#Tragedy.Biscuit

[biscuitblinkeu]

Build A Bitch [1]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Word count: 3884?

Warnings: this applies to every chapter: Profanity is used, and there is trigger warnings

A/n: Don’t ask why this chapters so long because I have no idea what possessed me to write that much, it’s practically two chapters in one… And, maybe, just maybe, I waited till I reached 400 followers (Wow! Thank you!) to post this series.

“Why is it that I always find you hiding in here?”

…………………………………………………………………………

Multiple times, when you have nothing to occupy your mind, the question is drawn about and you find yourself asking: what makes someone a Crazy Bitch? The term most indefinitely applies to women, and is said by a “friend” or man in most cases.

Is it a woman that has emotional problems?

“I don’t know how you deal with that crazy bitch. I’d never put up with her antics.”

Is it a woman who after a break up slashes the tires of your car, burns your clothes, and tries to get you fired from your job, that calls you the next day to reconcile?

“That crazy bitch keyed my car!”

Is it a woman who has suffered during their childhood, and as a result of the experience matures to be simultaneously lascivious and sexually aggressive?

“I refuse to go clubbing with her, she’s constantly acting like she’s going to fuck everyone— it’s embarrassing, you can’t go anywhere with that crazy bitch without getting into some kind of trouble. She needs to get help.”

You believe, contrary to the stereotypes that come with the term, that a “crazy bitch” is an intelligent woman who will call you out on your behavior. That will not put up with your bullshit and will hold everything in until you push her to the point that she explodes, and tells you everything about yourself. Verbally destroying your existence, and exposing you for the true piece of shit you are. There’s little to nothing (at all) mentally wrong with these women. Calling them crazy is the only defense a person has to make her seem unstable to everyone.

You slide into a chair, dropping your backpack to the floor with a sigh. You decided to go to your on-campus Starbucks to pass time till class starts. The campus is partially empty because no one takes morning classes. You’re here because you are, in fact, a morning person— though it doesn’t feel like that today. Today, you’d do anything for an extra hour or two of sleep. You’re here because you’re an art major, because your professor, Mr. McCarthy, believed waking up at the (ass) crack of dawn is the most effective way to get those “creative juices” flowing. In short, you and your peers had no choice.

On any other day you would’ve enjoyed your 8:00am life drawing class, but your head is killing you, and so are your feet (you should’ve taken the train) since you wanted to walk across campus and enjoy the morning dew of spring. You’re thirsty and you have half the mind to go and get free water at Starbucks but you don’t want to get up. Everything is just so bright and dizzy. Thus why your head is situated on the oh so cool table top, offering you short relief and bliss.

“(Y/n)!”

You groan, slowly lifting your heavy head from the table in hope of easing the splitting throb and squint at the woman who’s robbed you of your peace. She finishes the journey to you and pulls out a chair next to you and you wince. Everything she does is too loud for you right now.

“Lisa,” you sigh, exasperated. “Would it kill you to be a little more subtle?” You sound tired and your voice is a little raspy from the lack of hydration.

Lisa stops talking about her multiple cats and pauses, finally giving you a look over. “Oh.” She whispered, looking apologetic. She gives you a deprecatory smile. “Hangover?”

You nod numbly and Lisa gets up without another word. You close your eyes, only to feel the back of them throbbing in tandem along with your head. About two minutes later, Lisa is back with a Gatorade and banana walnut and pecan loaf.

She sets them in front of you, smiling. “Here, for you. I hope you feel better.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to Lisa, thank you.” You uncap the Gatorade and take a few sips, feeling much more comfortable now that your throat is wet. What would you do without Lisa?

The Thai befriended you freshman year when you shared the photography-I class with her. You didn’t even know how to use a camera if it wasn’t your phone’s. She helped you get through the class with good marks. She ignored what others told her about you and approached you— and you don’t know why she did, because freshman-year you was a trip. You bonded over your love for the arts and animals, quickly becoming close friends. Now, it’s your junior year and you’re still close as ever. You wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your friendship.

You and Lisa don’t share as many classes this year as you did prior, but you still hang out often. Lisa shares the photography-III and English class with you this year. She majors in dance. Lisa excels in all her classes— especially dance. (This girl can really move!)

As you eat the banana-pecan bread, you wonder why Lisa hasn’t asked you why you have such a bad hangover. Usually she’s on your tail about that, lecturing you on why you should stop going out so much. She knows you went to a party in the upperclassmen’s dorms last night with your Fine Arts major friends.

You observe Lisa, who rambles on about the new choreography she’s learning that she wants to show you, and wonder. Has she finally given up on making you a better you? Is she dissatisfied and disappointed that you still went to the party against her wishes? That you continue to mingle with those:

“Poor excuses of a friend group.”

“Bad influences.”

“Scrooges.”

“Substandard stick-figure drawing shit-heads.”

The last one makes you laugh because it’s the first time you heard Lisa use obscenity and curse. She was really mad that time: when she found out the art portfolio assignment you worked on won the drafting to get featured in a student art showing at a popular museum, she was ecstatic for you. But it failed to be submitted because you were suspected of plagiarism.

For some reason your work looked incredibly similar to your friend’s. It was obvious she copied you. Lisa thinks that your friend had very obvious intentions. If she doesn't win, you don’t win. You go down with her. So when it was obvious you were going to win, she pirated your hard work. Even acted like you stole hers— and the fact you were “friends” didn’t make anything better.

You were devastated at the time, but got over it. Lisa never did, and with a vengeance, she even got her law major friend Jennie involved. Now that? That was a whole mess.

“Why are you staring at me?” Lisa pipes up, and you realize she’s finished her rant and has been calling for your attention for quite some time now.

“You’re not going to ask…?”

“Do you want me to?” Lisa smiles knowingly.

“Yes, actually. Please bestow some of your wisdom on me.” You joke.

“Well,” Lisa begins. “How was the party?” Internally letting out a sigh at her broad question, you know she has to start somewhere.

“It was…interesting.” You say, trying to give a noncommittal response, which you suppose will suffice, considering that you were drunk and can hardly remember the whole event anyway.

“Interesting how? What were you up to?”

Oh, just your usual sexual escapades— can’t tell her that, though, can you?

You shrug and sip from your Gatorade, avoiding eye contact with her. “I don’t remember much…just drinking, dancing, I might have kissed a few people too.” You mutter, almost to yourself.

Lisa furrows her brows. Her gaze flickers to your neck, scrutinizing the expanse of revealed skin. She does this for a moment more before speaking again, seemingly satisfied with what she saw: no marks. “Did you hook up with anyone?” She asks, and the hint of concern in her voice doesn’t go unnoticed.

Lisa wasn’t fond of you sleeping with people you or she didn’t know well, even if those said people went to your college. Lisa may not approve of some things you do, but she’s a loyal friend who just wants you to stay safe.

Your face feels warm. “No,” you assure her. “Just kissing.”

Right.

She lets the topic go after that, and she tells you what’s happening in her life right now. Along the way, she got up to buy herself a drink as well, having to stand in a line now that more people are arriving.

It's then when you get a text. Upon opening the chat, your heart drops to your stomach. A text, followed by a chain of photos of you that are absolutely humiliating. The pictures seem to have the one focus to show you in some type of lewd way— like you’re some kind of horny bitch.

The first attachment has you captured during a passionate kiss as you're grinding onto a man’s lap, arms hooked around his neck as he holds your hips. Another shows you with hands slightly under a woman’s dress, you have her pinned against the wall, your lips together in an eager manner. The rest of the pictures follow a similar fashion, some even having inappropriate comments edited on the bottom.

Your phone dings again. It’s a message this time.

Oh God. Your stomach lurches and that deep feeling of anxiety begins to boil. You reread it over and over, irrationally hoping the words are just an illusion and that if you read it again and again the words will change. (They don’t.)

What if I were to post these online?

Your first thought was that whoever this is, is joking. This is just some sick prank from someone who was at that party last night. Who would be that invested in your life to go to the extent of stalkerish behavior?

You must’ve taken too long to reply because another one is sent a minute later.

Everyone knows you're a crazy bitch, what harm will it do?

Oh?

Your jaw is clenched and you stare at the images and texts, seething. That two worded term gave them away. There’s only two people who still call you that, so it’s either both or one of them responsible for this.

With trembling fingers, you turn off your phone. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes. Hundreds of thoughts are racing through your head— but the recurring question lingers: How dare they?

It’s another thing that you’re not even disappointed. A little shaken, yes. Shocked? Totally. But disappointed? Not at all.

You knew.

So, it feels like cold water was poured on you, it feels like being slapped; with reality. It’s the long awaited, big and regretful I-told-you-so moment— because Lisa told you so.

And because Lisa told you so, you’re going to do what Lisa told you not to do (if this situation was to come).

You open your eyes to Lisa, still in line, looking at you in concern and confusion, probably wondering why you look so distressed. “You alright?” She mouths, brows knitted. You smile weakly, giving her a thumbs up before looking at the white marbled floors.

A moment later you open the contact again and stare blankly at the screen, thinking about your plan of action. This is considered blackmail, isn’t it? That means that the course of action you should take is talking to a blackmail attorney and reporting who sent those photos. And as satisfying as that sounds— that whoever sent those would be fined or sent to prison— you don’t plan on doing that. (Yet.) There’s much more satisfying ways to deal with this, afterall.

You nearly fall out of your chair when a hand touches your shoulder.

“(Y/n)? Who sent those?” (Thank God) It’s Lisa, who now stands directly behind you looking over your shoulder. She’s frowning and looks as if she’ll blow a fuse if you don’t answer her, and quickly too. But all you can think about is finding the person/s who took these. The chair you were sitting on skids on the marble as you abruptly stand, shoving your phone into your sweatpants’s pocket and gathering your things at a fast pace.

“Where are you going?” Lisa asks, alarmed as you start walking towards the building exit. “Wait!” She reaches out and grabs your arm. “…Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, alright?”

“I won’t.” After today passes, you think.

Loud laughter that turns silent, turns into grumbles and bitchy whines very quickly.

“Hey guys!” You shout when you’re a few footsteps away from their little circle, moving towards them quickly. They’re always in the same spot, it wasn’t hard to find them. Iseul, Ramus, Riley, and Krystal were all surrounded around Jackson, looking down at his device giggling like little girls. They barely had time to react as you bulldozed through. “What’s so funny? What are we laughing about? Let me see,” you forcefully snatch the phone out of his hand much to his shock.

So funny. Just fucking hilarious. They were laughing at the pictures of you— of course, and they seemed to have had lots of fun coming up with captions at the bottom of the photos and playing with the dumb filters.

Almost immediately, you delete the file from the photo editing app they used, exit out, and click onto his photos. Krystal, the Barbie wannabe is on her toes a moment later, ready to snatch the phone out of your hands. You see, you have to be careful around her; you all call her “Swiper” (no swiping) for a reason. She swiped your ex; Jackson; your cash, your clothes, your art, your— you get the point. But she’s the clumsiest person you know, so you're not really surprised she tripped onto her ass when you dodged her outstretched arm.

You deleted the photos from the Camera app on his phone, and then you had to go to the Photos app and delete them again, permanently. On to the Messages app now.

You can’t help but question why this is so easy. Your little group has five people, but only two of them are actually trying to get the phone back. Jackson chases you down and wow, is it hard to run and tap on a phone at the same time. You’re lucky you ran track in highschool. Eventually you ran out of places to run due to the lake behind you that cuts the campus halfway into two parts. Maybe you shouldn’t have ran onto the dock. It’s not like it was built all the way to the other side, so you’re trapped.

“Give me my fucking phone back (Y/n),” he growls. You shake your head.

Just as you deleted where every trace of those pictures you can guess were saved, he’s lunging towards you. And you do the only thing you can think of— kick him in the groin. He falls to his knees right after a curse leaves his lips, crumpling into a ball as he holds that area.

