#you can already put that shit in the bios they put out however long ago now and servers have given pronoun roles for years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

palbabor-writes · 3 years

Text

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow.

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito & @kugutsuu for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on.

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class.

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date.

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings.

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away.

Fuck.

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors.

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students.

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now.

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.”

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess.

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously.

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number.

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago.

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class.

Ugh, why is this so stressful?

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing.

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you.

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall.

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine.

He’s watching you.

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms.

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness.

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass.

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his.

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence.

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either.

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged.

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied.

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class.

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his.

Wait. Sexy?

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you.

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit.

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium.

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race.

Maybe it’s those eyes of his.

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed.

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.”

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips.

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon.

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares.

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs.

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.”

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare.

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God.

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade.

No. No, no, no, no.

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA.

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces.

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips.

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door.

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves.

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you.

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence.

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea.

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N).

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright.

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk.

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line.

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow.

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression.

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult.

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name.

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again.

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question.

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.”

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move.

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him.

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him.

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin.

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead.

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.”

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that…

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.”

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side.

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.”

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand.

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.”

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin.

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes.

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully.

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath.

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences.

Wait. Didn’t you just…

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed.

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter.

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice.

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back.

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips.

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs.

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold.

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing.

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more.

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless.

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you.

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–”

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements.

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.”

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis.

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N).

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet.

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright.

“What is the cell membrane?”

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain.

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance.

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer.

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you.

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin.

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.”

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips.

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior.

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine.

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus.

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision.

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather.

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait…

There’s a faint clicking sound.

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper.

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade.

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise.

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts?

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit.

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg.

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by.

“Hold still,” he commands.

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit.

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form.

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?”

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face.

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you.

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance.

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think.

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–”

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips.

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass.

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need.

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness.

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice.

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head.

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again.

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms.

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good.

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face.

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting.

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips.

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release.

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs.

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release.

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders.

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you.

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy.

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @libiraki <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here.

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #reader insert #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #bnha smut #9 to 5 collab #bnha degeneracy server #collaboration #tw: unhealthy relationship #tw: teacher/student #tw: dubcon #tw: bribery

2K notes · View notes

dottiechan · 3 years

Text

ICEBREAKER Pt. 7

Read on AO3 (link in bio)

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader x Hunter

Wordcount: 2325

Summary: Bracca is nothing more than a blur. But in the midst of this chaos, there are flashbulb memories, vivid snapshots of moments that will be etched into your mind for the rest of your life.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, injuries

You're sitting in the corner, mute. Everyone is tired, exhausted beyond belief in the belly of a rusting Republic warship, decommissioned just like you should be. You're all waste, fighting for scraps of individuality in a world that only values witless cooperation. Tech once called the Empire "the very death of critical thinking," and you wonder if he meant it literally. If he meant himself too, and his army of identical brothers, those ticking time bombs with switches sewn inside their heads. If he meant Wrecker grabbing him by the throat before trying to kill you. If he meant Crosshair's blind obedience to an Empire that could never love him back as you do.

Your hand glides over your tender arm, and you wince. You will be bruised, the imprint of Wrecker's hand will bloom purple on your skin, like a strange flower. Your back will be painted blue and black and purple too from where it kissed the ground after he threw you across the med bay. You don't know how many times you will be traumatised before you can find some semblance of peace in this godforsaken Galaxy.

And when you look at Omega - sweet Omega, struggling not to fall asleep, holding Wrecker's hand, hoping the man who tried to kill her a mere hour ago would wake - you somehow manage to feel even worse.

...

It takes time, for them all to undergo surgery. You look at their shaved heads, their confused faces as they look around. They won their own freedom, fought for it too. You want to imagine him here too, in the middle of this quiet victory over the unconscious, silver hair shaved on one side, shaking fingers placing a toothpick between soft lips, uncertain eyes searching for yours amongst his brothers. You want Wrecker to put an arm around those sinewy shoulders only to evoke a scowl on that beloved face.

Wrecker gazes back at you sadly when he notices you staring.

"On your feet, soldier," Hunter extends a hand to you with a small smile on his face. But you know him well enough now, and you see through his façade. You know just how shaken he is, shaken down to his very core. You take his hand and let him help you up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me."

"You know that's not something I can do."

"I'm fine, I promise. Completely functional. I'm not the one who's just had surgery," you tut gently, taking his bandana from him when he tries to put it back over the bandage on his head. You're as careful as you can be, ignoring the stabbing ache in your arm as you fix Hunter up, gently brushing his short pieces of hair in the front back over the red fabric once you're finished tying a knot. "There. Good as new."

He catches your hands before you could withdraw them, and upon realising that most are distracted by Rex's and Echo's conversation, he holds them to his heart for a little while. His forehead comes to rest against yours gently, but at first you're not sure if he meant to do that, or if he just bowed under the great weight on his shoulders. But his eyes are searching your face now, and his breath ebbs and flows in harmony with yours. You've seen many soldiers do this before, brothers sharing a peaceful moment together before facing death on the battlefield. The Mandalorians call this a Keldabe kiss. But in his mind, Hunter just simply calls it arriving home.

"We'll be okay," you swallow thickly when he pulls back, placing a hand on the side of his face.

"We'll be okay," Hunter echoes, pressing his cheek into your palm, but if there's anything he's learned today, it's that he can never truly be sure of that.

...

"This is it, boys."

Rex almost looks reluctant, as if being around the Bad Batch has rekindled fond memories he's not eager to part with. This used to be his life, being surrounded by his brothers, saving the day. And while he feels satisfied, this victory leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he realises that in the grand scheme of things, he's barely changed anything. One family saved, but countless others lost. Like his own brothers, for instance; his own stupid, stubborn, loyal brothers, buried on a bare rock of a moon. Their loss left a hole in his chest bigger than the crater their crashed ship indented on the planet surface, and saving your squad is like a bandaid over a blaster shot to the heart.

He allows his gaze to linger on Echo for a while, the last man he's known well to survive, the last nail in the coffin of his grief. He looks so different now, and yet for a moment he expects Fives to materialise behind him. Dominos attached at the hip, his very own double trouble, the dual curse that followed him everywhere. He used to grumble about how they behaved all the time. But he loved them, he loved his little brothers with all his heart. And look where that love got them.

Fives is not here, of course. Rex never dared ask where they buried him. He's heard rumours of unmarked clone mass graves, but he was never brave enough to accept that truth. That's why he and Ahsoka buried their own dead with dignity, marking an extra grave along the rest, empty but reserved still.

His gaze finds you then, eventually. The only one who isn't a clone here in this rusting medbay, the sore thumb sticking out, the lost one with sad eyes who's seen too much for a civvie. He saw the way Hunter held onto you just now, how you shared a quiet moment in the corner when you thought no one was watching. He promised himself he would do this for Fives, that he would tell you if he ever saw you again that he talked about you even months after that one night at 79's. That he called you the one that got away, that he jokingly said he was saving himself for after the war when he could ask you to marry him. Fives was always full of shit, and no doubt half of what he said were just jokes, but he knows he cared about you still. It's apparent that you're a remarkable person, easy to grow attached to, but twice as difficult to forget.

He wants to do this for Fives. He wants to tell you, he wants you to know that the man who ultimately saved the ones you love loved you in turn. But you already seem like you've been through enough and he hasn't the heart to put you through this as well.

You catch him looking at you, and you muster a small, tired smile. "Take care, Captain."

"Ma'am."

I'm sorry, Fives, he keeps repeating over and over in his head as he turns to leave.

...

The deck is about to collapse. It is the only way you even have a slight chance of survival, you know that. And yet you feel stuck in this very moment, unable to move, deer in the headlights, shaking from head to toe.

The squad is whole again.

You'd like to believe you wouldn't know what would happen if you approached him, if you tried to pry his helmet off and look into his eyes. You'd like to believe he'd let you, you'd like to believe he would listen to your pleas, that he would stop this madness. Order his troops to stand down. Come home with you.

You'd like to believe. But all you can think about is Wrecker, out of his mind and yet still so terrifyingly present somehow, grabbing Tech by the throat and throwing him against the wall before coming for you.

And you know Crosshair would gun you down without hesitation.

"Crosshair... Please don't do this. We can help you." The plea escapes your lips before you could stop it, however. Crosshair tilts his head towards you, and even though you can't see his gaze, just knowing that his eyes are on you is like being struck by lightning. How long was it since you last saw him? How long was it since he last gazed at you, and you at him? He seems almost as frozen for a moment as you, and you allow yourself to believe he's still in there, raging against the control of the Empire. You don't know what it was that you two shared back on Hoth, but you know it meant something. It had to. And judging by his consideration, and the hesitant way he shuffles a step closer to you, you know he must remember too.

But he moved too quickly for Hunter's liking, and he's by your side, trying to shield you as much as he shields Omega. Whatever moment you and Crosshair just shared is over. You can tell, by the tightening of his shoulders, by his stance turning defensive once more. You got through to the real Crosshair for a second. But the menace - like some demon possessing his body - is back in control once again.

"Crosshair, wake up! You're being controlled by an inhibitor chip." Hunter's reasoning falls on deaf ears now. It is over. You should accept it, but you can't. But at least you're not the only one who can't admit defeat.

"He's telling the truth. The Kaminoans put chips in all the clones. Remember what I told you in the brig?"

After Omega's spoken up, a stretch of silent tension follows. You're all nervous, weapons aimed, caught in a death trap with no way out but down. And yet you're holding on, you're still holding on to that last shred of hope that your words will finally get through to him. That you can finally put down the cross you've been bearing and rest.

"Aim for the kid."

You don't know how many times you can be traumatised before you finally give in. But you make room for one more, and the day is far from being over yet.

...

You're going to be sick, but you know you can't be. You've treated a thousand gruesome injuries before, but somehow a partial blaster burn to the chest will be your final straw, you can already tell. You gingerly lay the bacta patch across the scorched patch skin and flesh as your fingers tremble like a new recruit's. The internal damage was thankfully minimalised by his armour, but this is still going to take some time to heal from.

You don't know how long it will take for you all to heal from leaving Crosshair behind once more. From losing Omega.

When your breathing starts bordering on frantic, Tech nudges you aside and takes over, but you can't leave. You sit on the edge of the cot, and clutch Hunter's hand in your clammy ones. You can't lose anyone else, you can't, you heart wouldn't take it.

When he finally comes around again, the look in his eyes are so hurt you finally give in to the urge to cry.

"I guess I can't hold the mission on Bracca against you anymore," Hunter rasps through his pain, trying to ignore how choked up and panicked the thought of losing Omega makes him.

"No, you really can't," you agree quietly, wiping at your eyes as you try not to let your anxiety get the better of you. Not when you're supposed to be Hunter's comfort, when you're supposed to reassure him.

"This is the only thing I ever want to wake up to," he whispers, a weak hand reaching up, longing touch ghosting along your features. He's dying a little inside every time he fails, swallowing the shards of every heart he breaks as atonement. They're jarring his insides, leaving him breathless every time he moves. And yet he keeps pushing on, even now, even when he feels worse than he's ever felt - all because of you. You're his only remedy in this fucked up world, the only person who still makes him believe there can be a happy ending for you all. He loves his brothers, but they're just as guilty and cynical as he is. He understands why he can't pin all his hopes on a child, but for some reason, he can't make the same exception for you. His voice is quiet, but it's obvious his head is clear when he speaks next.

"Cyare."

A little to the side, Tech finishes checking the medical scans for the last time. Hunter's condition has been stabilised, and for now, all he can do is look into the bounty hunter who took Omega. He casts one last look at you and Hunter, hand in hand, eyes glued to each other's face, and he sighs.

"How's Hunter?"

"He'll live," Tech answers, placing a hand on Echo's shoulder. "We've been through a lot over a rather short period of time. I think they've earned a moment of peace alone though, wouldn't you agree?"

Echo's face rarely reflects the emotions inside him, but now an endless kind of sadness perches itself on his features as he nods and follows Tech to the cockpit.

"They deserve a lot more than that. Hell, we all do."

...

Crosshair would agree with that sentiment now as he's patched up at the medbay of an Imperial flagship, alone aside from the medical droids. His head is killing him, his thoughts are sluggish, but the pain in his chest is not only from his injuries. He keeps remembering you, over and over again, your beautiful face, the way you said his name as if he mattered, as if he still belonged to you. And you left him behind anyways again.

If he heard Tech's and Echo's conversation now, he'd agree. He deserves better too.

#dottiechan writes #hunter x reader x crosshair #hunter x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb x you #tbb x reader #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch x you #the bad batch x reader #tbb hunter #tbb crosshair

58 notes · View notes

gallavictorious · 3 years

Text

Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

---

In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble.

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day.

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

#gallavich #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021 #ficlet #my stuff

37 notes · View notes

the-witty-pen-name · 3 years

Text

It Happened On Sakaar Pt. 2

Mando x F!Reader; Loki x F!Reader

Rating: M; 18+ Only

Warnings: swearing, grieving, angst, slow burn, mentions of violence (smut in later chapters)

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: The bounty hunter’s most recent puck sends him across the Galaxy to an unfamiliar and artificial planet named Sakaar- literally the galaxy’s trash can. Sakaar is a bizarre planet, but so is his most recent bounty. Din is chasing a man he only knows as The God of Mischief. The reader lives on Sakaar as a scrapper, a similar trade to that of a bounty hunter and has a tangled history with the man Mando is looking for. Will the unlikely duo team up to capture the mischievous Asgardian or will the reader fall victim to Loki’s promises?

A/N:

IMPORTANT UPDATE

I made a Google form to be added to my taglists, so if you want to be added, the link is in my bio. I’ll only be adding people to the list if they requested to be added by filling out the form! This way all of the requests are just in one place so I don’t miss requests! Thank you!!!

This is unedited and if I missed anything that I should include as a warning please let me know! Thank you y’all!

Part One

Tags and Requests are OPEN

You had just gotten paid another hefty sum for brining a new fighter to the Grandmaster, not as good as the supposed Lord of Thunder Scrapper 142 caught but still nonetheless, he was pleased and you were more than satisfied with your payment. You were at a bar, feeling pretty good about yourself. You deserved it and you wanted to treat yourself to a drink. You sat on one of the barstools, nursing a drink and did your best to ignore the gladiators behind the barrier nearby. You weren’t looking forward to this upcoming fight, but then again, you didn’t particularly care about them in the first place anyways. Scrapper 142 joined you, opting for a bottle instead of a glass.

You understood her. It was an unspoken feeling you knew she also understood. You were similar people, and on this planet to escape your past. She had been here much longer than yourself, and you observe that nothing can penetrate her hard shell. She was invincible, and you envied her ability to keep her emotions at bay. Well, except for the drinking, but you still admired her. At some point she went over to the barrier and actually spoke to one of the gladiators. It was odd, but you didn’t question it. When she got up, you bid your goodbyes and headed to get ready for the fight. You knew you wouldn’t see her at the arena, but you know she wouldn’t take it personally that you left without a goodbye.

Walking down the hallway towards the entrance, an arm grabbed your bicep and pulled you down an empty hallway. Without hesitation, you pulled your blaster with your free hand and pushed it to the temple of whoever grabbed you. When it made a clinking noise, you sighed, knowing exactly who it was. “Mando,” you say curtly, yanking your arm free and turning to face him.

“I need you to tell me about the God of Mischief,” he states plainly.

“I thought you were a good bounty hunter,” you roll your eyes.

“I didn’t get any information, I’m working with nothing,” he explains. You stare up at the visor, like somehow, you’d be able to study his eyes. You can feel them staring back at you though.

“How is this my problem?” You scoff and he sighs, clearly getting frustrated.

“You’re the only person I know on this planet that can help me,” he tries to insist, “I’ll split the reward, please.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” you say defeated. You felt bad for the man, and you knew it must’ve been hard for him to come to you. “But I’m not helping you hunt him down. I don’t want to be close to this.”

“Deal,” he says, and offers out his gloved hand for you to shake.

“We can’t talk here,” you state, “the fight is going to start soon and I need to be in attendance for a work thing.”

“A work thing?” he taunts. You chuckle.

“Unless you want to join me,” you offer, “If you can get a babysitter.”

“Fine,” he says, following your lead. You walk in silence to the stands, and you find your regular seat, and he takes the one next to you. You chuckle at how out of place he looks, too bulky from the armor to fit comfortably.

“Do you always need to wear all this?” you ask him, gesturing to the armor.

“Yes, it’s part of my code,” he replies, looking down at the arena. “Now, the bounty.”

“He’s one of the two princes from my home planet,” you explain. “He’s actually a god, with powers.”

“Powers?”

“Yeah, astral projection, shape-shifting, hypnosis, telekinesis, teleportation…”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” you say with a chuckle at the shock in his voice.

“How the hell are you supposed to catch someone like that?” he sighs, leaning back in his seat more.

“Outsmart him. Take advantage of the fact he probably has no idea you’re here or that anyone would be after him.”

“Would anyone be after him?”

“Oh gods, he’s made enemies all over the galaxy,” you retort, “I have no idea how to determine who sent you. He has a laundry list of enemies.”

“Of course,” he grumbles. “Just in recent years, he sabotaged his own brother’s coronation by allowing the Frost Giants to attack Asgard- our planet. Then, skipping a lot of other chaos, he led an alien attack on Earth. He was supposed to face lifetime imprisonment in the Asgardian dungeons, but he was freed to help fight when Dark Elves attacked Asgard, and he faked his death. This brings us up to speed to when I left three years ago. With everyone thinking he was dead, he returned to Asgard and removed his father, Odin, from the throne and had been ruling Asgard disguised as Odin. He was doing so for several years, before Thor- that’s his brother; Thor came back and exposed him. So that’s when I left, so if he’s done something else since, I don’t know.”

“That was the summary?”

“That was the very abridged version,” you chuckle, “but that’s sort of the relevant bit.”

“Why did you leave?” he asks curiously, “it seems like him being exposed by Thor was a good thing but you left.”

“Because I mourned him for years,” you say spitefully. “Told me himself while disguised as Odin that Loki was dead. Lied right to me, deceived me and the entire kingdom. We built fucking statues in his honor like idiots…”

“You loved him,” he states simply, preventing you from spiraling. You appreciated his ability to simplify the situation. It was grounding.

“Yes,” you say simply.

“And you’ve been here for three years and he only just shows up now?”

“Yeah.”

“Asshole,” he mutters, making you laugh.

“Indeed,” you agree.

“You deserve better,” he affirms.

“Then a wanted war criminal? I would hope so,” you jest.

“No, I mean, yes, but you seem- just, never mind.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you still have feelings for him?” he asks, after a short, uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to,” you answer honestly.

“I understand,” he says, but he sounds like he’s far away, lost in his own thoughts. You both fall into a more comfortable silence, when the giant hologram of the Grandmaster emerges introducing the event and the fighters. You aren’t really paying attention; you have heard it all before. The Champion will come out, the crowd will go crazy, and he’ll just defeat whatever poor soul they put up against him. However, you are snapped out of your thoughts when you hear a familiar voice yell.

“Thor?” you say in disbelief, standing up from your seat to get a closer look. His hair was shorter but without a doubt it was him. “Shit, what happened to him?”

“Thor, like Loki’s brother?” Mando asks, staring down at the fight, both of you at the end of your seats. You look over across the stadium, and you see a familiar figure in the Grandmaster’s private box.

“That weasel,” you say, narrowing your eyes, to try to get a better look. It’s him. Without a doubt, it’s Loki sitting on the large couch next to the Grandmaster. “He’s right there,” you point, and Mando follows your gaze.

“He’s watching while they send his brother to slaughter,” Mando observes and you nod.

“I thought I couldn’t be more disgusted,” you scoff. You wanted to be surprised but how could you be? This was Loki. Gods, you had been so blind for so long.

“What can we do?” Mando asks, already trying to look around for the exit. There are way too many people.

“Thor has powers like Loki- not the same ones, but he’s also a god,” you say, partly to explain but also in an attempt to calm your own nerves. “He can win this.” You hear Thor proclaim that he knows the Champion and that they are friends from work, and you cover your face with your hands from the secondhand embarrassment. You silently plead for Thor to stop trying to talk and just fight his way out. Mando hesitantly wraps an arm around you. He’s stiff and awkward but you appreciate it regardless. It was comforting. “I can’t watch,” you say, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Mando had never experienced something like this, ever. He hadn’t touched someone for this long in a very, very long time. He knew the circumstances were terrible and his heart was breaking for you. But selfishly, he basked in the feeling of intimacy, even if it was strictly platonic. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if it was platonic, because that implies a friendship. His mind was racing and he tried to ignore the warm feeling spreading throughout his body at the contact. He doesn’t dare move; he was enjoying the feeling too much. Mando was rendered speechless as he watched the man literally conjure lightning from nothing. The fight was unlike anything he had ever seen. Of course, he’d been all over the galaxy and has seen wonders, including the little baby back in his room, but never has he seen so much power yielded all at once. He gulped, thinking about what he would be up against trying to bring in Loki. Without a doubt, he’d need to use the carbonite chamber on the Crest- but would that even hold a being of this much power? He didn’t have much else of a choice.

The crowd erupts, booing as the Grandmaster rigs the fight in the Champion’s favor, and Mando rolls his eyes under his helmet. Of course, he thinks. However, he can tell the man is still alive and is relieved to tell you, especially since you didn’t dare look at the spectacle- too afraid to watch the fate of your friend unfold. “He made it,” Mando said gently, nudging you and you finally turned your head back to the arena. They brought out a stretcher and the floating device brought his body off of the ground. He was breathing. “We can find out where they took him soon,” he says reassuringly. He felt compelled to help you find Thor, not just because of his own needs, but he genuinely wanted to return the favor for the intel you provided- at no charge at that. The crowds clear out in a somewhat orderly fashion, but then take to the streets to celebrate the Grandmaster’s Champion.

You are furious that Loki would sit by and watch as Thor was sent out on that field. You had no doubt in your mind that he knew that was happening but didn’t stop it. You knew him too well to think otherwise. Part of you a very long time ago had a hope the two could actually work as a team, and you had seen Thor try- you realize that now. However, at the time, you always defended Loki. You remain seated, even after the whole section of seats has long since been cleared. You felt numb and disgusted.

“Any way I can help you, I’ll do it,” you say finally, your eyes fixated on the crater that was formed by the fight. You were rigid, very much pissed. You had wasted a large portion of your first year here hoping he’d come after you, and as much as you’d say you wouldn’t have taken him back, you know that you three years ago would have fallen back into his arms in a heartbeat if he had tried to come find you. Skurge knew where you had been sent. Loki could have easily gotten that information and followed you if he had wanted to. He obviously didn’t. And you have already wasted more energy than you should’ve in your lifetime by his side, defending him, mourning him, loving him. You were done. If there was any doubt of that in your mind before, the display before you tonight solidified your feelings.

You wanted to see him get what he deserved.

“I need you to get close to him again,” Mando says hesitantly, and you can hear the reluctance. He knows he’s asking way too much from you, but he’s desperate. It’s the only way he can think of to out smart him. He cringes, not wanting to subject you to this character again, but he feels as though he doesn’t have a choice. You were right that Mando needed to take advantage of Loki not knowing he was here. He could operate behind the scenes while you distracted him. It was a flimsy plan at best and he was sure you would say no. He wouldn’t blame you. He saw the hurt and pain on your face, just out for the world to see. You were usually much better at hiding it, he had observed, but the events of today undeniably bothered you greatly. He felt relieved to have his helmet on. He couldn’t imagine the discipline of controlling your expressions. It was something he never needed to master, and he admired your ability to do it.

“I’ll do it,” you sniff looking back at him. Your eyes were glossed over with tears that you were not letting fall and you still held yourself with your head high. You were trying your best to not let your emotions spill over, and he marveled at your strength.

“You sure.”

“Positive. I can do it. Besides, I don’t know how you’d do it without me.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles.

“I always am,” you joke. You wipe your eyes and stand up, both of you heading out of the stadium. “It’s probably better if we try to find Thor tomorrow,” you conclude noticing how dark it is now. Mando nods in agreement.

“Are they immortal?” he asks hesitantly, wanting to talk to you longer.

“No but we live a long time,” you say with a sigh, “Very slow aging process as well.”

“How old are they?” he asks, “I mean- do you not age either?”

“Loki and I are similar in age, Thor is older,” you explain. “I mean, I don’t know an exact age in years, but at least a thousand? Thor probably about five hundred years older or so if I had to guess.”

“Are- are you serious?” he asks in disbelief.

“I’m an old maid,” you chuckle.

“You look younger than me,” he says, still in shock.

“Asgardians have a five-thousand-year lifespan roughly,” you giggle, finding it amusing you’ve made the bounty hunter speechless. “I know I look pretty good for my age,” you joke.

“Yeah,” he says in agreement, and he doesn’t miss the way it makes you smile. There’s a tension between the two of you that becomes glaringly more obvious, and you both chose to try your best to ignore it.

“So, what are you?” you ask. “You and your son- what species?”

“I’m human,” he says quickly, embarrassed at what you thought he must look like under the helmet. “He’s adopted,” he explains, and you laugh at how flustered he sounds through the modulator.

“Are you from Earth?”

“No, I was born on Aq Vetina,” he explains and you nod.

“I’ve never heard of Earth.” “I thought Earth was the only place humans dwelled,” you say intrigued, “Interesting.”

“Are you royalty?” he asks, trying to change the subject from his backstory.

“Almost was,” you admit, “but no. I was in the Einherjar army, warriors who protected the throne.”

“Almost?” he asks, not wanting to pry but his curiosity of wanting to get to know more about you getting the better of him.

“Loki and I at one point were engaged,” you say, facing the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I shouldn’t be asking.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say reassuringly, “It’s nice to talk about it after all these years. I’m enjoying having someone who’s willing to listen.” He wondered if that would be something he would want as well. “Then he faked his death, and well,” you joke, “I would say that is the most unique way I’ve heard of to break off an engagement.”

“I don’t think that was because of you…”

“Oh, I know,” you reassure him, “But it clearly showed me how little he actually cared for me.”

“He’s a fool,” he said quickly.

“I’m afraid I’m the one who deserves that title,” you jest, trying to make the atmosphere less depressing.

“I don’t think so,” he counters, but doesn’t expand on his statement. You nod as a silent thank you. “I need to get back to the kid,” he says, “Should I meet you tomorrow?”

“Where are you staying?” You say, “I’ll come to you. I’m too close to the Grandmaster, and then by extension Loki- me going to you keeps you off the radar longer.”

He gives you the name of where he’s staying and his room, actually trusting you with it. You immediately know where he is staying and you assure him you won’t have any trouble finding him. You insist you want to go find Thor alone and he respects your request. You promise to go to him after. You part ways, and you return to your apartment and him to his room.

With the secured behind him, he picks up the child and checks on him. He felt guilty for having left him so long, but the kid had only just woken up when Mando arrived back at the room. The child was babbling and happy, and Mando fed him. His mind is still racing with thoughts of you, and how much you’ve been though.

It almost angers him, the way that you’ve been treated and discarded. Like you were just a pawn in a chess game. The pain and sadness behind your eyes said more to him than your words had, even though he hung on to every syllable. He feels ridiculous, but part of him thinks about how he can be the one to change it. He can be the one to give you justice, by catching the man as he was sent here to do. And maybe somewhere also in the back of his mind he thinks about being the one who can truly make you happy.

The rapport between the two of you was so seamless. He never had such an easy time talking to someone before. It’s like you just showed up out of nowhere and fell into his life and he wants you to stay in it. He thinks about if you both are successful, he somehow by some miracle is able to catch this guy, would he just part ways with you and never see you again? He hates the idea already. He knows how irrational he is being, but he allows himself to indulge in the idea of sharing things with you the same way you opened up about your past to him. He thinks about your words about how good it felt to have someone to listen, and he thinks about the urge he has to tell you everything. He thinks about finishing this job and getting off this wasteland planet and taking you away with him. He knows it would never happen. You are the closest thing he could ever encounter to a deity, and there’s no reason for you to want him.

With the child tired out yet again, Mando closes his pod when the baby is asleep and he is now free to take off his helmet. There’s a mirror on the wall and he looks at his reflection. He sees the signs of aging on his face, something you won’t experience until long after his lifetime. You’re the most beautiful being he’s ever encountered and here he is thinking you would return the affection he has begun to feel towards you. He doesn’t believe you’re someone who cares too much about appearances, but you are used to walking among ethereal beings. He knew he would not be good enough. Maybe he had been alone too long and his mind is playing tricks on him, but he can’t forget the way he made you smile. He clung onto it and took pride in it, desperately wanting to be the cause of your smile again.

