Heat flashed through his bloodstream, causing his palms to glide over her waist, but she batted his hands off. Turning, she padded into the kitchen without another word.

Jumin looked down at his hands, touching the engagement ring on his finger. It had confused the press, who'd assumed he'd already had his wedding in secret. But no, Jumin simply insisted on getting a ring right alongside his soon to be wife, though many men didn't share his feelings.

He just wanted the world to know he belonged to her too. It didn't work one way. She was not his accessory to be switched out the moment another, shiner model came along.

He was not his father.

Hearing footsteps, Jumin raised his head. A short, loud 'bang!' pieced his hearing, and he shrank back, seeing an explosion of colour. Hearing her accompanying quiet laughter and feeling the various crumpled streamers land lightly in his hair, Jumin frowned.

"That was not 'lit,' as the kids of today would say. I would appreciate a warning next time."

She gave him an exasperated look. "Honey, for the last time, please stop trying to apply internet humour and text speak into regular conversations. Also, it's not a party. I can't just yell 'surprise!' That's just not good etiquette."

"Neither is scaring your intended half to death. What is the meaning of this?"

He watched as she took a seat next to him, bringing out a simple wooden box that she'd tucked under her arm. Opening it up, her lips tugged up when he leaned closer curiously, only to raise a brow when it was empty.

Jumin stilled when slim fingers brushed his hair, attention honing in on her touch. A single blue, crinkled streamer was pulled free from the black strands, held before his gaze.

"There we go, now tell me. If this were a red string of yours, just one thread- what would it be?" She tilted her head.

Swallowing to try and shake the sudden tightness of his throat, Jumin's lashes lowered. The red strings in his mind eased considerably, almost going lax. A warmth spread through his stomach as he stared at her. "The fear of…you spending excess amount of time with my father alone."

Something in her gaze looked a little saddened, but she nodded with acceptance. "Okay, and this one?" She lifted another streamer from his hair.

"Elizabeth III going missing again."

"This?"

"V."

It continued on and on. Fears, worries, insidiously vague anxieties that would never really go away or be resolved but he'd have to deal with. She listened to them all until the last streamer was pulled from his shoulder and placed into the box with the other 'threads.'

"I'm going to keep all these in this box." She murmured, nodding to herself as though it made perfect sense. "And…I'm going to keep it open, but give you the key. So next time if something starts bothering you, but you don't want to outright admit it- just give me the key and we can do this again."

His hands slid over hers, covering them completely while stroking his thumb over her pulse. "But it is surely uncomfortable for you and childish. Not to mention, you're not my therapist."

Steel grey eyes searched her intently, guilt warring with affection. He didn't want to burden her or turn her into his life coach, but she was the only one- the only one, who had seen him completely and not shied away.

She squeezed his hand. "No, I'm not. But I will be your wife," her brows drew together. "I…want you to talk to me."

No sooner than she'd gotten her last word out, soft lips captured her own. She smiled against his mouth and kissed back, allowing him to slide his hand down her leg and lift it onto the couch by his waist, tucking her closer to him. When he pulled away, warm breath fanned over her lips, before he pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss to her forehead. "I adore you."

She grinned, waiting until he released her. "Love you too, now then-" she turned, grabbing something hidden behind her. "Here's a party popper for you, and this is my box."

Jumin blinked when both were shoved into his hands. "What for?"

Her eyes flit away from him to watch the fish. "Silly, you're not the only one who has insecurities. It's my turn now. I have my own box, and my own key, and…my own threads, kind of. But my thing feels more like water. Like everything becomes sluggish and I'm under the surface." She followed a blue fish with her eyes dimly, voice becoming quiet. "When stress mounts up, I feel like I'm slow to respond to it, you know?"

Hearing nothing but silence, her eyes turned downcast. "I-I'm not the perfect angel you see me as, Jumin. This honeymoon phase you're in will pass one day, and you'll see that I'm very much human and flawed."

Instead of rebuking her immediately as she'd expected, his fiancée jumped and looked up when a loud 'bang!' deafened her ears briefly. Colours rained down on her upturned face, catching in her hair. Heat touched her cheeks when Jumin loomed close.

With a feather light touch, he removed a pink streamer from her hair, playing dirty by briefly caressing the skin of her throat. "…What is this one?"

She gave a tremulous smile. "The fear of disappointing you."

Jumin wrapped his arms around her, bringing her in close and effectively getting himself covered in her confetti.

"That would never happen, my love."

