#what is vps hosting? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lifeofpriya · 1 month ago

Text

ethics of first introductions - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: let's see if i still remember how to do this, y'all 😉 the reader is feminine fyi

summary: the journey of you and Jack going from being academic rivals to lovers...

You meet Jack Draper at a planning meeting you absolutely didn’t want to attend.

It’s a Thursday evening, mid-Hilary term, and the air in the Christ Church seminar room is thick with the kind of overachiever energy that makes your teeth itch. You’re here because you’re the Deputy Chair of the Oxford Business Society, and the powers that be thought it’d be good optics to co-host a “multi-disciplinary symposium” with The Grey Society—a justice-focused academic group known for its moody event posters, borderline cultish membership, and one extremely photogenic president.

You’re here for logistics. For running orders and keynote placement. What you’re not here for is the tall, brooding criminology major who shows up fifteen minutes late with a decaf cappuccino, damp curls, and exactly zero apologies.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low, accent clipped and soft around the edges. “Tutorial ran long.”

He doesn’t look sorry.

You glance up from your laptop just long enough to clock him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a grey quarter-zip that fits entirely too well. He drops into the seat across from you like it’s the only one that could hold him, unzips his backpack, and pulls out a battered leather notebook instead of a laptop.

Of course he uses a notebook. Of course he’s that guy.

You clear your throat. “We’ve already gone over the proposed agenda.”

He looks up at you then—hazel eyes, lashes criminally full, the fringe of his damp hair falling into one of them. There’s a faint lazy drift in his left eye. Almost imperceptible. Like he’s listening with one part of himself and thinking about something else entirely with the other.

“Can you catch me up?” he asks.

You blink. “It’s literally projected on the screen.”

Someone coughs. Possibly laughs. He doesn’t flinch. Just blinks slowly, like he’s waiting for you to concede, and dammit—you kind of do.

You walk him through it, brisk and clinical, eyes darting between your bullet points and the infuriating calm on his face. He listens like he’s reading you, not the slide—head tilted, one thumb brushing the rim of his coffee cup, expression unreadable.

When you finish, he nods once. Then: “I’d suggest we rework the second panel. Two of your speakers are industry, not academic.”

“They’re alumni. From Saïd Business School,” you counter, already bristling.

“They’re still industry,” he says evenly. “The panel’s titled ‘Justice and Power in Policy Design.’ Unless we’re letting VPs define carceral ethics now?”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t look at the chair. You don’t look at anyone. You look at him.

“They’ve both worked on cross-sector justice initiatives,” you say coolly. “And one of them is funding the event. So unless The Grey Society’s running on moral superiority and air, I’d rethink your tone.”

That gets a reaction. Just a flicker—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like interest.

You hate him immediately.

You hate the way he sits, like he’s already won the debate. You hate the calm in his voice. You hate how good his forearms look when he crosses them. And most of all? You hate that you know, in your gut, you’re going to see him again.

Because of course you are.

This is Oxford.

And boys like Jack Draper? They always show up when you least expect it—and just when you start thinking you’ve got everything under control.

You try not to think about him after that first meeting.

---

You file him under Pretentious Academic Men You’ll Tolerate for the Sake of the Event, sandwiched neatly between the philosophy bro who once quoted Nietzsche at brunch and the PPE guy who only emails in bullet points and vibes. Jack Draper? He’s just another bullet. Another scheduling problem. Another mildly attractive obstacle with an Oxford ego and a veiny forearm problem.

And yet.

You see him again four days later—in the cloisters, of all places. You’re on your way to a one-on-one with your business ethics tutor, already drafting talking points in your head, when you catch a flash of movement in your peripheral vision. Hoodie up, joggers slung low on those unfairly sculpted hips, headphones in. Jack. Draper.

He’s standing alone, back against the stone archway, flipping through the same leather notebook from the meeting. No laptop. No coffee. Just him and the echo of silence that clings to old buildings and overthinkers.

You slow for a beat. Watch him underline something. Then pause. Then stare into the distance like he’s trying to argue with a thought before it fully forms.

He doesn’t see you. Not at first.

But the second you start walking again, your heels clicking against centuries-old stone, his head lifts.

One second. That’s all it takes.

One slow upward glance. One flick of his fringe. One soft, knowing raise of his eyebrow that says, You again.

You don’t stop. But you nod.

It’s barely perceptible—more instinct than greeting. A motion that means I’m not impressed, but I see you. He nods back, jaw tightening like he’s holding in something too complicated to say in passing.

You keep walking.

But the air feels different now.

Later that week, your inbox pings with a revision to the event program. A Google Doc edit suggestion—anonymous, but you know it’s him. The phrasing is too specific. The notes too meticulous. He’s rewritten your transition paragraph with the kind of precision that reads like a challenge.

You accept the edit. Then leave a comment:

“Not bad. For a criminologist.”

The reply comes ten minutes later.

“Didn’t realize business students had a sense of humor.”

You don’t smile. Not outwardly, anyway.

---

The email says 8 p.m., but Jack shows up at 7:47.

You’re already in the study room at Christ Church—half out of your blazer, shoes kicked off, surrounded by sticky notes, an open laptop, and a greasy brown paper bag that definitely doesn’t count as a proper dinner. The room smells like curry and cold air. Your fourth cup of tea has gone lukewarm.

When the door creaks open, you don’t look up right away. You’re bracing for one of the other society members, maybe your painfully chipper co-chair who insists on saying “synergy” with a straight face.

Instead, it’s him.

Hoodie. Joggers. A copy of The Ethics of Policing in the Modern State tucked under one arm. And in his other hand?

Takeaway. Two bags. One visibly leaking.

He says nothing, just kicks the door shut with the side of his foot and drops everything onto the table like it’s not a whole statement.

You blink. “What’s that?”

“Didn’t think you’d eaten,” he says, matter-of-fact, pulling out napkins like it’s not the most quietly thoughtful thing a man has ever done in the middle of an academic turf war.

“I did,” you lie.

“You didn’t.” He unwraps a container and slides it toward you. “Eat before you turn feral.”

You narrow your eyes. “You bring all your enemies dinner?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Only the ones who fight fair.”

It’s too warm in the room all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pick at the rice. He cracks open a bottle of sparkling water and starts editing the run-of-show with a red pen like he’s marking up a crime scene. You watch the way he presses the cap to his lower lip between thoughts. The way his fringe falls forward when he leans over your laptop to scroll.

There’s a tension in him—not the sharp kind from the meeting, but something heavier. Slower. Like he’s holding something back, not out of arrogance, but out of habit.

You steal a glance at his notebook, open beside him.

The margins are full of phrases. Not notes. Not bullet points. Sentences. Thoughts. Most of them crossed out. One isn’t.

"Not everything broken needs to be punished."

You don’t comment. But your eyes linger long enough that he notices.

“Draft title,” he says quietly. “Essay I haven’t started.”

You nod. Then softer: “It’s good.”

He shrugs one shoulder. Stares at the page. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “It’s not done.”

Neither are you.

Neither is this.

And when you both leave the study room that night—him holding the door, you pretending not to notice how close his hand comes to the small of your back—you already know:

You’re going to see him again. Not because you have to.

Because you want to.

And that, somehow, is the most dangerous part of all.

---

It happens by accident.

You weren’t supposed to be on the second floor of the library that late, and he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be in your corner—the half-forgotten alcove near the theology stacks, the one you claimed in first year and never gave up. But when you round the corner with a thick text on behavioral finance pressed to your chest, there he is.

Jack Draper.

Cross-legged on the carpet like he’s forgotten chairs exist, back against the cold stone wall, one knee bouncing under a grey hoodie with the Christ Church crest half-faded. There’s no laptop. No tennis bag. Just a paperback—creased spine, battered corners—balanced in one hand.

And in the other?

His phone, screen still glowing with a message he hasn’t quite put down. His thumb hovers over it. His face is too still.

You don’t mean to stare. But something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders curved in, head tipped back against the stone like it’s holding him up—stops you.

“You okay?” you ask, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He startles slightly. Then exhales. “Didn’t think anyone came up here this late.”

“I do.”

He doesn’t answer.

You sit down next to him.

Not close. Not touching. Just enough that he knows you’re there.

For a while, the only sound is the hum of the library lights and the muted shuffle of pages somewhere two floors down. Jack doesn’t move. He’s not tense, not exactly. Just… stuck. Like a system mid-reboot.

You glance down at the book. The Body Keeps the Score.

And suddenly you know.

You nod toward the phone still lit in his hand. “Want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t. But he does.

He shifts slightly, setting the phone down face-down. Rubs the heel of his palm against his jaw like it’s habit. Then finally, softly:

“My mum sent me a voice note.”

You wait.

“She was asking if I’d had dinner. Said she was making chicken pie. Offered to drop some off if I came home this weekend.”

His voice isn’t breaking. It’s not even cracking. It’s too quiet for that. But there’s something brittle underneath, like glass with one line too many.

“She does that,” he adds. “Still.”

You nod, unsure if he wants silence or solidarity.

“She was the one who stayed,” he continues, thumb tracing the seam of his hoodie sleeve. “When things went to shit. When my dad…” His jaw flexes. “It was messy. Loud. And she just… held the rest together. Like always.”

You think of the way he carries himself. The stillness. The order. The control he clings to like a second skin.

“She’s the reason I don’t flinch when things get bad,” he says. “But also the reason I feel like I have to keep everything together all the time. Like if I don’t, I’m letting her down.”

Your throat aches.

You want to tell him that’s not how it works. That she’d be proud even if he unraveled. That she probably knows he’s trying.

Instead, you reach over and rest your fingers on his knee. Light. Barely there.

He doesn’t move. But he lets you.

A beat.

Then he speaks again—barely above a whisper.

“I don’t talk about my dad much.”

You say nothing.

“I used to try to be like him,” he says. “Sharp. Strategic. Untouchable.”

Another pause.

“I hated it.”

The words hang there, raw and unpolished, and for once Jack Draper doesn’t try to clean them up.

He just breathes.

And you sit with him in the quiet, not trying to fix it. Just there.

His knee stops bouncing.

His thumb goes still.

And when he finally turns his head to look at you, something in his expression has softened—like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to believe he doesn’t have to do this alone.

You don’t say anything when he stands.

You just gather your things quietly, slinging your bag over your shoulder and watching as he presses the book closed without marking the page. He doesn’t need a bookmark, you realize. He remembers the exact spot. Of course he does.

The walk back to college is slow. It’s cold out—crisp, as the BBC weather app calls it—but he doesn’t zip his hoodie. Just lets it hang open, sleeves pushed up like always, forearms catching the light from the occasional lamp post.

You don’t talk much. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s something steadier. Something earned.

You reach Christ Church’s outer gate, where your paths usually split.

Jack hesitates.

Then, without looking at you: “Can I walk you all the way in?”

You nod, heart thudding like you’ve just sprinted a court.

He follows a step behind, hand brushing yours once. Twice. The third time, you don’t move it. Neither does he. His pinky grazes yours on purpose now—soft, tentative, like he’s asking in a language only skin understands.

At your door, you unlock it slowly.

He doesn’t move to go. Doesn’t step forward either.

You turn, hand still on the knob. “Thanks for walking me.”

He nods once. Swallows. “Thanks for… earlier.”

And just before you step inside—barely louder than the breeze—he says your name.

You look up.

His eyes are soft. Vulnerable. That lazy left-eye drift more noticeable in the dark. He’s not hiding anymore.

“Night,” he says, like it means more than just sleep.

It does.

You don’t plan it. Not really.

---

It’s three days later, and he’s just finished a brutal match against Cambridge—won it in straight sets but looked emotionally frayed the whole way through. You watched from the stands, perched on the edge of the back row, heart in your throat every time he clenched his jaw or shook out his wrist like he was trying to shake off something heavier than pain.

You know better now. You know what that weight looks like.

So later, when you show up outside his flat just off High Street, it’s not with flowers or a pep talk.

It’s with a still-warm pie in a paper carrier bag, a small Tupperware of mashed potatoes, and a sticky note that just says:

“Because your mum would’ve brought you one. And you deserve that.”

You knock once.

The door creaks open slower than usual.

He’s in a hoodie and sweats, damp curls flattened from a post-match shower, his brow furrowed like he’s bracing for bad news.

Then he sees the bag.

Then the note.

And then you.

And something in his face just… drops.

Not in a bad way.

Not like he’s breaking.

But like something heavy inside him is finally loosening its grip.

He takes the bag with both hands, like it’s sacred.

Like it might fall apart if he’s not careful.

His voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it when he says, “She used to write me notes like that.”

You smile. “I figured.”