Taglist:

@msclifford @doctoreuphoria @gloryekaterina @sassy-kassaay

68 notes · View notes

lostinaseaoffictionalbliss · 4 years

Text

Wedding Interruptious

A/N: Hey I am so sorry it took me this long. I lost the request and then when you sent it in again I had just lost my dog and things were a mess. I’m doing better and have been writing on my book, but I really wanted to get this out for you. I hope that you like it. @hellonheels-x

Pairing: Tyrion x fem!reader

Word Count: 1106

Warnings: smut, p in the v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

Sansa looked toward the front of the Sept sadly. She saw Tyrion standing there and sighed. This wasn’t what she wanted. She had thought she was going to marry Loras. That was who she wanted. Not someone that was related to those that killed her family. Though she knew Tyrion wasn’t like them. It didn’t make her feel any better. She held back her tears and kept her head high. Right as she reached her soon to be husband the back doors swung open loudly.

You stormed in, glaring at Tywin along with Joffrey. You hated them both with a passion. They had destroyed your family. Your twin, Robb, was lost to you. Though you looked nothing like him at all, you had the Stark sense of honor and your father’s stubbornness. “This wedding is not happening! My little sister is not marrying Tyrion.” You wouldn’t let her go through that. You knew this wasn’t what Sansa wanted. However, you had another motive for stopping the wedding.

Tyrion looked at you in confusion. The two of you had gotten on well from the moment you met. He even found you to be beautiful, but your families didn’t get along. So he had moved on. He had found Shae, but now he was being forced by his father to marry your sister. It wasn’t right. She was a child. He wanted someone older, someone that knew what they wanted. He had one night with you in Winterfell before he thought you were lost to him. Now he was thinking you might have a second chance.

Tywin raised a brow. “Oh? You believe you can stop this from happening? You have no say. Your family was traitors and they lost. We now have control over your sister and what happens.”

Joffrey snorted. “Wait grandfather. Perhaps she’s wanting to marry him. Oh this will be even better. Yes! I have decided that she shall marry him instead.”

You acted mortified by the thought, not wanting Joffrey or Tywin to know how much you actually wanted that. “What? You...you’re serious?” You prayed to the old gods he was. You had wanted to be with Tyrion since you met him at Winterfell; even against your father’s wishes.

Joffrey nodded. “I’m very serious. Get up here. Sansa put the cloak you’re wearing on your big sister. Go on do it.”

You walked up and helped your sister remove the cloak and put it on yourself. You could see Sansa felt sorry for you, but was also relieved.

After the ceremony was to be the wedding feast. You sat beside Tyrion, enjoying a glass of wine. You placed your hand on his knee under the table and squeezed gently. “I hope you know this is what I wanted,” you whispered.

Tyrion looked up at you, smiling softly. “To marry me or save your sister from a monster?”

“Stop that! You are not a monster. I’ve never seen you as one and I never will either. Yes, I wanted to save Sansa. Not because you’re a monster, but because she is still a child. I meant marrying you though. I’ve wanted to since that night in Winterfell.”

“My dear wife.” Tyrion placed his hand on top of yours. “I would have married you then if I thought I could. I know your father would have had my head for even asking. He would have taken it had he known I laid with you, but I digress. I’m glad that this is also what you wanted.”

You waited until the two of you were alone in your chambers to show him how much you truly wanted this. You kissed him softly yet passionately, pouring all your love for him into the kiss. “You’re mine now and I’m not letting you go.”

“Nor will I ever let you go.” He pulled you back down for another kiss, walking back toward the bed. He was eager to relive that night in Winterfell all those moons ago.

You walked with him and followed him onto the bed. “Both of us are wearing too many clothes.” You grinned. You tugged at the strings on his doublet, making it come loose. A small smirk graced your lips as his chest hair came into view. “That’s already a bit better, but…” You sat back and helped him up so you could take his shirt off. You purred when his upper body was revealed. “Much better.”

Tyrion chuckled softly. “It is, but you’re still wearing too much.” He helped you out of your clothing before removing his boots and trousers. “I believe this is much better than moments before. Don’t you?” He teasingly circled your areola with his finger.

A small mewl left you at the teasing and you nodded. “I do. Much better.” You kissed him, letting your tongue explore his mouth. He tasted of the wine you’d both been drinking and it fueled your desire for him. Without anymore hesitation you mounted him and slowly rocked your hips. He felt so good filling you up and stretching you. “I haven’t felt this good since that night. I’ve pleasured myself to the thought of you, but it was never enough. This is what I needed.”

His hands came to rest upon your hips. He helped guide you back and forth, up and down on his thick cock. “Fuck. I’ve been with others since then. I won’t lie. They don’t compare to you though. I love how tight and warm you are. This fucking pussy is mine and I want to stay buried in it.” He placed his thumb on your clit as he spoke, beginning to make small circles on the sensitive bundle.

You gasped and shuddered. You placed your hands beside his head and bent down to kiss him. “It’s yours. I’m yours. This feels so fucking good.” You picked up your pace. You had missed him and how good he made you feel. This time would be fast and quick, giving you both what you needed. There would be time for slow love making later.

Tyrion bucked his hips in time with your rocking, driving him further inside. He drug across that sweet spot inside while he kept teasing your little bud. “Shit!” You screamed in bliss as you clenched his cock. You were milking him for all he was worth as you gushed on him, soaking both of you and the bedding. You laid over him and panted softly.

“Holy fuck. You...love I’ve never felt anything that amazing before. We won’t be leaving this room for some time.”

You smiled blissfully. “I’m perfectly okay with that.”

***

Hey guys if you enjoy my work please reblog. Likes alone don’t share my work. This girl thrives on feedback. I may not have my requests open right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear from you. Also check out my book and Etsy shop. Link is in the bio.

#tyrion smut #tyrion x reader #tyrion lannister #tyrion x fem!reader #game of thrones fics #game of thrones smut #game of thrones reader insert #game of thrones #GoT #GoT smut #got fics #GoT reader insert

177 notes · View notes

moonlit-han · 3 years

Text

hold you close ↠ han jisung, seo changbin

genre: angst, fluff at the end word count: 1.6k warnings: angst, swearing request: yes a/n: this is from the universe of Date a Boy Who Makes You Mixtapes. you don’t need to read the series to understand this fic, although you’ll get a little spoiler (sort of?) about the relationships the develop over the course of the series.

✧ masterlist & tag list info in bio ✧

↠↞

That’s not it… Still not good enough. Why doesn’t this work? How am I supposed to make this any better when I’ve spent weeks on it already. What the fuck…

Jisung slumped over the desk in front of the monitor on which rows and rows of tracks layered together glowed green, orange, purple, and white. He roughly yanked his headphones from his head, letting them fall to the floor, then held his head in his hands. He’d been trying to improve a song he’d presented to the Music Department for midterms—it was supposed to be something he could include in his senior portfolio. They’d given him some of the harshest criticism he’d ever received, which, at first, only pushed him to improve the song; but now, after spending every minute of free time in the recording studio, he still couldn’t get it right.

Taking a deep breath, Jisung scrubbed at his face and looked back up at the screen. The colors seemed to blur together as his eyes unfocused and his head simultaneously felt like it was about to burst and float away. Was it possible for his consciousness to exist outside of his body? Because that’s what it felt like.

Five minutes later, he came to himself and let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. His throat was slightly raw from lack of sleep and water, and when he went to grasp the mouse to save his work and shut down the computer, his hands were shaking.

As quickly as he could, feeling like his blood was vibrating, Jisung packed up his things and made his way out of the Fine Arts building to trudge home. And, as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop the thoughts circling round and round in his head.

↠↞

It was a typical Thursday evening, meaning you were at Jisung’s apartment and sprawled on the couch next to Changbin, casually reading a book. Changbin’s and your schedules matched fairly well, so you usually ended up studying while he worked on one project or another, munching on snacks and drinking copious amounts of tea. Jisung, meanwhile, had the studio to himself on Thursday evenings. When you both were tired of working and thinking, you’d beat his ass at video games.

Just as a round ended, you heard the front door open and looked up to see Jisung slink into the room. His head was down, his beanie and bangs slipping down over his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped.

You bolted to you feet, your voice full of worry at seeing your boyfriend in such a state. “Ji?” He didn’t respond. “Oh my god, Jisung, are you okay?” The gaming console dropped from your hand as Jisung stumbled into the room, shaking a little. Your heart dropped: Jisung looked terrible, absolutely terrible. Beside you, Changbin stood as well, but allowed you to go to the young man who you both cared for so deeply.

As you reached Jisung, you reached to take his bag while your other hand gently cupped his cheek. “Baby, what happened?” His eyes were wide when he finally met your eyes, shaking like a leaf under your touch.

Jisung’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, his breath hitching as he tried to speak and failed. He gulped.

You pulled Jisung into the room and guided him toward the couch on which he curled himself into a tight ball, lower lip quivering slightly. His breaths were shallow and there were dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there a few days ago. You sat beside your boyfriend, drawing him toward you so he could nestle into your embrace. Changbin had pushed the coffee table away from the couch and knelt in front of both of you, a hand on Jisung’s back and the other resting comfortingly on his thigh.

“Jisung, what happened?” Changbin softly echoed your words as you slipped Jisung’s beanie off to caress his hair—you didn’t mind that it was a bit oily from lack of washing. Jisung was usually so fastidious… What the hell was going on? He leaned into your touch, his shaking lessening little by little now that he was with both you and Changbin—his boyfriend and girlfriend.

Jisung took a deep breath, turning his face into the crook of your shoulder and shifting so that he could hold your hand more easily. “The faculty gave me really harsh comments and,” he paused, “I-I’ve been trying to work on the song but I just can’t get it. I don’t know what’s wrong!” You and Changbin just waited for Jisung to continue, knowing he needed space to gather his thoughts.

“It’s just all shit, you know?” Jisung continued, trying to breathe through the shaking that had returned. “I can’t think. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t I can’t I ca—“

“Jisung, love,” Changbin murmured, taking Jisung’s other hand and holding it fast. “You’re okay, I promise. You’re wonderful and talented, and I’m sure the song’s great.” Jisung made to shake his head. “No, I know your compositions and you’re amazing, baby. You really are. Please don’t let their comments get to you, okay?�� Changbin leaned forward pressed a kiss to Jisung’s lips, trying to put as much sincere affection into the gesture as possible. Jisung smiled wanly.

“He’s right, baby,” you added. “You can’t let their comments get to you. How about Changbin and I listen to the track sometime and help you figure out what to do?” You traced the curve of his jaw, and Jisung looked up at you once you reached his chin, inviting you to peck his lips, too.

“Okay,” Jisung murmured, snuggling back against your chest. “That— That would be nice.”

“We’ve got you, Ji,” Changbin reassured him, brushing back the hair that had fallen into his boyfriend’s eyes. You smiled at Changbin over Jisung’s head. This was part of being a unit, being together—you supported each other and helped however you could. “You wanna go get in bed so we can both cuddle you?”

Jisung sighed, nodding, but made no move to rise. “Ji, baby, you have to get up for that to happen,” you said, a laugh coloring your voice.

“Here,” Changbin said, standing and reaching out his arms to pull Jisung up. The other young man let himself be pulled to his feet and then squeaked as Changbin lifted him bodily into his arms. You giggled at how Jisung immediately curled his arms and legs around Changbin as he was carried into his bedroom. With the ease of long practice, you turned out the lights, locked the door, and closed the front curtains to Jisung’s apartment before following your boyfriends into the bedroom.

Changbin had just set Jisung down on the bed and was riffling through the dresser drawers for pajama bottoms as you quietly entered the room and turned closed the door. The faerie lights above Jisung’s bed were already on, lending a faint glow to the room. He sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders still hunched, and stared listlessly into space.

“Did you—“ Jisung began, looking up.

“I closed and locked everything, babe, don’t worry,” you quickly reassured him, shrugging off your light sweater and pants so that you were simply in underwear and a camisole. Before Jisung could say another word, you pulled back the blankets and hopped into bed. “Come on, Ji, let Changbin help you into pajamas and then we can all snuggle.”

Changbin, having finally found appropriately comfortable pants for Jisung, came to stand in front of his boyfriend and leaned in to capture his lips. Jisung let his head fall back, opening to Changbin like a sunflower to the sun—he was still slightly dazed from dissociating and stress, and let Changbin do the work of kissing him. Lingering at his bottom lip, Changbin slowly broke the kiss, only to press his lips to Jisung’s forehead in a silent promise of the comfort and affection he would bestow.

Changbin stripped down to his boxers, then helped Jisung out of his clothes, having to prompt the other young man to actually put on the pajama bottoms proffered to him. After a moment, Jisung was curled under the covers with you and Changbin on either side of him. He clutched your joined hands to his chest, as if the two of you could hold his heart if he pressed your hands just that much closer to his body.

For long minutes, you and Changbin nuzzled you boyfriend and whispered sweet nothings to him, calming Jisung’s racing heart and completely dispelling his shaking. His eyes closed as the warmth of your bodies pressed together washed over him and Changbin’s soft singing began to lull him to sleep. He loved feeling the vibrations passing from Changbin’s chest and through his back—it was calming in the way a cat’s purr is.

You slanted your mouth against Jisung’s one last time before snuggling down along his body to tangle your legs together and hold him even more tightly. Changbin shifted slightly to more fully embrace Jisung, now his arms and legs going around his boyfriend. Jisung still held your hands to his bare chest, his breathing finally calm and the lines of worry smoothed from his face.

“Sleep, love,” you whispered against his skin. “We’ll still be holding you in the morning.”

127 notes · View notes

mountainsluna · 3 years

Text

too good

request: angsty scenario with yeosang where he is the reader’s boyfriend and the reader is insecure they are not enough for him...a plot where yeosang spends less time with them and more with someone else...or maybe he seems less interested in you everyday or smth

pairing: yeosang x reader (ft. the other members)

genre: angst (a fluff ending)

word count: 1.9k

✩ [author’s note] ngl, there’s also a bit of san fluff within this because i’m whipped and i really miss him :(

✩ masterlist

✩ requests : check bio or masterlist ♡

You let out a heavy sigh as you threw your phone across the bed in disappointment. You had texted Yeosang nearly two hours ago asking if he wanted to hang out but he hadn’t responded.

He had been doing that a lot recently. Leaving you on read for hours on end only to decline your invites. It was Saturday, his day off but maybe he went to work after all? Or maybe he was just out with his friends? You always gave him the benefit of the doubt but the more he neglected you, the more it was starting to hurt.

Yeosang was a popular guy after all, his visuals were incomparable and you were never able to believe he was yours in the first place. You don’t know what happened over the course of the four months you two had been together but he treated you nothing like he had when you two met.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized it was you who had made all the first moves in the relationship. You were the one to ask him out, to ask him for his phone number, to ask to be more than friends. He had agreed casually every time, never giving any of it much thought.

Could it have been one-sided this entire time? And if it was, why was he stringing you along?

The sound of your phone pinging had you rustling to grab it a lot more desperately than you’d like to admit. You prayed it was Yeosang as you unlocked your phone but of course, it wasn’t him.

Instead, it was your mutual friend Seonghwa, inviting you to go to the arcade with him and some of your other friends. You were nervous to show up without Yeosang as Seonghwa was the one that introduced the two of you in the first place.

You stared at his message, your thumbs circling nervously as you raked your brain for a reply. Just as you were about to decline, another message came through, this time it was Yeosang.

Sangie ♡ : going to the arcade with hwa and the guys, wanna come?

Your heart skipped a beat at the notification. Mentally face palming yourself for being so affected by a bare minimum message, but your heart didn’t care. Already having forgotten all the doubts that had been filling your head just moments before.

You: Sure! I can’t wait to see you :)

Sangie ♡ : :)

Your chest felt a bit heavy at the wordless reply but you hoped he’d be a bit more excited once you saw him in person. You replied to Seonghwa’s message quickly before getting up to get ready.

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

You stood outside the arcade building alone, your eyes switching from your phone screen to the people on the sidewalk as you waited for the boys to arrive. You had only been waiting about 10 minutes when your eyes caught Yunho’s smiling ones in the busy crowd, a trail of boys following behind him. You waved at him, scanning the others, unable to see Yeosang just yet.

Your other friend, San, ran in front of the others to hug you. “Y/n, I missed you! How are you?” He asked, you giggled at his excitement. You had missed him too, and all the boys. However, since Yeosang never responded to your messages, you weren’t able to visit their shared apartment as often as you wanted to.

“I missed you too, San! And I’m doing fine.” Returning his smile as he released you from the hug. When you turned around, your eyes found Yeosang who was already looking at you.

“Hey, babe.” He gave you a small smirk before pulling you into a one armed hug, his other hand not bothering to leave his pant pocket.

“H-hey, baby.” You stuttered at his halfhearted actions, feeling him place the quickest peck on your head before ushering you inside to follow the others.

The whole evening was disheartening to say the least, well, at least the moments when you were near Yeosang.

The way he was hardly paying any attention to you made you feel pathetic, almost like you were just following him around like a lost puppy. After about an hour of it you were visibly sad, debating on going off with the others or just leaving altogether.

Mingi noticed your sulking face that you were trying your hardest to hide as you stood by Yeosang who was paying you no mind. Focusing on cheering on Jongho and Yunho at a punching bag game. He came over and pulled you away to play a few games of air hockey with him. Yeosang not even batting an eyelash at you as you left his side. After that, you and Mingi joined Wooyoung and San at a claw machine where San proudly won you a stuffed puppy.

The attention they were giving you had you feeling better already. That was, until you noticed Seonghwa and Hongjoong off on their own, eyeing the food court suspiciously. Seonghwa’s eyes caught yours, a look of sadness flashing across them before breaking eye contact with you quickly.

Your eyes followed Hongjoong’s to see Yeosang in front of the food court. A smile on his face as he talked to some girl, his hand coming up to brush against her arm and play with her hair, the sight nearly making you burst into tears.

You rushed out before any tears could fall, passing Hongjoong and Seonghwa on your way, the taller boy following behind you.

“Y/n? Y/n...I’m so sorry.” Seonghwa held you by your shoulders, attempting to calm you down as you started sobbing not wanting to look him in the eyes. “I never expected him to treat you like this.”

“It’s okay, Hwa its not your fault.” You were so sad and upset you just wanted to disappear.

Before he could reply, Hongjoong’s shouting caught your attention. You both turned to see him dragging Yeosang out by the arm of his leather jacket, practically throwing him towards you and Seonghwa. The black haired boy moved out of the way to join Hongjoong by the doorway.

Yeosang fixed his jacket then stood in front of you, his hands in his pockets, not saying a word.

“Did you ever even like me?” You asked bluntly after a few minutes of pure silence, staring right at his face. Your sadness having turned to anger. Anger at him for playing with your feelings and anger at yourself for putting up with it for so long.

He cleared his throat, looking around, still refusing to make eye contact with you. “I...I did.”

“So what changed?” Your arms crossed in front of you. You took a quick glance behind him, seeing the other boys had joined the older two, a few of them staring at you and Yeosang wondering what was happening. You didn’t let their presence deter you though, you were ready to end things with Yeosang no matter who heard what was going on.

“I don’t know.”

“And you thought it was a better idea to cheat on me than tell me you didn’t want to be with me anymore?” His eyes never left the ground as you spoke. “I always thought you were too good for me but now I know you’re not. You’re just an asshole and a flirt.”

“I..I know you won’t believe me but...I’m sorry.”

“You’re right I don’t believe you.” A tear fell from your eye against your will, hating that it ever came to this. “It’s over Yeosang. Go finish what you started with that other girl, maybe she can put up with your playboy shit because I’m not. I’m done.”

You turned away from him, too hurt to say bye to the others, hoping they’d understand. After a few seconds, you heard footsteps running up behind you, expecting it to be Yeosang, you started to yell. “Look, Yeosang! I-”

“Hey, hey, it’s just me.” You blinked a few times at the sound of San’s voice next to you. His arm draping over your shoulder pulling you into a side hug.

“And me...” Seonghwa followed on your right, walking quickly to catch up to you both. “We’re gonna walk you home if you don’t mind...”

You sniffled, as you wiped your tears away, not wanting them to watch you cry. “Of course not, thank you both.” The boys tried the best they could to make conversation to distract you and you really appreciated the effort. San grabbing the stuffed dog from your hands, making tiny barking noises with it to make you smile.

When you arrived at your apartment, Seonghwa asked San to give you two a minute to talk. The smaller boy nodded without question, walking a few feet away to give you privacy.

“I’m sorry again for this...I don’t know what’s going on with him but I don’t expect you to forgive him.”

You smiled at Seonghwa’s attempt to make you feel better but you never blamed him. “I understand but I really don’t blame you at all. He seemed so different in the beginning...but...I guess I knew it wouldn’t last.” You looked at the ground between you two, kicking at nothing not really knowing what else to say at that moment.

The sound of San nearly tripping over a rock that he was messing with caught your attention, you watched him for a second, a small smile growing on your face. Seonghwa watched you as you looked at San, knowing all to well how the younger boy felt about you.

“You know...I think San has a crush on you.” He smirked at you playfully but you stared back at him with a look full of warning.

“I don’t know Hwa, I’m just now getting over the last boy you tried to pair me up with.”

“Yeah but...San is different, he’s a sweet guy and I know he’d treat you right.” You both turned your gaze at the boy kicking rocks a few feet away. San looked up, meeting your eyes with a small smile before turning back around, not wanting to interrupt. “Well anyways, I’ll let you get to sleep, I know you had a long day.” He opened his arms for a hug, patting your back reassuringly when you accepted. “If you need to cry to someone or just want to talk please call me.”

“I will.” You promised as you released from his grasp. Seonghwa called out to San, gesturing his head at you to come say his farewells.

San gave you a soft smile as he pulled you into a hug, his head resting on your shoulder a few moments before pulling away. “I hope you feel better soon. Also...I know it’s not my place to say...maybe it’s too soon but...I always thought you were too good for him. You’re such a sweet person I hope you never forget that.” You were shocked speechless by his words. The shy smile on his face as he looked down had your heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t felt in months. “I’ll see you later y/n. If you need anything, I’ll always be here for you. I promise.” He patted your shoulder before joining Seonghwa in the parking lot.

Your mind ran wild with thoughts as you moved about your apartment getting yourself ready for bed. You were upset over everything Yeosang had put you through but for whatever reason, the memories of how San had treated you all night nearly made all your bad feelings go away.

You held the stuffed puppy to your chest as you scrolled through your phone. At the same time trying not to think about Seonghwa’s words from earlier. But then again, maybe he’d be right this time.

#request #ateez #angst #fluff #yeosang angst #san fluff #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #mingi #wooyoung #yeosang #kang yeosang #san #choi san #jongho

56 notes · View notes

cloveroctobers · 3 years

Text

•ALLEGRA BIANCHI•

IG info/bio: @/theeallegrabianchi | 303k followers| Entrepreneur | bad bitches go to therapy thxz 🦭👄

(24) 26 years old

From Swansea, Wales

Ofc she knows who Catherine Zeta-Jones is...her mother literally resembles her and remembers people coming up to her mom countless times asking for a pic growing up, and Allegra hated taking pics for these imbeciles...mainly because the attention wasn’t on her

has a dysfunctional family...

her mother is critical of almost everything she does but at least she paying attention?

and feels her father is neglectful and only seems to be heard when she’s in his face

all they know how to do is scream at each other instead of talking calmly to one another

her mother is of Venezuelan heritage

And Her father is of Italian heritage

her father’s side of the family resides in calabria italy

he named her after his high school gf that passed away due to his irresponsible drunk driving on their senior prom night

Her parents do not have the healthiest of relationships due to her father constantly cheating on her mother in the past...leading to verbal and physical fights

also has a kid or two outside of their marriage because of his unfaithfulness and allegra learned to hate them because of the hurt her mother showcased

In the beginning she was only around them because her father enforced it, that she needed to know her family “blood is all you got in the end.” He would always say but that was bs

Would take her, her half sibs, and her full sibs on day trips/weekend trips in his suburban

Has three full older brothers and one full younger sister

Because of this, Allegra did not have a clear view of what love was supposed to be and felt that anger in a relationship is supposed to be somewhat of the norm?

Many times she wished at night in her bed with a pillow over her head that her parents would just file for a divorce already when their fights would get bad to the point things would get broken and her mother would h*t her father (once with a metal bat) and throw him out of the house

Has had the cops called on their household before and cps definitely has/had a file on them

Has been in family therapy before and is currently in therapy mainly for herself because of the trauma & how it’s messed with her spirit as a person

Loves? Cares for her parents from afar but will never understand their relationship and why they’re still together to this day

Can go months without speaking to any of her family members and be completely fine with that

Had her younger sis, Nerina put her PRIVATE shit on blast via internet after love island aired and completely cut her off since she is “a clout chaser and money hungry bitch who can’t take care of own her child cause she opened her legs to a meth head who loves prison” OOP

she only has a decent relationship with one of her brothers who’s two years older than her, Vito. They seem to be the closest out of the sibs and he’s the only one she bothers to speak to from time to time

She’s a “cocktail entrepreneur” so I’m guessing she has her own business where she specializes in her own cocktail drinks? Working in some upscale rooftop/penthouse bar where she successfully makes profits from her signature drinks or has a brand that focuses mainly on cocktails

It took years for her business to take off and hasn’t been easy, not one bit. At times it felt like everyone wanted to see her fail and she has openly spoken about her struggles as not only a entrepreneur but as a woman in this business where no one wanted to take a chance on her

That just lit the fire that’s already inside of her

Aries sun + Leo moon + Scorpio rising? (Personality vs how you react to things emotionally vs you’re outside shell for those who don’t follow this too much. I’m not too in depth about it but I do find it interesting!)

Or should she be reversed as a Leo sun with a Aries moon? Aries are direct, fiery, one step ahead of others, impulsive, and know how to take charge. Leo’s are dramatic, loves attention, passionate, loyal, warm, and have a need to express their passions, and scorpios are intense, secretive, mysterious, and work strategically

anyways, I feel like she’s definitely improved as a person over the span of two years? Or at least I hope she has cause everyone goes thru changes

And she was frustrating in s1 so I just know she had some deeper issues going on so I really think therapy is helping her ass I wish it would help me lmao

Being cheated on honestly made her feel like her mother, weak in her mind she was with this dude for awhile—3 years and he just up and thought it was okay to cheat on her? With his personal trainer?! Yet he didn’t gain any muscle mass?! The ultimate disrespect!!! but one thing she knew? She wasn’t going to stick around like her mom did

But she was bitter about it foresure. She ultimately wanted to corner the girl for messing with HER man but part of her knew she wasn’t the only one to blame. However that didn’t stop her for cussing her out via voicemail a couple of times while intoxicated

Allegra always strived for love cause she’s never really seen it before or felt it

Sure she’s had many boyfriends before?And their names didn’t matter not only because she didn’t remember them? But she never felt the spark with them in the first place?

Maybe she wasn’t meant for love so she kinda put on this bitchy front and always been that way with some shitty friends she had around her until she recently cut them off a year ago

has gotten herself into trouble as a kid: trespassing, and destroying public property, smoking in the girls bathroom, physical altercations, cutting class, being assigned community service, etc... all with these friends she’s had for years!

Before she met her problematic friends in secondary, when she was in her pre-teen stage she was involved in the handbell team and in the Color guard but hates to admit it even tho her parents have pics all over the flat

went away to uni for a semester and wanted to join a sorority but the hazing was extreme to the point she was sent to the hospital then accepted? Which led to more trauma in her life so she dropped out

A few years later she decided on online courses and moved out of her parents flat as soon as she could with the $ she saved up and did not leave in the house since it was not safe to smh

Therapy was really helping sis, she felt a lot better and was working on her deep rooted issues mainly the anger and hurt and never really realized how it revolves around her life. She was super thankful for her therapist and reshaping herself

Many didn’t buy it but she knew she couldn’t give that much of a fuck? She couldn’t. In order to grow you got to learn that you have to involve for yourself and not others

She didn’t like the person she saw watching the show back but when she came back to the reunion a part of her hoped people saw some sort of change in her—even if it’s only been a few months since the show then

Sometimes she’ll slip back into old habits, wanting and doing so by snapping on people and blacking out by getting intoxicated and knowing that healing is a process and valuing yourself is the exact same

has a toy poodle that she loves deeply

doesn’t have many outside friends after cutting off the ones that were toxic

is pro-ab*rtion and had one herself which was aired out by her sister online

has a cozy flat that has a lot of brick exposure inside, a navy sofa which is her favorite piece in her house, and a view to die for!! which erases the fact that her apartment is “cozy” which she uses to replace the fact that it’s much smaller than what she originally wanted. She dreams big ya know!!!

currently has a crush on her art teacher who resembles Adam Rodriguez

but also feels like liking your teacher/instructor is a bit weird? Even tho they’re both grown

yes she is taking art classes now outside of work to find something that’ll bring her peace and these pass months they have until COVID hit where classes had to be cancelled yet she was contacted to continue online but she felt her art was truly shit but he says art is subjective

She feels like there’s a connection there? But at the same time isn’t looking for another relationship until she fully works on herself first! That took awhile for her to accept after she fell into some relations with a few ppl after the show

from there she realized that she might like girls too? And got a little annoyed that it took her this long to figure out especially with the way she felt around MC and cherry

doesn’t like to admit this but her fav holiday is Christmas? Even tho the theme is majorly corny to her but it actually makes her happy?