#jumin han #jumin x mc #mystic messenger #mysme #mystic messenger fanfic

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payment-providers · 5 years ago

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New Post has been published on Payment-Providers.com

New Post has been published on https://payment-providers.com/the-big-bucks-behind-sleep-or-lack-thereof/

The Big Bucks Behind Sleep (Or Lack Thereof)

The benefits of a good night’s sleep can’t be overstated – nor the negative consequences of not getting one. The average human being needs seven to nine hours per night of sleep, and while there is no medical benefit to sleeping more than that average, there are all kinds of risks associated with getting less.

The first one is weight gain (and all its associated health risks like diabetes, heart disease and cancer), because lack of sleep stimulates the production of hormones that increase appetite and limits the production of the hormones that make a person feel full. Which leads to the second (unsurprising) consequence: Given that lack of sleep makes one insatiably hungry, being tired also makes people cranky and depressed.

Yes, science has discovered that waking up on the wrong side of the bed is actually a medical diagnosis almost always brought on by the same root cause: lack of sleep.

The third problem is still under investigation, but is quite concerning. According to NIH studies, those who report poor sleep in middle age often experience symptoms of dementia or Alzheimer’s later in life. Sleep, it seems, plays a critical role in clearing the toxins associated with declines in brain function.

So in short, sleep could make you thin, make you pleasant to be around and, in the long run, possibly protect your brain from degrading. Sounds like it should sell itself – particularly considering that sleep is one of life’s few pleasures that is absolutely free and can be done without a partner or any special training.

But somehow, we are a nation of chronically under-rested people. According to the most recent available research on sleep, about one-third of Americans report routinely getting less than the recommended seven to nine hours a night, while another third report they “sometimes” don’t get enough sleep.

But luckily, where there is a problem, there is typically an innovative entrepreneur selling a solution – and in the case of sleep, there are a lot of solutions out there. According to McKinsey, if you take the approximate value of all the sleep swag on the market as of 2018 –think luxury pajamas, high-end bed linens, cuddling robots, DTC mattresses and odd gadgets – it generates somewhere between $30 billion and $45 billion annually in revenue worldwide. The mattress market alone is worth a whopping $15 billion. Throw in the amount spent on pharmaceutical sleep aids worldwide each year, and “big nap” as an industry will be worth at least $76.7 billion globally by 2020.

Consumers are clearly willing to invest in getting some much-needed rest – and if some of the firms we’ve covered in the last few years are any indication, they are willing to experiment with some out-of-the-box ideas. There’s the Ostrich Pillow, which allows the sleeper to tuck his head into a soft, pillowy box to make it easier to sleep on a desk or other surface. Or there’s the Bearaby, which could be mistaken for a blanket knitted by a grandmother but for the fact that it weighs 20 pounds and costs $250-$280.

If that is more than you want to spend on a pressurized blanket experience, there is the Hatch Sleep Pod, which costs only $100. It works on the same principle as a weighted blanket – applying uniform pressure across the body to reduce stress – but instead of using weights to create the effect, the pod wraps the sleeper tightly in what can only be described as a swaddle.

“It’s designed to feel like a hug,” Founder Matt Mundt explained to PYMNTS.

There is also the slightly different variation of the Sleep Pod – a much more literal one, offered by HOHM. The startup offers napping spaces on-demand in the form of a 43.5-square-foot portable pod that comes equipped with a twin bed and charging station. The pods set up shop in places where the nap-needing tend to gather – university campuses and office spaces being their two main sweet spots – and offer the chance to book a 20-minute to two-hour nap online or on mobile with a few clicks or taps. Once a pod is paid for, the customer checks in with the pod’s attendant, who unlocks it and lets the customer in for their nap.

“I think there’s definitely a demand and interest for a product like this,” the firm’s Founder and CEO Nikolas Woods told PYMNTS. “Wherever people need sleep, we want to be there.”

In the future, he noted, they will be looking to expand their services to airports and music festivals.

As it turns out, apps aren’t only useful for ordering up weighted blankets or time in a sleep pod. The team at Sleepio believes their anti-insomnia app – which comes with a built-in cartoon therapist – is just the tool Americans need to get to bed on time and sleep the right number of hours.

This week, the app got a major upvote of confidence. According to reports from The New York Times, CVS Health is encouraging employers to cover the costs for their workers to use the app. CVS recently included Sleepio, along with about a dozen or so other healthcare apps, as benefits whose downloads employers can cover as part of their insurance policies as easily as they can cover prescription drugs.

In general, CVS is part of a nascent push to bring digital therapeutics and telemedicine more into the mainstream.