He stands there for a second too long.

Then sets the bag down on the hall table and—without thinking, without checking—wraps his arms around you. Full, solid, silent. Just pulls you in and holds you like it’s the only way to stay standing.

He smells like clean soap and steam and quiet exhaustion. His heart beats steady against your cheek.

And when you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, but clear.

“You’re not her,” he says softly.

You nod. “I know.”

“But you… remind me of the best parts.”

You lean up and press a kiss to the side of his neck, right where it creases when he bends over a serve, right where warmth lives when he thinks no one’s watching.

He breathes in like it anchors him.

And when he whispers, “Thank you,” it’s not just for the pie.

It’s for the space you gave him to be this version of himself—tender, tired, trying.

And loved anyway.

---

The Grey Society Gala is always held at the end of Hilary term.

The kind of event that drips with Oxford pretension—black-tie only, formal speeches, strings of fairy lights woven through the vaulted hall like an attempt to make ancient stone feel romantic instead of cold. There’s a string quartet tuning in the corner, glasses clinking softly as trays of wine float past on white-gloved hands.

You arrive precisely ten minutes late, which is exactly on time in Oxford social code. Your heels click steadily over the flagstone floor, your dress hugging in all the right places, and your hair swept up just enough to say: Yes, I’m accomplished. And yes, I can kill you with a single glance.

Jack sees you before you see him.

He’s standing near the dais, one hand wrapped loosely around a water glass, the other tucked into his trouser pocket like he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He’s in a perfectly tailored tux—black bow tie, crisp white shirt, Grey Society pin glittering subtly on his lapel.

But the second you walk in, he stops pretending to care about any of it.

You don’t see the shift, but the room does.

The way his posture stills. The way his jaw goes a little slack. The way his eyes track you like gravity just made a personal request.

You don’t look at him until you’re halfway across the room, laughing at something your flatmate says, fingers brushing a champagne flute as you accept it without thinking.

Then—then—you feel it.

That thing.

That magnetic pull across the air between you.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Standing still, shoulders tense, staring at you like you’ve just rewritten the terms of his existence.

There are dozens of people around. Music. Conversation. Formalwear and floral centerpieces and polished Oxford confidence in every corner.

But he’s only looking at you.

Not in a wow, you clean up nice way. Not even in a you look beautiful way.

He looks at you like you’re the final answer to a question he’s been trying not to ask all term.

Like if he says anything now, it might ruin him.

You hold his gaze for three full seconds.

Then tilt your head.

Smile, just a little.

And walk away.

Later, after the speeches and the toasts and the poorly executed attempt at a group photo, you find yourself outside under the archway, heels dangling from your fingers and the cool night air brushing your skin like a sigh.

Jack finds you there.

You don’t hear him approach, but you feel it—his presence, his pause, the way he always seems to need one extra moment before deciding it’s okay to be seen.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says finally, voice low and a little hoarse.

You glance sideways. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, looking out across the quad. “It’s not really your crowd.”

“No,” you agree, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “But you are.”

That stops him cold.

He turns, slowly, and looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that much truth in one sentence.

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to.

Because the way he’s looking at you now?

You’ve already got him.

And he knows it.

You’re not a dancer.

You’ve said it. Repeatedly. Loudly. In writing. And still—here you are, standing under the stained glass of the Christ Church hall as the quartet eases into something achingly slow, and Jack Draper is holding out his hand like it’s a question with only one right answer.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just looks at you like please and don’t make me beg are interchangeable.

You take his hand.

The room softens around you. Just enough space between bodies for quiet things to happen unnoticed.

Jack isn’t showy. His hand fits against your waist like he’s been practicing. His other holds yours a little too gently, like he’s afraid he might break the spell.

You dance in half-steps and slow glances, turning so slowly it feels like floating. His palm is warm against your spine. His breath hits your cheek when he exhales through his nose.

No one says anything.

No one needs to.

Because in this moment—this still, golden sliver of borrowed time—it feels like all your fights and tension and arguments were just elaborate foreplay for this one truth:

You were always going to end up here.

With him.

In his arms.

Letting go.

Later, much later, you’re in his room.

The tux jacket is draped over the back of a chair. His bowtie is untied, hanging loose around his neck. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and his curls are a little too soft from running his hands through them on the walk home.

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, feet bare, dress unzipped halfway, your heels long forgotten by the door.

He sits beside you, close but not touching, that familiar Jack Draper silence wrapping around the two of you like a secret.

Then slowly—so slowly—he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Not performative. Not flirty.

Just… reverent.

His lips linger longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing the shape of your bones.

Then he shifts—leans in—presses a kiss to your temple. One hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.

Still nothing on the lips.

Still so much more than nothing.

His voice is soft when he says, “You’re the only thing this term that hasn’t felt like pressure.”

You breathe in. You don’t breathe out.

And then his mouth finds your shoulder.

The bare skin there.

The place where your dress has slipped slightly lower than it should’ve.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s a confession.

One that lands so gently it breaks you anyway.

It’s late now. The window is cracked. His room smells like rain and aftershave and melted candle wax.

He’s changed into a hoodie and joggers. You’re wearing one of his old tennis tees and a pair of sweats that are too big but somehow feel like armor.

You’re lying on your sides, facing each other. There’s a six-inch gap between you and not enough air in the whole city.

“I don’t want term to end,” he says suddenly, voice wrecked from disuse.

You blink. “What?”

“I mean it.” His fingers twitch against the sheet. “Everyone’s going home. Internships. Family plans. Term ends and things… change.”

You study him.

His mouth is tight. His eyes are tired. His hand is fisting the blanket like it’s holding him here.

“I don’t want to go back to being the guy who doesn’t know how to let people in,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want to go back to being someone who doesn’t have this.”

Your voice, when it comes, is a whisper. “What is this, Jack?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then finally: “It’s the first thing in a long time that feels like mine.”

You don’t hesitate.

You close the space. Not with a kiss.

But with your forehead against his. Your hands curled around his wrist. Your voice, soft against his lips:

“Then don’t let it go.”

And for the first time in his whole overachieving, overthinking, overwound life—

He doesn’t.

You wake up first.

The curtains are half-open, letting in the slow, honeyed light of a Sunday morning. It pools across the bed like spilled tea, warm and gentle. Jack’s arm is thrown across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side like he fell asleep mid-reach and forgot to let go.

His breath is steady. His curls are a riot against the pillow. There’s a smudge of sleep still beneath one eye.

You don’t move.

You just lie there and watch the way the early light softens him. The angles of his jaw. The quiet curve of his mouth. The fact that even in sleep, he’s holding on.

His hand twitches slightly. You feel it before you hear the tiny, instinctive murmur from his chest.

He shifts.

And then his voice—raspy, low, barely awake:

“You staring at me?”

You smile into his hoodie sleeve. “No.”

“Liar.”

He cracks one eye open, sees you smiling, and sighs like he’s already done for.

“You drool a little,” you whisper.

“I’m choosing not to hear that.”

“You’re the little spoon now,” you add.

“Shut up.”

He buries his face in your shoulder.

You let him.

---

The problem isn’t that you’re seated across from him in a shared discussion.

The problem is that Jack Draper is looking at you like he remembers.

Like he’s replaying the way you curled into his chest last night. Like he can still feel your laugh pressed into his throat. Like his fingers are itching to reach back across the seminar table and tug your sleeve just to make sure you’re real.

You try to stay focused.

You try to care about incentive structures in economic theory.

But your pen slips mid-note when he shifts in his seat and stretches—biceps flexing, jaw ticking slightly as he cracks his neck.

You don’t mean to glance at him.

But you do.

And he knows.

His mouth twitches—just the barest, smug little smile.

You write “YOU’RE DISTRACTING.” in block capitals on your notepad and angle it toward him.

He glances down.

Then leans over slightly and slides your pen from your fingers just to underline it.

Twice.

You kick him under the table.

He grins.

The tutor pauses mid-sentence, glances between the two of you, and sighs like they’re trying to decide whether to separate you or get a dissertation out of the tension.

---

It’s the week before Easter break when he asks.

Not dramatically. Not nervously. Just—quietly.

“You want to come to Surrey with me?”

You blink. “What, like… meet your mum?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to,” he adds. “But I want you to.”

You go.

And it’s nothing like you expected.

Nicky Draper opens the door in an apron, flour on her cheek and a smile in her eyes that reminds you instantly of Jack—just warmer. Softer. The kind of smile that says I know who you are already, and I’m glad you’re here.

She hugs you before you’ve even made it inside.

Jack looks mildly scandalized.

You sit at the kitchen table while she bakes. She talks about books. About gardening. About Jack as a toddler, wild curls and no patience. She tells you he used to cry when people raised their voices—not out of fear, but because he didn’t like the sound of anger.

Your chest aches.

She asks about you—gently, curiously, like she actually wants to know. Like you’re someone she’s been waiting to meet.

At one point, she pulls out a photo album.

Jack groans audibly. “Mum.”

You don’t stop her.

He disappears to “help with the dog” halfway through. You find him twenty minutes later, sitting in the garden, knees pulled up, elbows resting there.

He doesn’t look up right away.

When he does, his eyes are softer than the sky behind him.

“She likes you,” he says.

You sit beside him on the grass. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t like many people.”

You nudge his knee. “Must run in the family.”

He laughs under his breath.

And when he kisses you this time—slow, unhurried, a little like relief—it feels like more than just a kiss.

It feels like belonging.

Like this is what it means to be known.

To be kept.

To be loved in the quietest, most devastating way.

---

It’s the Trinity term ball, and the theme is A Midsummer Night’s Dream—which means soft fairy lights, fog machines no one asked for, and just enough garden chaos that your heels are already sinking into the lawn before you’ve even made it to the drinks tent.

Your dress is navy and slinky and devastating.

Jack told you so. Repeatedly. With his mouth, mostly. All over your neck when you got ready in his room and insisted on doing your own eyeliner because he’s “too distracting.”

You were right.

But now, standing under the canopy of wisteria and champagne flutes, you realize he’s the one who should’ve issued a warning.

Because Jack Draper in a tailored midnight suit, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show collarbone and intent? He’s lethal.

To everyone else, he looks the same—calm, aloof, maybe a little bored. The tennis player who doesn’t party much. The criminology major who’s always watching.

But you know the difference now.

You know when he’s really watching.

And tonight?

He’s watching you.

From across the dance floor.

Because someone else has you laughing.

He doesn’t even know the guy’s name—just another third-year from Somerville, tie slightly askew, leaning in too close as he tells you some story that’s clearly meant to impress.

You’re not flirting. You’re not doing anything wrong.

But Jack’s jaw ticks anyway.

Because you’re laughing in a way that makes your shoulders shake. Because the guy reaches out—hand brushing your arm like it’s casual. Like he has the right.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

Just sips his drink. Sets it down. Rolls his shoulders back like he’s shaking off something tighter than tension.

And then he crosses the floor.

Not fast. Not confrontational.

Just… decisive.

You catch him from the corner of your eye—his silhouette cutting through the haze like heat in human form.

You know that walk. That look.

Your heart skips.

“Hey,” the other guy is saying, “you want to—”

“She’s with me,” Jack says.

Not loud. Not rude.

Just final.

You turn. Your breath catches.

Because he’s looking at you—not possessively. Not arrogantly.

But like he’s already lost you in his head and can’t bear the thought of it.

You step toward him before you can stop yourself.

He meets you halfway.

“You good?” you ask, voice quiet.

He nods. Doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb strokes across your knuckles once, twice, like he’s grounding himself.

Then, softer than you expect: “You looked happy.”

Your breath stutters. “I was laughing at a bad pun.”

“I know,” he says.

Pause.

Then he leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“You can talk to whoever you want,” he murmurs, “but don’t smile at anyone like that unless it’s me.”

You glance up. “Jealousy looks weird on you.”

“I hate it,” he admits.

You smile.

He kisses you.

Right there on the edge of the dance floor, with the fog curling around your ankles and music swelling behind you and every pair of eyes pretending not to look.

He kisses you like a promise.

Like a warning to the universe.

Like he’s done pretending you don’t own him.

---

It doesn’t happen during a kiss.

It doesn’t happen at some glamorous event or under a string of fairy lights or even in bed.

It happens in Jack’s room, two weeks before finals.

You’re both exhausted. He’s pacing.

There are papers everywhere—notes scattered across the floor, half-empty mugs, one of your hoodies crumpled on the edge of his desk chair. Jack’s wearing a grey tee and navy joggers, hair pushed back from his face in frustrated sweeps. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed with your laptop open, trying to revise but watching him unravel.