You gasp. “Oh I’m so sorry, you can have your phone back now.” You purposely place the phone near the edge of the dock where he lays and walk away. His hand reaches out for it but, not surprisingly, it falls in the water. “You fuckin’ crazy bitch!” He all but screams, fist hitting the wood of the dock. You roll your eyes and pick your bag up from the picnic table before heading to class.

…

Lisa doesn’t ask you what you did when she came to your dorm in the late afternoon. (It was just you and her, no Krystal).

You shake your head. “I can’t stay in this dorm anymore, Lisa. I was lucky to come back and see my things still intact but she’ll make my life a living hell if I stay, I know it.”

Lisa bites her lip as she looks elsewhere, presumingly thinking. “Well. I have a friend who doesn’t have a roommate right now. She hasn’t for a while, somehow,” you raise a brow, interested. “If you ask me, I think the school gives her extra attention but she denies it every time. She even has one of the big dorms with a kitchen and bathroom, and she turned the extra space into a living room.” Lisa laughs.

“So you think she might let me move in?” You ask hopefully.

“We’re talking about Roseanne here,” she muses. Lisa watches your eyes grow wide, recognition highlighting your features.

You melt into the beanbag chair lazily, looking at the ceiling. “Roseanne is really nice,” you start, and Lisa nods. “But I’m sure she likes her privacy. And me? I’m nosey as hell and loud— unintentionally. What if she thinks I’m annoying? Or what if she remembers how I acted Freshman year and immediately says no? What if she thinks I’m some mean bitch?” You groan, every good trait of yours you can think of is canceled by a bad one.

“Hey,” Lisa raises an eyebrow at you. “Don’t write yourself off yet, you never know. I don’t believe she thinks that either.”

“How do you know?” You question.

Lisa throws her hands up, smiling teasingly. “I don’t, but my words still stand.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You’re about an hour into a movie when Lisa move’s suddenly. “Shoot,” she says, looking at her watch. “I have to go out for dinner with some of the dance majors, but I’ll bring the roommate thing up to her tomorrow and we’ll see what happens, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks Lisa.” You hug her goodbye and then with a click of the door she’s gone.

***

True to her words, Lisa seeks out Roseanne in a free time period they share. She had traveled from the new arts building to the old arts building, and hoped to find her there. (A part of her hopes she wasn’t in that creepy building.)

The building’s lights still worked, but there was no one using the classrooms, so dust and spiders made them their homes. You had to have a key to get in the main door, and only one person had it. Lisa walked down the long hallways, jumping at little noises or shadows (including her own), and looking around wearily. Lisa knew Roseanne was slightly odd, maybe that’s why she’s able to be alone in an empty abandoned building.

Further down, she hears it, and makes her way to the soft melody that escapes from a familiar battered oak door. Lisa pokes her head in, and just as she suspected, she was there.

“Why is it that I always find you hiding in here?” Lisa muses as she squeezes past the door frame, blowing out a puff of air. That door only opens so much, and she thinks she might have skinned her knee on the lower hinge. (That’s gonna burn in the shower later…)

Slender fingers once gliding across ivory keys halt their movements. Roseanne rests her hands in her lap and turns to her friend with a smile. “Who said I was hiding? And what if I like being holed up in here?”

Lisa rolled her eyes playfully. “You know what I mean and I know you like being holed up in here.” Looking around, she spoke again, “I see you cleaned up some more and moved things around.”

The room was an old music classroom that was abandoned when classes were moved to a newer building, the old equipment stayed. It was a small room but now that Roseanne had moved and stacked up the old music stands and chairs, it was spacious. The curtains were open and the sun shone through, enhancing the satisfying rustic look of the room. She had to have also dusted and swept the floors since Lisa didn’t sneeze immediately upon walking in. “It looks nice.”

Roseanne hummed, eyes flickering across the painted vines and colorful roses on the piano’s surfaces. “Thank you. But you never come back here without very good reason to, what’s up?”

Lisa shrugged and sat herself on the windowsill. That was true, Lisa doesn’t do spiders, spiderwebs, dust, or creepy, mostly empty hallways. “I missed you, that’s one thing.” Roseanne was in Melbourne on vacation, so they haven’t seen each other since break.

Roseanne’s expression shifted into one of amusement. “I missed you too Lisa. It’s good to be back,” her fingers began picking idly at the piano's edge. “But what else brings you over? I can tell you want to ask me something.”

“Ah, do you remember (Y/n)?” Roseanne nods. “Well, the relationship between her and her current roommate is sour— it’s always been sour if you ask me, so she wants to move dorms.”

“And?”

“I told her that you don’t have a roommate...”

Roseanne knew what Lisa was implying already yet asked her to continue as she found amusement in Lisa’s nervousness. “And would ask if you’d consider letting her move in. But it’s totally okay if she can’t, she knows you like having the privacy.”

Roseanne let out a heavy breath and leaned against the piano, running a hand through her hair as she thought.

Other than some factors, she doesn’t see why she would deny. If she agrees, it would save you the time of being put on a waitlist with the other students who want to move dorms. It could be fun to have a roomate again, she thinks. It’s not like you’re total strangers either, both friends of a friend, Lisa being the link between.

“Okay.” She says.

“Okay?” Lisa repeats.

“I won’t say yes till I talk with her.” Roseanne runs her fingers across the small dips in the piano keys. She’ll have to lay down some groundwork and ask you some questions. The worst thing she wants to do is let someone nasty into her dorm— not that you are…hopefully.

“Oh! We can arrange that, um when did you want to meet up? I can tell her,” Lisa looks happy.

“Tomorrow is fine.”

“Alright then, thank you for considering this.” Roseanne nods and Lisa stands up. “I’ll head back for dance class now,” she says, “Stay safe okay? Watch out for ghosts too— I swear I’m hearing things.” Lisa shivers.

“I will Lisa,” she cocks her head to the side, “don’t get scared walking back.” Roseanne’s teasing earns her an eye roll.

“Yeah, yeah.” After Lisa slips out the room, she waits a few seconds to see if Lisa will come back; she does. Lisa pops her head back through the door and yells, “if you get a call in a few minutes you better answer it!” Lisa may need to call her if she gets scared walking through the hallways.Then she is gone.

Chuckling under her breath, Roseanne scoots back to the edge of the bench, her back straight with her arms relaxed and in front of her, before resuming to play. An upbeat song, she began with and played, before the music slowed to something soft and melancholic, and Roseanne closed her eyes at the sound, allowing herself to be drawn into the world of the music. These keys— any piano keys really— to her, were like a past memory. Something she can fall back on whenever her thoughts get the best of her.

And tomorrow, she’d have to meet up with you.

-

Would you like to continue?

-

Another A/n: Y’all don’t know the hell I went through italicizing words. Like why doesn’t tumblr do that for me? Why don’t you transfer exactly what I write on a google doc here? (😭)

[biscuitblinkeu]

Tragedy: Masterlist

Series based in ????

Chapter names and number subject to change!

……………………………………………………………

1. Build a Bitch

2. The Things We Hate

3. Disasters and the Sony Hand-cam

4. Smile

5. Moral; Too Close

6. Drunken Stupor

7.

8.

9.

10. Yes, I like-like You

11. What The Fuck?

12.

13.

14.

15.

16. Sand and Marmoris

17. I Love…Rain?

18. Finally

19. Tragedy

20. Epilogue

[biscuitblinkeu]

The Things We Hate [2]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Word Count: 4017

A/n: I will forever be a clown. When I say I’ll post on so and so, take it with a grain of salt.

………………………………………………………………………….

“Roseanne?” Her professor calls, and she pauses just before the door. She was the only one still left in the lecture hall, always packing up slower than everyone else because she was in no rush.

Readjusting her backpack, she turns around, locking eyes with charcoal ones. “Yes?”

Ms. Mayfield was on the older side of the spectrum of teachers in the college. Old enough to be someone’s grandma or great grandma. She was an African woman, the age of sixty-seven, plump with jet black hair usually styled beautifully, her eyebrows plucked, and her lips, today, painted a deep plum. Despite her age she looked awfully young and energetic. She was very kind.

“Could you do me a favor?” Her professor looks awfully apologetic when the words leave her mouth. But Roseanne would be willing to do any favor for her. Ms. Mayfield was her favorite professor, afterall. She was like the parental figure she never had.

She smiled, “Sure. What is it?” 

“Really? Thank you, you're a lifesaver. I’m too old t’be walking down to the old building, it’s bad for my knees— Hold on, you still willing t’go if it’s way down there?” She raised an eyebrow at Roseanne in question.

The old building was an eight minute walk if you were fast and knew a few shortcuts. Not to mention it was dark and spine-chilling with all the creaks of the foundation and whirs of wind. There were definitely a few animals taking home there too.)

“It's not a problem. I go down there all the time, remember?” 

Ms. Mayfield snaps her finger, “Oh yes, forgot about that for a moment.”

“So what am I looking for?”

“It’s a yellow box in the old English composition room’s storage closet filled with old media magazines. I recall the box sitting on one of the shelves. It should still be there,” she affirms.

“I know where that room is, I’ll…” Roseanne trails off. A thud and thump followed by a pained hiss interrupt her, and they look to the noise with confusion.

Higher up in the seating rows, a man stands up from behind the tables rubbing his elbow. He— Avocaté— proceeds to pick up his fallen textbooks and papers as he grumbles under his breath. He zips up his backpack, completely unaware they’re is still people in the room. He realizes this when he looks up and sees them, letting out a loud screech.

“Fuck!” He shouted, hand on his heart. “You both were just going to stare at me the whole time and not say anything??”

Ignoring Avacaté’s question, Ms. Mayfield spoke, “What’d I tell you about sleeping in my class boy? Everyone was dismissed ten minutes ago.” 

He throws his backpack over his shoulder, responding with a huff, walking down the steps.

“I know something that’ll fully wake you up. Why don’t you accompany Roseanne to the old building to get something for me?”  

Roseanne couldn’t hide the opposition on her face if she was wearing a mask. Her eyes bug-out, wide and very dismayed. Her lips undeniably have fallen into a frown that starts to sag the longer Ms. Mayfield doesn’t pay attention to her body language.

She can go alone!

She hopes he declines and goes on about his day. She wasn’t interested in spending twenty-five or so minutes alone with him at all. They barely exchanged more than four dozen words altogether during the two years.  And if they did interact other than talking school, it was his lingering perverted gaze following her when they crossed paths in the hallway. Or the intense flirtatious remarks or “accidental'' fleeting touches when they have to move past each other around the research lab. 

Avacaté purses his lips like a duck and a few moments of silence pass. Roseanne thinks that he looks incredibly dense when he does that. “Fine,” he says after a while. “Lead the way Park.” 

“Hey, why don’t we stop at Subway? I could go for a bite.” 

Roseanne finds herself internally sighing once again. She didn’t sign up to play twenty questions. They’ve been walking for about five minutes now, crossing the grassy courtyard to the other side: the old buildings.

“I’m sure she wants us to get the box to her before the next professor takes the room.”

“Right.” he spoke flatly, slouching over with his hands shoved in his jean pockets. They finally made it to the entrance of the old Arts building and Roseanne pulled the door open, jerking her head to tell him to walk in first. He walks in reluctantly, squinting through the dark.

“This place is creepy man.” He says sullenly, looking around wearily. It was a long hallway before them, ill-lit and desolate. Old papers and trash were strewn across the hall carelessly, posters ripped from the walls, chairs stacked up outside the classrooms. The only light coming in was from the door they entered and the occasional flicker of the overhead light. 

“Are you scared?” She teases. “There’s no boogeyman in here, I assure you.” 

His lips tighten into a thin line and he kicks the air. “No. Let’s just hurry up alright? Where is the light switch for the hallway?” Do the lights even work, is the question.)

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe in the ghost rumors.” She laughs, walking down the hallway with ease, leaving him behind. He scrambles to follow her faintly illuminated figure, footsteps slowing their pace when he reaches her side. 

“The Ghost rumors?” He squeaks and Roseanne eyes him judgmentally. Avacaté clears his throat, “I don’t. Jesus Christ.” 

