#I keep listening to it over and over and eating drywall <3
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There’s something so domestic and sweet about Ed asking Stede if he needs his clothes folded while they’re captive. Just the gentleness to his voice, barely above a whisper, asking, “Do you need anything folded? Your shirt? Your socks?”
It just seems like a glimpse of all the love and care to come.
#OFMD#Gentlebeard#Blackbonnet#Edward Teach#Stede Bonnet#Revenge Rambles#I keep listening to it over and over and eating drywall <3#He sounds so SO soft#So incredibly tender#Like it sounds like something you’d hear them say well into a relationship#It’s VERY indicative of Ed’s love towards Stede me thinks#Like God#VERY PAINFUL TO THINK STEDE IS SO UPSET AND GUILT RIDDEN IN THAT MOMENT THOUGH#So we definitely need this again but with MUTUALITY#Like with Stede smiling and saying something like ‘I’m fine darling. You’re far too good to me.’#And Ed can be like ‘Yeah well I kinda like folding stuff. And I kinda love you.’#And Stede laughs and is like ‘Only kind of you say?’#And Ed chuckles back and is like ‘Okay I REALLY do.’#…IN OTHER WORDS I NEED TO WRITE THEM LMAO#CLEARLY#I am simply suffering from extreme brain rot at all times okay#Very bad when I can picture DIALOGUE
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Fic Reading - Jan 2023
I used to write, and thus posted "Writing Updates" each month. I'm now onto like... year fucking THREE of a writers block that is destroying my soul.
But someone suggested to find different ways to enjoy fandom. I have a few friends that track their fic reading so... I'm giving it a shot. I'm also gonna add some fic-recs because I think that's important :) Where possible, I'm gonna TRY to rec fics that I don't see all over the place, getting rec'd left-right-and-centre, or I simply think are spectacular.
Jan 2023
Total words read: 580 961
Fics read: 75
Podfics listened to: 6
Did not finish: 9
Rereads: 12
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Recs for the month:
I'll Be the Shadow, You'll Be the Light by jesskier - 60k, explicit - a 10-part really fun, sexy, at times angsty kink series. It plays heavy on the kinks, which I LOVE, with the aftercare and the complexities of feelings being so strong and just... it feels very real, you know? But also, it's hot as hell. I've reread some of this series 5+ times. Oops??
Eddie Munson and the Dreamboy by pukner - 8k, not rated - Look, I am a slut for anything pukner writes. "took you for a working boy" is one of my favourite fics. But EM and the Dreamboy just.... wrecks me. Features baby!Steve in teddy bear socks that makes both Eddie and I want to eat drywall.
On the Frozen Lake, Jagged and Beautiful - by kayeslin - 74k, explicit - I haven't finished this fic because I am listening to the ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE PODFIC. This is a fun fic, and Eddie makes Steve solve DnD style riddles every time he sells him weed. It's just... it's just fucking great, and you should all gobble it up.
international garbage man, i've decided that's what i am - by fenellacapella - 7k, explicit - so for those that know me, I really fucking love kink that... IDK, plays hard? that isn't just the standard "handcuffs and spanking" (I mean, I love those too! but I ReALLY love things that get a bit different too). This fic does that. The shower sex... face slapping... lowkey sexy-drowning-steve-with-a-showerhead... yeah, that's my kink. the Via Chicago series is great, tbh. >:)
Dustin Henderson and the Lovebirds - by pukner - 9.7k, not rated - Look, I'll try not to rant and rave about how amazing pukner is EVERY time I put together a rec list, but like, they never miss. They never. fucking. miss. This fic just gets you in the happiest spots and makes the world a little brighter.
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Fics I'm "keeping my eye on" (ie, they're WIPs but hot DAMN do I fucking love them):
dumb bunny, I'm wild for you by honeyvenom - 13.9k, WIP, explicit - I've written in my notes "Steve is a subby baby, and Eddie offers to platonic Dom him. It has a dark non-con fantasy, and the whole thing is REALLY REALLY GOOD, HOLY SHIT". So uh, that's my rec lol.
A Year in the Life of Chip Harrington - by courfeyrac and sourpastels - 51k, WIP, mature - I haven't read the most recent chapters because brain function? Haven't heard of her. BUT the first two chapters are just GREAT and this fic just feels like a warm hug in your heart. Based on the tags, I don't think it'll emotionally cripple me either, so yay!!
getting lost in the dark is my favorite part - by QueerOnTilMorning - 18k, WIP, explicit - AHHHHHH. Eddie decides to go be rid of his pesky virginity post-S4, and look, there is a scene that makes you wanna DIE (of embarrassment. for Eddie). But it's SO GOOD and has Steve and Eddie uh... learning things about themselves heh.
Trouble Looks Good on You - by indelicate - 25k, WIP, explicit - Steve is Strong and Eddie is a chaotic gremlin who likes to launch himself at Steve. There are ~awakenings~ and honestly, the author is REALLY fucking good at writing their sexual tension, holy shit.
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Goals for Feb 2023 Reading:
Read a (Stranger Things) fic 4+ months old, with fewer than 500 kudos
Read a fic with >80k words
Cross off 25 tasks in the Fanfic Reading Challenge
(2 AU categories, 2 Author categories, 4 Content tasks, 1 Minority task, 5 Fic Type tasks, 3 Numbers tasks, 1 Ships tasks, 1 Titles category, 3 Tropes tasks)
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Got any steddie recs I should read? (I ask, as if my TBR list isn't >250 fics now...). I'm particularly into podfics right now, and will hopefully be putting together a good list of those in the future too!
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lover to lean on; pjm
➳ pairing: neighbor!jimin x florist!reader
➳ genre: neighbor AU, flower shop AU, smut, fluff, angst
➳ wc: 20k
➳ synopsis: for months, you can hear your no face neighbor and his ‘girlfriend’ singing and dancing and laughing and falling in love. above all, you can hear their bed banging against your shared wall, and they won’t ever let you sleep. you’d much rather stay up at night worrying about your own problems, like the weight of an unrequited crush, so of course you’re bitterly single. but one day, the apartment is radio silent. and one day slowly turns into one week and then into an immeasurable amount of time since you’ve heard his laugh. so on valentine’s day, when you’re missing it the most, you beg your neighbor to open up to you with cookies in one hand and two broken hearts in the other.
➳ warnings: explicit language, pining, unrequited love 🤔, accidental voyeurism, unhealthy eating/sleeping habits, praise kink, body worship, nipple play, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjobs, penetration, fluffy sex
➳ a/n: oops, I uploaded this later than I expected because the word count really got me. anyways, this fic is inspired by the song call me by keshi x rainlord. go give it a listen!
Wake up and smell the roses.
That would be a great philosophy for life if you didn’t have to wake up to the sound of sex at 2 in the goddamn morning.
Perhaps it’s your fault for not checking on the thickness of the drywall prior to moving in, but it wasn’t exactly the first concern that came to mind when touring the flat. Now, it’s more of a personal problem than anything: you being bitter about not having sex while your neighbor and his girlfriend are going at it like rabbits 5 feet away from you. It’s not a very valid complaint to bring up to your landlord. He’d probably tell you to suck it up and get laid.
And he’s right.
Besides, it’s not so bad most days. You hardly even notice the sound of running water through the rusty pipelines every morning or the whizzing of the ancient radiator on cold nights. In fact, you welcome it. It’s become part of the rustic building’s old-school, pre-historic charm.
That, you can get behind.
But one thing is for sure. You’re never going to learn to appreciate the strangled garble of a morning blowjob in the steamy showers or the banging of the bedpost against the paper thin walls when you’re in desperate need of some beauty sleep, well deep in a state of REM.
It’s anything but charming.
The 3 inch thick divider between you and your not-so-considerate neighbor does absolutely nothing to drown out the soft moans and hard grunts. You can hear them loud and clear through the dead of night as if they’re right beside you.
“My god,” you sigh, rolling around your bed restlessly. Your hand blindly palms at the sheets in search of the pillow that rests beside you, placing it over your face and sandwiching yourself between the cushions. If you can’t kill your neighbor, you might as well suffocate yourself first to avoid incrimination, shamefully persecuted for third degree murder.
A frustrated groan falls from your lips, but it’s stifled against the buffer. The banging stops almost immediately.
“Shit,” you hear from the other side.
Did he come? Is it over?
You pray, hold your breath, and lie still as if you’re the one caught red-handed. But you’re not a voyeur. At least not on purpose.
It isn’t your fault for being a light sleeper because the only thing to blame is the flimsy partition your landlord dare considers a wall. If you could have it any other way, you would. This is far from ideal granted that you didn’t even ask for any of this, but it’s far too late to get a refund.
Lately, you’ve been spending your nights muting out vulgar dirty talk, the occasional squelches, and the obscene skin slapping on skin. Over time, you’ve come to know your neighbor on a much more intimate level than you would have liked despite never seeing him around. Like the fact that he thrives off of edge play and praise kinks. Yeah, it’s probably for the best that his identity is kept a secret otherwise you wouldn’t ever be able to look him in the eyes again with the knowledge that you have stowed away in the crevasses of your brainー knowledge you would prefer to forget. You don’t even know his name, but you’re long past the point of being acquainted with one another, so it would pretty be awkward to ask for it now. All you know is that he’s stuck in his own bubble, too blinded by love and lust to even consider his poor neighbor.
Most nights, you even make the effort to stumble through your cluttered, moonlit studio apartment in search of your cheap headphones that usually dangle precariously over the edge of your desk. You’ve made a mental note to invest in some earplugs and a more effective set of headphones too.
Truly, you’re not the type to invade one’s privacy. You have nothing to be sorry about because you respect your neighbor, his girlfriend, and their sexy time. If anything, they should be the ones apologizing for keeping you awake for three consecutive nights. No less on a Tuesday.
But perhaps the act is already done and you can let bygones be bygones. Maybe he’s already come, and as unfortunate as that may be for his girlfriend, the chances are he's low on stamina tonight. The vivace metronomic thuds against your shared wall would suggest he was going pretty hard at it too. Not that it’s any of your business. You’re happy that your neighbor is so in love, and that he can have sex all day, all night and fall into the comfort of his lover’s arms, unlike you. You’re not bitter.
Not at all.
You don’t mean to get invested in his relationship, but it’s just that tonight, he finished rather early as opposed to the hour it usually takes him to climaxー foreplay and edge play and all. You don’t keep track of the time per se. That’d be a little creepy, but it’s hard not to do so when you’re losing out on a precious hour of sleep each night. Especially when you’re stuck in your own overactive imagination, wondering how good his stroke game is and what type of lingerie he’s intoー
“Sorry!”
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Then the realization hits you momentarily.
He’s talking to you.
They must have heard you groaning through the stupid, thin walls, and therefore, you’re responsible for this very awkward exchange.
Your grip on the pillow loosens as you lift it over your head.
“It’s okay!” Your voice cracks with a heightened tone, “Just make sure you use protection!” The cringe settles into the pit of your stomach as soon as you respond. You squeeze your eyes shut and mentally facepalm yourself. You should have left it alone, but your cursed mouth moves way faster than your thoughts.
The couple whispers to one another, but it’s hushed and hurried. Faint and hard to decipher. Angry, even. The wall must be really selective on what it chooses to mute out which is absolutely perfect when you actually want to know what’s happening on the other side.
However, moments after, you can still hear the rustle of sheets and the patter of footstepsー two pairs. Even the harsh close of the door and the soft turning of the deadbolt, a resounding click that could be heard if you were to listen close enough.
Once again, there’s a shuffle of feet that skid across the hardwoodー one pair. A few creaks echo from the aged floorboards. And then there’s a squeak from the bed slat, a heavy mass pressing on the mattress.
You sit in silence with eyes wide open as you trap air into your lungs in fear of breathing out. Correction, in fear of your neighbor making comments on your rude interruption. If you could pretend that you’re asleep, maybe the problem will disappear into the night.
But it doesn’t because it never works that way.
Moonlight filters through the pane glass windows, right between the cracks of your curtain. It illuminates your face and keeps you awake longer than you need to be. You manage to let out the breath you’ve been holding when something else breaks the silence.
You can hear it faintly. The soft hum of an unfamiliar tune before the soft outbreak of vocals. The song is bitter, but the voice is sweet.
Your neighbor has gotten into the habit of singing whether it be at dawn or dusk, yet you can never complain given his velvety voice. Sometimes it’s accompanied by the strum of an acoustic guitar or the tap of an electronic keyboard. But one thing that never changes is his love for the same old bubble gum pop music that’s rinsed and repeated on the radio. Nothing but love on the brain. Mushy lyrics that bear no meaning to you, and frankly, to anyone who’s painfully single and/or heartbroken.
You would have expected nothing less from this man though. His taste in music is a given. Most days, you can physically feel his warmth and kindness based on the dulcet timbre of his voice. Although you’ll never care to admit it to him, it helps you fall asleep on nights when you’re drained from work. They’re comforting songs that warm your heart, especially because he’s singing such sincere lyrics about his girlfriend.
His love for her is pure, and it’s disgustingly cute.
No matter how many times you try to convince yourself that you’re happy for the lovely couple while internally cringing during their late night endeavors, you’re wondering if you’re subconsciously longing for a relationship just like theirs.
But you’d be crazy not to dream about that kind of love story. One in which the guy cooks a meal for you at the end of every night, served alongside a hot cup of peppermint tea to help you sleep better. In which he runs a bath for you, flower petals, candles, soap suds, and the whole shebang, only to hop right in behind you. Someone to keep you company while giving you a back massage, working on the hard-to-reach knots that line your shoulder blade after a hard work day. Of course at his own volition, never having to be asked to do so.
Perhaps you’re more invested in your neighbor’s picture perfect relationship than you thought, knowing all these little, intimate details no one else should know. But once again, the thin wall is to blame. You’re not an eavesdropper. You’re just a hopelessly hopeless romantic who needs to wake up and smell the damn roses.
Because apparently, not every relationship is as perfect as it seems.
“Everything okay?” You don’t know why you open your mouth, but you do, and you can’t take it back. He’s long since stopped singing, but the residual silence is louder than the gentle voice that once filled the space.
He sighs deeply. The frustration is unmistakable, and you regret ever saying anything.
“Yeah… Just trouble in paradise.” He chuckles dryly, but there’s a tinge of sadness to it.
The room is quiet again. You debate with yourself, wondering if you should hash it out with him or go to fucking bed knowing that you have a 7 am shift tomorrow.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The kindness of your heart outweighs all else, but you cross your fingers and secretly hope that his answer is no just so you can finally get some shut-eye.
“Uhm… I wouldn’t want to bother you.” His voice wavers. He sounds tired, but maybe it’s the exhaustion from navigating the rocky waters of a relationship. You’ve been there before.
Everyone’s been there before.
Your eyes are closed, and just when you think you can go back to bed, your mind and heart betray you.
“I wouldn’t be bothered,” you tell him, “I’m already awake too.”
His chest rumbles with a true chuckle this time. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t even worry about it. I’m probably gonna invest in some ear plugs tomorrow,” you quip, waving it off.
“You really don’t have to,” he deadpans. There’s a pregnant pause, and you’re left confused. He continues with a shaky breath, “I’m not sure we’ll be back together after this.”
Now you’re even more confused. Were they not just ravaging one another moments ago?
“Valentine's Day is coming up next Friday…” you muse. “You could still win her back, you know?”
The radiator whirs in the background. It’s silent.
“Do you love her?” You query, thumbing the pilled edges of your blanket.
“That’s a loaded question.”
Now it’s your turn to stay silent.
“I think I do,” he starts. His voice is rough. “Love her— I mean.” He falters in uncertainty. “Sorry, I’ve never admitted it to myself before.”
“That’s okay.” It’s a weak attempt to comfort him, but the situation is totally out of your hands. You don’t even know the full picture, yet it somehow feels like you’re on the other side of the breakup even though you’re just sitting in the audience, watching, or rather hearing, the drama unfold.
Your fingers interlock with one another, resting over your chest as you lie flat on your back. The heavy weight of your heart sinks lower into your stomach. Maybe love isn’t real, or maybe it’s not meant for people like you and him. Or is it just some misconstrued concept jumbled up in your brain? Some romanticized notion you’ve only ever dreamed about or seen in movies and read in fanfiction?
You gulp, pondering over how things could possibly go wrong in their seemingly perfect relationship. Well, there are millions of reasons, but maybe you’ve only ever heard the good times roll. Days when they’re frolicking in a meadow of sunshine and nights when they’re singing and dancing and laughing, head over heels in love, and everything is just peachy perfect. Maybe the bad and the dirty have yet to expose itself to you, still hidden behind an extra layer of stucco drywall and eggshell paint coatings. No matter how many times you bitch about them, the innermost part of you is still rooting for the couple you’ve had the displeasure of listening to have sex every night. But it’s always worth it, or so you think, for the sake of them being in a good place. To be undoubtedly quote unquote in love—
“Have you ever been in love?” It surprises you that he’s the one asking instead of the other way around.
You stare blankly at the ceiling with a racing heart. Biting your lip, you speculate whether or not you should reveal such intimate details about your life to a total stranger.
“Nope,” you shake your head. He can’t see you, but you hope that your response is convincing enough.
“Would you want to?”
You can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, what kind of question is that?”
“You’re right, it was stupid.” He chuckles. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you warn him, “You don’t have to.”
“Sorr—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll personally come over and flick you on the forehead,” you say, reprimanding him.
His laughter is even sweeter than his voice. “Harsh. But nice? I guess?”
That’s the perfect description for someone who works in the service industry, which unfortunately, you do.
“It’s for your own good,” you suggest, nodding your head in self indulgent pleasure. Kind of like how avoiding love is for your own good.
The silence quickly settles in, as does the existential dread. Your eyes shift around to the empty apartment before you, and you soon realize that you’re painfully alone.
The radiator goes off again and the clock ticks perpetually. The moment escapes you.
His voice fills up the room. “Can I ask how you’re doing?”
The corner of your lips curl up in a fond smile. You exhale a deep sigh, one of contemplation. “I’m okay… Just... learning how to deal with unrequited love.”
“Harsh,” he echoes back.
“Yeah.” You curl up on your side, sighing and reaching for a pillow to spoon.
“Want to talk about it?”
You gnaw on your lip. It’s a bad habit to have. “There’s not much to talk about. It’s just some guy who always walks in at work. We make small talk, flirt a little bit, and then he leaves until the next day.” A highlight reel flashes before you, and you tug on your blanket, nuzzling into the warm fabric that offers you some semblance of comfort against the outside world as you dig your nose into the soft linen.
“How do you know he doesn’t like you?”
You shrug to yourself. “It’s just a feeling.”
You think the conversation is over at this point. Moments go by until your ears perk up at the faint sound of his voice. “You should ask him out.”
Your neighbor surely seems to enjoy making a fool out of you. It’s a nice thought to have though. To think that you have the confidence to ask a guy out. The guy you’re crushing on, no less.
You satiate your neighbor anyways just to entertain the idea a little longer and give him a little push towards his own love story. “Only if you make amends with your girlfriend though.”
“Girlfriend? Oh— no, she’s not my girlfriend,” he says in defense.
You’re perplexed. “Wh-? She’s not?”
“No... uh, just friends with benefits,” he confesses with a cough.
Flashbacks start to go off in your head as you try to connect the dots like some mathematical formula. Is love actually an illusion? Maybe love knows no labels, but a small part of you still wants to believe that they’re wholeheartedly in love and on the verge of marriage or something. But that delusion instantaneously bursts into dust and ashes, confirmed by none other.
“Hey, I’m kind of tired, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? I’ll make it right with her so long you talk to the guy.” He lets out a huff. “Don’t let him miss out on a good thing because of the what ifs.”
Comfort washes over you at the sound of his advice. In a way, he’s right. Maybe it’s time that you put yourself out there in spite of the possibilities. Even if it’s utterly terrifying.
“Goodnight,” you mumble back, wrapping your arms securely around the pillow.
He hears you loud and clear, “Goodnight. Thanks for the talk.”
He knocks out soon after that, but it’s hard for you to sleep when you’ve got nothing but love on the brain.
Waking up is hell, especially when you’re running on nothing but 0 hours of sleep and a single cup of black coffee. The only thing that makes the fatigue worth it is the peaceful lull at sunrise and the absence of your noisy neighbor’s daily blowjob. It’s as if some higher power read your mind and decided that you’re worth the divine intervention just for that one fleeting moment of jubilation.
But just like the law of gravity, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, and your contract with the universe calls for some cosmic karma. It’s like you’re being punished because you can never seem to catch a break.
Work is unusually hectic, but with Valentine’s Day around the corner, it’s expected. If Black Friday is the worst nightmare for every retail worker, one can imagine a florist’s week leading up to Single’s Awareness Day, or much less commonly referred to as “A Shallow, Capitalistic Attempt to Buy Affection Day.”
Despite owning a flower shop, you still stand firmly against Valentine’s Day and all that it represents. Maybe you’re spiteful because you’re pitifully single and surrounded by lovey dovey mush at every single corner. But as of right now, it has more to do with the extra workload that lies at your feet.
Not only do you have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to open shop and prepare for the deliveries, but you also have to cut and process flowers, organize dozens of overnight orders, and arrange bouquets for the day’s purchases, all before 9am. The to-do list is endless, and not to mention, the number of calls you’ve picked up in the last hour alone has already backed you up on a number of orders. It’s stressful and incredibly time consuming to say the least.
By 10am, you’re ready to call it quits, but you constantly remind yourself that this job is your only source of income, and therefore, you have to barrel through with a bright and shining customer service smile on your face.
At this point, you really wish you did smother yourself with your pillow last night.
But the only thing that keeps your sanity in tact after the morning rush is the chance to make arrangements for the front display. It’s therapeutic to pick and choose foliage, sprucing them into beautiful pieces of art for passersby to enjoy. You’re grateful for the scent of seeded eucalyptus and baby’s breath which is remedial to your burgeoning headache. Even the sight of your favorite carnation is enough to ease the pounding pain against your skull.
However, making arrangements isn’t all sunshine and flowers despite popular belief. The worst part about it is the heavy lifting. It’s labor intensive to pick up large plants like the full sized leatherleaf fern in the back room, which is now carefully lodged into a concoction of gardening soil, compost, mulch, and active charcoal. But if nobody else is going to do it, you’re going to have to do it alone.
Lifting the hefty plant isn’t difficult to begin with, but it progressively becomes taxing when you have to carry it to the front of the store. As you emerge from the back door, the bell of the entrance chimes, signifying a customer’s presence.
You can hear him before you can even see him.
“Good morning!”
You nearly jolt at the sound of his chipper voice. Of course Jimin had to walk in at the peak moment of you struggling, looking like a disheveled mess with soil accumulated in your hair like a burrowed nest. You just hope and pray that it’s not smeared across your forehead like Simba.
Out of pure embarrassment, you hold the pot higher to hide your burning cheeks behind the plant despite your arms giving out. Would all of your problems disappear if you act like you’re not there? Once again, of course not, because he spots you in an instant, and you’re just not fated to have the good things in life.
He calls out your name before stopping to place his things down at the table and rushing over to you, “Here, let me help you with that.”
You have an ironclad grip on that ceramic pot, holding on to it as if it’s life or death. “No, it’s okay, I got it,” you say out of pure, frantic determination.
“Don’t be silly, let me.” He reaches for the bottom of the earthenware. His hand grazes over yours before you can pull away, shifting the responsibility onto him.
You offer him a grateful smile that extends your eyes, and he sends one back your way.
“Where do you want it?” He asks. You can’t even get a word in before he turns on his heels and makes space for you through the narrow aisle.
Leading the way, you show him the spot you’ve marked for the fern to hopefully reside for the next 24 hours. “Here’s good,” you tell him, pointing to the empty tile.
Jimin bends down and gently places the plant into its new home. Then he reaches into his messenger bag, pulling out a packet of tissues before gravitating towards the spray bottle.
“I’m a big girl, you know? I could do it myself,” you whine with a slight pout.
He grips on your right shoulder, and you’re locked in place. “I know, but I want to help,” he says with the utmost care, “And you can ask me for help whenever you need it, you know?” Jimin smiles at you, and his eyes lower into crescent moon shapes, the corners slightly creasing. Before you know it, there’s a cool sensation on your forehead. The tissue in his hand is thoroughly saturated and now damp against your skin. You recoil on contact and reach for Jimin’s wrist, ready to yell at him for the lack of warning.
“Hey!”
“Stay still, you have soil on you,” he alerts with sharp eyes.
You let go of his wrist and give in to his kind gesture, murmuring out a “fine”.
While he concentrates on cleaning you up, you can’t help but look up and lock your eyes on his. You swear you could spontaneously combust and astral project from the intensity of his stare. His close proximity makes you heat up, so you’re forced to avert your eyes elsewhere out of pure intimidation. Your line of sight meets his lips, and you’re stuck in place, staring at them. They’re so pink and plush, and his tongue even pokes out a little like a sleepy kitten with slack jaw. Most of all, they’re right there in front of you, and if you could just lean in a little more, you’d be this closeー
“All clean!” He says with cheer, tapping your shoulder.
He turns around in search of the dustbin, and you shake yourself out of your own daydream before he can catch sight of you.
You laugh it off and offer him a toothy smile, “If you really want to help, you could have gotten me a cup of coffee.”
“You’re making demands now, huh?” He asks.
“It’s more like a suggestion than anything,” you teasingly yell from the back room, grabbing the remaining flowers for the display. Meanwhile, Jimin lingers behind in the main room, admiring the freshly cut flowers laid out on the counter ready to be made into floral arrangements.
You manage to recompose yourself from that one moment of weakness by taking a glance over at the cute doodles of artwork that line your office wall. They’re little bits of happiness that keep you calm and remind you that there’s light in your life, and he’s standing in the other room waiting for you to pop a very important question.
Upon grabbing the necessary items, you make your way back into the store. You stop immediately in your tracks, nearly colliding into a solid figure at the sharp turn of the doorway. Your heart almost stops, but you shudder away before you could tip yourself over.
