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palmerasenfuego · 4 years

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An Open Letter to His Cop Father

My hope is to make clear, maybe for the first time, my perspective on a variety of points of contention between you and me, not so that we can reconcile them necessarily, but so that I won't feel the need to tiptoe around you any more. Addressing this problem I have with codependency and self-censorship has been my task ever since I left my ex, and I think you yourself would agree that in the last year and a half, I have become much more vibrant and present than I ever was as the kowtowed ghost who let his controlling girlfriend dictate the terms of his existence. In the following letter I strove to be unsparing, but only for the sake of clarity. I don't hold any resentment towards you. I want to take ownership of my own role in our dynamic so that we can move into the future, unencumbered.

A few months ago, you and I argued over my career with regard to the classes I plan on taking for my Masters in library science. After we'd each calmed down, you said that you were only suggesting I keep my options open, as we'd both noted that the future of public libraries, and indeed social services generally, is uncertain at best and possibly doomed. You merely meant to suggest that I look into classes that would prepare me for information career opportunities in the private sector, in the probable case that public libraries no longer exist in the future.

At the time I didn't want to argue any more, and I agreed that you had made good points. I would keep my options open. What you didn't understand, however, was that I only grew "defensive" about my plans after I thought I presented them as exactly what you claimed to be suggesting—that is, I would look into a variety of library and information science related fields while keeping my focus, somewhat idealistically, on public libraries. But then you interjected, as you so often do, with all the reasons why my plan might not be such a great idea. Had I considered the uncertain future of public libraries? (Of course I had.) Wouldn't a librarianship at a prestigious museum be a more stable and lucrative career? (Maybe, but nothing's a safe bet.)

Because I stood my ground, because I intend to fight for what I believe in while I still can, you accused me of being 'defensive.' There's always an underlying tension between us, you said, which is something I don't deny. Why do I always seem resentful? you asked. You accused me of only viewing you as a resource to draw on without any care for you as my father, a totally unfair and manipulative thing to say of your son who followed you and your other son for a decade, watching you coach his brother’s baseball team, without him; your son who desperately wished his father understood his art and literature recommendations, but knows they'll usually go unheeded; your son who, despite knowing what his father did to his mother, and resenting that his father won't speak with his mother at all, still loves his father.

You can't seem to recognize sometimes that your mistakes could have had any effect on the way you and I relate, and I think you think any antagonism between us is me blindly rebelling, an absurd image to have of me, the most docile black sheep any flock has ever had. To be clear, what causes the tension between us is a feeling in me that I won't even be heard if you've previously decided you're in the right. So rather than speak up, I generally keep my mouth shut, which is not healthy for me, nor is it productive of the kind of relationship I'd hope to have as an adult with my father.

You would prefer that I not stake my future on public librarianship, because you would not do that. Therefore, I shouldn't do that. I don't care whether you disagree with me. Ultimately, none of this letter is about convincing you of anything. What I want to address is that I have never felt like my voice would be heard, by you or anyone, really, which is in part a result of having my perspective so often subjected to critical (over)analysis from you, as in our argument over public libraries. Or, it’s a result of having my enthusiasm mocked anytime you and my brother didn't appreciate something I did. 2001: A Space Odyssey is a masterpiece of American art, and you Philistines didn't watch more than 15 minutes of it, but to this day you make fun of me for wanting to watch it with you.

When we had disagreements over any supposed transgression on my part, you quickly dropped the pretense towards being a concerned parent to assume your interrogation persona, with me the guilty-until-proven-innocent suspect. One of the oldest tricks to get someone to fess up is asking the same question several times, forcing the suspect to repeat their story. Any time you seemed suspicious I wasn't answering your questions straight, it would be "You sure? Positive? Nothing else?" The only thing missing was the aluminum chairs and the spotlight in my face. All disagreements were structured this way, with you above, already having the answers, and me below, forced to acquiesce to the judgement presumed. Attempts to defend myself when I felt I was unfairly accused were met with the reprimand to not "talk back," something I've internalized deeply, corrosively, finding myself drawn, in friendships and in love, to those who shout me down or laugh me out. As a result, my natural cowardice and timidity have festered for years.

You have long urged me, since childhood, to be more assertive, less passive, to stop "playing the victim," and these were not unfair or inaccurate criticisms. Like Kafka with his father, none of this is to say I blame you for the effect you've had on me and my inability to speak up. I was a timid child, easily influenced by social pressure and a need for approval, most especially from you. From my child's view I was enamored of what you seemed to represent, which I suppose is unremarkable, as sons and fathers go. Perhaps also unremarkable of fathers and sons is how elusive your approval seemed to be. There was never outright disapproval of me from you, and I always knew you "supported" me. But let's not pretend like we at times did not and do not appear alien to one another. Which is normal, healthy, so long as it's accepted, because we’re separate people, but the trouble fathers and sons get into is they each seek validation from the other—the father struggles to impose his own standards on the son and see his progeny flourish as so judged by the standards imposed, and the son seeks to establish himself as his own person, separate but unable to escape the looming shadow of his father, the son's primary model for what a person is.

One instance where I probably tried to voice an objection to your discipline, an instance where I knew the gravity of the issue you wanted to convey but disagreed that what I'd done deserved such a strong reprimand from you, was when I drew a Klansman in my notebook, being the bored and doodling 8th grade boy that I was, watching a documentary about the Klan in history class. I wasn't approving of the Klan by drawing a man in a pointed hood, but to your credit, you saw an opportunity to make clear the need to take seriously the violence and oppression that African-Americans have faced in this country, and to never trivialize symbols of that violence and hatred. (Fatefully, I was similarly firmly scolded by my mom when she saw a swastika in one of my notebooks, which is when I learned my Polish grandmother escaped the Nazis as a small child in the belly of a freight ship, traumatized by the sight of dead stowaways floating past her, and this after the death of her brother at the hands of fascist thugs.)

When the black community today raises the cry "Black Lives Matter," what they want is a reckoning from American society for the way that black life has historically been deemed disposable. Africans were ripped from their mother country, brutalized on a treacherous trans-Atlantic voyage, and sold off in a land where the climate and environment were entirely alien, their various languages as unintelligible to one another as to their masters. They were subjected to centuries of horrific slavery, whippings, rape, and familial rupture. Any who managed to escaped their bondage risked dogged, murderous pursuit by slave patrols. The de facto opponents of slavery won a civil war and slavery was abolished, and for another century black people were terrorized with lynchings by whites (who were never prosecuted), all while being denied economic opportunity and treated as less-than-second-class citizens in public spaces, not to mention suffering a complete lack of political representation. It wasn't until 1968 that the political rights of African-Americans were codified into federal law, but the mere granting of rights does nothing to address the long term devastation wrought on the black community, which built this country for free, this country that so long denied them not only equal rights and opportunity, but denied them their humanity. And to this day, black people go murdered, in broad daylight, in their cars, or while they sleep, both by the police and by others, without justice. "Black Lives Matter" needs to be said because American society does not seem to acknowledge that black life matters, despite America's lofty ideals for itself as a place of equal protection under the law. If black lives matter, then all lives matter, but not all lives matter until black lives matter.

Saying "Blue Lives Matter" is to be presented with that history, turn it around and say "Yeah, well what about us cops?" No one chooses to be black; all cops choose to be cops. If you want the profession of policing to have the respect you demand people give it, then cops should be aware what they're signing up for: a thankless, demoralizing job that answers to the public, and not the other way around. To say "My job is hard so we matter too!" when, after centuries of oppression, the black community says, "Our lives matter!" is a gross exercise in bad faith. This is why "Blue Lives Matter" is offensive, utterly bankrupt beyond the expression of resentment towards an imagined enemy. American society has no doubts about the value of the lives of police officers. What easier way is there to bring the full force of the American justice system, with a swift investigation and aggressive prosecution, than to murder a cop? The justice system has time and again demonstrated the societal value of police officers' lives. The same can not be said of black lives, which is why "Blue Lives Matter" is far more trivializing of the racism still faced by black people in America than some 13-year-old kid's drawing of a Klansman.

Part of me worries that writing this is futile, that you'll see this as another instance of me "talking back," i.e. saying what challenges your airtight prosecutor's argument. Another part of me thinks what I’m saying resonates with your bedrock American and Catholic values. After all, I had to get my principles from somewhere. But if this doesn't move you, I will rest well knowing that at the very least I'm not shutting myself up any more, and that I'll finally be coming to you as a man and not as your child, facing you squarely, head no longer bowed.

I love you.

#blm #letter

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bangtantannie · 5 years

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Breaking The Rose

Word Count: 6K

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader, featuring BTS

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst, Romance, implied smut I’m sorry it’s probably not the best

Rating: Mature

Warning: Use of swear words and some implied smut

A/N: HELLO HELLO I’VE CRAWLED OUT OF MY CAVE ONCE AGAIN! This is a gift for the lovely @minstrivia for the KWRITERSWOLD Spring Fic exchange!! I’m cutting it real close to the deadline I’m living life on the edge sorry about that!! The keyword was La Vie en Rose. I hope you enjoyyy~~~~

Summary: Lost in a world of rose and pink, what does one do when the one that abandoned them finally returns.

Also!! I’d like to thank @chaotikeh and @nambewb for helping meee!! I wouldn’t have been able to writ this without youuuu!

Pink. Blushing shades of rose and rouge permanently tinted her vision – that is, until she finds her soulmate. Twenty-four years of the pink haze didn’t disturb Y/n at all. As a matter of fact, it gave her rather monotonous life some color. That goes to say, she would be lying if she didn’t wonder what it was like to see other colors. Were bananas blue? Are trees black? What color is an orange? The curiosity was always there, but she always kept herself from getting too curious. After all her soulmate might not even be out there.

Y/n moaned, feeling his fingers grope sensually at her supple flesh. His deep groans reverberated in her ear as his large hand slid upwards between her legs. She sighed as he caressed her inner thigh, not quite where she wanted them to be. Her eyes opened in a lidded haze, barely able see past the lust and make out the shape of their figures in the mirror in front of her.

The base of the music at the club was muffled by the bathroom walls, but Y/n could clearly hear the song that was playing. She watched as the man’s hand mapped out her body, giving areas that made her sigh in appreciation extra attention. His lips gently ran over her neck, always leaving her breathless at the precisely placed pecks. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember his name. But it doesn’t matter, once their business was done, they would eventually be going their separate ways.