They don’t talk, just the sound of their footsteps and the building’s occasional creak or whir are heard. Although desperate for a distraction, Avacaté starts up his question game again. “Do you have a boyfriend?” 

Roseanne sighs, “I don’t.”

“That’s unbelievable! You’re so… I don’t understand how you’re not taken. Or maybe you broke up with someone recently?”

“Nope. I don’t prioritize relationships right now. I’m the one rejecting the advances.” 

Avacaté hums, glancing at her. 

“Haven’t found the right guy?” He voiced cheekily as he stepped closer to her side, all sly and sanguine, like the space between them before was the Roseanne-rejecting-advances bubble and that invading it would make him different. 

“No,” she remarked, dodging the arm that was inevitably going to wrap itself around her shoulders and speeding up her walking pace to leave him behind, “I haven't found the right girl.”

“You like chicks…?” She hears him wonder aloud as he pauses in his steps. His shoes slap against the dusty marbling as he joins her side again and he shrugs, throwing her a mischievous grin. “I like chicks too.”

Fantastic.

They approached the door, the sticker on it reading “Music” barely legible. The door opened without needing to be unlocked, creaking as it swung inwardly. Roseanne stepped in first, and immediately after passing through the doorway she felt a sticky, cloth-like bundle of strings lay itself over her face. She let out a yelp, hands furiously swatting the air around her, fingers pinching where she felt the web was stuck.

Avacaté chuckled as he slipped past her into the room. After she was sure there wasn’t anything left stuck to her face, she was met with his amused expression. She rolled her eyes and looked around, lips pursed as her eyes scanned the metal shelves.

“It’s up there,” Roseanne says when she spots it. Tucked between a few files and pushed to the back, it rested on the highest shelf.

“How are we going to get it from up there?” Avacaté was tall, but even on his tippy-toes he wouldn’t be able to reach it.

“Look for a stool or something?” She looked around only to find there was no type of chair present.

“You could sit on my shoulders?” He suggested casually, grinning wolfishly.

Roseanne shook her head with a deep frown. She switches the light switch on, now able to see clearly. There was another door in the room, where she assumed it was the storage closet. Careful not to slip on stray papers she opened the door, and there was a ladder resting against the wall. She drags the ladder out and he takes it from her and unfolds it in front of the shelves. 

Roseanne grabs the sides, fully intending to get the box herself to make this go quicker but he stops her with an arm.

“I'll do it. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t do the hard work.” He winks at her. (Roseanne thinks she just threw up in her mouth.)  

She drags the ladder out of the room’s storage closet and he takes it from her and unfolds it in front of the shelves. 

Roseanne notices the ladder is not sturdy at all. The wood was practically rotted, the metal rusted, and the bolts were on the verge of falling out. She takes a step closer, pointing to the top shelf. “The box should be that yellow one to your left once you climb up.”

“Got it.” He climbs up three steps and pauses as the ladder wobbles and the wood slabs feel weak under his weight. “Er…why don’t you hold the ladder for me?” 

She nods, positioning herself at its side and gripping on to it tightly. 

“Thanks,” he says before searching the shelves, moving things around. “Ah, there it is…”

“Your name reminds me of Avocados,” she breaks the silence.

“Oh you think so? Do you like avocados? You look like you’d be an avocado type of girl.”

“I hate them, actually,” she quipped. A shiver passes through her as she remembers her unpleasant encounters with the vegetable. “The texture and taste is troubling to me, and even after washing your hands they still smell faintly,” she eyes him as he climbs higher up. “They’re disgusting.”

He hummed in response. Having finally reached the box, he grabbed it and climbed down the ladder carefully.

“We have it now, let's go back.”

“Wait,” He sets the box on the ground, taking a step near her. “You still have some spider web in your hair.” He says, reaching out to remove it but she backs up instinctively. Roseanne gives him a look, “No It’s alright, I’ll get it myself.” 

His brows furrow at her actions, and he defensively holds his hands up. “Why are you so jumpy? I was just trying to help. So let me, I got it.”

He reaches out again to touch her hair, having no regard to her personal space despite her previous reaction. Like before, she backs up again, one foot behind the other onto the scattered papers. “I said no.” She says again, yet he insists and ignores her words, still reaching out towards her. She takes another step back and stumbles because of a stray box.

“Careful!” He yells, reaching for her wrists. A mocking smile rests on his lips. “You’ll trip if you keep backing up…” His grip is brusingly strong and he pulls her towards him with little effort. The feeling of his cold and calloused fingertips against her skin made her tense. The touch was so brief, so fleeting, but uneasiness made itself apparent instantly. And the aggressive feeling of disgust boiled from within. It’s traveling, crawling and pricking along her skin like tiny needles and she feels absolutely repulsed. Perspiration forms on her forehead and upper lip and ragged breaths escape her. She’s stiff as a board and she looks at him with a withering gaze.

For Roseanne, it’s all too much.

Something tells her the sensory overload she’s experiencing inside is rearing itself on the outside when Avacaté backs away from her cautiously, letting go of her wrists. His hand goes to his neck and rubs nervously, “I'm sorry. It was all in good fun, I didn’t mean to—“

“Shut up." She snaps, stepping back as he takes a small step closer. "Don't ever— don't ever fucking touch me again without my permission.” With a scowl painted on her features, Roseanne marches to the box and picks it up by the cut-out handles and leaves the room. She walks all the way back to the lecture hall and hands Ms. Mayfield the box, receiving a ‘thank you’ as she does so.

“Where’s Avacaté?” She asks, prompting Roseanne to scowl. 

“Right here,” He breathes out, leaning in the doorway as his chest rises up and down, seemingly tired. Roseanne inwardly grins knowing he had to find his way back all alone.

She raises a brow at him but doesn’t comment on why he looks like he’s been running. “Thank you for the box,” she says and he gives her a thumbs up, walking out. Roseanne leaves shortly after exchanging a few more words with Ms. Mayfield.

…

“I had to go to the old building with him.” Roseanne almost growls. She walks in step with her other best friends, Jisoo and Jennie. They ran into each other (literally) in the hallways and were walking to the dormitory building.

“Oh? How’d that go? I heard he was a bit notorious for flirting with the girl population of the campus,” Jennie muses.

“For starters the rumors aren’t wrong.” Bitterly, she adds, “he’s brasher than I thought.”

“I can agree that he’s good-looking, but I think he’s using the charm in all the wrong ways if you ask me.” Jennie shrugs, and Jisoo and Roseanne hum in agreement.

“He’s too touchy is all.” Roseanne reasons, eyebrows knitted as she rubs her arms with an absent look. 

“Yeah, we can see that. He already has his arm around another random girl.” Jennie laughs, but throws Roseanne a concerned look over Jisoo’s shoulders.

Jisoo scoffs, her eyes burning a hole into Avacaté. To her, it was obvious he made Roseanne uncomfortable. Even as they turn the corner her eyes linger on him till he’s out of view. Jennie sulks as she watches Jisoo, who is stuck in her headspace once again worrying about Roseanne. So much so that she almost runs into a pole.

“Get your head out of the gutter Jisoo!” Jennie scolds.

…

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” an out of breath Roseanne startles you. She sets her backpack on the floor and takes the chair across from you, features apologetic. “I was waiting for my clothes to get done.” You guess she didn’t want anyone taking her clothes out of the machine because she took too long to take them out.

“It’s okay, no worries,” you respond. (She was only six minutes late and if she’s stressing over something like that you can tell she likes to be punctual and that this is unordinary for her.) She smiles at you and you take in her appearance.

Roseanne was a lean girl, she was on the taller side, broad shouldered and small waisted, toned all around and curvy at the hips; her physique was on par with a model, you thought. Her eyes were almond shaped, the color a shade somewhere between an umber-brown and olive-green. And, like her nose, her jaw was sculpted. She had pouty lips, the color of them a deep pink ( ,almost popsicle stained). Her honey-blonde hair was tied up with a simple ribbon and two strands were left out in the front. And due to the warming weather she’s wearing jean shorts and an old oversized band t-shirt halfway tucked into the side. 

“You look comfy,” she comments with a smile, taking note of your college sweatshirt and sweatpants. You look down at your attire and smile shyly. “I definitely am. And I know it’s not the best choice with the temperature outside, but I don’t plan on going anywhere anyways.” 

“Neither do I, well, except my other classes.” She crosses her arms over her chest, “So, Lisa told me you were looking for a new dorm?”

“That’s right.” You reply, nodding. “There’s tension between me and my current roommate that’ll probably last forever, honestly,  because I stopped being friends with her and a few others and that didn’t go so well,” you grimace. “So I’d like to get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Okay, I’m not against letting you move in as I haven’t used that room for anything but storage, but I want to discuss a few things first?”

You lean back in your chair, “Ask away.”

It was like an interrogation. It was normal questions mostly, like pet peeves, daily schedules, cleaning and chores. You were given a having-guest-over lecture that sounded undeniably like Lisa’s. (You wouldn’t be surprised if she told you some things about you.) You told her you wouldn’t bring anyone over, and if you do you’d let her no beforehand. Roseanne reluctantly informed you that she was a bit of a clean freak, which you believe you could deal with. You figured out she was a night owl, contrasting your early-bird nature. 

“Since the dorm is more like a small apartment than the one-room dorms, we'll have to come up with a chore chart or something. But other than that I can’t think of anything else to ask.” 

“That's fine. When will I be able to move in?”

“I think the weekend would be best, so I’ll have time to take my things out of the room.” 

You nod. “Thank you so much.” 

She smiles. “Of course.”

You and Roseanne part ways when the time for your afternoon classes start. 

You have Painting, where most of the time you’re given a subject and are supposed to paint it within constants or using your own creativity. It was one of your funner classes.

The room itself had different levels of elevation, where each row 10 easels and stools were placed. There were only two rows because some preferred using desks. 

Always the earliest one to arrive, you say hello to your Painting professor and move to the back rows, one seat away from the window. You get up and walk to the bins that hold new canvases of all sizes, grabbing a 15 x 15 inch one. The paint was the next thing you grabbed, and you picked your colors while occasionally glancing at the assortment of objects your tracer laid out. 

Apon walking back to your seat you noticed the twins were here. You befriended them at a party last year, where you caught them drunk out of their mind stuffing Cheeto puffs into a disposal, laughing like maniacs. You called them an Uber home and since then, after realizing you shared a class this year, you became friends.

“Hey guys,” you greet as you maneuver around one of them. One had chosen the seat closest to the window, and the other the one beside you. 

“Hello,” they say simultaneously. Definitely twins, you think, shaking your head.

Cooper and Curtis— their dad is obsessed with names that start with C, they told you— are identical twins who transferred from Paris. You are only able to tell them apart because Cooper keeps his face shaven, free of facial hair and looks younger because of it, while Curtis has a styled beard or noticeable stubble. 

“What’s been going on with you?” Curtis questions after he’s finished getting his supplies. 

“I left my friend group finally, and good news, I’m moving dorms with Roseanne.”

“About time you did!” He inputs and you kick his shin. 

“We know. I bet you’re super excited to be around some pretty girl.” Cooper winked and made an obscene gesture.

“No,” you dismiss flatly and he pouts. You blink, suddenly quizzical. “Pause. How did you guys know I was moving dorms?” 

“Word spreads fast,” is all he says, glancing at Krystal who sits a few rows in front of you. (You don’t have to worry about her hearing anything because she has her headphones on, surely blasting music.)

“Well what’s spreading this time? Bet she made herself the victim and went on about how bad a roommate I am and how happy she is that I’m switching.”

“Right on, unfortunately. I don’t think anyone…well, anyone who knows you would believe all that.” 

“I call bullshit man.” Curt inputs, muttering under his breath when his paint squirted all over his palette. 

“BS, Curt, BS. You know how Professor Woods is about profanity,” you scold.

He rolls his eyes at you. “N'agis pas comme si tu ne maudissais pas chaque instant qui passe.”

“What?”

“Rien.”