Jimin stands in front of you with his hand extended out, clenching onto a steaming, white paper cup.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of me and coffee now,” he laughs, reaching out once again, “Only one of us bites.”
“That’s for me?” You ask incredulously.
He nods his head, “Yeah, of course, silly.”
You take the drink from his hands, and before you can thank him, he chimes in. “It’s just how you like it. Black and full of caffeine.”
You press your lips up against the cup, taking a sip and humming in satisfaction at the drops of heaven. “Thanks, but why? And how’d you know my coffee order? Don’t get me wrong, this is really nice, but…”
“I saw how dead you looked yesterday,” he justifies cutting you off before you can ramble on. Honest, but harsh.
You put the cup back on the counter and continue with your task at hand, and he trails behind you.
“Thanks, that’s what every girl wants to hear,” you banter with all the sarcasm you can muster, pulling at the flower stems despite them already being placed exactly where you want them.
“Girls like it when guys pay attention to the little details, don’t they?” He asks with a gleam in his irises.
You look up at him briefly before averting his eyes and wiping clean the leaves on a near fiddle leaf tree, spraying food soil at its roots.
“Love it,” you gulp wryly.
Jimin takes note of how seemingly busy you are, so he walks around the shop, examining the new inventory of flowers. After making your round through the store, watering all the plants that need to be watered, you return to the disembodied zinnia on the counter, waiting to be arranged.
The silence is refreshing until it isn’t.
“Is the coffee good?” He queries.
“Huh?” You stop what you’re doing to casually glance his way. His back is turned to you, but he seems overly invested in the rose display.
“The coffee,” he repeats, back still turned.
You look at the untouched cup at the edge of the table and smile to yourself. You didn’t notice it before, but there’s a red doodle that contrasts against the white paper cup, no doubt customized by Jimin himself. It’s hard to pick out what it is exactly, but you’d recognize the flowers of God any day. The ruffled petals and thin, straight stem are simply unmistakable.
“Oh, yeah. It’s good,” you answer politely.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?” He asks curiously as if he’s playing a game of 21 questions. It’s a question you’ve answered numerous times before, but facts like these can easily slip through someone’s mind.
“Easy, carnations,” you respond without any hesitation, pointing at the display in the right corner of the store when he turns around to look at you. He makes his way to the stand, eyeing the flowers.
“They’re pretty,” he comments, pulling out one of the bouquets to examine as if he didn’t already know.
You hum, and maybe the exhaustion is evident in your voice and your oddly scarce exchange of pleasantries.
Jimin carries on with the small talk anyways. “You’ve been sleeping okay?”
You snip away at the hard, green stems, tossing them into the trash beside you. Shrugging, you mindlessly answer. “Yeah, as much as a florist can during Valentine’s week.” You snicker with good spirit.
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t rest well,” he scolds you all in good faith, eyes now scanning the small assortment of cards. You hum in affirmation.
If anything, he should be telling that to your noisy neighbor who refuses to let you get a wink of sleep.
A creak rings through the air as Jimin rotates the card stand, thumbing through the variety. “Do you have plans for Valentine’s Day by the way?”
You can feel your hands clam up as they stop fiddling with the lemon leaves. Your heartbeat picks up, and you’re left winded by the question. You hide behind the hesitation, nervous as to where this may lead. How could you possibly play it cool when your crush asks you whether or not you’re busy on arguably the most romantic holiday of the year?
Play it cool because remember, you loathe Valentine’s Day.
Your hands fumble as you pick up the lemon leaves again, snipping at the branches nonchalantly. “Uh, no, not really, you?” you gulp. Your eyes are distracted, too fixed on the greenery.
But you look up the moment Jimin approaches the counter with flowers in one hand and a card in another.
“Oh, who are these for?” you feign innocence in your voice as you reach for the brown kraft paper and the roll of red ribbon.
Jimin scratches the back of his neck, hesitating. “My girlfriend,” he mumbles, but it’s loud and clear, audible enough for you to apprehend like an echo in you ear.
“I don’t have much planned yet, but we’re probably going to grab dinner on Friday,” he shrugs with hands burrowed in his pockets. He shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, eyes focused on the gray specks of the ceramic tiles beneath him. “Something casual. I’m not really huge on the whole Valentine’s Day thing.”
It seems like every man in your life paints you like a giant fool destined for humiliation. Of course the hopelessly hopeless romantic within you deluded yourself into believing that some Prince Charming would visit your flower shop in anticipation of seeing you. Of course the flowers that he buys everyday has to go somewhere, you just never expected that each and every morning at the crack of dawn, the flowers you carefully hand-pick and wrap with unconditional love would be sent off to his girlfriend.
Of course you’re a huge idiot who isn’t destined for love.
It almost hurts to plaster the tight lipped smile on your face when your heart is prickled with thorns like the roses in your hands.
You lick your lips and painfully gulp the spit down your dry throat before you open your mouth again.
“Jimin?”
“Yeah?”
You pause. “You can’t give these to your girlfriend”
His eyebrows furrow and his hands run through his hair. “What do you mean?”
“They’re white roses.”
“So? She likes white flowers.” He doesn’t seem to get the point.
You almost chuckle in his face, and you would have if your heart didn’t hurt so damn much. So you refrain. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that white flowers are meant for funerals?”
His cheeks are dusted with a pink blush. He shakes his head no. “Uh, what do you suggest I give her then?”
You sigh, looking at the hopeless man in front of you. “Do you love her?” Not even a second goes by before you ramble, not very eager to hear the answer. “You could uh- give her that fern you helped me carry earlier.” You walk back to the front display, keeping a safe distance to hide your woe, extending your arms out like a game show host revealing what’s hidden behind door #1. (Hint: it’s your heart).
“Call it your love fern?” you shrug, laughing it off.
“I think a bouquet is fine.” Jimin staggers behind you, checking out the other flower displays, opting for door #2. “How about the carnations you mentioned?” He pulls out a bouquet of variegated carnations painted with pink and red tips. “These are nice, don’t you think?” He looks at you curiously with doe eyes in await of your approval.
Your mouth opens to interject, ready to digress into another lesson on the history of variegated carnations, but you bite your tongue back.
Jimin spots your reluctance, but quickly puts it to rest. “Look, I don’t think she really cares about the meaning behind the flowers. You said these are your favorite, and you’re the expert right?”
You nod, unable to trust your voice. “Mhmm.” Even your hum cracks. “But uh, maybe the deep red ones would be more appropriate?” You cock your head to the side and quirk your eyebrow.
“It’s fine, I swear” he reassures you, placing the bouquet on the counter before putting the white roses back in its stand.
Your feet refuse to move as if they’re cemented to the ground, but Jimin stands there in front of you with rosy eyes, awaiting for you to wrap up the object of his affection in a pretty red bow. So how could you refuse?
You walk past the carnation display on the way to the counter, and pick up another bouquet. Pink and red variegated. “Here, these are a little more fresh. The buds are tighter, so in a few days, you’ll see them nice and big.” You smile, closed lipped. “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.”
Jimin’s jaw loosens and his lips part. He knits his brow in a frown. “Uh, these aren’t actually meant for Valentine’s Day,” he says, running his hand through his perfectly imperfect raven hair. “She’s kind of mad at me right now,” he gives a mirthless chuckle while playing with his hands, “so I’m hoping I can make it up to her with this.”
Ah, your favorite flowers are reduced to nothing but a gift of pity.
“She’d be crazy not to accept your apology,” you say in a soft voice, gritting your teeth behind your tense jaw, eyes fixated on the little nursling in your hold. With a soft hand, you unravel the kraft paper and delicately wrap it around the bouquet. The very one you picked up this morning and arranged the hour prior, wondering if you’ll be able to send it off to a loving home.
Now you know for a fact that it’ll be in good hands.
“Do you think she’d like it?” Jimin chirps in.
It feels like your heart is on the threshold of bleeding out as he sends another prickle to the soft organ. Your concentration doesn’t even falter as you snip the ribbon.
“I know she will.”
You tie the fabric into the prettiest bow you can muster and slide the gift of love across the glass counter. Jimin looks down at the beautifully wrapped flowers with an ear to ear smile on his face. “Thank you so much for the help, I really appreciate it.”
“Just doing my job,” you remind him with a counterfeit smile, scanning the barcode at the back of the card. It’s a really cute card too. Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me then I remember I put up with you. So we’re even ❤️
You hate yourself for the fond smile you almost crack, masked behind the pained one you send his way.
Jimin passes you a $20 bill and grabs his merchandise from the table.
“She’s really lucky to have you,” you lament honestly with glistening eyes as he walks out the front door.
He doesn’t catch a word you say, but he manages to shout back a “thank you!” and a “see you tomorrow!” before speeding out, setting off the bell at the top of the door without ever looking back at your dejected figured.
You’re left alone to finish the rest of the work day, surrounded by none other than the sickly, sweet scent of seeded eucalyptus and baby’s breath, all while taking in the putrid sight of variegated carnations.
They say that you are your worst enemy, and they are 110% correct on the matter. You don’t know why you would think that you’d have a good day on the basis of your neighbor having a crummy one. It’s not like there’s some kind of transfer of energy. It’s been proven to you time and time again that divine intervention and karmic justice just aren’t real, and apparently, neither is science. Otherwise, by that logic, you’d have a superb day.
You would have slept through last night and woken up to a pretty pink sunrise painted across the sky— nothing but peace. To the chirping of birds in the distance and to the passing of cars on an empty street. You would have had enough time to prepare a proper breakfast— pancakes, eggs, bacon, and maybe even a nice cup of hot chocolate. Not a measly cup of black coffee to keep you awake for the rest of the busy day. You would have had a nice chat with Jimin at the flower shop about the capitalistic corruption of Valentine’s Day while he’d try to convince you otherwise. He’d prove you wrong, and you would have walked home with a blooming garden in your heart.
But science is bullshit and the transfer of energy is a complete lie— photosynthesis being the only exception. The only thing you got out of today was a huge migraine and a withering blossom in your chest.
So just when you think that the day could not get any worse, it absolutely does.
You can probably blame the poor mindset you boxed yourself in— having a cynical outlook on love and life because of the dreaded upcoming holiday. Maybe it was because your crush just stomped all over your garden and plucked the flowers to give to some other girl. Or, you can put the blame on past you, the big freaking idiot who previously stripped off her bed sheets at 6:30 in the morning in hopes of being productive by doing weeks of piled up laundry. At this point, all you want to do is curl up in a warm bed, too exhausted by the trials and tribulations of life, but you can’t even give yourself the satisfaction of that because you thought you were some kind of changed woman who could manage her stupid laundry.
Newsflash, you’re not.
The naked mattress in the corner of your apartment mocks you, so grudgingly, you take your laundry basket down to the laundry room for your most hated chore. With heavy steps, you trudge through the cold, cement basement. It’s dark and dingy down there. A little scary too, given the flickering lightbulb at the end of the hallway. Nevertheless, you march through the doors and into the rumbling alcove.
What you find in there is startling, yet you can’t say that you’re surprised seeing that this occurrence is far from rare. You almost consider walking back upstairs and knocking on your floormate’s door, asking him if he’d be willing to do your laundry in exchange for $5 just so you don’t have to sit there, listening to some couple make out in the back corner.
Apparently, everyone in the world is foolishly in love except for you.
You crank up the volume a little louder so your cheap headphones can drown out the sound of them locking lips with one another, but the poor quality does absolutely nothing for your abused ears. The boisterous public display of affection is deafening over the sound of your “Wallowing in Self Pity” playlist.
You’re only capable of catching a brief glance in their direction before gagging and veering off. She’s sitting atop of the washing machine as he stands between her parted legs. They’re so lost in their own world that they don’t even notice your presence.
Out of respect for yourself and the horny couple, you choose to occupy a washing machine at the opposite corner of the laundry room. But perhaps you can save yourself the irritation as well as the $5 in your wallet because you can hear their hushed whispers. They’ve separated themselves long enough for the guy to convince her to move to a more private location. Although she still leeches herself onto his neck, he’s attentive enough to know that they aren’t alone. He picks her up and drags her out of the laundry room with her legs wrapped around his waist, unwilling to part from him as if holding his hand simply isn’t enough.
You roll your eyes, thankful for the quietude and the money you’ve saved yourself, but as you sit alone in the drafty basement, doing the chore you hate the most, you can’t help but think how much better it would be to do it with someone else at your side.
Somehow you’re convinced that crossing paths with Jeongguk in the hallway is fated after thinking about him moments prior. Because it’s very uncommon for that boy to leave his apartment, cooping up all day long with his video games, only to catch a breath of fresh air for his nightly gym sessions. When you see him locking up his apartment door, you offer him $5 anyways just out of the kindness of your heart. He could probably use the money more than you anyways.
Although you didn’t have any intention of doing a good deed today, karma still finds a way to punish you. As always, it’s bullshit.
Upon entering your empty apartment, the space is already filled with the sonorous sounds of orchestral music. Violins, violas, cellos, flutes, oboes, and harps all performing in perfect harmony. It’s played through the walls, coming from none other than the speakers of your beloved neighbor. You wouldn’t mind the soothing classical melodies to cure your migraine so long it’s accompanied by white noise. But your neighbor’s laughter rings above the music as you can hear him count “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3” in a triple metre.
You know that he’s not alone because there’s also another voice laughing alongside him. The same one you’ve grown accustomed to over the months. Her high pitched squeals are unmistakable as they greatly resemble other sounds you’ve heard come from her mouth on many unfortunate nights. So you can safely assume that your neighbor and his not-girlfriend made up with one another already—
“Look at me, not at your feet!”
“I don’t know where to put them!”
“You’re stepping on my toes!”
“Sorry!”
“Oh yeah, you’ll be sorry!”
It’s hard to picture what’s happening behind the wall when you don’t have faces to match with the voices. But you don’t really need it when their bed slat creaks beneath their weight and their headboard slams against your shared wall. Not when her yelps erupt as a result of the tickle fest they’re currently immersed in. The sounds are vivid enough for you to know much more than you need to know. It almost feels like you’re intruding on an intimate moment that’s not meant for your eyes, let alone your ears.
Meanwhile, as you struggle to tuck the fitted sheets beneath the four corners of your mattress, you wonder whether it’s worth it to leave the apartment again after such a hard day. Of course for the sole purpose of avoiding a home made porn video being filmed in the process.
Maybe it’s not too late, and you can still catch up to Jeongguk. You could head to the gym and snatch back the $5 you generously handed him because the more you think about it, the more you believe that someone owes you for your miserable time spent in this apartment complex. But you can’t take your anger out on the poor boy from down the hall when he doesn’t deserve it.
The sanctuary of your bed calls your name like a siren, so instead, you do what you’re forced to always do— plug in your cheap headphones, blare out some music, and move on with your day.
And it works for the most part.
You’re able to successfully put on your bed sheets after struggling to play a big game of tug of war with your mattress. Despite the internal push and pull, you also will yourself to do adult things like tidying up the studio, making the space somewhat habitable for humans. By 9pm, you can finally sit down and enjoy a nice, hot meal. However, you’re forced to keep your headphones on because your neighbor’s not-girlfriend decided that she couldn’t go a single day without her not-boyfriend’s dick in her mouth.
You swear you’re going to ask him tonight why he hasn’t made it official because it’s clear as day that they’re in love with one another. You know that you definitely would be if someone offered you oral every single day. Unfortunately, nobody’s offering. Thus, you’re forced to live vicariously.
So as midnight approaches, and the moon reaches its apex, you settle into bed with a book in hand, ready to suffer through the night. It’s difficult to concentrate on the text when your music is blasting, but you suppose it’s better to listen to lo-fi hip hop beats as opposed to the scream of “daddy” over and over and over…
Although you applaud her for her shamelessness, you would still prefer if she could keep to herself.
Thankfully, these moments are only temporary.
With your eyes squeezed shut, you let out a lethargic yawn. Looking over at your nightstand, you spot your ticking alarm clock. It’s nearing 1 in the morning, and you decide that you’re exhausted. Well, you’ve decided that long ago, but going to bed before midnight is admitting defeat against your own body. Nevertheless, no matter how tired you are, you know in the back of your mind that there’s no way you could have dozed off with your neighbors going on a Netflix binge with speakers fully blaring audio from The Office. It’s as if they don’t know what headphones are.
But after “one more episode” and a disgustingly long makeout session, you can hear the shuffle of feet across the floor boards and the turning of the lock.
It’s nearly 2 am, and the radiator hisses. It’s quiet.
But then that’s when you hear it like clockwork. The delicate hum before the pleasant tune. Tonight, it’s not a song you’re familiar with. Something about the universe moving and happiness that’s meant to be. Mentions of penicillium and a calico cat? There’s lots of talk about letting someone love you, and that’s when it really hits you in the gut. You’re not so sure about the song, but as always, it sounds pretty. It’s not typical to call a guy’s voice beautiful, but it is what it is. It’s serene, and it’s the promise of tomorrow. It’s something you wish that would never stop.
But of course all good things come to an end.
There’s a purposeful knock against the wall which startles you. “Hey, I know you’re up. How’d your day go?” Your neighbor asks, breaking the silence and dragging your attention towards his voice once again.
You tug your headphones off and walk to the other side of the apartment to lay your book down on the desk, gracefully avoiding anything in your wake because your apartment is finally clean.
“You know, sometimes I wish you would catch me on my good days so I wouldn’t have to tell you such sad stories.” A wary smile surfaces your lips.
“Why, what happened today?” He asks with concern laced in every syllable. “Did you take my advice?”
You climb back into bed, pulling your covers over your torso. Sometimes you feel bad about how many silent complaints you have about your neighbor when he’s actually a really nice guy. He just lacks the proper etiquette knowing that the walls are paper thin.
“IIIIIII tried to.” You drag out the vowel, hesitant to recall the embarrassing story.
“Yeah, and how’d it go?”
“He doesn’t like me back,” you say plainly after a moment’s reflection.
Your neighbor scoffs. “He’s an idiot then.”
You try to fight back the smile because as untrue as it is, Jimin is anything but an idiot. But it’s comforting to know that someone has your back, defending you in all your honor.
This time, you genuinely chuckle. “It’s not that.... He uh, actually has a girlfriend.” It hurts to admit it out loud. “And I’m sure she’s lovely if he likes her that much.”
“Like I said, he’s an idiot for losing out on the best thing in his life.”
It’s impossible for you to fight back this bashful smile because it makes your heart flutter. This may be the first time you’ve felt good about yourself this whole day.
“Thanks, but I don’t know about that though—”
He interrupts you, “Come on, don’t say that. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
You shake your head in disbelief, “You’ve never even met me, and you don’t even know what I look like.” You roll your eyes, but a chuckle unintentionally falls from your lips.
“It’s not about what’s on the outside, okay? I already know you’re beautiful because that’s what you are on the inside.”
“Shut up, that’s so cheesy.” You flip over on your bed and dig your face into the pillow, flustered by his kind words. There’s absolutely no way people this nice exist in this world. “I could be a troll or a vampire or something for all you know.”
“Vampires are kinda hot. Haven’t you seen Twilight?” He banters. “And I’m sure this guy isn’t even all that great. Like, tell me something you hate about him.”
Your hands cover your mouth, stifling a laugh. “I’m not gonna hate on him because he doesn’t like me back. It’s just the reality of it. Besides, he’s perfect.” You roll your eyes, annoyed by how flawless Jimin is in your eyes.
Your neighbor prods at you. “I reaaallly doubt that. There has to be something. Not even a pet peeve? Maybe he’s chronically late to everything? Sings out loud in a quiet place? Has a super annoying laugh?”
“Yes, yes, and no.” You flip your pillow over to the cold side and settle in to lie in a more comfortable position, slipping your hand beneath the cushion. “I can excuse the lateness,” you lick your chapped lips. “He also sings like an angel, and his laugh is really endearing. He does this thing where he laughs with his whole body, and he falls over every time. I like it because I know he’s at his happiest then,” you remember zealously.
“Damn, I guess I’m just projecting my own flaws now, huh?” You can hear him snort from laughter, rolling his neck and cracking the joints in his body, and then the click of his knuckles, 10 of them, one after another.
“Ugh,” you scrunch your nose, “Don’t do that. He does it too, and I guess that’s the only thing he does that really gets to me.”
Your neighbor cracks another joint somewhere on his body just to annoy you, and you cringe. “See, now we’re talking.”
“I was gonna tell you that you sing well too and that I like your laugh, but maybe I’ll have to reconsider,” you taunt. “But still, you shouldn’t put yourself down for the things that show off your happiness.”
The bed creaks from the other side. He must have switched positions for that to happen. “Thanks,” he offers. His voice is muffled, face most likely pressed up against his own pillow. “How about you tell me about the things you like about him?”
“What? Are you trying to wound me?” You ask, slightly hurt.
He scoffs, “No, I’m trying to prove a point here. So, tell me.” He implores like this is some kind of couple’s therapy session. Apparently, without your other half.
As moonlight filters through your curtains and the cars whiz by on the empty street below you, you consider all the things you love and appreciate about Jimin.
“I love how selfless he is. He’s caring and attentive... He’ll know when I’m tired and he’ll offer me coffee. He also scolds me for sleeping late and he lifts my burdens for me, even when I don’t ask him to.” You close your eyes in retrospect of Jimin and all the good things in life that he embodies. “It’s not even the things that he does for me that make me like him.”
Your neighbor hums, letting you continue.
“I guess it’s the principle that’s important.” You play with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, pulling on the edges to give yourself some comfort. “There are people in this world who aren’t… the nicest? I guess. And… he’s one of the purest people I know. It’s like he goes the extra mile to make sure I’m happy… and healthy.” You take a deep sigh before your mind wanders to the darker parts of your brain. “But I also know he treats everyone else like that too. Because he’s that nice. So... I guess I should have seen it coming that I wasn’t so special anyways,” you recall with tears welling up in the brim of your eyes and a knot tightening in your throat.
“Don’t say that, you’re one of a kind,” he assures you sternly, “What’s his name? I’ll go beat him up right now.”
You give a bitter laugh, wiping away at your eyes with the back of your hands.
“My point is that there are other guys out there who are just as caring. And they should make you feel special because you are, and it’s what you deserve. So if the next guy who comes along doesn’t treat you that way, I will beat his ass, okay?” He says in the most nonthreatening voice ever.
You chortle, “Okay, yeah, sure.” You’re not totally convinced of that.
“You’re probably right, I don’t want to fight and embarrass myself after promising you that,” he giggles.
“I appreciate the sentiment though.” Earnestly, you do. You don’t know many guys who are this nice, Jimin being the exception. “How ‘bout you though? It sounds like you made up with your not-girlfriend? I hope that wasn’t you in the laundry room earlier,” you tease, deflecting the attention away from you with a raised voice.
He gladly takes the bait. “Oh shit, that was you? I’m so sorry.” He rolls around the bed in a fit of sweet laughter, and the slat creaks. “And yeah, we did,” he breathes out with a shallow huff after regaining composure. He sounds nonchalant about it.
“You don’t sound very happy?”
“No, I am,” he deadpans.
You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Can you tell me what it is that you like about her?” You ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately like you’d expect, but he’s dwelling on the answer.
“I love how kind hearted she is,” he thinks out loud. “She’s a natural nurturer.”
You can hear the smile in his voice, and you can’t help but reciprocate because of how pure that is.
“Like... she’s always so bright, and…” he stops. “I just don’t know how to explain it. You’d have to meet her to know what I mean.”
“Yeah you should invite me over so I can meet her.” You both chuckle knowing that you should meet one another before meeting his fuck buddy.
“I think you’d like her actually. She has this beautiful soul… I- I don’t even know. She just sees the best in everyone. I know that she probably has her own struggles, but I don’t think she’ll ever let anyone know about them,” he mulls over, going on a tangent.
“Why’s that?” You curl up on your side, hugging your pillow like you do during every conversation with him. It’s as if he’s recalling a bedtime story for you. You let out another yawn, and although you’re on the verge of falling asleep, you stay up a little longer just to hear him talk.
“I’m not so sure why… I guess I love her and hate her for this...” He reflects.
You hum, acknowledging him while urging him to continue his train of thought.
“I don’t know... but she’s the type to suffer in silence for the sake of seeing other people around her smile. And… I don’t think she’ll ever admit when she’s hurt or when she needs help. She puts others before herself. Like, she’s so hellbent on putting on a happy face so that others can be happy too.”
You nod to yourself, understanding what he means with every word.
“And It’s not like she fakes her happiness or anything,” he continues as if clarification is needed. “She’s just… such a joy to be around. She makes everyone feel welcomed… and comfortable… And when she’s really happy, like genuinely happy, it feels like everything is right in the world.”
You can tell he has a big, doting smile on his face. One simply cannot talk about a love like this and not smile.
“I only wish that she’d be vulnerable with me so I can make her world a little brighter too.”
“That’s really sweet, and also, I lowkey feel attacked right now,” you let out a dry chuckle.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “But I think that’s why you two would get along well.”
“Set up a date, and I’ll come over,” you joke with raised brows.
“Hmm… I’ll have to think about it,” he teases. “Oh, but uhm... if we’re still on the conversation of what I like about her, physically, I love her smile. I swear to God I stopped in my tracks the first time I saw her… and it still happens every time.”
“That’s cute,” you smile fondly.
“When she looks at me, I think the whole world stops for a second because I can actually feel myself get vertigo,” he giggles innocently. “And she’s also got this super adorable snort-laugh that never fails to bring out the best in me. God, it’s beyond cute, you don’t even know.”
“It sounds like you’re in love,” you suggest, curling up tighter into a ball, squeezing at your pillow. “I don’t see why you haven’t made it official yet.”
The pause is filled by the whirring of the radiator and the ticking of the clock.
“Yeah… I don’t know either.”
Waking up, you find out that going to bed with a broken heart is a little easier than going to bed with a hopeful one. Perhaps it’s the emotional exhaustion that puts you to rest, but it doesn’t mean you’re any less fatigued. All your efforts are put into your work, and in a way, tending to flowers has served as a distraction from the wilting ones that reside in your chest.
When in reality, you should find a way to revive those instead.