Feels like that was the only time her family showed love towards each other, and even tho they didn’t come from much, they always followed thru with their traditions

and she misses them a little bit around this time and might be the first one to call them even if the calls are short lived and kinda awkward at first

Loves making gingerbread houses and cookies

i feel like she now embraces her forearm hair but still gets everything else lasered

Miss Allegra has inches okay?! But I definitely feel like now in 2020 she’s chopping that shit off into a pixie cut and when she posts on the gram her hair is usually always damp when she shows it off

some comments — jake: lovely! Jen: babe, ur beautiful! Erikah: 😍 Tim: how hot! You’ve got the whole resident evil thing goin for yous

“Did he just call me a virus?”

And she might get a like from mason that’ll make her feel some type of way

We all have to go thru some growth you know so do you girl!

You can’t tell me she doesn’t play stabscotch!

Used to be obsessed with social media way before going on love island but lately doesn’t mind disappearing for months at a time? You have to cleanse yourself from that shit

idk i see her being mostly cool with jen or erikah and will hang out with them from time to time? Maybe they experienced some growth too, shit I sure hope so

still feels something for mason??? But at the same time maybe it was mainly superficial since mason wasn’t fucking with her like that, not 100% but at the same time gets frustrated that he still doesn’t see where she’s coming from and it’s been 2 years???

She loves hard if given the chance and then feels like shit when it doesn’t work out cause it feels like she wasted a fuck load of time

she no longer follows him because she feels like it’s better for her spirit or whatever and she doesn’t need to see him with someone else

the only guy that she really interacts with is Tim, yet tim is cool with everybody!

Otherwise there’s no real connection with her and anybody else? She wants to keep love island separate from herself now because she’s not exactly the same as she was two years ago? And hopes someday people will get that

Probably watches those auction shows on the telly late at night when she can’t sleep, hoping and can afford some of those things one days

I feel like she has chronic migraines too?

Once had a significant other buy her Allegra-D in all seriousness for her birthday because it reminded them of her & thought it would help her headaches 🤨

Loves the snow, but hates cleaning it off her car! S/O to those HOA fees, bless it cause leggy’s deff bussed her ass once before breaking her collarbone and sued like a mf!!!

Since her hours are hardly consistent since she’s mainly her own boss, she’ll have late nights/early mornings when she returns home and has to shift days where she cleans the flat but when she cleans??? It’s best everyone stays tf out of her way

And don’t try to help her cause you’re doing it wrong 10/10 of the time, she loves cleaning and has dropped mad money on those super expensive vacuums

Only knows how to make what’s relative to her culture: arepas, penne alla vodka, and cawl but otherwise than that? She’d rather clean then spend hours in a kitchen cooking unless she’s making cocktails ofc!

also loves shopping for clothes but shoes are her fav things to shop for

Deff has a steamer over a iron for her clothes

Keeps eucalyptus and lavender oil in her purse at all times

posts mainly on her stories and made a deal with her supporters that she’ll go live once a month since she feels like she owes them that? Since she’s not as active anymore but she really doesn’t owe anybody shit but out of the newfound kindness of her heart...she does

Believes she got Covid before they all decided to do a shut down/lockdown of restaurants, bars, etc.. and her suspicions were proven correct after she decided to get tested

her anthem? Kali Uchis — Dead to me (acoustic version)

#litg #litg allegra #litg headcanons #litg headcanon #litg moodboard #litg mason #litg Tim #litg jake #litg jen #litg erikah #litg mc #litg oc #had to make to drama filled since s1 did us right along with s2 #I do feel like Allegra bettered? herself after the show and stand by that #I still laugh when I see her character in my head and the fact that someone said she looks like the bride of chucky #anyways I like giving people the benefit of the doubt and I think ppl like her better than Lucy? lmao so this is for y’all allegra stans #decided to give s3 a break and play s1 again hope that’s cool lol #also no longer doing celeb crush/music choices anymore cause I’ve run out? lol alright bye!

35 notes · View notes

bitch-in-a-bag · 3 years

Text

can we talk about how the LGBT movement has changed in the past 15 years?

in the light of the events surrounding Chris chan, and people prioritizing pronouns over the rape of a woman with dementia, I think it displays just how... different things are.

i personally feel like it's been co-opted by the more loud and entitled mtfs/ males/penis-havers/whatever pc term exists for the XY chromosome'd, who go too far and aren't reasonably kept in check. I think terf no longer has meaning anymore because it's just become a word we use to silence anyone that disagrees with a trans woman. immediately you're going to call me a terf, I accept that, but please continue reading. I may suprise you. calling someone who's transgender a terf is kinda messed up anyway, and that's exactly why im writing this.

I also think that everyone else (allies, ftms, etc) have followed suit because they've written this messed up narrative that EvErYoNe iS VaLiD. except for trans penis-havers, bc they're the most oppressed and the most valid, actually, regardless of their experiences.

I never used to believe the above because it was always written off as terf shit, and ignoring it kinda benefitted me, but between seeing ftms getting bashed for refusing to follow new "TME" rules as if they aren't trans too, and seeing outrage around Chris chans pronouns, I think it's time to start saying things that may make people uncomfortable. innocent people are already getting hurt by this, and we need to do better. it's time to get uncomfortable.

I want to remind you that perception is both the relying factor, and also the downfall of newer lgbt theory. if my profile were mtf coded, maybe it currently is, you'd call me a self hating trans and I wouldn't be that big of a deal. terfs would probably target me.

if my profile was ftm coded, I would be absolutely skewered for daring to speak out about these issues, even though they do actually affect ftms disproportionately. terfs would try to convince me that being trans is a plague and a mental illness, and to just ~be a cis woman~!

and if assumed cis, I would 100% be assumed radfem terf, and everything I say would immediately be dismissed because of the genuine damage terfs have done. but terfs would still probably flock to this post and berate me for daring to validate trans people At All, because to them, being transgender is a mental illness akin to an eating disorder, and "giving in" to it is "self harm". clearly I don't believe that, so hopefully you'll give me at least some benefit of the doubt.

so, does my identity matter? i have a feeling you'll say yes, because it gives us a good idea of experiences I do and don't have expertise in, and thus room to talk about. but I refuse to directly identify what I actually am because I want the focus of any resulting conversation to be my message and not my self identification. if you read between the lines and figure it out that's just fine, but I would like to be heard first and foremost.

my profile is thus an attempt at being cis female coded, somewhat out of comfort, and that is likely what I'll be assumed to be due to the beliefs I am expressing, even though there is a substantial risk of getting misgendered and dismissed, no matter what my birth sex may actually be. i will give you a hint about my identity: I am transgender, on HRT and everything, and I have been personally affected by all of this. rest assured, this is well within my lane to speak about, and it does matter if you misgender me.

I want you to really think about that. before you respond, really think about if someone saying words on tumblr, talking about their OWN experiences and their take on recent history that applies to themself, really more worthy of being misgendered and harassed than... someone who said they transitioned so they could date lesbians, and then raped their own mother with dementia.

is that fair or just? or is this just a new way of letting people with penises do whatever they want? I personally think it's the latter. we need to hold people like Chris chan accountable without getting caught up on something as minor **in comparison** as misgendering and self identification. Is it sad and confusing that someone who self IDs as transgender became 1:1 with the most dangerous stereotypes that exist for trans women? Of course it is. But it doesn't mean that self identification is suddenly more important than a literal crime being committed.

I would normally dismiss it as a fluke or outright trolling if the evidence weren't so damning that this is in fact a real event that happened. If I hadn't seen this happen to other people, and if I didn't literally know another mtf person who used their dysphoria as an excuse for date rape on multiple occasions and never got any consequences for it.

It's not a one time thing, it's a developing problem that we need to stop before more people have their lives ruined. I can't even imagine how traumatizing and messed up it is for an FTM person to be date raped, by another transgender person no less. When I, an abuse survivor, told people of this MTFs red flags, people violently silenced me. People who didn't know I was trans called me a terf and transphobic. We, as a community, could've protected someone from getting date raped, and we didn't. Trans women can be awful, horrible fucking people, because they are people. Protecting them at all costs is wrong. Protecting them from transphobia is what we should be doing.

That being said, misgendering is still skeevy, and I haven't done anything like raped a disabled woman who is no longer able to consent, or date raped my own partner. if you give a shit about respecting my identity, please use they/them for me. if not, use visual perception and make assumptions that will most likely be incorrect, skew your own argument, and put me on the same level as a rapist, and arguably a fetishist. And I do need to remind you that calling someone transgender a rapist and a fetishist without evidence is still definitely classic transphobia, to the letter, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that.

as someone who is same sex attracted, I also want to bring this up as well.

in the US in the past 15 years, the movement as a whole pretty much went "YEAH BORN THIS WAY" with Lady Gaga, and then jumped ship to prioritize mostly mtfs at every angle. do mtfs need support? absolutely. but they don't need misguided toxic positivity, and that's what it's turned into.

it's gotten genuinely homophobic to the point where actually homosexual people are constantly being erased and demonized via "genital preferences are a fetish uwu", and vulva havers, especially the trans ones, are constantly being told to shut up about their experiences.

as much as you want to deny bioessentialism, its still very much well and alive with newer trans movement sentiments when we classify ftms as not worthy of speaking about their own issues with terms like "TME". it's also incredibly ignorant towards FTMs who pass, but dress feminine for comfort, and get mistaken for MTF, and treated like garbage because of it. They are not remotely exempt from misogyny, transphobia, or the intersection of the two, and it is not anyone's job to tell them they don't ever experience that when they do. Turning ftms and biological homosexuals into our enemies-- especially when the actual cause is transphobia and harmful gender stereotypes-- does nothing good or healthy for our movement.

Dont be mistaken, though, passing isn't the focus or end all be all here, it's the perception of others that ends up drastically effecting your experiences. There are words like misogyny that imply treatment via birth sex, however this too can be reliant on external perception. If an MTF individual either transitions very young, has an abundance of resources to transition, or just gets lucky and passes well, chances are she will experience a lot more misogyny than people may give credit to. inversely, someone who just started questioning yesterday, but lived as a male their whole life up until then, they genuinely cannot speak about misogyny with that much room because they simply haven't experienced it at an accurate enough angle or for enough time to understand it as a repeated and sociological force.

It works the other way as well, though; someone who's known that they're trans for a long time and haven't had the resources to transition, or do not or cannot pass in the eyes of society; these people suffer pain that we don't neccesarily have a word for yet, imo. It makes dysphoria worse and it makes living seem hopeless. And as a community, we deal with this is in a really messed up way by over-validating them instead of solving the core issue at hand. and people who suffer from this, but also acknowledge they can't claim what they haven't experienced, are left with nowhere to go.

And its important to acknowledge these things because they're integral to the over-encompassing trans experience. Instead of lying to everyone and telling everyone they pass/giving out unconditional positive regard, our focus should be making it so that it **doesn't matter if you pass**. that you're still worth respect and dignity if you're transgender, no matter what passing is or what it means to you, and no matter how you present. But also, if you do something awful, you still need to be held accountable, especially if you use yourself, your body, or your trans status to contribute to other axi of oppression.

Transphobia is a word that encompasses and addresses all of that, regardless of birth sex. "TME" shuts that down in favor of only letting MTF's speak. Which is still very bio-essentialist, and I can't help but feel like we've gone full circle.

Once upon a time you couldn't even get married if your partner had the same genitals as you. in the US, this was less than 7 years ago. and if you care about human rights activism, you know damn well that legal modification is not the end all be all. people who are genuinely homosexual are still oppressed, but the trans movement has started stepping on them to make ground we don't deserve. homosexuals are ok and valid. it's not a genital preference, and the prescence of trans people doesn't make conversion therapy sentiments ok, ever.

we've gone full circle, and it's not right.

#trans rights #homosexuality #human rights #lgbt #lgbt community #trans #tw: rape #transphobia

4 notes · View notes

roseskiesandbutterflies · 3 years

Text

Le Démon Déchu - Chapter 2: Réponses Et Plus De Questions

Summary: The summary is kind of long so please check a previous part or my masterlist if you want to read it.

Warning(s): threat, swearing

Word Count: 6.8k+

Inspiration: Do You Know What Eternity Is? by Elderly_Worm on AO3, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, Pray For Us, Icarus series by Atalan on AO3, Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm on AO3, wasteland, baby by john1513 on AO3, Not of Us by ShesAKillerQueen98 on AO3, How to Win a Lifetime Achievement Award for Services to Television (and how not to) by GaryOldman on AO3, Doctor Who (don’t ask) and, of course, Good Omens itself

A/N: Okay I took a bit of a hiatus from writing literally anything for about five months so sorry about that but I’m back now!! That’s the main thing. Also, I’ve left high school now which is very exciting! That does mean I’ll have so much more time to write and I’m definitely going to try and use this summer to establish some kind of routine for writing so that when I start college, I won’t get too overwhelmed with both my studies and with updating my fics. That’s the plan anyway so don’t hold me to that lmao. With any luck, now I’ve actually said that it’ll have to happen. (I wrote that part of this note back in May when it was the start of the summer. It is currently September and I’m just about to finally publish this chapter and I assure you, I am cringing at my own optimism.) Sorry this took so long to post. This chapter has been in the works since May (yes, I know I’m terrible) but I actually got a lot more writing done in that time that what you just see in this chapter. All will be revealed soon. I just promise that I have been productive. Once you’ve read this chapter, you have my blessing to translate the title of this fic. Hopefully it will make sense.

I just wanted to point out something about the playlist I linked in the previous chapter. I am well aware that there are some rather problematic people in it, namely Sia. I want you all to know that I don’t support her in any way (I don’t like her at all I think she’s a complete ableist twat). Her songs are only on there because of how well they fit with the story (a lot of this will become clearer as the story goes on).

I also wanted to point out that I know that if angels do exist, then their true forms probably wouldn’t look anything like humans. I’m well aware of that, I’m not an idiot, I don’t know if any of you remember when people started googling ‘angel true form’ and some people got scared lmao. The point is, we’ve all seen the pictures. But for the purpose of this story, and honestly just to make it easier for me to describe what the characters are doing, we’re going to have to pretend that they did look like humans. Can I claim creative license with this one? Maybe it got lost in translation because there is probably no way someone could describe how an angel truly looks in any human language? I don’t know, just roll with it.I know that this chapter had so much exposition and explanation in it but I can promise you two things. One, there is still much to be revealed. Two, I promise this isn’t just bad writing on my part. Just trust that I needed to put this all in this early on.

And how is everyone doing after the season 2 announcement? I mean, at the time of writing this specific part of my notes, it only got announced about an hour ago lmao. I’m very fucking excited, oh my god. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I found out I can’t lie. Catch me trying to finish this before it comes out in case things occur which means I have to change things in this story. I can’t be arsed for that. Oh well. Hopefully it’ll read like those Sherlock fics that people wrote in between series 2 and series 3 if that doesn’t happen.

Taglist: @briarrose26

Ask or comment to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or series. Full list is in my bio.

Hermit (upright) + Five of Wands (upright)

Conflict. Reflection. Resurfacing memories.

************

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.

We know who our enemies are. We know.

– Richard Siken (Detail of the Fire)

************

“Fuck.”

The angel and demon exchanged glances of what could only be described as thinly veiled panic, while the woman in front of them just looked annoyed at the most.

“They couldn’t wait five minutes, could they?” she muttered, pinching at the bridge of her nose in frustration before standing up again, “Look, just stay down here, I’m gonna go sort this out. With any luck they won’t have actually realised you’re here too.”

“Wait, how do you know they’re here for you?” Crowley asked, suddenly curious as to what business Eloise might have with Heaven.

“Just a gut feeling,” she said before making her way to the spiral staircase behind them, muttering to herself, “If they were here for you, I feel like they would have at least used the front door.”

The other two waited until she’d run upstairs before exchanging a quick glance, an unspoken word, and following her up.

Meanwhile, Eloise was hovering outside a room at the end of the corridor which she could only assume was the bedroom. She was strangely hesitant, not out of fear of them, simply out of fear of the unknown. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in that room for millennia, and something told her that this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat. She took a deep breath, even though she technically didn’t need it, letting a wave of faux confidence wash over her, and stepped inside. Don’t crumble now. You’ve come too far to crumble now.

“Ah, Mariel, long time no see,” Gabriel smiled coldly, brushing the dust off his white suit. Flanked by two other angels, he stood in the wreckage of the bedroom without even acknowledging the damage they must have caused when they crashed in. Beside him were Beelzebub and Hastur, who both looked as though they had been dragged kicking and screaming to come here. Beelzebub in particular kept shooting metaphorical daggers at Gabriel, who remained perfectly oblivious. The entire ceiling had caved in from the impact of their crash, the setting sun painting the doorway where Eloise stood in a pale gold and casting a dark shadow over the others.

She’d grimaced at the use of her old name; it was too unfamiliar, too ancient. Mariel was the name of a long-dead version of herself. Once upon a time, she’d embraced it, but that was once upon a time. Once upon a time long gone.

“Almost like I’ve been avoiding you on purpose,” she muttered, leaning against the doorway as she stared intrusively at each person in the room, observing, assessing. She silently revelled in the blatant discomfort in each of their faces.

“No need to be so rude,” Gabriel said, doing anything to avoid her eyes, his previous confident façade now shattered.

Eloise stared at him in disbelief, “What exactly were you expecting? A fucking welcome party? I haven’t seen any of you in over six thousand years and you just crash through the roof of my house, unannounced and uninvited, so yeah, forgive me for being a little irritated.” She couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty. She’d barely been in Aziraphale’s bookshop for fifteen minutes and she was already pretending she owned it.

She watched smugly as he squirmed under her gaze, desperately looking to the others to say something in response. A moment or two passed before Beelzebub’s head suddenly snapped up in confusion, “Are you alone?”

Shit. She’d hoped that they wouldn’t have noticed the presence of the two who were definitely not downstairs like she’d asked. She swallowed, trying not to let any kind of emotion show on her face, trying not to give the game up that quickly, “Yeah, I live on my own.” She watched the whole group of them squint in concentration, trying to sense any other beings in the house. She sighed, changing the subject before they could comment on it any further, “Look, what do you want? I don’t have all day so if you could make it quick then that would be much appreciated.”

Gabriel looked back at her, his suave exterior unfortunately making a return, “Hey, we just wanted to check up on you, see how you’re doing-”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she snapped. She pushed herself off from the doorway, stalking towards the others, “You have had six thousand years to ‘check up on me’, don’t pretend you’ve only started to care now.”

She was met with only silence as Gabriel and Beelzebub glanced at each other awkwardly, looking very much like chastised children. Suddenly the latter groaned and cried, “You can’t just leave Hell!”

“Oh, here we go,” Eloise muttered, rolling her eyes, bored already.

“You can’t! You Fell from Heaven, so you go to Hell, there isn’t a third option!”

“Well, apparently there is,” she shrugged.

“No there isn’t!” they argued, face screwed up like a petulant child.

“Then what do you call this then?” she asked, unfolding her wings for the second time that day. She studied their reactions closely, scrutinising coal-black eyes piercing through their very souls. She was searching for any hint of shock, of recognition, of anything that could clue her in as to what was going on in their heads at that moment. All she could find, however, was pure, unadulterated confusion. Which was annoying when her wings were supposed to be an answer to their unasked questions.

Gabriel stumbled over his words, “Good Lord, how did you even-”

Eloise cut him off curtly, no longer having the patience to listen to his incoherent mumbles. She instead turned to Beelzebub who at least had the decency to look a little more composed, “That would be what you could sense then. I’ve got both Heaven and Hell in me, that’s a lot of energy to pick up on.” She stared right through them, daring them to say anything else.

“Must be,” they replied slowly, though they didn’t look at all convinced.

Gabriel held up a hand, his eyes darting about as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing, “No hold on, how did you even manage that?”

“I left Hell,” Eloise said simply, “Why should I have black wings? I’m not some demon who ran away from everything. I left. Permanently. I looked Hell in the eye and walked away. You know what? Fuck it, I looked Satan in the eyes and walked away.”

“You what?” he stuttered.

“Yeah, you heard me. You have a problem with me leaving Hell then go on! Take that up with the bloody devil,” she said, staring them down, daring them to retaliate. She smirked when she was met with pure, uncomfortable silence, “Except you won’t, will you? Because you don’t actually give two fucks about me. Just like I said, if you did then you would have chased me up a long time ago. Quite frankly, I think you must have been glad to have me out of your hair,” she sighed, half sad, half amused when they couldn’t even meet her eye. She paused for a moment, wondering how far she could push this, before asking, “You know what I think is really going on here? I think the pair of you are feeling a bit bruised after the absolute shitshow that was Armageddon last year, which, by the way, fucking hilarious. I think your egos are feeling a little sore after a literal child stopped you from ending the world, so you’re thinking ‘hmm, what would be an easy win so that we don’t feel like total shit? Oh yeah, what about that demon who ran away all that time ago? That should be easy to sort out.’. Well, love to disappoint, but you’re not getting me that easily, especially when not a single one of us actually wants me back, and Sandalphon, take one more step further I swear I will dropkick you back to Heaven,” she snapped, glaring at the angel who had been menacingly inching closer while she had been talking. He reluctantly stepped back alongside Gabriel, looking a little more than miffed that his plan hadn’t worked out. “You really want me back? Get your bosses to talk to me because I don’t actually see why it’s any of your business. No middle men. Just God, Satan and me. I’ll see what they have to say about all this. Questions?” she asked, tone snapping from one extreme to another, almost as if she had just been possessed.

Gabriel stared at her, mouth gaping like a fish, “You can’t just boss us around like that.”

“What? Like how you bossed us around all those years?” she replied without missing a beat, real rage, real danger seeping into her voice now, “I think we’re done here.”

“But-”

“I said, I think we’re done here,” she said, leaving no room for arguments. She gestured to the sorry excuse for a room around them, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind cleaning this up.”

“Why can’t you do it? You can miracle things too,” Gabriel said, desperate for any kind of leverage over Eloise.

“You’re right, I could, but I didn’t make this mess, and I personally believe that you should face the consequences of your actions, Gabriel,” she said pointedly, watching as he visibly gulped. In a matter of seconds, the room was restored to its original state and Eloise was left alone in the room, no indicators that she was ever with any other people remaining.

She sighed and all but collapsed into a chair that may or may not have existed a few moments ago, confident façade shattered completely. She breathed heavily in exhaustion, as if she’d just run a marathon; she supposed she had just run a mental one. Her emotions were bugging her to no end. It was strange. She wasn’t scared, per se. There was very little that Gabriel or Beelzebub could do to her that would frighten her anymore. She tried her best to compose herself, writing off the tsunami inside her mind as just plain old adrenaline, before calling out, “You can come in now. I know you guys are outside, it’s okay, you can come in.”

Crowley and Aziraphale walked into the room, one looking considerably more sheepish than the other. Aziraphale perched awkwardly on the freshly reconstructed bed, “We’re sorry–”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, we’re not.”

Eloise and Crowley exchanged a glance, amused looks on both of their faces while Aziraphale simply looked distressed. Eloise turned back to him and smiled sympathetically, “I told you, it’s fine. I would have done the same,” she admitted, looking away before collecting herself once again, “So, I’m guessing you have a lot of questions–”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Crowley muttered as he took a seat beside Aziraphale, although it was a very loose definition of ‘taking a seat’.

Aziraphale glared at him while Eloise just sighed and reluctantly said, “I think it might be better if I just show you.”

Crowley cocked his head in confusion, “Show us what?”

She brought her chair closer to the edge of the bed and put out her hands, “Take my hands. Brace yourselves.”

Mariel was standing before a crowd of angels, dozens upon dozens of disgusted faces staring right at her. She couldn’t quite remember getting there. She had been in the pitch-dark holding cell and the next thing she knew, she was here. Blinding white light surrounded them, harshly illuminating her vulnerabilities before all of Heaven. She tried her best to keep her chin up even though she absolutely hated the fact that they could see the bruises from when she had been arrested that were now blooming on her face. She frowned as she noticed the lack of measures preventing her from escaping. All that was keeping her there was Gabriel’s presence at her side, cold violet eyes pointedly ignoring her. He really was an arrogant bastard for assuming that she wouldn’t even try to make a run for it. Just because he was right this one time, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t have come prepared. Mariel sighed and looked up at the angels staring down at her. Michael was sat higher than everyone in the centre of the crowd, face void of all emotion as she said, “The Principality Mariel. You’re on trial today for betraying the will of the Almighty, rebelling against all that is good and light in the universe...”

Mariel blocked the rest of her pretentious speech out as she droned on about all the awful things she’d supposedly done to deserve this. It was all lies anyway. She knew the real reason she was here. There were a few things that stood out to her despite it all, things that nearly made her laugh. She’d known that they’d needed to conjure up some reasons for condemning her, but this was just ridiculous. Gabriel really had gone to extraordinary yet desperate lengths to slander her in her final moments in this Someone-forsaken place. She was surprised that the angels gathered to watch her downfall believed a word of this. She tried her best not to resent them, though. It wasn’t like they had anything better to believe in. Especially considering the amused smirk that had crept its way onto her face.

She returns to reality just in time to hear Michael ask, “What do you have to say to defend yourself?”

“I’ve done nothing I need to defend,” she said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is,” Gabriel muttered dangerously from where he stood beside her.

Mariel turned to look at him in disbelief. “How the fuck could this get any worse, Gabriel?” she hissed, fury flaring up in her eyes.

He just looked back at her condescendingly, “Do you really need me to answer that?”

She pointedly refused to reply, turning back to face Michael, determined to ignore him.

The next part goes past in a blur for Mariel. Michael speaks again, though she doesn’t listen. Then suddenly there are shouts of anger, screams of rage, coming from the gathered crowd. They spit with venom as they hurl insults at her. She doesn’t hear a word. It’s as though her head is under water, completely submerged in the stone cold anger that seeps through her body, and suddenly Mariel is drowning in the realisation that this is really happening, oh God this is really happening.

Why? Why is this happening to me? You listening, God? Look me in the eye and tell me why this is happening.

She doesn’t get an answer, and though she wasn’t expecting one, it still hurts. Because she knows that she’ll never get an answer from Her again now.

Eventually she feels a tug on her arm from where Gabriel has been standing, dragging her away from the crowd and out her of current state of mind. She could feel her senses coming back to her as she stumbled backwards, but everything was crashing down on her too quickly, too harshly. She did her best to shove the rising panic as deep down insider her as she could. There was no way she would let anyone here see her in that state. She couldn’t let them think they’d won.

She didn’t even realise she had reached the edge of the ground she was standing on, the edge of Heaven itself, Gabriel no longer grabbing her arm. She nearly found herself peering over the edge, but stopped herself before she could lean too far. It may have helped her in the past but now was not the time to give in to her curiosity. And she didn’t trust Gabriel to not push her the moment he had the chance. She turned her head to glare fiercely at him, piercing holes in his very soul. She could slowly feel her anxiety being replaced by cool rage as she found herself saying, “Any institution that tries to silence anyone who opposes them is inherently corrupt.” She stared knowingly at his discomfort as he forced himself to face her. He knew what she meant by that. He knew.

He took a second to compose himself before practically scoffing in her face, “Don’t preach at me.”

Mariel cocked her head as she studied him. She watched as his eyes subconsciously flicked back to the crowd, to the other Archangels. He blatantly wanted nothing more than to re-join his fellow angels, the only beings who understood why he was doing what he was doing, or were at least supposed to understand anyway. Somehow she doubted they were all as cold-hearted and self-absorbed as the angel in front of her. She considered him for a moment before saying simply, “Your quest for power will kill you in the end.”

He furrowed his brows in somewhat amused confusion, “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s the truth,” she blinked at him before leaning in and murmuring in his ear, “It will be your downfall.”

“The only one who’s going to Fall around here is you,” he said dangerously. Mariel leaned back and watched the lethal glimmer in his eye wither and die under the intensity of her gaze.

She just smiled. “We’ll see.” She let herself look at him for a moment longer before blinking away the tears and cautiously taking a small step backwards. She could feel where the ground ended beneath her feet and was sure not to step any further. She took one last look of the place she once called home, embracing how it felt for the last time though she knew she wouldn’t miss it.

She closed her eyes for a moment and fell back.