You shrug, knowing what he said had to be some witty response. One day, you swear, you’ll be able to understand what he says in French.

“So, who is your new roommate?” Cooper asks and you turn to him.

“You remember Roseanne? Lisa’s friend?”

“Oh her? You’ve hit the jackpot my friend.”

“I think I did too. She’s really nice and funny. She’s gorgeous too. But I’ll have to try to not disturb her…” You have to follow Roseanne’s rules and not bring people over. (Which you did in the past because Krystal and Jackson loved being loud in the bedroom. It was just a little payback.)

“Someone as nice as that has to turn out to be a real demon, I mean come on, don’t you watch thriller movies?” Curt retorted.

You snort and Cooper nudges you in the side with a boyish grin on his face. “He’s right though! As dreamy as she looks and as you make her sound,” he teased as he mixed blue paint with his brush. “She could secretly be a sadist— like, has a room full of leather whips and sharp objects and kinky stuff.” 

You roll your eyes in response, looking at him like he was hopeless. “I bet you’d totally be into that wouldn’t you.”

A flush rose to his cheeks and he coughed, “No! But my point still stands.”

“Yeah yeah.”

…

Roseanne hears you before she sees you.

You’re a menace in the hallways, being as loud as possible as you greet almost every person you walk by (that is, if you’re not hungover). It's a talent of yours— shoving your image in someone’s face until they drown underneath your confidence. She wonders how you do it. How are you not discouraged and shamefaced at the unhappy drowsy looks thrown your way, the scoffs and rolling of eyes, the wolf whistles? She does not know; you’re a feat on your own.

Even so, she was no exception to this rule, with you stopping by her locker and throwing a mischievous smile her way. “Morning, Roseanne.” You greet casually, leaning against the wall next to her. Yet the way your eyes do a sweep of her figure isn’t so casual. You make it your daily routine to, as you say, make her mornings a tad more interesting. She doesn’t believe it’s out of the good will of your heart though. She knows you want something.

“Good morning, (Y/n).” You smile at her simple response. And she expects you to walk off and do whatever it is you do, but you stay leaning against the lockers, watching her do her thing. You’re lingering, and she can feel your stare. “Did you need anything, or did you just pop up for fun?” You detect bitter annoyance in her tone, a faint trace of amusement. 

Roseanne Park isn’t a nice morning person. Noted.

“Oh, uh…” Recoiling from her tone, you straighten up and off the wall. “I thought we could go grab coffee? Or lunch? Whatever’s open. I thought since we’re going to be roommates and all soon I’d like to get to know you some more.” You look hopeful when she faces you, but she can see part of you is expecting a flat refusal with the way you chew on your bottom lip anxiously. 

Roseanne’s answer is quick. It’s a tempting offer, she’s in desperate need of something to fully wake her up. She supposes it wouldn’t be terrible to accompany you instead of going alone herself later in the day. Saves her early-day professors from suspecting she has an attitude because of her crankiness. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know you more either.

 “Sure, let’s go?”

Would you like to continue?

[biscuitblinkeu]

Cards and the Sony Handcam [3]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Word count: 4111

A/n: The slow build up is killing me, and it’s probably killing you readers more since I didn’t even give y’all a summary… Why does the word count get bigger every chapter 🗿

Chapter not proofread yet

……………………………………………………………………

“You really like coffee, don’t you,” you muse, having watched Roseanne the moment she got her drink inhale the aroma like it was a lifeline; your lips quirked into a fond smile.

In fact, she had made a beeline towards the café table closest to the entrance where she sat and promptly fell into the cushioned chair with a heavy sigh, as though all the energy was draining from her body in that instant. She gave you her exact order as you offered to get it for her, and stayed slumped there while you got the drinks.

She takes a sip of her coffee, sighing contentedly. “Yes, but I like it even more when I actually need it.”

“Tiring day?”

She nods, “And it’s not even over yet. I might need an iced coffee to-go.”

“Or, you could take a nap. I don’t think that much coffee is healthy.” 

Roseanne gives you a look, as to say, ‘caffeine is what every college student functions on.’ She sighs, “I wish I could be able to, naps don’t exist for me.” 

“You can’t sleep?” You ask, and Roseanne confirms with a nod. “Have you tried melatonin? That usually helps me.”

“Yes I have, it doesn’t work.”

“You're an insomniac?”

“Afraid so,” she says. You talk a little more. And despite being insomniac, she still gets that iced coffee. (And as she’s walking out of the café with it, she thinks everyone makes poor choices every once in a while. In hindsight, she shouldn’t be drinking another cup.)

You and Roseanne went your separate ways for now, as you would see eachother again in a few hours when you were moving in. Lisa had committed to the task of helping you move your things from your current room to Roseanne’s, along with the help of some of the Dance majors. 

“I’ll be out of your hair in less than an hour, so stop the whining, please.” You say, irritated. Your roommate has been nagging in your ear about all the garbage bags with your clothes, shoes, and other things all in front of the door. Krystal huffs in response, rolling her eyes and smacking her gum as she plugs her AirPod back into her ears. You wish it stayed in her ear and she would stop taking the thing out just to bitch about something else.

It's not long before a pattern of knocks sound at your door; a familiar series of taps and you open your door to Lisa, Hyunjin, and Yeji. 

“Hey!” Lisa greets, hugging you briefly before sliding past you as she whispers, “Ready to get out of this hellhole?” You make a dramatic roll of your eyes before looking at the man and woman in front of you, smiling mischievously. “How are my favorite twins?” Simultaneously, they groan and start a rant about how they only look similar and have the same last name but aren’t related in any way.

You laugh, letting them in and they make quick work of taking the bags and items you had lined by the doorway and putting them into a cart provided by the University. All your stuff is in the cart in fourty or so minutes, and you’re given a half-assed goodbye from Krystal as the door shuts behind you with a click.

“Thank you all for helping,” you say, trailing behind the Hwangs who push the cart, Lisa at your side.

“It’s no problem,” the Hwangs voiced at the same time. 

“Why do you keep copying me?” Yeji, whined. 

“I’m not!” Hyunjin shouted, irritated that they’re not really fighting the stereotype of twins. You and Lisa laughed, watching them babble on.

Lisa nudged you in the side, “Roseanne’s dorm is near the English Arts building, and it’s on one of the higher floors so we have to take the elevator.” Lisa tells you as you turn another hallway.

“That’s pretty convenient for her then, being next to the building most of her classes are all in. I usually have to take a short subway trip or walk across campus.”

“I know right? But if you think about it, after you move in, you won’t have to go out of your way for transportation since the Arts buildings are close together.” You hum.

After wheeling the cart through multiple hallways, walking across parking lots, and through a few doors you were in Roseanne’s residence hall. Like Lisa informed, you did have to take an elevator to the higher floors. When you got out on the fourth floor, you all walked along the numerous doors till you reached the end of the hallway.

It was one door, with no others adjacent to it, confirming that Roseanne had one of the bigger dorms. The bigger dorms were available for the top students who got in with their academics or accomplishments, the university even held raffles for the nicer dorms whenever a spot opened to the general population of students. (In short, if you were smart you had a higher chance of getting a bigger dorm.)

You and the two Hwangs jumped when Lisa started knocking very aggressively on Roseanne’s door. It was a succession of sharp blows, slaps, and thunks. The door was thrown open a few moments later by an agitated Roseanne. A few hairs were out of place and she looked very humorless, staring at Lisa with narrowed eyes and a tight smile. 

“You totally ran all the way here,” Lisa stated, pointing a finger at Roseanne as a sly smile painted her lips. The blonde huffed, eyes drifting to the cart behind Lisa, to you, and then back to Lisa lazily. 

“Yes, I ran. But do you have to do that every time?” She grumbled. Lisa grinned widely, nodding her head. She turned around and gestured to you. “Ready to have a new roomie?” 

Roseanne smiled before nodding her head in the direction of the room and said, “I am. Come on then.”

Upon walking in, you observed, if anything, that your university definitely had a large portion of its budget go into the dorms. Roseanne’s dorm was very nice, almost the size of a small apartment or studio. And that’s not to say your previous dorm wasn’t nice, because it was, but right off the bat there were significant differences between yours and Roseanne’s.

Her dorm was like a suite, it was very clean and minimal. She had enough space for a small living room, and across from that there was a small kitchen, which she had extra appliances and things. There was a hallway, with a room on each side and at the beginning of it, a bathroom. 

Roseanne led you to what would be your bedroom. “Here it is, there’s a closet over there, and then you can decide if you want to move that dresser or not…” she informed. “Let me know if you need any help, but I’ll be in my room doing assignments.” 

“Thanks, Roseanne.” You tell her as she disappears into her room and you enter your own room, taking in its appearance. It was smaller than your shared dorm room with Krystal obviously; it had a bed (no sheets or anything), the dresser Roseanne spoke about before she left, and a closet. it was perfect, though, because you had your own space.

(Little did you know that that “own space” of yours would be almost nonexistent in the untold future.)

It was a team effort taking your stuff out the cart, out the bags and into its respective spot. You decided to use the dresser still in the room as you had a lot of clothes. You helped with the lightweight things and planned to help with your heavy items like your I-Mac and clothing bags, but got shooed away. Now you’ve just been observing. (Observing the rippling arm muscles and hard earned bodies of the dancers, that is.)

“Are you okay?” Lisa approaches with a laugh, eyeing you. She’s detected your perverse notions, you thought, that’s the reason she came over here. You pull your bottom lip from where it was caught between your teeth and look away from the dancers, smiling at Lisa innocently. “Just fine, but I can’t get over how attractive they are, like, it should be a sin.”

Lisa gasps, “Am I included? You know I’m the hottest, right?”

(I’m the hottest, okay?)

“Yes, you too,” you roll your eyes playfully, poking her in the rib. Half an hour later, they finished up and you were walking them out the door. You smiled at them. “Thank you guys so much, I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“Of course.”

“See you soon,” Lisa said last, walking with the twins down the hallway. You closed the door with a sigh. What to do now?

…

Roseanne has left you to your devices for a few hours, and you’ve been somewhat quiet, so she flinches when she hears a knock on her door.

On the other hand, you, having reached the point of borderline boredom, caved in and decided to bother your new roommate. You had shuffled down the hallway to her open door and stood in her door frame, dressed similar to earlier except now wearing a baggy tee. “Hey, wanna watch a movie?”

Roseanne looks at the mess of papers in front of her, then back to you. “Sure, I could use a break.” 

It’s funny that you fell asleep during the movie despite being the one that asked to watch it. Roseanne can’t even watch it though because your snores are snatching her attention from the movie every few seconds.

She bites the inside of her cheek, deciding to lightly tap on your shoulder. “(Y/n), hey, you’re snoring and I can’t hear the movie.” 

You turn your head slightly, eyes still closed. “Then turn it up…” you murmur, pulling the cover over your shoulder.

“So you can yell at me for waking you because of the volume?”

You huff, dragging yourself upwards and throwing her an unamused look. “You woke me up anyway, so I don’t think that matters.”

Roseanne hums to herself, looking to the clock on the wall before turning her gaze to you again. “You look tired, why don’t we call it a night? You can take a shower.”

“Yeah, sure, that’d be great.” You agreed tiredly, hoping that when you’re under the shower water you don’t fall asleep. You take a quick shower, change, and brush your teeth before waking down the hallway to your room. Roseanne’s door was open so you yelled goodnight before shutting your own. Once in your room, you plop onto your bed face first, burying your nose deep in the pillow. Sleep comes quickly.

…

beep! beep! beep!

beep! beep! beep!

Roseanne’s eyes snap open in alarm at the screeching sound. Her body stilled, and she waited maybe seven seconds before she allowed herself to calm down. She remembered now; she had a roommate; someone living with her, and just in the room a little ways down and across the hallway. 

beep! beep! beep!

She assumed that horrid noise was just your alarm going off— really loudly, at seven in the morning on a Sunday. Roseanne tossed around to lay on her stomach, pressing her pillow to her head. She screwed her eyes shut, planning to fall asleep again, knowing you’re probably awake now to turn it off.