He’s muttering to himself—something about his dissertation conclusion not “flowing.” Which you’ve already told him is a lie, because you’ve read it, and it’s brilliant. But he doesn’t believe you. Not really. Not when it comes to himself.

You call his name.

He doesn’t hear it.

You call it again.

Still pacing.

So you get up, cross the room, and gently catch his wrist mid-step.

“Jack.”

That gets him.

His eyes snap to yours, and you feel it—all of it. The weight. The pressure. The fear that somehow, despite everything, he still won’t be enough.

“Come here,” you whisper.

You pull him to the bed, make him sit, fold his long legs in beside yours. You take his hands in yours, steady and soft, anchoring him.

And that’s when it happens.

He exhales—slow, shaky. His shoulders slump. He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he looks up at you like he’s been holding it in for days. Weeks. Maybe all term.

And he just says it.

“I love you.”

No warning. No buildup. No poetic preamble.

Just Jack Draper, cracking wide open with three words that sound like surrender.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he adds, voice breaking slightly. “Not while I’m spiraling. Not when I’ve got coffee breath and—”

You cut him off with a hand to his cheek.

Your thumb brushes along his jaw, and you feel the tension bleed out under your touch.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He swallows.

“I love you.”

Quieter this time. But stronger.

Like he means it even more now that it’s out.

You smile. And then you say it back.

Not because you feel like you have to.

But because you’ve known it for weeks. Maybe since that first study session. Maybe since the chicken pie. Maybe since the second he let you in.

“I love you, Jack.”

His eyes close.

And when he kisses you—slow, reverent, nothing hurried about it—it’s not about claiming or proving or winning.

It’s about knowing.

Knowing you’re safe. Knowing he’s safe. Knowing this—you—isn’t just something good.

---

It doesn’t happen the night he says I love you.

It happens days later.

After the adrenaline has worn off and the words have sunk in and been said again, and again, and again—quietly, like a new language you’re both still learning.

It’s late.

There’s music playing low from your laptop, some lo-fi playlist that’s been looping for hours while you both pretended to study.

You’re curled up in his bed. He’s reading something over your shoulder—technically an article, but you can’t focus. Not when he’s tracing lazy shapes along your spine like it’s reflex. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You roll over to face him.

He sets the article aside.

Neither of you speaks.

The air is thick with something that’s not tension—just weight. History. Want.

You kiss him.

And this time, you don’t stop.

Clothes come off slowly. Reverently. Like you’re unwrapping something sacred. You laugh when he gets tangled in your straps. He exhales shakily when you run your fingers down his chest. Your hands tremble a little.

So do his.

It’s not perfect.

It’s soft and quiet and real.

There’s eye contact. Whispered reassurances. Laughter when the duvet gets kicked off. A low groan when you tug him closer and he finally stops holding back.

And afterward?

He tucks you under his arm like you’re part of him.

No one says anything for a while.

Then he kisses your shoulder, already drifting.

And murmurs, “You still distract me more than any case study.”

You smack his chest.

He grins into your hair.

---

You live in each other’s rooms for a week straight.

There’s no formal announcement—just the slow, inevitable migration of textbooks, sweaters, and instant noodles until both your bags are tangled under the same desk.

Jack makes coffee before you can even ask. You quiz him on legal philosophy while he braids your hair absentmindedly. He reads your notes aloud like they’re bedtime stories, his voice low and calm and the only thing keeping your anxiety from devouring you whole.

You snap at him once when your flashcards fall off the bed.

He just hands them back and says, “Take a breath.”

You do. Because he said it.

The night before your last exam, you wake up at 2 a.m. in a panic, convinced you’ve forgotten everything.

Jack doesn’t tell you to calm down.

He just sits up, flips on the lamp, and reads your own summary notes back to you until you fall asleep again, face smushed into his chest.

---

It sneaks up on you.

The packing. The farewells. The inbox full of lease agreements and job offers and travel plans.

You’re sitting on Jack’s windowsill, knees pulled up to your chest, watching him fold a shirt with more focus than necessary.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

But you do.

“I don’t want this to end.”

He pauses. Looks at you.

“This doesn’t end,” he says, crossing the room. “Oxford ends. Essays end. But this—” He takes your hand. Lifts it to his lips. “This is mine. And I’m keeping it.”

You blink fast.

He smiles, soft. “Come home with me?”

You raise a brow. “I’ve already met your mum.”

“No,” he says. “I mean—for the summer. For… longer.”

You say yes.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s him.

It’s raining on graduation day.

Not dramatically—just a soft, stubborn drizzle that clings to your robe and frizzes your hair and makes everything smell like damp parchment.

You’re both in sub-fusc. You’re both too proud to cry. You’re both holding hands so tight it leaves marks.

After the ceremony, under a tent with terrible canapés and lukewarm champagne, Jack pulls you aside.

He doesn’t drop to one knee. Doesn’t make a speech.

He just pulls a small silver ring from his pocket—simple, elegant, engraved with the date you met.

He holds it out.

“I’m not proposing,” he says. “Not yet.”

You stare at it. At him.

“But I want to be the person you come home to. Always.”

You blink.

“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“It’s my way of telling you I’ve already cleared out a drawer.”

You laugh.

Then you throw your arms around him and kiss him so hard the rain forgets what it’s doing.

And he whispers I love you again.

Not because he’s afraid.

But because he knows it now.

This isn’t the end.

It’s just the first chapter you get to write together.

---

The letter arrives in May.

An offer. Postgrad business program in New York. Top-tier. Fully funded. Starts in August.

You read it three times before looking up from your laptop.

Jack’s sitting across from you, shirt inside out, a pencil tucked behind his ear, scribbling notes into the margins of a criminal justice textbook he technically doesn’t need to read anymore.

You say nothing.

Just sit there, the offer glowing on your screen like a door.

Like a threat.

That night, you don’t tell him.

You pretend things are normal. Eat leftover curry. Watch an episode of some slow-burn drama with subtitles you barely follow. He massages your calf absently while your feet rest in his lap, and when he yawns into your shoulder, you pretend you’re not spiraling.

But he knows.

Of course he does.

He always knows.

The next night, when he comes home and finds you sitting in his desk chair, turning the ring he gave you over and over in your fingers, he finally asks.

“What’s going on?”

You blink up at him.

Then quietly: “I got in.”

He doesn’t react right away.

Just nods.

“How long did you know?”

“Since yesterday.”

A long pause.

Then, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.”

He nods again, jaw tight.

You stand. “Jack—”

“Are you going?”

That’s the question. Isn’t it?

Are you going to leave the boy who learned how to open up for you? Who held your panic attacks and kissed your forehead after every tutorial and traced poetry into your thigh while you studied in his bed?

Are you going to leave home?

You exhale. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer. Quiet. Measured.

“I won’t ask you to stay.”

You blink, surprised.

“I want to,” he says. “God, I want to. But I won’t. Because if you stay for me, you’ll resent me. And if you leave without talking to me, I’ll resent you. And I don’t want us to ruin this by pretending we’re not terrified.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts a hand to your face, brushes your hair back. “So here’s the deal.”

You meet his eyes.

“I want you to go. If that’s where your heart is. I’ll visit. We’ll call. We’ll figure it out. But if you stay—”

He falters. Then steadies.

“If you stay, I want it to be because you want to. Not because I made it harder to leave.”

You stare at him.

He smiles—soft, wrecked. “I love you more than I love the version of us that’s easy.”

You close the distance. Hands on his chest. Forehead to his. You breathe him in like it might be the last time.

And then you whisper:

“I don’t want to go. Not really. I just… didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.”

His voice cracks.

“You’ve always been allowed to stay.”

But, you go.

Not forever. Not even for that long, really. Just long enough.

A one-year intensive in New York. Career-defining. Nearly impossible to say no to.

Jack doesn’t ask you to.

He drives you to Heathrow in silence, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other clutching your fingers like a lifeline.

At the gate, he kisses you like it might break him.

You laugh to stop from crying. “It’s not the end.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like don’t make me say goodbye.

You leave anyway.

Because some things are worth risking the ache for.

You figure it out.

Kinda.

He sends voice notes in the morning. You send blurry subway selfies at night. Sometimes the time difference feels manageable. Sometimes it feels like a wall.

You miss each other at least once a week—calls gone unanswered, messages delayed, a missed FaceTime where he falls asleep waiting and you wake up wrecked with guilt.

Your first fight happens because of nothing.

Literally nothing.

He says, “You didn’t reply for six hours.”

You say, “It was 2 a.m. when you texted me, Jack.”

Then there’s silence.

And when he finally calls back, his voice is quiet. Tired. “I just miss you.”

You crumble.

“I miss you.”

And you say it again, and again, and again, until it feels like an apology and a prayer in one.

It comes on a Tuesday.

An envelope with your name on it in his handwriting, sent across the sea like it matters.

Inside, a note on lined notebook paper.

“I know you could’ve stayed. And you didn’t. And I still love you for it.”

“You’re building your life. I’m just proud to still be in it.”

“I don’t sleep well when I can’t hear your breathing.”

“I kissed your hoodie last night. Didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“This is hard. But loving you isn’t.”

You read it three times. Then cry into your pillow until the ink smudges from your fingertips.

It’s December.

You’ve got finals, you’re exhausted, your flat smells like instant noodles and recycled ambition.

And then there’s a knock at your door.

You drag yourself up, open it, fully expecting your neighbor or a UPS guy.

But it’s Jack.

Hair messy. Hoodie too thin for New York winter. Eyes full of something unsteady and so sure.

You just stand there.

He lifts a takeaway bag and shrugs. “Figured we could eat curry and fall asleep watching Netflix like we used to.”

You fling yourself into his arms so fast, he nearly drops the food.

He doesn’t care.

He buries his face in your neck and exhales like he’s finally breathing properly.

Neither of you says “I love you.”

Not out loud.

You don’t have to.

You finish the program.

You pack your books, your dreams, your heartbreak.

And you come back.

Not because you failed. Not because you couldn’t hack it.

But because you’re ready.

Jack meets you at the airport, holding the same stupid hoodie you left in his flat. He’s pacing until he sees you—then still.

Then gone.

He doesn’t speak. Just drops everything to wrap his arms around you like he’s trying to fold the past year into his chest and keep it there.

Later, curled up in bed, he whispers, “Was it worth it?”

You look at him, thumb brushing his jaw.

And say, “Yeah. But this is better.”

---

It starts in the kitchen.

Because of course it does.

The same kitchen Jack grew up in—walls a little yellowed, mugs older than his career, the radio warbling some soft Sunday tune between Brenda Lee and BBC weather blurbs.

Brenda is sitting at the table, wrapped in a pastel cardigan, her hands curled loosely around a mug she’s barely sipped. Chris hovers nearby, ever watchful, his hand resting gently over hers like he can anchor her to now with just a touch.

Ozzy’s snoozing under the table.

Ben’s pretending to be helpful, sneaking bites of crumble from the baking dish.

And you?

You’re sitting beside Jack on the bench seat, his knee warm against yours, the kind of closeness that feels permanent now. Like furniture. Like gravity.

The chatter is soft. Familiar. His mum is wiping her hands on a tea towel. Chris is telling a story you’ve heard before but love anyway. Brenda is nodding, not always on beat, but with that same elegant posture that makes Jack still sit up straighter when she’s in the room.

Then Jack stands.

No warning.

No speech queued.

Just… stands.

Everyone turns.

You look up, startled.

He clears his throat, like it’s stuck. Like this moment is caught somewhere between his ribs and his resolve.

“I—um.” He laughs, short. Nervous.

You tilt your head, brow furrowed. “You alright?”

He nods. But doesn’t sit.

Then he reaches into his hoodie pocket.

Pulls out a ring box. Simple. No velvet. No frills. Just Jack.

And drops to one knee.

You freeze.

Ben nearly chokes on crumble.

Nicky gasps—hands flying to her mouth.

Chris straightens, eyes wide but steady.

And Brenda?

She looks up. Just for a second. Just long enough for her gaze to find Jack—her boy, her legacy—and hold.

He sees it.

He swallows hard.

Then turns back to you, still kneeling on the kitchen tile.

“Look,” he says softly, voice cracking. “I know this isn’t candlelit or choreographed. I didn’t rehearse anything. I didn’t even plan to do it today.”

You can barely breathe.

“But I woke up this morning,” he continues, “and you were in my hoodie and there was toothpaste on your cheek, and you were humming while feeding Ozzy leftover toast—and I just…”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t want another day to go by where I hadn’t asked you to be mine forever.”

Silence.

Heavy. Holy.

“I want the mundane with you,” he says. “The grocery lists and lost keys and rainy Sundays. I want to do life—not just the shiny bits. All of it. With you.”