Mariel was Falling. That bit she knew, but much more than that? Everything was happening too fast for her to notice. And yet, it was as if she was existing in slow-motion. She worried for a moment that this was, in fact, her fate; doomed to remain in a perpetual state of limbo, of Falling, for all eternity. The only thing telling her otherwise was the view of Heaven above her, which she realised only too late was slowly shrinking into nothing. Mariel found herself reaching her own arms out, grasping for Heaven. They were opposite ends of a magnet being roughly pulled away from each other by an invisible force.

You hear that God? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? And don’t you dare tell me it’s all part of your plan because right now, the only thing I want is to be back where I should be and I can’t even have that.

She pulled herself out of her mind and back into reality; she’d have plenty of time in Hell to yell at a God who’d never listen, let alone answer. She only just started to register her surroundings, the fact that she was actually Falling, who knows how far and for how long, tumbling through the air at an unimaginable speed, plummeting towards a place that could be anything from seconds to hours away. The deafening wind that screamed in her ears, drowning out the screams which may have been coming from her mouth or her mind, who was she to say? Air whipped around her body, icier and more painful than any words that could ever be uttered by the angels above her. It wasn’t until she could no longer see any hint of Heaven on the horizon that she started to feel the tears finally fall, trickling down her face and floating slightly due to the force of the Fall.

Then suddenly it came. She felt it in the very tips of her wings first, a strange tingling sensation, as though hundreds and then thousands of pins were skirting the edges of her corporeal being. It spread over the rest of her wings, and then her body, at a faster pace than she could keep track of until her whole being felt as though it was burning. The pain grew, and it grew, and it grew, and she didn’t think she could physically take any more pain when she looked up in horror at her own freshly blackened wings. Her beautiful, holy wings which had once been the softest, purest white, were now stained with evil and ash. For the first time since she started Falling, however long ago that might have been, she let out a choked sob that racked through her whole body and through the ever-changing air around her. Nobody heard her cries. Nobody heard her screams as the searing pain in her chest grew stronger. She couldn’t even begin to work out whether it was physical or emotional but it was there and it burned a hole, a gaping wound, through her soul, leaving a scar fated to never heal and to forever haunt her-

Eloise was crying. She’d tried so hard to prevent the steady streams that were now running down her cheeks, but that was a memory that she’d never wanted to relive. She looked upwards for a moment, trying to regain control of her emotions and her breathing, before peeling her hands away from the two sat in front of her. She roughly wiped the tears from her face, and suddenly the only thing telling you she had been crying were the bloodshot eyes that Crowley tried to ignore as he said bluntly, “I’m still confused.”

“Crowley, give her a minute,” Aziraphale chastised him, furrowing his brows at the demon before he turned back to Eloise with kind eyes and a kinder heart, “Are you alright, my dear?”

She nodded without much hesitation, “I’m fine, it’s okay.” She certainly wasn’t fine, nor was it okay, but the last thing she wanted was to have to deal with her feelings in front of two people she was trying her best not to scare off. She looked back at Crowley, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

He looked at her in understanding, for if anyone knew her thought process in that moment, it was him. “Right, so you Fell and became a demon. Then what?”

“Well, you know what Hell’s like,” she started, looking pointedly at Crowley. She waited for him to nod before continuing, “Not my scene at all. I just point-blank refused to do anything they asked of me. Naturally they didn’t like that much. Eventually I was called in to see Satan about it. I remember thinking, ‘well, that’s that then. Terrible knowing you all.’, because I didn’t think I was going to survive that. Turns out he was just annoyed that I was being a bloody nuisance to everyone else, but he was too amused to really do anything about it, so he basically just told me to piss off. Leave Hell, don’t come back, and I won’t tell anyone where you’ve gone or that you’re even alive. Not exactly a deal I could refuse, so I left, came to Earth, been here ever since. I think everyone just assumed he’d killed me,” she shrugged as if she hadn’t just destroyed the whole idea of eternal damnation with just a few sentences. She smiled to herself as they gaped at her for a moment, though she doubted they realised they were doing it.

Crowley somehow managed to gather his senses quick enough to hold up a hand and say, “Wait, but when you were talking to Gabriel and Beelzebub and that lot, you said they had six thousand years to check up on you. Why would you say that if they thought you were dead?” He narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn’t altogether quite sure why he seemed to be so keen on finding any gaps in her story, but he needed to be able to trust that she was telling the truth. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Yes, and they didn’t exactly seem surprised to see you alive.”

Eloise grinned. You two are gonna be fun, I can tell. “You’re both very observant, I have to give you credit for that.” She paused in thought for a second before starting carefully, “You see, the trouble with me is that I’m not really one for keeping a low profile. I’m too noisy, so to speak, and I don’t even realise it most of the time. This demon I hadn’t exactly been the nicest to back in Hell saw me in Babylon, gosh, it must have been eighteen thirty something BC? Anyways, he ratted me out to Beelzebub who must have told Gabriel all about it. I had about a decade of this bloody demon trying to discorporate me just to see if it would force me to go back to Hell, then one day he just stopped, and I never saw him again. Beelzebub probably told him to piss off.”

They were both quiet again for a little while. Eloise didn’t even think to say anything. It might be a rare occasion, but she did know when to keep her mouth shut when it mattered. She could see the cogs turning in their heads as if it was projected in the air above them. Eventually Crowley murmured, “I didn’t even know you could do that, you know, leave.”

She shook her head with a strange kind of sympathy that came from recognising an experience you had far too long ago, “Neither did I. It stills shocks me sometimes if I think about it too much.”

A few seconds passed before Crowley cleared his throat abruptly and said, “They called you Mariel. I thought you said your name was Eloise.”

She hesitated before answering. She knew exactly what he was doing, she’d been doing it for the whole of their conversation thus far, but just because she tended to bury her emotions, it didn’t mean that she liked it when others did it. She decided to ignore the hypocrisy of that thought, how ironic, she thought to herself, and instead explained, “It is. Mariel was my angel name. You know how it is,” she looked pointedly at Crowley again, hoping that Aziraphale would be able to put the pieces together. She didn’t actually know how much he knew about what it was like to Fall and become a demon.

“Oh, so is Eloise your demon name?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“No,” she said curtly, instantly feeling guilty when she saw the hurt that flashed over Aziraphale’s face. She grimaced and explained in a gentler tone, “I chose it for myself when I came to Earth. Hell tried to change my name after I Fell but I just refused.” She studied him for a second, watching his eyes dart about, before saying, “You want to ask something, I can tell. What is it?”

He looked a little startled at being caught out, momentarily glancing at Crowley for support, probably subconsciously, Eloise noted with a smile. “I, well, I couldn’t help but notice that you mentioned Armageddon. Back when you were speaking with, um, well, you know. H-how did you know about that?”

“I might have been there.” The words rushed out of her mouth in a much less casual manner than what she’d been aiming for, coming out in a sort of jumbled heap that took Crowley and Aziraphale a moment to decipher.

Crowley, the poor sod, could only think to lean forward and ask a simple, “You what?”

She jumped to defend herself, wanting to avoid the onslaught of questions if she could, “Not actually at the airbase, but I was in the area. I was living in Tadfield at the time.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, although the hint of a smirk on his face told her it was more in amusement than suspicion, “How did you know it was at the airbase?”

Eloise couldn’t help but chuckle to herself because of course, they’d notice her choice of words, “I knew Adam and his mates. I ran an ice cream shop, would you believe it. He came and told me all about it the day after,” she smiled fondly before suddenly coming alive with excitement, “That’s actually how I found out about you two. That’s why I’m here. Because I thought I was the only one trying to stop the world ending, but apparently I wasn’t. I had to see for myself.”

A moment passed before Aziraphale asked quietly, “You were trying to stop it?”

Eloise, not noticing the newly subdued atmosphere, launched herself into a painfully over-enthusiastic explanation, “Yeah, it was quite clever really, if I do say so myself. I made sure Adam was swapped with the American baby in the hopes that he would have a human enough upbringing to perhaps change things. Seems to have worked,” she shrugged, before finally taking in the two shocked faces that were staring back at her. Her brows furrowed and her face fell as she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You switched the babies?” Crowley asked blankly, although it came out as more of a statement than a question.

Her face screwed up as she tried to work out how best to explain herself. “Well, I say switched, it was more of a ‘made sure the demon dropping the antichrist off went to the wrong delivery room’ kind of thing. Feel sorry for the poor sod who had to deal with that but needs must.”

Crowley blinked at her and said bluntly, “I was the poor sod who had to deal with that.”

Eloise looked at him for a moment as about five different jigsaw pieces finally clicked in her head, before she threw her head back in realisation, “Oh shit, so you were. I knew your name sounded familiar.”

“You bastard, we spent six years raising the wrong child because of you!” he exclaimed, wagging his finger at her and jumping off of the bed at one point before Aziraphale tugged him back down. Eloise didn’t know whether to laugh or run for her life, for the menace in his words was betrayed by the disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” she asked, only just processing what he’d just said, and she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips at his dramatic antics. She knew not to push it when Aziraphale just lifted a finger and pursed his lips with the look of someone who’d rather never bring up said event again.

“Oh bloody heaven, I can’t believe this,” Crowley shook his head, chuckling to himself. Although part of him resented it, he couldn’t help but look at Eloise differently now as they laughed like little kids together. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed so much more like them now, so much more human. Or maybe it was the fact that she had been trying to stop the apocalypse and all the implications that came with the fact. Suddenly he just wanted to know more about her, but he quickly silenced that thought. One thing at a time.

She raised her shoulders with a confused look on her face, giggling as she said, “Sorry? Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

They locked eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter again at the sheer absurdity of it all, leaving Aziraphale slightly bewildered and more than slightly exasperated at the pair. It took them a few moments to finally calm down but once they did, Crowley sobered his tone of voice as he asked, “Right, back to what happened before we came in. Anything we need to keep an eye out for?”

Though he didn’t say it, Eloise could see the unasked question in his eyes. Are we safe? She smiled softly, “Nah, you two’ll be fine. Basically I told them if they want to talk to me, then they need to get their bosses involved, and somehow I highly doubt God and Satan are gonna pop down for a friendly chat any time soon. Even then, you two should be fine. I don’t think any of that lot clocked on that you were here.”

Crowley nodded in understanding, and it didn’t escape Eloise’s attention how the remaining dregs of tension visibly dissipated from both of their bodies. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other for a moment, the relief palpable from the pair of them. Eloise averted her eyes, giving them the privacy that they didn’t necessarily need but probably did want. She allowed herself a moment to ponder their relationship. They were very in tune with each other, very in sync, that much was obvious. Are they in love? The question sounded ridiculous the moment she thought it. Of course they are, look at them. She’d seen that look time and time again over the millennia. Although when she thought about the way they looked at each other further, that lead to another question. Do they know? The hint of yearning in their eyes was subtle but it was there. No, absolutely not. They’re too comfortable with each other. They’re a unit, that much she could tell. A unit that might not want to be disturbed.

Oh dear.

She looked back up at them hesitantly, unsure of what to say for the first time that evening. Eventually she said, “I’d better go. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

Crowley frowned. Hadn’t she said she’d been travelling for a while? “You got somewhere to stay?”

Eloise paused. She’d definitely not been expecting that response. “Not yet. There is a flat I was going to rent but the people haven’t moved out yet because of the lockdown and it seems rude to miracle them away. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Stay here,” Crowley said almost instantly, then pulled a face of confusion at how quickly he replied, “I mean, only if you want to.”

Eloise blinked at that. Surely, they wouldn’t want her there? What reason could they possibly have to want her there? “Wait, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Crowley just shrugged, “It’s not a problem. What are your options anyway? No hotels are open, and you can’t stay with anyone.”

“Only if you’re sure,” she murmured, still wary for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She glanced at Aziraphale for confirmation; it was his bookshop after all.

He nodded firmly, “Of course. I’ve been told the sofa is remarkably comfy,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, to which she grinned broadly.

A short while and a few miracles later, the sofa downstairs had become a makeshift bed that was significantly larger and softer than it had remembered it being. Eloise was currently settled on it; all it had taken was ten minutes for her to completely crash out. Aziraphale and Crowley had left her in peace with a chuckle, heading up to the bedroom they shared (that wasn’t out of choice, mind you. Simply because there was only one bedroom in the bookshop. No other reason.) One slightly confused item of furniture aside, all seemed to be well in the bookshop.

Upstairs in the bedroom, an angel and a demon were sitting in the same bed. Neither of them had thought to turn off the lights, so they were sat in thick silence in the bedroom. Aziraphale didn’t usually come up to bed, not as used to sleeping as Crowley was, instead opting to read the night away downstairs. However this seemed impolite considering their new guest, so he’d come up with Crowley. And while Crowley was mulling this over he finally stumbled upon why he felt so uneasy.

Aziraphale hadn’t brought a book up with him.

As bizarre a concern as that may seem, Crowley could always trust Aziraphale to bring a book up to bed with him on the rare occasion he came up at night. That was one of the things he lo- liked about him. Liked. He looked at Aziraphale curiously, noting the slight frown on his face as he stared into space. How deep in his head must he have been to forget a book? “You alright, angel?” he asked as softly as he could so as to not startle him.

He looked at Crowley with wide eyes that darted away almost instantly as he started to play with his hands in his lap, “Yes, my dear, I’m fine. I just realised something, is all.”

Crowley cocked his head in interest, “Oh really? What was it?”

He was silent for a little while before saying in a voice no louder than a whisper, “I think I was there when she Fell.”

Crowley felt his eyebrows raise in shock, looking away for a second to try and compose himself. “Right. Well, that’s a thing.”

“Quite.”

He furrowed his brows as he tried to make sense of what this meant now, “And was she telling the truth? Did all that actually happen?”

“Yes. I remember it perfectly well. Clear as day,” he managed to choke out with a forced smile before going back to his routine fidgeting.

Crowley laid a gentle hand on top of Aziraphale’s, stopping what he was doing and getting him to actually look him in the eye for longer than a second. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am quite well. Don’t fret,” he said, and despite Crowley’s concern, he couldn’t pretend that the smile on Aziraphale’s face wasn’t genuine, however small it may have been.

He reluctantly let it go, changing the subject quickly, “You alright with her staying here? I know it just sort of happened.”

The smile on his face only grew, much to Crowley’s surprise, “It’s alright. After all, wasn’t it you who said we’re on our own side now? I think she’s the first person we’ve met who might understand what that means.”

Crowley tried not to think too much about the fact that Aziraphale had actually listened to him when he’d said that, let alone remembered it, instead opting for a casual, “Yeah, I suppose so. Right, I’m gonna get some sleep. I, um, yeah,” he stammered out awkwardly, cursing his brain for not thinking of literally any other decent response.

Aziraphale simply smiled fondly at him, “Indeed. Goodnight, my dear.”

*************

Hello my love,

At the time of writing this, I do not know what the future holds. For me it’s an uncertain, unstoppable force, and it’s not one I think I can fend off for much longer. I’ve tried, please believe that I’ve tried. I’ve tried for your sake to prevent the inevitable. But it’s coming. I can feel it. It won’t be long now, I don’t think.

If you’re reading this, it means I was right, and I have Fallen. I know you’re probably confused and scared and that there is a biting anger bubbling inside you. I wish I could tell you why this is happening. I wish I could tell you that this is all a huge misunderstanding that will be resolved soon.

I wish I could tell you I love you one more time.

But I can’t. There are many things I can’t do now, and it’ll do me no good to dwell on this any longer than I have to. To survive we must focus on what we can do, and that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.

If I know myself as well as I think I do, there are many things I would have liked to have said to you upon our final farewell, but didn’t because I wanted to make sure you were alright. Don’t feel guilty about this, my love. Think of it as my last debt to you being repaid.

I have a plan. Well, it’s more of an idea, and it might not work. And it’s because of this that I shan’t tell you exactly what it is. It seems cruel to allow you to hope for something that might never come into fruition. But please put your faith in me, and in our love, for we will prevail. One way or another.

I hope that you didn’t wait to read this letter because you were scared of its contents, though I’m sure this isn’t the case. You were always brave. It was always something I loved about you. Your quiet, beautiful, roaring courage in the face of such turmoil and anguish. You always had the courage to be kind and to love with all your being, even when everything was against you. No one would have blamed you if you had turned cold and bitter, and yet you chose not to. I admire you for it every day. My idea, should it work, will require us both to be incredibly brave. But more on that another day. It’s that bravery and that strength that you will need to rely on now. That, and the thought of me. Though I may not physically be with you, but I hope that my love’s own soul is enough.

I won’t sign off this letter, because this is not where our story ends. There is much left to be written. And I need you to remember that each day we are parted. Until the next time, my love.

#good omens #good omens headcanon #good omens fic #good omens imagine #crowley #crowley headcanon #crowley imagine #Aziraphale #aziraphale imagine #aziraphale headcanon #Ineffable Husbands

5 notes · View notes

la5t-res0rt · 4 years

Text

this was written several weeks ago in response to asks i was receiving i am posting it now it is very long the longest i have ever made and it is not very well edited but here it is in this final essay i talk about how shitty rae is about black people in her writing as well as just me talking about how her writing sucks in general lets begin

hello everyone

as you may know i have received a lot of anons in the last week or so about issues of racism in the beetlejuice community both just generally speaking and also within specific spaces

i was very frustrated to not be getting the answers i wanted because i typically do not talk about what i do not see but in an effort to be better about discourse i went looking through discourse from before my time in the fandom and i also received some receipts and information from my followers and from some friends

keep in mind that the voices and thoughts of bipoc are not only incredibly important at all times but in this circumstance it is important that if a bipoc has something to add you listen and learn and be better

i admit that when this happened i wasnt aware of the extent of what occurred and im angry at myself for not doing more at that time and i want to work harder to make sure something like this doesnt go unnoticed again

im a hesitant to talk about months old discourse because i have been criticized for bringing up quote old new unquote but this is very important and i am willing to face whatever comes from to me

lets talk about this

content from our local racist idiot that may be months old but its important

putting my thoughts under a cut to spare the dash but before i begin obviously this is awful

lets fucking unpack this folks

right out the gate op states that she supports artistic freedom but then within a couple words she goes against that statement

being entirely canon compliant isnt artistic freedom and even so if this person has so much respect for canon they wouldnt be out here erasing lydias obvious disgust for beetlejuice in the movie or ignoring lydias age for the sake of shipping that shit isnt canon either

also we love the quick jab at the musical there hilarious we love it dont we because god forbid a licensed and successful branch on a media have any standing in this conversation but whatever

now lets scroll down and talk about the term racebending

the term racebending was coined around 2009 in response to the avatar the last airbender movie a film in which the east asian races of the characters were erased by casting white actors in the three leading roles of aang sokka and katara

whenever the term racebending is used in a negative light it is almost always a case of whitewashing like casting scarlett johansen in ghost in the shell or the casting of white actors of the prince of persia sands of time instead of iranian ones

this kind of racebending erases minorities from beeing seen in media and is wrong

all that being said however racebending has also been noted to have very positive after effects like the 1997 adaptation of cinderella or casting samuel jackson as nick fury in the marvel movies nick fury was originally a white guy can you even imagine

i read this piece from an academic that said quote writers can change the race and cultural specificity of central characters or pull a secondary character of color from the margins transforming them into the central protagonist unquote

racebending like the kind that rae is so heated about is the kind of creative freedom that leads to more representation of bipoc in media which will never be a bad thing ever no matter how pissy you get about it

designing a version of a character as a poc isnt serving to make them necessarily better it serves to give new perspective and perhaps the opportunity to connect even more deeply with a character it doesnt marginalize or erase white people it can uplift poc and if you think uplifting poc is wrong because it tears down white people or whatever youre a fucking moron and you need to get out of your podunk white folk town and see the real world

the numbers of times a bipoc particularly a bipoc that is also lgbt+ has been represented in media are dwarfed by what i as a white dude have seen myself represented in media is and that isnt okay that isnt equality and its something that should change not only in mainstream media but in fandom spaces as well

lets move down a bit further to the part about bullying straight people which is hilarious and lets also talk about the term fetishistic as well lets start with that

this person literally writes explicit pornography of a minor and an adult are we really going to let someone like that dictate what is and what isnt fetishistic

similarly to doing a positive racebend situation people may project lgbt+ headcanons on a character because its part of who they are and it helps them feel closer to the character and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that

depicting lgbt+ subject matter on existing characters isnt an inherently fetishistic action generally things only really become fetishistic when the media is being crafted and hyped by people who are outside of lgbt+ community for example how young teens used to flip a tit about yaoi or how chasers fetishize trans people

but drawing a character with top surgery scars or headcanoning them as trans is harmless and its just another way to interpret a character literally anone could be trans unless if their character bio says theyre cis and most of them dont go that deep so it really is open to interpretation and on the whole most creators encourage this sort of exploration because it is a good thing to get healthy representation out in the world

as for it being used to bully straights thats just funny i dont have anything else on that like if youre straight and you feel threatened and bullied because of someone headcanoning someone as anything that isnt cishet youre a fucking idiot and a weak baby idiot at that like the real world must fucking suck for you because lgbt+ people are everywhere and statistically a big chunk of your favorite characters arent cishet sorry be mad about it

lets roll down a bit further about the big meat of the issue which was when several artists were drawing interpretations of lydia as a black girl which i loved but clearly this person didnt love it because they have a very narrow and very racist and problematic view of what it means to be a black person

and before i move forward i must reiderate that i am a white person and you should listen to the thoughts of poc people like @fright-of-their-lives or @gender-chaotic it is not my place to explain what the black experience is like and it certainly isnt this persons either

implying that the story of a black person isnt worth telling unless if the character faces struggles like racism and prejudice is downright moronic

why use the word kissable to describe a black persons lips now thats what i call fetishistic and its to another extreme if youre talking about a black version of lydia on top of that

the author of this post says herself that shes white so clearly shes the person whos an authority on the black experience and what it means to be a black person right am i reading that right or am i having a fucking conniption

how about allowing black characters to exist without having to struggle why cant a black version of lydia just be a goth teenager with a ghost problem who likes photography and is also black like she doesnt have to move to a hick town and get abused by racist folks she doesnt have to go through any more shit than she already goes through and if you honestly think thats the only way to tell a black persons story you need to get your brain cleaned

you know nothing about the complexities about being a black person and i dont either but you know wh odo black people who are doing black versions of canon characters they fucking know

lets squiggle down just a bit further

so the writer has issues with giving characters traits like a broad nose or larger lips if theyre a woman but if theyre a man suddenly its totally okay to go all ryan murphy ahs coven papa legba appropriation when approaching character design like are you fucking stupid do you hear yourself is that really how you see black men like what the fuck is wrong with you

none of the shit youre spewing takes bravery it takes ignorance and supreme levels of stupidity

do you really think you with your fic where a black lgbt+ woman is tortured and abused where you use the n word with a hard r to refer to her like that shits not okay its fucking depraved and yeah we know you love being shitty but like christ on a bike thats so much

can we also talk about this

what the fuck is this fetishistic bull roar garbage calling this black character beyonce dressing her up in quote fuck me heels unquote are you are you seriously gonna write this and say its a shining example of how to write a black character youre basically saying ope here she is shes a sex icon haha im so progressive and i clealry understand the black experience hahahaha fuck you oh my god

on top of that theres a point where this character is only referred to as curly hair or the fact that the n word is used in the fic with the hard r like thats hands down not okay for you to use especially not in a manner like this jesus christ

oop heres a little more a sampling for you of the hell i am enduring in reading this drivel

oh boy lets put a leash on the angry black woman character lets put her in a leash and have the man imply hes a master like are you kidding me are you for real and what the fuck is with calling her shit like j lo and beyonce do you actually think thats clever at all are you just thinking of any poc that comes into your head for this

also lydia fucking tells this girl that she shouldnt have lost her temper like she got fucking leashed im so tired why is this writing so problematic and also so bad

hold up before i lose my head lets look at some of her own comments on the matter of this character and what happens to her

hi hello youre just casually tossing the word lynch out there in the wide open world as if thats not a problem that is still real like are you fucking unhinged there have been multiple cases of this exact thing happening in our firepit of a country in the last five months alone like how can you still have shit like this up for people to read how can you be proud of work like this in this climate

and also what the fuck is that last bit

what the actual fuck

i dont speak for black people as a white person but you do!? im sorry i had to get my punctuation out for that because wow thats fucking asinine just because one black person read your fic and didnt find the torture and abuse of your one black character abhorrant doesnt mean that the vast majority of people not only in the fandom but in the human population with decency are going to think its okay because its not

i started this post hoping to be level headed and professional but jesus fucking christ this woman is something else white nationalism is alive and well folks and its name is rae

if you defend this woman you defend some truly abhorrant raecism

editors notes

in order to get some perspective on these issues more fully some of the writing by the author was examined and on the whole it was pretty unreadable but i want to just call back to the very beginning of this essay where the person in question talked about holding canon in high regard but then in their writing they just go around giving people magic and shit and ignoring the end of the movie entirely like are you canon compliant or nah

the writing doesnt even read like beetlejuice fanfic it reads as self indulgent fiction you could easily change the names and its just a bad fanfic from 2007

also can we talk about writing the lesbian character as an angry man hater like its 2020 dude and als olets touch on that girl on girl pandering while beetlejuice is just there like here we go fetishizing again wee

i cant find a way to work this into this already massive post but

im going to throw up

okay so thats a lot we have covered a lot today and im sure my ask box will regret it but this definitely should have been more picked apart when it happened

please feel free to add more to this i would love more perspectives than just my own.

#long post #racism #raecism #im so tired #thanks for reading

41 notes · View notes

kpoptionate · 4 years

Text

ateez ⇾ they catch you cheating

[masterlist in bio] 30 january 2020 a/n: i felt good about woo’s so pls at least read his,,,also members under the cut since this is so long oops

warning: implications of sex, vulgar language

s e o n g h w a ♡

he finds it funny, really

the fact that he’d spent so much time focusing on you and you only, had given up so much for you and you just took advantage of him like it was nothing

it’s hilarious to him to look back on how fucking stupid he’d been to ignore the feeling in his gut and try to wait it out in hopes of his suspicions being false

but of course, like everything else, it was too good to be true

he’s been waiting for you to come home for a good few hours now

you haven’t been answering your phone at all and god knows where you are at this hour

and this isn’t the first time either. but seonghwa doesn’t like being by himself, so he always goes back to the dorms during these situations. and you know that

but you don’t know this time he’s decided to wait, to see what’s really going on, if it’s really worth staying and trusting you

when he finally hears the lock of the door clicking, he’s up against the counter in the kitchen with his arms folded over his chest that’s moving heavily up and down

and it only gets worse when he hears not only you giggling, but also another voice he doesn’t recognize

he harshly knocks down a chair on his way into the living room, storming all the way to the man whose neck you’ve attached your lips to, grabbing him by the collar and swinging his fist into his jaw as hard as he can

kicking him a couple more times as he falls to the ground

you’re terrified of what seonghwa’s going to do to him or what he’s going to do to you

but there’s no point. he’s too much of a gentleman to ever lay a hand on you

so all he does is scream and shout at you about how he shouldn’t have stayed, how dumb he was to believe your lies, how he should have been able to see right through you the whole time

and he hopes you’re fucking happy with the douchebag bleeding on the floor and if you want to be with him so much take him and leave, your stuff will be outside in the morning

after you’re gone, it’s hard for him to think. maybe it’s because he’s tired

or he’s completely hopeless from losing the one thing that kept him sane

but is now causing the worst pain he never thought he’d feel

h o n g j o o n g ♡

he’s been too busy with work to notice how distant you’ve become the past few weeks

and maybe it’s his own fault this happened since he hasn’t made time for you

but he’s still hurt and heartbroken and it’s still not a good enough excuse to throw away everything he’s done for you

hongjoong told you he’d be home before you go to bed, but he finds himself caught up in work again, losing track of time

he curses at himself under his breath, haphazardly grabbing his things to get to you as quickly as possible

he wants to make it up to you, he really does

but the idea’s completely thrown out the window as he opens the door to find you on the couch with another man

he stumbles in shock, not sure what to do or say

all you do is give him a small look and stand up slowly, calmly beginning to speak as if you’ve been expecting this to happen

it’s not that hongjoong doesn’t want to hear your explanation, just that he physically can’t

his breathing and heartbeat are too fast to consider safe. his vision begins to blur, but he doesn’t know if it’s from tears or because he’s beginning to feel lightheaded

he loved you. he gave you everything he could for you and you didn’t care

he told you in the beginning time management would be difficult and if it was going to be a problem to talk to him

you stepped on his heart and spit on it like he means nothing to you

he doesn’t realize he’s been screaming or crying until his fist comes in contact with the wall. he also notices you haven’t said anything or tried to justify yourself at all

he shakily turns his head in your direction but your eyes are somewhere else, arms folded over your chest and an almost-guilty look on your face

and he looks at the boy he assumes is the one you’ve been with. he’s practically in the same stance as you, trying not to get caught up in everything

the room feels hot. too hot for hongjoong to stay

so he walks past you and begins to grab some things, thanking himself for never leaving too much at your place

he leaves without another word. he wanted to tell you how much he fucking hates you, but then he’d be lying through his teeth

you don’t deserve to be hated anyway, and he silently wishes you the best because all he’s every wanted is for you to be happy

and if he can’t give it to you, he’s more than satisfied to let you find something else to take his place

y u n h o ♡

maybe he should have listened to the guys all the times they’d told him they’d had a bad feeling about you from the beginning

or maybe he should have just put in a little bit more effort, giving you more than you’d ever wanted

but there’s no point in thinking about that now. it’s too late.

he’ll never be able to describe the feeling of walking in on the love of his life with their legs wrapped around another man’s waist

the man you said was nothing more than a coworker. the constant meet-ups for “work purposes” were clearly just quick fucks behind yunho’s back

he’s angry, sure. that’s a given

but he’s more confused and insecure and broken-down than anything

what did he do wrong? what does this man give you that he doesn’t? did you ever really love him?

tears are already streaming down his cheeks as he screams for the man to get the fuck out of his house

but as soon as he’s gone, yunho goes quiet except for the sobs that escape his throat

he wants to talk. to know what happened when. and he’s willing to give you another chance

he knows he shouldn’t. he doesn’t want to think about what the guys would say about this

but he loves you way too much to ever let you go like this

his feelings for you could rival that of someone who was genuinely obsessed. a stalker, if you were willing to go that far

he’s willing to do anything to keep you by his side. you two can move on together

but when you tell him there’s no moving on, there’s nothing the world has to offer the two of you anymore

he falls to the ground in pieces

he’s crying so hard he barely makes any noise

he can’t breathe. he’s shaking. he wants everything to stop

he begs and begs and begs for you to stay. he can’t live without you

yunho can barely hear your apology as you step around him and walk out in the direction of your new lover, leaving him on the floor alone with his demons

he’d spend the next nights wondering what he did wrong

what he could have done differently to have made you stay

his body is completely drained of energy. every night he limps to the bed, alone, to cry himself to sleep

ever so slightly hoping he doesn’t wake up

y e o s a n g ♡

yeosang is a very attentive man. he should have been able to pick up on all the little things that would have led to this situation

but you’re a very secretive person. good enough to keep it from him for however long this shit has been going on.

it hurts that he found out through a friend. he doesn’t know if it would have been better for him to see it directly, but he’s still glad he didn’t.

wooyoung had pulled him aside a few weeks ago to tell him that he’d seen you kissing someone he didn’t recognize. but yeosang didn’t want to believe it

so he waited it out and paid close attention to your actions. he can’t really tell what’s different, but it doesn’t add up nonetheless

and yeosang is not a confrontational person in the slightest

so when he comes to you with a simultaneously angry and terrified look on his face, you already know you’re in shit

he’s direct and straight to the point. not that you’d expect anything else from him

“are you seeing someone else?”

it doesn’t take a psychologist to recognize the way you tear your gaze away from him and try to hide the pure guilt on your face

you don’t answer. so he repeats his question, but harsher and louder and more aggressive.