Y/n closed her eyes, honing-in on the feeling of his hands on her soft body. She let out a loud groan in appreciation, finally feeling the rough friction of the pads of his fingers just where she wanted them. His smooth skin was a soft rosy color, his hair and eyes a deep magenta. The sight in the mirror practically too much to bear, Y/n turned in his arms to pull him in for a sloppy kiss. She ran her hand up his torso, relishing in the indentations of his abdominals and the divots of his collarbones.

It had been a long time since Y/n found the time to loosen up. The company of another man had become quite a regular occurrence, but an upcoming deadline required her undivided attention. Now that the final design had been sent to corporate, she was free – and she was going to make sure she had her fill.

============

Y/n giggled as another man pulled her close to him. This time he was much taller, practically towering over her in her heels. His shoulders were much broader, she was practically swimming in his large jacket. Her smile was etched onto her face as he whispered unspeakable things into her ear, her imagination doing nothing to quell the heat that had only grown over the course of the night.

“Y/n?”

Her head turned instinctively, not bothering to identify the owner of the voice. Not that it would really matter, she had already seen some of her coworkers getting more than close on the dance floor tonight. It seems this was a popular place to release some stress for the company. Oh, how she had wished that it was her manager instead of the man standing two feet away from her.

Y/n had never wanted the ground to swallow her whole as much as she did now. It was like the person she was now had been erased, only be filled in with the naïve woman she was four years ago. The alcohol in her system had evaporated, the man wrapped around her long forgotten. So many emotions hit her all at once. Dread, curiosity, heartbreak, longing, and above all else – utter joy. She didn’t think she would hear his voice ever again, look into his dark magenta eyes ever again. She thought he was gone. He had left, and she didn’t think he was ever going to come back.

“Yoongi.” She whispered. The name was just as sweet on her tongue as it was four years ago. His name was just as bitter in her heart as it was four years ago.

================

Y/n sat in a daze at the café. The steam from her cup swirled gracefully as she stared out the window. A couple cuddled closely together as they went about their day in the chilly weather. Another couple laughed as their child jumped playfully between them. A younger couple awkwardly held hands as the passed the window, both of their faces flushed, and the big smiles hidden from each other.

The café was quaint, quite cute and reasonably priced. Light bulbs were strung along the walls, providing adequate lighting for the decently sized space. The menu was drawn in cute handwriting with adorable little doodles on a chalk board hoisted on the wall behind the barista’s counter. Everything in the café from the walls to the welcome mat were a mix of soft pinks and rose colors blending together to soothe the eyes from the dull office buildings and harsh lighting of city life. If Y/n had normal vision, she was sure the café would be even cuter.

The chair across from Y/n scraped against the floor, stealing her attention from the happy couples outside.

“Took you long en-“Her eyes met with a deep magenta – a shade she couldn’t quite find anywhere else, and a shade she never wanted to see again. She had forgotten. This was a café she and Yoongi absolutely adored.

“I guess some things just don’t change, do they?” Yoongi’s sickeningly soothing voice slithered into her ears as he raised his small espresso cup in acknowledgement to her cappuccino.

Y/n frowned as she basked in Yoongi’s presence. Nothing about him had changed. His eyes drooped ever so slightly like they always did, his jawline was just as defined as it had been, he smacked is lips after every sip just as he always had. He still wore a dark camelot shirt with a lipstick colored flannel, she was sure if she looked under the table she would find the usual pair of worn sneakers he usually wore. Nothing about his physical appearance had changed at all, but everything else about him did.

His cold stare had melted into something more reserved rather than unapproachable. The way he scanned the room was more methodical, as if he were really considering the surroundings around him rather than glaring at every potential threat. Even the air around him seemed warmer, and she couldn’t even bare to look into his eyes. Something about the way he sat seemed awkward. As if he were a child guilty of breaking something they shouldn’t have been touching in the first place.

His eyebrow raised. “Nothing to say?” Normally, she would’ve replied with a sassy remark.

“Not to you.” Yoongi wasn’t worth it, he couldn’t be anymore.

He sighed, staring into Y/n’s eyes. His mouth opened slightly, his eyebrows were furrowed. “Listen, I wanted to – “

“Y/N!” Seokjin rushed to the table, his tunnel vision focused on Y/n and only Y/n. “You’ll never guess who’s – oh.” Seokjin finally noticed Yoongi. “Yoongi.”

“Hi, Jin hyung,” Yoongi said. He scratched the back of his neck. Yoongi slightly curled into himself at the tone Seokjin had taken when his name was called. It was hard, like that of a scolding parent. “I guess I’ll see you around then,” Yoongi muttered then left as suddenly as he arrived.

Once Yoongi was gone, Seokjin took the seat Yoongi just abandoned. “Are you okay?”

Y/n simply smiled wryly, staring at the small steaming cup of espresso.

The man that was once sitting across from her scared her. She was used to the unpredictable man that the area knew to be a wildcard. One day he would be helping a lady cross the street, the next he’ll be caught up in a bar fight. Her eyes tell her she’s looking at that very same man. Her heart tells her this is someone completely different. She hated that the sight of him practically frozen in time nearly deceived her into dropping her defenses. It was as if she had finally gotten the picture perfect moment she dreamed of four years ago. Yoongi had become the man she saw in him long ago. She would have no trouble fooling herself into believing that she was twenty, naïve and hopelessly in love with the quiet man. If she wanted to delve deeper into her delusion, she could believe that Yoongi had just proposed, that they were going to get married and settle down – maybe have a family.

But Y/n refused to give in. The damage had been done, and she refuses to be the one to hurt herself even more. Where was the man that selfishly stole her heart with a flash of stupid gummy smile and hidden heart of gold? Where was the bastard that lived freely, the one that did whatever the fuck he wanted whenever the fuck he wanted? Where had the asshole that up and disappeared while she was asleep gone?

===============

“I heard from Jin.” Namjoon said, sitting beside Y/n on the park bench. A teenage girl was walking a small dog with pink curls. A few mothers sat together on a bench as they watched their children play on the playground. A group of students were playing some ball game on the field nearby.

“Are you here to reprimand me?” She had to admit, she had been acting a bit childish for the last few months. Yoongi was everywhere. It was the four years he was gone had never happened – their friends welcomed him back immediately. She soon found him moving back into the apartment Jimin, Jungkook, and Namjoon shared next door. Before she knew it, he was sitting on his couch every day just as he had been before, only this time he was usually here for Hoseok or Taehyung. The only one that seemed to sympathize with her was Seokjin. Even then she could tell he missed Yoongi’s presence dearly. Every time Yoongi saw her he attempted to speak with her, but she hightailed the hell out of the room at every single utterance from Yoongi’s mouth.

“No. You have every right to be doing what you’re doing.” Y/n nodded.

“It’s just..” She looked back at Namjoon. His skin was rouge, his lips were a shade of hot pink. His hair was a pale taffy color. He says his hair is turquoise – some shade of blue, but Y/n wouldn’t even be able to tell nonetheless so he gave up saying “one day you’ll understand.” “Are you okay with this? Aren’t you hurting yourself even more by avoiding him?”

“Talking to him, not talking to him. Both will hurt either way.” Y/n shrugged.

“Don’t you want to know why he left? Why he came back?” Namjoon inquired further.

“You could easily tell me those things right now. I know you two are close, and that you’ve kept in touch the entire time he was gone.” Namjoon bit his lips sadly.

“He told me not to tell you.”

“That you kept in touch? Why he left or why he’s back?”

“All of it.”

“Why?”

“That’s something that you should hear from Yoongi.”

“I don’t want to talk to Yoongi.”

“Why not.”

“Because.”

“He clearly wants to talk to you.”

“Let’s drop it Namjoon.”

“No. You’ve kept your mouth shut tight for four years and I think it’s time that you finally talked about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Y/n please just – “

“CAN WE JUST –“ Y/n burst. Namjoon’s pleas fell silent. “Can we just drop it. Please.” Y/n whispered.

Namjoon sighed exasperatedly. He didn’t even need to look at her to know she was fighting back tears. He had pushed her enough. “If not with me. Please talk about it with others. We’ve let this go on for too goddamn long.”

“Maybe one day.”

“It’s been four years Y/n. Yoongi’s already back.”

“I’m just not ready.”

“You’re so close, and you say you’re not ready.”

Y/n didn’t know what Namjoon meant. All she could do was focus on the pain deep within her. It felt like someone was tearing into the old wounds in her soul. Any more pain, and she was afraid her soul would just shatter.

===============

The base of the club boomed in her ears. Jimin had decided that he wanted try out a new club for his birthday. Once everyone had gotten in Y/n and the boys made a beeline for the bar for Jimin’s birthday shots. Let’s just say their bodies were no longer made up of 70 percent water.

Once everyone had gotten some alcohol in their system, everyone practically dispersed. Jimin and Hoseok were on the dance floor dancing with anyone and everyone that was consensual. Yoongi and Namjoon were by the wall, probably discussing what the DJ was doing and why it works or what they could do better. Seokjin, the social butterfly he was started talking to a girl about what she had done with her makeup and how she got her curls to be so bouncy. Taehyung and Jungkook, the alcohol bringing out the casanovas buried deep inside, were talking up girls left and right. With the deep voices, fit bodies, charming smiles, and sultry eyes – no one was safe. Y/n had run into some friends at the club, opting to catch up with them a bit before she joined Hoseok and Jimin on the dance floor.

“Is that Yoongi?”

“Yeah, yeah he’s back.” Y/n brushed off, her body slightly moving to the beat.

“I see he’s moved on just fine.” Y/n flashed her friend a confused look, turning to glance at the wall behind her.

Namjoon had left Yoongi at the wall, probably dragged by Jin for a dance. Just beside him was a girl. Y/n knew the signs of a girl trying to seduce a man. The slight twirling of the hair and subtle arch of the back practically killed her buzz. Y/n was practically grinding her teeth as imagination accommodated for what her eyes couldn’t see – eyes just a bit wider than usual, occasional bites of the lip, breasts pushed together the whole package – all for Yoongi.

“I see you have not moved on just fine.” Y/n’s friend’s voice broke through the wave of rage that came over her. The sick swirl of jealousy the only remnants of her anger. Y/n wanted to turn back, but it was as if some sadistic force kept her vision glued to Yoongi and the faceless woman. When the girl reached out to touch Yoongi’s arm, she had half a mind to go there and gouge out her eyes for even thinking of laying a hand on Yoongi.