“…”

beep! beep! beep!

Any second now, she tells herself, you’re going to turn it off.

beep! beep! beep!

“Are you serious…” Roseanne murmurs, sliding out of bed groggily. The beep!..beep!..beep! was harsh on her ears, as was the sunlight seeping through her half-open curtains. She runs a hand through her tangled hair, knowing if she were to come across a mirror it’d resemble a lion’s mane. Bedhead wasn’t kind to her, she liked to toss and turn in her sleep.

Roseanne shivered as she stepped into the hallway, the draft of the air conditioner creeping across her skin. She padded to your door, her pajama pants which were pooling at her feet slid against the carpet with each step. She knocked thrice, and when you didn’t answer she knocked twice before coming in, and just as she thought, you were still asleep, oblivious to your alarm going off and still dead to the world.

You weren’t even all the way on your bed, she noticed, you had one leg hanging over the side with one fuzzy sock on the foot outside of the covers, the other leg bent, and your arms sprawled out in different directions. 

She has to feel around your bed for your phone, and the task was harder than she’d like to admit. You would roll over and toss and turn, shifting your phone’s position multiple times or burying it underneath your back or covers. 

How can someone sleep like this? 

Finally, Roseanne managed to find the damn phone and turned off the annoying alarm. You mumbled something incoherently  before turning over in your bed. She put your cover back on you before leaving the room, deciding to “fake sleep” for a few more hours since she didn’t want to face the responsibilities of the day yet.

Unsurprisingly, you woke up half an hour later, completely aware you didn’t wake up with your timer. You yawned, stretching pleasurably before leaving the bedroom. It was quiet as a mouse, the only sounds coming from outside the dorm and the air conditioning. You tiptoed to the bathroom, failing miserably at washing your face and brushing your teeth quietly. 

You hung out in the living room after eating a few pieces of toast and fruit because you can’t cook. If you really think about it, you’ve been surviving off of simple meals, microwave food, takeout, and Lisa’s cooking. (That’s embarrassing.)

Roseanne enters the kitchen three hours later, toothbrush in mouth as she pulls out a carton of orange juice. She entered so silently you were startled when you finally noticed that she was awake. “Jesus!”

“Good morning?…” She says with confusion, voice muffled by her toothbrush.

“Good afternoon,” you say back. It was twelve-something past morning. She slept till the early afternoon. 

Later in the day, after lounging around the dorm with Roseanne you were called by Lisa, who said her, Jennie, and Jisoo were coming over. 

Due to this, you and Roseanne had to go grocery shopping for snacks and other things low in her fridge. You got the essentials: milk, bottled water, bread, cheeses, more fruits, etc. (You would both pay for the total by splitting it as it was more convenient.) Then it was time to conquer the snack aisle, and bicker you did; over Oreo flavors. 

“The original is the best kind, it’s a staple, it’s what everyone gets. Therefore—” 

“Therefore you should try new flavors. Look,” she pulled a few boxes off the shelves, “they have some new flavors, there’s swedish fish, mint, s’mores, rice crispy, red velvet, birthday cake. What about mint?”

You physically recoil and Roseanne gives you a weird look. “Out of all the flavors you just listed, you picked that one?”

“What’s wrong with this one?” With a frown she holds up the Mint Oreo box, genuinely confused.

“What’s wrong with it is that—”

“Ladies,” a man interrupts. The smile on his face looked so incredibly strained, almost like a stretched rubber band. It’s then you realize he’s been standing behind the two of you to get a Oreo box himself since you’ve taken up this section of the aisle. He wrings his hands together, eyeing the number of Oreo boxes you both hold, and through his teeth he says, “Why don’t you just get both?” 

“Oh.” Roseanne said dumly, heat creeping up her neck. She turns to you, “Well, let’s get both then.” You agree wordlessly, feeling mortified as well. 

After that experience, shopping for snacks was smooth sailing and you were out of the store in record time. You went back to your dorm and put everything in its respective places and Roseanne took care of the snack platters. 

And as she took care of the snacks— putting them in organized bowls and arrangements, you watched her with difficulty. She was color coding the candies; lining up the Oreos in rows; making sure no kernels fell in the bowl. When she shifted the charcuterie board’s position for the nth time, you flopped back onto the couch and let out a whine. “Roseanne, that’s the 6th time you’ve arranged it! I swear it looks fine.”

She gives you a withering look, not quite believing you, and her hands fidget at her sides for a moment more before she gives up, plopping into a chair. She only gets like this when she needs something to do. Never does she not have something to occupy her, and when she does it’s so incredibly difficult to relax.

You affirm that the board looks fine once more before unpausing the tv, though a shiver induced by the AC passes through you and you instinctively reach for the cover laying folded across the couch next to you. 

“That’s not a blanket,” Roseanne speaks up, making you pause and pull your hand back and look her way. “It’s not?” you question, staring at the soft checkered pattern.

“I mean, it is. But it’s not supposed to be used.”

You blink. “What’s the point of the blanket being on the couch if it can’t be used?”

“It’s for decoration, of course.”

You throw your arms back, amused but slightly exasperated. You’re cold!

“I’m joking,” she says. (She’s not. Its only real purpose was to sit there and look nice.) “You can use it.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

An obnoxious pattern of knocks sound at the door and you flinch. You’ve come to know that it was Lisa becuase of what you heard earlier. Roseanne gets up to answer the door.

You hear the voices of Lisa and Jennie along with a new voice and sit up, smiling as they walk in. “Hey guys,” you greet and they return. You tilt your head at the brunette. “Jisoo, I presume?”

“Yeah, it’s nice to finally meet you, (Y/n).” You just about say the same before falling into conversation with them.

“You won’t believe what we saw in the hallways on the way here— some guy was running around butt naked in desperate need of something to cover up. I bet he got locked out by some friends or something.” Lisa says, plopping down next to you. 

You grimace. “I would be mortified. I wouldn’t show my face ever again.” Roseanne scrunches her nose up, agreeing with you. “Well, now that we’re all here let’s eat snacks and play some games. And by games I mean Poker and whatever else I have.”

You’re all seated around the glass coffee table in front of the couches, snack bowls at one end of the table up for grabs anytime and cards laid in front of you. You’ve dragged a beanbag chair into the room and occupied it. Lisa and Rosé sit adjacent to you on opposite sides of each other and Jennie and Jisoo sit with their legs criss-crossed on the other end.

Uno turns out to be a disaster. Everyone was making up their own rules and confusing the reverse and skip cards. Charades was the funniest thing you’ve ever witnessed. And Poker, it turns out, was fun. 

It turns out to be much easier to understand than you anticipated. Three cards are face up on the table, followed by another and the following, as explained by Roseanne. Jisoo and Lisa chime in with some pertinent facts and other oddball observations. A stack of plastic chips is placed in front of you when you demonstrate that you have a reasonable grasp and pledge to ask for assistance if necessary. They all promise you that betting is far more enjoyable. Lisa appears delighted that she won't run out of chips first. Lisa is quickly running out of chips and Jisoo and Roseanne have exhausted all of their chips, you all turn to look at the large stack in front of Jennie.

"Shark! She's a shark!" Lisa gripes, folding her arms and throwing her cards down on the table as she loses another hand.

"I haven't played before!" Jennie protests. "It's not exactly hard!"

"How are you winning then?" You whine, being in the same position as Jennie as a newbie. She’s a much better poker-newbie than you.

"How the hell do you do that?" Lisa asks exasperated.

"Math," Jennie says simply.

"Math?" Jisoo wonders aloud and Jennie turns to her.

"Yes, math. It's all a matter of probability. Isn't that how you do it?"

Your jaw has fallen to the floor, much like Lisa’s and Roseanne’s.

Jisoo looks at her with drawn brows. "Poker...and math?"

“Hah— you voluntarily do math outside of anything school related? I’m not surprised, smartass,” you say exasperated. Jennie is a law student after all, she was probably the smartest person in the room. Jennie laughs at your comment, quieting down when she feels a brush against her knee.

“That’s actually amazing to me Jen,” Jisoo says, smiling at the cat-eyed woman. “I really admire that about you, you know.” 

“It’s really nothing,” she replies, grinning sheepishly. At their prolonged eye contact, Jennie blushes, and just knowing the rosey color was blooming on her cheeks, she looked down, letting her hair fall like a curtain over her face. That grin of hers transformed into a wide and gummy smile.

“Another game?” Roseanne says, eying Jennie with mischief. Jennie looks up and meets her eyes and the mortified expression she made was comical to Roseanne. She wasn’t subtle at all, that was something Jennie knew— something everyone knew…except Jisoo.

 …

“Bye guys! This was fun, let’s do it again sometime.” You say sending off everyone.

After everyone leaves, you and Roseanne have the unanimous decision to clean up. It was a comfortable silence, you and her shuffling about with the low hum of her speaker’s music. You took the liberty of packing up the poker chips and cards into its box and clearing the table of any dishes. Roseanne was in the kitchen wiping down the counters and throwing away empty soda liters and takeout containers. 

After you fixed up the pillows and dragged the beanbag chairs back into the closet you met Roseanne in the kitchen. 

“Need some help?” You asked, eyeing the amount of dishes sitting in the bubbly water. You make a mental note to buy paper plates and cups.

“That would be nice. I could wash and rinse them and you could dry? Or vice-versa.”

“I’m cool with drying,” you say, moving around her to the other side. You leave out the part that you’re terrified of soggy food underneath your fingernails. It doesn’t look like she has any gloves either. You both begin the tasks then, and after she washed you dried the dishes she handed to you. Occasionally, your arms and elbows brushed together. 

You finished drying while Roseanne hopped in the shower. You were startled awake, having fallen asleep on the couch, by a tap on your shoulder. Your roommate gave you an apologetic smile. “You can get in now.”

You nod, dragging yourself up. This was why you weren’t a night owl. The drowsiness you felt at night was a crazy difference from how you were at the crack of dawn.

You get out of the shower, towel hanging around your neck, and Roseanne slides past you. “Goodnight,” you say, stifling a yawn as you stumble to your room. You lean on the doorframe as you wait for Roseanne to finish brushing her teeth. She comes out and heads to her own room, pausing in the doorway much like you. “Good night, (Y/n).” 

Your doors shut with a click and you plop down ungracefully on your bed, lazily kicking your sweats off. You're out like a light in five minutes. On the other side of the hallway, Roseanne is at her desk, where she pulls out her ragged camcorder. Sleep doesn’t come easily to her and when it does it isn’t the peaceful kind, hence why she stays up as long as she can. That is because she is afraid of her dreams.

She sets the camcorder on the surface in front of her and simply stares at it: the gray, nineteen-eighties camera her stepdad gave her for her twelfth birthday that still works till this day. It was the camera that saved her once, and in the end it will be what kills her.

Would you like to continue?

[biscuitblinkeu]

Morals; Too Close [5]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Warnings: Graphic Description? TW

Word Count: 3480

A/N: If you don’t understand her thoughts, you aren’t supposed to, they’re jumbled up on purpose. (😏) This chapter is on the shorter side btw.

………………………………………………………………………….

Officer Marco Manoban has been a police officer for almost eleven years and he had seen some grizzly sights and had his fair share of stabbings, but never a dead body. Not yet in this town. Dispatch said the body was found in the victim's house, reported by a UPS delivery man. He clenched his jaw as he sped past traffic, sirens wailing and roaring, its cries doing nothing to calm his thundering heartbeat. 

The house was coming into view now. It was a nice house, remote and modern, right next to a lake. On the surface of the dark, inky blue water, a layer of fog rested. The warm and salty smell of the lake wafted through his open windows, almost tasteable of the tongue. Gravel crunched underneath the wheels as he pulled onto the side of the road next to identical police cars, the engine's rubble subsiding with the keys removed. The UPS truck was parked on the road in front of the house. The homicide squad and police squad were already on the grounds scrambling about with important papers and tools in their hands, searching outside and inside the house. Marco stopped for a moment to watch them, the pit in his stomach so deep; it might leave a hole in him. He stepped out of his vehicle. 