But as Jimin stands before you, you can’t resist the shriveled petals that land in the pit of your stomach like cherry blossoms in the midst of spring. You really don’t know how you manage to bear discourse about Valentine’s Day when he’s unknowingly sitting there with wide eyes, listening to you talk about unreciprocated love that’s so obviously directed towards him.
“You mean to tell me that you read romance novels and watch rom-coms, but you hate the most romantic holiday of the year?”
“Exactly,” you nod as if it’s indisputable.
He gives you a questioning look with a crease on his forehead and lips pressed together in a straight line. “Make it make sense,” he challenges.
You finish chewing on the forkful of salad you popped into your mouth before answering. “Can I rant about it?”
Jimin gives you the go ahead and you continue, “I don’t think you understand how much of a die-hard hopeless romantic I am.”
“Actually, I think I do,” he scoffs and raises his shoulders confidently with eyes closed as if it’s a matter of fact. “That doesn’t prove your point though,” he counters.
You put your hand up, motioning him to stop interrupting, “Let me finish.”
Jimin shrugs and grins from across the counter, allowing you to proceed.
“When I love something, I put my heart and soul into it. I believe in passion, chivalry, and true love.” He hums in agreement as you count down each item with your fingers as if it’s an unofficial list of all the things that encompass a hopeless romantic. “And for me, Valentine’s Day is a poor excuse to spend money and show off all the things you’ve received from your significant other.”
“That’s valid,” Jimin nods, agreeing while munching on his fries.
“Like, why spoil someone on this particular day? What happens during the other 364 days?” You spew.
Jimin mouths “365,” correcting you on the technicalities of a leap year.
You click your tongue, moving on to the point. “Are they not cherished for the rest of the year? I would hope that my boyfriend makes me feel special for more than a single night.” Your forehead creases, too livid at this point to even realize how sadly single you sound.
You’re too busy ranting, accidentally speaking over Jimin to hear him reassure you that you are special. “Also there’s just so much pressure to make the night special, as if they have to plan something, otherwise they’re not the ‘perfect couple’ or the ‘perfect man.’” You emphasize with air quotes.
“I felt that one,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“You see my point now?” You acknowledge him sullenly. There’s a tug on your heartstrings at the mention of his girlfriend, but you drive your point forward in hopes of changing the direction of topics. You don’t even want to think about whether or not he’s made plans with his girlfriend yet.
“And what’s the deal with chocolates?” You yell, completely frustrated, throwing your arms up. “They’re totally overpriced. And cards? Cheesy and terrible. My Instagram feed? Flooded with PDA, and it's a big stab at singles like me.” You enunciate angrily, driving your fork harshly into your salad once again.
He laughs and nearly falls off the stool he’s sat on top of before swiftly catching himself. You snicker at his unadulterated cuteness.
“How ‘bout flowers?” He questions with ketchup lingering on the corner of his mouth.
Picking up a napkin from the edge of the counter, you mindlessly reach across to wipe at his lips, still in the process of ranting. “Don’t get me started on flowers,” you shake your head, folding up the napkin on the table. Jimin smiles at you as your eyes train on the fork that digs through your salad, stabbing into the poor vegetables. “Florists overcharge for them, and I hate it because I didn’t get into this business for the purpose of cheating people out of their money.” At this point, you’re rolling your eyes, seething at the thought of Valentine’s Day.
“Why’d you get into the business then?” He asks, silently offering his fries to you, the ones you’ve been eyeing ever since he revealed his lunch.
“Because I love flowers,” you say plain as day, reaching to grab a fry. “Because they make me happy, and when I send them off to someone, I know it’ll make their day a little brighter too.”
You wave the fry around in the air before sticking it in your mouth. Capping off your empty bowl of salad, you don’t seem to notice how Jimin looks at you and the understated beauty you exude.
“It’s cheesy, I know! You don’t have to look at me like I’m crazy,” you whine, briefly looking up at him with round eyes, turning around to toss your garbage.
Jimin flashes you a big, toothy smile, “No, you’re not crazy. You’re just... exactly what I thought you were.” His voice is low, almost as if he’s thinking to himself. As if they’re words you’re not meant to hear.
“Thanks? I think,” you giggle, unsure what he means. “Are you saying I’m predictable?” You inquire.
“I meant refreshing.” The crinkles at the corners of his eyes form as he grins. “I’m just trying to figure out why you don’t have a date for Valentine’s Day.”
“First of all, I don’t need a date,” you say in defense, teasingly offended.
“I know that, and you know what I mean. But you deserve to be treated like you’re speー”
“Second of all, I do have one.”
“Oh. You do?” He asks, creasing his brows and biting his plush lips.
“Yeah, with myself,” you jest with a smile, elbows resting on the counter with hands cupping your face.
Jimin’s chest deflates with an exhale, finally letting out the breath he’s been holding. “What, are you gonna watch The Notebook until you cry?” He pokes at your shoulder like a tease.
“I’m not that predictable,” you eye him with a gleam in your iris, fully knowing that it is the case. “But maybe,” you affirm with a sly smirk, “after I close up the shop at midnight though.”
“Knew it,” he scoffs. “But why are you closing so late? You should go home early so you can cry and watch The Notebook.”
“Mmm.” You hum, standing up from your stool and turning to hide the downturn of your lips. Running a rag underneath the faucet, you turn to wipe down the counter free of any crumbs. Jimin lifts his elbow up as you glide the cloth across the glass until it’s squeaky clean. “Let’s not forget that it’s Valentine’s Day, and I run a flower shop, Jimin. People are going to come by for a bouquet until the last second.” You exasperate, shaking your head in disapproval of all the last minute shoppers.
“You can’t get anyone else to lock up?” He suggests.
“They’ll hate me forever if I force them to work until midnight,” you reason, “Besides, it’s not like they’re single, so it’s fine. I can do it myself.”
“I really think you should be resting though. You haven’t been sleeping well lately, right?” He asks with concern in his intonation.
“I can take care of myself, I promise. I’m gonna treat myself after work anyways.” You do a little dance that consists of shimmying your shoulders and bouncing up and down on the balls of your feet.
He smiles at you endearingly with wide eyes, “I don’t think crying to The Notebook is a form of treating yourself.” He repeats as if the joke will never die.
You shake your head and click your tongue exclaiming, “If you must know, I’m gonna bake cookies.”
“Are you gonna share with me?” He pleads.
Your tongue pokes at your inner cheek as if you’re thinking about it. “Hmm, I don’t know. I might eat them all in one night.” Your lips purse in a taunt.
His mouth forms a pout, and you’re forced to give in to him and his bright puppy dog eyes.
“Ugh, fine, but only because you asked so nicely, I guess I can make some extras,” you groan, pressing your lips together straight like an arrow. You nudge his shoulder with your own despite the squeeze at your heart and the softening of your eyes, “For you and your girlfriend.”
It’s not like you had to mention it. But it’s been on your mind since yesterday, and you’re sure that the only way to fix a broken heart is to learn to accept it. Even if it means plucking out the thorns that are lodged in your heart until it feels numb. Empty and devoid of life.
“Girlfrie- oh, right, right. That’d be nice,” he sputters out, body stiffening, “Butー”
“Maybe I can bake them Thursday night?” You offer. “So you can pick them up on Friday if you buy flowers for her?” Your eyes blink in a failed attempt to wink.
Jimin stifles a laugh at your pitiful endeavor. It’s really pathetic how hard you try, pretending that you’re not hurt right in front of the guy who stormed into your garden.
But you suppose flowers can’t grow without a little bit of downpour.
He licks his lips, and his smile falters. “Riiight, but it’s okay, you should enjoy your cookies on Friday night because I’m not sure I’ll be around to buy flowers that day anyways.”
“What do you mean?” You ask, perplexed, head cocked to the side.
“Uh, don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, brushing it off before taking a look at his watch. “I have to head back to work though, my break is almost ending.” You watch him carefully with narrowing eyes as he collects his belongings, scrambling to head out the door. With the exit half opened, he turns around to bid you goodbye. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
The bell chimes and he’s out of sight.
You can’t even process his words because you’re too busy staring at the exit trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Adulthood is just an endless cycle of sleeping and working, but it seems like you’re lacking in the former activity seeing that all you do is work. In the final stretch of Valentine’s Day, with a few more days to go, you’re just about ready to crash and burn.
Upon entering your quiet apartment tonight, you fail to do anything productive. You nose dive into bed and curl up into a cocoon at the strike of 10 pm. Somehow, you don’t even care enough to tug off your jeans or remove your smudged makeup. You’re ready to accept the consequences of bad skin and a stained pillowcase because the only thing that matters is that you knock out the moment your head hits the soft linen. There’s no time to replay the events of today or plan for tomorrow when your eyelids weigh you down into a deep slumber.
There’s not a single thing that can spur you. Not even the shining of the moonlight over your profile or the rhythmic whizzing of cars on the empty street beneath you. Even when there’s a police siren ringing in the distance or a rumble from a descending airplane in the atmosphere above you, you don’t bat an eye. You can’t even hear the hum of the rusty pipelines when your neighbor hops into the shower at the breach of dawn. Even the whirring radiator and the ticking clock blurs into nothing but white noise.
They’re all there to keep you company as you lie down in a bed of withered roses. To offer you comfort in your barren Renaissance garden.
You can’t seem to put your finger on it, but you wake up feeling like it’s the best night of rest you’ve gotten in the last week despite it being a short lived slumber. It’s definitely the most consistent night of sleep you’ve had in a while. And even though you went to bed without dinner, it didn’t hinder your sleep whatsoever. It only means that you can eat a full breakfast to power through the day.
And powering through is what you do best.
Apparently, the world is up against you because you can’t remember the last time you even got to sit down. You’re constantly on your feet, attending to customers and fulfilling orders. There’s no time to breathe even when you’re literally enclosed in a greenhouse. There’s always something to do, and stopping to take a break means slowing down the process. It’s not an option you want to take.
At the end of each day, you’re wobbling back home with sore muscles and blurred vision. Your ability to function is beyond your own imagination. Your definition of “functioning” has diminished to standing on your own two feet although that still bears a challenge for you.
The sustenance in your body is nearly nonexistent, especially because you’ve been neglecting your self-care. Typically, you don’t think about eating on the job. It’s honestly not on your mind because there are only two things that occupy your brain space: (1) Work and (2) Jimin.
Somehow, Jimin takes better care of you than you do yourself. And without him around, you’re a walking corpse. He’s always providing you with lunch and snacks, leaving you sticky notes with reminders to hydrate yourself. You didn’t realize that you needed him this much to remind you of the simple tasks like drinking or eating or… smiling.
Sometimes he draws cute flowers or scribbles plant puns on the post-it notes, sticking them onto obscure places that are hard for you to find. Your favorite one being the time he wrote “I love it when you call me big poppy.”
He claims that the notes are designed to make you laugh, even for the few that are not very funny. They definitely do brighten your day, especially when you have the ephemeral chance to glance at them hanging up above your desk in the back office. Smiling at the itty-bitty illustrations has become second nature to you. When you’re going through a rough day, aka everyday, and you’re in need of a breather, you wander into the back room to pace around, only to come face to face with a kaleidoscope of doodled butterflies spanned across a string of rainbow post it notes.
He once drew a sunflower and said something cheesy about how your laughter is the embodiment of sunshine— how it would be a crime against the flora population if you were to go a day without laughter.
It was corny and far from being right, but it was so perfectly Jimin.
When he does stupid shit like that, it makes you feel like the biggest lovesick idiot in the world. In your naive past, you thought that the smiles he sent your way were ones reserved for you and only you. You were convinced that the shameless flirting was a silent mechanism used to express his inclination towards you. You assumed that the daily visits to your flower shop were formidable attempts to get to know you better. A little part of you hoped that the songs he shared with you equated to sharing a piece of his heart.
You absolutely were sharing. You just didn’t realize that you’d be sharing with someone else.
So when Jimin consigns adorable puns that melt your heart, and he stops by with a cup of coffee, just know that they’re acts of friendship. When he spends his lunch breaks at the flower shop and sings songs that remind him of you, he’s coming from a place of kindness, not attraction.
It is true that Jimin’s your sunshine, but it’s also a fundamental principle to botanists that too much of something is bad enough, and too much of nothing is just as tough. And deceiving yourself into believing that he was all that you needed had scorched up all the flowers in your garden.
The drought he put you in didn’t prepare you enough for the brewing storm.
It pains you to say that you need him more than he needs you because even if he isn’t romantically interested in you, you would have hoped that he’d stick around as a friend. His waning presence leads you to believe that he’s simply not interested.
Maybe you were too invested in what could have been between the two of you, you failed to see what was right there in plain sight.
Somehow, you still wonder if he thinks about you as much as you think about him. And it’s pathetic granted you’re incredibly busy with work and your own crippling health. Yet thoughts of him still pop up throughout the day more than you would like. No matter how much you want to forget about your infatuation, you simply can’t will him away because of how often his beautiful face flashes before your eyes. You want to push him to the back of your mind, but whether you’re in need of a breather during your hectic schedule, admiring his stupid puns and butterfly mosaics, or you’re in need of some company in your eerily quiet apartment, doing laundry or having a meal all to yourself, you still can’t get the sound of his sweet laughter out of your head.
You don’t know how it’s possible, but you manage to close up shop long before midnight. It’s a blessing and a curse because you are absolutely wiped out. Not only are you mentally checked out, but ironically, your flower shop is destitute of flowers, completely sold out from the holiday. As you clean up the barren space, you can’t help but feel as if a big weight has been lifted off your shoulders. The stress of Valentine’s Day is over, and you can finally go home, lie in bed with a tray of cookies, and enjoy the beauty that is Ryan Gosling.
You even consider closing the store all of tomorrow because you need the day off to recharge. So as you print out and paste your notice on the glass door, you’re dumbfounded to come across a sliver of paper that’s already attached on the other side. Opening up the door and letting in a gust of cold air breeze by you, you remove the sticky note that’s been unknowingly attached to your entrance.
Not a daisy goes by that I don’t think of you.
The smile that tugs on your lips grapples against the ache in your heart. Quickly, the fond smile melts into one of hurt and disappointment. Your left hand balls into a tight fist, marring crescent moon shapes into your palms. Meanwhile, your right hand delicately fiddles with the tiny square between your fingers, debating whether or not you should crumple up the paper and toss it away to be long forgotten. You’ve never been so confused about your feelings until Park Jimin came into your life, but you tuck the little daisy doodle into the pocket of your coat with a sigh.
With every passing year, Valentine’s Day becomes a little more bearable than the previous. Tonight feels like any other night, but better. You’ve come to accept that if there isn’t someone who can make you feel special, you might as well do it yourself.
Making a meal for you that doesn’t consist of ramen or 5 minute rice while dimming the lights and sparking up some candles is undeniably part of the healing process. And that’s what tonight mainly consists of. It’s all about love and self-care.
With your laptop perched on top of your dinner table and your Netflix queue lined up, you mindlessly mix at your wet and dry ingredients with a wooden spoon. Nothing has made you feel more at ease than the comfort of watching your favorite movie on repeat and the sweet taste of raw cookie dough on your tongue. Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that can put a smile on your face.
As you wait for your cookies to bake, you settle into bed with your legs crossed and back pressed against the headboard. Laughter from the speakers of your laptop fill the space, and you can’t help but laugh along with the characters, disrupting the peaceful ambiance of your apartment complex. The rumble of your laughter subsides, and the movie rolls on from scene to scene.
Your ears perk up like Pavlov’s dog when the oven goes off. You turn your head so quickly you nearly get whiplash, but it’s all worth it for the love of chocolate chip cookies. The aroma of sugar is enough to will yourself out of bed and conveniently press pause on Ryan Gosling’s charming face.
Pulling on your oven mitts to retrieve the hot platter, your body begins to sway around to the sudden echo of music. The soft guitar strums reverberate through the walls and against the vacant space of your studio. Your body stops moving to the acoustics when you realize where the noise is coming from. Looking up, your eyes bore into the eggshell walls as if you can see through it. But you soon space out, focusing on the vibrations of the nylon strings instead.
The song fades out and the quietude breaks you out of your reverie. You blink in confusion, trying to remember the last time you heard from your neighbor. Although you haven’t spent much time in your apartment in the past week, you miss the late night chats with him. Lately, you’ve been knocking out as soon as your head hits the pillow for some much needed rest. You haven’t heard his voice in forever, and especially not his angelic singing voice. Even tonight he refrains from singing in place of just practicing his guitar.
It’s a bit out of the ordinary.
His side of the wall is surprisingly quiet tonight. You would have expected him to be out and about with his girlfriend, but at this point of the night, they would have been jumping at each other's bones. Yet the gentle patter of footsteps and the lack of banging would suggest that he’s flying solo tonight.
Despite your curiosity, you’re not sure whether or not you’d want to bring it up in case it reopens some wounds. You think it’s best to leave it alone for the time being until he’s ready to come to you instead.
So as you proceed with bingeing your movies, there’s something in the back of your mind that still distracts you. It’s literally a crime that you’ve sat through 2 hours of The Notebook, yet you haven’t shed a single tear because you’re not even focused on the film in front of you. Rather, you’re thinking long and hard about the last time you heard your neighbor laugh in sincerity.
You really couldn’t care any less about the end credits that roll in front of you. Rather, with your chin propped up in the palm of your hands, you listen intently to what’s happening on the other side of the wall. It’s bizarrely quiet, aside from the sad symphony of string instruments that ring in the background of the ending credits.
When your screen turns black, you shut off your laptop and stow it away, knowing in your heart that you’re no longer in the mood for a romantic movie marathon. You make your way into your kitchen and reach for the cookies that have cooled off by now. But somehow, it feels wrong to sit here in enjoyment of your own company. Yet at the same time, this batch of cookies was the only thing you were looking forward to all week.
Nothing seems to satisfy you.
The only desire that creeps upon you is the desire to spend the night with someone else by your side. Frankly, it’s stupid because you know that you don’t need a man, and even the whole world knows that you don’t need one. Especially not on Valentine’s Day because you’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate February 14th with every fibre of your being.
However, the idea of having a friend at your side doesn’t seem so bad at this point.
You transfer all the cookies from the tray onto a smaller plate, arranging the delectable morsels into a presentable fashion.
With your slippers on, you make your way out of your apartment, letting the door close softly behind you. Standing in front of your neighbor’s abode, you nervously shift your weight on the heels of your feet. Midnight is approaching, and you wouldn’t want to disrupt his night like this, but it just feels right to knock on his door and offer your company. Just to check up on him because perhaps he’s in need of some companionship just like you. And who wouldn’t want some chocolate chip cookies? Baked with 80% sugar and 100% love.
Mustering up all the courage in your body, your hand comes up in a tight fist, knocking at the wooden door. You wait a moment, but to your dismay, there’s no evidence of movement on the other side of the partition. You would have heard his footsteps by now, and perhaps the turning of the deadbolt, but it’s dead silent.
Perhaps he didn’t hear you, so you knock a little harder this time.
Nothing.
As you stand outside, lost in naivety, you wonder whether you should try to make a fool of yourself and knock again. It’s been a good 5 minutes of you debating between speaking up to get his attention or giving up and retreating to your studio in embarrassment. Then you mentally facepalm yourself remembering that it’s incredibly rude of you to drop by without any kind of warning.
But still, you had his best interests in mind.
You think that the third time’s the charm, so in a last attempt, you knock with full force.
“Uhh, hey!” Your voice shakes and cracks. Blame it on the nerves. “I made some cookies, and I thought I’d share some!” You semi-yell in hopes of catching his attention.
“One second!” Oh, thank God. You can hear the bed frame creak on the other side and the skid of footsteps across the floor boards.
Your heartbeat weirdly picks up because of the fact that this is quite literally the first time you’ve come face to face with your neighbor. The late night chats with him have always made you feel comfortable, but there’s a certain nuance to meeting him that shakes your nerves.
You brace yourself as you hear the lock turn, eyes casting down towards the plate in front of you.
“I didn’t know that today’d be the day we meet like thiー” He says as the door swings open.
You look up expecting to greet him with a smile, but the one you had prepared falters from your lips.
“What’re youー”
“Y- You liveー”
You stutter over one another, lost in confusion. Staring into the very familiar set of brown eyes in front of you, you’re confounded by your new discovery.
Jimin stands before you, running his hand through his black locks as he opens the door wider, stepping aside to let you through.
“Hey, neighbor?” He sounds disoriented, untrusting of his voice.
You’re stood frozen at the foot of the entrance, unsure as to how you could possibly process all of this.
“I heard you made cookies?” He asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Here, come in.” He gently tugs on your sleeve, coddling you because of the state of shock you’re in.
You nod your head, barely cognizant of what’s being said. But your feet still shuffle through the entryway, and you slide off your slippers at the front door.
“This is so crazy,” he says, taking the plate of cookies off your hands. You’re both surprised that you have yet to drop them. He places the plate onto his coffee table, and his back is turned to you as you stand to the side, playing with the sleeves of your sweater.
How much weirder can this situation possibly get?
“You mean to tell me that we’ve been neighbors all this time and we didn’t even know?” You ask, sucking your lips inward, cocking your head to the side. Your words are a jumbled mess, but Jimin has become a master at deciphering your incoherent words through the thin walls many nights in a row.
“I’m just as surprised as you! I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots?” He exclaims in dismay, patting the seat beside him on the couch as an invitation to you.
Your brain feels as if it’s lost all of its cells because you have so many questions, yet you can’t seem to articulate them. As you sit down, you close your eyes and rub at your temples, praying that you’d wake up from this odd dream.
“There’s no way I could have connected the dots,” you sputter in collection of your thoughts, completely exasperated. “I just don’t understand.”
You fiddle with your fingers, and Jimin takes your hand in his. His touch is soft, and as much as you want to pull away, you give into him because there’s no way you’d ever deny him, especially not when he looks at you with those big round eyes.
“I have so many questions,” you admit, rubbing at your eyelids.
“Shoot.”
“Uhm,” your head shakes wildly. “I don’t even know where to begin?” Your eyes widen, shocked by how nonchalant he’s acting. As if he didn’t just lead you on and ghost you days on end, pretending that everything’s okay now.
“Take your time,” he chuckles reassuringly, offering you a calming smile.
“Uhm… How are you? I guess? Th- that’s kind of the first thing I wanted to ask you before… I- you know.”
Your heart gallops because he’s looking at you, biting his lip. And you, you are completely weak for the man who holds all of your affection in the palm of his hands, yet you can’t handle his smoldering stare, so you avert your eyes elsewhere. This is downright cruel and unusual punishment.
You continue, “Because I haven’t spoken to you much lately, you know?”
“You wanted to check up on me?”
You blink away, eyes now focused on the vase of wilting flowers on the coffee table. Pink and red variegated carnations. You inhale deeply, trying to calm yourself and regulate your breath. Your body stiffens and your shoulders tense. Even your jaw tightens, but you manage to nod your head.
“I’ve been better,” he admits sullenly.
Your hand lets go of his, pulling back to seek comfort at your side. It just doesn’t feel right to hold his hand so intimately when he’s made a mess of your head and your heart. You just can’t do it to yourself, and you can’t do it to him or his girlfriend. Especially not when his heart belongs to her.
You open your mouth as if you have another question to ask, but none of them are coherent enough to utter. There’s plenty of noise ringing in your head, but it’s all nonsense.
Jimin gently rests his hand on the ball of your knee, almost like a graze, but his touch is hot, and you brush him off with the recoil of your leg.
His shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. His hands retract to his lap, respecting your wishes. He gulps, and noticeably the lump in his throat goes down in a swallow.
“Hey, it’s just me, okay? You don’t need to be scared.” He displays his palms out to you as a peace offering. A symbol of vulnerability. The tension in the air is palpable, but you still manage to keep your guard down in front of him.
Because this is Jimin. The guy you’ve come to know and unfortunately love. But it’s just that you’ve never seen Jimin like this.
“Yeah and that’s kind of the problem,” you breathe out. Your brows knit into a frown, and he looks at you in bewilderment, with wide eyes, parted lips, and stress tousled hair. “I- I don’t know if you’re Jimin the mysterious neighbor who’s been nothing but nice to me, or Jimin the guy from the flower shop who pretty much made it loud and clear he doesn’t want to see me,” you scoff.
“B- butー What do you mean? We’re the same person.” His eyes narrow, and he shakes his head subtly trying to convince you. He fiddles with his fingers, cracking his knuckles out of bad habit. Shifting his body so his knees are pointed towards yours, nearly in contact, he refrains from the much needed skinship. The heat radiating from his body is something you’re familiar with, and although it once brought you comfort, you can only feel resentment.
“Of course I want to see you? Iー I?” He’s a stuttering mess, shaking his head from side to side as if you’ve got it all wrong, but you interject because you have so much to say, yet you haven’t expressed yourself to your liking just yet.
“I don’t know about that!” Your hands clench up at your sides until your knuckles turn sharp. “Because neighbor Jimin is telling me he has a fuck buddy he thinks he’s in love with, and flower shop Jimin has a girlfriend he doesn’t want to talk about. So what is it? I’m hearing a lot about mixed feelings for this one person, and… if you’re involved with someone, I don’t want to get in the middle of this,” you spit out more harshly than expected, inching further and further away to the edge of the couch with your arms crossed over your chest. You gulp down a thick glob of spit in hopes of washing down the acidic sting in your throat, but it’s like bile just sits there on your tongue.
“Let me explain, okay?” He begs of you.
You sit there in sullen silence, staring at the carnations in your peripherals, ready to have him break your heart all over again. You nod, but you don’t even bother turning to face him, unsure whether or not you’d be able to hear him talk about how he’s in some complicated relationship with someone else.
“Please, look at me?” he pleads with a sniffle, “I need to know if you’re okay.” His voice cracks, and you finally look his way. You’re far from okay, but seeing him with glossy eyes, you also know that he isn’t either.
He licks his lips, and his hand comes up in desperate need of tucking the stray strand of hair that’s fallen in front of your face. But he decides against it in fear of rejection, and he rests his hand on the ball of his knee instead. Your line of sight falls to his shaking leg. You hesitantly reach across to close your hand softly around his in comfort. His movement stops instantly as he lets out a huff.