“Let’s not forget he isn’t your’s anymore.” Her friend called out, this time reaching out and turning Y/n back to her. Just as Yoongi’s eyes met Y/n.

Y/n pushed passed her friend, hand gripping her hand to pull her along. “Come on, I need a drink.”

Y/n’s friend smirked, “That’s my girl.”

——————-

Y/n’s body swayed to the music, keeping up with the rolling bodies of everyone around her. With the flip of her hair and a few bites to her lip, she had plenty of dance partners to go around. Lots of nights in the club came with a lot of practice for what works and what doesn’t.

Hoseok and Jimin, despite having partners of their own, kept a close eye on Y/n. Any indication of discomfort would result in at least two very protective men. Y/n on the other hand had grown used to random men pulling her in by the waist to have his little share of fun. Although sometimes annoyed that she had been pulled away from her friends, she entertained them nonetheless.

There wasn’t a problem, until a man grabbed her a bit too tightly. Y/n winced as he held her too close. She wouldn’t have minded if it weren’t for the concern of being held a bit tighter would just result in her breaking in half altogether. Just when the alcohol of all the shots she took finally started to really kick in. Her vision swirled as she weakly tried to pull away. Almost as soon as she was sucked into the large man’s arms, she was just as quickly yanked out. Her head bobbed as she turned to thank her savior. Meeting the rose-colored chin, her blurry vision made eye contact with what she thought was a pair of magenta eyes that drooped slightly.

“Yoongi?” She asked drunkenly.

After blinking a few times, her vision cleared to form the hard face of Jimin. He was focused on the man that forced her to dance. His plush lips straightened into a hard line; his strong arms kept her steady on her feet. There were instances where Jimin held her tighter – maybe the man had started making his way toward them or something. Only when Jimin hand to physically turn around to put himself between her and her dance partner did she start to feel some sense of concern. The intoxication however quelled the slight alarm, making her opt to simply rest her head on Jimin’s chest as he decided to remove her from the situation all together and start exiting the dance floor.

The concern at the pit of her stomach returned full force when Jimin was pulled away from her. The drunken man was quite persistent. The little altercation had Y/n stumbling around a bit, almost falling over completely if someone hadn’t caught her. Y/n never forgot the feeling of the arms that had caught her. This time she was sure, and she didn’t need to check to make sure it was Yoongi.

Freezing up in his arms, Y/n was hit with an overwhelming wave of emotions. His arms felt strong, and safe. She knew Yoongi would take care of the insistent man, Yoongi always had in the past. Her insides were practically melting when his soothing voice reverberated in her ears. What he was saying, she was too drunk to tell but she was coherent enough to know she just didn’t want him to shut up.

Yoongi’s secure grip on her didn’t relent until security had escorted the man out of the club. Then, he took the chance to really look at her.

“Are you okay?” Y/n simply smiled, happy that she had finally gotten the courage to get another look at his face. Months of trying to ignore his existence was really hard, especially when she never failed to secretly listen to him when he was talking. “I’m going to take that as a no.” Yoongi muttered to himself. He turned to Jimin, yelling something into his ear. Once Jimin nodded, he gently grabbed Y/n’s hand, leading her toward the exit.

The crisp air was a nice break from the stuffy club. Y/n couldn’t resist taking a deep breath of the fresh air, only adding on to the euphoric intoxication. Yoongi and Y/n stood, holding hands as they waited for their ride to come pick them up.

Feeling a bit chilly, Y/n cuddled up to the arm attached to the hand holding her own. Yoongi looked at her, briefly pulling away to place his jacket on her shoulders. He sighed, “What am I gonna do with you?” Y/n only giggled in response, quickly cuddling back up to his arm. She wasn’t nearly as drunk as she was before. Just for tonight, she wanted to play along with the fantasy that he had never up and left her in her sleep. Just for one night, she wanted to give into every desire of her soul that arose the second her eyes were laid upon Yoongi.

The next time her eyes opened, Yoongi was carrying her up their apartment complex. Seeing that she was awake, he got her to hand him the keys of the apartment she shared with Seokjin, Hoseok, and Taehyung. Asking her if she wanted anything to eat or drink, he carried her to her room once she had rejected his offer. Making sure her dress was comfortable enough to sleep in seeing as it would be difficult to help her change if she had wanted to, he simply removed her shoes and placed it in her closet along with the rest of the heels she reserves just for nights out. As he laid her on her plush pink bed, she instinctively wrapped her hands around his neck, holding him hostage as he awkwardly leaned over her.

“Stay.”

Yoongi’s dark magnta eyes bore deeply into her own. Once the fight within himself had finished, he pulled the blankets back taking his place beside her in her bed. They laid, satisfied with simply looking at each other. When Y/n’s eyes started to droop, she cuddled up to Yoongi. Like a missing puzzle, their bodies molded perfectly to each other. Yoongi placed his chin on the crown of Y/n’s head, her face was buried in his neck. He gently ran his fingers through her hair, just how she liked it four years ago.

“Don’t leave me again. Please.” Y/n’s voice cracked sleepily. She clutched tightly to his shirt, tears sliding down her face and Yoongi’s neck. Her shoulders quaked with silent sobs. He was here… he was finally here.

“I won’t. Never again, I promise.”

===============

Y/n woke up to an empty bed. She smiled bitterly to herself, maybe her dream was too good to be true. She took the painkillers someone – probably Hoseok – placed on her bedside table. Once her head started to pound less, she brushed her teeth to rid herself of the strange taste of lingering alcohol and sleep. Afterward, she went back to sleep, knowing she’d wake up a bit more coherent. A knock on the door woke up Y/n.

“We’re gonna go out for food. If you need anything, I think Jungkook’s gonna be home. I’ll bring you something back.” Seokjin called through the door. Y/n groaned, deciding that it was time to really get up.

The shower worked wonders on washing away any lingering grogginess. Her head still hurt slightly, but much more tolerable compared to earlier. Decked out in a pair of shorts and one of Taehyung’s hoodies, Y/n left her apartment, making sure she had the key and locked the door behind her as she made her way to Jungkook next door. This was their routine. The boys would go out for a meal, bringing back something for her and Jungkook while they nursed their hangovers with video games.

Using the spare key cleverly placed under their doormat, Y/n let herself in. Hearing shuffling from the living room, she assumed Jungkook had also just woken up and started to set up. Making her way to the common room, Y/n could feel the competitiveness rise inside her.

It wasn’t Jungkook in the living room.

Yoongi was lying on the couch, propped up on his elbows with some girl lying on top of him. The dress looks vaguely familiar, but Y/n could remember for the life of her. Yoongi’s head snapped to the doorway, the look on his face would’ve been comical had Y/n didn’t feel the remnants of her soul literally rip itself into dust.

“Y/n-“

Y/n felt numb as her body acted on instinct. She practically flew out of the apartment, hastily throwing herself against the apartment door to unlock it and let herself in before anyone else. She could practically feel Yoongi hot on her heels. As if the world was on her side, she managed to open the door almost instantly. As if the world decided to flip her the biggest bird in the history of the world, Yoongi was there before she could even close the door.

“Y/n! Please it’s not what you think.”

“Oh shut the hell up EVERYONE always says that you son of a bitch.” Y/n pushed harder against the door but even she knew it was useless. The only reason she wasn’t flying against the wall was because Yoongi wasn’t pushing as hard as he could.

“If you let me explain, then you’ll understand.” Yoongi urged. It was a pathertic sight to see actually. Y/n was pushing with all her might, the only reason the door was quivering was because Y/n was incredibly weak compared to Yoongi. Yoongi on the other hand was quite relaxed.

“Explain? You were the one that left me.” Y/n hissed, tears blurring her rosy vision. Her stomach churned at the heartache she felt all those years ago. The pain in her chest reminded her so much of the past she couldn’t help but recall the sight of Yoongi’s back as he walked out of her life – her last memory of him before she woke up and he was long gone.

“I left because I wasn’t good for you.” Yoongi responded heatedly, quickly catching on that it wasn’t about the girl he just threw out of his apartment.

“You had no right to make that decision for me. I was ready to leave everything for you.” Y/n replied fiercely, angry at his excuse.

“That’s exactly why I left.”

“That doesn’t explain anything Yoongi.”

“You go around preaching that I can’t make decision for you. But what about my feelings? How did you think I would feel if I let you drop everything you had planned in your life for me? I was content with just being with you, knowing that you were going to have a good life but suddenly you started talking about tying the knot? Hitting the road with me? You had a good future ahead of you. A good home, a well-paying job, a supportive family – I couldn’t even dream of having any of those things. Did you think I was going to let you sacrifice your future? That I was going to let you add on to the long list of things that you had already sacrificed to be with me? I couldn’t bear to be the reason why you dropped your life for some loser with no plan for the future.”

“I didn’t care about any of that back then. I thought it was you and me against the world Yoongi. You made me feel like I could do anything, that anything was possible. You made me feel free – that living was more than just surviving.” Y/n choked, her voice thick with heartbreak.

“You can still feel that way now Y/n. We could face the world together. Just give me a chance to show you.” Yoongi was practically begging.

“It’s all different now. You can’t just come back and expect to pick up where we left off four years ago. I’m not the same girl I was before Yoongi, don’t think that just because you’re back I’m going to-“

“I LOVE YOU.” Yoongi blurted out, unable to hold back the phrase he was too afraid to say four years ago.

“What?” Y/n said in a daze, the world swirling in a rosy haze. Y/n had dreamed of hearing those words back then. She hated that the stupid phrase had her stomach flipping as if it were an Olympic gymnast. Her body went slack against the door, giving Yoongi the chance to enter the apartment.

After locking the front door, Yoongi closed in on Y/n. She hastily stepped back until her back was met with a wall. “I love you. I loved you then, and I still love you now.” Yoongi said softly, looking deeply into Y/n’s eyes. He brought a hand up to delicately caress Y/n’s cheek, as if she were going to disappear if he touched her too roughly.

His magenta hues were deep, desperate, and longing. The raw emotion in his eyes reignited a feeling buried deep down inside Y/n, a feeling she thought died the day Namjoon told her Yoongi was gone. She almost forgot what that feeling was like. Like a pull from deep within her, she was almost convinced if the man before her died, a large part of her would die along with him.