“are you fucking cheating on me? fucking answer me, y/n!”

he’s already zoned you out by the time you start spitting apologies from your lips

he doesn’t understand what he did wrong

he took care of you

he dropped everything for you the second you called

he put you before everything

he’s been through absolute hell for you

but you really took that for granted

and the fact that you’ve had the audacity to tell him you love him? you’re a fucking liar

yeosang doesn’t hate many things, but liars definitely top the list

but he’s never really encountered liars like you. nobody’s ever gone that far to rip his heart out and stomp on it

so he doesn’t know what else to do other than run out of the apartment and let his legs carry him as far as they can take him

he doesn’t know where he’s going

he can’t tell if he’s crying or if the cold wind is making his eyes water

but as long as he can get as far away from you as he possibly can, it doesn’t really matter at the moment.

s a n ♡

though san is one of the members to fall the hardest, he’s attentive and mature enough to know when things aren’t going as well as they used to be

he’s noticed you’ve been a bit more distant lately

you’ve been on your phone a lot and have been staying out later

and more often you have excuses to not spend time with him, so of course he already has his suspicions

but he’s been terrified of saying or doing something in fear of being wrong and damaging your trust

until now, a little past two-thirty in the morning when you get a text from a name he’s noticed on your phone before

and you must have not been smart enough to change your passcode, he thinks as he opens the message to find pictures of you he’s never seen even though he’s the only one who should have

his blood begins to boil, but not as much as it would have had he not already figured you’ve been doing things behind his back

he quietly slips out of bed so as not to wake you up, but the action is completely pointless once he picks up your phone and hurls it at the farthest wall as hard as he possibly can, a loud grunt escaping his throat

your body shoots up, confused as to what san is making such noise for

but it clicks when you flick the light on and see san’s stance

his hands are balled into fists so tight his knuckles are white, his face red and scrunched up in anger

there are darkness and betrayal clear in his eyes, almost making you scared of what he’s going to do

there’s a lot of things he wants to do, but all he can is yell and let his emotions out

how he shouldn’t have let this played out so long

how he believed you when you told him you loved him and no one else

he screams for you to get out, but the only direction you move in is towards him in an attempt to convince him to let you stay

all you did was make it worse. you don’t deserve to stay

he picks up the framed picture of the two of you and throws it the same way he did your phone, finally causing you to leave

he doesn’t care if you don’t have your stuff or if he’s sending you on your own in the middle of the night. you don’t matter to him now

you could get hit by a car for all he cares, and he’d think you deserved it

all that matters is that he’s finally gotten everything taken care of and never has to see you again

m i n g i ♡

unless there’s been a fight between the two of you, it’s rare that mingi’s in a bad mood when you’re around him, even if he’s had the literal shittiest day in all of human history

you’re the first person he goes to when he needs someone to lean on or listen to him rant about everything on his mind

you don’t even have to do anything to make him feel better. just the thought of you makes his heart beat faster with pure love and gratefulness that he found you

so it’s really unexpected when you, the sole person he’s willing to give up his life for, do the exact opposite of what you normally do

today wasn’t a particularly stressful one, but he’s still dying to lie in your arms and listen to the soft thumping of your heart right now

he goes to make his way to your shared bedroom, already walking a bit slowly from being so worn out from practice

but all of his movements cease–including his breathing and probably his heartbeat, too–when he takes his first steps into the hallway

there you are, pinned up against the wall by somebody he recognizes to be “just a friend” from a while back

he notices how you scramble away from your partner when you realize he’s standing there, so you do know that what you’re doing is wrong

so why are you still doing it?

he has so many emotions right now he doesn’t even know how he’s feeling

but it absolutely tears him up inside

did you ever really love him? was he just a toy to you?

he’s useless. of course it was too good to be true. nobody could ever love him. he was stupid to think that you shared the same feelings he had for you

the other man’s already left the house by now. i’ll stop by later, he said. it just made the situation worse.

he’s rambling and he’s crying and he’s bumping into things trying to back away from you

don’t fucking touch him. he wants to say it. he tries, but the words get caught between sobs in his throat

it feels almost as if he’s dreaming. it’s what he wants to believe, anyway. so he doesn’t bother stopping you when you wrap your arms around his body and pull his head into your chest, dropping to your knees on the floor where he sits now

he lets you cradle him even though he knows you shouldn’t. he’s so, so confused.

it’s a hard debate in his head, whether or not to leave

he loves you way too much to ever even think of letting you go

maybe, he thinks, there’s a solution. everyone deserves a second chance, right...?

w o o y o u n g ♡

wooyoung is someone who falls in love easily. and when he does, the feelings are extremely strong to where it takes a lot to let go

he forgives and forgives because he loves you so much and he’s given you his entire soul to take care of

but never has he expected you’d crush it just like that

a few hours ago, he texted you to let you know he’s coming home early

he didn’t get a reply, so he assumed you were busy or simply taking a nap

god, how he wishes that were the case

he gently closes the door and sets his bags down before padding to the bedroom, trying to be quiet just in case you’re asleep

it’s only now that he hears sounds that definitely don’t sound like snores

sounds that definitely aren’t coming from you

the feeling of his heartbeat pounding against his ribcage is almost terrifying when met with his hands shaking without rhythm

he prays you’re just watching a video and you’re by yourself and he can just walk in and take care of you

but when he opens the door, he’s greeted with the sight of you on your knees with hands that aren’t his in your hair

he’s flooded with so many emotions—anger, fear, heartbreak—that he doesn’t even notice your partner scrambling to pull his pants up or you walking closer with your hands out, struggling to find an explanation

tears completely blur his vision as he tries to back away from you, not yet knowing what to say or do

but his mind takes over and his voice gets loud, slamming his fist against the doorframe, screaming for the two of you to get out and never come back

he screams and punches his fist against the wall, not caring if you can hear from outside and not stopping until blood is visibly dripping from his knuckles down his forearm

he’s angry at himself for not being so naïve, angry at you for taking advantage of him, angry at god for allowing something so terrible to happen to him

and the anger fizzles into sorrow, and the sorrow fizzes into hopelessness

and all he can do from here is curl against the wall and cry until his head pounds at the tempo of his broken heart

j o n g h o ♡

it all began when you started calling someone’s name in your sleep. a name that wasn’t jongho’s.

he didn’t know who he assumed it to be, but he tried not to think too much of it

he should have, though

the last time he hears you call that name, you’re not asleep

you’re lying on the couch, yes, but you’re just as awake as he is

his first reaction is shocked. this was not what he expected to come home to. hell, he didn’t even know you were gonna be here, let alone cheat on him

his second reaction is angry. he’s fucking pissed at the person whose was sitting between your legs moments ago, a place jongho thought was reserved for him and him only. who is he to think he has the same rights?

then he’s pissed at you. who the fuck do you think you are, letting some stranger go down on you on the same couch you sat with your boyfriend just last night, telling him you loved him?

then he’s pissed at himself. he should have known better. he didn’t see any signs, but he should have picked up on them. they had to have been there

the way his brows furrow and his nose scrunches puts a terrifying expression on his face. you’ve never seen him like this, and it was probably for the best

he tells the man simply to get the fuck out. when he doesn’t do it quick enough, jongho grabs him up by the collar and knocks his fist square into his jaw before practically throwing him out the door and slamming it shut hard enough for a nearby picture to fall off of the wall

his third reaction is denial. he’s shaking when he turns back around to you. he begs you to tell him it’s all a dream. tell him it’s just some sick prank and none of this ever really happened and everything can go back to how it was yesterday

it breaks your heart to see the rivers already streaming endlessly down his cheeks

his last sliver of hope disappears, however, when you only respond with apologies. you can’t even think of an excuse to give him. he would find that funny if he weren’t in this current situation

his final reaction his heartbreak. there’s no going back. how long has this been going on? he wonders. but he doesn’t bother to ask

he turns just enough to be able to punch the wall hard enough to leave a hole before plodding past you to the bedroom, not even sparing a glance at you

“i want all your shit out of here by the time i wake up.” it’s not a suggestion, even with the lack of authority in his voice. he sounds so drained, so helpless, so broken inside.

he doesn’t know why he’s lying in bed. he’s not tired. he can’t sleep

all it does is remind him of you. but it’s a good place to cry, he supposes. locked out from the world. just him, himself, and he. nobody else.

especially not you

143 notes · View notes

searchingwardrobes · 4 years

Text

Here it is, @ilovemesomekillianjones , your birthday fic! I hope your day yesterday was amazing. I also hope you love your gift. It got way more angsty than I was anticipating, but I promise it has a happy ending and there’s enough fluff in there to soften the angst.

Summary: Emma Swan knocks on his door the morning after Christmas and continues to do so off and on well past the new year. Killian Jones knows, however, that he must tread lightly, so he never knocks on hers. Until one day in May . . . Although, technically, he doesn’t knock. Loosely inspired by the song of the same name by Counting Crows.

Rating: M

Trigger warning: referenced sexual assault because Eloise IS Alice’s mother in this, and it follows canon in how it happened; also there is a mild, brief scene of domestic violence - but it’s not as bad as it sounds! There are also cute kids, mommy!Emma and daddy!Killian, and a kitten. Yes, a literal kitten.

Words: almost 7,000 (yeah the angst fest got out of hand!)

Also on Ao3 and the final installment in my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @welllpthisishappening @distant-rose @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @thisonesatellite @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @branlovestowrite @shireness-says @hollyethecurious @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @profdanglaisstuff @winterbaby89 @scientificapricot

And it’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

December

“Know what they never tell you about live Christmas trees?”

Emma Swan asks her neighbor Killian Jones this with flashing eyes and a slight scowl upon her face, yet there’s also a hint of vulnerability in the pink of her cheeks and the way she nibbles her bottom lip. She’s balancing her boy Henry on her hip, and the two year old is nuzzled into her neck with bleary eyes as he sucks his thumb. It’s only six in the morning the day after Christmas, and a knock at his door is already odd enough for Killian. A frazzled Emma Swan shooting him a random question when he opens said door is enough to short circuit his brain.

She moved into his building about two months ago, right next door, and every attempt Killian has made to innocently flirt with the woman has been met with barely restrained hostility. Hell, even his attempts at being neighborly has gotten him nothing more than an eyeroll. Yet, here she is.

“Umm, I’m not sure what you’re asking . . . “

How can he possibly be his normal, eloquent self? It’s six am the bloody day after Christmas and Emma Swan has knocked on his door.

“Taking it down,” Emma huffs, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face and adjusting her hold on Henry. “Does a Hallmark Christmas movie ever have a montage about taking a Christmas tree down? No, they don’t, because it’s depressing and irritating and when you’re done you’ve got a damn forest’s worth of pine needles on your floor.”

Killian can’t help the way his eyebrow hitches up or the half smile that tugs at his lips. “You took your tree down already? It’s only six in the morning the day after Christmas.”

“You don’t think I know that?” she snaps, and Henry lifts his head to scowl at his mother in an uncanny way before he resumes his thumb sucking and plops his head back down on her shoulder. “But I’ve got a twelve hour shift today, and I have to get Henry to the babysitter by six thirty, and the tree’s been a fire hazard for days now. So I thought I’d just go ahead and take it down. How long could it take? But now I’ve got a dead tree in the hallway, I haven’t got a damn clue what to do with it, and Henry and I haven’t even had breakfast yet!”

Emma shuffles her Croc-clad feet, her eyes flashing even more than before. Killian takes in her scrubs for the first time and frowns.

“You’ve got another shift already?”

Emma shrugs. “The ER can’t exactly close for the holidays.”

“That is true.”

“I’m just lucky I got yesterday with this little guy.” Killian’s heart warms as she presses her forehead to Henry’s. “This guy’s the reason I got a real tree in the first place. I just wanted him to have a perfect Christmas, you know?”

“I get that. I’d do just about anything for mine, too.”

“Oh shit,” Emma groans, “I forgot about your kid! Did I wake her up?”

Killian chuckles. “Don’t worry. Alice could sleep through a hurricane.”

Emma lowers her eyes, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. “I must look crazy to you, knocking on your door so early, rambling on about a dead tree.”

“Not at all,” Killian tells her cheerily. “I’m an early riser, first of all, and second, I will gladly dispose of your tree, Ms. Swan.”

Emma meets his gaze, a smile turning up her lips. “Ms. Swan? Aren’t you a gentleman.”

Though every attempt at flirting in the past has been soundly rebuffed, he can’t resist leaning closer to her and waggling his eyebrows. “I’m always a gentleman.”

This time, thankfully, she huffs out a tiny laugh. “And you’re sure about the tree?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he vows dramatically, pressing his hand to his heart. Emma’s eye roll in reply is for once endearing.

“Do you want me to . . . like . . . um, pay you back?”

Killian waves her off. “No, that isn’t necessary. You know that park a block east?” Emma nods her head. “They do an event every year where you can drop your tree off for free to be recycled.”

Emma lets out a long sigh of relief. “You really don’t mind? I mean, I could take it later. As long as the landlord doesn’t mind a dead tree in the hall . . . “

“Nonsense, Ms. Swan. You’ll be dead on your feet after your shift, and it will be something fun to do with Alice. She’s still on holiday from school until after New Years.”

“Oh, right, well . . . “ Emma begins to shuffle her feet again, and he can tell she isn’t used to asking for or receiving help. Little does she know how much he can relate.

“Have a lovely day, Ms. Swan,” he tells her gently, knowing she isn’t quite sure how to get out of this social exchange that probably took all of her nerve to initiate to begin with.

“You too,” she says softly before turning to go. Just as she reaches the stairwell, she looks over her shoulder at him. “And next time, it’s just Emma, ok? Every time you say Ms. I feel like a kindergarten teacher.”

Killian laughs. “Emma it is, love.”

Her cheeks are a lovely pink once again before she heads down the stairs, and he can’t deny a surge of pride that it’s now from his words rather than embarrassment. He contemplates leaving her tree in the hallway where it’s propped next to her door, but their landlord Leroy can be a bit of a curmudgeon, and the last thing he wants is Emma getting grief from the man. So he retrieves it, thinking there’s no reason he and Alice can’t dispose of their own tree while they’re at it. If the apartment will be littered with pine needles soon anyway, what are a few more?

Emma wasn’t kidding when she said it had been a fire hazard for days. When Killian picks the thing up, it reminds him of Charlie Brown’s tree. So many needles fall as he hoists it, that they make a soft tinkling sound on the worn hallway carpet. It’s incredibly light, a foot shorter than he is, and has sparse branches. It can’t have been much of a tree even when new, and it makes his heart break just a tiny bit

“You’ve had a tough December, haven’t you?”

Killian says it to the tree, but he’s thinking of Emma and Henry.

January

“Do you have a toolbox I can borrow?”

Emma Swan is soaked, her hair sticking to her cheeks and her long sleeved tee leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Killian forces his gaze to remain on her face, swallowing thickly. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so he simply nods and rushes to retrieve his toolbox from underneath the kitchen sink. Before he hands it to her, his brow creases with concern.

“Can I help you with something, Swan?”

She scowls and grabs the handle of the toolbox, but he doesn’t let go.

“Nope, just the toolbox. And I told you - it’s Emma.”

“I didn’t say Ms.”

“You’re also not letting go of the damn toolbox,” she snaps while giving the box a tug.

He relinquishes it then, lifting his hand to scratch behind his ear. “I’m quite handy if you’re in a pinch,” he tells her, but she’s already rushing back to her own door.

“I can take care of myself,” she practically shouts before she slams her door shut.

Killian chuckles as he shakes his head fondly.

“Who was that, Papa?” Alice asks from her spot at the kitchen table where she’s eating her morning oatmeal.

“An amazing woman, starfish, who lives next door.”

He never does get his toolbox back.

February

“Did you write this?”

Emma Swan is standing in his doorway holding up a book that she’s clearly checked out from the library, judging by the plastic covering and the stickers on the binding. Killian smiles fondly at the title: Tilly Joins a Pirate Crew.

“Aye, guilty as charged.”

“It’s really good,” she tells him with a genuine smile. “Henry loved it. I wish I could get you to sign it, but it’s from the library.”

“Don’t apologize. Writers are huge fans of libraries.”

Emma smiles a bit shyly, then turns the book in her hands. “It’s a series I noticed. How many are there? Henry was pointing at all these other ones shown on the back cover.” Her gaze turns soft as she imitates her two year old. “Dis one, dis one, dis one - that’s what he said. Which is two year old speak for I want to read these, too.”

“Um, yes,” Killian tells her, leaning closer to see her copy, “this shows the first three, then there’s this one, but there’s also Tilly Goes to the Moon and Tilly on Safari.”

He looks up to see Emma’s gaze on him instead of the book in her hands. She’s closer than he realized, and he can see the flecks of gold in her light green eyes.

“And your bio says you write books for adults too?”

Killian gives a wry laugh as he pulls back to put space between them. “I used to, but Alice is my only muse these days.”

Emma nods, grinning broadly, “I thought Tilly might be based on your daughter. Henry will be ecstatic the next time we run into you in the lobby when I tell him she’s the real Tilly.”

“I wouldn’t do that actually,” Killian tells her in a low voice, leaning closer once again. “My lass will adamantly inform you that she is Alice Jones, thank you very much.”

“Of course she will.” Emma’s gaze darts from his eyes to his lips. Then again, that may be just wishful thinking.

“I can get you some autographed copies if you’d like.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t -”

“Free of charge, of course.”

Emma hugs the book to her chest, and he can see her mental battle play across her face.

“For Henry?” Killian adds, and it’s the thought of her son that causes her to yield.

“Okay. I suppose that would be alright.” She lifts a hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear and shuffles her feet. He’s come to learn that it’s a nervous habit. “Goodbye, Killian.”

“Goodbye, Emma.”

One of these days he’ll invite her in - once she no longer seems to dash from his door like a startled bird.

March

“So how many hats has Alice gone through this winter?”

Emma Swan’s voice trails off at the end, the smile vanishing from her face when she sees Eloise standing there. Killian has never been so happy to see his Swan. He practically shoves Eloise aside to get to Emma, clearing his voice loudly.

“Swan! So lovely to see you. Eloise was just leaving.” He looks pointedly at the woman.

“Yes, I suppose I’ve said all that needs to be said.”

She looks at him coldly, and he tries not to shudder. His body deflates as soon as he can no longer see her in the stairwell. He turns to Emma with a wobbly smile. She’s standing there looking confused, twisting a wool hat in her hands. It looks familiar, and Killian realizes its Alice’s. The one they couldn’t find when she left for school this morning.

“Could you . . . would you like to come in? I just made a pot of fresh coffee.”

“Sure,” Emma says, giving her head a small shake, “I have a few minutes. I found Alice’s hat on the walk outside and thought I’d run home on my break to give it to you. The temperature is supposed to drop later this afternoon.”

“That was thoughtful,” Killian says, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

Emma waves off his concern. “The hospital is only two blocks, and I wanted to enjoy a walk before the weather changes. I am so ready for spring.”

“Aren’t we all?” They both fall silent as he pours the coffee and sets out the cream and sugar. He notes how she does her coffee - sweet enough to cause a toothache. He doesn’t know why, but he files the information away.

“Three,” he tells her over the rim of his mug.

Emma cocks her head. “Pardon?”

“The answer to your question when Eloise opened the door,” he tells her, setting his mug back down. “That is the third hat I have had to buy for Alice this winter. She lost the first two I bought her.”

“I’ve got you beat then,” Emma counters smugly. “Henry is on his fifth hat.”

Killian whistles in sympathy and then chuckles. They fall silent again, but he knows the question that is coming when Emma begins to stare plaintively into her coffee.

“So, Eloise . . . “

“Alice’s mother.”

“Oh.”

Killian knows he should probably elaborate, but just Eloise being here has already made

him feel completely unsteady. He refuses to have a full blown panic attack in front of Emma. She doesn’t press him for more information, however, and they fall silent once again.

“The Pirate Politico Series,” Emma blurts out.

Killian raises one eyebrow. “Seems we’re playing some sort of word association game today.”

“The thriller series you wrote. You were a bestselling author of political thrillers.” She gestures around his modest apartment. “What are you doing living here?”

He follows her gaze around the small space, the open concept kitchen/living combo with he and Alice’s art supplies crammed in the corner, the two doors side by side that lead into their miniscule bedrooms, and on the other side, the bathroom he shares with Alice. It’s so small he’s knocked his shins on the tub more than once while trying to trim his beard or brush his teeth.

“Well,” he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face, “let’s just say I’d do anything for my daughter.”

“Meaning?” Emma presses gently before taking a sip of her coffee.

He can tell by her expression that she isn’t trying to pry, so he lets out a long breath and decides to give her part of the truth.

“That fine arts academy she goes to isn’t cheap, even the tuition for first grade, and you know as well as I what real estate costs here in the city. But my Alice is immensely talented, and I will cultivate that and encourage it no matter what it costs.”

Emma nods, a knowing smile upon her lips. “You’re preaching to the choir, Jones.”

She doesn’t get to stay long, but he cherishes every word, every glance, every blush when he innocently flirts with her. When she rises from the table and heads to the door, she turns nervously before she reaches for the doorknob. “Um, I also wanted to ask . . . or, Henry wanted to ask, if you and Alice would like to come to his birthday party this Friday night. It’s nothing much. We’re just getting together at that pizza place next door. Around six? It’ll be us, Henry’s babysitter Mary Margaret, her husband, and their little boy Leo. Leo’s in kindergarten, close to Alice’s age, so -”

“We’d love to, Swan,” Killian interrupts her with a gentle voice and an easy smile.

She lets out a breath, and he can’t believe she was so nervous offering such a sweet and innocent invitation. He wonders as he has so many times who wounded her so deeply.

“That’s great. I’m so glad - er, or that is, Henry will be so glad.”

“So will Alice,” he tells her softly.

She rewards him with a pretty blush before she closes the door behind her.

April

“Have you seen Henry? Is he here?”

Emma’s words combined with the terror in her voice and the paleness of her skin makes Killian’s heart plummet.

“No! Alice, have you seen Henry?”

She shakes her head no as she abandons the painting she was working on to race to the door. “Is Henry okay?”

“I don’t know!” Emma cries out, racing towards the stairs. Killian and Alice are right on her heels. “I collapsed after my shift, but Henry was napping too, right next to me. I woke up, and he was gone! Then I saw that I forgot to lock the door!”

“He’s only three, Swan, he can’t have gotten far.”

Killian reaches out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze, but she barely notices. The three of them race down the three flights, calling Henry’s name. When they reach the lobby, they check behind the potted plants and the trash cans, but still no Henry. They burst outside, still calling his name, though Henry’s nowhere to be seen on the sidewalk. Emma races out into the street, angry drivers laying on their horns and swearing in her wake. Killian pulls her back to the curb, but her fists fly out, landing on his chest. A hysterical choking sound escapes her lips, but no tears come - not yet.

“I have to -”

Emma’s shout is interrupted by Alice’s voice. “He’s over here!”

The adults whirl around to see Alice by the apartment steps. They race to her, and there is Henry crouched in the open space beneath them. A tiny ball of black and white fur is curled in his lap. Emma’s tears come then as she scoops the lad up, showering his face with kisses and clutching him to her chest.

“Henry, oh God, oh God. You scared me to death! Never, ever do that again!”

She sets Henry down on the bottom step and kneels in front of him, her hands skimming over his small frame as if checking to see if he’s in one piece. Henry seems completely oblivious to his mother’s turmoil, grinning up at her as he lifts the tiny animal he’s discovered. It’s a kitten, scrawny and mewling softly. It’s mostly white with black patches, one around its right eye.

“Look what I found, Mommy!”

Emma’s trembling, her face wet with tears, and Killian can tell the words just won’t come. He kneels down next to her and reaches out for the kitten.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, smiling at Henry.

“It’s super skinny,” Alice comments worriedly.

“Nothing a little tuna can’t fix,” Killian assures the children, “and I think we have a can upstairs.”

“Good,” Alice says with a wrinkle of her nose, “then you won’t make me eat it.”

The four of them head back inside, but at the top of the first flight of stairs, Emma grasps his arm.

“Henry can’t keep that kitten,” she whispers. “My shifts are way too long to take care of it.”

“But I work at home,” Killian points out, “and Henry can come over and play with it any time he likes.”

Emma’s brow furrows. “But that’s a lot of work and money. You’d have to get a litter box, and clean up after it, and -”

“And Alice and I will enjoy it. She’s been pestering me for a pet anyway. Everybody wins.” He raises a finger and presses it lightly to Emma’s nose. “And don’t say a word about giving me money, Emma. That’s not how things work between friends.”

Emma’s shoulders finally relax, though he can still see tension in her face, and both of her hands are clenched into fists. He knows it isn’t about the cat anyway, so he gives her space and quiet while he, Henry, and Alice feed the kitten. Emma slowly lowers herself into one of his kitchen chairs, and Killian notices that she’s trembling slightly.

“You know what?” he announces brightly to the kids. “I think what this kitten needs next is some green grass and fresh air. How about we take him to the park?”

“How do we know it’s a him?” Alice asks.

“Hmmm . . . “ Killian replies, lifting the kitten and turning it belly up. “Aye, definitely a boy.”

“But how could you tell?” Alice presses.

He colors slightly because Emma’s there, but he’s always tried to answer Alice’s questions honestly. He gives her a brief explanation of cat anatomy, hoping Emma doesn’t mind her three year old listening in.

“Oh, he has a wee wee like me!” Henry proclaims, and behind them Emma bursts out laughing.

“I’m glad this is so amusing to you, Swan.” He smiles, however, relieved to hear her laugh.

Emma shrugs. “I’ve just never seen your face so red.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Tremendously.”

They head to the park, and Emma seems more and more relaxed as they walk. They sink onto a bench side by side as Alice and Henry race to the playground equipment. The kitten is cradled in Henry’s arms, and when they reach the mulch covered play area, they set it down. The kitten takes a few tentative steps on the strange surface, but it’s only a few minutes before he’s racing around, the kids squealing and laughing at his antics.