Licking your lips, your eyes gaze towards your hands, and you can’t help but imagine how they’d slot into one another so perfectlyー
“_____?” Your eyes shift to lock with his and there are tears that brim at his corners, but they’re kept at bay, refusing to fall.
“I-” He exhales.
You squeeze his hand a little tighter, and you don’t know if it’s more for yourself or for him, but it gives him the strength to continue on.
“Look, that girl and I? We weren’t in a relationship. I promise you. I told you that we were friends with benefits because that’s what we were.” He insists, hoping the message gets across to you, but your heart drops lower into your stomach at his admission. You don’t even want to picture him with some other girl, yet you know way more about their relationship than you would have ever wanted.
Hell, you were even convinced that they were in love. A highlight reel of the last few months spent in your apartment flashes before your eyes, and your grip on his hand loosens. You think back to the days when Jimin was just some faceless guy, dancing around with his supposed girlfriend, having pillow fights, running warm baths, making out beneath the stars, and fucking around with her like they were in love.
But he continues in hopes that you’d understand his point of view. “It was easier to tell you the truth because you didn’t know who I was, and you wouldn’t have judged me for it. So I was an idiot, and at the flower shop, I told you she was my girlfriend because it would have been easier to explain this complicated mess.” A single tear cascades down his cheek, and he wipes it away with the crook of his elbow.
“I mean, she wanted it to be serious, but there was just something pulling me back. And do you know what that was?”
You shake your head no and pull away, unsure how much more of this you can take.
He looks you dead in the eyes, but you can’t even look at him for another second because the wilting carnations are sitting there, mocking you.
“_____, you asked me the other day what I liked about her, and I was wracking my brain trying to come up with an answer... It wasn’t easy because you were the only person I thought about.”
A sudden tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, unbelieving, but you compel yourself to look back at his visage, checking for any tells of a lie. He doesn’t even falter.
“She and I? We fought so much because she was convinced I had feelings for someone else. And you know?” He shakes his head, “…It’s true. I couldn’t think about the things I liked about her, but then when I thought of you. My god, it was just so much easier to talk about the things I loved about you because you’re the one I like. I didn’t know how to express that, okay? The songs that I wrote? The ones you hear me sing day and night? Fuck…” He rubs at his eyes, and they’re evidently red from all the tears welled up. “They’re all about you, and you didn’t even know,” he sobs out. The first drop of tears came out steadily, but as you examine his face in total shock, the tears begin to cascade down his face.
You wrap your arms around his neck, now understanding where he’s coming from. It’s all a little more clear to you, and there’s no need to continue on if he’s in hysteria like this. His arms instinctively squeeze around your waist, holding on tight, too afraid that he’d lose you if he were to let go.
“I didn’t have my feelings sorted out because I was comfortable with where I was, but it’s not like it made me happy,” he confesses. You hush him, running your fingers through his hair and caressing his slumped back. Sitting in silence, you can only hear the sound of your breathing falling into sync with his. Occasionally, the radiator would go off and a car would drive by on the street beneath you.
You tell him that it’s all okay and that all is forgiven, but he still continues in justification of himself. “And I was convinced that you’d think I was a horrible person for liking someone else when I’ve got a complicated relationship going on, okay? Because that’s how I felt about myself, and I swear we broke it off, but I was too embarrassed to come to you because I didn’t know how to explain the mess I got myself into. It’s all my fault, and I’m so so so sorry, you have no idea.”
He’s wracked with sobs, but you hum, listening intently to his every word. They’re coherent enough for you to realize that you’ve both made mistakes because of a huge misunderstanding.
The Jimin that you know and love is right here in your arms, and there’s nothing you can do but forgive and forget.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he cries out with a hiccup. “I promise you that you’re the only person I care about.”
You whisper sweet nothings into his ear, hoping that he calms down because there’s really nothing to apologize for. “What did I say? You don’t have to be sorry, okay?” You remind him.
He lets out a breathy exhale, “I messed up,” he hiccups, “I don’t deserve this. You.”
Your hands rest on his shoulder, gently pulling back from him, but he clings on tighter to your waist. Looking down at the sweet man beneath you, you smile to yourself.
“Jimin,” you murmur.
“Hm?”
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” You shake your head, and a soft chuckle vibrates through your chest. Still, you keep him in your embrace because although it may seem like Jimin is the one in need of a hug, you need it just as much as he does.
“Can I tell you a story?” You ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, tickling the skin at your sternum.
“I think I caught feelings for you the first time we met. Do you remember that?” He hums as you reminisce on the memory. “It was some random Sunday, and you walked in looking for a bouquet for your mom, but you realized you didn’t have enough cash on youー”
Jimin laughs beneath you, and it’s the way that he laughs that makes you realize you need that in your life. A cheshire grin spreads across your lips, and that’s when you know you can’t go a single day without hearing his laugh again.
“You didn’t have enough cash, so you pulled out a post it note and scribbled an IOU.” You can barely get the sentence out without chuckling to yourself. Jimin has stopped sobbing at this point, being reduced to a few sniffles here and there. You deem it as the right moment to pull back from his embrace so you can look him in the eyes.
“You drew a little daisy for me and that’s when I knew you were really something else.”
You cup his cheeks, and a grin tugs on his lips, matching the one on your face. His eyes shine in the dim light, just like how the sun radiates in the day time. A single tear trickles down his plush cheeks, and you wipe it away with the pad of your thumb.
“Look, I’ve liked you for as long as I can remember, and I have to admit that it hurt me when you said you had a girlfriend, but it really hurt me when you left without saying anything.”
His eyes cast downwards as if he’s ashamed, but you place your hand beneath his chin, bringing his attention back up.
“Know that I’d never judge you for the decisions you make and for the relationships you have, okay? And I don’t think you’re horribleー”
“You don’t?” He cuts you off with his big pleading eyes.
“No, far from it,” you beam, “I still think you’re the most selfless person I know.”
Jimin’s face drops at your confession, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like you’re not special, because to me, you’re the most extraordinary person in this world.”
He cups your face, noticing that your eyes are starting to well. Drops of tears roll down your face, and Jimin’s quick to dry them away, pressing his lips against your cheeks to collect the drops of salt water. As you smile, another stream of tears pour from your ducts. Soft pecks are trailed against your skin, and you think you’ve successfully washed away all the pain.
You can feel the flowers in your heart slowly starting to bloom in preparation for spring.
“Why’d you stop?” You ask, opening up your eyes. He’s merely a few inches away from you, stuck in a daze.
His eyes can’t decide whether they want to look at the gleam in your irises or at the curvature of your lips, flickering between the two.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” Your whimper is hardly loud enough for your own ears, but he hears you loud and clear.
His hands rest at the sides of your neck as his thumbs run over your cheeks, grazing over the flesh of your lips. “Can I show you how special you are to me?”
You nod your head, and Jimin is overcome with the urge to kiss you, inching closer with puckered lips. They’re soft against your own, plush and pillowy. You melt into his touch as if he’s the light of your life. You think you could cry again from the sheer amount of euphoria built up in your little heart. Having him in your arms is all you could ever ask for.
He pulls back slightly in need of a breath, and you take the opportunity to climb into his lap, with knees settled on either side of his taut thighs.
“Missed you,” you whimper against the column of his neck, nosing at the sensitive skin.
Jimin’s breath hitches as he bites back a moan, “Missed you more.”
“Not possible,” you trail gentle kisses against his collarbones, pulling back on the cotton of his t-shirt to expose more of his neck.
His hands rest on your outer thighs thighs, squeezing tight on the muscles. You reach behind you to grab at his forearms, urging him to move his hands higher onto your body. He takes the hint immediately and experimentally squeezes at your ass. Your lips part from his neck, and Jimin takes the opportunity to latch his mouth back onto yours.
His lips are gentle in contrast to the firm grip he has on you. But with your weight resting on top of him, core pressed up against his crotch, you can feel how hard he is beneath you. In need of some release, you start to move your hips back and forth, grinding over his hard on.
Jimin gives you a lingering kiss on your lips, pulling back with a harsh groan. You offer a teasing smile, and he leans forward. He supports your weight at the bottom of your ass as your legs wrap around his waist. You nearly yelp when he stands, holding you up in his arms.
“I got you,” he reassures, pressing his lips firmly against yours, walking towards his unmade bed space. He lays you down gently on top of the messy covers, climbing between your legs. You whine upon the release of his lips, but his mouth leaves hot kisses down the column of your throat, causing you to gasp.
“Is it okay if we take this off?” He asks, thumbing at the hem of your sweater.
You nod sitting up, and he tugs the material off for you, tossing it to the edge of the bed. Upon sight of your bare chest, he molds into you, lips suctioning around your pebbled nipple. His other hand massages at your unattended breast, squeezing at the supple flesh.
“You’re beautiful,” he hums against your body.
You’re easily affected by his words as your back arches and your legs hook around his torso. Canting your hips upward, you signal to Jimin with a whine that you’re desperate for his touch.
“There’s no need to rush, baby, we have the whole night,” he warns you, leaving a kiss between the valley of your breasts.
You cry out in frustration, but it soon subsides when he satiates your needs. You relax when his hand lowers into your sweatpants, cupping at your heat. His middle finger traces at your entrance, running it up and down your panty clad slit. Your hips lurch once again, but Jimin presses your hips down, flush against the mattress.
As his tongue circles around your sensitive nipple, his fingers decide to dip into your underwear. The obscene sound of your juices squelching can be heard when he presses his finger into your tight hole. Inserting a finger in, you can feel your walls stretch around him. A cry falls from your lips as he begins to rub at your clit with the pad of his thumb.
Jimin inserts another finger, and your cunt feels so hot with the amount of friction. Pumping two fingers in and out, there’s a pleasurable burn that ripples throughout your body. Beads of sweat form on your hairline, and you wipe them away with the back of your hand. You can practically feel your heart beating out of your chest.
“Tell me how it feels, okay?” He asks, switching over to your other breast.
“You feel so good,” you mewl. He hums against your nipple in affirmation, biting lightly at the perky bud.
“Jimin?” You call out for him.
He parts from your chest to look into your eyes, fingers still pumping in and out of you with flexing biceps.
“I think it’d feel better if you’d fuck me,” you admit, no filter needed.
“Shit,” he groans, slowing down the pace. “I want to eat you out first though.”
He retracts his hand, and you feel empty without him inside. Your sweatpants and panties are tugged off in one swift motion, casted to the side along with your sweatshirt. Looking up with stars in your eyes, you can see that Jimin is still fully dressed. You open your mouth to tell him about your wishes, but he must have read your mind because he pulls off his t-shirt and throws it with no regard.
Beneath his clothing, he reveals to you his robust body. You’re dripping with lust, and it must be so obvious from the way you stare at his abdominals. Everything about him is so well-built, and you curse the talented dancer in front of you.
“Like what you see?” He teases, winking at you as he descends down your body.
“Love it,” you moan.
His breath is hot against your wet pussy. With juices dripping down your ass, you ruin the linen sheets beneath you. His fingers play with your core, spreading your swollen lips to reveal your flower, admiring how pretty your cunt is.
Sitting up with elbows propped, you look down in frustration between your bent legs to see Jimin licking his lips, staring at your heat like he’s ready to devour you. He kisses at the long, dark lines of stretch marks that reside on your inner thighs before his tongue presses softly against your wet clit, kitten licking at the bud. Reaching out, your hand balls around the white comforter to anchor yourself down. As you spread your legs wider, Jimin’s hands hook around your limbs to rest at your thighs. He presses them down, restricting your movement.
His tongue laps at your heat with no mercy, licking a stripe up your sex and tracing letters onto your clit, sending your nerves aflame. Your breaths are shallow as you pant, melding yourself to the mattress. He flicks his tongue, prodding it against your hole and delving in and out. He massages your tight walls as it clenches around his tongue.
There’s a knot in your stomach that forms embarrassingly fast, but you can’t help it when his plush lips give your cunt so much attention, sucking harshly on your clitoris. He looks over at your features, taking notice of your reactions, licking over and over the parts that make you squirm the most.
Your face scrunches in pleasure, nearly toppling over the edge. But you’re not ready to come. Not yet at least. Not without having Jimin’s hard cock inside of you.
Jimin is relentless against your pussy, but he doesn’t even let up when you call his name out. Your grip around the comforter loosens in favor of digging your fingers into Jimin’s luscious black locks.
“Jimiiiin,” you whine, tugging lightly at his roots. “I need you, please, please,” you beg.
He leaves a kiss at your bud, and you shudder in response. Jimin climbs up your body, and you shiver at the loss of contact.
“You need me, huh?” He teases, “You want to come?” You nod your head ardently when he presses his red, swollen lips against yours. He grapples with your mouth in a bruising, passionate kiss. With clicking teeth and suckling tongues, you can taste yourself off of his plush lips, completely drenched in your arousal.
Trailing your hand down Jimin’s sturdy body, you can’t resist running your hands over his perfectly sculpted abs. But on your descent, you pull on the strings of his heather gray sweatpants, loosening the elastic around his waist.
Your palm slides beneath the band, tucking beneath his boxer briefs. His eyebrows scrunch, and he gasps against your mouth when you wrap your hand around his hot, veiny cock, stroking at his erection. His cheeks flush as you swipe your thumb over the head, collecting beads of precum on your fingers.
He shudders at your touch. “Oh my God, I might die if you keep doing that,” he nearly cries.
You smile against the skin of his neck, sucking at his pulse point. Meanwhile, Jimin reaches over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom. He nearly falls off the bed, losing balance on his knee when you stroke his cock a little faster.
As Jimin sits up, trying to open up the packaging, you careen forward to pull off his sweats. You can hardly pull it down below his thick ass given the position he’s sitting in. But it’s enough for you to pull his dick out and wrap your hand around his girth in all its glory.
While waiting for Jimin to take out the condom, you decide to tease him like he deserves. Switching positions, you lie down on your stomach in front of him. With a glob of saliva built up in your mouth, you spit onto the head of his cock, watching it drip down the shaft and onto his balls. You glide your hand up and down to spread the saliva, making sure he’s nice and wet. His balls tighten the moment you suckle your lips around his slit.
You look up at Jimin with wide eyes in hope of some praise.
His eyes stare into yours, but he quickly throws his head back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck I’m not gonna last, please, I know your mouth is like heaven, but I want to be inside you,” he rambles.
He tucks your hair behind your ears and rests his hand beneath your chin, tilting it upwards. His lips meet your forehead in a sweet kiss before you lie back down on the bed, spreading your legs wide open as an invitation.
Jimin ungracefully pulls off his pants down the rest of his legs. He pumps his thick cock in his hands before sliding on the condom and lining himself up at your entrance. You groan, reaching out for his wrists as he glides his length up and down your folds, making sure you're nice and wet for him, fully prepped.
The callous on his thumb is rough against your clit as he rubs down on it, easing the discomfort of penetration. Your velvety walls stretch around his member as he sinks into you inch by inch.
You’re gasping for air as he sheaths himself inside you, but you remain calm because Jimin peppers kisses all across your face.
“Are you okay?” He asks, concerned.
“Mhmm,” you hum, “Might need a second.”
His nose nudges at your cheek, “Take all the time you need, baby.”
Moments go by until you’re comfortable with the stretch. You don’t know how Jimin has so much patience with you when you can literally feel his dick twitch inside your pussy, impossibly harder than he was moments prior. But like the angel he is, he still waits for your go-ahead.
“Jimin, you can move,” you whisper, cupping his cheek and offering a butterfly kiss.
His mouth finds his way to yours, and he kisses you with so much fervor. You’re too distracted by the kiss to notice him slide out of you.
But your lips part slightly, letting out a gasp when he drives his dick back into you, setting a moderate pace. Your hands reach for the skin of his back, latching your nails onto the smooth surface. The slap of skin on skin is obscene as his hips meet yours, pumping himself inside of you. The delicious burn has you digging your nails into his shoulder blades, scratching at his taut muscles.
You weren’t wrong to say that you can’t go another day without hearing Jimin’s laughter, but at the time, you were not privileged enough to hear his moans against the shell of your ear. That is the one thing you don’t want to ever live without, too spoiled by the sensual man above you.
Jimin fucks into you deeply, changing his angle as he shifts his weight onto his knees. His calculated thrusts to your g-spot sends you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes focus on your pussy, watching his dick disappear inside of you like an addiction. With a firm grasp on your hips, he lifts you higher to help you reach your orgasm.
“Jimin, I’m gonna come,” you gasp, gripping your walls tightly around his length.
“I know, baby, you can come.” He lowers himself onto his elbows so he can come face to face with you. His hands reach down between your bodies, and he rubs harsh figure eights on your swollen clit. You lean forward, pressing your lips to his as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your body trembles beneath him, moaning his name like a vice.
Jimin rides out your high, pumping into your tight hole until your legs nearly give out. He doesn’t dare pull away, continuing to circle your clit until you’ve nearly reached your limits. Your walls pulse around his cock, squeezing around his shaft until he’s nearly at his edge. His hair is matted to his forehead, slicked by sweat. You brush away the loose strands with the tips of your fingers.
“Are you close?” You breathe out, hush and quiet, cupping his jaw with the palm of your hands.
“Mhmm,” he gulps, rutting into you, pumping your cum in and out as it sheaths his shaft.
His pace falters as he approaches his orgasm, hips stuttering against yours. Jimin nearly collapses on top of you as he spills himself into the condom, moaning into the cusp of your ear. His chest presses up against yours as he attempts to catch his breath.
You trace soothing circles onto his back as he basks in the afterglow of post orgasmic sex.
His breathing soon evens out, and it’s comfortably quiet, that is with the exception of the radiator hissing in the corner of the studio.
“Wow.” He kisses your temple before pulling out, letting the remains of your cum flow out of you. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you into his warm embrace.
“So on a scale of 1-10, how special would you say you feel right about now?” A smug smirk tugs on his lips, and you playfully smack his pecks.
“Does this answer your question?” You ask, peppering 10 kisses onto his lips.
“Mmm, no, I didn’t quite hear your answer” he says, leaning in for another kiss, “Tell me one more time?”
And as Jimin kisses you goodnight, you know in your heart that the heartache and the loss of $5 are all worth it in the end if it means you get to wake up and smell the roses with Jimin at your bedside.
#bts smut#bts fluff#jimin smut#jimin fluff#jimin#park jimin#bts angst#jimin angst#bangtan#bts#fic: lover to lean on#fanfic#fan fic#fanfiction#fan fiction#flower shop au#jimin x reader#bts fanfic#bts fan fic#bts fanfiction#bts fan fiction#bts x reader#jimin scenario#jimin imagine#bts scenario#bts imagine
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CHICAGO FIRE – VIRAL (S01E16)
[keys clinking]
Matt Casey: Thanks, mom.
Nancy Casey: Matt…
Matt Casey: I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We can… talk then.
Nancy Casey: Oh, oh, oh, jeez.
Matt Casey: Mom, why are you hiding from your parole officer?
Nancy Casey: [sighs] I went out last night. If she tests me, I won’t
pass. Just please get rid of her
Matt Casey: [stammers]
[sharp knocks at door]
Matt Casey: Ms. Kendrick.
Lady 1 (Kendrick): Hi, Matt. I’m here to check in on Nancy.
Matt Casey: Yeah, you just missed her. She’s out for a walk.
Lady 1 (Kendrick): I can wait.
Matt Casey: Um, my shift is about to start.
Lady 1 (Kendrick): Fine. Try later.
Matt Casey: Thank you.
cutscene
Clarice: Leslie.
Leslie Shay: Ms. Larocque, so sorry. This is just how it is when I’m
on shift. My apologies.
Clarice: Um, look…
[kissing sound]
Clarice: Daniel’s rejected her offer. He wants full custody.
Leslie Shay: I thought you said he’d take the deal.
Lady 2 (Ms. Larocque): It was a good deal, but the father has a
strong case.
Leslie Shay: Does he?
Lady 2 (Ms. Larocque): Let’s look at it from his lawyer’s
perspective. We’ve got a switch-hitter
who married a man, conceived a child
with him, then left him, and took the
child to go live with her former lesbian
lover, a woman with a time-
consuming and very hazardous
occupation.
Leslie Shay: Oh, come on.
Lady 2 (Ms. Larocque): I’m just looking for ways to normalise this
scenario as much as possible.
Leslie Shay: Normalise?
Lady 2 (Ms. Larocque): For instance, you two shacking up with a
skirt-chasing firefighter is not helping our
cause.
Clarice: I-I was just trying to tell her how Kelly has been so helpful.
Lady 2 (Ms. Larocque): Ladies, you want me to convince a judge
that you’re serious about being a family?
Then you need to get Clarice and this
baby into a warm, loving, nurturing, and
yes, normal home.
Clarice: [sighs]
Leslie Shay: Okay. We’ll get our own place.
[station alert buzzes & blares]
[siren wails and horn honks]
Chief Boden: (over radio) All companies be aware, we have a
lightweight truss construction heavy structure fire
Victim 1: I can’t get down the stairs. It’s too hot.
Chief Boden: All companies, third-floor rescue. Casey, get me two
ladders.
Matt Casey: Got it.
[indistinct chatter]
Matt Casey: Keep it flowing. Herrmann, Mills, Cruz, up the second
ladder
[grunts]
Gotcha.
Peter Mills: Come on, I got you, man. All right?
You’re doing good, man.
Victim 2 (Girl/Child): [coughs]
Leslie Shay: That’s it sweetheart.
Peter Mills: Good job, man.
Victim 1 (Dad): [coughing]
Peter Mills: Okay?
Victim 1 (Dad): Yeah.
Victim 2 (Girl/Child): What about Hudson? You have to get him.
Victim 1 (Man): The dog.
Victim 2 (Girl/Child): Hudson! Hudson!
Matt Casey: Cruz!
Mouch: Stay put, Cruz.
Joe Cruz: Wait a minute! I can hear him.
Come here, boy!
Chief Boden: Cruz, get out of there!
Matt Casey: Cruz! Cruz!
Joe Cruz: [grunts]
Hudson!
Hudson!
Where are you, boy?
[dog barking]
[creaking]
[dog barking]
Christopher Herrmann: Come here, come on.
Joe Cruz: Aah!
Matt Casey: (into radio) Man down! (over radio) Man down!
Mouch: I’m going.
[Pass alarm beeping]
- title -
[pass alarm beeping]
Matt Casey: Cruz, call out!
Cruz!
[beeping continues]
Matt Casey: Hey, Cruz.
Cruz!
Mouch: You okay, buddy?
Joe Cruz: Uh, yeah, yeah, I think so.
Matt Casey: All right. We got to move.
Joe Cruz: [groans]
[creaking]
[indistinct shouting]
Matt Casey: Mouch!
Joe Cruz: Mouch! Mouch! Mouch!
Mouch: I’m okay.
Joe Cruz: Mouch!
Matt Casey: This way! Watch your feet!
Joe Cruz: Watch your feet! Gotcha!
Let’s go!
Mouch: [panting]
[indistinct background chatter]
Gabby Dawson: Mouch, you okay?
Mouch: Yeah.
Joe Cruz: Are you sure, man? Let ‘em check you out.
Mouch: I’m fine.
Gabby Dawson: Hey, Casey, how about you? You all right?
Matt Casey: Yeah.
Leslie Shay: You got a second-degree burn here.
Chief Boden: Take him to the hospital.
Joe Cruz: It’s nothing, Chief.
Chief Boden: Take him to the hospital.
Victim 2 (Girl/Child): You okay? Good boy.
Christopher Herrmann: Cruz is out of control.
cutscene
[dog growling]
[back up beeping]
Kelly Severide: Hey, Whaley, any new updates on Renee?
Eric Whaley: She’s okay physically. They’re going to keep her on a
72-hour hold.
Psychiatric observation.
Kelly Severide: Did you talk to her?
Eric Whaley: She wouldn’t see me.
I, uh, I don’t know what to do.
cutscene
Matt Casey: Thank you.
Gabby Dawson: Hey.
Matt Casey: Hey.
Gabby Dawson: How long are you going to freeze me out?
Matt Casey: I’m not freezing you out.
I gotta talk to Boden.
Gabby Dawson: Yeah, sure.
Matt Casey: Cruz is still in the ER. He’s telling doctors he wants to
come back and finish his shift.
Chief Boden: Did you happen to notice if Cruz’s bunker gear had a
cape sewn into it?
Matt Casey: No, Chief. It definitely does not.
Chief Boden: Then please dissuade your man of the notion that he
is invincible.
Matt Casey: Sure.
Otis Zvonecek: (recording) And that’s how our fellow firefighter was
saved today.
56 hits in less than an hour. Just tell me this thing’s
not going to go viral.
Gabby Dawson: Glad to see Mouch’s near-death experience can
help drive traffic to your podcast.
Otis Zvonecek: The whole point of the podcast is to show people
what we really do.
Christopher Herrmann: You’re supposed to be looking up how-to
videos on taping drywall.
Otis Zvonecek: All right.
Christopher Herrmann: We got to get back to fixing up the
Bombadier, all right. We’re behind
schedule.
Gabby Dawson: Oh, stop calling it the Bombadier. That name has
poisoned the well with the locals. We gotta…
re-christen it something else.
Otis Zvonecek: May I propose… Moustache Pete’s?
Gabby Dawson: No, you may not. We need something simple.
A single, evocative word like, uh, Solstice or
Perception or uh…
Otis Zvonecek: Pretentious? Or we could call it something fun like
Moustache Pete’s.
Christopher Herrmann: You can name it ‘out of business’ if we
don’t get back on schedule.
Otis Zvonecek: Okay, okay, here we go. How to tape drywall, part 1
of… 15.
Gee, you know who I bet’s really good at drywall?
Casey. Too bad somebody got on his bad side by
fraternising with one Detective Voight.
Leslie Shay: Hey, uh, listen, I need…
Kelly Severide: Hey, have I thanked you lately for opening your trap
about Renee? Because she’s currently in a psych
ward.