“Manoban, over here!” A voice shouted, the owner none other than his fellow policeman– often caught dancing to pop music at the station– Suho. Suho beckoned him over with a hand and he cleared his throat before making his way to him. “Hey,” he greeted with a curt nod.

Suho grinned back at him, the smile faltering a second later as he jabbed a thumb to a middle aged man in the UPS uniform. He was the one who put in the call to report the body. “The detective is going to need a statement, she’s got her hands full inside,” he told Marco.

“Alright.” Marco took out his notepad and turned to the man, taking in his appearance. The man had sandy hair, gray strands peeking through his hat; his nose was slightly crooked, as if he’d broken it before, and he had big eyes. He reeked of sweat, pine, and oil. Marco fought the urge to wrinkle his nose, but plastered a small encouraging smile on his face. “Officer Manoban; I’ll need a statement of events leading up to when you found the body and your name.”

The man stumbled, his mouth opening and closing but no sound was produced. “Ah, yes– Milliard Jones.”

“Milliard Jones,” he repeated with a nod. “And the events leading up to when you found the body?”

Milliard clicked his tongue, rubbing his palms on his khaki shorts, looking very uncomfortable. “I had been delivering a package–  my truck is just over there–  and I was knocking on the door to get a signature for the package, and the door opened; it was unlocked, and oddly quiet. I called out, and out of curiosity made my way in… The television was on, and I heard water running in the basement– so I went down there, and I really shouldn't have God! I really shouldn't have!” Milliard brought his hand to his mouth and let out a few choked sounds. 

“Hey,” he tried to say in his most encouraging and understanding tone. “I really need you to finish the statement for me, alright?”

Milliard nodded, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “I went into the basement, and I saw him dead. He was just– hanging there.” He finished. 

Marco wrote it down with his pen, occasional glancing at the man. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing his notepad. “You seem put-off. I can imagine you’re shaken up. Over there are the medics, talk to them.” The man left with a small ‘thank you’ and Marco ran a hand over his face. Suho chuckles from beside him, patting him on the shoulder.

“This was never your scene, was it?” Suho says, gaze apologetic. 

Marco grumbles something inaudible and asks, “Where’s the detective?”

“She’s examining the body as we speak; inside, in the basement.” Suho informed.

Marco looked to the front door, where gloved officers and officers wearing body suits were coming in and out the house. He felt a pit in his stomach knowing that he was about to see something terrible and took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had a job to do. Marco walked to the door, his steps heavy. He was handed gloves by Bill, a homicide officer, on the way. Bill and Marco walked side by side.

“You look tense, loosen up,” the homicide officer laughed from beside him, elbowing him in the rib. 

Marco ignored him. “Have you even seen the body yet?” 

Bill shook his head. “No, I arrived around the same time you did,” he said and Marco sighed. Now they have a surprise waiting for both of them. “Look, It was probably just a suicide..?” 

The interior of the house is messy, like a little boys room. There were clothes strewn about, a mass of dishes in the sink, empty boxes all over the floors, and crumbs on the counters. There was a stench to the house, and maybe it was from the body, maybe it wasn’t.

“Don’t worry?” He mutters. Bill is a little too relaxed about this death. What if he was wrong, that it wasn’t that, but actually that they had a killer on their hands? Marco finishes slipping on his right glove when they get to the bottom of the basement stairs. Upon their arrival, the detective stands up, brushing her pants off. She stands next to the (frightfully) awed officers, looking at the space around them.

Blood was smeared across the walls and under the chains. If you stepped back like Marco did, you could see the areas of the wall left untouched, spelled out "SMILE." To the side of the words were childish drawings: a ball, a sun, dog, etc.

“Dear God…” Marco mutters, using a forearm to wipe his forehead. “What the hell happened here?”

“A lot,” the detective replies flatly. “The body has been moved already, we’re all still here searching the scene though. But…I have pictures.”

Marco and Bill move to stand in front of her. “Who was the victim?”

“Henry Donner. It’s estimated that he was tortured for at least four days. Parts of him have been cut off, just like the others. Including the penis,” she tells them with a sigh. 

Marco swallows heavily; Bill coughs.

“His fingers were all cut off,” she says, showing him a picture of ten severed fingers lying on the ground. “His chest was pulled off piece by piece. They stopped the bleeding each time by using a barbaric method of cauterization. He wanted the victim alive for that time period specifically. His penis seems to be the last thing to have gone.” 

Bill, now crunching on a granola bar, winces. “Yeah, no, only a woman could cut off a man’s...”

The detective ignores him. She pulls out five or some different photos. “Marks were found around his wrists and neck, assuming their from the chains hanging from the basement rafters. The victim was strung up in their home.”

“And the motive?”

“To be determined. The victim did not have any enemies, he was rather liked. He worked at a daycare. But,” she pauses, brows knitting.

“But what?” Bill inquired.

“We did find cameras in his room. He was a child sex offender.”

Now outside, after Marco had left the room abruptly, Bill ran a hand through his hair. “This is..is… I can’t even find a word to describe it,” he chuckles.

Marco wipes his mouth and stands back up to full height. He couldn't stomach the photos found in Henry’s camera. “It’s rattling, is what it is, Bill. This is— disgusting.” How did they let a man like that go under the radar for so long? Marco’s glad he's dead– and it’s something he would never say out loud. That killer took out the trash, and now they have to take him out.

Bill patted him on the shoulder. “It only gets worse from here.”

…

The first thing Roseanne wants to do when she gets home is take a shower, but she can't. She can't because now that she's driven Lisa home— and she had to take her to bed since Lisa was in no condition to do anything other than pass out in the hallway because the Thai had a few drinks at the bar— and you’re out doing God knows what there is nothing else to occupy her mind. 

So she panics.

She feels it coming, she always does. There are beads of sweat on her forehead and everything becomes blurry, making it hard for her to walk to her room. She stumbles inside in her dizzy state and slides to the floor, back against her bed. Her throat is tightening and she gets butterflies in her stomach, the kind she would rather never experience. Roseanne is terrified; her heart pounds against her rib cage, loud in her ears, threatening to come out of her chest. A numbness makes its way into her fingers and toes and they tingle, like the nerves in them are dancing. 

What exactly brought this on? She’s never— ever had a panic attack that she couldn’t get under control. Was it because earlier, with Lisa’s dad leaving suddenly? The look on his face, the poorly masked emotions running rampant? Was she worried? Or was it shame? Roseanne gasped, a shallow breath following it. He will understand— won’t he? That the project she’s working on might not be up to his expectations, her professor’s expectations, her classmates, or Lisa’s, Jisoo’s, and Jennie’s? Oh— she was meant to be so much more, that is what he told her when— Roseanne choked, her breaths coming in shallow, rapid succession. It wasn’t the first time. Why was it different? 

You. 

It was you— it was you, there, on your knees in front of her. 

“Roseanne?” You ask, worried at the state of your roommate. She’s not looking at you, her gaze is stuck to a spot on the floor. You didn’t expect to come back to your roommate having a panic attack. How long has she been like this? You notice she’s digging her nails in her stomach, and you’re sure they’re leaving crescent-shaped dents in the areas. She’ll hurt herself. “Hey, hey, Roseanne— Rosie,” you try again. You can’t snap in front of her face, that would startle her, so you lightly tap her shoulders, her knees, and her forehead. It’s silly, but it worked when your brother did it for you. 

Roseanne’s eyes frantically dart across the room, staring at nothing, not seeing you. You want her to focus on you. You want her to know you're here. “Rosie,” you call again, and she finally locks eyes with you. Her eyes swam with tears. She tries her hardest to keep eye contact with you. You smile encouragingly. “It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Try to match my breathing.” 

Roseanne doesn’t know what you're saying. It’s all muffled, noise drowned out by her heavy breathing, but she watches your chest, moving up and down, your lips making an “O” shape and then narrowing. You want her to breathe? She can’t. Roseanne shakes her head side to side, she tried that before, and her fingers dig further into her stomach. You peel her hands away from her abdomen and place them in her lap. Her nails dig into her palms instead, knuckles turning white. 

You sigh. “Hey, you can hold my hand if you want— squeeze it, anything, you’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that.” You hold your palms out in front of you, conveying the message. Surprising you, she takes your hand and wow, wow, why did you think this was a good idea? A squeaky noise escapes your throat at the crushing grip she has on your hands and you smile nervously when her glossy eyes flicker to you. It’s okay, you tell yourself, pain is temporary. 

You still exaggerate your breathing for her, taking in large breaths and exhales, figuring she’ll catch on soon enough. You start telling her about your day and random things and she tries to focus on the smell of your perfume, the thumb that’s awkwardly tapping (not rubbing because you can’t really move your fingers) the dorsal side of her hand, and your soothing voice. As you continue to talk about pointless things she doesn't hold in the next breath she takes and just focuses on keeping them deep and steady, like you were trying to show her earlier, and repeats the process until the beating of her heart no longer vibrates on the skin of her breasts. Her grip loosens as the minutes pass and she feels slightly calmer, lightheaded, but calm. 

“And then he put it in the back of my shirt! I was so mad I chased him around the plaza—” 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and if you were any further away you wouldn’t have heard it. It’s endearing, the tiny smile on her lips— because she’s truly grateful— and you felt happy you were able to help her with this.

“Yeah,” you say dumbly, slow, ignoring the warmth blossoming in your chest. You clear your throat and reprimand yourself— idiot— now more conscious. “Seriously, don’t even think about it. Like… Like I said, I've had my fair share of anxiety attacks before, it really isn’t an issue…It’s what I'm here for.” You spoke softly, unsure. Was that even the right thing to say: ‘it’s what I’m here for’— when you haven’t been roommates any longer than five weeks? 

The longer she stares at you the hotter your face becomes. You pulled your hand that was still held captive away slowly. Roseanne blinked, something shifted, snapped, and she became sensible of the situation. She abruptly stood up and wobbled slightly, to which you’re quick to stabilize her by the biceps, her legs feel like jelly. “Thank you,” she says again, much firmer, and it feels like she’s saying it too much. She sits on the side of her bed and you shift on your feet in front of her. What do you do now?

“Do you, uh, want water or anything?” You ask, fiddling with your cotton shorts.

“No.” She says quickly and maybe too briskly. You don’t seem too affected.

“Okay, I can just—” 

“Wait; water would be nice,” she changed her mind. “Yeah? Okay, I’ll be right back.” When you leave the room, she sighs, resting her head on her palms. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s going to be very regrettable. You weren’t supposed to see her like that: a mess. It was embarrassing. She feels exposed, vulnerable, out of her element. 

It was no longer ‘Cons of Having a Roommate’ but rather, ‘Pros of Having a Roommate.’ She couldn't take anything back, it was too late.

You hand her her water gingerly; she knows you're avoiding her eyes. Trying and failing, that is. “So,” you drawl. “Are you…okay now?”

She takes another sip of the water before replying. “Yeah, thank you again.”

You hum, and a silence that’s neither comfortable or awkward falls upon you. You should leave now, shouldn’t you? She looks better, you’ve done your part. You bite your cheek, tongue swiping out to wet your lips. Is she going to tell you to go or do you—? (A part of you wants to stay and ask personal questions.) 

“…Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Just got a little overwhelmed, that’s it.”

You nodded, zipping your mouth shut, taking a few steps back. “I’ll go to my room then...” She doesn’t say anything, and you make it to the door frame before she speaks up again. 

“Wait, (Y/n), do you want to…hang out?”

…

She didn’t want to send you off after you helped her. (Right.)

“…Lisa didn’t care what people were saying about me and still approached me. I remember when she was stopped by a girl when she tried to sit next to me in the first lecture and it was funny watching the girl stumble over her words as Lisa brushed past her without a glance. Then Lisa talked my ear off the whole lecture and we became friends,” you finished, smiling at the memory.