“We are at this pivotal moment,” Lee Ritterband, a psychiatry professor at the University of Virginia School of Medicine, noted on the emergence of various digital therapy apps. “For years, these have been bubbling under the surface.”

So far, only a few employers have started offering Sleepio, though CVS expects more to sign on this fall. It was chosen, according to Dr. Troyen A. Brennan, CVS Health’s chief medical officer, because it came backed by rigorous published studies.

“It’s important for us as a pharmacy benefit management company, as a big retail pharmacy, to endorse digital therapeutics when they work as good as or better than medications one can take by mouth,” Dr. Brennan said. “We can give the stamp of approval from having looked at the scientific information.”

The app functions by turning sleep into something of a gamified experience – the person seeking sleep works with a cartoon therapist/chatbot with a Scottish accent and an affable but firm demeanor. The user and the advanced bot work through a series of six weekly online sessions aimed at healing “broken sleep,” according to Sleepio.

“It feels a lot more like play than work,” Lisa Kelly-Croswell, the chief human resources officer at Boston Medical Center, noted of the program. Boston Med has offered Sleepio since 2016.

But does it really work? The science is a bit more mixed than Dr. Brennan let on. In several randomized studies that assigned some volunteers to use Sleepio and others to use a different treatment, the Sleepio users generally performed better in terms of how long it took them to fall asleep and how long they stayed asleep throughout the night. But in terms of net time spent asleep, the two groups didn’t have very different outcomes.

Plus, the program seems to have some issues with keeping customers engaged. Boston Medical, for example, has had about 3,000 people start the program since it became available in 2016, but have only had about 350 finish it. And that 89 percent attrition rate doesn’t seem to be a problem that is wholly unique to medical workers in Boston drinking too much Dunkin’ coffee. One large randomized trial showed that only 18 percent of Sleepio users completed the insomnia treatment. Another showed that more than half of people who downloaded the app failed to engage with it at all.

In some sense, Sleepio has the same problem as every other solution: It can only work if one uses it. The weighted blanket won’t help if you kick it off, and the luxury pajamas won’t work if they never come out of their box.

But lying under a weighted blanket is not a lot of work (unless one tries to move), nor is slipping on a set of luxury pajamas or checking into a campus sleep pod. Sleepio’s user retention issues might indicate that its course of study can succeed, but that it might be a little too much work for someone who is already tired.

Plus, given the sheer volume of experts who point out that smartphones are one of the main factors contributing to Americans not getting enough sleep, one has to wonder if a phone app is really the right approach when it comes to an insomnia cure.

And honestly, we can’t help but wonder how many of the workers who downloaded Sleepio tried to use the app, opened up their phone to start their session with the cartoon sleep therapist and then got distracted by shopping on Amazon, checking in with social media, binge-watching something on Netflix or talking to a co-worker on Slack. For some consumers, a sleep app is clearly an effective solution – but for others, we imagine, it is sort of like hosting a Weight Watchers meeting in a bakery, in that it’s just not the right venue to encourage willpower or discipline.

For those customers, it might be better to offer lower-tech solutions.

Like a doll bed for their phone – which, of course, they keep in a room other than the one their actual bed is in.

——————————–

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Our data and analytics team has developed a number of creative methodologies and frameworks that measure and benchmark the innovation that’s reshaping the payments and commerce ecosystem. The September 2019 AML/KYC Tracker Report provides an in-depth examination of current efforts to stop money laundering, fight fraud and improve customer identity authentication in the financial services space.

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unproduciblesmackdown · 7 years ago

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s2g that moss has even been foreshadowing that lars was gonna get briefly killed like…not that specific but since we’re shown that the moss is lars and the flowers have a bit of gem in them…………

ppl are always weird about stuff everywhere smh but like…theres been obviously weird things like being way more ok with ancient beings ready to destroy all life on the planet than lars being too ill-tempered or doing something selfish like…i see that…. like lars doesnt need to be redeemed for anything jeez. every episode where he does something crap its on a minor scale vs like endangering lives or something and he gets k.o’d for it and then makes some sincere form of apology like? theres your redemption…i guess maybe people expect him to become acceptable overnight maybe but thats how people work and then every episode is like The Lesson of the Week instead of a closer look at a character and another step in their development as people figuring themselves out

like literally every character has issues smh! in like this and everything also but like….honestly lars has been a super self conscious and anxious teen from the start and really unhappy and like sometimes he does dumbass shit but who hasnt. if you think youve never hurt people you havent been paying close enough attention