Leslie Shay: Kelly, she needs help. How fun do you think this is for
her?
Kelly Severide: Yeah. What did you want to talk about?
[station alert buzzes & blares]
(Over PA): Ambulance 61…
Leslie Shay: Tell you later.
(Over PA): Person down, Michigan and Upper Wacker.
Kelly Severide: [sighs]
cutscene
Matt Casey: Hey, Christie.
[door closes]
Matt Casey: I have a new proposal regarding mom. Give me a call
when you can. Bye.
Hey, Mouch. You okay?
Mouch: I came to you a while back, about Cruz… how there’s
something off about him, and you told me to shut up.
Matt Casey: In so many words, I guess.
Mouch: So are you still in charge of our truck, or do I have to go
around you and talk to Boden?
cutscene
[ambo door closes]
Gabby Dawson: Watching you and Kelly move back in and out of
that place is like watching a ping-pong match.
Leslie Shay: [chuckles] I know, I get it. I just hope he understands.
Lady 3 (Good Samaritan): I tried to get him to come inside a store,
but he won’t move.
Gabby Dawson: Hey, it’s too cold for you to be out here, hun.
What’s your name?
Man 1: Mick.
Gabby Dawson: Mick, can you stand up?
You think you can walk over to that ambulance?
Leslie Shay: Come on, Mick.
Gabby Dawson: Oh, yeah. We got you.
Whoa, 70 over 50. What are you on?
Man 1 (Mick): [grunts]
Gabby Dawson: [chuckles] Okay, fine. It looks like you might be
suffering from exposure, so we’re going to get
you to the hospital, all right?
Man 1 (Mick): No.
Gabby Dawson: Yeah.
Leslie Shay: It’s nice and warm at the hospital, Mick. You’ll like it.
Lots of pretty nurses.
Man 1 (Mick): Prettier than you two?
Leslie Shay: Come on, be realistic.
Gabby Dawson: Hey. Don’t worry about Severide. He’ll totally
understand why you need to move out.
Leslie Shay: I know, it’s just… after all the drama, it just sucks
having a lawyer make decisions about your living
situation.
Okay, Mick, just a little pinch.
Man 1 (Mick): [grunts]
Leslie Shay: Ahh! [pants]
[curtains drawing]
ER Doctor: We’ll keep trying to convince him to consent to a blood
draw, but we can’t force him to. And unless he does,
we can only guess at what transmittable diseases he’s
carrying.
Gabby Dawson: And judging from this cocktail of antivirals, you
must think this guy’s a walking petri dish.
ER Doctor: Hep-B’s always a big risk. Also Hep-C. The interferon
therapy should protect you against those, but given the
tracks on his arms and symptoms, I think we need to
treat you as though you’ve been exposed to HIV.
Leslie Shay: How soon can we test for HIV?
ER Doctor: Not for three months after exposure.
Here’s the first one.
Leslie Shay: [exhales]
Gabby Dawson: Hey, you’re going to be fine. The statistics are way
in your favour.
Leslie Shay: I mean, it’s like Russian roulette. Large bore needle
filled with this guy’s blood. If he has the hiccups, I’m
going to catch ‘em.
cutscene
[tv in background]
Peter Mills: Hey, uh, Lieutenant, I was hoping to ask you a question.
Um, I was looking at the list of up and coming classes
at the academy, and I’m… I’m trying to figure out which
ones to take to, if possible, make a move to Squad?
Kelly Severide: Let me eat my cornflakes first.
Peter Mills: Yeah. Yeah, sure.
Chief Boden: We can finish the exposure paperwork later.
Don’t worry, Shay, you’re getting the best care
available.
Leslie Shay: Thanks, Chief.
Kelly Severide: What’s wrong with her?
Gabby Dawson: Needle stick.
Mouch: Ugh. Was he sick?
Gabby Dawson: Yellow, track marks, and he didn’t agree to a blood
panel.
Peter Mills: You okay?
Gabby Dawson: I just want this shift to end. Casey hates me, now
my partner gets stuck.
Peter Mills: Casey?
Gabby Dawson: Yeah, forget it. It’s fine.
Peter Mills: Screw him. He doesn’t understand you, it’s his problem.
Gabby Dawson: Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Mills.
cutscene
Leslie Shay: Even if it’s just Hep-C, it’s, you know, 80% of infections
are chronic, and um, I’d be on disability for months,
and if Daniel’s lawyer finds out… [lightly sobs]
Kelly Severide: You’re getting ahead of yourself.
Leslie Shay: [sighs]
Kelly Severide: Wait for the test to come back.
Leslie Shay: Yeah.
[sighs] Um… the lawyer said that living with you isn’t
normal enough [voice breaking] So I have to move
out. I’m sorry.
Kelly Severide: You do whatever it takes to keep you, Clarice and
that baby together.
Leslie Shay: Yeah. Thanks.
cutscene
[tv in background]
Joe Cruz: Hey, Mouch.
Mouch: How’s the arm?
Joe Cruz: Burned but fine.
Hey, man, I wanted to thank you again.
Mouch: It’s in the job description, right?
Joe Cruz: Yeah.
Hey, also, I think I owe you an apology.
[sighs]
cutscene
[knocks on door]
[door shuts]
Gabby Dawson: [sighs] I realise you may not understand why I went
to Voight.
I didn’t have another choice, and it made all the
difference in Antonio’s case.
Matt Casey: He threatened me and my fiancé.
Gabby Dawson: He saved my brother, Casey.
[knock on door]
Mouch: Cruz is back, in case you’re interested.
[door closes]
Joe Cruz: I screwed up, Lieutenant. It won’t happen again, believe
me.
Matt Casey: I tried that once already. When you told me you could
live with your sins, that turned out to be a lie.
Joe Cruz: Lieutenant, you got to believe…
Matt Casey: This is not a conversation! If you’ve come to hate
yourself, if you’ve decided that you don’t deserve to
live, well, that’s your problem. Do you wanna stand
at the ceremony where we pin Mouch’s badge next
to Darden’s because he burned to death trying to
save someone who’s already dead inside? If your
badge isn’t on Boden’s desk by next shift, I’ll go to
the police about Flaco. It’ll mean the end of my
career too. But hey, I’ll pound nails for a living.
What I can’t do is stand by and watch you
endanger one more of my men.
[somber music]
cutscene
Lady 4 (Real Estate Agent): The kitchen’s just being redone. New
cabinets, new appliances, laundry
hook-ups are right over there.
Leslie Shay: Okay.
Um… school wise, uh, I know Wesley’s young, but…
Lady 4 (Real Estate Agent): Oh, it’s never too early to think about
that. We’re in the very desirable Bell
elementary school district. But I
have to be honest with you. I’ve
got a lot of people interested in
this unit.
Leslie Shay: Okay, can you just give us, like, a second?
Lady 4 (Real Estate Agent): Sure.
Leslie Shay: Thank you.
Clarice: Uh, okay. Thank you.
So the uh, the lawyer says that Daniel’s attorneys could find
out about the needle stick during discovery.
Leslie Shay: Look, Daniel’s lawyer can say whatever he wants.
What that judge is going to see is a family ready to
provide Wesley with a warm and loving home… in
a very desirable school district.
Clarice: You’re right [chuckles lightly]
I’m sorry.
We’ll take it.
cutscene
[buzzer]
Kelly Severide: [sniffs]
Renee Whaley: [clears throat]
[scoffs]
[door closes]
Renee Whaley: What, you expected a straitjacket?
Why are you here exactly?
Kelly Severide: Because your brother asked me to come.
Renee Whaley: Poor Eric. He thinks he’s finally cracked the puzzle
that is Renee.
All this nonsense about me sleeping with Dean.
Kelly Severide: I’m not here to argue about that.
Renee Whaley: Oh, right, because as my life turned to ashes, you
just coasted on and forgot all about me.
Kelly Severide: You don’t know anything about my life.
Renee Whaley: [scoffs] I know that Kelly Severide is doing just fine.
We’re done. Take me back.
Open the door.
Kelly Severide: Renee.
[keypad beeping]
[buzzer]
[door closes]
cutscene
Otis Zvonecek: Dawson, you have absolutely no idea what you’re
doing, huh?
Gabby Dawson: What are you talking about?
Otis Zvonecek: Call Casey.
[sighs]
[metal clanging]
[wall plaster dropping]
Christopher Herrmann: What the hell?
[metal clangs & wall plaster dropping]
Otis Zvonecek: Whoa.
Christopher Herrmann: Stephanidies didn’t say anything about a
safe.
Gabby Dawson: What do you think’s inside?
Christopher Herrmann: Nothing good. My luck don’t run that way.
[metal clangs]
Otis Zvonecek: Well, let’s open it and find out. Worst-case scenario,
it’s empty.
Christopher Herrmann: What if it contains a decomposed head of
some gangster that went missing in the
‘20s? Next thing you know, this bar gets
wrapped in crime scene tape, and we
can’t get back in here.
Otis Zvonecek: If there’s a mobster’s head in there, Moustache
Pete’s gonna be famous.
Gabby Dawson: We’re not calling it Moustache Pete’s.
Otis Zvonecek: Yes we are.
Christopher Herrmann: Forget it. That safe is bad news.
Look out.
Gabby Dawson: Hey Herrmann!
cutscene
Matt Casey: Each week my shift moves up a day. Tuesday and
Friday this week, Monday and Thursday next
week. I’ve drawn up a list of house rules that
mom would have to agree to. Uh, curfews, when
she can have visitors. You can add whatever you
want to the list.
Christie: Matt, no.
Matt Casey: Christie, I need you. Please, at least on the days I’m on
shift.
Christie: Will I have to learn how to lie to her parole officer too?
[chair slides back]
Christie: Mom.
Nancy Casey: Christie.
You look wonderful.
Wow, you realise this is the first time we’ve all been
together as a family in, like, 15 years?
Matt Casey: Yeah.
Nancy Casey: I guess the real purpose of this meeting is to [sniffs]
discuss the mom problem.
Christie: Okay, fine. I’ll talk to Jim.
Matt Casey: Okay. Now let’s eat.
The chicken sandwich is great, by the way.
Christie: I’m a vegan [clears throat]
Matt Casey: Since when?
Christie: [scoffs] Going on ten years, Matt.
Matt Casey: I did not know that. I… wow.
Is that like a vegetarian, or is it the eggs thing? You
can’t eat anything?
Christie: Oh my gosh.
Matt Casey: What?
Christie: Do I seriously have to explain this to you?
Matt Casey: What? No, that’s fine.
cutscene
[knock on door]
Kelly Severide: Hey, did you get my message?
Eric Whaley: Yeah. What did she say?
Kelly Severide: Nothing that matters. She’s angry.
Eric Whaley: At me?
Kelly Severide: At me. At… at… at everything.
Look, I-I’m sorry, but all this was against my better
judgement, and now she’s spinning out, so…
Eric Whaley: No, I get it. I get it. Thanks, Kelly.
This is, uh, it’s my last shift at 51. I’m glad we got the
chance to work together.
[door shuts]
cutscene
Mouch: Is Cruz gonna grace us with his presence today?
Matt Casey: I don’t know.
Mouch: You talk to him?
Matt Casey: I did.
Mouch: How’d that talk go?
Matt Casey: Don’t worry about it, Mouch. I talked to him. That’s all
you need to know.
[locker door shuts]
cutscene
Priest: “You brood of vipers, who warned you to flee from the
coming wrath? Produce good fruit as evidence of your
repentance. Even now, the axe lies at the root of the
trees. Therefore, every tree, which does not bear good
fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. I am
baptising you with water for repentance, but the one
who is coming after me is mightier than I. I am not
worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptise you with
the Holy Spirit and fire. And do not presume to say
to yourselves, ‘we have Abraham as our father.’”
Child 1: Look, mom, a fireman.
Priest: “And raise up children to Abraham with these stones. Then
Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be
baptised by him. John tried to prevent him, saying, ‘I need
to be baptised by you, and yet you come to me?’ Jesus
said to him… [continues speaking in background]
cutscene
Otis Zvonecek: I read the whole thing, front to back. There’s no
codicil in this deed about any safe.
Gabby Dawson: We bought the bar, lockstock, and barrel. That
means the safe rightly belongs to you, me and
Otis.
Otis Zvonecek: Along with whatever’s inside. Whether it’s an old
stamp collection or bearer bonds or, gold
doubloons.
Gabby Dawson: You’re outvoted Herrmann, two to one.
Christopher Herrmann: We didn’t buy that bar hoping to find
buried treasure. We bought it as an
honest investment. And for the first
time in my life, I feel like I’m onto
something good and real. Now
whatever is in that safe, somebody
put it in there and locked it away for
a reason. Why don’t we leave it alone
and get on with our plan?
Gabby Dawson: Yeah, we’re gonna open the safe.
Otis Zvonecek: Seconded.
[station alert buzzes & blares]
(Over PA): Truck 81, Ambulance 61, Battalion 25. Bomb squad
assist, Wrightwood and Jesse.
Dispatcher: (over radio) CPD be advised, divert all traffic. Bomb
disposal unit on site in Lincoln Square.
Peter Mills: So what exactly is our role in a bomb squad assist?
Christopher Herrmann: Nothing. Not unless the bomb tech snips
the wrong wire.
Matt Casey: What’s the story, Chief?
Chief Boden: A tenant committed suicide in his car around back,
shot himself in the head. But the police are suspect
because the deceased was turned down four times
by the CPD, and there is a gasoline smell coming
from the inside.
Man 2 (Bomb Tech Squad Lt): Zoom in.
Our mast camera confirmed the
place is wired.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): We should cut our way in.
Kelly Severide: We have access to the apartment above?
[whirring]
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): That’ll do it.
Kelly Severide: Great, we’ll get out of your way.
[indistinct radio chatter]
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): Whoa. There’s a woman down there.
[suspenseful music]
Leslie Shay: The neighbour say it’s his ex-wife.
Man 2 (Bomb Tech Squad Lt): My guy will go in and see if it’s
secure and your guys can bring
her out.
Chief Boden: (into radio) Severide, you sure you want (over radio) to
do this?
Kelly Severide: (into radio) We’re here, right? (over radio) Gonna
need a jump bag, though.
Chief Boden: (into radio) Copy that.
Kelly Severide: All right. Okay.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): Carpet’s wet. Gasoline.
She’s been stabbed. Come on down.
Kelly Severide: (into radio) Dawson, Shay, she’s got a steak knife
stuck in her abdomen.
Gabby Dawson: (into radio) Pulse?
Kelly Severide: (over radio) Weak.
Hey, can you get us out that door?
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): There’s quick, and there’s safe. Which do you
want?
Kelly Severide: I wanna save this woman’s life.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): Huh.
Kelly Severide: Huh?”W-What huh?
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): A small incendiary device set to spark the
gasoline. This’ll take a few minutes to
disarm.
Kelly Severide: She doesn’t have a few minutes.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): I got two more wires splitting here. It’s wired
here too. Headed… Here we go.
I got at least 5 pounds of mixed ammonium
nitrate. Well that plus the gasoline is a
fertiliser bomb.
Kelly Severide: (into radio) Hey, Chief, (over radio) is everyone
back?
Chief Boden: (into radio) You just get yourself down here, Kelly.
Gabby Dawson: (into radio) How’s she doing, Severide?
Kelly Severide: (into radio) Weaker.
Gabby Dawson: (over radio) How much blood’s on the floor?
Kelly Severide: (into radio) Uh, it’s not that much.
Gabby Dawson: (into radio) Then she’s bleeding internally. You
gotta move.
(over radio) Pack that knife, so it doesn’t shift when
you move her.
Kelly Severide: (over radio) Where the hell’s that jump bag?
(into radio) Whaley’s here.
Gabby Dawson: (over radio) Use all the gauze and tape he’s got to
keep it secure.
Eric Whaley: Someone’s always got it worse.
Kelly Severide: Ain’t that right.
(over radio) Packing around the knife. Hey, we need
that door open now.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): (over radio) Attempting to disarm the door.
Chief Boden: (into radio) Kelly. Kelly.
Man 3 (Bomb Tech): (over radio) We’re good. Door’s open.
Kelly Severide: (over radio) Woman’s coming out.
Eric Whaley: Who says engine only knows how to put out a fire?
cutscene
Matt Casey: Okay. I’ll talk to Boden.
[door shuts]
Mouch: [sighs] What happened, Joe?
[knocks on door]
Joe Cruz: I kicked in that door, convinced Leon was in there.
I even knew I was too late.
But it wasn’t Leon, it was Flaco.
Mouch: Dead. It was Flaco, and you were too late.
Joe Cruz: All I could think was, if I pulled him out of those flames, I
might as well throw Leon back in.
Mouch: Ah, you don’t know that.
Joe Cruz: I thought that God was just handing me the answer to my
problems.
But now I know it was the devil. I thought I could run from
him, non-stop. First one in, last one out [shaky breath]
And then I almost killed you. I could have killed Otis or
Herrmann or Casey, all because I’m weak [sobs]
But now I know… I’m the one that has to suffer, not you.
Mouch: Joe, I forgive you.
Joe Cruz: [sobbing] It’s not right for me to bring my sins into this
house and have my brothers sacrifice for what I did.
Mouch: Joe, listen to me. I forgive you.
Joe Cruz: [sobs]
cutscene
Chief Boden: What can I do for you, Casey?
Mouch: Lieutenant! Can I have a minute?
Matt Casey: Now’s not a good time, Mouch.
Mouch: Yes, it is.
[door closes]
Mouch: You don’t have to do this to him.
Matt Casey: There’s more to it that you know, Mouch.
Mouch: He told me everything. Now I don’t know if he was waiting
for God or Flaco’s ghost or just somebody to say it, but
he needed to know what he did was okay. He screwed
up. He knows it. But he was taking care of his family.
How far would you go for the ones you love? How far
have you gone?
[door closes]
cutscene
Peter Mills: [chuckles]
[phone rings]
Leslie Shay: Hello?
Yes, this is Leslie Shay.
He consented to a blood draw.
Gabby Dawson: That’s good isn’t it?
Leslie Shay: Mmhmm, mmhmm.
Okay, thank you.
He’s clean, he tested negative for everything [sigh of
relief]
Oh…
[giggling]
cutscene
[buzzer]
[door shuts]
Man 4 (Orderly): Good luck, Renee.
Renee Whaley: Yeah, thanks.
For real?
Kelly Severide: Come get in the car. There’s something we need to
see.
Renee Whaley: Go to hell.
Kelly Severide: You’ll full of it, you know that?
Renee Whaley: Oh I am, huh? Is that gonna get me into your car?
Kelly Severide: Ignore everything that’s real, go ahead.
Renee Whaley: Whatever.
Kelly Severide: Your brother was a hero today.
Renee Whaley: That is so low.
Kelly Severide: You stopped, didn’t you?
30 minutes. Then I take you anywhere you want to
go.
cutscene
[saw whirring]
[metal clanging]
Gabby Dawson: [sighs] It’s just a box.
We never should have opened this.
cutscene
[car door shuts]
Matt Casey: Mom’s just getting her things.
Christie: Okay.
Matt Casey: Thanks for agreeing to this, Christie. I really think it’ll
work.
Christie: Yeah, well, tomorrow morning at 8:01, she’s all yours
again.
Matt Casey: Understood.
Christie: Friend of yours?
Matt Casey: Nope
Nancy Casey: That’s Cheyenne.
Matt Casey: Your old cellmate?
Nancy Casey: Yeah.
You two gave me back my freedom, but I don’t want
to be your problem anymore. So I’m gonna go stay
with Cheyenne until I figure out what’s next.
Matt Casey: Mom, I don’t think your PO is going…
Nancy Casey: Aww, don’t worry I’ll sort things out with Kendrick.
But I’m not gonna be the wedge that drives you two
apart anymore.
Oh, be a brother and sister again, okay? You know,
be there for each other.
Hey, how’s it going?
Lady 5 (Cheyenne): Hi.
[car door shuts]
cutscene
Lady 4 (Real Estate Agent): Are we gonna sign the lease or not?
Leslie Shay: Yes, we are. We definitely are, I’m sorry. I can’t get a
hold of her. Um…
Oh, hey.
Clarice: Hey.
Leslie Shay: Did you get my message?
Clarice: Yeah, that’s, uh… great news.
Leslie Shay: We should sign the lease.
Clarice: Uh, actually, would you mind giving us a second?
So, um… Daniel offered to settle. You know, split custody, I
mean, if I move to New York with the baby.
Leslie Shay: Good, that’s great. He blinked.
Clarice: I took the deal
Leslie Shay: What?
Clarice: I just, I can’t keep fighting him anymore, Les. So I’m gonna
go to, uh, I’m gonna go to New York.
Leslie Shay: No, Clarice. Just stand up to him. We can win this.
Clarice: I’m leaving tonight.
Shay…
cutscene
[engine rumbling]
Renee Whaley: Okay, I get it.
Kelly Severide: Come on.
[car door shuts]
Renee Whaley: [scoffs]
[huffs]
Kelly Severide: It’s quieter than I remember.
Renee Whaley: Please don’t.
Kelly Severide: You’re the one who said life never looked simpler
than it did from right here.
Renee Whaley: Well, that was crap. Sometimes a view is just a
view. [exhales]
Kelly Severide: You know, I never had anything close to a real
relationship since you.
Renee Whaley: Really?
Kelly Severide: One girl I liked… really liked… but she left. Or I let
her leave. I should have made it work, but
sometimes, it’s easier just to let things fall apart.
Renee Whaley: I slept with Dean.
And now I see you, and I see my family. And all I can
see is what I lost.
Kelly Severide: Sometimes a view is just a view.
Renee Whaley: [chuckles]
[sniffles]
Kelly Severide: I’ve missed you.
Renee Whaley: I figured you hated me.
Kelly Severide: Oh I did.
But not anymore.
[engine revving]
[door closes]
[car door closes]
[engine starts]
- end -
Definitions:
Skirt-chasing = A man with amorous intentions who habitually seeks our female companionship
Lightweight truss construction = Consists of top and bottom members that run parallel. These are referred to as chords and are made of wood. These chords are cross – connected for support by wood that forms a web like pattern. The wood members are connected together with a fastener made of stamped sheet metal containing spikes
Hep-B = Hepatitis B is an infection of the liver caused by a virus that’s spread through blood and body fluids. It often does not cause any obvious symptoms in adults, and typically passes in a few months without treatment. But in children, it often persists for years and may eventually cause serious liver damage
Hep-C = Hepatitis C is an infectious disease caused by the hepatitis C virus (HCV) that primarily affects the liver; it is a type of viral hepatitis. During the initial infection, people often have mild or no symptoms. Occasionally, a fever, dark urine, abdominal pain and yellow tinged skin occurs. Hepatitis C can usually be treated with antiviral medicines. These need to be taken for several weeks. You can catch Hepatitis C from contact with blood of an infected person, such as sharing needles. It’s very rare to catch it from having sex.
Interferon therapy = It is a possible treatment for a number of different types of cancer. It is also used to treat conditions other than cancer including Hepatitis B and Hepatitis C
HIV = Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV) is a virus that damages the cells in your immune system and weakens your ability to fight everyday infections and disease. HIV can be transmitted from 1 person to another. There’s currently no cure for HIV, but there are very effective drug treatments that enable most people with the virus to live a long and healthy life.
Codicil = An addition or supplement that explains, modifies, or revokes a will or part of one.
Ammonium nitrate = Is a chemical compound with the chemical formula NH4NO3. It is a white crystalline solid consisting of ammonium and nitrate. It is highly soluble in water and hygroscopic as a solid, although it does not form hydrates. It is predominantly used in agriculture as a high-nitrogen fertiliser. Ammonium nitrate, which is used in fertilisers and bomb making, is a salt made from ammonium and nitric acid, and is highly explosive. The more ammonium nitrate, the bigger its explosive capacity. Once a reaction is sparked, ammonium nitrate explodes violently.
PO = Probation officer
#Chicago Fire#Chicago fire department#One Chicago#chicago fire imagine#chicago fire script#chihard#chihards#matt casey#jesse spencer#Leslie Shay#Lauren German#chief boden#wallace boden#eamonn walker#peter mills#Charlie Barnett#mouch#christian stolte#joe cruz#joe minoso#Christopher Herrmann#david eigenberg#gabby dawson#Gabriela Dawson#Monica Raymund#Kelly Severide#taylor kinney#otis zvonecek#brian zvonecek#Yuri Sardarov
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You should see me in the crown modern!kylo x reader
ты должен увидеть меня в короне
Ch 1
“Ben Solo is a fucking dirty cop, and he’s working for Queen of the Damned, I know, it... it sounds crazy Rey. But please, please, believe me, we have to tell Captain Organa and Sergeant Solo.” Finn pleaded to Rey over the phone, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, both blending in the rain. He caught the dirty bastard in the middle of a drug exchange in the back alley of some bar, “Rey I saw him, with one of her girls, he spoke something to her, and then…he saw me... I don’t know how, but he did and I’m bleeding, I can’t tell if it’s a lot or a little, but that fucker is dirty Rey.” She sighed into the receiver, “Finn, you’ve been trying to get this guy on something for months if not years, but, Finn to go off something without evidence, you could be on desk duty for who knows how long or you could be fired, I just think it’s a bad idea, with you and Poe up for promotion this could derail everything.” Finn looked down at a puddle outside his cruiser, “I’ll get evidence somehow Rey. I swear to you.” He heard her hum in agreement, “I’ll see you later Finn, I have a report to write.” He nodded, knowing that Rey can’t see his actions through the phone, the line went dead. Finn leaned his head on the cool leather of his steering wheel. “Fuck, I can’t believe that fucker, he’s working for her, I know he is.”