"That's really sweet.” Roseanne knew Lisa was kind-hearted. Sometimes, when they were younger she worried Lisa would get hurt and acted like the Thai’s personal bodyguard. She didn’t want to see that glow leave her best friend's eyes, didn't want anything like a crush or accident to cause it to fade.

"Yeah. She's always been great with things like that. With people." You said, looking down at the blanket as you shrugged one shoulder. "And I've just always been the bitch.”

She jerked upwards a little, affronted on your behalf. "I've never thought you were a bitch, (Y/n)." You wrapped the cover around your hand and made a thoroughly unconvinced noise. “I haven’t!”

You stared at her for a few tense seconds, lips pressed firmly together, studying her, because for all you know she could be lying. Under your gaze, Roseanne shifted in her spot, fingers picking at the cover, eyes darting across your face but never shying far from your eyes. “What?” She barked, her eyes narrowed at you, lips pulled into a shape boarding a sneer. She didn’t like being scrutinized, it made her agitated.

You held your hands up, like soothing an angry dog. “I believe you,” you mumbled under your breath. Your hands fell back into your lap, a smile spreading across your lips. “Thanks.” 

Roseanne watched your expression soften before her own did. Her shoulders relaxed and her lips curved upward. She didn’t say anything more.

“Hey, can I call you Rosie?”

She sinks into the pillows with a sigh, vaguely remembering you called her that earlier. “I don’t mind.” 

You grinned, and a moment later you yawned. You glanced at your phone screen. “Are you going to bed soon?” She shook her head. Bedtime is four A.M. It’s only midnight.

A few seconds of silence passed, your eyes wandering around her room briefly, taking note of the band posters and her messy study desk and how all the lights are on in her room. You meet her eyes again. “...I’ve been wondering if you ever manage to fall asleep.”

“Finally notice the panda-bags under my eyes?” She snorted, and you knew it was deflection.  

“No, Rosie, you have light under-eyes for someone that doesn't sleep the recommended hours– but really, why don’t you sleep at night? Sometimes I hear you shuffling about or playing your guitar; I’m curious.”

When it was clear you weren't going to let it go she pursued her lips. “Well, I…I don’t particularly like dreaming. And you’re right, I don’t sleep– much.” Rosie tells you as a distant look falls over her eyes, she brings her long legs up to her chest, cradling them. It’s almost guileless, childlike in a way. “If you truly must know, my mind has the scary capability of being dark when I don’t want it to be.” The ghost of a smile dances on her lips, conveying a secret, a sense of regret, pain; and you dared to ask, to confirm something for yourself, to not feel alone. “You’re afraid of your dreams?”

“Yes,” she whispered. And you left it at that. Somewhere– somehow, Rosie let you stay that night. She doesn’t know why herself; maybe it was because she felt exposed. After she told you she was afraid of her dreams, you told her you were too, and she felt understood, strangely. To what degree? She didn't know. Maybe in that moment of weakness she made the unconscious decision or agreement that you could stay for the night. Just this night. She told herself it was because you were clearly tired and that she didn't want to make you walk to your room. She didn't have the heart to wake you up when you fell asleep again during a movie you had once asked to watch, slow breaths escaping your parted lips, chest rising and falling steadily. She was paying you back because you had done so many nice things for her today. That was it.

This didn’t change anything.

Rosie turned on her side and closed her eyes, willing to sleep easy no matter how absurd the idea was. Although, that night she did drift off to sleep, and she didn’t dream of a house, a man, and a car laying on its side. However, this still didn't change anything. 

But deep down, something changed, didn't it?

[biscuitblinkeu]

Smile [4]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Warnings: Mentioned Physical/Emotional Abuse, Trauma, Implied R*pe/Sexual Assault, Graphic descriptions of violence?? Please don’t read if uncomfortable!

Word Count: 4383

A/n: Finally getting into the true meaning of Tragedy. This story is wild, and I’m telling y’all now. (🤚🏽) You’re going to be disgusted and angry at some chapters, and you might shed a tear— who knows.

………………………………………………………………………….

It was “cleaning day,” according to Roseanne. (You thought everyday was cleaning day but this day is different apparently.) She made a chart, told you to pick a color and side with different tasks and disappeared to do her own set of tasks. Your side of the chart was rather short and her’s overwhelmingly long. You had simple tasks such as sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping. Mostly kitchen and living room orientated.

You took a deep breath and rolled your shoulders.

You could do all of that easily.

You got done sweeping the small area of the kitchen quickly and began making the mop-water. It was simply hot water and mop solution that, too, seemed easy. You were filling the bucket up and then planned to add a little bit of cleaning solution when it somehow slipped into the water. The whole solution.

You were quick to fish it out and turn the water off, frowning when the bottle was completely empty. You glared at the Mr. Clean grinning back at you but took the setback in stride. You’ll just have to buy another bottle for Roseanne.

You mopped half of the floor, switched to the other side, and mopped that area. You paused to take a look at your work and noticed the floor was soaked, like a mini flood. It’ll dry, you thought at first, but that would take awhile, wouldn’t it? You supposed you could towel down the floor after you put the mop back. The mop bucket was on the other side of the kitchen, just a few feet away. 

You took one step and nearly fell backwards, having to use the mop for support. You took another, more hesitant step and then you were slipping; your feet skid beneath you, scrambling to find purchase, but with such a slippery surface it was hopeless. You were going to fall. Vaguely, Roseanne’s warning comes forth in the blank space of your mind, and at that same moment the said roommate enters the kitchen. 

“Hey, I was wondering if you…”

The world is morphing: the room is tilting; the ceiling and top of the walls are getting farther; the floor is getting closer, nearer, looming, impending— and in a last effort to save yourself, you grab onto her shoulders. 

She looked horrified.

“Wait—” Roseanne falls to the floor with a thud, the fall not affecting you nearly as much as it did her. She was unfortunately the cushion that broke your fall. You heard a pained grunt from underneath you, too occupied with your thoughts like, ��Yes!’ to care. 

Her back was broken, wasn't it? Pain radiated from Roseanne’s back, throbbing in waves. If the fall didn't break her bones, it surely bruised the skin there. And the floor, soaking wet with a cleaning solution, bleeds through her shirt. She glowers at the mop bucket just a few feet away. You didn’t listen to her, clearly, and now she’s facing the consequences when it should be the other way around?

Still occupied with your thoughts: Thank god it wasn’t me! 

“Could you maybe get off?” She spoke from underneath you, and at that you gasped. You quickly pulled yourself up and crawled off her, wincing as you realized what you did.

“Shit. Are you okay?” You voiced worriedly, kneeling next to her.

Roseanne stared at you for a few silent seconds. Of course she’s not. She smacked her lips together. “Well, you kinda grabbed me and–” 

“I know!” You interrupted, heat blooming on your face. It’s just that she was there and in reach and you were mid-fall and the opportunity presented itself and you just…shamelessly took it. Now you feel terrible.

You helped her up with a hand, Roseanne hissing as she sat upright. Her jeans were saturated and it was very uncomfortable. She got up and winced as she tried to straighten her back. She walked to the bathroom and you followed behind her silently. In front of the bathroom mirror she lifted her baggy tee up slightly, back turned to the mirror. You gasped,  her eyes snapping to you in alarm as she just realized you had followed her. “What? What is it?” 

“You have some pretty big bruises forming here,” you pointed out guiltily, indicating to the dark-purple marks appearing on her spine and lower back.

“Where?” She asked, turning and twisting her body to the mirror. She still couldn’t see them. “Where? I don’t see them.”

“Um… there’s one here. And…just here,” you said, your finger pressing lightly on the spots. At the pressure she winced slightly and made a reminder that she’ll have to ice those areas later. You couldn’t help but stare, though, at her back, smooth and toned. Unconsciously, you traced the outline of one particularly large white scar peaking out by her ribs. “Where did you get this from?” You asked quietly.

Roseanne froze up at your ministrations and you noticed, immediately pulling your hand away. She let go of her shirt and turned around to face you. “I had to get surgery done there because I was being reckless and got injured. It was a long time ago,” she explained.

“Oh,” you said. Roseanne turned the bathroom light off and you shuffled into the hallway. “Well, I need to go to office hours, so I’ll be out for a few hours. Do you want me to pick up anything? Ointment, maybe?” 

“No, I have some already, thank you,” she told you. 

You bit your lip and nodded your head, hesitant. “Alright, I’m leaving now… But, again— I’m really sorry about that.”

She waved you off. “Don’t worry about it— just, don’t use that much water next time.”

. . .

Roseanne was on the sofa watching Netflix on the television when you came back two hours later, coffee and bag in hand. You walked into the small kitchen and put the small bag you were holding on the table. “Hey, I brought pastries back if you want some, they’re on the table.”

Roseanne looked over the couch at you and groaned. “I would but I can’t. My back is killing me.”

“Oh, do you want a massage? I’ve been told that I'm…very good with my hands.” 

An avocado-shaped pillow thrown by your lovely roommate flew through the air and smacked you on your chest. You picked it up and studied it. Didn’t she say she hated avocados? Why does she have a plush avocado? You shrugged, holding it to your chest as you met her narrowed eyes. “Why did you say it like that?” She questioned slowly with furrowed eyebrows.

“Say it like what?” You replied innocently, moving to the couch. You placed the pillow down and took a seat yourself and looked at her expectantly. 

“You said it like you were talking about something else.” Roseanne answered.

“Not at all. So…massage or no massage?”

She twiddled the fabric of her hoodie between her fingers. “I don’t know. My back is really sensitive and ticklish.”

“I’ll be gentle?” You offered, unable to stop your lips from stretching into a smile. She was just looking at you so wearily you found it funny. When she didn’t answer after a few seconds you pouted. “I just want to apologize for earlier. Let me make it up to you with the best back massage in the world?”

Roseanne snorted. “Best back massage in the world?” 

“Best back massage in the world,” you repeated with a nod.

Well, she can’t yet say it was the best back massage in the world because she’s only been to three states and two countries, but it was definitely high on the charts. It turned out you were, like, a master at giving back massages. 

Roseanne was on her stomach, stretched across the couch. You were at her side, a bottle of massage oil on the ground next to you. She had taken her shirt off, leaving her in a sports bra and you stood on your knees massaging her back.

“Stop squirming,” you scolded for the fifth time. 

“Sorry,” she said half-heartedly. You were warned that she had a sensitive back so she was gonna move every once in a while. Roseanne hummed, feeling the stiffness leave her muscles after only a few minutes. 

“You like it? Is it working?” She heard you ask. 

“I do, very much. How are you so good at massages?” She might overindulge now that she knew you could give massages like this. Has Lisa been hiding you away? She recalls the Thai gushing about a massage before, and she didn’t give her the location or name and instead said it was ‘someone close.’

You hummed, “I had a little brother who played soccer. He would always trip over the soccer ball and fall on his back really hard and I would give him a back massage after, so over time I guess I learned how to do good back massages.”

“That’s nice,” she sighed, feeling the aches fade away with each press. She might even fall asleep. You hummed, continuing to rub and kneed and apply pressure to the areas of her back. This went on for a few more minutes before Roseanne’s eyes snapped open. Wait. Had? You had a brother?

“Had?” She blurted, holding her breath. After a few tense seconds she felt your hands leave her back and heard you sigh.

“Yes, had. He died in a…house fire three years ago,” you told her reluctantly. 

“Oh.” She said, tongue heavy at the bottom of her mouth. She sat up and faced you, contemplating on her choice of words. “I know people don’t like to hear ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’m sorry that happened, and to be real, that sucks.”

You lightly smiled at her and stood up, silently cleaning up the supplies you were using. “Let me know if your back starts bothering you again, okay?”

She bit her lip. “I will, thank you.” Roseanne couldn’t help but think she overstepped, even if you did tell her. It was obviously something you couldn’t talk about easily. You looked like you saw a ghost when she offered condolences. 