anyways one of the things i really dont like? despite general overall stuff like teenaged lars momentarily losing his patience and realizing he’s in the wrong and immediately trying to make amends = him being judged more harshly than like….every millenia-old actually murderous actual antagonist introduced…. is that overall? its like really really clear really early on that he’s always struggling with a lot of mental health issues, and a common theme is irl people who really do have disorders pointing this out. like, that point can be made for every character in su and lars isnt The Mentally Ill One who alone represents the whole of the universal mental illness experience because obviously that doesnt exist and its a very unique and personal experience, and people dont have to directly relate to lars or any other character with such problems to verify their own. but lars and the cool kids is like super upfront about anxiety and he obv has really low confidence and low self worth and i’ll fight anytime about island adventure hinting strongly at depression—in addition to having him state outright that he feels lonely and isolated all the time. and like, he hates the job he works all the time, he’s not good in school, he and sadie feel an early connection but they obviously had to do a lot of work on that and step on each other’s emotional fingers along the way to finally get to where they are now—which i’m guessing is dating but without acknowledging so or at least not to others, he isn’t very close to his parents currently, he starts the series with 1.5 friends maximum and cant even approach the cool kids besides being desperate to be friends with them

like clearly he’s unhappy and for a while sadie and steven are probably the people closest to him even tho he is a lot more annoyed by steven at the start of things when steven is more little-kiddish than he is now…..but lars still acts mostly like himself around them But at the start him and sadie have too many complications and uncertainties to be really comfortable and again steven doesnt really come across as very mature, with lars pointing it out just now how stevens changed in that way, and it being difficult anyways for lars to confide in anybody

so like lars is and has always been super super defined and restricted by his fear of everybody he encounters, specifically being afraid of being hurt by them / fear of being disliked. i like to say that i think the way he prevents himself / his image is meant to be a way of controlling the reactions he expects people to have: i.e. making people dislike him is less scary/painful than being judged badly while hoping for the opposite. but i also never like saying that anyone who consciously cultivates their Look is faker than someone who doesnt put any thought into it, or is lying to themselves or others or whatever, i just would bet thats a part of it. but moreso than that, the fact that he’s irritable and ill-tempered all the time fits really well as a result of being so unhappy and afraid and trying to deal with it solo. it’s not about him not caring about people, when on an unrelated note but related-to-the-universal-human-experience he does something thoughtless or mean or just generally crosses a line, he notices immediately when someone feels hurt, and he’s shown to immediately feel bad, arguably to a fault and going too far with how guilty he feels. but anyways clearly even though he has the capacity to hurt people’s feelings, he’s very sensitive to that, he cares deeply when it happens, and he doesn’t want to hurt people. like apologizing with any genuine depth to it right off is an incredibly difficult task even for grownass adults, and lars is already really good at it. its wild that people think of him as super cruel and selfish when it’s clear that he’s very emotionally vulnerable and doesn’t have the capacity to callously disregard other people’s hurt feelings

anyways a point i’m taking a really long time to come around to is that lars is a really good example of someone who’s young and unhappy and isolated and really struggling with a lot of things and afraid of everything and the fact is that usually when youre looking for characters who are struggling with this kind of shit you get one-dimensional, maybe even one-episode characters like the person who shows up for the very special episode where everyone has a serious talk and learns a serious lesson and the Depression Character never shows up again, having gone off to be depressed somewhere else since we already know about depressed people. or depression and anxiety is something that can be solved literally overnight if you just confront the root cause, like eliminating the life problem that made x depressed or giving y a makeover or throwing them a surprise party to show them they have friends or something. or you learn that joe the bully is actually just physically violent because he is insecure, whoa man. or the Sad Kid is a running joke and a periphery character and their parents are getting divorced etc etc etc etc

the point is that lars is a main character and even when he learns things about himself that put him in a better place than when the episode began, his issues still don’t vanish (and i wouldnt be surprised if people use that as evidence that his character doesnt “grow”). and dealing with / revealing some of his issues arent a special episode, its just an episode, and its about him. he’s developed over and over and he’s shown to be a complicated person. he’s shown to enjoy things and have interests and a life. he’s a regular character as much as anyone else is, he isnt set aside in a special category

but the thing is that maybe people expect Mentally Ill™ characters to be more of the hamfisted media clichés with zero nuance and about as much accuracy to them? because there’s always the sweet-and-soft kind of person who’s surely dealing with mental illness acceptably because they make up for it by being pure and noble and something approximately like a newborn lamb. like depression is being maybe a bit cagey and avoidant and crying a lot and writing poetry (which will later be revealed as their secret talent!!) and sighing and generally just waiting for someone to approach them, very gently because they are shy and nervous like a fawn, and that savior will cure them with love and also with showing them how beautiful life is!!! and then they will start wearing more colorful clothes and they will be happy and the depression is over now, because someone just had to show their delicate, beautifully wounded soul the light