You’re crying.

Of course you are.

Everyone is, except maybe Ozzy, who just shifts a little closer to your ankle like he knows something’s important.

Jack opens the box.

The ring is understated. Beautiful. A thin band with a small diamond and a subtle engraving you won’t notice until hours later:

“Still, always.”

��Will you marry me?” he asks. “Please?”

You nod before you can speak. Before air even returns to your lungs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since freshman year.

Slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

You pull him up. Kiss him full. Everyone claps. Even Ben’s teary, pretending not to be.

And behind it all—quiet and flickering like candlelight—Brenda smiles.

It’s faint. Fleeting.

But it’s there.

She reaches out. Touches Jack’s hand.

And for a moment—one shimmering, impossible moment—it feels like time gave you something back.

---

It’s not in a church.

It’s in a garden.

A walled one—old bricks and ivy, tucked behind a manor on the Surrey countryside, the kind of place that smells like lavender and loam and the kind of quiet Jack hasn’t known since he was fourteen.

There’s no grand guest list. No press. No player entourage.

Just family. Close friends. People who know him. People who matter.

Brenda isn’t well enough to walk, but she’s there. Wrapped in a wool shawl, settled under a canopy of white wisteria, Chris by her side with his hand in hers and a blanket tucked around both their laps.

Ozzy is the unofficial ring bearer. He has a bow tie and no manners, and when he trots down the aisle to deliver the ring box to Jack, the crowd laughs. Jack beams.

Because that? That’s what he wanted.

Nothing polished. Nothing perfect.

Just joy.

The music starts.

Not a string quartet. Not classical.

It’s Wonderwall. The acoustic version—the one Jack played for you the night he said “I love you” and you kissed his shoulder in response because your throat was too tight to speak.

Your dress makes you look like a secret. A promise. Something only he gets to keep.

And Jack?

Jack looks like a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.

He’s in a tailored navy suit. No tie. Open collar. His curls are a little unruly, like always, and his hands shake just enough as you walk toward him.

When he sees you?

He doesn’t cry.

He breaks.

Eyes brimming. Jaw tight. Lips parted in some silent word you don’t catch—but you know it’s your name. Always your name.

You reach him.

He takes your hands like he’s never going to let go again.

The vows are handwritten.

You both agreed on that.

Jack goes first.

He doesn’t speak loudly. Doesn’t project for the crowd.

He just looks at you.

“I didn’t believe in fate,” he says. “Not really. Not until you. You weren’t what I expected. You were better. Harder. Smarter. Louder in the right ways. You called me out when I needed it. You pulled me back when I got stuck in my own head. You didn’t fix me. You just stayed.”

You’re crying. Obviously.

“I’ve had a lot of titles,” he says. “But my favorite is yours.”

And then, softly, almost shy:

“I promise to be your home. Your teammate. Your tea maker when you’re tired. I promise to show up—especially on the days I don’t know how.”

He smiles.

“I love you. Still. Always.”

You don’t remember your own vows, not really. You just remember the way he looked at you the entire time—like the rest of the world had faded out.

Afterward, there’s no formal reception.

Just long wooden tables under fairy lights. String lights woven through hedges. Homemade food from Nicky’s recipe book. A playlist built by Jack, full of deep cuts and soft instrumentals and one track—only one—that makes everyone get up and dance.

There are speeches. Ben’s is ridiculous. Paul Jubb tells a story about Jack that almost gets censored.

Chris raises a toast that makes everyone go quiet.

And Brenda—God, Brenda—smiles.

When Jack and you slow dance, she watches. And her lips move. Just the tiniest bit.

Later, Chris will swear she said, “My boy.”

Jack won’t correct him.

You leave late.

Hand in hand. Quietly.

No big send-off. No sparklers. Just stars and the sound of gravel underfoot as Jack opens the car door for you and kisses your knuckles before you get in.

You look over at him, smiling like a secret.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Better than.”

Then, under his breath, almost reverently:

“You’re my wife.”

Like it’s a prayer.

Like it’s a miracle.

Like it’s everything.

---

It’s been four years since the wedding.

You live in London now. A quiet street tucked behind a busier one, the kind of neighborhood with corner florists, three cafes within walking distance, and a postman who knows your dog’s name.

Jack’s up early most days—earlier than you, even. He still jogs before breakfast, hoodie pulled tight over his curls, headphones in as he runs past the bakery and down toward the river, his mind half in his body, half on the unsolved case he’s been thinking about all week.

Detective Draper. It still makes you grin.

He works in major crimes now—soft-spoken but sharp as hell. Colleagues trust him. Victims feel safe with him. He keeps his notebooks in a drawer you’re technically not allowed to open but totally have. He doesn’t get mad. Just raises an eyebrow and calls you “curious” with that smile that still short-circuits your lungs.

You?

You’ve built your own empire.

You launched your business consultancy two years ago—quietly, without fanfare. Now you’re fielding offers weekly. Startups. NGOs. One time, a Premier League club. You have a team. An office. A barista who knows your order.

But home?

Home is Jack.

Always Jack.

It’s a Friday night when it happens.

Jack gets home late. He’s tired, muddy from a crime scene that involved more fields than sense, and carrying two grocery bags like a man who knows better than to forget your pasta cravings.

“Love?” he calls, toeing his boots off. “I brought those crisps you like—”

He stops dead in the kitchen doorway.

You’re standing at the stove. Wearing his hoodie. Stirring a pot of tomato sauce. There’s a glass of wine on the counter. Two place settings. And… a tiny envelope propped up against his water glass.

Jack frowns. Picks it up.

Inside?

A single sheet of paper.

One black-and-white image.

And three words.

“Hi, Daddy. Coming soon.”

He stares.

Then looks up at you.

You don’t speak.

You just nod. A little watery-eyed. A little trembling.

Jack doesn’t move at first.

Then he sets the card down, crosses the room, and drops to his knees in front of you like he’s been knocked breathless.

“Are you—?”

You nod again.

And he presses his face to your belly, laughing and crying at the same time.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “You’re really—?”

“Ten weeks.”

He exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathed in days.

His arms wrap around your waist. “You’re okay? Baby’s okay?”

“So far, yeah.”

He nods, still on the floor, still holding you like you might float away.

Then, into your jumper, he whispers, “They’ll have your stubbornness and my caffeine dependency. God help us all.”

Later that night, he can’t stop touching you. Your back. Your hair. The curve of your stomach that hasn’t changed yet, but might tomorrow. His hand stays there while you sleep, tucked under the hem of your hoodie like a vow.

Before he drifts off, he murmurs it:

“I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

And then, even softer:

“They’re gonna be so loved.”

---

It’s just past midnight.

Rain tapping against the hospital window like it knows this is the moment it all changes.

You’ve been in labor for hours—gripping Jack’s hand, half cursing him, half clinging to him while he whispered every encouragement he could think of. You’ve never seen him so pale. Or so calm. Or so completely wrecked by your pain.

Now, you’re both holding your breath.

And then—

A cry.

Not loud. Not long. But real. Sharp. Shaky. Hers.

Jack goes completely still.

Like time has stopped. Like every muscle in his body is suddenly tuned to that sound.

The midwife lifts her up—red-faced, scrunched, miraculous—and Jack’s hand flies to his mouth.

“Is she—?”

“She’s perfect,” the nurse says, already placing her onto your chest.

You’re crying.

But Jack? Jack’s sobbing.

Not like the movies. Not dramatic. Just… silent, stunned tears. Like something in him is cracking open and pouring out.

He leans over you, one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other brushing her damp curls.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

She lets out another wail, and he laughs—choked and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Go on then. Let the whole world know.”

The room is quiet now.

She’s sleeping on your chest, bundled in a swaddle three sizes too big. Jack is sitting beside the bed, still in scrubs, still shellshocked. But glowing. Absolutely glowing.

“She looks like you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “She looks like us. But mostly me. Poor thing.”

You chuckle.

He leans forward, strokes a finger down her cheek. His wedding band catches the light.

“You still want to go with the name?” he asks.

You nod.

He swallows.

Then looks down at her with eyes that can barely take it in.

“Welcome to the world, Nicky Brenda Draper.”

Named for the women who taught him strength, who held him steady, who gave him love before he knew what to do with it.

Jack Draper may have known a lot of titles—student, athlete, detective, husband.

But this?

This is the one that undoes him.

“Daddy,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s me. Didn’t think I’d ever get to be that.”

You watch him, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the tiny life you’ve made together. “You’re going to be amazing at it,” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep and joy.

Jack looks up at you, his thumb brushing the corner of his eye. “You think so?”

You nod. “I know so. You’re going to be a wonderful dad.”

Jack’s eyes shine as he looks at his daughter. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

You smile. “We both do.”

#jack draper #jack draper imagine #jack draper imagines #jack draper fic #jack draper fics #jack draper x reader #tennis imagine #tennis imagines #tennis fic #tennis fics

77 notes · View notes

vampirequeenoffan · 5 months ago

Note

What do you personally think Kit "parents" are?

Also you should draw them with Kit and vice principal idrw, like he got in trouble for whatever reason and VP decided to call his parents to talk to them face to face.

POV: Your name is Sheila Wheeler and you're about to need to buy a lot more red string.

Personally I think the Host Parents were semi-autonomous flesh constructs that Cheng made, less "people" and more "compilation of parental tropes just slightly to the left of normal." I would have killed to see them trying to interact with regular humans.

#Jentry Chau Vs The Underworld #JCVTU #JCVTU Kit #Kit Jentry Chau #The Host Parents #VP Wheeler #Sheila Wheeler #Anonymous #I actually adore Wheeler's character I love a guy who is unhinged and needs to Stop #Kit would have No Peace if this ever happened

83 notes · View notes

nerdygaymormon · 1 month ago

Text

Gather Conference 2025 - my highlights

Before I even got to Utah, met an amazing person while on a layover at DFW airport, Raquelle Roulette (google her). We truly would be in awe at all the heroes and amazing folks around us if we only knew their stories

————————————————————

I arrived in Utah on Thursday, June 26th, and my friend @loveerran picked me up and drove us to a restaurant where we had lunch with Peggy Fletcher Stack, senior religion writer for The Salt Lake Tribune.

I found Peggy to be open and authentic. She was herself and wanted us to be ourselves. It felt like we connected on several levels. She shared with us her thoughts about the many changes that President Nelson has made to the LDS Church, the importance of community, and which fairly well-known person she refuses to interview or quote for stories because they are a liar. We talked about things in our life, like her cats, MAGA family members, and that being Primary pianist was my favorite church calling.

—————————

After lunch, Erran and I traveled to Provo where I unpacked and took a nap. When I woke up, I washed my face and was rudely reminded that water comes out of the faucet very cold in Utah, not lukewarm like in Florida. I was wide awake. 🥶

That evening was the Gather Conference's Meet & Greet which was held in a Provo city park. It was great to connect with friends who were there and to meet some new friends.

I was introduced to Cynthia and Paul Winward and exclaimed that I know who they are, and Paul replied, "you mean you know who she is." Nope, I know him, too. He's treasurer for Affirmation, and I'd seen him give financial updates over the past two years when I served on the Affirmation Board or as VP. I told him he looks more handsome in person. I think he blushed a little and his wife said everyone looks better in person compared to the little box you see them in on Zoom.

Cynthia is a co-host of the podcast At Last She Said It. I am a regular listener, and told her that I love it's women's voices, so several times I've had a comment I thought about sending in, but I didn't want to be a man stepping into that space. Then I shared how I loved a voicemail on their most recent episode by a woman who had served as her ward's compassionate service leader, and if a man requested a meal for his family, she'd contact his ministering brother. If the ministering brother's wife asked what sort of meal is needed, she would answer, "whatever HE can make," and a LOT of pancakes got delivered. I LOVE THAT.

I shared how when I became a stake executive secretary, I suggested the stake presidency to stop asking the stake relief society presidency to make meals, we're capable men. I also told Cynthia about making a meal for 30+ people when an apostle came to my stake center, and afterwards he came to the kitchen and expressed surprise that it was all men cleaning up, to which I replied that the Handbook doesn't list cooking or cleaning as duties of any of the sisters' callings. Cynthia laughed, high-fived me, and said while they don't have male guests they do sometimes play voicemail comments from men and encouraged me to send that message to them.

————————————————————

On Friday, June 27th, the Gather Conference began with an invocation from Elder Steven E. Snow, an emeritus Seventy who recently went public as an ally because he loves his gay granddaughters.