Kylo saw through the visor, Finn was still there “What a little pest…” he seethed. ‘The Queen won’t be happy about our encounter. Be more careful next time Ren, or I will let her know.’ Those were the last words Phasma said to him before speeding off. How did that goodie two shoes follow him out here, he was boiling over, She would have his head or his body. Whichever one that would make Королева happy, Kylo was willing to give to her, even though he has never seen her, she has seen him, and she made sure Kylo knew. He jumped on his motorcycle and sped off in a different direction back to his hole of an apartment, he knew in the back of his head that she was going to send one of her “men” to rough up Finn and himself. He cursed under his breath, “какая чертова сука, она разрушит мою жизнь” As he pulled up to the apartment he took notice of a few fancier cars in the car park, “Fuck. Phasma told someone…” He quickly unclipped his gun from his holster, he had a feeling that something would go down in his apartment. He quickly ran up the stairs to his door, keeping his back close to the grungy walls, ‘God, this apartment is disgusting, I need to move soon, somewhere clean and orderly.’ He thought to himself. He saw that his door was unlocked, which sent a cold shock of anxiety through his body, his heart fell to his stomach. He slowly pointed his gun around the corner of the door. “Kylo you better get that thing away from me,” Automatically Kylo knew that voice from anywhere, “Hux what are you doing here,” Kylo growled menacingly, he hated his partner, both at the precinct and in the ring “you need to get out before I make you.” Kylo threatened while lowering his gun slightly. Hux removed his grey peacoat and discarded it onto Kylo’s black couch. “ You had a little колючка follow you to a drop location” Kylo grimaced “I didn’t know that he was following me, мышь I know he has an inkling of something-” Hux closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and hung his head “Idiot. Now he has proof of you meeting someone. And that someone is a known drug-runner for the biggest mafia and drug rings. How could you be so careless.” Hux scolded Kylo like a young child. Kylo felt the bubble of rage start to boil in the pit of his stomach, he clenched his jaw in anger trying to quell the urge to choke Hux, he craved to bring him close to the brink of death. Then Hux would know who is truly in charge of their operation. Hux’s voice kept droning on in the back of Kylo’s head until both of their phones chimed with an identical ringtone, both hands reached for their phones.
глупые парни перестают спорить, разрешают женщинам вызывать выстрелы. следующая капля 3:30 утра угол Итора и Тариса.
Hux’s green eyes fixed upon Kylo’s amber eyes, “She is calling you stupid.”
That was the final straw for Kylo, he grabbed Hux by his pristine grey colored collar and slammed him up against the drywall, “You don’t know SHIT, to what she is referring to you cretin. All I know is that you are forgetting to who you fucking report to. Both in uniform and out of uniform. “ Hux’s face was turning a slight shade of blue, ‘Delicious’ thought Kylo. Hux’s feet began thrashing and for one final act of humiliation, Kylo spat in the man’s face and then dropped him, Hux began sputtering trying to catch his breath. “ Get up you swine, and get out. You are so very lucky I didn’t kill you. It would be far too much paperwork and would cause quite a stir with the Lady.” Hux caught his breath and stood up, and grabbed his coat, “Fuck off Solo, and see you tomorrow.” He quickly ran out the door before Kylo could catch him. All the hairs on Kylo’s neck bristled when he heard his “real” last name, a name he had to use at work but had no real meaning to him. He quickly decided to pour himself a glass of whatever was left in his fridge while he waited to go out for the drop. His phone buzzed again, a call from his superior officer/ older drug kingpin.
“Hello, Snoke,” Kylo said through slightly bared teeth. “To what do I owe the honor of speaking to you.” Snoke chuckled over Kylo’s sarcastic, yet apprehensive comment. “Ren, I will be expecting you and Hux over at Neskar tonight. I know ‘Королева’ has a drop tonight and I expect that you and Hux will be getting me what I need. She took something very valuable from me, so we will be taking something of slightly… lesser value from her.” Kylo exhaled quickly, it was difficult being a triple agent of some sort; a cop, an underboss for Snoke, and a ‘brigadier’ or a бригадир for Королева. And she has been good to him since she came to power. “Of course Don Snoke. I am willing to do anything for the family.” He heard another bone-chilling chuckle. “Good, good. I will see you tonight.” Kylo hung up the phone after that, ‘God I can’t wait to get rid of the old fucking man.’ Kylo thought, ‘If Snoke died under mysterious circumstances in the precinct Kylo would be fully in charge and once Snoke fell as Don in the family he could take over and try and unite both mafia’s if Королева would have him.’ Tonight was going to be a long night for Kylo.
In your apartment, you were overseeing any possible attacks that would happen if Snoke tried to get his dominion back, which you would expect. “где, черт возьми, Хакс, моя сладкая фазма.” you cooed to your tall and silver-haired companion, though you two never were ever physically attracted to her, you were attracted to her power and the strategic mind she wielded. Her undying loyalty to you and her absolute brute force solidified her easily as your right-hand woman, in business and friendship. “Мой дорогой Hux went to go after the idiot Kylo.” Your eyes flicked up from the papers in front of you “What did he do.” Phasma looked over at you “Darling, it’s truly nothing to worry about, Hux and I will fix it.” You slammed your fists onto the desk “Tell me Phasma, as your Королева I demand it.” Phasma clenched her teeth, “He was tailed by someone, Kylo scared him off but not for long, it’s definitely someone who works for Solo and Organa.” Rage boiled in you, how dare that half-wit be fucking followed especially by a cop. “Hux assured me he would talk some sense into him.” You felt yourself stand up at your ornate table “Phasma, Kylo will not listen to anyone, especially that vermin Hux. Kylo could eat him alive.” Your partner took a deep breath in “ I know.” You screamed in anger “That fucker works under Snoke as a cop, and I know he is somehow involved in something, he must be stopped, and eliminate that thorn that followed Ren. We can’t have any chance.” You pushed the papers off the table. “Phasma, we were on the brink of an all-out war with Snoke, after I had the girls take his warehouses and help his ‘property’’ You practically spat out the last word, the idea of a man owning women and abusing them for other men’s pleasure was the reason you craved to bring him down. You needed to create a new order to this city and if that meant to take down the God-like man, with all officers either being too stupid to realize that Snoke was the puppet master, or most turned a blind eye to him. You knew that you were his Lucifer, and God willing you can bring him down one way or another. “ We will be in all-out war if the police, Snoke, or that Kylo Ren try anything tonight.” Phasma cupped your elbow, hoping it would bring you back from the brink of murdering anyone. “I have a good informant, they said that Hux and Ren have meaning to meet with Snoke at Neskar, before our drop.” Your jaw gritted together making your lips into a thin line, deep in thought “ We will be there tonight, I should meet one of my бригадир in the flesh. It would be nice to put a face and flesh to their names.” You felt your breathing slow to a more controlled and still slightly enraged, you closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose, “Phasma, I want them to all know who, they are dealing with. If that means we have to go all-in with how we dress and how I interact with all of the men, then so be it. But I cannot have any of them forget who we are, and what they are dealing with.” The storm was brewing inside you, as it was brewing again outside. Snoke’s family, the NYPD, Hux, and Kylo had no clue what was coming, and for now, they were in the eye of the storm.
#kylo ren x reader#kylo ren#kylo trash#modern!kylo#dirty cop! Kylo#drug lord! reader#mob boss! kylo and reader#kylo ren x you#kylo ren slow burn#ben solo x reader
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Holy Hands
Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Not Rated
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
F/M, Other
Complete Work
Chapter List
Chapter 35
Satan was fine.
He'd never really liked that human anyway. If they were going to leave that was completely understandable. He left Lucifer to his denial and went to focus on more important things.
Luke's messenger bag turned out to be stolen from Simon. Inside were potions and spells and even orders straight from Michael. Luke was a bit embarrassed at having stolen from Simon, but he quickly shook it off with the idea that he was justified because he was a demon now.
Luke was doing that often. Just doing mild crimes because he could. He had stood next to the "no food allowed" sign to eat his lunch even though it didn't seem very comfortable. He'd borrowed a pen from Raphael and never given it back. He was honestly kind of adorable in his hi-jinks.
Satan took the bag to sort out its contents. He laid the miscellaneous items on a table and looked them over. There were plenty of useless things, two gold-wrapped herb bundles, 8 miniature glass vials, 3 scrolls yet to be opened, just to name a few. He couldn't focus on what was important and what wasn't, he was too distracted. Too busy wondering things. Things he shouldn't– didn't care about.
Things like whether or not MC was ok. Why they would go this far with them just to bail at the end. Why they'd ditch them all when it was so unlike them.
Had they ever been sincere? Had all their self-assured words and actions been a ruse and they only now decided to show their true colors?
He shook his head, he had to focus.
The horn might be worth something if they used it right. Perhaps they could call Abaddon for help, especially the sheer numbers of his locust swarm...
What could he have done to make them stay? Did he do something wrong?
Shut up, SHUT UP! He didn't care about the human that ditched them and he didn't care about whether or not he had driven them away...whether or not their friendship was real in the first place.
He was fine.
He sat down heavily and sighed. He could understand the humans unwillingness to fight a Celestial battle, he had no right to expect that kind of sacrifice.
But not even an explanation? Not even a goodbye?
He was often envious of them and their understanding. Their ability to shrug off irritation and always be there and be supportive. To both the brothers and their sister. He often thought of his brothers and how they'd never be so close of not for MC. He thought of MCs relationship to Acacia and how it almost paralleled Lucifer's responsibilities.
Knowing MC, had in a way, helped him understand his strict older brother better.
But they'd just abandoned Acacia to the battle. Abandoned her like an old jacket that no longer fit. Maybe they thought she'd be safer with the brothers, bit it was still unforgivable.
"Hey Satan! Luke sai–" Mammon walked in the room without knocking. He stopped when he saw his younger brother slumped in his chair with the Celestial junk on the table before him. "Woah...you look miserable."
"Well I'm not, what do you want?" Satan snapped, harsh even for him. Mammon approached slowly.
"Hey...are you ok? Did something happen?"
"No"
"Don't make me bother it out of you." Mammon smirked and Satan winced at the threat.
In the past when Mammon wanted to get a secret out of one of his brothers he'd "bother" them until they broke. One time Satan had figured he could outlast Mammon's short attention span and took the challenge. This led to 6 straight days of Mammon persistently telling the same knock knock joke. The punchline was always banana...never orange. And he would continue relentlessly saying 'knock knock' until Satan gave in from exhaustion and said 'whos there'. Leading the endlessly repeating cycle to continue.
"No no bothering, Diavolo's sake." Satan gave in. "Fine...yes something happened." He grumbled. Mammon tossed an arm around his chair.
"Alright, tell big bro all about it. What's troublin' ya?" He said. Satan rolled his eyes so hard he saw into the future and actually witnessed his own death.
"MCs gone" he said. Mammon's whole demeanor shifted to one of fear.
"What? Gone? Who has them I'll kill him!" He growled. Satan just raised his hands to explain.
"They ran away Mammon, they got scared and ditched us."
The room went silent, Mammon's mouth fell open but no words came out. He closed it and opened it to try again, but still nothing. Finally he spoke.
"But...no they… they wouldn't…" his disbelief was fragile, and it broke when Satan gave him a mourning look.
"We shouldn't have expected they'd stay" he said solomnly.
0Mammon was sad. He knew he was expecting a lot and being selfish when he wanted MC to stay with him. He knew he was even more selfish for taking their leave so personally.
But he couldn't help it. He was the Avatar of greed, and he wanted the world and he wanted it to cost nothing. He should've known it would just blow up in his face.
He trudged away from Satan's brooding-room to find Acacia. The least he could do was break the news to her gently, no one else was gonna do it.
He hated feeling like this, but it wasn't the first time. He'd felt this horrid sting of abandonment multiple times before. When his father cast him out for defending Lucifer. When Lucifer got so busy he stopped talking to Mammon, unless of course it was to yell at him.
He knew how to deal with this feeling by now, the key was gratitude.
Gratitude didn't come easily to one so greedy, but he could summon it when he really needed it. To calm his heart and feel whole again. So he thought about it.
He was grateful for those who were still in his life. His brothers, Satan working through denial to give them the best chance of success. Lucifer, working tirelessly for years to keep them together and still managing to have time to flay Mammon for his grades. Acacia, ever-present with a smile and an inappropriately timed joke.
He was grateful for this, but he'd also been grateful for MC before they left. Maybe everything good in his life was destined to leave.
Maybe he just drove people away.
He was just a stupid mammon after all, he couldn't even be an angel right. How was he supposed to focus on anything other than money when they paved the place with gold?
Reaching Acacias nook where she was charging her phone, he cleared his throat.
"Maaaaaaammon!" She called while shaking her head side to side vigorously. Her hair flying wildly around her.
"Acacia I need to tell you something." Good start, good start, but then a chilling thought struck him.
What if she blamed him?
What if he told her this and she thought it was because MC was scared. Because he wasn't enough to protect them. He hadn't been enough during the exchange program or when they were trampled on earth or when they fell on the bridge. It was no wonder they'd run. Acacia looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes and Mammon choked.
He couldn't just turn back now.
"MCs gone." He said in a strangled voice. Acacia tilted her head.
"Gone where?"
"Gone…" he couldn't elaborate. Acacia's curious face suddenly morphed to one of horror.
"They... they're dead?" She sounded disbelieving. Mammon immediately backpedaled.
"No no no they just ran away! They ditched us Acacia."
The human looked at her hands in her lap, her hair obscuring her face. Silently she stood, her shoulders shaking slightly.
Oh no she was crying, he wanted to break this too her gently, but he'd obviously fucked it up.
"Oh hey, Acacia I'm sorry. Don't–" but Acacia didn't listen, she walked slowly to the door. She looked up and Mammon saw she wasn't crying, she was just shaking.
Faster than he thought possible for a human, she slammed her fist into the drywall beside the door, leaving a sizable hole. With a roar of aggravation she threw open the door and stomped down the hall. Leaving a confused and slightly scared Mammon in her wake.
0Acacia was Mad. She had to take a walk and she had to do it now. Her body shook with energy and rage as she power walked through the halls of the hospital.
How dare MC leave? How dare they...they...AAGH!
It was just the day before that Acacia had been panicking over the situation. She always had MC around to help with her anxiety attacks, and it was MC who told her not to be afraid. To trust that they would find a way to get through this.
How dare they run away? After telling her not to fear.
Acacia screamed incoherently and punched the air as she walked. MC had always been there, always promised they'd be there. Then they just left? Without so much as a good bye?
She was fuming so hard as she rounded the corner she almost ran over the small demon walking the other way.
"Hey!" Luke yelled in indignation before seeing Acacia's red faced anger. "Woah, what happened?" Acacia balled her hands into fists.
"MC ditched." She spat. Luke looked at her for a few moments.
"What a fucking meanie" he said a little hesitantly. Acacia blinked. "Yeah I say 'fuck' now" he crossed his arms and tilted his chin up. Obviously thinking himself very cool and edgy. Acacia almost laughed.
"Hell yeah little dude! What an absolute Fucking meanie. You said it." She pumped her fist as her anger turned more into reckless energy. Luke looked very proud at the praise. "You a little sinner now?"
"Yep, and this is just the beginning!" He waved one finger in the air as he spoke. Acacia got a devious idea as she looked at the little trouble-maker-in-progress.
"Wanna go trespass?" She wiggled her eyebrows. Luke hesitated for a moment.
"Yeah?" He said cautiously.
"Alriiiiiight!" Acacia yelled and Luke started getting into it. "Screw everything let's commit property damage."
"Fuck it!" Luke chirped as the two went off to cause mayhem.
0Lucifer was pensive.
He knew MC hadn't ditched him. He knew it in his bones, his skin, his hair follicles. He was so sure they hadn't that he could practically hear MC laughing at the notion.
They were trying to do their job. Some way, somehow, they were gone because they had to be to complete their task. He was not suspicious of their intentions.
But he was afraid.
So many things could happen to them out in the Celestial Realm. So many horrible, inhuman things. Things he couldn't protect them from because he wasn't there, and he didn't know where they were.
He could only trust they could hold their own. They had Liliths bow, and they were smart, creative, alluring to a dangerous degree. And most of all, they were confident. That seems vague, but an unshakable self worth and resilience was the only defense a human could have against the pure aura of an angel. He had seen it when they'd faced Michael on the Petco roof, and he saw it every day when he looked in their eyes and they didn't look away.
If any one could survive out there. It was MC.
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you’ve gotta be KIDding me//ateez
summary: you and yeosang are stuck taking care of the other seven members of ateez after they turn into little kids.
pairings: gender neutral reader and ateez
word count: 1,495
a/n: i got the idea for this after reading a babysitting ateez headcannon (i forget who the author is but i’ll write it here once i’m able to find them) UPDATE: the headcannon is from @every1studio !! drop by their account and give them a follow, they have really good content!!
“What do you mean everyone else is a little kid?” you asked Yeosang as the two of you exited the elevator. “Is this a The Curious Case of Benjamin Button situation? Are they aging backwards?”
You gasp and look over at Yeosang. “Are they going to die?” you faltered.
“No, they aren’t going to die.” Yeosang assured you.
“I hope.”
The two of you walked to the door of his group’s apartment where you heard squeals and randomly pieced together sentences.
“You left them up here by themselves?!” you whisper-yelled.
“You wouldn’t have been able to come up here if I hadn’t come down!” he whisper-yelled back. You facepalmed and watched as he put in the code for the apartment.
“Are you ready?” he tried to prepare you.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” you responded. He nodded and turned the door’s handle.
You were immediately greeted by the sound of high-pitched giggles and the padding sounds of little socked feet. You were in the house for barely a second when you felt a tug at your shirt. You looked down at a little dark-haired boy who you assumed was Wooyoung.
“Can you make me something to eat?” Wooyoung repeated as he tugged on your shirt. You squatted down to look at his little face and you felt your heart warm at his sad expression. You nodded and he wrapped his tiny arms around your neck in response. You smiled and hugged him back before letting him go in order to stand up.
“Can I get a hug too?” a small voice interjected. You looked next you and saw a blue-haired boy with his arms lifted towards you. You picked him up and he immediately wrapped himself around you and buried his face in your neck.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” you asked.
“Yunho.” his voice was muffled by your neck.
“Uh (Y/N), do you have Wooyoung and Yunho with you?!” Yeosang panicked. You quickly walked into the living room carrying Yunho and being followed by Wooyoung. You looked at the two boys you had met at the door and back at Yeosang.
He sighed and ran a hand over his face. You walked over to where Yeosang was and nudged him with your shoulder.
“You’re doing a great job, don’t worry,” you praised him. “Where are the others?”
He pointed to the scarlet-haired boy who plunked away on the keyboard, blissfully unaware that the sound was off. “That’s Hongjoong.”
He pointed to the caramel-haired boy that was wrapped around his right leg. “This is Seonghwa.”
He pointed to the blond-haired boy who ran through the apartment singing loudly. “That’s San.”
You shook your head. “I don’t know how I wasn’t able to notice him.” you commented.
“I don’t know either.” Yeosang agreed.
He gestured towards a younger looking boy with hazelnut colored hair who was pushing the couch against the wall. Yeosang ran to pull him away from the couch before he cracked the drywall. “This is Jongho.” he grunted.
“Hold on, I only counted six.” you faltered. Yeosang paused and looked at you with a fearful expression.
“Where’s Min-”
“How come Yunho gets to be picked up? I wanna be picked up too.” Mingi yawned.
“I’ll pick you up in a second, Mingi.” you smiled at the boy who continued to look at you expectantly.
“Yunho, can I put you down for a few minutes?” you asked the blue-haired boy that you held in your arms.
“No.” he said as he tightened his grip.
“Yunho, you need to share!” Mingi whined.
“Yeah!” the other boys agreed.
Said boy shook his head and let out a quiet ‘nuh-uh’, causing Mingi to burst into tears. You quickly kneeled in front of the boy and wiped away his tears with your free hand.
“Hey, hey, Mingi! It’s okay!” you assured him.
“If I sit on the couch, I can have both of you on my lap.” you suggested Mingi stopped crying and looked between you and Yunho.
“Is that okay with you, Yunho?” you asked. The older boy nodded, prompting you to sit on the couch. You positioned both of them on one of your thighs and pulled them back to lean on you. Yunho nuzzled his head into your chest while Mingi played with your fingers. It wasn’t long until the other five piled on top of you.
“Yeosang, can you turn some cartoons on for the boys?” you asked. He nodded before turning on the television and searching for a channel that showed cartoons or some kind of children’s show. When he found a channel that showed Pokemon, the boys cheered before quieting down to listen to the show.
Yeosang plopped down on the floor next to the couch and sighed.
“Uh Yeosang?” you hesitated. He turned around to look at you.
“What?” he asked.
“Do you know if they’re potty trained?”
Yeosang froze and scanned the faces of the children who surrounded you.
“Hey, boys?” you asked in a nervous tone. Seven faces turned to look at you. “Quick survey, do any of you know how to use the toilet?” you asked.
Wooyoung lifted his head off of your shoulder and looked at you. “What’s a survey?” he asked.
“Is it a dessert?” Yunho asked.
“No, you’re thinking of a souffle,” Hongjoong corrected the boy.
“What’s a souffle?” Jongho chimed in.
“That’s not important.” you interjected the conversation. “Do any of you know what a toilet is?” you reiterated.
All seven of the boys nodded.
“So do you know how to use a toilet?” you asked in a hopeful tone.
Only six of the boys nodded.
“Jongho, do you need to use the toilet?” Yeosang asked.
“Not anymore.” he smiled.
“I- you know what, Yeosang, you’re taking care of that.” you decided.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Me?” he asked.
“If this problem gets fixed, I don’t want to be the one who has to tell them that I-”
“I understand. Jongho, come on.” he sighed, holding his hand out to the boy.
“Okay.” Jongho continued to smile.
--
After a few more hours of laying around, potty breaks, and small bowls of cereal, you and Yeosang made a pad on the living room floor with comforters and for the boys to nap on.
“Let’s go to sleep, guys!” you cheered. Mingi almost flopped onto the ground while Yunho continued to cling onto you.
“I don’t wanna go sleep.” San groaned.
“Yeah,” Hongjoong agreed. “I’m not sleepy.” he rubbed at his eyes.
“I’ll let you play the piano with the sound on later if you fall asleep~” you said in a sing-song voice. Hongjoong eagerly threw himself onto the comforter.
“What do I get if I go to sleep?” San rested an arm on your shoulder.
“Well what do you want?” you asked the boy. He tapped a small finger against his mouth as thought.
“A plush.” he decided.
“Deal.” you agreed. “Go lay down, please.”
“If you sleep next to me, I’ll go to sleep.” Yunho’s voice was muffled by your shirt.
“You don’t want anything else, Yunnie?” you asked in a surprised tone. He shook his head.
“Not even candy?” He shook his head again.
“Okay.” you nodded.
“Yeosang, is that all of them?” you asked. He nodded.
“Yunho, let’s go to sleep,” you coaxed the boy into your arms. He leaned against your chest and you laid down on your back with him in your arms.
“Yeosang, what are we going to do for dinner?” you asked him as stretched out on the couch.
“Pizza maybe?” he suggested. You nodded.
“I’m gonna take a nap with the kids, wake me up if anything happens.” you sighed.
“Will do.” you heard as you closed your eyes.
--
You sighed through your nose as you regained consciousness. Your eyes opened to see warm light filling the living room. When you tried to sit up, you felt something holding you down.
You panicked and closed your eyes tightly. ‘Am I paralyzed? Am I dying? Wait a minute...am I in limbo?’ you thought to yourself.
You opened your eyes and saw blue hair. ‘Oh, it’s just Yunho.’ you sighed.
“Yunnie, you need to wake up.” you lilted.
“Don’t wanna.” you heard a low voice say. You froze.
“Yunho?” you repeated.
“I don’t wanna wake up.” the voice grumbled.
“Yeosang!” you hollered. You heard a sharp inhale from a few feet away.
“Holy shit!” he yelled.
“Please tell me they’re at their normal height again.” you begged.
“They’re at their normal size.” he agreed.
“That was real?” Wooyoung groaned from next to you.
“I thought that was a fever dream.” Seonghwa replied as he sat up.
“Quick question, why am I moist?” Jongho interjected.
“Yunho, can you let go of me please?” you pleaded.
“Still sleepy.” he mumbled, nuzzling into you.
“At least everyone is normal again.” Yeosang flopped back onto the couch.
“So no one’s going to answer my question?” Jongho panicked.
“Can I still get the plush?” San wiggled his eyebrows.
-----
author’s note: this is kinda like my post hiatus fic. school ends on june tenth (ugh) but i have some stories lined up and i’m either finished or 3/4 done with the next chapter of beauty and a beat so keep on the look out for that!! uhhh i don’t really have anything else to say but i hope you guys voted for illusion, the superior title track!
see you after june 10th,
ellie <3
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the end of an era: may 18th, 2019, 3:14 am
hi, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. I’ve been through heartbreak, getting cheated on, getting hit by a truck, and my dad dying since the last time we’ve talked. I made a realization a few minutes ago, I’m done with insecure boys who don’t know how to love me. I’m done with the “you’ll never find better than me”s and the “you’ll never find anyone who loves you more than me”s and not playing certain love songs because they remind me of a certain boy. each love is different and special. each love is new and exciting.
the love with Cale, my first love, was trying and new and terrifying. it was young and hard and different from anything I’ve ever experienced. it was consuming. and then it was heartbreak for months when I left him and it was my soul being ripped out of my chest. it was months of crying and begging myself to love someone new to stop feeling the hole in my chest I had from pushing Cale out of it.
the love with Ross, was different and overwhelming and over all stupid. it was being cheated on and told lie after lie. it was holding onto him because he was there through the accident my father’s death. it was holding on because I didn’t know how to be alone after 4 years. it was begging him to love me properly and begging him to treat me better. it was a fire that all I ever did was keep burning until he poured gasoline on it and I wound up with third degree burns. it was seeing him for weeks after the break up and believing the wedding plans and the family plans and thinking that sex was going to fix the fact that he was a broken boy. his crazy matched my crazy until he was too much and controlling and putting holes in his drywall when I went to go see Cale two months in to get closure. it was being afraid of him when he got angry. it was everything I had to rely on until I realized I deserved better so I left him.
now this new thing, I don’t know what this is yet. but it’s spending every friday with Chase and laughing until we fall asleep in each other’s arms at 4 in the morning. it’s him playing video games while I sleep until 3 pm because he knows I need the rest. it’s kissing him in his sleep so he knows I’m still there. it’s saying I love you “too soon” because we mean it. it’s falling apart at my dad’s grave and thanking him for sending Chase my way to be blindsided with a love I didn’t know I wanted. it’s country music when I wasn’t allowed to listen to it with Ross because Chase likes it and Ross didn’t. it’s margaritas with his mom on a Thursday night and laughing with his family. it’s doing sign language and eating pizza with his sister on a friday night. it’s breakfast on a sunday morning. it’s being asked a million times a day if I’ve eaten. it’s bliss and not in the slightest bit scary. it’s everything I didn’t know I wanted and definitely didn’t know I needed. it’s falling in love with him only after I fell in love with myself first. it’s knowing how to love myself without a man before falling in love with him so that I know I’ll be okay if god forbid this ever ends. it’s wanting to hear “I love you” because it sounds so fucking sweet coming from his voice. it’s those blue eyes that go green that have a hazel ring in them that I can’t stop staring at. it’s wanting to have a million pictures of and with him so I always have something. it’s opening my entire heart earlier than I normally would just so I lay all my cards on the table. it’s working out arguments and never going to bed unhappy. I love him. my third love and the greatest I’ve yet to see in this life. I couldn’t be more grateful.