trauma? you can tell someone has Trauma because they act very stoic and strong 1000% of the time no exceptions but it is just a façade. they will never talk about The Thing. they will finally talk about the thing because someone pries about it with pure intentions and it is a big dramafest and theyve never talked about this before and everyone cries and its super serious and heavy and the person is a bit softer after that because they could finally let it out that one time. thanks, another savior. having disorders is just having turned away from the light

the point is that irl obviously things are very different and its rare to see people with such issues being treated the same as any other character and being able to grow in a realistic way and being able to have flaws the way that everyone else does, not having to be a pure defenseless dewy-eyed baby kitten who someone strong and Normal needs to rescue and put on the right path away from these problems forever. being pissed off and frustrated and confused but trying a lot of different ways to figure things out anyways is a lot more common, the way lars reacts to and deals with his vulnerability is a lot more realistic than just being a fairy-tale in-distress type figure. his character feels a million times more like he was developed by people who understand what its like to be experiencing what he does and developed for people who can relate to him, rather than being made by and for people who cant directly relate and who tend to make content thats wholly inaccurate and treats that kind of thing like an Other issue for Others that you only need to learn bullet points about because if its going to be a part of your life it’ll be a fleeting, one-time thing, not your everyday reality

i mean, its unsurprising that lars is actually pretty comfortable with steven now, given how long theyve known each other, but also how relentless steven is in being supportive of lars and treating him like a friend. its not surprising that it took lars this long to accept that, or that it was in part forced along by being stuck in a “we might die” scenario with steven. and its important to point out that this wasn’t just lars changing that made their relationship better, but steven growing as a person as well. if you put both if them in that situation during the start of the series, they could probably get along better than usual still, but you cant say that this is the first sign of lars developing any more than you can say this is stevens first development. lars has been struggling with himself just as steven has, although not in a fate-of-the-world way till now. lars couldnt be so conscious of his own fear and frustrated with it, and steven wouldnt have the maturity to do stuff like freakin sacrifice himself for earth by separating himself from the other crystal gems, much less lend lars the emotional support needed to give lars enough confidence to protect the off-colors

lars has been developing the whole time and even if people look at individual episodes and think lars learns nothing during them, i cant see how anyone could deny that this isn’t a turning point for lars as much as its the culmination of a gradual path he’s already been on. not to mention that “turning point” has implications like “redemption arc,” as if lars was inherently bad or worthless at the start of the series. he wasn’t; none of the characters were, but each character and all of their relationships were least developed of course. we see details and different sides of the donuts right away, and they both care enough about steven to treat him more as a little brother than a customer and to humor him sometimes. theyve always been important, and the fact that lars has always been a main character in the set of protagonists and that steven has always been a friend means that he cannot be converted by a “redemption” arc. he’s already there smh he’s always been there. seriously name one episode where he’s done something shitty and didnt do anything to make up for it. the only thing unresolved rn is he couldnt fight topaz for sadie, and he said himself he felt guilty over it, and it was already at that point the boldest thing he’d done and like, its not that unreasonable for a wisp of a teen to be terrified by a giant gem warrior that he had zero chance of doing anything to anyways. it wasnt glistening heroics but if thats gonna condemn lars like throw me in the pit too i guess. then he went and died for twelve individuals and left himself defenseless in hostile unfamiliar territory so that steven can go back to earth so thats something. but before all this alien drama like, again…..he’s always directly apologizing for shit and he’s just making everyday kinds of fuckups. he beats himself up about stuff. and gets beat up. and really like doesnt ever require an apology when he’s the one to get hurt, which isnt a requirement by any means and which is probably part of him thinking too badly of himself

the point? that maybe i still havent made besides saying i was gonna make it like half a dozen times?? is that lars is a really real portrayal of a person dealing with things in a real way. and its not the “pain is transcendent” thing where if someone is Suffering from mental illness it makes them wiser and kinder and holier than us regular people. its not where all you need to help someone with mental illness is one incidence of reaching out and telling them you love them and look at the stars and isnt it lovely. its not where disorders themselves are an arc and at the end, people’s personalities will be indistinguishable from that of those who never experienced what they did. its where dealing with this shit is normal and human and everyday and its not beautiful and its not gonna make other people “inspired” or get to feel good about themselves as your savior. its about pushing people away or having them avoid you anyways because they can hurt you in ways they can’t understand as being hurtful and shits confusing and sometimes kids will lash out and i bet lars was a lot more Difficult closer to stevens age than he is now. its about characteristics that seem ugly or repulsive or otherwise don’t directly cry out for help. its about shit staying with you even while you’re trying to figure out how to work through it. its about the unpleasantness of it all but also the real humanity behind it, not just using it as some device. lars’s problems are about lars and belong to him