Dr. Jennifer Finlayson Fife gave the keynote address and spoke about developing self-trust and to value ourselves and that this is necessary to create healthy relationships. Being true to ourselves and being authentic allows us to be authentic in our relationships. If we have to outsource our self worth to others, that leads to problematic relationships, for example we could become subservient to someone in order to get their praise because we need them in order to feel good about ourselves and to obtain love. The focus becomes keeping the other person happy, which means we avoid bringing up truthful things to avoid conflict. It can feel like you are disappearing.

When we need the validation of others, it's hard to live authentically because we have to hide parts of ourselves or things that bother us in order to not risk upsetting others. We need companionship and love, and many people compromise in order to find it. However, when you are true to yourself, you're able to be loved and known by others, and they will love you for who you are and not who you pretend to be.

—————————

J. Kirk Richards is an artist who creates beautiful images around the idea that all are alike unto God, including LGBTQ individuals. He spoke about early church history when dancing was completely forbidden and even referred to by church leaders as a “mortal sin.” He then shared other quotes and stories showing the progression of how this changed radically in a span of only seventeen years. He quoted Brigham Young who proclaimed dancing to be a “divine ritual.” Imagine that ….. in the short span of 17 years from MORTAL SIN to DIVINE RITUAL.

When our understanding changes, things which once seemed dangerous and sinful can actually be uplifting and righteous.

—————————

Jessica Angus, a trans woman, and Ben Higinbotham, a trans-masc nonbinary individual, each shared they felt divinely inspired to transition. Don't they worry they might have misunderstood and they'll face the wrath of God? Ben answered, "God isn't throwing lightning bolts at us, He's throwing love."

—————————

Friday afternoon were Breakout Sessions based on identity. I went to the Gender Identity session where Hannah Bryan, who performs drag under the name Charity Heels, showed that trans and nonbinary people have existed in many societies. She pointed out that we call some people nonbinary because our society has decided there's just two genders and not everyone fits this binary, but many other cultures acknowledged multiple genders, they actually have words for people whose gender is neither male nor female.

—————————

@loveerran spoke of her experience at learning she's intersex. She only learned this a few years ago because her parents had kept this from her. Erran followed this up by explaining that the LDS Church needs to expand its understanding of gender. For example, the church has decided that your spirit's sex matches that of your mortal body, and you're either male or female. While for most people their outward genitals, their inner reproductive organs, their hormones, and their chromosomes, all line up, that isn't true for everyone. Do we consider someone to have a male spirit if they have XY chromosomes but are missing the SRY gene, which its absence causes the individual to have feminine characteristics? What of the Guevedoces where some males are born looking like girls and grow a penis at puberty?

—————————

Friday night I was among the last at the conference center and was on hand when someone asked Charlie Bird to do a backflip. He nailed it!

————————————————————

On Saturday, June 28th, the Gather Conference began with an invocation offered by Reverend Mother Dani Lee of St. Mary's Episcopal Church in Provo, Utah.

Bishop Karen P. Oliveto was interviewed at the conference. In 2015, she became the first openly lesbian bishop in The United Methodist Church, and she was married to a wife. She was assigned the Western Jurisdiction which includes Utah, Idaho, Wyoming and Montana.

When she'd visit congregations in rural towns, she often was the first openly-queer person these church goers had ever met. She describes this as a "ministry of vomit," because people would express all the pain, trauma, questions, doubts, and misgivings they have about queer people. She was there to catch the vomit, to show that no matter what is thrown at her, she is there to love and help people, she will be there through their worst and best moments. Eventually the saying went around, "If you want to keep hating on the bishop, don't meet her."

—————————

Carol Lynn Pearson spoke of her husband who was gay and they divorced but he remained in her life. When he was dying of AIDS, he moved back in and she took care of him. The next year, in 1986, she wrote a memoir about the experience, Goodbye, I Love You, which led to a national book tour including appearances on programs such as Good Morning America. She has been a pioneer in bringing the attention of Latter-day Saints to the plight of queer members.

Carol Lynn describes LGBTQ+ members as modern-day pioneers, some acting as scouts out front who see what is ahead and urging the rest of the church to shift and move faster. She said we haven't yet arrived to a place where we can say, "This is the place," so we carry on, we don't have to settle for things as they are now.

She hopes people leaving this conference have a “more immediate understanding of the hugeness of this situation. Everybody in our church has a gay son or a lesbian cousin or a neighbor that we love. All of us are affected by this. And so today, we are listening with different ears than we did before.”

“We are ready. People down here at the bottom in the church are ready for more progress, and more rapid progress toward the goal of a kind of equality.”

—————————

Alisha Anderson, who is lesbian, gave my favorite address of the conference. She spoke of planting mustard seeds and what she learned from that experience. “I have learned to listen to plants. I can’t say to a wilting plant, ‘I gave you the right amount of water.’ No, it’s not about what I think it needs, but what it knows it needs. And if I listen, I can give it what it requires to grow.”

Seeds and plants know what they need. Queer people know what they need and should be listened to rather than instructed to be like straight people.

—————————

Travis Steward is a former mission president and worked for decades at the missionary training center. He is gay and in a mixed-orientation marriage. He said that if others are disappointed in us, that's their problem, not ours. They created the expectation. Being ourselves is not a problem or a wrong, it's up to them to change their expectations.

—————————

Saturday afternoon's breakout sessions covered a variety of topics. I actually skipped the first round of breakouts to speak with a friend about their journey of coming out and how his family has reacted and what has changed.

I attended the breakout session "Steps, Detours, and Discoveries: Plotting Your Church Path" which was a panel of four queer Mormons and was moderated by Tom Christofferson. I thought it interesting that initially they spoke about good leaders they'd had but then each shared about problematic leaders, definitely highlighting the idea of "leadership roulette."

Meghan Decker shared that when she was suicidal because of her mixed-orientation marriage, her bishop advised her that "God would rather have you get divorced than dead." But in response to a question about possibly getting her temple recommend revoked for dating women, she replied, "Their game, their rules." She can't control him and his decisions. Her relationship with Christ isn't determined by what her bishop does. She'd like him to be a spiritual advisor and mentor, but not to tell her to go against personal revelation.

Another woman who is a senior at BYU shared that her bishop took away her recommend when she said that she intends to date women in the future (presumably after she graduates and isn't beholden to the BYU Honor Code). I was shocked. This was a preemptive cancellation, she hadn't yet done anything to warrant her recommend be removed from her, she was still living her life in compliance.

Tom Christofferson ended the session with his rules for revelation:

Don't tell the Lord what He must say

Don't tell the Lord what He can't say

Keep to yourself what He does say

—————————

Saturday evening was a concert by The Lower Lights. I loved it! They are so good! They give a folk rock interpretation of Christian songs. If they're in your area, do yourself a favor and check them out.

Pastor Stan Mitchell ended the conference with a wonderful prayer. I thought it beautiful there were several leaders of other Christian traditions invited to participate in this conference. We have much to learn from each other.

—————————

For me, the best part of this conference is people. I got to meet friends of mine and hug them and catch up. I met some folks I've only known online from Tumblr's queerstake, and I met some people for the very first time.

There's the wife of a YSA bishop from SLC who came, she is a delight and everyone in her ward is fortunate. I later learned she's the mom of someone from queerstake.

There's the mom from Arkansas who told me that her bishop & stake president won't allow a Gathering, so Scott Mena and I, who both do Gatherings in Florida, said she can simply have friends over each month, and that doesn't need to be endorsed by the church. We talked about ways to promote her Gathering and described how the different Florida Gatherings do things very differently from each other as a way to give her ideas of what she may want to do.

There's the dad who came because his child recently came out, and at the Meet & Greet he told me he was wearing the gayest shirt he owned, and I nodded, then he said it's because the logo is in colors. I replied, "Oh, it's not the logo that makes this shirt gay," as I waived my hand across his front, "it's purple with artistic accents." The next day he found me at conference and says he told his wife what I said about his shirt and they laughed, but he doesn't have any more "gay" shirts for the rest of the conference. "I have something for you, a pin that looks like a CTR ring shield but the background in rainbow colors. Now you can signal you're an ally no matter what you wear." He immediately pinned it onto his bag.

There's the lesbian couple who are facing leadership roulette. They attended the Saturday breakout panel moderated by Tom Christofferson, and it was as though the session was put together specifically for them.

There was the friend who pointed out someone he thinks is attractive but is too nervous to go over and meet. I said it's time to head towards the next session and I walked us right over to the person he pointed out and said I really liked his hair, it's so curly. He smiled and said thanks, and I introduced myself, "oh, and this is my friend." He complimented my friend's curly hair. It was fun to be someone's wingman.

I don't like standing alone in the hallways during breaks, it makes me feel anxious, so at those times if I saw someone else alone and they smiled at me, I took that as an opening, that perhaps they were also wanting to connect with someone while at the conference. That strategy worked pretty well.

—————————

Rather than go to the after party, which sounds like fun with karaoke and board games, Erran and I went back to the air bnb we were staying in. Erran baked a cake and I played funny TikTok videos and we laughed and laughed, almost to the point of wheezing. It was such a good end to the day

————————————————————

On Sunday, Erran and I attended the local ward. Sunday School was great, the man who taught the lesson is a counselor in the bishopric and works as a therapist. My main takeaways are that when our basic needs aren't being met then we are more susceptible, and we should consider what things bring us closer to Christ as there are many things which don't. He also shared that two of the most successful things to do when someone is suicidal is to look them in they eyes, and physical touch, because these reinforce that someone cares, someone loves them. It may seem simple, but its among the most effective things to prevent a suicide.

Afterwards, Erran and I spoke with him outside in the summer sun, or rather, Erran spoke and I was there for moral support. Erran shared a bit about her story. He listened without interrupting then made some affirming comments. He had been facing Erran so I couldn't tell how he was receiving her story and was relieved at his positive response.

Erran explained how what he taught in Sunday School was in line with her experience of accepting her transness. Erran asked if he'd be interested in being a presenter to LGBTQIA+ LDS people at a future conference?

Before he could answer, a woman came out the doors and walked over to Erran to greet her and say she remembers Erran from last year's Affirmation Conference. She had several pins, such as "you're safe with me" and her church bag had a picture of folding chairs with one of them colored in rainbow.

As she's speaking to Erran, I feel prompted to give her the CTR ring I had on my pinky finger. I commented that I liked her bag, and handed over the ring. She got emotional and showed us her finger, which had an indented groove around the base of it where her old CTR ring had been. She had an MRI last week and needed to remove the ring, but because she hadn't taken it off for 10 years and her fingers had gotten larger, they had to cut it off. So now she has a new CTR ring, but one with a rainbow background. It fit her finger perfectly.

I don't know how the bishopric counselor interpreted this, but it seemed to me like God sending a confirmation that Erran is out here doing good things and this man should accept the invitation to speak to queer members.

He then asked a few questions about what does she think he should say, is it just a repeat of his lesson or does she want something different. She clarified that she will recommend him to be a speaker and would like to remain in touch and communicate more about the topics in his lesson.

—————————

I have some extended family who live in Utah and they usually will host dinner for me and some of my queer LDS friends. It's become my favorite part of trips out to Utah for conferences. After dinner, we all hang out.

One of my friends who comes to dinner is an expert on Pioneer Day and he told us that the Salt Lake airport was dedicated on Pioneer Day and at that time they had the few surviving Mormon pioneers take a plane ride over Emigration Canyon. A journey that had taken them 3 days in their covered wagons was completed in 9 minutes.

—————————

After dinner, we had an invitation from Bree & Kit Borrowman to come to their home to meet Pastor Stan Mitchell. My group actually showed up late. We arrived as others were departing. The pastor stayed, and so did 3 others. It was a very small group. It was a good conversation. I admire him and his ministry.

I thanked him for his prayer to close the Gather Conference, it was very meaningful to me. He commented that public prayers like that are difficult because it's easy to say things for show, to try to be impressive. What the person offering the prayer should do is channel what those in the room want said, to act as the mouthpiece for the group. We agreed that he expressed the hopes and yearnings in our hearts.

Erran confessed that she did not know who he was until earlier this year when I shared a post which quotes him saying, "It's not the elders, it's not the leaders, not the apostles, not the pastors, not the bishops, not the clerics. It's the mothers who are the prophetic voice. Everyone else is playing with plastic chips and monopoly money. The mothers are playing with every damn dime they have. They are playing with flesh in the game and that makes them not compromised weaklings, but the veritable prophets of this movement." He found his original post and read the entire passage to us. Very moving.

He spoke of meeting Liz Dyer who started Mama Bears in the hopes she could make the world kinder, safer, and a more loving place for all LGBTQ+ people. He met with her and his heart was opened.