“Y-you can’t just suddenly–“

“Please. Give me – give us one more chance.” Yoongi’s voice was thick with emotion. His magenta eyes were filled with tears.

“I- I can’t. I can’t take that risk again.” Y/n shook her head desperately, even though everything within her ached to give into him – to give into what her heart had ached for all this time. Never again did she want the deepest depths of her soul to feel empty. Never again did she want to see her heart crushed – this time beyond repair.

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I left. Hell, I never should’ve thought of leaving in the first place.” Yoongi shut his eyes as if the memory physically pained him.

“Then why did you?” Y/n asked. Maybe she was finally she was going to the answers she couldn’t help but imagine over the years they had been separated.

“You scared me. The way you made me feel scared me. You stumbled into my life so suddenly, and completely changed it. You made me want to settle down, have a family, hell even get a job in a stupid office. I thought I had the rest of my life planned out before I met you. But then you came along, and everything changed, But I knew I wasn’t enough for what you needed and that hurt me. I didn’t know how to deal those feelings then.” Y/n scoffed, rolling her eyes. “But what scared me even more was the emptiness I felt after I left you. It was like I was suddenly lost in this endless void. After I lost you, I lost my purpose in life.” Yoongi’s voice cracked as tears fell steadily down his face.

The sight broke Y/n’s heart. It was a rare occurrence to see Yoongi so vulnerable, so open and willing to let her in. “How do I know you won’t leave me again?” She asked quietly, afraid of hearing an answer she couldn’t bear to receive. She could feel herself on the verge of caving.

“I’m not going anywhere this time. Not without you.” Yoongi said, pushing a lock of hair behind Y/n’s ear.

“You shattered my heart four years ago Yoongi.” Y/n lost herself in a blur of magenta. Yoongi’s eyes zeroed in on her plush pink lips.

“I’ll spend the rest of our lives putting your heart back together.” Yoongi murmured, his eyes shut as he his lips against Y/n’s. They were soft, silky even as they smoothly slid against hers. His kisses were even sweeter than Y/n remembered, his lips softer than her memory could even hope to recall.

Y/n pulled away before she could get drunk on the feeling of his lips against hers. “What if I don’t want to be with you like that?”

“Then I’ll have to live with being just friends.”

“What if I don’t want you in my life.”

“Then I’ll keep my distance.”

“What if I don’t want that?”

“Then what do you want?” Yoongi asked, his lips but a hair away from her own. His warm breath fanned her warm face, his eyes bore deeply into Y/n, ready to engulf her

The pull within Y/n was so strong, it was as if a band was stretched just before its limit. Just a bit further and the band within her soul would snap. Tears continued to slide down Y/n’s cheeks. This was it. She could feel it, and she was sure Yoongi could feel it too. Once the decision was made, there would be no turning back. She searched his eyes one more time. What it was she was looking for, she wasn’t sure, but she could feel it. Whatever she wanted, she knew it was worth risking her soul. Life without Yoongi was like drowning without water.

“You. I want you,” Y/n whispered, pulling Yoongi closer.

Their lips clashed in a heated dance, molding as perfectly as they had four years ago. She sighed as the slightest touch of his strong hands set a trail of fire on her body. The stumbled through the white door, Yoongi somehow managing to kick it shut behind him. He eased her onto the white sheets, soothing the heat of their skin.

His rosy hands held her close as he connected their lips again. Their groans and sighs mixed in a feverish symphony. The light of the sun made their expressions clearer, making their dance much more enticing and intimate. Her pink hands eased the checkered flannel off his shoulders, she couldn’t resist tasting the skin of the pink collarbones peeking out from under his t-shirt. Yoongi groaned as Y/n’s body molded to his, creating a friction that had his mind going blank. Unable to withstand the barriers between them, Y/n did away with Yoongi’s shirt and pants while Yoongi took care of her hoodie and shorts.

The skin-on skin contact made their souls sigh in relief, and they couldn’t get enough of each other. Y/n gasped as Yoongi bit into the swell of her chest through her blue bra. She squirmed in pleasure as he took her back to their younger days four years ago, all she could do is hold tightly to his hair as the memories that once suffocated her had her drowning in ecstasy.

“You’re beautiful,” Yoongi murmured as he kissed his way down her abdomen and between her legs. Y/n moaned loudly as Yoongi had her seeing stars. The sight of him was almost too much to bear. Yoongi had her body branded into her memory. He knew every spot that had her sighing, which places had her groaning and which ones screaming. He didn’t fail to use that to his advantage. Like an ocean wave that only teases with the push and the pull, Yoongi had her dancing dangerously on the edge before dragging her far from it.

“Yoongi, don’t tease me. Not today.” Y/n begged, unable to bear his games for any longer. Complying to her request, Yoongi gave Y/n what she desperately needed. Her vision swirled in a mess of pinks and foreign lights. Yoongi smiled softly, twirling her hair as he patiently waited for her to catch her breath. Y/n smiled widely as she stared into his eyes. She pushed him to lie on the bed to return the favor he did for her. Before she could even pass his belly button, he pulled her back up.

“Maybe another time.” Yoongi said, softly caressing Y/n’s curious face. “Right now, I just want to be with you.’ Grabbing his hand to softly kiss his fingertips, Y/n nodded. She straddled his body, hovering just over him. She dipped her head to softly kiss Yoongi. Y/n’s mind swirled in joy and pleasure almost as much as their tongues twisted in an intimate dance.

Once they were finally connected, both Yoongi and Y/n gasped, both in pleasure and in awe. Like an explosion, their vision burst with lights they hadn’t seen before. Vibrant hues of colors they couldn’t identify filled their vision. With every movement from Yoongi or Y/n, more colors bled into their line of sight. Gently yet all at the same time, the hues of pinks, rose, and magentas faded only to be replaced with an alien hue that one of the boys needed to educate them on.

Y/n stared into Yoongi’s obsidian eyes. She already knew this was going to be her favorite color. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They lost themselves in the brilliance of their bond. The hues of their past, the saturation of their present, and the brilliant tint of their love. Together, they had broken the rose.

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captainwhogotthecanary · 6 years

Text

CC Week Day 7

Title: To Write on my Skin

Summary: Sara knows she has a soulmate; ink has been disappearing on her skin as long as she remembers. She's never gotten a response, but that doesn't stop her from trying.

Day 7: Soulmate AU. Canonverse mostly with a few liberties, and a happy ending (duh). Also on AO3.

Everyone has a soulmate, in theory. Nearly every time someone seems without a soulmate, it turns out their soulmate just hasn’t been born yet.

Sara doesn’t have this problem. The first time she remembers scribbling on her arm, she was three, and she was inconsolable when her little doodle disappeared immediately. Her father explained it to her, once she calmed enough to listen: the disappearing ink meant that she had a soulmate. The ink would appear with a tingle on her soulmate’s skin, instead, and if her soulmate drew on their skin, it would show up on Sara’s.

Since then, Sara’s been fascinated by the disappearing ink. She covers her arms in doodles, messages, notes. When life gets hard, she writes to her soulmate, letting them know. When life is good, she writes that, too. She knows nothing about her soulmate, though, save for the fact they exist.

She’s never gotten anything in return.

Sara studies her skin every morning and night, when she brushes her teeth, or when she wakes up or crawls into bed, depending how life is treating her or whether she’s somewhere that even has a bathroom. Her skin remains unmarked by ink of any kind, and decades pass before Rip Hunter shows up and assembles a team for the Waverider.

The first night, after she climbs into bed, she writes a direct question for the first time in years: “Does time travel affect soulmate messages?”

She doesn’t expect a response, and she isn’t disappointed. Still, the next morning, she adds, in tiny letters, “Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never even spoken to? Never met? I feel like there’s less chance than usual that you’re reading this.”

Her new teammates seem alright. She clicks best with Leonard, she thinks; they tend to find each other when they’re both on the ship. He’s quick and sarcastic, and she’s not sure he knows how to actually smile instead of smirk. It also helps that, unlike with the rest of the team, she’s not sure whether he has a soulmate. Most of the team bares enough skin often enough that she knows, after a while, who’s got a soulmate and who doesn’t. There are also those like Ray and Rip who’ve already lost soulmates but are open about it, eventually.

She catches both of them staring at the unmarked skin on their inner wrists, sometimes, and it’s heartbreaking. If Kendra does the same, she does it in private.

But with Leonard, Sara has no clue, and while she knows she does have a soulmate, they’re enough of a question mark that she gravitates toward the other question mark in the group. The topic itself doesn’t come up until they’re freezing to death, though.

“You don’t have a pen on you, do you?” Sara manages through the cold. She can feel his attention on her. They’re pressed up against each other, as close as they can get without actually cuddling. “I want to let my soulmate know this might be goodbye.”

He does have a pen in his jacket, actually, but she can barely get it to write, doesn’t even get through a whole letter before she gives up. She ends up wrapped in Leonard’s jacket before Leonard addresses it.

“I’m sure he knows.”

“How… do you know… they’re a ‘he’?” It’s getting harder for her to speak.

He’s quiet long enough in the cold that Sara’s eyes drift shut.

“Call it a hunch,” he says finally.

She’s not sure what to make of it, but she’s cold and tired and putting all her energy into survival.

And survive they do.

Something shifts between them, after that, so by the time Sara is left behind with Ray and Kendra, she definitely misses Leonard while she’s gone. When she’s reunited with the team, it’s hard at first, but it’s easier with him than with anyone else. She thinks it’s probably because he’s going through his own shit with Mick.

When everything starts feeling normal again, Leonard tries to get her to abandon ship with him and Mick, saying that something is about to go very wrong.

“You and your hunches,” Sara says, bemused, and Leonard opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then scowls instead.

After Len’s escape plan fails, he and Sara are chatting in between playing cards when the soulmate thing comes up again. She grabs the pen she keeps beside her bed and scribbles out a quick message: I hope you’re good at cards.

When she looks up after putting down the pen, ink already gone, Leonard is watching her intently. She raises an eyebrow in question.

“What do you know about him?” Leonard asks, staring at the clear skin on her arm for another moment before meeting Sara’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Sara answers hesitantly. She’s not used to talking about her soulmate; most people consider it too personal to ask anyone but a close friend or potential soulmate, and Sara hasn’t had many close friends. Until now, apparently. “He’s never written me back.”