and yeah of course he hurts people, but literally all the characters do; it has nothing to do with having disorders or not. everyone hurts each other even though they love each other, sometimes with the best intentions or 0% knowingly because they just have to figure out more things about themselves and each other. everything is about people making mistakes. lars is no worse in that matter than any of the other characters, he just happens to have a less appealing/inviting personality, god forbid less relatable. in the recent episodes he didnt have his usual defensive abrasiveness, even his frustration with steven in “stuck together” wasn’t that significant, and wasnt even much directed at steven. after that he was just scared, without it being masked by anger. he could be brave for the other gems because he knew he wanted to be brave and he knew how it felt for them to be so afraid and he was finally told that it was an okay thing that he still felt terrified. he could be completely himself with steven because of all the ways steven has gotten to know lars and refused to stop valuing him and how steven has grown to be someone who could protect others on his own in serious situations—which in this case included supporting lars emotionally as well as protecting him physically. if lars was dropped in that situation with the kid who just learned to summon his shield and was having an ice cream crisis five minutes ago, he couldnt trust or rely on him or count on him for encouraging advice. the way lars is in the wanted arc being so different from earlier episodes is as much about stevens development as lars’s really

like the real lars is and always has been deeply sensitive to peoples feelings (to the point he feels extremely vulnerable to them e.g. afraid of being hurt by being regarded negatively) and he’s always cared about the people he feels close to and he’s always been capable of moments of bravery for the sake of others and he likes wrestling and he’s good at cooking and he’s a dumbass sometimes and he watches scary movies and plays video games and sucks at school and is grumpy and is passionate and is scared and is a huge nerd with nerd parents and he never got over feeling hurt by the explorer club incident and he doesnt like fries and he and his coworker like each other and relate to each other and he sees steven as his annoying little brother and he doesnt know what he wants and also he’s a bi icon, it must be exhausting

lars has always been good and complex and i might be willing to forgive my slight disappointment in people realizing he’s good only now if and only if they go back and acknowledge that he’s been good this whole time. like obviously he doesn’t have to be your Fave or even “liked” to just be not hated or to be recognized as a complex, solid character. lars is so, so developed, probably more than any other human. he’s always been important, even before his importance had direct cosmic significance. he’s always shown signs of being thoughtful and caring and soft, and the fact that he’s hurt people he cares about and who care about him isnt evidence that he’s bad, not only because of the fact that literally all the Good characters hurt each other, but because irl hurting people you love isnt even necessarily evidence of a failure, its just an inevitability, and what happens following the event is whats a lot more telling than the fact any negative emotions were ever a part of a good relationship

anyways what’s definitely true is that lars didnt need to die. it wasnt a necessary atonement for anything lars has ever done. he didnt and doesnt need to be redeemed. he just was willing to risk his life for gems in a situation he could immediately relate to, and that risk happened to win out momentarily. besides, what lars was overcoming in that situation was his own fear, it wasnt anything that caused the stuff in the past that people seem to think so badly of him for. he was also protecting steven, sure, but steven was pretty much fine by the end of it coz of his shield. but he also hadnt ever really Not protected steven or anything so he didnt really need to make up for that or whatever

also one more thing ive always meant to bring up is that lars doesnt think much of himself and is prone to being too hard on himself but i know there are probably plenty of people who believe him when he says he needs to “deserve” being alive again. nah!!!! lars always deserved it

#i havent rambled this long about lars in a minute sorry #as usual i lose track of the point i was saying and everything probably switches gears at some point but im just out here thinking these #essays in the back of my head so #Lars Was Always Good and is a great character #even having disappeared a lot he's been developed a ton #long post ////:

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collymore · 7 years ago

Text

I need a new start, not have my failed love life recycled for me! (Poem)

By Stanley Collymore

You audaciously approached me and confidently introduced yourself

to me, after which you sportingly and interestingly spoke to me, a

conversation in which quite engagingly you told me, while in

the process dexterously persuading me with all the prowess

that you could muster to listen to every word of what you

were appealingly saying to me, and noticeably doing so

with all the composure, indisputable conviction, and

the unfettered sophistication of an unquestionably cultured and

humorous gentleman who strikingly in elucidation but even

so delightfully, calmly and most decisively, knew with a

perceptibly undiminished intelligibility and unbridled

certainty what he was distinctly after. Then ensued

to totally and uninhibitedly readily convince me

that from the very start – in effect the precise

moment that you first saw me, how you’d

become beguilingly besotted with me.