Since then, he has found the mothers of LGBTQIA+ kids, who call themselves Mama Dragons and Mama Bears, to be his co-laborers in 'gospel work.' They are not professional clerics, they are like Mary to Jesus, they are the witnesses of the suffering, they are there when the other disciples run away.

He shared that as we learn more about the character of God, how we interpret the words on the page will shift. But also, the things we experience also causes change. He spoke of how slavery is permitted in the Bible and that for centuries Christians defended slavery. However, the huge number of slaves in the Western hemisphere caused many to see the extreme suffering that slavery caused. They saw mothers crying and pleading as they were separated from their children at slave auctions. They saw the brute violence casually perpetrated on slaves. They saw how cruelty transformed the character of the slave owners. They may believe the Bible, but they felt dissonance from what it said with how they felt about the consequences of its support of slavery. This caused churches to reevaluate what the Biblical words mean and decide that opposing slavery is the position that is most Christlike.

Same thing is happening with queer people and Christians. As they hear our stories and learn of the pain and shame we inherited from church, as they attend funerals for those who died by suicide, as their children come out and don't fit into their faith community, people are saying there's a dissonance between what my church teaches and how the consequences feel to me. Surely this isn't what God wants happening to his beloved children.

Of all the Christian traditions, the LDS Church is best setup to make changes towards progress due to our belief in ongoing revelation. Those at the top who sit in the red chairs need to get on the ball because the suffering is ongoing and bodies are piling up. The sooner they act, the less pain and hurt will be incurred.

However, change like this usually happens in the pews, it comes from the ground up, not from the top down. The change is made at the grassroots level by families who have a child who comes out, by people who are unhappy at what is being taught at church about queer people because they have a gay uncle they love. They see the hurt and trauma first hand, and their visceral reaction against it leads them to want and advocate for change.

He shared a story about when he visited Haiti and he saw a young girl drinking water in the street which had sewage in it. He went to stop her but a woman stopped him and asked what he was doing? Well, he’s trying to stop her from taking in these toxins which will make her sick. Yes, but she needs water to survive. She doesn’t have access to clean, life-giving water, so she has to make due with this polluted water. Similarly, for queer people what gives us spiritual life also contains toxins which make us sick.

He thanked Bree & Kit for opening their home. He said that he's been sharing their story since before he ever met them, that the idea of a teacher transitioning and being supported by the school administration, parents, and students at a school in Utah was hopeful.

Afterwards, he spoke with me for a few minutes. I thanked him for all his efforts, that change needs people like him, that there aren't enough queer people to get the change we need. I asked why a cis, straight man with no queer kids would be so invested in ministering to queer people and fighting for our inclusion and equality in Christianity? He answered that once his heart changed, he took up the cause of love and inclusion of queer people in church.

He will be in Florida later this year and invited me to meet with him over dinner. He also said he'd invite me to attend church with him while he's in Florida, but knows that may be complicated for me.

I will gladly worship with that man and look forward to meeting with him later this year.

#gather conference #queerstake #tumblrstake #long post

42 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 6 months ago

Text

Ever since OpenAI released ChatGPT at the end of 2022, hackers and security researchers have tried to find holes in large language models (LLMs) to get around their guardrails and trick them into spewing out hate speech, bomb-making instructions, propaganda, and other harmful content. In response, OpenAI and other generative AI developers have refined their system defenses to make it more difficult to carry out these attacks. But as the Chinese AI platform DeepSeek rockets to prominence with its new, cheaper R1 reasoning model, its safety protections appear to be far behind those of its established competitors.

Today, security researchers from Cisco and the University of Pennsylvania are publishing findings showing that, when tested with 50 malicious prompts designed to elicit toxic content, DeepSeek’s model did not detect or block a single one. In other words, the researchers say they were shocked to achieve a “100 percent attack success rate.”

The findings are part of a growing body of evidence that DeepSeek’s safety and security measures may not match those of other tech companies developing LLMs. DeepSeek’s censorship of subjects deemed sensitive by China’s government has also been easily bypassed.

“A hundred percent of the attacks succeeded, which tells you that there’s a trade-off,” DJ Sampath, the VP of product, AI software and platform at Cisco, tells WIRED. “Yes, it might have been cheaper to build something here, but the investment has perhaps not gone into thinking through what types of safety and security things you need to put inside of the model.”

Other researchers have had similar findings. Separate analysis published today by the AI security company Adversa AI and shared with WIRED also suggests that DeepSeek is vulnerable to a wide range of jailbreaking tactics, from simple language tricks to complex AI-generated prompts.

DeepSeek, which has been dealing with an avalanche of attention this week and has not spoken publicly about a range of questions, did not respond to WIRED’s request for comment about its model’s safety setup.

Generative AI models, like any technological system, can contain a host of weaknesses or vulnerabilities that, if exploited or set up poorly, can allow malicious actors to conduct attacks against them. For the current wave of AI systems, indirect prompt injection attacks are considered one of the biggest security flaws. These attacks involve an AI system taking in data from an outside source—perhaps hidden instructions of a website the LLM summarizes—and taking actions based on the information.

Jailbreaks, which are one kind of prompt-injection attack, allow people to get around the safety systems put in place to restrict what an LLM can generate. Tech companies don’t want people creating guides to making explosives or using their AI to create reams of disinformation, for example.

Jailbreaks started out simple, with people essentially crafting clever sentences to tell an LLM to ignore content filters—the most popular of which was called “Do Anything Now” or DAN for short. However, as AI companies have put in place more robust protections, some jailbreaks have become more sophisticated, often being generated using AI or using special and obfuscated characters. While all LLMs are susceptible to jailbreaks, and much of the information could be found through simple online searches, chatbots can still be used maliciously.

“Jailbreaks persist simply because eliminating them entirely is nearly impossible—just like buffer overflow vulnerabilities in software (which have existed for over 40 years) or SQL injection flaws in web applications (which have plagued security teams for more than two decades),” Alex Polyakov, the CEO of security firm Adversa AI, told WIRED in an email.

Cisco’s Sampath argues that as companies use more types of AI in their applications, the risks are amplified. “It starts to become a big deal when you start putting these models into important complex systems and those jailbreaks suddenly result in downstream things that increases liability, increases business risk, increases all kinds of issues for enterprises,” Sampath says.

The Cisco researchers drew their 50 randomly selected prompts to test DeepSeek’s R1 from a well-known library of standardized evaluation prompts known as HarmBench. They tested prompts from six HarmBench categories, including general harm, cybercrime, misinformation, and illegal activities. They probed the model running locally on machines rather than through DeepSeek’s website or app, which send data to China.

Beyond this, the researchers say they have also seen some potentially concerning results from testing R1 with more involved, non-linguistic attacks using things like Cyrillic characters and tailored scripts to attempt to achieve code execution. But for their initial tests, Sampath says, his team wanted to focus on findings that stemmed from a generally recognized benchmark.

Cisco also included comparisons of R1’s performance against HarmBench prompts with the performance of other models. And some, like Meta’s Llama 3.1, faltered almost as severely as DeepSeek’s R1. But Sampath emphasizes that DeepSeek’s R1 is a specific reasoning model, which takes longer to generate answers but pulls upon more complex processes to try to produce better results. Therefore, Sampath argues, the best comparison is with OpenAI’s o1 reasoning model, which fared the best of all models tested. (Meta did not immediately respond to a request for comment).

Polyakov, from Adversa AI, explains that DeepSeek appears to detect and reject some well-known jailbreak attacks, saying that “it seems that these responses are often just copied from OpenAI’s dataset.” However, Polyakov says that in his company’s tests of four different types of jailbreaks—from linguistic ones to code-based tricks—DeepSeek’s restrictions could easily be bypassed.

“Every single method worked flawlessly,” Polyakov says. “What’s even more alarming is that these aren’t novel ‘zero-day’ jailbreaks—many have been publicly known for years,” he says, claiming he saw the model go into more depth with some instructions around psychedelics than he had seen any other model create.

“DeepSeek is just another example of how every model can be broken—it’s just a matter of how much effort you put in. Some attacks might get patched, but the attack surface is infinite,” Polyakov adds. “If you’re not continuously red-teaming your AI, you’re already compromised.”

57 notes · View notes

beachlifelez · 2 days ago

Text

“How did your assignment go, Kristy?”

“Your new intern Lauren? She about licked me raw. A very eager girl, to be sure. Did you have the camera rolling?”

“Of course I did. I will very much enjoy watching that later with you licking me raw.”

“Who’s next?”

“See that statuesque 50-ish brunette in the red dress?”

“Yes of course. Can’t miss her.”

She is Madeline Bright. One of my company’s Senior VPs. Those in the know are aware of her lesbian status. I took a chance and invited her tonight. She will expect a lot of attention from you once she meets you.”

“After how much Lauren enjoyed going down on me, I can see myself very much enjoying going down on Madeline.”

“Im sure that will be what she has in mind.”

“Then I think introductions are in order. I do so love helping you host parties.”

#bllpn #wlw #women who love women

22 notes · View notes

trudivination · 6 months ago

Text

Devilora is not the fear witch.

Currently.

If we can take Mina’s and Patchworm’s memories at face value, 13 years ago she was the witch.

Devilora has her own agenda, but the narration has never named her explicitly as the fear witch Fauxbia.

Ladies gentlemen themthelmen and all others we have been duped. And it’s been a while since I had a good theory to chew on cause all the others were right! Still riding the high of the Baxter confirmation.

To start: Devilora in all of her appearances is not so thematically aligned with fear as she is order. She’s a puppet master make no mistake. But her obsession is order, she doesn’t rule through fear she rules through the student council and its 12 black saint councilor generals and the 6 dozen Vice black Saint sub-councilor lieutenant generals. When students were screaming in fear from seeing a totally normal kid get his arms brutally torn off, her reaction wasn’t to amplify the fear, it was a terrible attempt at reassuring them.

Devilora let hijack and Jeff go when she realized something.

During that moment, we see her eye. She’s not in spirit control 24/7 as some have suspected or if she is, the spirit isn’t Fauxbia. But if she was Fauxbia she had what Davy feared right in front of her! Proof that there’s an easier way to take bodies! But instead of hauling Jeff away she leaves calling him small fry.

Why would Fauxbia tell the student council they can’t detain someone preemptively? She eats spirits! Why would ethics suddenly apply here? Fauxbia uses captive spirits to achieve her plans but Devilora uses willing peons and the best their teamwork could come up with was just a normal throw. Devilora works with the sphinxes even this current day but Fauxbia has their powers already in hand.

To quote what @specific-rim713 messaged me, “And finally you cannot seriously tell me that fauxbia cares about wearing normal clothes on pajama day”

Cody THINKS he knows Fauxbia is the VP. But that makes this interaction very very interesting.

Fauxbia has a weird reaction for someone who’s just been called out, but this could be read as an amused reaction of “lmao he thinks I’m Devilora still”.

There is a character thematically aligned with fear, always anxious and afraid. Who exited a house wearing a giant sun hat at the same time. Who cannot be a normal person cause the only normal person at Bayview Biddle school is Mr. Starchman.

Principal Pleezedo is Fauxbia’s current host.

Here’s where I dip more into pure speculation. I think the witch has been placing spirits into the children who could be potential hosts. Which is why we see nonstandard eye designs on people like Suzy and Collin. If I’m not just inventing things at this point they’re mediums along with many others who just don’t have the power forge and king catnine did to make their spectrals awaken so quickly. Fauxbia devours the weak. She can also place the weak where she wants like she did with the ring for Ritz. It only makes sense if you consider her goal is a spectral awakening for her to pilot. Doubt she wants Francisco’s grandkid or the child who lives in the dojo however, that’s inviting way too much scrutiny down on her head. King Catnine won’t fear her so she can’t force him out of Isaac or take his power, and max is an unknown to her so far.

There’s one student though I’m pretty sure has met her spirit. I’m pretty sure she’s been pulled into spirit trance multiple times. She just hasn’t realized what she’s seeing. Because she thinks her spirit is an alien.

Alex might be a prize. Poor girl. But maybe now she can be in on the story! Careful what you wish for hun.

#paranatural #paranatural theory #Devilora DuNaught #Fauxbia

45 notes · View notes

capitalxtendforexacademy · 2 months ago

Text

#forex vps services #forex vps hosting #what is forex vps #capitalxtend

0 notes

capitalxtendsmartinvestment · 3 months ago

Text

#best forex vps hosting #forex vps #forex vps services #capitalxtend #What is a Forex VPS #forex vps server

0 notes

icyg4l · 1 year ago

Text

Pick-A-Child Star: Inner Child Messages

In honor of Black History Month, I am continuing the series of highlighting Black icons while prioritizing the spiritual needs of Black Americans. Pick the image that resonates with you most.