The two of them sit quietly watching the children and the kitten. Finally, Killian looks over at Emma and says softly, “Every parent freaks out when they can’t find their child.”

“You’ve lost Alice before?”

“Aye. We were at the market. I swear I only took my eyes off her for a second, and she was gone. Well, not gone. She’d wandered over to the bakery to admire the cupcakes. Never even knew we got separated.” He chuckles now at the memory.

“How old was she?”

“Four. It felt like it took me forever to find her, but it was probably only a few minutes.”

Emma nods then lifts trembling hands to her face. “I was so afraid.”

Killian knows, somehow, there’s more going on here. “Afraid of what, love?” he asks her gently.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t press it, and they fall silent again watching the children. They’re taking turns going down the slide with the kitten in their laps. He ponders for a minute if the kitten’s being tortured, but then decides its okay as long as they’re holding it and not sending the poor thing down by itself.

“Emma,” he finally gathers the courage to say, “I didn’t tell you the whole truth. About why Alice and I live in this neighborhood.”

Emma’s gaze snaps to his, and she narrows her eyes.

“I mean,” he clarifies, “it’s partially true. But honestly, my royalty checks from Pirate Politico alone could get us a better place. The Adventures with Tilly books are doing pretty well too, actually . . . “ he trails off. He hadn’t meant to brag about his success. He’s stalling, that’s what he’s doing. “Is this about Alice’s mother?”

He nods, blessing Emma internally for helping him out. She reaches over and rests her hand on his knee.

“She demanded a lot of money when you split?”

Killian clenches his jaw. “We were never a couple.”

He glances at Emma, but she isn’t looking at him with either scorn or pity. “A one night stand isn’t something you have to hide from me, Killian.”

He stares down at his hands. “It wasn’t that either . . . not exactly. She’d call it that, but . . . “

Emma’s hand slips from his knee to close over his fists. “Killian, you don’t have to explain.”

When he speaks, it’s scarcely above a whisper. “I want to. The only other person I’ve told is Belle, and that’s because she practically pried it out of me. She’s my brother’s widow, you see, and I . . . “ he takes in a long, shaky breath, then releases it slowly.

He leans back against the bench, watching the children play to remind himself that some things in life are still pure. Emma eases one of his hands open from the fist he’s made and laces her fingers with his. Killian stares at their intertwined fingers, and the words begin to pour out.

“It was right after my Milah passed. She was . . . everything to me. The love of my life. I was in a dark place after she was gone, but I had one last book to complete in the Pirate Politico series. My muse died right along with Milah, though, and so I was struggling. The publishers assigned me a new editor, thinking that would somehow make a difference. It was Eloise.”

As if she can sense how difficult this is, Emma squeezes his hand gently. He manages a tiny glance her way, then stares down at their hands again, running his thumb over her knuckles.

“Eloise made sexual advances regularly, even after I told her I wasn’t interested. Even after I told her it made me feel uncomfortable. Some of them even had thinly veiled threats attached, implying it would be beneficial to my career to accept her. It made no difference to me. My desire to write seemed long gone, anyway. It got to the point that I would only have contact with her online or over the phone.” Killian pauses and rubs a hand wearily over his face before he can continue. “The publishing company had a Christmas party every year. They put immense pressure on me to come that year. I had finally, somehow, finished the damn thriller, and they needed me to rub shoulders and help promote it. I remember arriving at the party, vaguely, and I remember sitting down at the bar . . . “

Killian is embarrassed when he feels as if his chest is constricting, and he struggles to take a breath. Emma rubs at his bicep with one hand, her other still clinging to his.

“You don’t have to tell me the rest.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve gotten this far. May as well get to the bitter end.” He attempts a self-deprecating chuckle, but it falls flat. “Anyway, Eloise sat down beside me at the bar. I . . . I really don’t remember anything after that. I could always hold my liquor, so I wonder . . . Anyways, next thing I know I’m waking up in her apartment in her bed. I was sick and mortified. Getting out of there is a blur.”

“Killian,” she says softly, “that’s awful. It’s . . . it’s evil. You could have gone to the police.”

Killian laughs bitterly. “And you think they would have believed me? You think they would have charged her? No, Swan.”

“But stuff like this is finally coming out, people are talking about it now. With #metoo and everything, people should know that men can be -”

“Swan, don’t say, it please. I’ve never been able to say the word out loud. Maybe I should, but -”

“No, I’m sorry,” Emma quickly tells him, “this is your story to tell. I just wanted you to know that . . . I’m . . . on your side?”

She gives him a half shrug and an apologetic look. He’s finally able to hold her gaze, knowing despite her lack of words what she’s attempting to convey. After a moment, he looks away from her, his eyes landing on Alice.

“When she showed up at my door nine months later with Alice in her arms, I knew. The moment I held her, I knew she was mine. My lawyers insisted on a paternity test, but it only confirmed what was deep in my heart.” Killian looks intently in Emma’s eyes. “Eloise never wanted to be a mother. She never wanted Alice. She only wanted -”

“Your money,” Emma finishes for him.

Killian nods, and he suddenly feels spent, exhausted. There’s more he could tell, he supposes, but he simply no longer has the energy.

“Was that why she was here back in March? To ask for more money?”

“Anything to keep her satisfied and away from Alice. I have never invited her to the apartment, though. That day, she just showed up.” He liftsEmma’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss against her knuckles. “I was so relieved when you showed up.”

“God, Killian, I’m so sorry. You must have been terrified. I noticed you weren’t yourself that day.”

“Until my guardian angel showed up,” he tells her with a wink.

Emma rolls her eyes and laughs. It lifts the heaviness that his tale had invoked, and they both relax against the bench. Emma doesn’t release his hand, though, and it feels natural to sit here this way. After a few moments, Emma speaks without looking at him.

“Henry’s dad never wanted him, either. When I told him I was pregnant, he wanted me to get an abortion. When I said I wouldn’t, he assumed I’d give Henry up for adoption. We had a huge fight when I told Neal I was keeping him.”

“Did he hit you?”

Emma shakes her head. “No, but I’d never seen him like that. He was literally shaking with rage, but when he saw me packing my bags, he turned back into the guy I fell in love with. He begged me to stay, said we’d make it work, and like a fool I believed him.”

“You are not a fool, Emma Swan. You are bloody brilliant.”

Emma’s smile is bright. “Thanks. It was a mistake to stay, though, I see that now. After Henry was born, Neal wanted nothing to do with him. Everything - midnight feedings, diapers, baths, it all fell to me. Henry was colicky, too, and there were times that Neal would scream at me to shut him up. Again, he never hit either of us, but I was in a constant state of anxiety wondering when he would blow up at me next. I couldn’t do anything right, either. I was stupid, naive, a bitch. He called me all sorts of names.”

Killian’s jaw clenches so hard he fears he might break a tooth. Whoever this man is, he’s the idiot for not adoring Emma and Henry. A single tear tracks down Emma’s face and Killian can’t resist reaching out to wipe it away. She gives him a tremulous smile before resuming her story.

“The last straw was last October. It was the worst fight we’d ever had, and Neal was drinking. He threw a tumbler of whisky across the room, and it shattered on the wall right above Henry’s high chair. Henry started screaming, of course, and Neal stalked out. The last thing he said to me was that brat better shut it before I get back, or I’ll make you regret it. I packed Henry and I up as fast as I could and got out of there.”

“That’s why you had so few boxes when you moved in.”

Emma nods. “I didn’t even leave a note. I just left.”

“Are you afraid he’ll find you? Is that why you were so terrified when we couldn’t find Henry?”

All Emma can do is whisper, “yes” as more tears slip down her cheeks. She dashes at them angrily. “I don’t think he will. He told me a thousand times that he never wanted to be a father. He was probably relieved to find us gone, but I still worry. I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Killian can’t think of a thing to say, so he simply puts his arm around her and pulls her close. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she sighs against his shoulder. He rests his chin atop her head as they silently watch the kids.

The sun is getting low in the sky when the children run over to them. Alice has the kitten cradled in her arms.

“Look, Papa, he fell asleep!”

Emma and Killian lean over and smile fondly at the adorable little ball of fur. Sure enough, it’s tiny eyes are closed and its body rises and falls with even breaths.

“He needs a proper name,” Killian comments.

“Oh, we already named him,” Alice says,

“Checkers!” squeals Henry.

“Oh, I see,” Emma says, gathering Henry onto her lap, “because he’s white and black.”

“I said chess has a board like that too,” Alice pipes up, tilting her chin as if she’s so much wiser than Henry, “but it’s Henry’s kitten.”

“Well,” Killian says to his daughter with a twinkle in his eyes, “that was certainly kind of you, starfish.”

“I know,” she says.

Killian looks over at Emma and thinks how beautiful she is in the waning light. They’ve shared their deepest traumas and their deepest fears, both revolving around the children they both love more than life itself. She’s released his hand to hold Henry, but her fingers still brush his where they rest on the bench.

And they share a kitten. Maybe he’ll be knocking on Emma’s door sooner than he hoped.

May

“When are you going to ask Emma to go on a date?”

Killian almost chokes on his oatmeal at his daughter’s question. “What in the world,” he coughs, “made you think of that?”

Alice shrugs as she scoops a giant spoonful of marmalade out of the jar and plops it onto her toast. “Cuz you like her.”

“Not so much marmalade, starfish,” he admonishes in auto-dad mode, “and of course I like Emma. She’s my friend just like you’re Henry’s friend.”

“Uh-uh,” Alice argues, shaking her head. “It’s not the same kind of like. You look at Emma like this -”

Alice widens her eyes, creases her forehead, and lets her jaw drop open. Killian can’t help but laugh.

“I do not look like that!”

“Okay like this, then -”

Now Alice clenches her jaw in an uncanny imitation of her Papa, her eyes blinking and sad. Killian guffaws even louder, tears coming to his eyes. God, he loves this little girl.

“Maybe you should try out for the next school play.”

“I might,” she says brightly before taking a huge bite of her marmalade toast. With her mouth full, she says, “There’s a summer acting camp, and I -”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, starfish.”

She dutifully swallows, then continues, “I think I wanna do it. Matilda the Musical is the -”

A loud crash comes from next door, followed by loud shouting and a scream. Alice looks at her father with wide, frightened eyes.

“What’s that Papa?”

There’s another crash, another scream, and Killian jumps up from his chair. He ushers Alice quickly to her room and presses his cell phone into her palm.

“Lock yourself in your room, Alice, and call 911.”

“Yes, Papa,” she tells him, even as tears gather in her eyes.

Killian presses a kiss to her cheek before he runs from their apartment. He doesn’t even pause at Emma’s door. It isn’t locked, so he barrels inside. A man he’s never seen before has Emma by the arm, shaking her, and before Killian has time to reach them, the man shoves Emma to the floor. She cries out as her elbow collides with the coffee table.

“Hey!” Killian yells. “Get away from her!”

The man - Neal, Killian assumes - only glances over his shoulder. “This is none of your business” he snarls.

Neal reaches for Emma again, but Killian intercepts him. He grasps Emma’s ex by the front of his shirt and shoves him against the wall.

“It is my business,” he growls. “You are never to even come near her again.”

“You fucking this guy, Ems?” Neal laughs.

Killian doesn’t hesitate - he pulls his fist back and punches Neal in the face. The man

howls and doubles over, holding his bleeding nose.

“Shit, man! You can have her.”

Killian yanks him up by the back of his shirt. “My daughter called the cops, so if you want to stick around and explain all this to them, be my guest.”

Neal’s eyes widen at that, and he runs from Emma’s apartment with grumbled curses. Killian could care less about the man, however, as he rushes to Emma’s side. He helps her up and gets her settled on the couch.

“Are you okay?”

Emma presses her lips together, her face pale, but she nods her head. “Yeah, I think so.” She’s cradling her arm against herself, and she winces when she tries to move it. “Did you really call the cops?”

“Well, I told Alice to call 911 when we heard you screaming. I’m sorry if I -”

Emma raises her uninjured arm to stop his flow of words. “No, Killian, I would have done the same. Am I embarrassed? Hell yeah, and now I’ve gotta explain this to the police.” She bites at her lower lip. “But that isn’t your fault.”

“What happened?”

“He showed up at the hospital, and I could tell he was pissed. I didn’t want him causing a scene, and I was about to get off my shift anyway, so I brought him here. I called Mary Margaret to ask if Henry could stay a little later this morning.”

Emma closes her eyes, and Killian gently put his arm around her.

“I was telling you the truth, Killian, when I said he never hit me. Today was the first time he ever did that. He wanted to know why I left him. Said I humiliated him, made him look like a fool.”

“I don’t think he needs any help in that department.”

Emma is able to snort out a tiny laugh at that, but it’s followed by another wince.

“You need to get that arm looked at too, love.”

Emma turns to him, her gaze soft and warm. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “Well, you rebuffed my heroics when your pipes burst. I had to prove my chivalry somehow. Not that I don’t think you can -”

His words are cut off when Emma presses her lips to his. It’s quick and chaste, and when she pulls back, she’s the one smirking. “Has anyone ever told you you talk too much?”

He raises one eyebrow. “I beg to differ, Swan, for every time I’ve opened my door, your standing there talking a mile a minute. Peppering me with questions completely-”

She cuts him off again with her lips, this time more aggressively, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He responds in kind, threading his fingers through her hair and swiping his tongue across the seam of her lips. She opens for him willingly, and he feels the kiss like fire rushing through his veins. He hasn’t felt his way in far too long. When they part, they rest their foreheads against one another and breathe in each other’s ragged breaths.

“The police,” is the first thing Emma says.

Killian’s brow furrows. “That’s . . . um . . . “

“Another word association game?”

They both laugh at the shared joke. Emma strokes his cheek with her hand. “Alice called 911, and I don’t want the police thinking it was about you.”

“Right,” he says, shifting away from her and scratching behind his ear.

“This isn’t the way I imagined it, you know.”

“Imagined what?”

“Your first time in my apartment.”

“Aye,” he teases, “I always imagined knocking.”

The Following December

“Know what they never tell you about live Christmas trees?”

Killian twists his head up to see Emma. He’s been wrestling with the stupid tree stand, and Emma’s smirking down at him when she’s supposed to holding the top of the tree to keep it steady.

“That it’s a bloody chore getting them into the stand?”

“No,” Emma replies cheekily, “they never tell you how hot your boyfriend will look with his butt sticking out of the bottom.”

Across the room, Alice doubles over to fake vomit. “Ugh, I’m gonna need counseling!”

“Those acting classes are really paying off aren’t they?” Killian quips. He stands, satisfied that the tree is secure, and brushes needles and bits of bark off his hands.

“Can I put the star up, Daddy?” Henry asks, reaching up with the gold tree topper in his chubby hands. He started calling Killian that a few months ago, and neither he nor Emma had the heart to stop him.

“Sure, lad,” Killian says, sweeping him up in his arms. He holds the boy steady as he sticks the star on the tip top of the tree. Emma and Alice cheer and clap, to Henry’s delight. Killian adjusts the boy in his arms as he steps back to brush a kiss first to Alice’s forehead and then to Emma’s lips.

Killian thinks about the ring in its velvet box, already wrapped in silver paper in his sock drawer. Yes, Henry can go ahead and call him “Daddy” because soon, it will be official.

It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

#cs ff #cs modern au #angst #fluff and angst #angst with a happy ending #cs single parent ff #knightrook #fandom birthday playlist #for ilovemesomekillianjones #for her birthday

65 notes · View notes

cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

fox rain | three

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. namjoon) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid namjoon is (oh and like... ant gambling rings??) → words: 15.7K → a/n: this is late by a month and my whole life is a joke. i hope this makes you laugh bc i made namjoon extra dumb for y’all (for no extra charge. suck it, chipotle.) also: check bio for other chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | three | next • —

“This can’t be my fucking life. Can it?” you say to your own reflection, curtains of despair dripping from every inch of your visage. Your reflection stares back, the same dead eyes twitching imperceptibly from the lack of caffeine in your system. At this point, you wouldn’t be sane enough to be surprised if your parallel self would reply, perhaps with some scathing remark about how you were slowly losing your grip on your life. Not that it would be unwarranted, anyway.

After Hoseok’s explosion the other day, your weekend doesn’t exactly feel as exciting as it usually is. Of course, your mood is still a vast improvement from last week when you were out of commission for most it after your mental breakdown. Although, it doesn’t erase the fact that you’re still knee deep in shit and that you have no idea how you’re going to face Hoseok and Jimin the following Monday.

Damn. You could really use some coffee.

The day seems to be in much better spirits than you, and it would be a waste not to let the universe’s good mood try to make you feel better as well. There is a coffee shop just a block away, and maybe you could take a walk in the sunshine afterwards to help relax the dread consistently knocking at the back of your mind. It’s a little bit optimistic, but it’ll have to do.

Shrugging on a thin cardigan over some other semi-decent clothes, you step out of your stuffy apartment with a spring in your step. You didn’t bother with any of your usual morning ritual, seeing as how you don’t plan on meeting with anyone you know from university anyway. So what if your landlady Mrs. Park sees the bird’s nest on top of your head? Who is she going to tell? Her gang of old auntie friends all hate you already for wearing a “TRANS RIGHTS” shirt in front of them, so it’s not like you’re vying for their acceptance.

Other than your less than friendly neighborhood aunties, there are better old people to hang around anyway. Nearby the coffee shop, there is a senior home where you used to volunteer during your spare time until your other commitments forced you to give up your spot to some other benevolent soul. Since you have been meaning to visit the grandmas and grandpas there when you got some free time, you suppose it would be nice to talk to kind ol’ Ms. Kim today and listen to her recount her many youthful adventures (which is, more often than not, a euphemism for her various sexcapades in the 70s.)

The senior home is closer to your home than the coffee shop, so you choose to stop and gaze at the plain-looking white building with its neatly trimmed bushes and white picket fence. It looks out of place in the neighborhood, with its very suburban and Americana design, but you know it is only because the owner of the establishment had gotten her inspiration from Forrest Gump. She has a crush on young Tom Hanks, and you honestly can’t blame her for it; that man… he is a Man, with a capital M.

You’re in the middle of debating whether you should buy your coffee first before visiting the seniors when you hear a distant shout coming from within the house. Alarmed, you take a step back, almost falling on your ass and onto the sidewalk. You pause, tilting your head to try and peak over the fence and through the large windows that showed the reception area within. You recognize Hana, the receptionist, sitting by her desk in her usual green scrubs, her head bowed over a book as if the sound had not fazed her in the slightest.

“Am I crazy? Am I starting to hear things?” You wonder aloud, still staring at the innocent-looking home. Has the universe had enough with your lacklustre existence that it has caused you to hear nonsense? Is this only the beginning of your slow descent into madness?

You don’t have to fret over your sanity for too long because moments later, the shout repeats itself. Like the previous one, this one sounds just as pained and anguished, though you aren’t sure if it was a male or female who had screamed. For all you knew, the person might have either stubbed their toe or gotten a knife stabbed through their chest; it’s not like you spend time distinguishing the subtle nuances of tormented screams. However, you are more certain now that it had come from within the home, even though Hana has yet to react to the chilling noise. She flips to the next page, tired eyes squinting at the small text.

You are stuck at an impasse: do you go inside the home despite the possible danger of entering a secret cannabilist society of which your acquaintance has been initiated to, or do you turn around and go home where it is 100% more likely for you to survive the next 24 hours?

The choice becomes apparent to you, however, when a tall, lanky boy bursts out of one of the doors behind the receptionist, with his arms piled to the ceiling with dinner plates on the cusp of making their way to the floor. Even through the window and behind a fence, you can tell that he is in dire need of help, which Hana does not seem likely to extend. The mess of legs makes a beautiful display of himself, his lower limbs flapping about aimlessly as his body contorts to try and keep himself and the plates balanced.

Finally, after what feels like hours of torture watching the poor volunteer make a fool of himself, he manages to steady himself, his legs crossed together like he’s trying to hold in his piss. Carefully, he squats down, placing the plates on the floor in front of the receptionist desk. For a moment, you feel as though you should be applauding, for whatever reason.

Now without dishes obscuring his face, you can make out the identity of the flailing giraffe man. He turns, fingers combing through his distinctly colored hair––

Oh god. It’s him. You gotta get out of there, fast, before he recognizes you. Maybe if you run quickly enough, then maybe he won’t notice you when he looks out the window around.

“Ha,” the universe laughs, clapping their asscheeks to the rhythm of Ludacris’ Move Bitch Get Out Da Way™️ with a smirk. “Cute of you to think your life isn’t basically a 20-year long trainwreck in motion.”

Inevitably he turns around, his eyes immediately locking on your face despite being half-concealed by the fence. He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish until he lights up, recognition flooding his features. Even though you cannot hear him clearly, you just know that he said something stupid, judging by the way Hana has finally looked up from her book to stare at him weirdly.

Please don’t come out and greet me. Please just let me wave at you awkwardly and for you to stay where you are. Please don’t go out and talk to me––

Your prayers go unanswered once more as he sidesteps the wall of plates, his hip just barely grazing it and almost causing it to tumble down. The pile sways precariously from left to right, miraculously staying put as he rushes out to greet you. You can only imagine the mess he’d have to clean up if it did, shards of cheap porcelain left behind in his awkward, fumbling wake.

Luckily (or unluckily for you), he makes it out of the senior home in one piece. He crosses the short path to the fence in two inhumanly long strides, slamming the fence door open with a wide swing. It smacks loudly against the railing, the hinges making a pained groan as it looks to be at the inch of its life––literally. You vaguely remember replacing the screws on it just before you left over six months ago… Surely you hadn’t done such a shoddy job? Although, you know that simply can’t be true. After all, you’re dealing with none other than destruction incarnate himself, Kim––

“Y/N!” Namjoon greets happily, his dimples deeper than you remember. You swallow heavily, trying your best not to sweat under his overly enthusiastic gaze. God, you should’ve gone straight to the coffee shop when you had the chance.

Nothing like facing disaster head-on, as they say. “Hey,” you reply half-heartedly, though the walking inflatable tube man doesn’t seem to mind your lacklustre mood. He grasps your hands for a shake, swinging your entire body up and down with the care of a man who does not know his own strength. You, his unfortunate victim, are left to suffer through his artery-bursting grip.

“Oh god, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Not that I’m not normally happy to see you at university, but––” He speaks so quickly that it’s hard to keep track of the specific contents of his sentences, so you can only hope that your unenthused nods will be enough to placate the bumbling buffoon. You resign yourself to a fate similar to the bobbleheads on the dashboards of those white suburban soccer moms.

“Wait, hold on.” What on earth..? You are full on gaping at the piece of work on top of his head, not even pretending to be polite as you try to process what is in front of you. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

You know from old Facebook photos that Namjoon has natural black locks, though you can’t say that his wacky hairstyles were also inborn. Ever since you have known him, he has always dyed his hair a sandy brown color, complimenting his tan skin. Now, however…

“You mean the weird blue streaks?” Namjoon says, rubbing a few strands thoughtfully. His hair is a walking disaster, and this is coming from someone who has seen what Kim Seokjin has done to his clients. (There’s a reason his Yelp reviews are terrible… He deserves negative stars, if you’re being honest.)

“Did you lose a dare or something?”

“Uh… Kind of?” He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I had meant to change my hair color to something more exciting, so I asked the kids at the daycare and they suggested blue. Problem is, the seniors said they preferred my brown hair but I already promised the kids so… Here we fucking are,” he says in one breath, appearing as though what he said was obvious.

“So your solution was to compromise… by coloring half your hair blue, like some botched version of Death the Kid?”

“Exactly!” He beams, glad that you understand him perfectly.

Oh my god… He’s… No words are coming to you right now, but you get the picture.

The thing about Kim Namjoon is… he’s not… bad. Or dumb, for that matter.

Okay, not the best compliment out there, but it’s true. You’ve known for as long as you’ve been a university student, and your first meeting is certainly one for the books. You wouldn’t exactly consider him a “friend,” and an acquaintance is a bit of a stretch on most days, but he’s a nice guy. He’s eccentric in the most positive way, and not at all in the same chaotic and evil way that Seokjin is (for which you are thankful for.) It has always been a bit tricky to get close with him, as his head is always so far up in his work that it almost feels like he’s being reclusive on purpose.

If you ignore the fact that he has that odd propensity to volunteer himself in any job on the face of the earth (with him being unqualified 9 times out of 10), it is easy to see why people think so highly of him.

He is a scholarship student with a 4.0 GPA, is the youngest candidate to ever receive the university president’s yearly public commendation, and has already released two reputable mixtapes with high praise from critics nationwide. He’s nothing if not a prodigy, and he’s amassed a hefty following for his accomplishments. As a music major yourself, it’s hard not to be a little starstruck with him if you’re being honest.

Most of all, you remember the first song that you had ever heard from him: Moonchild. You still can’t quite believe he let you hear one of his many masterpieces when the two of you had just been total strangers. The lyrics had been so heartfelt, so intimate, that you felt as if you were intruding on his personal space or something. But he had let you listen, let you take a peek at what goes on inside that nebulous brain of his. When he does things like that, it makes it easy to understand why people might think your love poem might be about him. He’s just so… easy to admire.

The poem isn’t about him, but. It could have been, in some other life. (Or maybe it is.)

(Was.)

(Will?)

Regardless, you still have to convince him otherwise. You just simply aren’t ready for that type of development, much less with him. Despite all his good sides.

Thus, Kim Namjoon leaves you at a standstill. Why do you feel so fucking weird about harboring this idol crush on him? How can he be so dumb and so smart at the same time? He has blue fucking hair for crying out loud! He’s causing you cognitive dissonance just by existing, and it’s giving your meagre amount of brain cells a workout.

Oh shit, have you been ignoring him? You were totally zoning out this entire time, haven’t you?

Somewhere around the time you were having your mini mental breakdown, Namjoon’s mouth had stopped moving, giving you an expectant look. Oh shit. He probably asked you something. Embarrassed and unwilling to give away that you had not processed even a single word out of his mouth, you nod and give him an approximation of what you assume is a friendly smile.

For a second, you think that you might have gotten away with it when Namjoon’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. He grabs you by the shoulder and envelops you in an chokehold-like embrace. You let out a wheeze, clawing at his biceps with your remaining strength to try and prevent your untimely death due to asphyxiation. “Namjoon..?”

He lets out a shriek at a higher octave than you thought a man of his size was capable of. Somewhere out there, a dog probably perks up at the supersonic sound. “Y/N, I knew I could count on you! Thank you so much for agreeing to help me with the elders for Zombie Tea Time!”

Now that caught your attention. You pause in your squirming to fix him with a confused expression. “I’m… I’m sorry? What did you say?”

His smile never falters. He presses his cheek against yours, rubbing it happily with a hum. In any other scenario, you might have fainted from how adorable he was being, but seeing as how all your blood is still trapped in your upper extremities from his vice hug, it is difficult enough trying to remember how to stay alive.

“Every Saturday, the senior home hosts this event called Zombie Tea Time where the old people all get to have their faces painted with fake blood and all the volunteers have to pretend to be innocent civilians trying to get away from them!”

The more Namjoon speaks, the more you feel your sanity dripping out of your ass like diarrhea. “Ex. Excuse me? Say that again?”

“Yeah, it’s a new thing the volunteers are trying out this month,” Namjoon says, finally (finally) releasing you from his hug. You don’t know if your flushed cheeks are from embarrassment or a stroke. “Like I said, we’re a bit shorthanded today, so I’ve had to wash the plates from breakfast AND pretend to get eaten by senile zombies. It’s… a lot.”

“Oh, I can tell.” You grimace, patting him on the shoulder empathetically. You freeze. “Wait. So that’s why you were screaming a while ago?”

“Huh?” Namjoon pauses, before his face does something funny where it looks like he’s either going to sneeze or take a shit. Thankfully he does neither, but instead reaches his hand around his back like he has an itch he needs to scratch. He makes a pained yelp, plucking something out from his asscheeks and pulling out what appears to be––

You stare at the object in his palm. “Are those… dentures?”

“Hmm…” Namjoon stares at it, too tired to be disgusted. He just nods his head sagely. “Must’ve been when I was too slow to dodge Mister Lee’s lunge. I was beginning to wonder why my ass felt like it was being eaten out.”

“Please, never say that sentence to me ever again.”

“Yea,” he agrees, sighing faintly. He pockets the teeth much to your horror, patting it gently like he hadn’t just placed a pair of dentures in his fucking scrubs. He dusts off his hands, his lips pursed so that his dimples stand prominently on display. You barely contain yourself from sinking your finger right into their hypnotizing abysses.

He looks at you hopefully. “So… Uh. You said you’ll help me?”

Oh right. You fucking said you’d help him fend off a hoard of virulent old people in face paint.