And consequently if how you felt about me was the undoubted

stirrings of love for me, then quite unreservedly, as well as

unapologetically, your unmitigated plea relative to how

exactly you both emotionally and romantically cared

for me was, you additionally frankly stated, most

emphatically simply a combined situation, in

logical terms, of your being positively but

also shamelessly guilty of having deeply

and fervently fallen in love with me.

However, secretly on the rebound from a

rather nasty, malevolently controlling,

one-sidedly giving – you’ve guessed

it absolutely correctly that it was

exclusively me doing all the

giving in that marital relationship – an

especially psychologically unrewarding, most

damaging emotionally and an unfalteringly

subjected to serially adulterous, and a

pernicious nightmare of a marriage

that I eventually summoned up

what little courage I had left

to finally free myself from

a domineering brute of

a husband via taking

the pragmatic step

which previously

I ought to have

straightaway

engaged on,

and simply

divorced

this man.

And on having achieved that, my undoubted lack of

self-confidence fastened to my perceived, deeply

embedded and an intrinsically, socially fearful

embarrassment of my being a failure as a

wife that I firmly construed as being all

my fault, and which previously and

collectively had cowardly precluded me from

lawfully embarking on what quite naturally

and understandably should unequivocally

have been an entirely understandable,

feasible and a reasonable course of

action level-headedly filing for a

divorce from this monster of a

man that I’d voluntarily and

fondly married, somewhat

regrettably for me I can

only say hadn’t earlier

and quite regrettably

didn’t occur to me.

However, with that now done and notwithstanding

the evident and unaccustomed to situation of me

being a woman who was now completely as it

happened on my own, and to whom all this

was pragmatically something of a rather

worrying innovation for me, I was all

the same quite persevering, as I did

everything physically achievable

in my power to reassure myself

of this, that I was at last free

and consequently entirely at liberty to do what I

convincingly and honestly regarded was best

both for me and my future. And although I

was likewise completely aware of what a

testing undertaking it would obviously

be to lastingly bury the past, totally

forget what I’d petrifyingly and

improperly allowed myself to

occur to me, while insanely

and lastingly discarding

my irrefutably aimless

but specified role, in

name only I readily

confess, as a wife

although luckily,

and thank God

not as a Mum,

and accordingly having mercifully

escaped from those absolutely

depressing aforementioned

circumstances reasonably

sensibly and with luck

confidently move on

surely with my life.

This is my earnest ambition and, in effect, what I’d

genuinely like for things in their fullest fruition

but most specifically in respect of myself to

be, although realistically the subsequent

outcome, I’m fully aware, could very

well be a wholly different scenario,

in lots of complicated and even

somewhat perplexing ways,

from what optimistically in my steadfast hopes

and honest aspirations I would certainly and

undoubtedly quite prefer for the eventual

end result to be. Yet here you evidently

are, and basically something which I

mustn’t opportunely overlook nor

casually forget, a total stranger

to me and declaring the kind

of absorbing things that my

motivated heart truthfully

wants to hear but on the

contrary my distinctly

wary head, however,

is a lot cagier about?

And in this unclear

process robustly

throwing, I can

genuinely say,

my emotional

balance into

a condition

emotional

disarray.

So how then am I supposed to honestly know much less

so clear-headedly, correctly and indisputably deduce

with any absolute certainty that’s obviously and

understandably triggered and then spurred on

by the provocateurs of my preceding and

unhappy circumstances, that what you

purposefully claim you’re sincerely

saying to me isn’t fundamentally

nothing more than the selfishly

manufactured fantasy of a very vivid imagination that

is itself linked with the egotistical and deliberately

unequivocal self-aggrandizing machinations of

an entirely conniving as well as a thoroughly

seasoned Lothario, whose deftly executed

but nevertheless unsupported flattering

declarations of undying love for me

consciously have no affinity at all

with the latter or for that matter,

credibly makes any concession

for the affirmation of reality.