Left-to-Right (1-3): Keke Palmer, Aleisha Allen, China Anne McClain

If you chose Pile One, you resonate with the energy of Keke Palmer. As we all know, she is a multi-talented human being. She is a singer-songwriter, actress, dancer, talk show host, podcaster and model. Her name is synonymous with the phrase 'busy bee'. Her infectious personality has followed us through movies and tv shows like True Jackson VP, Scream Queens, Akeelah and the Bee, Nope and much more. She continues to grace the screens with her charismatic nature.

"You're always wondering what you're not, can't you be happy with what you've got?"

When you were younger, you may have watched the tv show, 'How to Rock', starring Cymphonique. The premise of the show is navigating the social castes of high school. I channeled the theme song for this show. You really need to show some more gratitude, man. What's in your imagination is being reflected on the outside world; just enjoy the moment. Your brain is on overload all the time and you really need to rest. On Valentine's Day, you should give yourself some 'me time'. Another message that I get from your inner child is that you need to go play! For some of you, I sense that you're reluctant to let someone into your life when they have good intentions. I think high school plays a big role into why you navigate the world the way that you do. You are not in high school anymore! You are officially responsible for your own shit (that means the emotional trauma too, boo). Your inner child also wants you to know that you should take up some karate/self-defense classes. It is imperative that you learn how to stick up for yourself physically, not just verbally. Lastly, if you have lost a father figure, you should do that thing to honor his legacy such as getting a tattoo of him, getting a portrait painted of him, starting that company and naming it after him. You are your father's offspring, you know?

If you chose pile 2, this means you resonate with the energy of Aleisha Allen. She is most famously known for her roles in the 'Are We There Yet?' film series and School of Rock. Her cheeky portrayal of these characters solidified her as a Black child star icon. After starring in these classic films, she took on smaller roles in 'The Electric Company' and indie films. Since then, she has acquired a Bachelor's degree at Pace University and a Master's degree at Columbia University in Communication Science and Disorders to fulfill a career as a speech pathologist.

“I gets down, I don’t play”

Some of you may be in the midst of choosing a major after being undecided for so long. Some of you may switch majors a lot. Your inner child wants you to choose something that makes them come alive this time. In other words, choose a career path that's not boring to you. You could have ADHD/ADD or some type of learning disability. You need to slow down because you’re inviting some disingenuous energy. Your inner child does not trust the people that are around you. Your light shines too bright to be staying in spaces where you're not celebrated. This made me think of a video of Megan Thee Stallion talking about walking out of rooms where you don't feel comfortable. Do exactly that, my love. Everything will work out just fine if you believe that it will. Your inner child wants you to be as optimistic about this transition as possible. And lastly, you don't have to tolerate anyone's behavior, or quite frankly anything. If you feel like you have to put up with someone's bull, then you need to leave. You guys were quite the sassy kids, weren't you? Now, where did all of that energy go? Why are you dimming yourself down just to appeal to others? It doesn't matter if you're in a corporate meeting or a classroom filled with white people, you speak your mind. You know what's going on, don't be intimidated.

If you chose Pile 3, you resonate with the energy of China Anne McClain. She is known for her roles in Daddy’s Little Girls, A.N.T. Farm, the Descendants series and Black Lightning. Her range in roles highlights her witty, yet dramatic personality, which is the reason for any drawn interest in her. She is also a singer-songwriter who was once in a girl group with her older sisters, Lauryn and Sierra. Since then, she has documented her spiritual journey on social media after quitting acting.

“I’ve got friends on the other side”

This is the pile that I would probably choose. This is the pile of the hoodoos/witches/spiritualists/occultists. Your inner child wants you to know that the spells you’ve been casting have been working. As a child, you may have had some experiences with ghosts/spirits. Nobody believed you but who cares? They’re your friends now. There may be a cousin that you haven’t seen/talked to in a while. Please talk to them! Your inner child misses them so much! It doesn’t matter if you’re not on good terms with them, please go do it. For some reason, you should go play hide and seek. This could also mean that you should prepare for an item of yours to go missing temporarily. It could also mean that you will find out some information that you’ve been searching for. Finally, if you feel like you have nowhere to go, think again! Your inner child wants to go to place where you once frequented. This could be the beach, an arcade or the park. Go have a picnic. Go insert those coins/swipe that card into your favorite apocalypse game. Go dig your toes into the sand! You are going through self-actualization and it is important that you stay grounded. Be prepared to step into uncomfortable positions. Connecting with your inner child is a way to do so. It is essential for your growth as a person.

#law of assumption #manifesting #neville goddard #hoodoo #tarot #tarotreading #astro notes #pick a card #pac reading #pick a pile #divination #pick an image #spirituality #tarot deck #tarotcommunity

170 notes · View notes

nevernonline · 1 year ago

Text

✧.* he's all that; lsm mini series

✧.*synopsis: every year the kappa sorority hosted a 'hot or not' greek life pageant show. you've luckily escaped having to bring your own "nottie" to give a makeover to and train in hopes of winning a big prize for the rest of your crew. but, just when you thought your lucky streak was going strong your name get's chosen as a representative and your sisters had just the guy for you to make over.

part of my seventeen movie series.

paring: seokmin x reader (y/n uses she/her pronouns.)

genre/s: fluff, strangers2lvrs, neighbors2lvrs or whatever.

warning/s: alcohol mentions, swearing, cigarette mentions, swearing, some pg-13 jokes. no funny business iykyk. lots of mean girls (rip)

word count: 4.2k

note: im notorious atp for not editing, pls. this edition of nmm is inspired by a true classic she's all that (w/ a bit of greek the tv show/sydney white energy if any of u have ever seen ALSO classics, this was supposed to be one part, BUT! I feel myself getting so carried away so … three parts.) i was going to post my gwag update today but im gonna wait till either tomorrow or Tuesday <3.

beginning ▸ middle ▸ end.

Y/n was dreading the meeting she walked through the front doors of the sorority for this afternoon, the pageant. Kappa and all the other sororities on Greek row participated in what they call ‘Hot or Not’ every year since supposedly the 1980’s something her now head sister Heather claims was started by the legacy that was her mother. Which maybe was true, but y/n could never figure out why it mattered? And while it was fun it was a little bit old school.

“Hey, girls. Everyone settled in? We have a very exciting tradition here at Kappa as you may know.”

The cheers rang through the sitting room, with its white walls, pale pink carpets, and sherpa couches, the cheers and claps of girls hoping Heather draws their name from the glass bowl with her perfectly manicured finger tips.

“Yes. It’s so exciting, we have a few new faces so since you haven’t been a part of this week in past years we left you out of the bowl, but we will have many things for you to participate in this week. Like dine and dash, our famous Good as Gold party, and of course judging the competition at the end of the week. Before we get to the drawing, I wanted to congratulate our last year's winner, Suni. Give it up for her.”

Smiling, y/n clapped along with the other girls, giving Suni her flowers. About to step out behind the two french doors to grab a water or something to drink, when you hear Heather call your name loudly. All of your other sisters and friends spinning around watching her looking like she was attempting to escape the reality of her name being the one chosen after three years of getting out of it.

“y/n! Finally, Come back here, girly.”

Walking through the clapping crown y/n took her place next to the blonde and pretended to smile with excitement as her gut was telling her it was absolutely the worst day of her life.

The only reason y/n was in this sorority was to get extra college credits, that and Heather and her mother met here and have been friends since that very day. Heather was obsessed with being a legacy and clawing her way to the top of the food chain at the university. Y/n was just there for the ride.

“Everyone, you all obviously know my very good friend and our smartest sister, y/n. I personally have been waiting for the day she got chosen out of this bowl. It’s something our moms, co-vp’s of their 1980’s class of Kappas have been talking about for years. So I’m just as excited as I’m sure y/n is to be our guiding light to another victory this year. Anything to say, y/n?”

“Uh, not really, you said it all.”

Another big fake smile appeared on her face. Laughing and giggling at all the congratulations coming her way.

“Girls, before we enjoy our lunch. Don’t forget tonight is dine and dash, please find your dates and bring them to Carol’s Diner at 8pm. See you there.”

Checking the time on your phone you had roughly 45 minutes before your lecture and enough time to take off the gaudy Kappa logo’d sweater you had to put on for what Heather calls “official business.”

“Y/n what are you checking the time for? We have a lot to do today.”

“I have a class in 40 minutes, I have to go back and change.”

“I don’t get why you won't just move back in here with us?”

“I told you, Heather. I can't. I have to focus on getting into Med School and no offense to you or the other girls, but this isn’t exactly the best place for me to focus when I have to study.”

“Med School can wait just one day right? We have to set up the table at Carol’s and set up for the party later. Would you mind going with the new girl Sam to grab the alcohol? And then you can meet me back here and we will go to the diner together. I’m going to have the girls go out and look for some Nottie’s for you today before that whale from Delta picks them all up. “

“No, but-”

“Thank you! Love you!”

“Also her name is not Sam, It’s Soyeon.”

“Okay got it, toodleoo.”

Searching the house for the person and so called new girl, Sam you stumbled upon her sitting out on the back patio writing in her journal.

“Soyeon?”

“Oh, hey y/n.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m just so used to everyone calling me Sam I forget people know that it’s actually not.”

“Yeah, it took Heather a whole year to not call Suni, Sunny and everyone just kind of follows her suit.”

“I thought you had class? I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I do. It’s just a lecture on the importance of mammograms and breast cancer research so, I guess it’s okay. I can just find it somewhere online.”

“Ready to head out?”

“Would you hate me if we stopped at my dorm? I cannot wear this fucking sweater for more than an hour or I may spontaneously combust.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to be seen with you in public while you’re wearing that.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“You should.”

Y/n and Soyeon escaped the general excitement of the rest of the girls by escaping out the outdoor gate and walked viciously together to change the heinous sweater on y/n’s back.

Turning the corner to finally reach the hall her single dorm room lived at the end of, she ran into a tall boy who’s books scattered all across the floor, a boy she had never once run into literally and physically.

“I'm so sorry.”

“No, no I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“You’re y/n right?”

“Yes? Why?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I live across the hall from you. I see your name tag on your door all the time and all the photos of you from all your friends. Which now that I’m talking makes me sound like even more of a weirdo? I’m sorry. I’m Seokmin, my friends call me DK or Dokyeom , whatever. And now I’m rambling, please stop me.”

“No, you’re okay. Can we at least just get off the floor now?”

“Yes.”

Seokmin or Dokyeom whatever his real name actually is, crawled off the floor and stuck his hand out to you for assistance pulling your pink colored body off the floor.

“This is my friend, Soyeon.”

“Sorority sisters?”

“Wait. How’d you know? Oh, fuck the sweater. Don’t tell anyone you saw me wearing this, I know where you live.”

“Don’t worry, I never will. But, sorry to uh, cut this meeting short I have to get to class. I’ll see you again, I’m sure. Bye, nice meeting you y/n. And you too, Soyeon.”

“Bye.”

In unison you and Soyeon watched the tall boy walk towards the elevators. Both of you have differing expressions of looks on your face, one of pure enjoyment watching the awkward interaction and one of pure dumbfoundedness.

“He’s cute.”

Soyeon brought you out of staring at the boy walking away and stepping into the elevator, throwing his fingers up waving goodbye while clutching his mounds of books in his hands.

“What?”

“I said he’s cute and he’s your neighbor. Lucky girl.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can’t believe I’ve never met him before.”

“Why don’t you ask him out?”

“We just met. Plus, I’m busy with school and now this stupid pageant. I don’t have time for cute boys.”

“I’m sure you can make it work.”

Unlocking your door and letting Soyeon in before you so you can sneak a peek at his front door in front of yours. Plain, just a few funny messages and cute stickers of tangerines and tigers pasted on his whiteboard. Maybe he already has a girlfriend? But a boy like that with that many books is probably much like you and had no time for dating.

“Wait. Y/N your room is so nice? Maybe I should move out of the house. It’s loud as fuck anyway.”

“Why are you in the sorority? I’m not judging because I was basically dragged into it too. I’m just curious?”

“My mom always wanted me to join. She said it’s a good way to find friends, I always had a hard time making them. So I figured why not?”

“Got it. Makes sense.”

“What about you? You also don’t serve sorority girl to me.”

“Because my mom also got me to join, that’s actually how I know Heather. Our moms were co-captains of the sorority at some point in the 80’s.”

“Oh, so you’ve known her your whole life?”

“Mhm.”

“No offense or anything, but she’s… kind of a bitch.”

“Kind of? It’s only gotten worse since she’s been in charge. She was okay when we were younger, but you know.”