“Then why do you keep writing?”

Sara shrugs. “If they can see it, or even just feel it, at least they know they’re not alone.” She grabs the deck of cards and starts dealing, briskly changing the subject, and Leonard lets it drop.

They’re interrupted only a short time later, when Leonard’s hunch plays out and the ship is boarded. She and Len only barely hide away in time, and Sara finds his proximity while they’re hiding a bit more distracting than she thinks is warranted.

And then after they get out, he pulls a gun on her in his desperation to leave. He doesn’t shoot her, and she doesn’t for a moment think he’s actually going to, but it hangs heavy over them after Gideon’s interruption. They do as Gideon asks, and then they’re back on the ship, waiting, and instead of keeping her distance because she’s rightfully angry at him, Sara finds herself sitting and standing as close to Leonard as always.

Closer, even, daring to touch his ring. He stills at the contact, watching her, his almost-flirty look fading into something more serious.

“What?” Sara asks.

“You haven’t written your soulmate since this particular disaster started.”

“I’ve been a bit busy,” Sara retorts.

“I’m just saying, you tried to write him with a non-functional pen when you were actively dying.” Leonard seems oddly invested in this, and she isn’t sure why. “You’ve had chances. You could be writing him now. Why aren’t you?”

It’s not actually a bad question, but when Sara realizes it’s because any of her spare focus has been on Leonard instead of on her soulmate, she gets defensive.

“Maybe I don’t have anything important to say right now, okay?” she snaps.

“Important like hoping he’s good at cards?” Leonard snaps right back, and Sara registers how close they’ve gotten, how near his bright eyes are to hers, before she registers the words.

There’s no way Leonard saw what she was writing last night. The ink had already disappeared into her skin before she was at the right angle for him to see it. He’s staring at her now like he’s asking her to make the connection that’s right in front of her face.

Her eyes move to his arm. He’s always covered, always, everywhere that she’s ever drawn. She can still feel his eyes on her as he deliberately pulls up his sleeves, pushing them just far enough that she can see faded lettering in a few places, as well as fresh ink, exactly where she’d drawn such a short time ago:

I hope you’re good at cards.

“It’s you,” she breathes, unable to tear her eyes from her handwriting on his skin.

“It’s me,” he agrees, and her eyes fly back to his, and they’re so close, and she’s not sure what she’s about to do except that this moment feels extremely important and—

“The Time Drive is back online,” Gideon interrupts, and then their focus is back on saving the team, and there’s no time to talk about the fact that her whole life just shifted.

After they get most of their team back, Leonard shows up, spouting loaded phrases about how he doesn’t play by the rules, and how it’s the things he didn’t do that keep him up at night, and it makes her wonder whether he regrets never writing her back, but she’s too frustrated to ask until he says he’s been thinking about their future, and when she falls silent instead of responding how he expects, he speaks again.

“I imagine you have some questions.”

“You think?”

He smiles at the heat in her voice, actually smiles. It’s small but real, and it melts some of her anger at the gun, at what feels like his deception about being her soulmate.

Sara takes a breath. “You’re always in long sleeves. Is that to hide my writing?”

Leonard visibly considers his answer, then speaks carefully. “At first. I didn’t want anybody to realize my soulmate was so much younger than me.”

“Too young?” Sara asks, not sure she wants to hear the answer.

“Now? No,” he says firmly. “But when I was a teenger before the first time ink disappeared on my skin?”

Sara nods, acknowledging how weird their age difference had to have felt back then. “If that was only the issue at first, why keep covering up? Why never answer?”

Leonard looks down at his sleeve. “My father was the type of person who used love, even potential love, as a weapon. He used me and Lisa against each other. He would have found a way to use you against me, or me against you, if he’d known you existed. And you weren’t exactly stingy with the personal details; I could’ve found you at any time. So I didn’t write, and I made sure he never saw so much as a hint of ink on me.”

“And once we were on the ship?” Sara asks, quiet.

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes again. “Once we met, I was sure I wasn’t good enough to bind you to me forever.” The moment stretches until he looks down and off to the side again. “I didn’t handle it well when you wouldn’t just leave the ship. I was trying to keep you safe without telling you, and…”

“And so you pulled a gun on me.”

He nods curtly.

She lets it sink in, that as upset she is that he hid it, the biggest reason he’s never written on her skin comes down to protection, of himself and of her. And she gets that, she really does, but she’s still not sure of him in this capacity, because what if he never feels like they’re safe together, good together, like she knows they can be? What if…

She watches as he straightens and deliberately crosses to her bedside table.

“When I was about 15, I promised myself I wouldn’t ever write on my skin until I was ready to accept everything that goes along with having a soulmate,” he says, and her breath catches when he picks up her pen. “I was very careful never to make a mistake, never to accidentally make a mark that you would see.” She hears him uncap the pen in front of him. His back blocks most of her line of sight. “If you want to pretend this never happened,” he says, voice more vulnerable than Sara thought possible, “tell me now.”

Sara is silent, and Leonard exhales before—

Sara feels a tingling on the sensitive flesh of her inner arm, and she looks down to see the neat writing work its way across her skin.

I’m sorry, Sara.

It’s what she needs, the words and the writing, and she hasn’t even fully processed before she’s pulling him around to face her and pressing her lips to his.

They don’t get as long together as she’s hoping for before they have to go save themselves and all of time, but if everything goes okay, she knows they have plenty more time ahead of them.

Ray complicates things right away; Sara isn’t sure he’s ever going to leave them alone after he sees the writing on Sara’s arm and immediately puts all the pieces together. He’s ridiculously excited about it and decides they all need to stick together, something about sentiment and luck. When Ray approaches the Oculus, he’s got Sara and Leonard by his side. Mick refuses to leave Ray, for some reason Sara will try to work out later, and Rip and Firestorm go to guard the entrance and buy them time.

It’s good the four of them are with the Oculus, really; Ray runs into some problems and needs some help to be able to wedge down the button inside the machine, but they figure it out, and all six of them make it safely back on board the Waverider, taking off just as the Oculus explodes.

Ray tries to insist on all of them celebrating together, until Mick suggests that he and Ray have a beer alone–oh–and then Sara and Leonard are able to make their escape back to her room.

Their personal celebration is mind-blowingly good, years of tension and months of friendship and passion and flirtation coming together quite spectacularly. They’re still busy afterward, saving Kendra and vanquishing Savage, but they’re together.

And when, months later, Sara finally writes I love you on her arm when she and Leonard are separated one night for a mission, she feels the tingle of his response almost immediately.

He loves her, too.

#ccweek2018 #captain canary #my fic #soulmate au #I cannot wait to read any other fills for today #the whole week really #but especially today

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battlekendou · 6 years

Text

Strawberry Sweet

my gift to @buy-bye-bi for the bnha secret santa exchange. i hope you like it. happy holidays, maya <3

in an au where there are no quirks, the bakusquad decides to have a day out. enjoy some ochamina and background bakukirikami.

A group of five rowdy teens drew glances from around the restaurant as they grabbed a table near a large window. Mina's stomach let out a low growl as she settled into the booth next to her friend Sero. Seated directly across from her, Kaminari laughed in response.

"Man, Mina. You really worked up an appetite playing Dance Dance Revolution," he pointed out with a smirk.

The redhead next to him chimed in with genuine admiration. "How the hell did you get such a high score? You made the professional dancer here look like he was doing the hokey pokey!" Kirishima's comment earned a scowl from Bakugou, who was pinned between the window and his two boyfriends. The booths could fit two to each side comfortably, but three was a bit of a squeeze.

"To be fair, Bakugou's expertise is in contemporary dance, not arcade games," Mina replied sympathetically. She knew how fragile Bakugou's pride could be, especially when it came to things he cared about.

"Yeah exactly," he added defensively, only to be soothed as Kirishima looped an arm around his shoulders and Kaminari mouthed a 'we love you, babe.'

With midterms coming up, the gang decided that it would be a good idea to spend a day having fun and relaxing; and, of course, it was Kaminari's idea. The boy would use any excuse not to study.

They started the day off with the one interest all five of them shared: superheroes. The newest Captain Might movie opened only three days prior, and Kaminari suggested they all see it together.

The movie exceeded Mina's expectations, and she was over the moon when her favorite member of Captain Might's squad was revealed to be a lesbian. Sero argued that the movie's rendition of Captain Might's archnemesis was not true to the comics and it undermined the entire plot, but Bakugou insisted the movie version was far superior in terms of characterization.

The walk from the theatre to the arcade consisted of Sero and Bakugou's back-and-forth over the comic franchise versus the movie franchise, while Mina bounced with residual excitement as she, Kaminari, and Kirishima gushed about the representation.

Dance Dance Revolution was the highlight of the squad's arcade experience, Mina claiming the title of reigning champ with ease. Afterwards, Kirishima suggested ending the night with a large dinner, a 'treat yo self' salute to the calories they burned while trying to hit all of the arrows.

Mina shifted impatiently as her eyes flicked over the menu. She already knew what she wanted, but the wait staff was taking their sweet time.

The boys were going on about something delicious that Bakugou 'had to try,' but Mina's attention was drawn to a cute waitress standing four tables away. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her cheeks flushed pink as she laughed along to what Mina assumed to be a customer’s joke.

Her friends’ chatter faded into a low buzz. Suddenly, the only thing Mina was aware of was a brilliant smile and kind eyes that belonged to one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen. She was almost entranced, watching as the girl placed some straws on the table and turned in her direction. Round, brown eyes met Mina’s own honey-colored, and in that instant, she felt a volt of electricity run down her spine. As if by reflex, her posture straightened, and her gaze shot down to her lap.

“You good, Mina?” Kaminari quirked an eyebrow, and all eyes at the table were on Mina. Her entire face was heated with embarrassment, though she tried to cover it up with a carefully conjured grin. “Yeah, I-” Her reply was cut off as she noticed the boys shifting their attention to something behind her. Mina followed suit, only to have all of the breath sucked out of her. The same waitress she had been staring at stood at the end of their booth, notepad and pen in hand as she smiled in greeting.

“Sorry for the wait. We’re a little understaffed today. Can I get you guys some drinks to start off with?”

Oh god, even her voice is beautiful.

Much to Mina’s relief, Kaminari took initiative and ordered his drink first. She steeled herself while waiting for her turn to arrive. When it did, she clearly and confidently asked for a glass of water; only, the words that came out of her mouth were not in fact ‘water.’