You look to the right, where the coffee shop is just within sight. Sweet, sweet caffeine, tantalizing you with its saccharine presence, dangling its wretchedly addictive power over your head. If you breathe deeply enough, you think you can smell the coffee beans from here.

You turn back to Namjoon, and you can physically feel the weight of his hopeful gaze on your shoulders. Your defenses have never crumbled so quickly in your life. Fuck him and his stupidly handsome ass.

You sigh, resigning your fate to eternally being whipped for a pair of pretty long legs and size B man titties. “Let’s fucking do this, I guess.” Easier said than done, but you already have one foot in elephant shit, so might as well submerge your whole body as well.

You follow Namjoon closely, having to take two extra steps for every one step that he takes. He crosses the reception area quickly, sending energetic finger guns at Hana which unsurprisingly goes unrequited. You take the more inconspicuous route and wave shyly at her, intimidated by her even after you have long since stopped working here. She levels you with one of her infamous hundred yard stares, lips turned downwards as she appraises you.

“You’ve decided to come back?” she asks, leaning back on her chair with a huff.

Namjoon is in the midst of trying to once again carry all the plates in his Play-Doh arms, so you’re a bit distracted when you shake your head in response. “Uh. N-no, Namjoon just asked me to help with the dishes, that’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” Hana says, no trace of disappointment in her voice whatsoever. She returns to her book, buzzing open the double doors to let the two of you pass. She flicks her hand lazily at the commotion happening behind her. “Better hurry back in there. The seniors are getting antsy.”

The doors open automatically, and you almost topple over when you are immediately bombarded with the terrifying symphony of old people hollering obscenities at frantic volunteers trying desperately to get away from their gnarled clutches. The hoard hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, and you fear to wonder what type of horrors that you will have to face once you step through those doors. You absolutely refuse to die on this hill, not when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet.

“I don’t think we’ll die,” Namjoon says, as if he can read your mind. You look at him skeptically.

“You think?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t promise we’ll come out of this unscathed, though.”

He takes a tentative step forward, the pile of dishes wobbling dangerously on their perch. You are quick to steady the leaning tower of Disa(ster), managing to transfer half of it into your own arms. You grunt, adjusting your stance so that you do not accidentally lose your grip. “Dude. How the hell did you get all those plates out here in the first place?”

Namjoon stands up straighter, the weight significantly easier for him to manage now. He smiles cherubically back at you, eyes crinkling cutely. “Oh, I was literally on survival mode and trying to stop lil Mrs. Sun from gnawing my leg off. The elders can smell fear you see, so they were definitely going to climb on top of me like World War Z and probably kill me.” He pauses, deep in thought. “Although, I think I dropped a plate or two while I was escaping, so watch your step!”

He says all of that with the same eagerness as man who is about to do something crazy, like jump out of a plane or walk a tightrope over a 100 ft canyon. Though, you have to admit that this entire scenario feels like it is on the same calibre.

“Is it me, or are the old people here 10 times crazier than I remember when I volunteered here?”

“You used to work here?” Namjoon says, amazed. “Oh, I didn’t know that! I only started a week ago when some other person resigned due to mental health issues or something.”

“You sure that this place isn’t the cause of their mental decline?” You say it like a joke, though you mean it seriously. Maybe the universe had been looking out for you when decided to get out of this place.

“Hmm… Maybe. Although, we only received this shipment of old people fairly recently.”

Pause. Rewind. “S-shipment?” you repeat, staring at him wildly.

Like the lovable airhead that he is, Namjoon fails to notice your astonishment and instead takes the first brave step forward through the double doors. He tilts his head towards the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him. The plates rattle dangerously from his movements. “C’mon, we gotta get these plates cleaned before the lunch crew comes to take over their shifts!”

Walking to the kitchen is easier than you thought, especially after you take into account the fact that all the old people completely ignored you and chose to only attack Namjoon, for whatever reason. You like to think that it is because the seniors still remember you back when you were still volunteering here and that they hold some semblance of endearment for you, but Namjoon begs to differ. In fact, he screams out his hypothesis as to why you have been left unharmed, all while two older women climb his back like demented crabs.

“Y/N! I think they can’t attack you because you’re in civilian clothes! They only attack scrubs!” Namjoon says, swatting away one of the women off his back with a surprisingly coordinated headbutt. She shrieks as she falls, landing on all four legs like a cat would do. She hisses lowly at you, before scuttling off to somewhere unseen.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” you wince, watching Namjoon unsuccessfully trying to spin quick enough to dislodge the remaining senior.

Namjoon perks up when he catches a glimpse of his attacker’s face, giggling and appearing as if he isn’t currently being assailed by a senior citizen. “Oh, Ms. Kim! I didn’t see you there. I love the zombie make-up you got going. Who helped you?” He looks at you, as if imploring you to compliment her as well.

“Uh. Yes. You’re looking very… yellow.”

Ms. Kim snarls, baring her teeth. “It’s the jaundice,” she says.

Not wanting to stand in that hallway any longer, you carefully place the plates back on the floor before you gently unclamp the old lady’s talons from Namjoon’s poor biceps. You wince, feeling the length of her nails and knowing that Namjoon is going to have some nasty scars.

You tell him so, but he only shakes his head. “Nah? I think they’d be pretty neat! Battle scars are cool right?”

You grimace at him. “If that’s… what you think, then sure.”

After grabbing your plates and hurrying after him before the elders make note of Namjoon’s survival, the two of you share a sigh of relief as you both slowly start piling them into the dishwasher. The task is menial and repetitive, and despite what Namjoon’s earlier chattiness might have suggested, he is quiet while he works. The silence is not as awkward as you feared, and honestly the peace is a welcome respite after all the chaos that you had to endure in such a short period of time. Although, silence has never been a good friend to your overworked mind, as it allowed you to stew inside your own head for much too long––and you have found in your 20 years of existence that it is probably for the best that you are not left without external stimulation for too long.

But here you are, forced to do exactly that. You would have engaged in some conversation with Namjoon to stop yourself from getting in over your head, but you are afraid of what sort of embarrassing topics might spew out of your mouth if you do. Heaven forbid that you start geeking out on him about your unhealthy obsession of collecting miniature glass horse figurines––that is a secret best kept between yourself and the tentacle monster under your bed.

You begin reflecting on the events from the past two weeks, replaying them second by agonizing second and ruminating on the state that your pitiful young adult life has become. The more you allow these memories to simmer, the more you slowly realize the weight of the accumulated stress that has long since made you hunch over like a goblin.

Hoseok and Jimin’s argument comes to the forefront of your mind, the unexpected heat coming from both of them confusing you to no end. You still don’t know the source of their ire towards one another, but what baffles you the most is how you could have missed it in the first place. Sure, you had thought they were at least more than acquaintances; one does not simply challenge a near stranger to a dance off in the middle of a library three times a week, for more than two months and counting. Friends might have been a stretch, though you can’t say you’re familiar with how their schedules look like outside your tutoring sessions together.

The question is though… should you interfere? Normally, you would have stayed far away from anyone else’s drama––you just aren’t the type of person to stick their noses in other people’s business. Yet somehow, you feel as if your poem was the catalyst to this violent chain reaction, that you have inadvertently caused the foundation of a precarious building to explode and bring the whole thing crashing down. To think that your silly love poem for a boy who hardly knows that you exist has become the center of so many people’s lives… the entire thing is giving you a headache.

Speaking of headaches… you should probably confront Namjoon about the poem as well. It is probably best that you plan your approach better this time, seeing as how your two previous attempts have been anything but stellar. Namjoon can’t be that difficult to convince, right? And even if he does see right through you, he doesn’t seem like the type of person who would laugh cruelly at you in the event that he figures out that you are the author. Not like Seokjin, at least. Luckily no one is like Seokjin, the fucking rat bastard that he is.

(In the distance, Seokjin has the sudden animalistic urge to slip anthrax in your milk tea the next time he sees you.)

You glance at Namjoon from the corner of your eye, definitely not ogling the way his arms flex as he loads the final couple of plates. The breath catches in your throat when you realize that some time while you were busy swimming in your junkyard of a brain, he had rolled up his sleeves up to his forearms, displaying his god-like veins for the eyes of the deplorable (you) to feast upon.

Your mouth feels dry, even though other parts of you feel more moist than you remember. Oh god, now is not the time to remember how hot this fucking nerd is.

Despite the fact that your biological clock is screaming “HORNY HOUR” at your monkey brain, Namjoon continues to be thankfully unaware of your internal panic. He closes the dishwasher door shut, clicking it on with a relieved sigh. He gives you a megawatt smile and makes your heart leap into a somersault, probably knocking around some vital organs along the way.

“Thanks so much for the help, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it without you!” he cheers, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You wheeze under the impact, waving away his concern despite feeling like your lungs have probably slipped out of your asshole.

“It’s no problem, Namjoon…” you sigh, gazing sadly as Namjoon begins to do a final sweep of the kitchen before inevitably going to sign off for the day. You know your window of opportunity has already closed, and if you had not spent so much time staring at his beautiful man tiddies, you are sure you could have been a little more productive with him. Curse him and his damn chest.

But now, at least you’ll have more time to think of how to approach him and bring up the poem when you aren’t, like, seriously decaffeinated and on the cusp of a heart attack. You are about to bid him farewell with your tail between your legs when his hands cup your cheeks, catching you off guard.

You splutter incomprehensibly, arms flapping about like a fish out of water. “Wha––?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention! After my hours here at the senior home, I have the afternoon shift at the daycare center near our university and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

If Namjoon’s cool, large hands holding your face like a delicate flower had caught you off guard, then his sudden invitation only exacerbated the furious blush blooming across your neck like a rash.

So what do you say?

“Meep,” is what you say, like the verbose poet that you are. Y/N, renowned campus poet, has the vocabulary of a five year old.

“Is that a yes?” Namjoon smiles, letting go off you in favor of looping his gangly arms around your waist. Another unflattering noise escapes your throat at his proximity and his firmness. “That’s so great! The kids love seeing new faces, and I bet they’d love to have a pretty girl around instead of plain ol’ me all the time!”

You gape at him. Did he just say…

“P-pretty?”

“Yea, sure!” Namjoon says, his stupid grin still on his stupidly handsome face. He does not appear to be embarrassed at all by his brazenness, which is starting to make you think he is either a well-seasoned flirt or just plain oblivious to the implications of his own words. Knowing him, you wouldn’t put it past him that the latter might be the reason.

Compliments and unintentional flirting aside, you really did not feel up to another harrowing experience with Namjoon at one of his other volunteering stunts. You are but a woman in clown shoes, and even the most seasoned clowns must have their rest.

“Listen, Namjoon… I don’t think I can go with you. I have to go, uh,” you pause, your hamster brain working a mile a minute. “Water… my dog? No, I mean… feed my plant.” You cringe, mentally slapping yourself.

Namjoon, the sneaky bastard, hits you with his strongest and most potent puppy dog eyes in his arsenal. It was super effective! “Please, Y/N? I won’t take too much of your time! Just play with the kids for two hours and I promise to leave you alone!”

C’mon, Y/N. Focus. Are you the type of woman to break down her defenses for the wilful fancies of any man? You’re made of stronger stuff than this. Surely you can look him in the eye and tell him straight to his face that you would prefer to go home and rest on this beautiful Saturday than go frolicking with a bunch of snot-nosed children––

“Oh, sure. Why the hell not?” you say, like the dumb fucking idiot that you are.

Namjoon’s dimples deepen even further. You glare menacingly at them, knowing full well that they were entirely the cause of your weakness.

“Thank you so much, Y/N! The kids will really appreciate your presence! C’mon, we haven’t got time to lose!”

Namjoon does not even give you the time to fully comprehend your own pitiful existence before he nearly tugs your arm out of its socket as he maneuvers you to the local daycare just a few minutes away from the senior home. You don’t get to say your farewells to any of the seniors or your old work colleagues, but it might be for the best… You will need all the sanity left in your body to survive the rest of the day with Namjoon.

On the bright side, that means you’ll have the chance to talk to him about the poem, though you’re still hesitant to do so with how badly your previous stunts had ended up. But then again, when else would you get another good opportunity to talk to your crush acquaintance about this? You suppose you’ll just have to wait and see what happens next, and hope for the best.

You have been at the daycare for almost three hours now, and there are still no signs of you ever bringing up the poem. You might as well sign your last will and testament with the macaroni art supplies currently decorating your body, making you look like a morbid pasta dish monster from hell. You hope to god that the sticky stuff all over your skin is just cheese… White, rubbery scented cheese…

“Ain’t this fun?” Namjoon calls out from somewhere, presumably under the mass of ten or so toddlers all climbing him like a tree. You are caught in a state of déjà vu as the children start feasting upon any exposed areas of skin that their kid-sized incisors can find.

You just wanted to talk about the fucking poem for fuck’s sake! Instead, you have to deal with thirty 2-foot children and one 6-foot manchild during one of your only free days in a week.

A miniature demon tugs your sleeve, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Namjoon’s slow demise. You bend down to the little gremlin’s height, mouth twitching upwards in what you hope is a somewhat decent smile. Judging by the kid’s unimpressed face, you doubt it.

“Yes?”

“Miss Y/N? Can you tell your boyfriend that Jake peed in the ballpit again? Aera slipped on the puddle and now she’s crying and disturbing the younger kids.”

Record scratch, freeze frame. Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. Out of all the things the kid had said, you are sure that his implication that you were Namjoon’s girlfriend should not have been on the top of your list of priorities, and yet here you are, your cheeks as flushed as a baboon’s ass.

“He’s not––We’re not––” you stammer, waving your hands as you try to explain to this unenthused six year old that what she said was entirely impossible. “Namjoon is just a friend!”

You turn to look for the man in question, desperate for him to back you up when you realize he is no longer there. Confused, you leave the huffing child in search for him. You leave the main playroom and search the nearby nurseries, the kitchen, the bathroom… all of them with no Namjoon in sight. Just so you can cover all your bases, you decide to check one of the supply closets too, not really expecting to find anything except––

“Namjoon? What the fu––fudge?” You quickly correct yourself, noticing that not only is Kim Namjoon inside the cramped broom closet, but he is also surrounded by five other children huddled around what appears to be a series of tupperwares connected together by plastic straws.

Namjoon hastens a glance at you, before refocusing his attention back onto what he deems to be more important. He nudges his shoulder against the smallest of the bunch, stage whispering into her ear. “Jihyo, did you bet the three lollipops on Ant #3?”

Jihyo shakes her head, looking mildly offended. “Oppa, do you think I’m dumb? I bet all of my chocolate bars on Ant #6.”

Namjoon whistles lowly, impressed. “All-in? You’re one smart lady.”

You clear your throat. “Namjoon.”

Namjoon has the audacity to hold a finger up to silence you. “Give me a sec… Okay, Seungcheol. You said ten hard candies for Ant #2?”

“Namjoon. Are you seriously running a gambling ring in a daycare?”

He peers up at you, smiling sheepishly. “I’m, uh… Teaching them about capitalism.” He deposits the candy bets into his pocket before starting the timer on his phone. The children begin to cheer raucously, little fists pumping up as they watch their bets race towards a slice of cake.

“I can’t believe this,” you groan, wanting nothing more than the earth to swallow you whole.

Eventually, Namjoon exits the closet, gently closing the door. The shouts of the children become muted immediately. When you gaze inquisitively at him, all he does is shrug his shoulders. “What? Secret clubs allow people to explore their interests.”

At this point, you don’t really want to argue anymore. And so, the hectic day goes by, full of running after the children and occasionally having to reel Namjoon in when he does something bordering on negligence. The parents slowly start filtering in by five in the afternoon, most of whom pat Namjoon affectionately on the back and thanking him for his stellar daycare service.

“Oh, Namjoon! My little Jihyo absolutely adores you! She hardly wants to leave whenever I come to pick her up.” Jihyo’s mother smiles, slipping a small tip into Namjoon’s waiting palm. The little shit pockets it, bowing graciously at her.

“All in a day’s work, madame. I just love children, you know?” he says, sighing dramatically.

From behind her mother, Jihyo gorges herself on her prize winnings, shoving a whole packet of M&M’s into her mouth. She swallows them quickly when her mother turns to bring her home.

“I hate this,” you say to yourself, smiling through the pain.

“Oh, before I forget!” Jihyo’s mother dashes back inside, startling you. She approaches you, grasping your hands in hers and shaking it wildly until you can hear your joints pop out of their sockets. “Your name is Y/N right? Thank you for taking care of Namjoon, too. It’s so nice to see that he’s finally snagged a girl as pretty as you.”

It is a testament to how dead inside you truly are by how nonplussed you are by their unfounded accusation. At this point, they could congratulate you on your recent engagement to Namjoon and you probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Thanks.” All in a day’s work of being a madman’s little bitch for the day.

After the last child is taken away, your Saturday finally ends. There had been no poem discussion and no progress made; only your respect from one of your long-time crushes being whittled away like the soaps on those ASMR channels until you are left with useless cubes of Irish Spring scented granules.

On your way home, you pass by Seokjin sitting languidly on the bench outside the coffee shop that you had originally intended to go to this morning. The closed sign greets you impetuously, and your wounds are salted further by the sheer presence of the most annoying man on the planet.

Seokjin sips on his venti iced Americano, Gucci sunglasses tipped downward on his nose. An odd, high pitched windshield wiper sound escapes his lips, and you belatedly realize that he must be his version of laughter. “Y/N. So nice to see you. I’m guessing that you just came out of a… fishy affair?”

You grind your teeth, flexing forward with the intent of hitting the rat bastard. Fish crackers fall out of your hair in clumps from your movement. “I’ll eat your toes if you say another word about this.”

You say that, but you know that there will be photos of you out on Facebook by the time your head meets your pillow for the night, as you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter go off as you limp sadly back home.

The following Monday, you resolve to talk to Namjoon during your History of Music class together.

Now normally, you would never subject yourself to sitting near Namjoon in class. No, it is not because of your debilitating crush, nor his eccentric personality, nor something unexpected like insanely toxic body odor (which he does not have, by the way. He always smells alarmingly like cotton candy.) In fact, nobody likes to sit near Namjoon, made apparent by the two row radius of empty chairs around him. As much as everyone adores and idolizes him for his talent, no one can stand his propensity to overachieve like the infuriating know-it-all that he is. His hand is perpetually up in the air, begging to be picked for recitation, always with something profound to say.

“Sir, I don’t think your notes are correct. From my research, that type of music would not have existed until the 1600s––”

“Namjoon,” your professor seethes, Powerpoint clicker clutched tightly in his fists. His left eyebrow twitches concerningly as he tries to calm his breathing. “I would prefer it greatly if you do not question the actual expert in this area, is that okay with you?”

Yeah. He is definitely not someone you’d want to sit beside.

Though, he really makes it hard not to want to be around him. Despite all the imperfect parts of his personality, Namjoon always looks like the cover model of what a perfect college boyfriend should dress like. Terrible dyejob aside, his hair is slicked back in a fashionable way, revealing his beautiful forehead for all of humanity to behold. He is wearing a fitted graphic tee under a denim jacket, with loose brown slacks that look good on his endlessly long legs. To top it off, his signature wire-frame glasses sit daintily on his nose, making him appear as smart as he is.

You are suddenly reminded of the true scale of your crush on him as sweat begins to build on your neck and down your backside. How the hell are you going to approach him now that you are perfectly aware of how good he looks? It is people like Kim Namjoon that remind you of this universal truth: attractive people only exist to cause the less fortunate to forget how to use their basic motor skills.

Focus. Remember how much of a crackhead he was last Saturday? Okay, retain that information. Remember how fucking stupid he is, and this will be much easier on your heart and your loins.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way to where he is seated, right at the front of the class. It is a long way down the auditorium to where he is, and you can feel the stares of a few of your classmates as you make the treacherous journey right into the proverbial lion’s maw. You do your best to ignore them, quietly sliding up next to him and waiting for him to notice your presence.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that he is jotting something frantically on a notebook, a mess of words in more languages than you can speak decorating every available space on the smooth white pages. At the top of the paper, you can see what might be a tentative title for a song, perhaps? You can’t be too entirely sure, as Namjoon is part of so many clubs and organizations that he might as well be writing next week’s lunch menu for the cafeteria.

(Highly doubtful as Namjoon has a reputation for allowing inflammable things to catch on fire, but you wouldn’t put it past him to at least try and apply for a culinary position.)

It seems that Namjoon is too immersed in his writing to greet you himself, so you have to be the one to steel yourself and strike a conversation with him instead.

“Uh. Hey… Namjoon?” Smooth like butter. Seokjin would be proud.

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He keeps scribbling along, humming something indistinct under his breath.

You clear your throat. “Namjoon?”

No response. Again, “Hello?” You wave a hand in front of his face. His blinking slows for a second, but he continues to ignore you.

Starting to get pissed off, you huff quietly to yourself before bringing your palm backwards and slapping him upside the head. “HEY PANINI HEAD! YOU FUCKING IN THERE OR WHAT?”

That manages to bring him out of his headspace, thankfully. “Huzzat?” Namjoon jumps, cradling the back of his neck gingerly as he stares at you, confused. Recognition filters through his eyes as he realizes belatedly what had just happened. He blushes slightly. “Oops.”

“Oops is right. Were you really going to ignore me for the rest of the class if I hadn’t slapped you?”

Namjoon shrugs, grinning in that cute goofy way that he does. “Sorry. ‘M not used to people sitting beside me, is all. Glad to have a friend in this class though! Have you always been in this class?”

“Yea, but I usually sit in the back.”

Namjoon nods, turning back to his notebook. “Sorry for ignoring you. I really didn’t mean it. When I’m in the middle of writing, it’s kind of hard to get me out of my own brain. Plus, this draft is due in two weeks and I’ve scrapped three pages worth of lyrics already… I’m kind of in a panic right now.”

You peek over his arm, trying your best to decipher some of his words. Your interest is piqued, always having wanted to see his draft notebook ever since that first time he showed you Moonchild almost a year ago. “Lungs have capsized… I am drowning in my own body… Wow, those are some dark stuff.”

“You think so?” Namjoon squints at his own messy handwriting. “I got inspired by the fish in the aquarium I volunteer in. I’m actually excited to go back there, because I want to play it for the fish and see if they like it.”

“Isn’t it better to play it at the daycare of senior home so you can actually get… human feedback?”

Namjoon gasps, hand to his heart, offended. “How dare you assume that fish can’t give quality feedback!”

“Right,” you cough, raising your hands in defeat. How dare you, indeed. “Sorry.”

Namjoon sniffs, closing his notebook just as the professor walks in to start the class. “You better be. The fishies get really offended when people say stuff like that.”

The professor begins the moment he sets down his things, so you know you won’t have time to bring up the poem, not when Namjoon is already starting to fall into his overachieving know-it-all student persona. You tap him lightly on the shoulder, gaining his attention.

“Hey, I have to ask you something later after class. Will you stay behind for a few moments?”

“Sure,” Namjoon replies cheerily, flipping on his laptop to start taking down notes. He stops in his tracks before gazing warily at you. “Hold on. If this is about the fishies again…”

You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, so you sigh instead. “No, Namjoon. This isn’t about the fishies.”

Appeased, Namjoon returns to listening attentively to the professor drone on about dead musicians and their impact on musical culture. You hardly take any notes, still nervous about talking to Namjoon about the poem. What would be the best way to approach the subject, you wonder? Your previous attempts with Seokjin and Hoseok had featured a lot of yelling and arguing, and you would prefer not to leave a bad impression on Namjoon of all people. Additionally, you don’t want to know what arguing with Namjoon would entail, because you have a strong feeling that any debate with him will only leave you second guessing your entire existence with how good he is at flipping the subject. Or, you could always kick him in the knees, but that would be like overpowering a baby––you’d be a monster for taking advantage of him.

The short one hour lecture flies by quicker than you would like. To your surprise, Namjoon only interrupts the professor twice, so you suppose that’s a win for everyone else.

“Alright class. Please remember that the research paper regarding 17th century music is due on the Friday before your break,” your professor says. He points a stern look at all of you, and maybe you’re imagining it, but somehow you feel like he pauses just a second longer when he passes his gaze over you. “And please, try not to send your paper to the entire student body to air your secret little crushes like a bunch of lovestruck idiots.”

Your ears turn an unflattering shade of red as most of the students chuckle at his little joke, all of them probably not knowing that the lovestruck idiot was just a few seats away.

“C’mon, Namjoon.” You sigh, shrugging on your backpack as you wait for him to finish packing up. Namjoon watches you curiously, brows furrowed.

“You seem dejected. Are you having trouble with class? Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“N-not… not really,” you say, shaking your head. “Can we talk about this outside? People for the next class are starting to come in.”

Namjoon follows you dutifully from behind, and you can hear him bid his farewells to a few giggling freshmen as the two of you exit the lecture hall. They coo openly in his presence, with one of them bold enough to compliment his fairly generous bosom, her fingers twitching as if she is only one push away from grabbing them by the fistful.

You walk towards the small cafe near the entrance of the building, grabbing one of the empty chairs and gesturing for Namjoon to sit across from you. He does as you say, confusion still gracing his handsome features.

“So, will you tell me why you’ve called me out here now?” Namjoon asks. Before you can respond, however, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a half squished sandwich. He offers you the less crushed half, like the gentleman that he is, but you find it hard to accept when you feel like your stomach is turning inside out with nerves.

“Umm… How do I say this…” You groan, leg bouncing so incessantly that the poor table begins to shake. Namjoon doesn’t even try to stop his other sandwich half from sliding over, instead giving you a concerned glance.

Fuck it. Better to rip the band-aid off in one swoop, right?

“Y/N––?”

“Namjoon, are you aware that people think someone wrote a stupid love poem about you?”

His previously open mouth clamps shut, then. He stares at you in confusion, a dollop of mayonnaise hanging off his jutting chin. “What?”

Panicking slightly, you’re quick to continue your train of thought, probably to your own detriment. “NOT that the poem is about you, by the way. Well, it could be? No? I DIDN’T WRITE IT!” Pause for heavy breathing. “A-anyway, that’s not the point… I just wanted to ask if you were… umm… aware of it. Yeah. That’s it.”

Ohhhh my god. You stupid idiot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you fucking stupid piece of shit ass tit fuck what other swear words are there oh yeah FUCK!!!

In the midst of your personal mental beatdown, you fail to see Namjoon’s genuine look of confusion, his head tilted to the side as he watches your face turn red. He chews on his sandwich thoughtfully. “Uh? No? I’m not aware? I really have no idea what you are talking about, Y/N.”

You finally stop swearing at yourself. “Wait, really?”

Namjoon nods his head. “Really. What poem are you talking about?”

“Please tell me you’re joking. I don’t really like being teased; I get enough of that from Seokjin.”

“No, I’m serious!” Namjoon raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t joke about something that is clearly giving you distress.”

“It’s not causing me distress!” You screech back, voice cracking from your tone going up a pitch. You clear your throat. “Um. Wait. So that means you haven’t heard about the huge rumor going around about a love poem being about you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lips pursed. “Not a clue. Am I supposed to?”

Huh. You stare at the imbecile before you, his previously handsome looks starting to look less appealing by the minute. Is this shithead for real? Did you really spend hours worrying over how you would approach him about the poem, only to find out that he has no clue what you’re talking about? Like, how is it even possible for him not to know? You can’t even spend a minute doing anything without someone bringing up that stupid mistake of a poem. How the hell did you ever have a crush on him?

“Pardon? Did you say crush something?”

“Oh shit,” you curse, slapping a palm to your mouth. Did you fucking say that out loud?

“Sorry,” Namjoon swallows thickly, a large bite of his sandwich visibly going down his gullet. “I was chewing too loudly so I didn’t hear you properly.”

You heave a sigh of relief. Okay, maybe being an idiot has its benefits.

“It’s fine. It wasn’t anything important,” you say, already arranging your things to get up and leave. If Namjoon is oblivious to all the poem shenanigans that have been circling campus, then who are you to inform him? All you can hope now is that he remains ignorant of the poem at all, and chalk it up as a success in your book. It’s not like he’s going to be curious to find out more anyway––

“Wait! Don’t go! You’ve piqued my interest now. I wanna know what you were talking about,” Namjoon pipes up, leaning his lanky body sidewards so as to block you from leaving. You halt in your movements, surprised by his sudden inquiry.

Sweat starts to form in the middle of your back at his earnest curiosity. “I––it’s nothing, Namjoon. I was just messing with you. Don’t worry about it.” You laugh nervously.

“I don’t think you were?” Namjoon rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t have been so adamant to call me out here just to be joking.”

“Listen, I really have to go. I have another class soon and I wanna grab lunch before I––”

“You said something about a poem.” He remains undeterred, pulling out his phone. “And it’s about me? Well, not about me, if that’s what you’re saying…”

“Hold up!” You snatch his phone out of his hands, holding it behind you to keep it from his reach. Even though you know his inquisitiveness is not his fault, it doesn’t stop you from wanting to punch him square in his cute little nose. Hell, you don’t recall wanting to fight anyone as much as you do right now.