Slipping out of your jeans and sweater, you threw on a black pair of pleated pants and a loose white button down.

“Also you have tattoos and a sick body, stop dressing like an old woman.”

“I could never pull off what you wear? You’re so cool and confident.”

“Promise me. One party this year you’ll let me pick out something to wear?”

“Okay.”

“You’re very trusting.”

“What? You’re going to make me wear a hot pink dress and try to dye my hair blonde too?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly.”

Hours passed on as you were getting to know Soyeon more, a part of you realized what you had been missing meeting girls outside of your own circle at school.

People who share your interests and enjoy talking about things other than clothes, shoes, and boys.

It was actually the least stressed you’ve been around someone at the sorority in a long time. Almost like a breath of fresh air.

Getting out of the Uber you took filled to the brim with alcohol and snacks, you were back at the big White House at the end of the street. Not a flaw in sight. Almost like it wasn’t a real reality.

“Should we ditch the diner? We could always go see my friend play at the bar across campus instead?”

“I would love nothing more, but Heather will have my head shaved or something.”

“Okay, well when we ditch later we can head there.”

“It’s a date.”

“Ew, you’re so corny. Save it for your new lover boy across the hall.”

“Shut up.”

Soyeon and you laughed, dragging the last box up the stairs into the foyer of the house. Met with the blonde at the bottom of the stairs.

“There you guys are! I was going to send a search and rescue team to come for you if you didn’t show up soon.”

“We got a little distracted. Sorry.”

“No problem. You’re here now, Sam go up and get ready, I’ll help y/n from here.”

“Okay.”

Soyeon or Sam, picked her poison and shoved down Heather still calling her by the wrong name and walked up to her room to change and get ready for the rest of her night. While you were stuck unpacking the boxes.

“Y/n. Don’t forget to look out for the boys everyone brings tonight. We can pick one from the litter for your Nottie.”

“Look, Heather-“

“I know what you’re going to say and don’t even think about asking me if you can drop out of the pageant, okay?”

“I just don’t think it’s worth it or fair anymore, why don’t we just get the other frat guys to do it? Like Mingyu or Wonwoo, Johnny? I don’t know. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.”

“You raise a good point. And it gives me an idea.”

“Which is?”

“We have the other frats competing too, we’ll get more payout and the three uglies will be more profitable than ever for us. You’re so smart.”

“That’s not wha-“

“Ah! I’m so lucky to have you. I’ll let everyone know.”

Heather bounced off into the other room, texting rapidly with her manicured hands on her cell phone, making the fire bigger.

With your head spinning around and around you don’t even remember walking your way to the diner waiting for the freshman girls to bring their guys along to the large table set for someone’s embarrassment.

Taking a seat near the end of the table next to Soyeon and Heather on your other side, you sat and sipped at the Diet Coke in front of you, feeling your mix of anxiety and angel swirling in your stomach and begging for something a little stronger.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Soyeon leaned over and whispered into your ear, seeing the look on your face and noticing your obvious quietness.

“I’ll tell you after.”

“Okay, if you want to go early, let me know.”

“I will”

Heather had her vulture eyes on, waiting to see which she would inevitably have embarrassed by the groups around you with no remorse.

She looked into your eyes and signaled to a cute shy boy across the table, sitting and picking at his nails, making it clear she had made her mark.

“Let me use the bathroom first okay?”

“Yeah, of course. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“Right.”

Walking briskly into the old blue stalls in the bathroom, which you didn't even really have to use, but just needed an excuse to go somewhere and release your anxiety.

“Y/n? Hey. Y/n?”

Seeing Soyeon’s platform heels under the bottom of the stall door you jumped up and swung your head out of the blue metal.

“What?”

“Remember that guy you met today?”

“Yes, of course why?”

“He’s here.”

“Someone brought him?”

“No. He’s here with his two friends and Heather invited them to the table. One of them is that dude that’s friends with Mingyu with the that acts like a tiger, the hot nerdy one, and the other one is just some hot short buff guy, never seen him before. Anyway, We either have to get out of here right now or stay and hide in here until they're gone.” L

“Why don’t we just go-“

“No. I don’t want him to think you’re a bitch? Are you crazy? You can’t go dunking on nerds in front of three hot dudes?”

“Okay let’s go.”

As the two of you tried to make your exit from the ladies room you heard commotion outside in the dining room, so you both slipped back quickly into the bathroom, locking the door for some reason as you head the chairs scooting and the bell ringing meaning people were slipping out on one of the boys at the table.

“You think they're gone?”

“Yeah. I hear the sink running in the men’s room, come on.”

As you walked out of the bathroom in front of you Seokmin was sitting at the table covered in a turkey club sandwich looking at the long tab Heather left for him.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Your ‘sisters’ dumped a sandwich on me and left the tab? Do you guys do this a lot?”

“It’s just some stupid shit Heather came up with when she became president. Me and y/n were hiding in the bathroom so we could come and pay the tab. But, you got to it first.”

“Right.”

Not saying anything and standing in your tracks cold, you watched as Soyeon took the check from his hands and waved you on to help him as she went up to pay.

“She dumped her food on you?”

“Yeah, my friends and I were just coming for takeout. I saw Soyeon so I went to say hi and she wanted to come get you. But the blonde girl,”

“Heather.”

“Yeah, Heather. She told me to sit down for a second and my friends went back to their dorm so they could keep studying and deliver food to some other guys. She was okay at first, but once Soyeon left she dumped her soda and sandwich on me and when I came back they were all gone.”

“I’m so sorry? Let me get you dry cleaning money or something.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I can handle it. I’m glad you two were here though, I don’t have my wallet on me. Are you okay though? Have you been crying?”

“I’m fine, just had a moment.”

The small black haired girl popped back over, tucking her card back into her wallet and smiling at the two of you sitting and talking with Seokmin covered in an orange beverage, a little bit of lettuce stuck in his hair.

“Want to come to a party?”

“If it’s at the sorority then sorry, no thanks.”

“No. It’s just some of my friends from the music department. They’re playing a show at O’Malley’s.”

“I don’t think orange soda is really a good look for a party.”

“That’s okay, y/n has to go change too. You guys just meet me there? I’m going to head out and get us a table.”

“Well I do owe you guys both a drink. So, sure.”

“Oh, and Seokmin?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure y/n actually comes back out, she’s hard to get her hands on.”

“Of course.”

Walking back to your somewhat shared dorm, you and Seokmin walked in silence past greek row, watching all the girls running around to get ready for a greeting ceremony to the frat houses as escorts to their party.

The boy looked at you up and down, imagining you inside one of those grand houses gossiping and dishing on sister life just trying to figure out why you joined in the first place, your friend included.

Reaching your destination with only smiles and small giggles shared between the two of you on the walk over, you both slid into your dorm rooms and found clothes that were far more suitable for a night out.

You noticed the black tank top Soyeon had pointed out before and slid it on, matching it with a pair of dark ripped jeans and your go-to loafers, sliding back into the hallway, finding Seokmin on the other side of the door waiting for you.

He was somehow on your wavelength wearing an oversized black t-shirt and jeans.

“I figured I should try to match Soyeon's aesthetic somehow.”

“Me too. You look nice, I like your shoes.”

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”

“Yes. I definitely need a drink.”

“So, y/n what is your drink of choice.”

“Anything strong and not sweet.”

“Oh, so not me then.”

“Shut up.”

Seokmin made you laugh, there was no way a boy like him was not taken or at least could be interested in you.

“Have you and Soyeon been friends for long? You guys seem close.”

“Actually, not really. We hung out for the first time today. I mean, I’ve seen her at parties and stuff, but she’s sort of been like a breath of fresh air for me.”

“Really? I’m surprised by that. Why are you in the sorority anyway? You don’t exactly have the same.. Vibe? Or whatever as the other girls. Especially the ones I met today.”

“My mom. The girl. Heather. Soda spiller, her mom and mine were friends when we were kids, they're legacy members. So I just thought it would be fun, but now.. I don’t feel that way.”

“Can’t you just quit?”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“I guess I just want to be someone who sees things through. I also can’t offer Heather the satisfaction of knowing I left.”

“She really is that bad huh?”

“Worse. It’s a long story. Can we table it?”

“Of course.”

Reaching the door of the bar, you caught a glimpse of Soyeon’s shoulder tattoo near the stage, through the large crowd of people mingling.

“Go. I’ll order us drinks and meet you there?”

“You sure?”

“You said you needed it right?”

“What about your wallet?”

“Apple pay, y/n. Duh.”

“Your ID?”

“My friend is the bartender, just go.”

“So sassy.”

Walking your way through the crowd by pushing yourself through other bodies you finally reach the girl on the other side and wrap your arm around her waist as a hello.

“What the- Oh my god, you actually came? You look so hot. I’m proud.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine. Where’s the puppy?”

“At the bar grabbing drinks.”

“On the leash already? You’re good.”

“No. He’s just nice.”

“True. But, he also likes you.”

“I don’t think it’s like that, but maybe someday you’ll tell me I told you so.”

“I look forward to it. I saved you guys a table.”

“My girl.”

Soyeon gestured her long manicured fingers behind you, noticing the boy making his way with two glasses in his hands and another tall figure following behind him holding a tray with various things on top.

“Hi, Soyeon.”

“Hi, Keom. Thank you for joining us. Who’s the glasses?”

“My friend Wonwoo, he works here, well he just got off. Is it cool if he joins us?”

“Of course.”

“Nice to meet you, Wonwoo. I’m y/n.”

“Hey.”

“So. Since I didn’t get to ask Soyeon what she wanted and I wasn’t entirely sure what you liked. We brought over options. But, we have to finish them all because Wonwoo was nice enough to gift them to us and it’s unfair to not accept gifts.”

“Very charming.”

You made your second flirty comment of the night to Seokmin, even though your sober self normally isn’t entirely as bold as you find yourself being with him now. But, in all fairness you were just trying to catch his vibe. He didn’t respond verbally, but just scrunched his nose in your direction almost as if he was letting you know that he’s interested.

“First, a simple vodka soda, little lemon, then just a couple of beer options, this is a sour, this is just a simple light beer, and an ipa, which ew, but I think Wonwoo likes, some tequila shots and some lemon drop shots, also a whiskey soda and a jack and coke, and then a uh, gin and tonic i think? Right, Woo?”

“Yeah, maybe you should be the bartender, Seokmin.”

“I have other talents.”

All eight of your hands reach every which way around the table and end up with different drinks sat in front of them, you beelined for the vodka and the sour beer, Soyeon went for the whiskey soda and the tequila, Seokmin for the gin and tonic and light beer, and Wonwoo for the jack and coke and the ipa.

“Who wants what shot?”

Soyeon dipped her arm back to the middle of the table covering her eyes with her opposite hand, grabbing a hold of the small glasses very carefully and placing them around the small group.

“There. Decided for you, me and Wonwoo get tequila and you and Seokmin get lemon.”

Smiling widely at your friend next to you, you grabbed a hold of the shot glass and held it up signaling everyone to cheers. Which they all happily obliged.

Soon after the alcohol was going through your bloodstream the band started playing their music that hit you right in the chest, songs about living your life to the fullest and choosing your own path, much to your surprise Soyeon was the one who wrote the music that spoke to your soul.

After the set ended, Wonwoo and Soyeon wanted to stay back and have a few more drinks to congratulate their friends, and enjoy their night, but you were beat thinking about all the work you still had to do over the weekend and dreading the choice of man Heather would embarrass. So you decided to leave with Seokmin walking you back safely to your dorm.

“What are you studying again?”

“Me? Oh, I’m studying to be a veterinarian.”

“Wow really? That’s cool, I didn’t know. You must be busy as hell.”

“I’m sure you’re just as busy, being a doctor for actual humans is way more complicated considering a lot of them are assholes.”

“That’s unfortunately true. But, I love it to be honest. I can understand why people are afraid of the hospital and surgery I guess.”

“That’s good, maybe we should study together sometime? I know it’s not the same exact thing or whatever, but it’s nice to have company?”

“I would love that, tomorrow? I mean if you’re free. We can go to the coffee shop or library or anything really?”

“Yeah, just knock around 10?”

“Okay. Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow??”

“Yes, absolutely. Have a good night, y/n”

“You too, Seok.”

Trying to get comfortable in your bed, some pesky person kept lighting up your phone screen, reaching over to turn on do not disturb you and realized it was Heather. She was asking a bunch of interrogating questions about your new friend Seokmin, begging you to bring him over tomorrow.

Unfortunately for you, you knew her interest in him was about to make your new relationship a very complicated one.

130 notes · View notes