“Mina Ashido.”

For a brief time, everyone was silent. The boys were most likely processing what just happened, but Mina was incapacitated by her own dread. She could practically feel her stomach drop, and a slight grimace formed in her expression. She couldn’t remember another time feeling this embarrassed, mostly because she rarely felt embarrassment. This was new, and it was bad.

All at once, her friends broke out into a chorus of laughter.

“Did you just order yourself?!” Kirishima gasped between laughs. Kaminari was wiping a tear from his eye and almost fell off the end of the booth. Even the ever so stoic Bakugou held up a hand to cover his snickering mouth.

Sero recovered first, although a smile still pursued. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’ve done the same thing before. Don’t worry about it.” The rest of the gang took that as a signal to compose themselves. Normally, if Mina did something dumb, she would laugh right along with them, thinking it just as funny as the rest of them. It was different this time, and she didn’t know why.

She was always quick to bounce back, though, which was something she loved about herself. Even as her hands balled into fists on her lap, she began to correct herself, looking to where the waitress had been standing. But the girl was no longer there. Sure, the boys took their time laughing about Mina’s mistake, but it couldn’t have been long enough for the waitress to think they had finished ordering.

“Uh.” A quick glance back to her friends told Mina they were just as confused as her.

“She might just bring you a water,” Kirishima concluded with a shrug of his shoulders.

“More importantly, do you like Ochako? Do you think she’s cute?” Kaminari teased, wiggling his eyebrows as he grinned mischievously.

Mina opened her mouth, ready to retort, when her thoughts paused. She backtracked the conversation in her mind to be certain, and then looked at Kaminari with narrowed eyes.

“Wait. How do you know her name?”

“She goes to our school, duh,” Bakugou muttered as he chewed on his thumbnail. He seemed more interested in his bad habit than the current situation.

The table shook as Mina slammed her palms down on the surface. “What?!”

Kaminari’s smile only grew wider as he laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Dude,” Kirishima whispered, landing a soft, friendly punch on Kaminari’s arm.

“Oh my god, I might see her again, and I’ve made a fool of myself. What’s she gonna think? I don’t think I can bear reliving this moment every time we cross paths at school-” The words spilled out of Mina’s mouth at a breakneck pace, and when she paused to take a breath, Sero took the chance to calm her down. Mina didn’t know what she’d do without him.

“It’s no big deal. Plus, if you haven’t seen her around school before, I doubt you’ll ever cross paths.” Sero’s optimistic look on life tended to rub off on Mina. She smiled in response, sucking in a deep breath as she calmed down. The gang all took turns sharing encouraging words as they waited for their drinks.

The conversation moved on. Having momentarily pushed the embarrassing moment to the back of her mind, Mina was busy explaining her theory about how her two favorite characters in the Captain Might franchise would get together, doing so in vivid detail. She didn’t notice that the waitress, Ochako, returned to their table with a tray of drinks until she began setting them down.

“Here you go,” Ochako smiled as she placed a fizzing soda in front of Kaminari. Mina swallowed in anticipation; no matter how hard she tried to hold her gaze on Ochako, her eyes instinctively glued themselves to the table. It was the waitress’s voice that finally caused her to look up.

“I had them whip up something special for you,” Ochako beamed as she set a tall glass and a napkin in front of Mina. It looked like a smoothie of some sort, pink with whipped cream and some sort of syrupy drizzle.

“It’s my own secret recipe that didn’t have a name before now. Introducing the Mina Ashido!” Ochako chimed, gesturing to the drink as if she were Vanna White. “Hope you like it.”

Mina stared wide-eyed, barely able to say a breathless “thank you.” The boys didn’t say anything, so she assumed they were also in awe.

She watched as Ochako’s attention was diverted to what seemed to be the restaurant’s manager. They signaled her with a stiff wave, and she let out a surprised ‘oh’ and fumbled to set straws down.

“Ah, the guy in charge of this section finally showed up,” she explained sheepishly. “He’ll take care of you for the rest of tonight. Enjoy!” She waved goodbye and dashed off in a flash, disappearing behind the door to the employee workroom. She was gone too soon; Mina finally recovered from the shock, jaws left parted as her true words of gratitude hung on her tongue.

Not even bothering to listen to what the boys were saying, she tore open her straw wrapper and plunged the plastic tube into her drink. One sip and a strong strawberry flavor hit her tongue. She picked out hints of other fruits, and a flavor that tasted how honeysuckle smelled, but the strawberry was the sweetest. Mina loved sweets, and this drink was exactly her style. Frankly, it was delicious.

As she slurped, her gaze rested on the napkin, and only now did she notice numbers scrawled across it in large, neat writing. A doodled heart sat next to the last number, and Mina set her drink down to get a closer inspection.

She felt her heart swell and smiled like a lovesick schoolgirl as she clutched the napkin close to her chest, wondering which was sweeter: strawberries or Ochako.

#bnha #bnha fanfiction #ochamina #bnhasecretsanta #bakusquad

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rheanimalsachikokassielynn · 6 years

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Major Essay 2

Rheanne Harkness

Professor Timothy Greenup

English 112

28 November 2017

Aspects of the Self: Two Sides of the Same Coin

Over this last month, if there’s anything I’ve taken away from our rather in-depth class-wide examination of the concept of bildungsroman and how it forms the backbone of works like Mariko Tamaki’s “Skim”, it’s that the influence of external forces on transitional periods in young adult lives shapes everyone a little differently. However, the emotional upheaval such forces put us through often comes into conflict with our identities, calling who we are and what we stand for into question so much that it results in we ourselves needing to reestablish a more permanent sense of identity altogether. Sometimes though, this type of conflict can constitute a rift between how we carry ourselves in the public eye verses the private eye depending on the kinds of impressions we want to give off so that others may see us in a certain way. A lot of this is true for the character of Skim as it is for so many of us, she herself is trying to figure what kind of person she is to the point where there is a rift that was brought to my attention very clearly during group presentations between how Skim acts around others verses when she’s alone, yet her public and private selves always feed into each other. This got me thinking: if Skim’s goal as well as the audiences’ is to take stock of who she is based on how and why she carries herself at different times, then what is it we learn about Skim from her diary entries (the main manifestations of her private self) compared to her conversations with other characters (the main manifestations of her public self) and how do both sides serve to paint a picture of Skim’s true identity at its core?

It’s a bit ironic that the entire story of “Skim” is told from the main protagonist’s point of view mostly by way of her diary entries because most people who’ve never read it before would probably take this to mean that Skim is giving the audience a first-hand account of all the turmoil that’s befallen her life along with her reaction to it. (See for example, a broken arm has hindered Skim’s ability to write, her dad nearly died twice due to heart attacks, there’s a lack of any genuine support coming from her mother and supposed best friend, etc.) Now Skim does do this, but only on a very base level, summing up her thoughts and feelings with equal signs rather than full statements such as when she’s describing herself and her parents in the most dismissive black-and-white manner possible - “Mom says the heart attacks have turned my father into a cream puff...My dad says my mother is a cold cynical women who has no appreciation for a broken heart...My parents = serious issues...My dad signed my cast with an ugly happy face that I am scratching off. Me = serious issues” (Tamaki and Tamaki 10). From this and other snippets of her diary, whether paired down by shorthand or not, it’s easy to gather that Skim is feeling depressed, angry, even confused about all these sudden changes that’ve soaked up all the attention in her life and are putting a damper on who she is. The irony? Even though the whole point of having a diary in the first place is to be able to have something to bare your soul to without fear of being judged by anyone else for the way you think and feel, Skim writes about what she’s feeling but keeps vague as to the reasons why. It’s almost as if the character herself was aware that the diary would be published and read by millions in real life so here she is making a last-ditch effort to save face!

In all seriousness, Skim in a sense really is trying to save face through the act of ”self-censoring”, as put so eloquently by Margaret Lang in our first group presentation. Much of this can be cited in the comparatively detailed commentary Skim makes that is laced with more overtly irrational cynicism than usual - think of when the whole school is hung up over John Reddear’s death and Skim is treated by Mrs. Hornet and Julie Peters as a premature suicide statistic just by virtue of being associated with goth culture, to which she wrote this in response: “Truthfully, I am always a little depressed but that is because I am sixteen and everyone is stupid (ha-ha-ha). I doubt it has anything to do with being a goth” (Tamaki and Tamaki 22). Additionally, there are many times throughout the story when Skim writes a complete thought that would give everyone, including herself, some proper insight as to why she feels the way she does if it wasn’t, say, followed by a question mark or delayed with an ellipsis: “Things That Make Me Sad - Love. Things That Make Me Happy - “Love?” (Tamaki and Tamaki 67). Perhaps most striking though, are the thoughts that Skim crosses out (as Luke Langton called particular attention to in the second group presentation) and sometimes replaces with other deliberately less direct comments which at best reveal half-truths in place of whole truths: “I didn’t know what to write. Because...I’m not sure. I didn’t know what other people would think about my answer. It’s a stupid question” (Tamaki and Tamaki 61).

All the above examples to me suggest that Skim not only has trouble being honest with herself, but is also afraid of offering any outright explanations as to why she’s been so depressed, even in her diary. This is because doing so might make her appear too vulnerable on top of already being unsure of who she is as an individual. Consider Skim’s pentacle, a doodle of a star that shows up quite a few times throughout the book. We see it drawn twice on Skim’s list of things that she still needs for her altar, Skim paints a tiny star on her face (but washes it off) right before the Wiccan AA meeting, there’s even a pentacle drawn on Skim’s cast. We find out towards the end of the story through a conversation Skim has with Katie Matthews that the pentacle is meant to protect her from “everything” but “It’s mostly just symbolic” (Tamaki and Tamaki 109). I think the pentacle has held more significance to Skim than she’s actually letting on at this point. It’s shown up enough times that I can’t help but deduce it is meant to be a safeguard, a way for Skim to protect herself against obstacles she’s having a hard time overcoming or things she’s feeling uneasy about (like a casted right arm and the strange Wiccan meeting). This is especially important because up until the end of the book, anything having to do with Wicca, as the star does, is a huge part of the new identity we see Skim trying to forge for herself. It’s only after Skim talks to Katie about it and later signs her cast with a pentacle “for good luck” does the star take on a meaning for Skim that really is just symbolic and nothing more, since by then, Skim has grown confident enough in herself that she no longer needs Wicca or the star doodles to feel validated.