(Seokjin sneezes somewhere in the distance, feeling offended for whatever reason. “Y/N should only be punching me,” he thinks to himself as he dumps way too much purple dye on this poor lady’s head.)

“Why are you being so weird right now? Give me back my phone!” He pouts at you, not at all knowing that your resolve is already quickly crumbling before him.

“I…” You gulp, foot tapping restlessly as you try to think of what to do. “Okay. Fine, I’ll show you the poem. Just… don’t read too deeply into it, okay? It’s just a stupid thing that got too many people excited over nothing.”

“Sure,” Namjoon nods his head, acquiescing quickly. “I don’t really like paying attention to much of the rumors and trends that happen on campus. I just want to see what this poem is all about.”

“Just… don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, returning his phone to him. You direct him to the university confessions group page, watching as his fingers fumbled with his keyboard. Eventually, he gets to the post (pinned to the top, forever mocking you for your stupidity) and reads the short piece in record time.

There is a pause where neither of you speak. You know he has finished reading it from the way he has started to scroll down to the comments, though he quickly jumps back to the top when you glare at him to stop. He leans back into his chair, closing his phone and stares at you expressionlessly.

You click your nails across the coffee shop table as you observe him suspiciously, his lack of response making you more nervous. “Well?”

The left side of his mouth quirks up––but not in a way that might suggest glee or satisfaction––and he stays frozen like that for a bit. You have the sudden urge to wave your hand in front of him to check if he’s fine, and being the type of person to submit to your urges, you do as you please.

Thankfully, he snaps out of it, blinking quickly as if he’s forgotten that you were there. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. The poem, uh… How do I put it…”

“What?” What on earth could he have a problem with? Does he genuinely think the poem might be about him? “If you’re starting to think that the poem may be about you––”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Namjoon opens his phone again, peering at the poem questioningly. “I was just going to say that this poem is a lot less impressive than you were hyping it up to be.”

Excuse me??????? He did not fucking just say that.

“You did not just fucking say that,” you verbalize, glowering at him. You can feel the fumes start to steam out of your ears, but Namjoon remains oblivious (as per usual) to your emotions. He just hums, shrugging his shoulders with his nose upturned in the air, as if he had just smelled something horrible.

“It’s just… the meter is all messed up… Like, I’m all about free verse or whatever, but I can tell the author is trying waaaay too hard to keep whatever rhythm they had going on in the first verse.” He scrolls through the poem some more, before stopping somewhere in the middle. He shows you one of your favorite verses with a look of something akin to disdain. “And what’s up with all the moon references? That theme is so overused.”

“YOUR MIXTAPE LITERALLY HAS A SONG CALLED MOONCHILD! THAT’S WHY PEOPLE THINK THE POEM IS ABOUT YOU!” You explode, spittle flying everywhere from the force of your shout. A group of freshmen sitting nearby jump up in surprise, though most of the older, more dead-eyed college students do not even bat an eye at your spectacle. This university is full of cuckoos, is what they are probably thinking.

The biggest cuckoo of them all looks at you defensively, frowning somewhat irritably. Namjoon continues, “Yeah, but I used the moon in my song in a classy way! I would be offended if someone would write this poem for me after being inspired by my song.”

Is it possible for blood to boil inside your veins? Because you’re really starting to feel heat trail up your back up to your neck, causing you to see nothing but red and the tantalizing vision of your hands around his neck. Easy, Y/N. You can’t afford anger management therapy; you have a tuition to pay.

In all seriousness though, you cannot take this any longer. You have suffered long enough while having to follow Namjoon around like a bitch for two days, and if karma still wants to use the strap on you, then she’s going to have to do it some other day because you cannot physically stand being around Namjoon for another ten seconds if you can help it. And this is coming from someone who is around Kim Seokjin at least twice a week, so it is obvious that your patience and sanity is truly at its limit.

“I’m done.” You are barely able to keep yourself from slamming your head against the table. Instead, you stand up hastily, chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. You shoulder your bag quickly, waving at him without even turning to face him. The sooner you get away from him, the better. “You can think what you want. Just live your life, man. I’m done.”

“Okay? Well, have a nice day, Y/N!” Namjoon calls out a cheery goodbye, though his tone obviously still sounds confused even as you walk further and further away from him, a trainwreck of a human being. You resolve to yourself to call Hana the next morning to ask her to slip some opened sweets into his jean pocket so the ants at the daycare might climb out of their shelter to bite him in the balls.

How did you ever have a crush on that bastard? I guess that mystery will have to remain… unsolved.

Unluckily, your mood does not improve after lunch, nor do you calm down after your next class either. In fact, you are still steaming when you arrive to your tutoring session with Hoseok, so much so that you have completely forgotten to be worried about him after the events of last Friday.

(Record scratch, freeze frame. Pause. What the hell happened last Friday again? Your overworked brain cells can only handle one stressful event at a time, so you suppose that problem with Hoseok and Jimin will have to be solved another day.)

Hoseok, the caring boy that he is, also forgets to retain his moodiness from Friday’s argument when he spots you looking like you were about to pop a blood vessel at any moment.

Hoseok sits hesitantly in front of you, even placing his textbooks gently onto the table as if any sudden sounds might cause you to self-combust and splatter your guts all over the library floor. The only thing really keeping you from doing exactly that is because you wouldn’t want poor Jungkook the library assistant to have to clean up your mess.

“Umm… Hey, Y/N. You okay? You look kind of… red.” Hoseok says carefully, smile twitching on his face.

The suddenness at which you slam your hands on the table causes not only Hoseok, but also Jungkook who is three whole bookshelves away, to jump up in surprise. The former makes a terrified scream to accompany his leap into the air, staring at your frantically with his fists held up in defense.

“AHH? Y/N, what’s going on––”

“SHUT UP!” You point a finger menacingly at him, making him shriek once more. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding audibly. “YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT, HOSEOK? I’LL WRITE THE NICEST POEM IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR YOU, OKAY? YOU DESERVE IT! FUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE THINKS! I’M A GOOD WRITER AND NOTHING KIM NAMJOON SAYS WILL CHANGE THAT!”

Hoseok’s mouth opens, agape. He doesn’t know how to respond, not quite understanding what you were saying in the first place. A lot of angry words spilled from your lips in such a short amount of time, and Hoseok was more impressed with your flow than anything. Were you a rapper, by any chance?

Unaware of Hoseok’s musings, you huff loudly to yourself, slamming open your lecture notes and shoving them aggressively towards him. “ALSO, I TOOK THE LIBERTY OF WRITING A REVIEWER FOR YOUR MIDTERM! PLEASE READ THROUGH THEM IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS!”

“Umm… Thanks?” Hoseok says, not really sure which part of your loud declarations he is specifically thanking you for. He sneaks a glance at the front desk, thankful that it is only meek little Jungkook in charge today and not the cranky older librarian who already has a personal vendetta against you and your tutoring group for being public nuisances (not that she was unjustly pointing fingers, of course).

Your mental collapse aside, the rest of his tutoring session goes smoothly, with Hoseok still walking on eggshells around you just in case you might feel like exploding again. You know, for fun or something. Although, he does end up asking if he can leave a few minutes early, saying something about a paper due at the end of the week. The excuse doesn’t make you bat an eye until Jimin arrives for his own session, his grin faltering when he sees his hyung not there to greet him with their usual dance battle in the library.

“Ah… Guess Hoseok-hyung really is still mad over what happened…” Jimin sighs, slumping into his chair. He thumbs his textbook thoughtfully, tongue sticking out like a puppy.

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon,” you say hopefully, though your heart isn’t quite in it either. Coughing awkwardly, you pluck his textbook out of his hands, desperate to talk about something else other than your crumbling interpersonal relationships. You pause at the page, however, before staring incredulously back at Jimin.

“Jimin.”

“Hmm?” Jimin is still listless, head pillowed by his arms on the table. “What?”

“This is a book on differential calculus. I’m supposed to teach you about writing academic essays.”

“Oh yeah,” Jimin sighs, closing his eyes. “I stole that book from some freshman on the way here. The English textbook I usually bring is with Taehyung right now.”

You pause. Actually, now that you think about it… “Jimin, do you actually even go to this university? What the hell is your major, even?”

“Wha-?” Jimin yawns, fanning his mouth with his hand. He blinks sleepily at you with a big, doofy grin. “Sorry, I played MapleStory for hours last night and I haven’t gotten much sleep. Can I just sleep during this session? I’ll still pay you or whatever…” he trails off, stretching like a cat under a patch of sunlight. Before you know it, the soft sound of Jimin’s snoring fills the silence.

Thankfully, Monday ends without much more commotion. You may have come out of this experience a little bit more broken inside, but hey! That’s what character development is all about, babey. You are just glad that Tuesdays are usually your quietest days, as you only have two classes to worry about. It is also one of the days when you have Creative Writing with Sera, who usually manages to rope you in to get greasy fast food after class. Despite the traumatic experience that particular class has indirectly inflicted upon you, your usual zeal and excitement does not diminish in the slightest. After all, writing will always be your first love, so there isn’t any way some silly poem mishap will make you detest it.

Hopefully nothing else will go wrong, because you aren’t so sure your sanity can take much more of a pounding.

(Fwip. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of karma putting on her strap.)

“Alright class, see you guys on Thursday. Don’t forget that we have a quiz at the beginning of class on Thursday, so please don’t be late.” Professor Puth says, his eyelids blinking out of sync. You hate to be someone who assumes what other people do during their off days as it is none of your business, though the perpetual cloud of marijuana that clings around him can only do so much to mask what his recreational activities might be.

“Dude, I think Prof Puth is finding Nirvana soon,” Sera says loudly, earning the giggles of a few classmates nearby.

“I’d be surprised if he could even find the exit of this building,” you snort, just as the man in question trips over air and nearly faceplants on the ground. Like the model students that you are, you both pretend to be busy doing something else, leaving some other poor soul to help your professor.

Two girls that you vaguely remember from somewhere approach Professor Puth. They are quick to help him straighten up, if his groaning and gasping are anything to go by. He thanks them gruffly and waves them off, but the girls seem adamant to stay put.

“Professor, I have a question…” One of the girls asks, nervously tugging on her ponytail. Her friend giggles surreptitiously beside her, urging her to continue. Their odd demeanor causes signals to go off in your brain, telling you to stop and listen. You tug on Sera’s hand, halting her from leaving.

“Wait. I wanna hear what they’re gonna ask,” you mutter, ignoring Sera’s complaints about being hungry. She can wait for her McNuggets for another five minutes, no matter how much she pretends that she’s starving. You had seen her eat two whole burritos before coming into class today.

Professor Puth raises his brow. “Yes? What do you need?”

“We were just wondering if you could… tell us anything about the identity of the author from that poem?” The girl manages to get all of it out in a rush, cheeks flushed as her friend nods fervently beside her.

“Yea, Prof! We’ve been dying to know! The suspense is killing us, knowing that the mystery author is in one of your classes!” The other girl continues, glittery excitement practically exuding out of her in waves.

Professor Puth sighs, leaning heavily on his desk. He appears about as done as you feel. “Listen… You can badger me all you want, but there’s no way I can tell you. Privacy laws prevent us from sharing information like that without prior consent, even though that student in question might have accidentally sent her assignment to the entire school.” You might be imagining it, but you think Professor Puth points you with a knowing look. You gulp, hastily bowing your head and pretending to fiddle with your phone.

“Aww, Prof! It’s been days and the university hasn’t shut up about it! Surely one of the theories on who the author and muse are must be true, right? You can tell us that, at least.”

You can’t bear to keep listening any longer, though Sera has started to become more interested in the conversation as it progressed. “Wait, wait… I wanna hear the Prof’s opinion,” she says, grinning despite your nails digging crescents into her arm as you try to pull her away.

“No can do! Remember, I have your freshman Halloween pictures saved on a harddrive, and you wouldn’t want me to accidentally send that to the entire student body as well, would you?”

That manages to snap her out of it. Quickly, the two of you leave the lecture hall and away from possible discovery by your poem-frenzied classmates. You are also relieved to be able to breathe in fresh air once more, after being stuck in that class surrounded by liberal art students for two hours. You always do feel a little bit more relaxed after class with Puth, although that might just be from all the secondhand drug use.

Perhaps the fumes really did dull your reflexes, as it takes a while before you realize that Sera has been nudging your shoulder.

When you finally glanced at her, there is a sneaky grin on her face: never a good sign. “So,” she begins, a singsong quality in her voice

After having been her friend for long enough, you have become adept at telling what Sera is going to say next. Call it intuition or whatever, but you like to think of it is a self-defense mechanism. As much as she is your friend, she does love digging into your personal life like it is the cover story of some shitty tabloid. You have to prepare yourself to be interrogated.

“You’re going to ask about the poem, aren’t you?”

Sera rolls her eyes, like you shouldn’t have even asked. “Duh, of course I am. What else would I want to talk about?”

You shrug your shoulders, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you could have asked ‘Hey, Y/N! How’s your mom been? Have you been eating and drinking well?’ You know, like a normal person.”

“Well, firstable, your mom is literally my friend on Facebook and I saw her go out to that bougie high tea place with Jennie’s mom the other day, so I know she’s fine,” Sera says as the two of you round a corner, heading closer to the parking lot where her car is. “And secondable, you don’t fucking drink water, because you like pretending to be a dehydrated piece of jerky.”

“I just like drinking apple juice, okay? Water is weird,” you say defensively, kicking a pebble as you walk.

“Nah, you’re weird,” Sera counters, ever the creative debater. She remains undeterred, however. “So. Any updates on the poem situation or am I going to have tickle the details out of you?”

You groan, pushing her away from your sensitive sides. “Please don’t… I have no upper body strength and I won’t be able to push you off!”

“That’s the point.” Sera laughs, pinching your cheek. She snatches her hand away, only narrowly escapes getting bitten by you. “Why don’t we skip my torture methods then and go straight to the juicy bits? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!”

“What if nothing has happened since I last saw you?” You grumble, miffed that she really isn’t letting it go. You just want to have one relaxing day, is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is. Relaxation is a rare commodity these days. Sera snorts, patting you condescendingly on the back. “Nonsense. You’ve got that post-mental breakdown glow around you. You look absolutely radiant with stress!”

The conversations pauses for a bit when you make it to the parking lot. You don’t have to walk too far, as her car is parked relatively close to the exit, which is just another display of how lucky Sera often is in comparison to you. While your unfortunate plebeian ass is busy drowning in shit, Sera is off somewhere aboard a yacht, getting a massage from some Instagram thot.

She hops into the driver’s seat, waiting for you to put your seatbelt on before backing out with one hand on the wheel. “McDonalds?” she asks, though it is pretty much a given that is where you are going. The last time you both tried diverging from your usual hang out spot, you got intense food poisoning from eating at Chipotle. Sera came out completely fine though, that lucky bitch.

She continues her questions on the drive there, and you relent by telling her most of what has happened to you over the past few days. You gloss over the argument between Hoseok and Jimin, not really wanting their spat to suddenly go viral on Facebook as well. Everything else, however––

“Wait, so you talked to Kim Namjoon? The Kim Namjoon? The Namjoon that you had an embarrassing crush on during our first year?” Sera laughs maniacally, almost driving off into the wrong lane. Luckily, you are quick to latch onto the wheel, saving the two of you from becoming roadkill.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, but Y/N! That’s literally so fucking funny!” Sera’s laughter has simmered to a giggle, despite the fact that she is still trying (and failing) to furtively glance your way when you hit a stoplight. “Is he like how you remember? God, do you remember how you were after you first met him? All starstruck because your senpai showed you a draft of his single? ��Oh, Sera! He has the most amaaaazing flow! I’m going to suck his di––’”

“Shut up!” You whine, slapping her in embarrassment. “Believe me, that crush has died, along with any respect I may have had for him. Men are scum, and I’m going to only date girls from now on.”

“Fine by me! More dick to suck for me, I guess.” Sera teases, whistling innocently. Bold of her to assume that there is any innocent or pure bone in her body; you’ve seen her thirst tweets and no amount of holy water can cure the disease that your vision must have sustained.

“I just want the rumors to die down… It would make my life way more bearable.” You murmur to yourself, sliding down your seat.

Sera is silent for a while. The McDonalds is just within sight, so Sera waits until she has finished parking before she turns to face you fully, uncanny sincerity in her expression. It unnerves you how serious she is, not when you know that this is the same girl who would snort sugar packets if you bet her $5. She places her hands on your shoulder, fixing you with a meaningful look.

“Listen, Y/N. I know all of this is tough right now, but I’m sure it’s going to be alright, okay? The rumor is going to die down soon enough, and everything will be back to normal. Stay strong for now.” Her voice is soothing, sympathy dripping from every word. As mortifying as it is to admit, the tears flow down your cheek effortlessly; perhaps it is the consequence of having to bear this burden on your own for so long without anyone actually telling you that it’s going to be alright.

“Thanks… I think I needed that,” you say after a while, sniffling just a bit. Sera grins fondly at you, wiping your tears.

“No need to thank me. I may be a chaotic shithead, but I’m also your friend.” She unbuckles her seatbelt, gesturing for you to do the same. “C’mon, let’s go in. I’ll even share my nuggets with you.”

Despite her best efforts at comfort, you still feel a little bummed. You allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for a bit, as McDonalds is a prime location to feel shitty about your life choices anyway. The heart attack inducing food, the barely hygienic facilities, the minimum wage high school employees… Nothing else screamed “I’d rather be dead but it could also be worse” quite like Mickey D’s often did.

You wait by one of the booths while Sera goes off to order for the both of you, leaving you with her phone and other belongings. She promises to let you eat four out of the twenty nugget pieces, which is asking a lot considering who you are dealing with. Sera could probably eat sixty nuggets if she so desired, but only stops herself so she can be physically well enough to continue being a thot. Chasing men all day requires physical fitness, or so she says.

When you go to place her things on the other side of the booth, you notice that Sera had accidentally left her phone unlocked. You can see that she had been previously looking at one of those popular forum sites for your university, where most of her repertoire of gossip is usually sourced from. You aren’t usually the type to frequent those types of pages, with good reason too. That exact forum is the reason of your current stress, where your most private thoughts and feelings were revealed for all to see. Any sort of positive opinion you might have had for that site was immediately dashed the moment that cursed poem was released into the wild.

It kind of pisses you off that Sera still uses that forum despite knowing how much anxiety it has caused you, but then again, there is only so much you can expect from her. Her appetite for drama and chaos is her way of life, her only other hobby aside from writing. You also vaguely recall her saying that she gathers inspiration for her short stories from some of the more outrageous posts made by your fellow schoolmates.

In the end, curiosity gets the best of you as you stare at the open webpage, tantalizing despite the murkiness that lies within. Oh, lighten up. It’s just a confessions page… Besides, you also kind of want to see what people are saying about your poem, and whether the commotion might have died even slightly over time. (Unlikely, but you remain hopeful.)

“Let’s see,” you murmur to yourself, sneaking glances at the counter to see if Sera is close to ordering. She appears to still be next in line to order, so that might give you enough time to read a few of the comments on the post. It doesn’t take you long to find the original post either, since Sera seems to have been perusing the same thing just beforehand.

“Typical Sera... Sympathetic in the streets, a nosey bitch in the sheets.” You snort, scrolling quickly through the comment section. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, except for a few overenthusiastic responses from a couple of people who have bombarded the forum so much that it takes you a few moments to navigate past their thread. You catch a few words here and there, mostly the names of the seven possible muses and not so much the names of any of the possible authors. Honestly, you are more than happy with these turn of events, perfectly content as long as your identity never sees the day where it becomes associated with that disaster piece.

You sort the comments by popularity, wanting to know what everyone’s biggest guesses are. You want to remain hopeful, but as the results start to load, the wave of nausea that suddenly hits you may have been the first warning signal that you should probably stop before you read something that you will regret.

posted by u/SeokjinGod [3d ago]:

[+103, -4] i’m really hoping that kim seokjin is the muse of the poem!! has anyone seen the ads for the new play he’s staring in? he totally looks like the lead actor in a romantic comedy ^^

➾ [+54, -69] psh. that idiot, the muse? PLEASE anyone who has ever worked for kim seokjin KNOWS that it’s physically impossible to form a human connection with that man

➾ [+2, -1] lol seconded

posted by u/namuwuchild [1d ago]:

[+88, -3] WAIT why am i not seeing kim namjoon’s name more often T_T he deserves more love!! stream moonchild or else i’ll bite your ankles

➾ [+1, -6] lol i miss when namjoon used to do actual hiphop… fucking hippie dippie go fuck a tree and some crabs while you’re at it

You sneak a look over your shoulder. Sera is at the front of the line, reciting her orders while the harried employee has to quickly punch in the inordinate amount of food items. Okay… While no one’s looking, time to downvote a couple of these and maybe report some of these assholes… No way in hell are you letting anyone think Moonlight Sonata is about either of those Kim idiots. You would honestly rather out yourself than let anyone think they are worthy of such public displays of love and humiliation.

You are just about to close Sera’s phone and vow never to set foot on social media ever again when the next post catches your eye––the first one where you actually see your name. In fact, your name is generously sprinkled a number of times in this one specific thread.

“Wait a second…” You squint at the top of the thread, reading out the username of the original poster. Is that… Is that your name?!

“User Y/NKook… Oh my god!” You shriek loudly, almost dropping the phone from your sweaty palms. It must be the same person who had organized that merchandise booth in the cafeteria the other week! The number of upvotes on the post isn’t making you feel any better.

posted by u/Y/NKook [3h ago]:

[+98, -5] idk why you noobs are even trying… intellectuals KNOW that y/nkook is real and i won’t take no for an answer… give me my childhood friends to lovers fic RIGHT NOW because this slowburn has been going on for years now and i can’t stand it!!!

➾ [+11, -0] omg op do you know them personally?? how’d you know that they were childhood friends?? i go to the same drama class as y/n and jungkook but they never sit together… are you sure it’s them??

➾ [+20, -1] of course!! they’re even neighbors… besides, haven’t you heard what his nickname is? his friends call him moon eyes for a reason! they say that y/n is the one who gave him that name ^^

You feel your eye twitch, disbelief flooding your senses. Why is this weirdo shipping you with Jungkook? You guys haven’t even spoken properly since elementary school… How does this dude know who you are? Are you being stalked? You whirl your head around, scanning the restaurant for any suspicious people who may or may not be following you. Is this what celebrities feel like when they get shipped with their friends? You feel a sudden surge of respect for them, unable to grasp the situation that you are in. God, you really hope Jungkook hasn’t read any of these.

You go to switch Sera’s phone off, feeling less accomplished than ever before. Maybe it is best to save yourself the anxiety of seeing your world fall apart and try to delude yourself into thinking that the past two weeks have never happened at all. However, there is a certain appeal to reading things that you know you should not, like watching a car crash and unable to look away. The urge to keep scrolling and gaze upon your own personal hell is hard to stop when you have already gained momentum.

“One last post, then I’m done…” You are hard set on that promise, not wanting your apprehension to destroy your peaceful afternoon completely. The next post on the forum greets you with a high upvote number, sending a lick of fear to run down your spine at what you might find. Please don’t be about Y/NKook, you pray helplessly. Little did you know, there are worse things to worry about other than being shipped with your friends.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [1h ago]:

[+154, -5] hey guys i’m back again with another update! so i’ve managed to shorten the list a bit since last time i posted, and i’m 100% certain that kim seokjin is not the muse! sorry, gamers… our prince is in another castle it seems. worry not, though! that only helps our search better and shortens the list. on the other hand, the authors list has also been edited! turns out that neither jodi nor melody is the author, as they both submitted poems about something else. if you are interested to see the updated lists for both muse and author, please head to my profile and look for the original post titled “Mystery Moon Author & Their Mystery Muse” :-)

You have never clicked on a profile as quickly as you did in that moment. Not even a notification from UberEats could make you move that fast.

Lo and behold, the post that started it all is right at the top of the user’s profile, with the significantly shorter list that they had promised. Sweat begins to build on your temples when you realize that the authors list has decreased to seven names, with your name still obstinately sitting at the end of the lines. When will your suffering end?

There is still something that doesn’t sit right with you, however. As you peruse this user’s profile some more, you feel as if there is something weird about it that you can’t quite place. You never did like using this forum, so maybe you are just not used to the layout of the website? What is it about this user’s profile that is making your stomach coil with nerves?

Wait a second… Why is there an edit button beside their profile picture?

“Y/N! I’m back! Sorry for taking so long; I think I ordered too much again. You’re fine with BBQ sauce on your nuggs, right? That’s all I asked for––” Sera had been happily chirping away, sliding into the bench across from you before finally noticing your stoney face. She pats her face, rubbing her cheeks in confusion. “What? Do I have something on me?”

“How fucking dare you!” You hiss, slamming her phone on the table. Unfortunately, you had accidentally locked the phone in your anger, showing only a black screen.

Sera flinches backwards, bewildered. Her eyes flick to the screen and then to you. “Huh? I thought you liked BBQ sauce on your nuggs? I mean, I can ask for sweet and sour sauce if you want…”

“Unlock your phone right now and explain to me why you have triceratops’ profile logged in.”

Your words begin to click in Sera’s mind. Her face grows pale, her body unconsciously sliding further into the booth to hide from your glare. “U-uh… Haha, what on earth are you talking about..?”

“Don’t even try to lie, Sera. I saw everything, and I honestly don’t know if I’m madder that you betrayed me or that I was stupid enough to believe that you were my friend.”

Sera splutters incomprehensibly at first, waving her arms in panic as she tries to save her ass. “I––! You––! It wasn’t like I––”

You lean forward, peering at her coldly. “Oh yeah? What wasn’t it like? It wasn’t like we were friends?”

“No, of course not! I mean,” she backtracks, tongue-tied. “We are friends! It’s just… I made that post before I knew you were the author and I originally sent the poem to just a couple of people because I was so impressed, and I just wanted to––”

“Hold on,” you interrupt, holding up a finger. She squeaks, staring at you fearfully as you slowly get up to your feet. You cry out, “You were also the one who released my fucking poem to the world?!”

“Anna ou––” Sera whimpers, slapping her palm to her mouth. She lowers it, whispering ruefully. “I… didn’t mean to say that…”

“Oh, so you were meaning to lie to me even more?” You seethe, ready to burst into flames.

The poor McDonalds employee who had come to deliver your order to your table seems too frightened to approach the two of you, her arms shaking both with fear and the weight of five orders of 20 piece chicken nuggets. “Uh, is this a bad time?” The girl asks, eyes darting away from your heated glare.

Instead of answering, you grab the tray from her hands and dump the contents on the table. Sera squawks pitifully when a few of the nuggets fall to the ground, though she absolutely yells when you start chucking them at her head like tiny oily cannonballs.

“What the fuck––Dude stop!” Sera has her arms up in defense, shielding her face from your fiery attack. The sound of you ripping open a BBQ sauce packet has her straightening up, however. “No, not the BBQ sauce! Anything but that!”

“Give me one reason why I should show you mercy.” Your hand is poised to pour the sticky sauce all over her white Valentino bag, ready at a moment’s notice.

“Please, Y/N! I’m really sorry!” Sera jumps out of the booth, and goes on her knees. She clasps her hands together, shaking them frantically. “I really didn’t know it was you at first!”

“Well then, why didn’t you fucking take the post down the moment you did know it was me? I thought you were my friend!” You clench your fist around the BBQ sauce packet, causing some of it to spill onto her bag. She makes a desperate noise.

“I just… I like the attention?” She knows this is the wrong answer, judging by your unimpressed expression. She sighs heavily, head bowed in shame. “Look, I’ll fix this, alright? I genuinely didn’t do this wanting to hurt you… I just got so caught up in the clout that I didn’t really think about what would happen if you found out!”

“‘If’ I found out, huh…” You echo, more disappointed than angry now. You slump back into your chair, taking care to grab the napkins and cleaning the sticky mess on your skin as best as you can. “You really were going to continue doing this for as long as it took, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.” Her voice is soft, repentant. It doesn’t do much for your sympathy, however.

“Fuck you, honestly. If you really are sorry, you’ll fix this mess as soon as possible.”

You reach for your bag, your movements jostling a few more nuggets to tumble to the floor. You don’t bother saying goodbye, not wanting to see if Sera is doing her Crying Face Emoji impression to try and soften you up. Not this time. This time… you don’t think your feelings can recover after this.

You have read enough stories about heartbreak and longing, but you don’t think any of them top the experience of losing a friend you realize you never even had.

The next morning, there is a new post on the forum from user triceratops.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [0s ago]:

[+0, -0] Hello, friends. I think I’ve found the author.

It’s Lee Sera.

398 notes · View notes