I’ve learned to love myself. I’ve learned my worth and I’ve learned to accept my own “flaws” although I find that they aren’t flaws anymore. they’re parts of my character and they are just as beautiful as my heart is. my ability to love after pure and earth shattering heartbreak is so amazing. I love that about myself. I love my freckles and the way my hips fit in my favorite jeans. I love the way I know how to hold people when they need it. I love the way I feel in a fast car with loud music and sunshine. I love how my eyes crinkle a bit when I smile. I love how my smile is attracting and how my laugh is contagious. I love this version of myself. almost 21, happy, and so beautiful. I didn’t know my worth for a long time. I do now. I see how people see me. I see the happy, bubbly, no longer “broken” girl with the messed up past. I love the way I walk and how I hold my crown on top my head. I love this girl that I didn’t know how to love for a long time and I’m so lucky that I found someone to love her like I do.
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Check out this post. Wildbow talks about his life on reddit. This explains so much about Taylor’s school experience. No Worm spoilers
This sounds interesting. I’ve frequently wondered about how Wildbow’s life shaped this story.
Let’s take a look.
Redditors who have opted out of a standard approach to life (study then full time work, mortgage etc), please share your stories. What are the best and worst things about your lifestyle, and do you have any regrets?
Well, the title is already intriguing.
Hermit writer here.
Born hard of hearing, went to a regular school. Struggled in middle school. Struggled in high school. Kids who were in my class in kindergarten were in my classes all the way through to grade ten, with the elementary/middle school and high school being a stone's throw from one another.
I kind of knew about the hard of hearing bit already. I can’t find the ask that told me about it, though (it was probably before I stopped using screenshots for asks).
So far this sounds relatively normal, except for that part. But I’m guessing he’s going to elaborate a bit on the struggles surrounding his school life and hearing problems?
In grade 10, after years of bullying and a peer group that had established who was 'in' and who was 'out' when I was knee-high, tired of struggling, I was walking down the halls and I found myself wondering when the last time I'd even opened my mouth in school was.
Oh wow.
I stopped dead in my tracks, just paralyzed by loneliness. I asked myself what the point was, couldn't come up with an answer, resumed walking, went out the side door of the school and went home.
This clearly parallels a few of the last times we saw Taylor at Winslow High.
The start of me just not going to school for that entire year. Nobody noticed.
Damn. He really did write all that from experience. It took a while for Taylor’s absence to get noted, too.
Taylor’s absence getting noted at all actually seems like a fantasy compared to this.
I got caught at the end of the year, did the same thing the next year, got caught only at the end.
What the hell sort of attendance routines did this school have? Clearly not good ones.
Ended up going to an Alternative school (Self study), proved to myself that I had it in me when I got 3 years of studying done in 8 months, won two awards... and then had to go back to my old school for what was essentially grade 13, where I struggled.
Huh. Well done.
People learn in very different ways. Some people can do this much more effectively than learning in a group. Some people are like me and can’t make themselves keep up the effort required to self study, or learn better from lectures than reading.
Some people learn by observing their surroundings while flying.
I worked retail and found it fine. But family wanted me to go to University and figure myself out.
I’m currently working retail, taking a break from the educational system and buying time to figure out what to study.
I went to University and I struggled.
Guys, I’m sensing a theme here.
I spent a long, long time trying to figure out why I struggled, why I was tired all the time, and it took a kind of confluence of events before I realized what should've been obvious. I found the social stuff hard and I was exhausted after a day of listening because I'm severely to profoundly deaf.
Oh yeah, that makes a ton of sense. It’s like how focusing is exhausting when you have trouble doing that, how reading without glasses you need tires out your eyes and brain, etc.
Honestly, it’s a little surprising that I haven’t (explicitly) met a hard of hearing character in Worm yet. Maybe later? Oh wait, there was that deaf waitress at the villain pub in Hive.
Beyond that, the 'path' just isn't for me. The systems and institutions just grind me down. The idea of a 9 to 5 is death to me. These things are built and streamlined for the average person, and between disability and a fairly extreme degree of introversion, I'm far from that average.
That is very fair. There’s definitely a brand of ableism in that system.
In the end, I stepped off the path. I'd been writing a thing online as a side project and the reception was good, so I decided to leave school earlier than planned, use the savings I had, stretch things as far as I could, and work when I could (with a family friend when he needed the help and had the cash to spare, doing some landscaping, drywall installation, house painting, all prepping houses for sale in a boom market) to stretch things further.
This would be too early for that thing online to be Worm, right?
It just occurred to me that I have no idea how old Wildbow is.
And I wrote as seriously as I could while people close to me told me that I didn't deserve to 'get lucky' and have the writing work out because I hadn't seen University all the way through, or openly expressed doubts and disappointments.
Yikes.
Fuck that noise. Writing is tons of effort!
But you know, it worked out in the end. I wrote the equivalent of 20 books in 2.4 years, wrote another 10 for my next series in the ensuing 1.2 years, and I've kept up a similar pace over the last 7 years and two months.
Especially when you’re this coddamn productive!
That’s 8.33 books a year!
I started writing mid- 2011, left school at the start of 2012, went full-time-paying-the-bills in 2014 with an income around minimum wage. I moved to a small town (no car, nothing fancy) that same year. I'm now closer to the average Canadian wage. It's been two chapters a week (2.5 if crowdfunding money is enough) since the beginning.
Oh, I suppose that means it would be Worm after all.
When was this written... huh, yesterday? Well, that explains why this hasn’t been sent to me before.
Writing being Wildbow’s only/main income makes me feel even more right about my decision to set things up so that some of the money from my Patreon goes to Wildbow. It’s not that big a portion of his income (apparently average Canadian wage is 986 CAD or 755 USD per week, and I chip in with about 3.26 CAD or 2.50 USD per week), but it’s something.
My reality: I can go a week or two without really talking to anyone that isn't a cashier.
Sounds a bit lonely in the long run, but as a fellow introvert (or maybe I’m an ambivert, in the systems where that’s actually a thing), I get it - it also does sound pretty good. Especially if you’ve got internet people to casually interact with at your own leisure.
Every two months or so I go to a relative's to dogsit while they're on vacation or to see someone for their birthday, and that gives me most of my fill of socialization and companionship.
Nice!
I don't have a car, so it's usually walking or taking the train to another city, and using public transpo there. I subsisted on a rice and beans diet for a good stretch, one $15 video game bought in a year, and my level of expenses hasn't really risen that much from that point. I eat better and buy a couple more things, but nothing major.
So I guess this would be somewhere between average and reserved?
I don’t know. Being Norwegian spoils me on these things.
60%+ of what I earn goes to savings, which gives me security when my income could fluctuate or disappear at any time.
Oh, that’s smart. I suppose writing would be a bit of a risky business, what with writer’s block, audience fluctuations, sudden drops in popularity because something you wrote didn’t go over as well as you thought it would, etc.
My schedule is entirely my own, which usually amounts to 2.5 15+ hour workdays a week and another 5-10 hours a week spent managing community, finances, and exchanging emails with tv/movie studios, publishers or startups.
I was going to talk about the long but few workdays, but tv/movie studios excuse me what
Is a TV series version of something Wildbow wrote (Worm or otherwise) a serious possibility right now?? :o
Best things - I love what I do. I love creating, I love my reader's tears, I love my readers being horrified.
This is really important. You gotta enjoy what you do.
I get to make monsters and be surprised by what my characters do. Many of my fans are just the absolute coolest people - people I'm now insanely glad to have met and include in my life. There's amazing fanart of my work out there, music, people have gotten tattoos. Tattoos. That's insane.
People have permanently, painfully painted their appreciation of your work into their bodies, Wildbow!
The bad- I'm an online content creator, and it's impossible to convey just how toxic the toxic elements of a fandom can get and how negative the negative aspects can get, and how much it can affect you.
That is true. There will always be a toxic side, and I can imagine works like Worm would attract a lot of the edgy sort.
I've seen 20 online content creators either break down or remark on the effect it has, and it's wholly accurate- and my audience isn't even ~that~ large.
Yeah, it doesn’t take that many people to start brewing fandom sides like this.
This is multiplied by the fact that writing is lonely as a profession (I know too many writers who can't even talk to their life partners about their work) and it can be hard to find perspective or balance as you take it all in, when you don't have people to communicate with.
Robert Jordan used his wife as a beta reader or editor of sorts. She was there to tell him when something he wrote didn’t quite come across, to make up for the fact that he couldn’t tell. After all, he knew what he meant by that one line.
On a similar note, some casual dating would be nice, and living in a small town for economical reasons doesn't leave me with a large dating pool, and at this point I'm not even sure if I could or should inflict myself on someone.
Oof.
There are way too many people who think like that. I hope you find happiness with someone who sees you for the good bean you are, Wildbow.
I'm healthy, groomed, I can hold a conversation, I'm just pretty set in my introverted ways.
...relatable, though.
But still, I’m pretty sure there are people out there for us, who not only tolerate but appreciate the introvert lifestyle.
Hell, both of my crushes have been very introverted, even compared to myself, so I know those people exist because I’m among them.
On another, less social note, there is the fact that as an online content creator, you can't really take breaks. Or you can, but it costs. Consistency and frequency of updates are god, and a hiatus is a death knell.
No wonder he criticized me on this that one time. In his situation, it matters a lot.
I don't even know what an effective vacation would entail, because I feel like finding my stride again would cost more than I gained from having the break. So it's been seven years and two months without a vacation, writing a short book every month.
Damn.
You deserve so many props, Wildbow.
...at some point here I started talking to Wildbow, just like I do to Taylor and other Worm characters. Well, at least this time there’s actually a chance he’s going to read this sometime, if he hasn’t dropped my blog.
I just hope he doesn’t think it’s weird that I’m liveblogging his life story.
It makes for a very strange sort of burnout, when I love it so much, I can still regularly put out some great work to acclaim and praise, but am nonetheless worn down around the edges.
That does not sound healthy.
No regrets. This is me. This is what I'm built for.
As long as you feel it’s right for you, this is good. :)
I could do with less negativity from some fans and getting regular good nights of sleep (the deafness comes with insomnia by way of terminal tinnitus), but both of those just come with the territory.
Ouch.
I feel you on the sleep front (ADD has its ways of messing with your ability to fall asleep too), but tinnitus sounds like a particularly annoying way to be inflicted with it.
I've been telling family for the last year that I'll move to a city with more going on than (as my elderly neighbor phrased it) drinking and meth, where there's classes to take, a possible dating pool, and/or activities that could break me out of my hermit shell... but my current apartment is amazing and cheap, with the nicest landlords ever. It's just in a do-nothing town. I haven't found anything remotely competitive, even taking 'cheap' off the table.
I’ve lived in small-ish towns all my life. It’s pretty nice, especially as an introvert.
So that's where I'm at.
Thank you, Wildbow. This was an interesting read. I feel like I know you a bit better now. :)
(Again, if you’re reading this, I hope it wasn’t too weird to see me liveblogging this.)
#Worm#krixwell liveblogs#Arc 14#chapter 14.11#14.11 bet#asks#wildbow's life#mlp:fim#i tried to keep references and jokes out of this
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the silver lining still remains: ch. 2
SUMMARY: “Connor read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.
It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.”
A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3
---
[...RECHARGING…]
[...RECHARGING…]
[...100%]
[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL. VISUAL FEED NORMAL. TIME: 3:09 A.M]
‘Yea, the diplomats are doing their thing.’ Hank, eating a burger. ‘But they aren’t here with us. Doing the work on the ground, you know? It’s never gonna be...quite the same.’
‘Here with us.’
‘Life’s that way.’
‘You’d miss me.’
[RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC…..ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]
Androids do not dream. Connor understands this. But the thoughts circle, endlessly. He processes and scans the color, texture, and sound of his memories until they are a grainy nonsense of variables that shouldn’t be there. Voices stop sounding right. Freckles are in the wrong place. Lips are the wrong size. The recollection is perfect; his sensor scans are absolutely complete.
The wrongness persists.
[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]
He opens his eyes. Moonlight and the white glare of streetlamps shine through the dusty windows of Hank’s spare room (“You live here, you live like a civilized human man. Android man. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”). Sumo snores softly in the hallway and his owner snores louder still in the bedroom across the way. All things normal.
Don’t tell me you were working this whole time.
I was at Dan’s.
A smile, and a strange look in Hank’s eye -- uncategorizable. No statements of clarification. Continues to watch television.
Connor could get up and work. Read one of the books Hank suggested. But the thoughts spin on, so many of them, and he’s not sure he’s willing to leave them be.
She’s interfacing again. Stress level: 55%. Monitor your life signs.
Incorrect prioritization. Monitor her life signs.
Mouth open, face uncharacteristically inexpressive. Eyes (dark brown -- dark dark brown, where do they go?) out of focus. Extremely minor shivering.
Why?
His eyes fly open and he focuses again on the chilling brightness of the moon, if only to stop this thought cycle before it can begin. The street is silent. He read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark of the sky gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.
It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.
[TIME: 3:15 A.M.]
--
Emma steps out of the client’s house, wiping sweat and grit off her forehead with the back of her glove. Clouds obscure the weakly setting sun, casting the neighborhood in a downcast gray. Materials she’d need for tomorrow’s drywall installation cycled through her head, hammering out all curious thought. A litany of the most boring items imaginable.
Nothing like exhaustion to beat the worry out of you.
Sleep or stagework? She hesitated outside her Taurus, testing the tires with her boot. If she had to ask, maybe she should just go home...
Her phone softly chimes.
Who could possibly want to call me now ?
She digs it out of her thick coat with a furrowed brow, suppressing a sigh. The number was “unknown,” but that was hardly unusual in her line of work. Androids were buying their own phones, but the savvy ones were understandably wary of tracking.
She clicks it over. “Emma Ibori.”
“Emma. Are you free?”
She blinks at the voice on the line. “Speaker Markus?” Well, that explains the blocked number. “...how’d you get my number?”
“It’s in the Corps files,” he says. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” His voice is warm but straightforward, plodding along pleasantries as if by rote.
She raises a brow in interest, but her gut sinks. The leader of the preliminary Android government probably didn’t just call people to chat. “Sure, no. What can I do for you?”
--
Hank taps his empty coffee cup on his desk and stares at Connor. He checks his watch...he’s been staring for a good three minutes now. Connor doesn’t even seem to notice.
Hank leans back in his chair, making it creak, and sighs heavily.
“I think we’re off the clock,” he finally says.
Connor is staring at his computer like he’s Atlas, holding the world up. His brow is furrowed as he scans through files that Hank knows too well will reveal nothing new, not even to a top of the line prototype detective. Connor has a single hand on his forehead, fingers reaching up through his hair -- a curious gesture of humanity that makes him seem much younger than he pretends to be, even if he is still sitting up ramrod straight.
“You can go home if you want,” Connor says politely. His eyes don’t leave the screen.
Hank frowns. He’s too well-worn to know how to break through the miasma gathering around the young man. He just tries to be there.
Tough being a prototype.
A rough guitar riff plays -- Hank’s phone. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at the number. An opportunity.
“Anderson.”
“Hey, it’s Emma. Does Connor have a direct line to Markus, you think?”
“Emma, I'm at work.”
Lo and behold, Connor finally looks his way. Hank stifles a smirk at Connor’s attempt to make it look nonchalant by casting his gaze lazily to the side a moment, but Hank doesn’t buy it for a second. They had to get Connor his own phone soon.
“I got a weird call from him. He said he had a job opportunity come up at the old East Yard Elementary for me but, uh...the number he used won’t work.” He can hear the wind crackle through her phone speaker.
“Markus called you?”
“Maybe.” He can hear her shuffling with a door. “One reason I wanted to confirm with him. I’d just demo this place.”
Hank leans forward. Connor does too. Hank gives him a look -- eavesdropping is rude, how many times do I gotta tell you that? -- but his detective instinct yammers like a mad dog. “Go back to your car.”
A long pause. “...all right then.” He can hear her breathing as she begins to walk. “I didn’t go in far.”
“You really shouldn’t be on that side of town,” he says quietly. “Are you alone?”
She doesn’t answer. His gut clenches. The girl was tough, a wicked good contractor who’d fixed up a number of things in his old house, and a presence that flitted in and out like a fly he couldn’t chase away. But she, like a lot of the youth around these parts, was both too stubborn and too trusting. Connor was nearly out of his seat trying to listen in now, dark eyes intent upon Hank, all pretense gone.
“I have a gun.”
“Emma--”
“Look, can you just ask Con if--”
A loud, unmistakable bang.
“Emma?” He pulled his phone back and looked at the call connection.
The line was instantly dead.
“Oh, fuck. Connor--”
Connor was already running full speed toward the exit. Hank grabs his radio and follows, fast as he dares.
“Dispatch, we have a situation. Door! Connor, use the door!”
--
Emma’s ears ring. Fear blooms in her stomach like an orchid. In a thoughtless moment, she reaches up to touch her ear to check for bleeding, but her hand is embedded with glass and already slick so it’s useless. She can feel the blood trickling down her jaw. It’ll probably stain her coat, she realizes with a bizarre amusement.
All she can really think about is running, away from her car where they'd ambushed her, zigging and zagging between vehicles, between houses, through any path that could break up their beeline on her. She expects them to shoot again at any moment -- a thought that keens bright as lightning. But they don’t, despite the fact that they had the wherewithal to shoot her phone from her hand.
What was stopping them?
She chances a look back. Two figures in nondescript dark clothes chase her with stocky, athletic movements and a uniformity that felt too exact to be human.
Fear bottoms her out. All her breaths feel like flame.
Her bag drags down on her shoulder, even as she tries to keep it from smacking her side too much with her left hand. But it’s no use. It’s slowing her down and they clearly aren’t tiring. While she hears sirens wailing in the distance, she decides to buy time by -- God and Universe please fucking forgive me, I’m never gonna be able to buy tools again at this rate -- throwing the bag as far as she can at her pursuers.
But not without grabbing her gun first.
--
“It was a mistake to let you drive!” Hank wheezes, but Connor knows the man can’t mean it. At the speed they are going, only an android could have prevented their untimely death via crash.
[FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA]
Text flashes red in his eyes, constant, and he blinks hard to try and erase it. There is no erasing it.
[CIRCULATION ELEVATED. RECOMMEND DEEP BREATHS FOR SYSTEM COOLING.]
The dispatch chatter was up. Connor only slowed when he saw the flashing lights of other patrol cars in the distance, parked on some abandoned street where single-family housing met the blockier apartment units of inner Detroit. Police were exiting their cars, guns up.
He nearly slams the car into park. Hank grumbles something obscene but they both near tumble out of the car. They bolt toward what the other police are examining.
A bag…
Instantly, he enters analysis mode, the mind palace thrumming to life. Contents spilled out of the bag as if it was thrown for distraction. A measuring tape and a Laserlite level flung a few feet out of the bag from the force of the toss. One hammer, a smattering of nails and screwdrivers [multiple head types] are scattered on the pavement in an arc akin to spraying water.
Specks of fresh blood.
[MISSION: FIND EMMA.]
She loves this bag.
[PROCESSING: PROJECTING RUN BASED ON BAG LOCATION, THROWN ITEM DISTANCE, EAST YARD SCHOOL.]
“Connor, we’re going to find her, you just gotta--”
[RE-CONSTRUCTING]
“--take a second to breathe--”
[POSSIBLE DIRECTION: NORTHWEST?]
“--listening?”
Connor can hear Hank saying something in the background, but his processors burn too hot. He has a mission to do. He doesn’t have time for anything but analysis--
Two gunshots, 467 feet northwest.
His mission parameters squeeze his chest. Something lances his core biocomponent.
[DIAGNOSTIC UNDERWAY.]
He runs, fast as his feet will go, but the neighborhood is starting to blur around him. He leaves the other officers in the dust, not weighed down by patrol gear or a biological need for aerobic exercise. He vaults over parked cars and old trash bins and rounds the corner of an alleyway--
[RECONSTRUCTING PRECONSTRUCTING RECON--]
Two dead bodies litter the ground.
[THIRIUM -&*^&*CORRUPTION.]
What?
And Emma stands at the alley’s end, gun outstretched.
He stumbles to a stop at the sight. His entire vision shakes a moment.
Blood stains the side of her face, and one of her hands claws unnaturally around the gun, clearly injured. She stands with feet shoulder-width apart, arms straight. A near perfect shooting stance. One pursuer was downed with a shot to the head, the other with a shot to the chest. Executioner style.
Something hot burns in Connor’s ribcage. She had been cornered. A chainlink fence blocks the alleyway behind her.
She suddenly takes in a sharp breath.
“Emma!” The word feels torn from him as he skitters across the alley. Now he can see she’s close to tears, teeth barred, breath coming in shaky waves. “You’re all right,” he says, hands up. The softness of his voice comes at a shock considering the magma filling his midsection. “You’re safe now.”
[MISSION SUCCESS]
She takes in another sharp, shaky breath and the tears finally roll down her face. Her whole body near vibrates with stress. He moves until he is close enough that he can whisper.
“Give me the gun,” he says softly.
“No.”
His chest compresses further. “Please. You are not in a state to hold a weapon.”
Even if her shots were perfect.
She hesitates, but then thrusts the gun into his palm with her good hand -- much to his surprise. He sticks it in his extra holster on his waistband and then leans down slightly to level with her gaze. Without thinking, he tentatively rests his hands on her shoulders. His fingers wrap around her shoulders and his palms settle against her collarbones. Only then does it feel like she’s real.
Alive alive alive alive.
He scans her face, unwilling to miss a single detail. A gunshot wound to her right ear. Thick, coiled hair caking against the sticky blood. Scratches along her jawline from glass shards. Old smears of makeup under her eyes, now just black specks thanks to time and tears. But the constellation is still there -- a single smear of blood disrupting the map of freckles on her face…
“Connor!” Hank and the other police finally arrive, feet loud against the pavement. “Shit...”
Connor doesn’t turn to look back at them. He’s watching Emma’s dark brown eyes, waiting. Waiting. She stares at the middle distance between them, as if rebooting -- until suddenly she blinks and she isn’t. She’s looking right back at him. Searching his face.
“I’m--” A hiccup disrupts her sentence and she takes in another rough, shaky breath.
Another lance through his core biocomponent. He suddenly can’t bring himself to say anything at all. Something in him rumbles and roars -- a creature that he’d not witnessed since he broke the command to Stop Markus.
“Emma, hey, it’s gonna be alright.” That was Hank, breathing hard.
“Wh...why the fuck were they chasing me?” Emma looks between Connor and Hank, breaking eye contact finally. “They were by Tulio.” Her car.
“We’ll figure it out,” Hank says, stepping up next to them. He taps Connor’s shoulder once, a signal to move. Connor’s systems feel sluggish; he finds he doesn’t want to let go. But after a moment, he takes a step back, releasing her shoulders.
Hank places his scarf around her neck. “You said you could shoot but you never said you were a goddamn Olympian.”
She squints, looking away. “I dunno.” She gestures outward. “Got lucky, I guess.”
Luck?
Two programs go to war.
Analyze the variables: Markus’s involvement. Did someone use his voice? The supposed job. How did they obtain her number? Why did they chase but opt not to shoot her again? How did they find her? What did they want? Who are these androids and what was their purpose? Why was the reading of the blue blood returning corrupted data? Why is she shy about her gunshots? Find more information. Solve this now.
If you look away from her something else might happen you never know there are no proper odds for this anymore not in this city where nothing has a precondition another shooter could appear anything could come out of thin air so keep your eyes on her at all times don’t you dare let her leave your sight how did she shoot them like that was it luck was it just luck that left her alive was it just luck that she’s here at all--
“Connor?”
Emma is staring at him, moisture on her face glinting blue and red as the last of the backup arrives.
“He’s fine,” Hank says with his usual gruffness, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to turn her away. “Owes me some new tires. Drives like a maniac.” His tone is heightened. He’s trying to obfuscate something, but Emma doesn’t break her stare. Hank bites his lip, concerned.
Connor looks down. The pavement flashes red. He tucks one hand behind his back, as if that can stop the feeling building inside, and another to the coin in his pocket.
What if what if what if what if?
[DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE. ALL SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING.]
But that can’t be right. Because his vision is blurring -- breaking into prisms of light as all the magma in his chest finally reaches his optical components.
He turns away so Emma won’t see.
#dbh connor#connor rk800#detroit become human#dbh connor x oc#dbh connor x reader#dbh#kathryn writes#long post#hope the read more works D:
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The Basement
Requested? Nope. I wrote this a year ago. Hope you like it!
Pairing: None
Warnings: None (?)