But while we’re on the topic of conversation, I notice a correlation between the most positive and negative interactions Skim has with other characters at the beginning of the book and the diary entries that are written about them after the fact. When Skim tries to speak her mind towards her “friend” Lisa, she is often shut down and insulted for it. In those situations, the best thing Skim can do to vent her frustration is insult Lisa back. Not surprisingly, these scenes in themselves tend to make it even more clear as to why Skim feels so dejected whenever she’s with Lisa than the diary entries do. The ramifications of such a relationship where Skim is almost never allowed to get a word in edgewise (and when she does, Lisa verbally abuses her for it) center around a lack of confidence Skim has in her ability to channel her thoughts towards other people and herself simply due to the fact that Lisa has never given Skim the option to do otherwise. However, Skim’s first meaningful conversation with Ms. Archer really puts things into perspective for the audience, as not only is she the first character in the story to let Skim speak freely without any fear of a hostile response, but she also asks why the students call the central protagonist “Skim” when her real name is “Kim”, to which the latter answers: “Because I’m not” (Tamaki and Tamaki 27). This little exchange here conveys by far the most important thing we ever learn about Skim as a person throughout the entire story - she does not think of herself as a light or superficial individual, (as two separate dictionary definitions of the term seem to allude). I dare say, that serves to make her nickname quite a contradiction to what I would claim the character of Skim is really like in spite of the confidence lapse she has to wrestle with for so long in public and private!

Yes, Skim most certainly is quite the introspective and layered character. Thus the climactic pay-off of when she is finally able to express herself, (effectively giving the GCL members a piece of her mind in defense of Katie and John Reddear without any care as to what will come of it afterwards) is made so much sweeter. Though please do not take this to mean there’s a great discrepancy between the Skim we get to know while writing diary entries and the Skim we get to know while interacting with others. Skim’s fear of appearing weak in the eyes of herself and of those around her was always present until we saw her get past that fear at the end of the story by standing her ground against unfair treatment instead of just blowing it off in the first respect, and by slowly becoming a lot more truthful and censoring less as she writes in the second respect. Neither of these public and private sides of Skim are any more in line with who she truly is by themselves because, to put it simply, you can’t fully understand one side without the other.

Works Cited

Lang, Margaret, et al. "Skim: A Social Commentary." English 112 Group Presentations, 16 November, Spokane Falls Community College, Spokane, WA. Student Presentation.

Langton, Luke, et al. “Skim.” English 112 Group Presentations, 16 November, Spokane Falls Community College, Spokane, WA. Student Presentation.

Tamaki, Mariko, and Jillian Tamaki. Skim. Groundwood Books, 2008.

#Rheanne Harkness #English 112 Final #Digital Portfolio #Major Essays

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bibliosexxual · 7 years

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accidentally?

Based on this prompt I said I’d fill a few days ago:

boss: “know why I called you in here?” me: “because I accidentally sent you a dick pic” boss: “accidentally?”

yup.

(on ao3)

“You need to stop pining after people you haven’t even spoken to,” Lydia says one day, probably because Derek—er, Mr. Hale, their boss—has just stepped through the front door of the cafe where they’re having lunch, and Stiles has trailed off mid-word to watch him walk up to the counter. In Stiles’ defense, he’s never seen Mr. Hale outside of the office before, let alone Mr. Hale wearing a leather jacket over his dress shirt. God, and Stiles thought the tailored suits were bad enough…

Anyway.

“Uh, I have too spoken to him,” Stiles says indignantly, tearing his eyes away from Derek’s broad back across the room. “One day I was coming out of the break room and I almost walked right into him and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ so then I said, ‘Oops,’ and he smiled at me. Kind of. A little bit. I mean, I interpreted it as a smile. There was some prolonged eye contact.”

Lydia abruptly stops stirring her fat-free latte to stare at him—one of those Oh god, it’s worse than I thought kind of looks. “That’s it?”

“No. I wasn’t finished,” Stiles says. “We also ate lunch together last Monday. I forgot to bring my lunch, so I was just eating a bag of chips from the vending machine and he offered me half his tuna sandwich.”

It had been one of the nicest office lunch breaks he’d ever had, actually. Stiles was sitting on the low brick wall at the edge of the picnic area, and to his surprise, Derek sat down there, too, in his probably-thousand-dollar suit, while Stiles gaped at him a little for doing it.

Derek had then continued to sit there even after giving away the sandwich. It had been clear from the way he kept glancing at Stiles that he didn’t know what to say but he wanted to say something, so Stiles had prompted, “Got any weekend plans?” and Derek had said he didn’t have any, so Stiles had rambled for a while about his weekend plans, which involved going down to San Francisco for the weekend for a Bastille concert. Derek sat there and listened attentively the whole time, which, in Stiles’ experience, not many people would do. He also said he didn’t know who Bastille was. That was a little surprising, but then again, Stiles supposed Derek didn’t have a lot of time to absorb pop culture, what with running the foundation and owning a dog and all.

He’d obviously had a bit of time at that moment, though, so Stiles had pulled out his phone and played Derek some of their songs, and Derek had nodded his head subtly to the beat and smiled a little and instantly made Stiles’ crush on him a whole lot more intense.

“And that’s it,” he concludes now. “So do you think he’s into me at all?“

"How should I know? I’m not a mind reader.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Stiles mutters, thinking about all the times she’s guessed ahead of time what he was going to get her for her birthday and all the times she’s taken one look at him and known with an uncanny certainty that he’s just gotten laid or, more commonly, that he’s just spent the whole night playing video games and ignoring life’s responsibilities.

Now Lydia sighs. “Look, all I know is, office romances are tricky. Even if he is interested, he’d probably feel like he can’t ask you out because of the power dynamic. You’ll have to make the first move.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles snorts.

Lydia raises her eyebrows like, I thought so. “Stiles…” she says, “as your friend who’s concerned for your happiness, I’m going to ask you something: Have you gone on a single date in the last month? The last six months?”

Stiles resists the urge to squirm under her knowing gaze. She could be a world-class interrogator if she ever wanted a career change. “Okay, but… I’ve been busy, okay? It has nothing to do with Der— Mr. Hale. As if. That’s ridiculous. Totally ludicrous.”

“I see,” Lydia says, unimpressed.

The next thing he knows, she’s installing a dating app on his phone and filling in a profile that’s a hundred times more charming and put-together than anything Stiles could’ve come up with on his own and finagling a promise out of him that he’ll at least give it a decent try.

Stiles gives his word, but privately he wonders if he can keep it.

It was actually Derek who inspired Stiles to apply to work at the Howls for Change Foundation to begin with. The local newspaper interviewed him a couple of years ago about the foundation, back when it was just starting up. Stiles had been just skimming, not planning to sit down and read the paper for half an hour, but that’s just what he ended up doing, drawn in by Derek’s interview—his enthusiasm and love for wolves, his eloquence in replying to the journalist’s questions, the accompanying picture of him… He was in jogging clothes, crouched on a trail out in the woods somewhere and hugging his German Shepherd while flashing the camera a rare, genuine smile so bright it made Stiles feel warm all over, and yeah, Stiles applied to this job about 75% because he loved wildlife conservation and about 25% because he wanted to see Derek Hale smile like that again, and possibly be the one to make him do it.

The feeling has only gotten stronger since then.

Derek likes to act like he’s just one of the employees, even though he’s not only the boss but also the organization’s founder. He has his own corner office, but he mainly just uses it for meeting with local policymakers and other bigwigs. The rest of the time, he has a cubicle where he plugs away on his laptop or just sits contemplatively, eating an apple or listening to music on an old CD player he keeps in the top drawer. He eats lunch outside in the picnic area with his employees, too, when it’s nice out. He brings bag lunches from home, which Stiles finds oddly charming.

Still, Stiles can see Derek is set apart. No matter how much he acts like he’s just an employee, no one ever forgets he’s the boss. When he walks into the break room, a hush always falls, and if they were talking about something gossipy or off-color before he walked in, they always hastily change the subject to something more workplace-appropriate and bland, like the weather or what’s for lunch, and Derek nods politely at them, gets his coffee, and leaves without a word. Stiles thinks he looks kind of lonely. He always comes off as hardworking and unpretentious, but he also doesn’t seem that fond of small talk or smiling, and it clearly makes a lot of people feel awkward around him.

For all the great work Derek is doing in the conservation world, he doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends.

Even so, the thought of Stiles asking him out and Derek actually saying yes… Well. It’s laughable, really.

So Lydia says, “Promise me you’ll at least try the app?” and Stiles says he will.

Two weeks and several mediocre first dates later, Stiles is sitting in a budget meeting at 9 a.m. on a Monday morning, poking at his phone under the table. He doesn’t make any attempt to stay on task first; whenever Greenberg starts talking in these meetings, like clockwork Stiles always gets this unbearable itch to look at his phone or pick at his nails or even just stare blankly out the window, anything but listen to him.

He deletes a dozen spam emails and replies to a couple punny texts from Scott from last night before he finally, reluctantly thumbs over to his unread messages on the dating app. By this point he’s not very optimistic. Turns out he was right to be, because someone has sent him an unsolicited dick pic.

Instinctively he sinks down a little lower in his seat. It turns out to be an unnecessary precaution, though. One glance around confirms it: the woman to his left is absorbed in doodling Power Rangers on her notepad, and the man to his right is gazing straight ahead into space, so zoned out he’s practically comatose.

Stiles looks back down at his phone.

It’s a nice dick pic, objectively. Very artistic, very tasteful. The guy, whose head is cropped out of the photo, is sprawled on his back on a turquoise sheet, soft sunlight falling on his naked torso, one long-fingered hand curled lazily around his erection. A+ for aesthetics.

Still, Stiles did not wake up this morning after only three hours of sleep (what can he say, he got distracted by Wikipedia again) just so he could see a complete stranger’s junk.

The sad thing is, this isn’t even the first time this has happened, or the third, or the fifth… Would it kill these guys to say hello first?

Stiles screenshots it, then pastes it into a new email to Lydia (he’s been keeping her apprised of his dating app adventures, at her insistence). He captions it with a grumpy, “guess how my morning is going.”