You retreated to your room and shut the door behind you, sliding down it. Thinking back on Roseanne’s words, it does suck. But she shouldn’t feel sorry for you. She wouldn’t feel sorry for you at all if she knew you were the one that caused it. 

…

Roseanne and Lisa had their usual lunch with the Thai’s father every few weeks. The spot being the same every time they met. Despite her father actively working on campus as a cop, they don’t run into each other much.

“Hey, dad!” Lisa yelled, and the man in question turned his head to look at them. A grin came across his face as he waved them over and rose up to give them hugs when they got near. Lisa's father was a tall man with a pot belly who was tough. His doe eyes were friendly, a deep brown tone. His ears were round, and his face was oval. He sported a mustache and some stubble around his chin. His hair was mocha brown, with gray strands peeping through and was lightly shaven all over.

Roseanne considered Lisa’s father the father figure she never really had. He looked after both of them since they were thirteen years old. At twelve years old, Roseanne was sent to Melbourne to live with her grandparents for a year after her mother died and after her stepfather went missing. She was adamant about returning, and that's when she met the Manobans, who were friends of her grandparents. Until she was eighteen, she would alternate between remaining in Melbourne and living with Lisa and her family. They practically grew up under the same roof.

"How are things going for you?" Roseanne inquired, looking through the bag next to him for the sandwich he had purchased for her ahead of time. Lisa let go of her hug and turned to face her. "Dad, look, Rosie's already going for the food!" Roseanne rolled her eyes, and Lisa giggled. She purposely skipped breakfast in order to have an appetite for lunch.

"I'm fine; thank you for coming out here; I know you and Lisa are busy with school." He replied, taking a seat across from her and Lisa. "How is that project coming along, Rosie?"  

"Not too bad, I suppose?" It's taking longer than I expected. But I did get invited to that gala, where I'll be interviewing a few members of high society." She replied while chewing into her sandwich.

“Yeah? That's fantastic. When is that happening?”

"I believe in a couple of months."

"That's not too far away, then. That project is going to be amazing, in my opinion. You're an excellent writer."

"I'm hoping so. Thanks.”

“So, dad, what have you been up to?” Lisa asked, taking one of Roseanne’s fries despite having her own In front of her.

He thought for a while. “Oh. A bunch of guys tried to rob a bank and it was the cliche-ist thing I’ve ever had to deal with. They had masks and everything. Robbing banks isn’t how it was back then. I think they thought they were in a movie or something.” He expressed his disappointment by shaking his head. “I’d like to deal with something that’s not arresting elderly women who drive twenty miles past the speed limit or rescuing a cat from a tree. I’m afraid we’re all going soft.”

Roseanne drank her milkshake and looked at him sympathetically. He appeared to be worried about it.

“What do you think we’d get arrested for?” Lisa asked, feeling the need to brighten the mood. 

He lifted his head up, a small smile on his face. “Well, on a serious note, I’d hope my daughter and her best friend never get arrested in the first place.” He said, brow raised in silent warning. “But if I had to say… It would probably be from breaking and entering, speeding, stealing…”

“Dad, me and Rosie stole a dog before—” Lisa began, interrupted by the hearty laugh that bubbled from his throat, his stomach shaking with the action. “Of course, you have.” He said, shaking his head side to side. It was obvious he didn’t believe her at all.

“She’s serious.” Roseanne added, crossing her arms. “The dog was abused, so right after Lisa got her license we took him to an animal shelter two hours away from where we found him so they wouldn’t be able to get him back.”

He gaped at them, “Was that the day you two were gone for eight hours?”

“Maybe,” Lisa said guiltily. “It was like, my first week with my license and we left around the afternoon expecting to get back by night but Rosie wasn’t a good GPS reader.” 

Roseanne didn’t defend herself because it was the truth. She wasn’t a good GPS reader at the time, nor was she good at keeping her phone charged as it constantly died throughout the duration of the trip. Trying to get them back home by memory wasn’t such a good idea. The map they had brought with them was completely useless, too. It was a miracle they even made it back.

Her father just shook his head and took another sip of his coffee, finishing the last few bites of his sandwich. 

Lisa shifted in her seat. “Anyway, those aren’t really serious crimes, though. What else?” 

“Well,” he started, but then his phone rang. He put a finger up, telling them to be quiet, before answering. “Hey! What’s up?” He greeted the caller lightheartedly. His smile dropped a moment later. “Are you sure?”

Roseanne and Lisa gave each other looks, wondering what was happening.

Her father’s brows furrowed, and he asked, “When?” He stood upright, his lips tensing in a tight line.

Lisa and Roseanne stood up too, sensing that something was wrong. “Dad?” Lisa whispered, placing a hand on his forearm. His head whipped towards her at the touch and he pocketed his phone as he pulled out his radio from his vest pocket. “Sorry to leave so early, but I’ve got to go, girls. I’m needed at the station,” he told them.

“Is it something serious?” Roseanne asked, feeling as if a bucket of ice water was poured on her.

He didn't reply, only gave Lisa and Roseanne a kiss on the forehead before striding down the hallway, out the door, and into the parking lot. They saw him pull out of the parking space, and once out of view they heard the police sirens.

“I’ve never seen him like that before,” Lisa said, biting her lip in worry. 

“…Me neither.”

. . .

{One week prior.}

The Main Act was finally starting.

She had put in far too much effort and labor for anything to go wrong. 

The home would shortly rise on the left. She drove past it and stopped her car in a barn some distance away. The man who was going to die resided in a remote, rural area. At least nine miles separated any nearby neighbors. Between was only farmland.

She stepped out of the automobile wearing a pair of men's work boots and carrying a front and back rucksack each full with stones. She held a bag, a black handbag, in her right hand. Everything she would require for this task was inside.

She went in by the side door, which was already unlocked and unarmed due to her having control of the security system. She quietly took off her heavy shoes and backpack and set them next to each other. She would exit in the same manner as she had come. She notices movement upstairs and walks to the staircase quietly and with light steps. She spent a month examining the floorboards, looking for any places where they creak or groan. 

She is more familiar with his home than he is; she is more familiar with his routine than he is. She made her way up the stairs, oblivious to how they creaked under her weight, for she knew that in seven seconds the water would turn on. Sure enough, the old pipes in the house began to clang as water shot through them. She took her place and prepared.

The curtain opened and Henry emerged as soon as the water stopped flowing. He was almost out of the shower when her knife fell and slashed his left achilles tendinitis. The man collapsed to the ground, clutching his foot and sobbing in agony, nudity made visible to her sight when the towel fell off of him.

Her stomach twists and writhes as a result. He is abhorrent in every way.

But the terror in his eyes? It makes her high.

What the fuck? Take whatever you want!” He shouted, sobbing, watching her with those wide, terrified eyes. 

“What I want is for you to remember,” she said quietly, eerily.

His eyes grow even wider and he pales when she holds the bloody knife up and runs a finger down the blade. “Please don’t,” he begs, attempting and failing to stand up.

She pulls wire from her back pocket, watching him like he does her. She frowned. “You don’t remember me? Can't you recognize me? I haven’t changed much.”

“No! I swear I don’t— you have the wrong person!”

“I was a twelve year old girl the last time you saw me. Want to play?” 

His head shook before he opened his mouth, the words triggering recognition; his lips trembled and he stumbled over his words. “You,” he whispered. “You should be dead.” 

“I survived,” she said back, observing his terror gradually ebbing away. He’s recalling how weak she was, remembering that afraid, sobbing little girl. Despite the circumstances, his mind is tricking him into thinking that he is still in charge.

“You all took turns,” she continued, staying poised and alert, but showing an apparent weakness that she in reality didn't have, which causes his memory to wander back to that day ten years ago. “It all lasted a week. Was it any fun?”

Before he charges at her, screaming in agony as he attempts to tackle her to the ground, she sees everything occurring. Another bloodcurdling scream fills the air as her knife stabs into his shoulder. She rotates on her knees, sliding behind him as he falls to the ground face first.

Her hand was still holding the knife and she ripped it away quickly, sliding the wire around his neck. Then she choked him, revealing in the pained sounds, until he went limp and unconscious.  

During his unconscious state she tied him up in the bathroom and taped his mouth. Half an hour later he attempted to pull himself up with the edge of the sink; she stabbed his hand, twisting the knife for good measure and he blubbered and let out a pained gasp. She ripped the knife out just as quick and he cradled his hand to his chest, taking in rapid breaths through his nose. 

She then looked around, eyes looking at his bed through the door frame. “Oh,” she said. “You have a wife, don’t you?” She asked and his eyes widened. “When I told your wife what you had been doing behind her back, Henry, she was not at all happy. In fact, neither she nor your kids are in the state anymore. You’ll never see them again.”

She traced the designs of her knife, silently watching how he thrashed around in response. But it was time to put an end to the nonsense. 

“You all loved to take pictures of me after, didn’t you?” She asked. “And you were always the one to tell me to smile for the photos, I recall.” She stalked up to him, squatting in front of him, he watched her with lidded eyes. “Do you still have them? I’ll let you go if you do.” 

At this, he nodded frantically, muffled sounds spilling from him and snot dripping from his nose. She tore the tape from his mouth, noting that she would need to replace it with another piece because the adhesive had become less sticky due to being covered with slobber.

“Where?” She questioned as she stood.

“In my bedroom!” His eyes were bloodshot and wide as he spoke frantically. “I-In my bedroom, in the red box on top of my closet! It’s locked so you’ll need a key to open it—the key is under the lamp’s base!”

So she went to his bedroom. Just as he said, the box was in his closet, the key was under the lamp. She didn’t need to open the box to know the photos were in there. Twenty six photos, to be exact, she knew were in the box.

She didn’t need to take a quick sweep of his room. Nor did she need to see the photos on his nightstand. But she did. The photos told the story before he could. Fifty nine small children were in those Polaroids, mostly naked. He had labeled them and marked their ages. He was a pedophile.

She took them with her. He won’t be able to look at them again in a few hours anyway. The woman walked back into the room, blatantly ignoring Henry as she put the red box in her bag. 

“You said you would let me go!” He growled, pole quaking with his movements.

“Yes. I did,” she confirmed. “To hell, that is.”

…

“Let's keep tradition, shall we?” She mused, a smile spread across her lips as she took out a point and shoot camera. “Smile for the camera!” She exclaimed, pointing the lens at him, ready to shoot.

But he did not smile. His lips were set in a deep frown, sagging his face. His eyes were furious and he glared at her through the lens. She pulled the camera down, frowning mockingly. “What is it?” She asked. “Didn’t I tell you to smile?”

He scowled; the words he had spoken back then had come back to harm him. She observed how his face lowered, his fists and jaw tightened, and how he turned his head away. He isn't permitted to feel regret. For that, it was too late.

“Didn’t I tell you to smile?” Henry said, pulling the camera away from his face and revealing the lour he wore. He dropped the camera, letting it fall and hang over his chest and stalked up to her. The little girl pushed herself as far as she could into the bedpost, legs slipping against the sheets helplessly, arms covering her face. He dragged her by the leg back to the middle of the bed and slapped her hands away, gripping her cheeks. “Smile,” he all but growled out, pressing the pads of his fingers harshly into the corners of her lips, spreading them. 

She cried out from the pain blossoming in her jaw and choked on her sobs and nodded her head. With a grunt, he released her, walking backwards to the position before and pulled his camera back to his eye. And once more, he said, “Smile.”

And the little girl smiled.

"Twenty-six photos," she mumbled, running her fingers across her knife. She raised her head and smiled at him, but it wasn't a genuine grin, he realized. No, it was merely the movement of her lips expanding and the corners of her mouth twitching upwards; there was no warmth, no genuine emotion—it was terrifying. "Four days," she said as she got near. "Four pounds of flesh."

When he's alive, the flesh will be extracted. He'll grovel and beg. He'll pray that he passes out. But he will feel everything, just like she did.

At the time, he believed that this was his karma. This was his end, and his death was unavoidable.

And yes, she did it to mock him. She did it in such a way that he thought he had nothing left.

Just as she felt.

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