* * * *
Ashton remembered seeing the house for the first time. He was seven. His young parents had just bought their first home. He remembered that he used to hate living in the cramped, dingy apartment they previously lived in, and opened the door to their new home with wide eyed wonder. It blew his young mind how spacious that house was. He went upstairs to scope out his new bedroom. He was so excited to have his own room and he didn't have to share with his infant brother.
On his grand tour of his new home, he finally made it to the basement. The basement was nothing like the rest of the house. The upstairs was elegant and classy while the basement was cold, metallic, and sterile. The ceiling covered in ancient pipes winding in grotesque angles. The floor was covered in rough cement. He recalls taking a look at the stairs for the first time and being immediately struck with how odd they were.
The stairs were surrounded in drywall which clashed with the rest of the basement. One particular section of the wall was colored differently than the rest. It stood out like a sore thumb. He inched closer to it and felt the texture of it. It felt very strange. He then knocked on it. A hollow sound pervaded the empty air of the basement. Something about that sound immediately put Ashton into ill at ease. He walked up the stairs as he could hear the same hollow sound echo in the emptiness of the basement.
As Ashton and his family settled in their new home, he began to feel comfortable with his surroundings. The house began to feel familiar. Everywhere, that is, except the basement. It always puts him off, and he avoided it as much as he could. His loving father and mother doted over him and his little brother. His life was perfect.
Then it began.
He would hear errant noises. When he pointed it out to his parents, they told him that the old standby that the house was settling in. One night in particular, indicated that something wasn't right. He snuck downstairs to the kitchen for a late night snack. As he closed the refrigerator, he heard a tapping sound cut through the silence of the night. He craned his head to see if he could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Dread began to wash over him as he realized that the sound was coming from the basement. He inched his way toward the basement door. He opened it to see the blackness of the depths below.
His ears perked up. There it was again. The hollow tapping sound. The same sound he heard the last time he went to the basement. He turned on the lights to go downstairs and investigate. The tapping sound continued as he took his first step. Fear overtook him. He ran back to his room and hid under the covers until morning came.
He remembers walking down the stairs. Being the first one up and about, he ran to the living room to play Nintendo. On his way, he passed by the basement door. It was shut. Though he was in a state of near panic when he ran from it the previous night, he distinctly remembers leaving the door open and not turning off the lights. He thought that maybe his mother or father went down for some reason, so he lost himself in playing Super Mario Bros. 3.
Later, he mentioned the incident to his parents, and they assured him that what he heard was the sound of hot water heater clicking in the night. He knew better, but welcomed the logical explanation.
A month after they moved in, Ashton's mother asked him to run downstairs and grab a load of socks, because their washer and dryer were located at their basement. He reluctantly told her he would. It was the middle of the day and enough time had passed to dull the fear he felt a week prior.
He turned on the light, ran downstairs, hearing the hollow sound echo with his footsteps. A cold sweat started to form on him. He made his way to the dryer and grabbed a basket. He pulled the socks out hastily and shoved them into the basket. After he shut the door of the dryer, he surveyed his surroundings. The stillness of the basement was so eerie. The he heard it. The faint, but audible whisper.
At first, he thought that it was someone calling from upstairs, and their voice scarcely making it down to the basement. However, that wasn't the case. That sound was coming from the basement, specifically, from under the stairs. He stood there; frozen with fear. It began to increase in volume, but still remained barely above the threshold of human perception, what was being said incomprehensible to his young ears.
Then it stopped as quickly as it began.
He moved toward the stairs keeping his eye on the oddly colored portion of the drywall. As he took his first step to escape this ever growing nightmare, the most profoundly terrifying moment of his life occurred. A loud, hollow bang shook the stairs almost knocking him to the ground. He ran up the stairs as fast as he could.
Through tears and shaking uncontrollably, he told his parents what happened. They tried their best to calm him down, but nothing seemed to work. He told them in no uncertain terms that he would never go down the basement again. They must've been convinced of how terrified he was, because they honored his request and never sent him down ever again.
After three months in the house, things began to be normal for him. There was about a two week period where he I was happy again. One moment in particular comes to mind. Ashton remembers lifting his little brother, Harry, above his head lovingly as Harry's pacifier fell out of his mouth and brushed against Ashton's nose tickling him. Ashton pulled him in for a big bear hug and remembered how he smelled. That wonderful smell babies emit, and for the last time, feeling content.
But that feeling of contentment came crashing down for Ashton and his parents the night of August 2, 2001.
That is the day Harry went missing.
A ransom note was scrawled in barely legible English and left in his bed demanding $20,000 dollars cash. It also said that if they call the police, they would kill Harry. Ashton's mother and father went to their shared bedroom and argued loudly and emotionally over whether or not to call the police. Ashton listened whilst tears streamed down his face. Ashton's mother eventually wore down his father and the police were called. Seeing as the location of the drop and time were indicated on the note, the police set up a wiretap just in case the kidnapper decided to call. Ashton asked his parents and the police if they searched the house in case he was still there. They assured Ashton that they had and that Harry would be fine after the drop, but the seed of idea was already growing in Ashton's young mind that would blossom for the rest of his life.
Ashton's parents followed the instructions to a T. They dropped off the money and then waited in the location that they were supposed to pick up Harry.
But he never came.
This tore their family apart. As the weeks passed and there were no news about Harry, his young, vibrant parents became husks of their former selves, especially his mother. She blamed herself for getting the police involved and believed that to be the reason Harry was not returned. One night as Ashton's mother was sobbing alone clutching a bottle of wine, Ashton decided to tell his mother about his theory that was forming in his mind. He told her that he thought it was whoever (or whatever it is for that matter) was under the stairs that had gotten Harry and maybe he is still alive. His mother slapped him across his face that he saw stars. She screamed at him. The guilt expressing itself as rage. She told him to stop the childish bullsh*t and just accept the fact that Harry was taken out of their house by some sick f*ck and is already dead. Ashton's childhood died that day. Ashton remembers contemplating taking a hammer and exposing whatever was under the stairs himself, but the fear was just too overwhelming for him to actually do it let alone step foot in the basement.
Ashton and his family moved shortly after the incident. Ashton remembers looking to the future with what might resemble optimism only to have it come crashing down. His parents divorced. The grief was too much to share and not a year after that his mother killed herself. The guilt must've been eating her alive. Ashton's father did his best to raise him, but Harry's long shadow always hung over their lives.
Twenty years later, Ashton began to think long and hard about his little brother's disappearance and how angry it made him. He wasn't just robbed of a little brother. He was robbed of any chance of happiness. As he grew up, he accepted the official story of what happened. But lately, curiosity got the best of him. Ashton began driving past the old house. Seeing as it was empty, ideas began to form in his head.
So, he broke into the house. He decided to do it. Knowing he would find nothing under the basement stairs, he hoped that that would close a too long chapter in his life and allow him to move on. To his dismay, the stairs sounded exactly the same as he remembered, a hollow sound pervaded the basement. He stared at the spot in the drywall, still not colored, still just as ominous as it was when he was a child. However, fear was not going to stop him. In fact, he was feeling the opposite. He was feeling a courage he hadn't felt in a long time. The moment of truth was upon him. With all the force within him, emboldened by years of pent up rage, I ran toward the wall shoulder first. The drywall came crashing down. Ashton opened his eyes as his bravery immediately vanished and turned into horror.
Jesus.
Bones.
Bones everywhere.
His horror increased as he looked around. The light playing menacingly around their tiny frames. Tattered pieces of paper were scattered. There must've been the remains of 20-30 children. Ashton's fright increased even more when he realized that all their skulls were missing.
One particularly tiny one begged Ashton's attention. Ashton grew weak and stumbled backwards when he saw bite marks up and down the tiny forearm.
As he hit the ground, he expected to hear a full thud as he landed on the concrete. Instead he heard a hollow sound. He looked to see what he landed on; a trap door. Finding new courage, Ashton opened it.
Below him lay a dark tunnel, a crawl space that could barely fit a person lying on their stomach. Ashton knew what he had to do. Ashton found himself crawling through the darkness toward whatever lay on the other side.
As he reached the end of the tunnel, Ashton looked up to see light cutting through the darkness. With that, he pushed upwards.
Cautiously, Ashton poked his head up. To his surprise, the tunnel only led him to the other side of the stairs. He crawled out to find himself in the corner of the basement facing the stairs behind a dryer covered in years of dust.
Ashton's heart caught his throat when he heard someone descending the stairs, slow but sure steps announcing he was no longer alone. With every thud, his heart skipped a beat. He began to hear the incomprehensible whispering absolutely inedible in his mind. The familiarity of his lost childhood. Worrying that the darkness wouldn't be enough to hide him, he hid himself by ducking behind the dryer not willing to catch a glimpse.
Panic began to set in. What was Ashton going to do when it discovers that his lair has been revealed? Whilst Ashton was mulling over options, the weird noises began.
The sounds smashing the silence of the basement were so bone chilling to defy description. It clearly had discovered that his perverse sanctuary had been disturbed. Before he knew it, he was up the stairs running for his life.
He made it to his car too scared to turn around. He opened the door and put the key in the ignition in one swift movement. As his car sprang to life under the street light, a shadow fell over his car. He gunned it, never looking back flooring the accelerator to the police station. He breathlessly tried to explain to the officer what had happened and collapsed to the floor mid sentence.
Now, it is a month later. The next day after his discovery, the police launched an investigation and quickly made the same gruesome discovery. Ashton was thanked by the police and the community for what he had discovered telling him that they were going to close the books on multiple missing person cases. However, they were not able to find the suspect of the crime. They began to test the DNA of the bodies. A profound sense of relief overcame Ashton when the police called informing that one of the tiny skeletons belonged to Harry.
Ashton shared the news with his father. The look on his face, relief all encompassing as the burden he had carried for so many years was now lifted. They hugged as tears filled both of their eyes.
However, the relief has been short lived.
The thing that keeps Ashton up at night is that whatever or whoever did the crime is still out there; lurking. The question that plagues his mind is whether or not this creature is literal or figurative. Either way, Ashton hopes he never finds out.
#ashton irwin#ashton 5sos#ashton 5 seconds of summer#ashton fletcher irwin#5sos#5 seconds of summer#lashton#mashton#cashton
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My last week
So it started two weeks ago. My company has always been a little too big for our building. We have about 75 employees, and over the last few years, we’ve moved around a ton of desks and workspaces to try and create as much room as we can out of nothing. We can’t revamp the building and add space or a second floor because it’s an old building and we’re grandfathered into a lot of sprinkler and fire codes and it would cost millions to fix that, in addition to then building more on.
Since COVID-19, we’ve been working from home, it started right around St. Patrick’s Day. Our VPN got upgraded and everyone is on laptops to be able to do their work and tunnel into the network. We’d gotten more WFH friendly over the last few years as well. It used to be like, you needed to ask way in advance and make sure you were in a room by yourself and all these crazy rules. But now marketing apparently had a rule where you could work from home one day a week and it got a lot more lenient for everyone else.
Our company does professional development for schools, and our biggest time of the year is summer when we hold conferences that school professionals and administrators come to. Obviously with COVID, that’s next to impossible to do and was gonna cost us big time. However, with these struggles, we started putting out more content about the virus and schools in the time of a pandemic, doing more webinars which are a huge hit, and also taking our summer workshops online via Zoom, and that’s been a huge success. So our company productivity hasn’t slowed at all and we’re maintaining profitability.
So, our President announced last Friday that she was going to sell our building. We’d be looking into a temporary space for about a year while we look for a permanent location, and when we find it, it’ll be smaller, less workstations so that if you come in you can just plug in and work, and primarily, we’d work from home. It’s a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. My main goal was always to work from home. My buddy Rob from drumline works from home as a cybersecurity advisor for banks. He lives and works at home and then travels around and consults. It always seemed like a sweet gig, and I’m on a laptop anyways, does it matter where I am? I always wanted to work at the beach. Pipe dream is to work from the beach, live in a house with an ocean view.
So now onto the good part.
So I’ve been working from home since the start of pandemic, and just kind of finding places to go. I initially set myself up in our spare bedroom. We didn’t have a desk, but I was thinking this would be just a few weeks, maybe a month tops, I could deal. I worked on a little wireframe shelf that was barely enough room for my laptop, let alone a monitor, no room for a keyboard or anything. As it got hotter and there was no AC up there, I started working more in my room where I have a small window unit. But that meant I had to keep my door shut and isolate myself from my house. It was fine and it was a better spot but I can’t be shut away and not have my ear on everything for too long. I bopped around too, outside when the weather was nice, inside in the living room in my favorite chair. I didn’t want to set up shop in the dining room because I know my dad would have a coniption about me working there, or spin it like “Oh, I don’t want to disturb you or anything..”
I’ve been worried about them feeling inconvenienced by me working anyways, and have gone out of my way to make it known that just because I’m working does not mean “do not disturb” or anything. If I have a meeting, I’ll go upstairs or find a spot and it won’t be a huge issue.
So my dad, after me saying I’m gonna be working from home more permanently, he wanted to fix me up a spot. We have a back room on our porch which is really nice, but got kind of cluttered up by a lot of things. There’s a TV, a few bookshelves, my dad had a ton of camping and model-building stuff back there, a big case full of pictures, a fishtank, etc. My idea was literally to clear out a corner, put a chair there and a table and I’d be set. I don’t need anything complicated. I don’t need an office. My dad’s immediate thought was “I’ll give you two tables and then you could have two separate workstations and this and that” and I kept reiterating, I want a desk and a chair. “Well I want it to look nice for you out there! What if you decide to invite work buddies over to work on stuff together and you need some place to go, you can take someone out there now” We haven’t had company since I broke up with Sammie in 2017. I want a table and a chair. That’s it. I can deal. We could have been done the job in 2 hours.
Instead, my dad insisted we have this French provincial desk out in the garage, buried under a mountain of shit. We would pull that out, clean that up, bring that in and it would be my desk. I told him I could buy one off of Amazon, I could find a table. I didn’t need anything super nice. I didn’t need it cleaned out there. I needed a table and a chair. He tried getting snippy with me, but I eventually just relented.
So we spent two days last week cleaning the back room out, moving a ton of crap, turning everything upside down. Then emptying part of the garage which is filled with stuff. We threw out a lot but put a lot back too. All to dig out this desk which was also filled with crap and old and dirty. And then put all the stuff back in the garage. And it’s hot and it’s taking forever. Tuesday when we dug it out and cleaned it, we worked until 7pm. Keep in mind, these two days, I worked about a total of 3 hours. My dad wanted something specific for dinner that he can cook. So he fucking starts cooking and is screaming and yelling and freaking out, not taking into account the time or that he has to cook or anything before doing all this work.
And then Wednesday is putting everything back. FINALLY Thursday and Friday we get some semblance of normalcy and I can get back to actually working. 3 days of craziness and running around and working in the heat and lugging stuff in and out of the house. All because I wanted A TABLE AND A CHAIR.
OH and in the middle of going through everything, I also mowed the lawn because it needed to be done and I knew if I didn’t make time to do it, he’d catch me off guard and try and do it. And the one time I was gonna do it, he told me not to because it was too hot but I know if I said I wasn’t, he’d have done it not long after.
Fast forward to yesterday. We have a window unit AC that has dripped water before. It keeps our entire downstairs level cool. When it dripped before, it got my dad’s recorder all messed up. We fixed that but then yesterday, because it’s been running so much cause we’re in a heat wave, it leaked and dripped right into the vent underneath of it and a small 2 square foot chunk of the ceiling fell out in the basement where all my dad’s stuff is. It didn’t damage anything too bad hopefully. But it was still a giant hole in the ceiling directly between the upstairs and downstairs.
It happened around 2 and we got done and got everything put back with only the patch job left to do today. But god, the yelling, the screaming. And I’m not exaggerating, literally yelling “AAAAAAAAA,” the complaining. Not just like, this is a crisis, we have to calmly deal with this. Panic, freak out, yell, make everyone else upset. It’s crazy. We clean the area and put everything back, my dad cuts out a piece of drywall and wood to patch there, he’s gonna do it today. We fixed the AC so that the leak now is gonna definitely go outside the house and not drip down. But yesterday while he was taking a break to plan his course of action, I had a panic attack. I was sitting and waiting and I started shaking and I got really short of breath and I got dizzy and weak. It was crazy.
I used to get panic attacks many years ago, and I had a full on nervous breakdown a year ago after my dad’s stroke. When Nancy left, that whole summer was yelling and screaming every day because we had 11 year old baby Rachel to take care of, no money, 9 dogs, a shitty pool, we basically revamped the whole house. I was having panic attacks all the time because it was like, from the moment I woke up to literally the moment I went to sleep, I had to deal with him. Fuck going to school, like now, fuck working. I couldn’t think about that or worry about that.
Now with his stroke, it’s 10x worse because he has all of these limitations and he’s not taking care of himself and he’s stubborn. I barely know what I’m doing and he definitely will not listen to me, but then he hurts himself. He won’t eat and talk about how his blood sugar is so low and he feels like he’s fading and feels so awful and terrible, and I tell him he needs to make sure he eats something and gets something in his stomach besides an entire pot of coffee in the morning, and he won’t do it because he says his stomach doesn’t feel right. He’s losing muscle because he doesn’t eat. He doesn’t trust or like his doctor (that I don’t blame him for) but then he’s confrontational about his meds or about his healthcare. He’ll go and work outside in the sun and it kills him but he’ll do it anyways because “it needs to be done.” And since I quit band, I’ve tried giving all the time I can to helping him and I just don’t think he gets it because he’s worried about everything for so long, he can’t realize there’s someone else here.
And personally, I think there’s a part of him that really doesn’t like me contributing. He tells me he appreciates it and likes it. But I think he almost gets jealous in a way, like when I cook or buy groceries, it’s not something he can hold over anyone, it’s not something he has to feel superior. He feels like he’s not providing, so he feels useless. I try to give him NOTHING to hold over my head. He has enough I guess built in by being my parent. So now I try not to let him give me money, or do things or buy things for me. And I don’t hold my stuff over his head. I buy things and do things because I want to see people happy. That’s all. I want to make people satisfied and content and that makes me happy. I’m constantly worried about everything and everyone. Running out of stuff, being out of stuff, someone not having something they need. I don’t cook dinner or buy groceries and go “I just bought groceries earlier!” and throw it up to people. If I ever do that, it’s because I’m defending myself from him either saying he does it all or that I do nothing.
OH AND THEN TAX DAY. So, last week was the tax deadline and of course like responsible Americans, when given 3 EXTRA MONTHS to do taxes, we both waited until the last minute lmao. The day before (Tuesday when he was insane) he mentioned something and I had a free hour before I had to help him start working and cleaning shit, so I hopped on Turbotax and did my taxes. Took about an hour to dig up my Cab 1099, my 1040, my student loan thing. But once I found those, I did it in about an hour. He didn’t. He waited until the 15th. After dinner lmao. So he’s running around like crazy, and of course more yelling, more screaming, more complaining and bitching. He said he wouldn’t file taxes but he has to because Rachel is getting her Medicare because of him, because she has no income and isn’t going to school and is his dependent. So at the zero hour he goes on and files, and for some reason, don’t ask me why, he can’t e-file. He has to print and mail his taxes. So we have to run over to Staples with a flash drive and print the forms out, then go to the post office where the line is super long, to get post-marked postage and mail his taxes. The whole while he’s bitching, he’s insulting me. He’s not in an awful mood but he’s in a super cocky mood where he like, meanly jokes but is kind of relaxed. It’s hard to explain lol. And it so happens that day, once again after getting barely any work done, my job says “We need you to get us something by 11pm tonight” and I was gonna work on it after dinner but then had to be ready to help him, and by the time I got home again, it was 9:30 so rather than relax, I had to spent my time furiously working to try and finish this thing. It was crazy. Once again, I didn’t mind doing it, I gladly offered to help and it was fun going on a neat little adventure. But the fact that HE put off doing his taxes and he could have done them any other day, then waited till literally the last minute and then had to do all this running around and then I had to be the one to help him and help do it. Fucking insanity.
This last week has just been insane. The amount of shit I’ve had to deal with, on top of COVID, him not being able to go away, ME not being able to go away. Fucking insanity. I’m really losing it.
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The Rage Mothers Don’t Talk About
Mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame.
“[My son] can provoke me into a state of something similar to road rage. I have felt many times over the years that I was capable of hurting him … [T]he myth of maternal bliss is so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves.” Anne Lamott, “Mother rage: theory and practice,” Salon.com
The rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. I want to hurt someone. I am tears and fury and violence. I want to scream and rip open pillows, toss chairs and punch walls. I want to see my destruction — feathers floating, overturned furniture, ragged holes in drywall.
When I get mad like this around my 3-year-old son, I have to say to myself, like a mantra, “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” Touching him with this rage coursing through me only ends in my shame, and my son’s shock, and what else I do not know; only time will reveal that. I have never hit him, but the line between “hitting” and “not hitting” is porous. In this “not hitting” gray area there are soft arms squeezed too tight, a red superhero cape (Velcro-clasped around his neck) forcefully yanked off, a child picked up and thrown into his crib. For me it is better not to touch at all. Only a few years ago, I remember judging a mother on the bus for smacking her child. Now I have only empathy for her. Mother rage can change you, providing access to parts of yourself you didn’t even know you had.
Mother rage is not “appropriate.” Mothers are supposed to be martyr-like in our patience. We are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. We hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” We feel the need to qualify our frustration with “I love my child to the moon and back, but....” As if mother rage equals a lack of love. As if rage has never shared a border with love. Fearing judgment, we say nothing. The rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame.
The shame is as bad as the rage and just as damaging. I am afraid of my actions. Of myself. I know — know — in the deepest part of myself that this yelling, this terrifying anger is not O.K. My little boy is unfolding, blossoming more into his glorious self with each passing day. I am afraid I am destroying his bloom with my rage.
I get furious with my son for all kinds of reasons: for running away from me down the sidewalk; for not getting in the car; for not letting me brush his teeth; for spitting at, hitting and biting other children at school; for ignoring me; for eating only five monochromatic foods. In my calmer moments, I can access the wisdom of distance. I remember that his behavior is age-appropriate, that all kids test limits. But in the moment, I’m consumed by what a brat he is being. Fury does not welcome wisdom.
In this red place, I yell at my son so hard my voice becomes a growl. I want him to react. To cry or look scared. To feel my fury. I turn into a tantruming child, stomping along with each word. I slam doors, smack my hand on the counter. “Goddamn it! Jesus Christ! You’re making me insane!” I threaten forever-timeouts, no supper. I take away videos, treats, toys, privileges. When I get through with him the house will be barren, the dusty outlines where the furniture used to be the only indication that a nice family once lived there.
[How to discipline your child without yelling or spanking]
One evening, my partner, working late, calls me after a particularly rage-filled day. I am watching a movie on our bed, while finishing off all the sweet things in the house. “How was the day?” he asks. My voice is tired and small. “It was hard,” I say, trying not to cry, and I detect an edge in his voice when he asks me what happened. He knows, I think. I can’t tell him everything. He will hate me. He won’t trust me. Our son is his baby, too. I wouldn’t trust me either.
Mostly, I keep my rage between my son and me. My partner’s presence mitigates my outbursts, but sometimes my fury bubbles over and he witnesses it. He’s an even-keeled guy, so when he says, “You need to figure this out now,” I know I need to get help beyond ice cream and deep breathing.
I start working with a life coach. He assigns me a section of Daniel Goleman’s book “Emotional Intelligence.” Goleman cites the work of University of Alabama psychologist Dolf Zillmann, who discovered that the physiological effects of rage can last for days, and that rage builds on rage. Repeated aggravations — “a sequence of provocations” — can dramatically increase anger, so that by the third or fourth rage trigger, the person is reacting on a level 10 in response to a misplaced key or a dropped spoon.
The example Goleman uses is (wait for it!) a mother in a grocery store with a 3-year-old and a baby. The 3-year-old is begging his mother to buy things, pulling food off shelves and not listening when she orders him to put it back. Then the baby drops a jam jar, which shatters on the floor. The mother explodes: yells, slaps the baby, slams the cereal box down and angrily zigzags the cart toward the exit.
Of course Goleman chose this story to illustrate Zillmann’s “sequence of provocations.” Motherhood is relentless provocation! And yet we are expected to be saintly and patient, to lovingly hold and care for our babies, even at their most challenging. To dwell so serenely in the state Anne Lamott calls “the myth of maternal bliss,” that we don’t yell or curse, and we certainly don’t become enraged or violent.
Looking for help, I join a 12-week anger-management group for mothers. The facilitator encourages us to add “tools” to our “toolboxes.” We practice deep breathing through one nostril at a time, and we read about “happy parenting.” The most important part, for me, is the mirror provided by the circle of tired, sad mothers. One woman is divorced. One has a toddler at home and a 3-month-old on her breast. Only one participant is a dad; apparently, there is no class for dads who rage. Another mom admits that she wants to throw her child across the room, and the rest of us have forgiven her before she has finished her sentence. We all nod, as our bodies flood with relief that the rage has not singled us out.
Couples therapy, individualized therapy, life coaching, anger management for mothers — I have been working on my mother rage. I have not yet found the golden ticket to serenity, but I have noticed that when I manage to exercise, make art and eat healthy food, I have a longer fuse. In toolbox lingo: These things fill up my patience cup. Unfortunately, as a working mom with a small child I am not swimming in spare time, and cooking, running and unpaid hobbies often fall to the bottom of the to-do list.
I am trying, though. And failing. And sometimes succeeding. I count every small win — today I got mad and clenched my fists but kept my voice really calm! Each day I begin again: breathing in his sweet little-boy smell when he crawls into our bed and I wrap my arms around him, enveloping his body in mine; and by the end of the day, whispering to myself, “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.”
Minna Dubin, a writer, public artist and performer in the Bay Area, is working on a collection of essays about motherhood.
Kin Leung is a Marriage & Family Therapist, MFT practicing in the San Francisco Bay area. Kin specializes in helping couples overcome struggles related to infidelity, intimacy, miscommunication, mistrust, and parenting. Kin's kind, thoughtful and compassionate approach to marriage counseling San Francisco helps guide couples to a calmer and safer space to explore issues and move forward in a more productive manner.
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