She’s the one who thought this app would be such a great idea in the first place. Maybe now, face-to-face with what Stiles has had to put up with on a daily basis for the past two weeks, she’ll finally admit the whole online dating thing was a bad idea and stop shooting him pitying looks whenever the subject of Derek Hale comes up.

After that, he blocks the dick-pic-sender and puts his phone away. Greenberg is still talking, still meticulously going over lots of hard-to-read charts, and Stiles’ gaze inevitably wanders to fall on Derek instead. Derek, who’s sitting at the head of the table, looking at something on his phone and not even trying to hide it.

Stiles supposes if you’re the founder of the company, you don’t have to pretend to be paying attention while Greenberg talks.

Derek’s phone buzzes in his hand; Stiles can just barely hear it. Derek taps at the screen while lifting his glass of water to his mouth, and then he must read something shocking because he simultaneously spits out his water all over his notes and starts coughing furiously, doubling over like he’s dying, his phone clattering to the table.

Greenberg momentarily stops his monotone speech, hovering like he’s not sure what to do, while pretty much everyone around the table freezes up except for the vice president, Boyd, who’s sitting next to him and never seems even remotely fazed by anything. He pounds Derek heartily on the back a couple times.

It seems to help. After a long half minute, the coughing fit passes. Derek looks up, red-faced, and rasps, “I’m okay.”

Hesitantly, Greenberg starts talking again. Derek straightens his tie and puts his phone away, and Stiles’ fellow employees go back to slumping in their seats with blank, I’m-bored-out-of-my-mind expressions on their faces, and that’s that.

Stiles can’t help wondering what it was Derek saw that got such a reaction out of him. Whatever it was, it’s guaranteed to be more interesting than this meeting.

Ah, well. Stiles will probably never know.

Or so he thinks until about half an hour later, when his phone buzzes with a new email from Derek—the only email he’s ever gotten from Derek, not counting the company-wide newsletters and memos.

It’s a good thing Stiles finishes pouring his coffee before taking a look at it, because otherwise he probably would have scalded the skin of his hand off and spilled coffee all over his shoes and the break room floor in the process.

The subject line reads, “re: guess how my morning is going.”

Stiles freezes.

Blinks.

Closes out of his email app and opens it again.

The email is still there. It’s still titled "re: guess how my morning is going.” Stiles didn’t misread it.

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t breathe for a solid five minutes while he lets the mingled surges of horror and adrenaline wash over him. It’s like one of those nightmares he used to have in high school where he’d stand up in class to give a presentation, only to look down and realize he was inexplicably buck-ass naked and everyone was laughing at him.

Finally he sucks in enough air to gasp, "Oh god. I’m dead. I’m so dead.” There’s no one else in the break room, but he still says it. It seems like the kind of momentous occasion that needs stating out loud to the universe.

Then he chugs his entire mug of coffee and speed-walks as casually as possible down the hall. A few people glance at him curiously from their cubicles, probably because he’s blushing so hard he looks like a tomato on the verge of a nervous breakdown, or possibly because no one runs in this office, anywhere, for any reason. Dignity is the name of the game. Stiles has none.

Stiles ignores them all in favor of diving into Lydia’s office and slamming the door shut behind him. He doesn’t care what work she might be doing; this is more important. This is a crisis.

She must get some sense of that from the look on his face, or maybe from the way he’s slumped back against the door and panting, because she doesn’t snap at him or even look that annoyed.

Stiles waves his phone at her and tries, in a rambling and adrenaline-fueled outburst, to explain. He’s not sure how much of it is actually anything bordering on English, but he thinks he ultimately conveys the important bits.

While he talks, Lydia rests her elbows on her desk, steepling her fingers, and looks intrigued. “So,” she says when he finally runs out of breath, “what did Derek actually say?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles says, only a little hysterically.

“You didn’t read the email?“

Stiles shakes his head, sheepish. She’s undoubtedly judging him so hard right now, and he knows, okay. He knows.

Lydia lets out one of her trademark "why am I surrounded by incompetence” sighs and holds out her hand for his phone. Stiles meekly hands it over.

Lydia unlocks it without asking him for the passcode, which suggests either that Stiles needs to make his passwords stronger or that they spend entirely too much time together. Then she reads, and Stiles chews on his thumbnail and practices the breathing exercises his therapist taught him.

Lydia hands his phone back after only half a minute, her expression softening to something almost sympathetic. That’s when Stiles truly comprehends how truly, apocalyptically bad this is. Lydia never looks sympathetic.

“Well?” Stiles croaks.

“It just says he’d like you to come see him in his office as soon as you get a chance.”

Stiles has never heard anything so ominous.

“You shouldn’t keep him waiting,” she says gently. “Go get it over with, and while you’re doing that, I’ll write you a glowing recommendation letter.”

A recommendation letter. To take with him when he gets fired. Oh god.

When Stiles edges into Derek’s office, Derek is standing over by the window. He looks stunning as usual, tailored suit perfectly accenting the powerful lines of his body, but his ears are kind of pink. He’s got out a bottle of wine and two glasses on a little trolley table; he must have an important meeting with a big client later today. Stiles will probably never find out about it, though, seeing as he’s about to get fired and all.

“Stiles,” Derek nods.

Stiles would reply, but he’s afraid nothing will come out but an unmanly squeak, so instead he just focuses on perching on the edge of the nearest chair. He’s never actually been in Derek’s office before. It’s very Derek; it reminds him of the woods, lots of earth tones and accents of green. If not for the circumstances, Stiles would probably find it calming. As it is, he’s not sure he would find anything calming right now, except maybe a Xanax.

“Do you know why I called you in here?“ Derek asks.

Oh god, does he have to say it out loud? It’s not like they don’t both know already. Stiles opens his mouth, and no words come out. His mind is one long internal scream. All he can do is clutch the arms of his chair and watch as Derek uncorks the wine and starts pouring it into the first glass with intimidating casualness. He looks like he’s not mad at all. It’s terrifying.

Finally Stiles manages to force the words out. “Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic.”

Derek stops pouring wine into the second glass. “Accidentally?”

“Yes!” Stiles says, latching onto that word like a lifeline. Is it even legal to fire someone for an accident? Well. Probably yes, if it results in somebody’s arm getting lopped off or something, but a dick pic isn’t quite on that level. Stiles hopes so, anyway. “And it wasn’t even my dick!”

Derek puts down the bottle of wine completely. “So… your boyfriend’s…?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Don’t have one.”

“So you’re saying you sent me porn.”

Stiles groans and drops his head to his hands. He can’t look at Derek right now; he’s already reached maximum mortification levels. “No, I, um, so the thing is, I have Lydia Martin down in my email contacts as ‘Divine Goddess,’ which alphabetically puts her next to you, so I accidentally emailed the dick pic to you when I meant to email it to her, and before you say anything, I know I’m not supposed to send explicit materials over the company email and I swear it won’t happen again.” Assuming Stiles ever gets another chance to use his company email, that is, but he’s not going to be the one to point that out.

There’s a long silence, and Stiles risks a peek up through his fingers. Derek is frowning at him, but not like he’s angry. More like he’s confused. “Isn’t Lydia married? To a woman?”

That makes Stiles forget for a moment about being embarrassed. He sits up straight, flailing his hands in a chopping motion. “Whoa, no, it’s definitely not like that. It’s not a flirting thing. We’re just friends, and you’re right, she and Allison are very happily married and I’d never do anything to get between that. Ever. It’s just, she set me up for an online dating profile recently and I kind of hate it because I keep getting dick pics, so that pic you saw was like, like a status update. Like, 'Look how terribly this is going, I hate all of these dudes sending me dick pics because none of them are you'—”

Shit. He bites his tongue so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t taste blood, because nope, what the fuck, that was not supposed to be a part of this conversation, and now Derek’s grip on the neck of the wine bottle has gone white-knuckled and he’s just staring at Stiles, all deer-in-the-headlights.

Not for the first time in his life, or even the hundredth, Stiles wishes he had the power to rewind the last ten or so seconds of what just happened and start over. Unfortunately, no such luck.

“Just to clarify, I didn’t mean to imply that I want you to send me a pic of your dick,” Stiles blurts. “I just meant in a, um, a purely romantic sense, no one on that app is as good as… yeah.” Stiles trails off because Derek’s eyes are continuing to widen, and that’s probably not good. “Oh god, I’m making this worse. I shouldn’t be allowed to talk.”

Derek still doesn’t say anything. Maybe it’s an interrogation tactic or maybe (probably) he’s just in shock.

Either way, Stiles feels compelled to break the silence. “Are you going to fire me?” he asks tentatively, after what feels like the longest and most awkward minute of his life to date.

Derek finally blinks and relaxes his death-grip on the wine bottle. “I’d be crazy to fire you. You’re one of my best employees.”

“Except for the whole dick pic thing,” Stiles points out, risking a smile, and Derek smiles back. Stiles feels a little of the oh-god-I’m-about-to-get-fired tension leave him, and in its place the usual oh-god-I’m-in-the-presence-of-Derek-Hale tension starts creeping back in. That’s a lot more familiar, and a lot more exciting.

“Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t…” Derek starts, looking away out the window and then nervously meeting Stiles’ eyes. “I didn’t mind the dick pic thing so much. Not when it was from you.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to stare in shock.

Derek spins jerkily on his heel and picks up one of the wine glasses and starts chugging it down, and okay. Maybe Stiles isn’t the only one who’s pretty nervous right now. That thought makes Stiles a whole lot less nervous, and he stands up and moves around the desk while it lasts. Derek turns his head a little. Stiles reaches up and takes the glass away and sets it down on the table.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— It’s not professional—” Derek starts.

“I would send you a picture of my dick if you asked,” Stiles blurts, and it feels like one of the bravest and most romantic things he’s ever said.

“I would send you one, too,” Derek says, blushing furiously.

That basically shreds the last bit of Stiles’ self-control. He grabs Derek’s fancy silk tie and tugs, and, before he can second-guess it, kisses Derek Hale the way he deserves to be kissed, thoroughly and so enthusiastically that Derek ends up sinking back to lean against his desk like his knees just won’t hold him up anymore.

“So, just to clarify,” Stiles pants, resting a hand on Derek’s chest and thrilling that he can do that now, “I’m definitely not fired.”

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls him back in.

(end)

#my fic #sterek fanfiction #i'm gonna tag this #marauders-mess #since i kinda feel like they prompted me for this one with their message from a few days ago

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