A state of affairs, which if not examined by me and earnestly

challenged if necessary could in all probability, and at the

least, be ruthlessly, falsely, intentionally malevolently,

totally self-servingly and, in all of this, rather injuriously

to me, be unscrupulously employed to cast me back to

the entirely untenable situation that with substantial

difficulty, but even so, I did in the end succeed in

fleeing from. An appalling situation that had previously and

inescapably for me, while I was helplessly ensnared by it,

emphatically rendered me a nobody, who was likewise

perceived as somebody who was only worthy of the

greatest disdain; therefore, the uncivil appellation

which then in reality and now in most wounding

remembrance I still inescapably bear the scars

of, and don’t mind admitting that I do resent.

So what’s it to be my unfamiliar but all the same relentless

suitor? And before you sally forth with any of your glib

answers I’d like for you this time to think carefully

about what you might wish to say to me as you

likewise bear in mind this genuine request of

mine. For I’d personally like for you to supply me with an

honest and original answer whatever that might be. For

only then can I truly satisfy myself by what you’ve

said or crucially omitted in your explanation to

me whether, as you’d like for me to believe,

this supposed adoration by you for me is

genuinely the dawning of a bright and

rather meaningful future for the two

of us together. Or conceivably the

quite gripping but meretricious

beginning of an illusionary romantic mirage

that could well prove to be immeasurably

detrimental to the emotional welfare of

a still unsure of herself and therefore

a highly vulnerable woman like me!

1 November 2017.

Author’s Comments:

Inevitably, at some time or other, most people regardless of who they are, what their racial or ethnic origins might be, irrespective of their religious, agnostic or atheistic views, what they do or don’t do for a living, their personally identifiable class, social or educational background; their ingrained political loyalties or none, the power and or influence that they wield or more like than not the manipulated sycophancy that they readily subvert themselves to, how grotesquely and graspingly rich or generally pathetically and miserably poor they happen to be; how immaturely young or seasoned old they are, what their birth or subsequently acquired nationality is, the robust state or otherwise of their health and daily life, or where in the world they either choose or are forced to live, whether they’re incarcerated in prison or at liberty to live and lead their own life as they see fit, will unhappily and even emotionally destructive for them find themselves romantically spurned by at least one and possibly even several prospective lovers and thus be very much on the dismissive end of a love that they’ve both willingly and freely offered to another person but which in return is roundly rejected as it is likewise unreciprocated.

Well, there’s a general saying that there’s no accounting for personal taste and amidst the vicissitudes of everyday life when it actually comes to factoring into the love stakes this truism couldn’t be any more applicable than it already is. And not unsurprising in this love equation is how each affected individual specifically reacts to his or her romantic rejection that in turn depends on a number of tangible as well as imperceptible factors.

For instance, there are those who’ll use the fallout from their rejection, painful as it might be, to judiciously and sensibly re-examine their personal approach to all future romantic affairs that directly involve themselves and then use the information they’ve collated and the analysis they’re arrived at as a fitting platform to more solidly construct for themselves what exactly it is that they actually want from life in terms of romance, and having ascertained that accordingly get on with it.

Others though tend to dwell inordinately on their rejection and as a consequence of that become bitter and twisted persons for the rest of their life. However, there are those who on reflexion see their rejection as a providential escape for them and gratefully thank their lucky stars for the enforced situation that at the time they were placed in. But unfortunately there will be those who finding themselves utterly despondent at what has happened to them will seek release from their perceived shame and embarrassment by killing themselves.

Then there’s another category of persons who obsessively imbued with a manifestly pronounced and delusional sense of their own egotistical importance and the perverse notion of how dare anyone do something like this to me, will malevolently set out for the remainder of their pathetic life to exact revenge. And prompts the obvious question, for me anyway, which of these categories, or none of them, do you consider yourself as belonging to? Or perhaps you’re one of those android-type creatures totally and uncaringly devoid of all emotional feelings. And the characteristically sentient and sane among us Homo sapiens will intuitively know the sorts of individuals I’m specifically referring to.

For we routinely observe them on a daily basis unwarrantedly, incompetently, corruptly and criminally occupying our supposedly democratic, but we know otherwise, parliaments, other institutionalized fora of power and influence and effectively postulating themselves not only as parliamentarians but even more seriously and worryingly so as prime ministers, cabinet ministers and even presidents of our respective countries.

Disproportionately so, it must be cogently stated, to their actual numbers in the much wider population that significantly comprises us Homo sapiens and that these alien oiks have both manipulatively and controlling foisted themselves upon, while ludicrously and risibly, if it wasn’t such a bloody serious matter, ascribing to themselves the bogus epithet of the “privileged elites”. Among whom I often wonder? And so far I’ve been unable to discern either a clear-cut or convincing answer to this idiotic conundrum of theirs!

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