#did i therapy my own depressed ass with this one? you bet. did it help? sorta lmao

[sehtoast]

To Be Liked (Homelander x OC)

1.5k | Sad themes, Homie gives a cheer-up talk, pre-relationship, some pining | Part one of hopefully many of random Benlander drabbles | Fic Directory

Something about him was off.

All day long, something wasn’t right. It bothered Homelander endlessly.

What was with that look in his eyes? Why did those smiles look so… fake?

He’d been so excited to head out with Benjamin for the night. Wrap up his stupid fucking duties and spend time with the new-recruit-turned-friend. He loved this. More than anything in the world, he loved zipping around the city with Ben.

He could be himself.

Maybe…

Maybe that was the problem. Had he been too much of himself? Maybe Ben decided he didn’t like the authentic Homelander. Maybe he spilled too many personal details and put him off.

It made Homelander’s gut sour– made his mouth go dry.

There were a lot of… feelings for his one. More than anyone Homelander had ever considered pursuing in the past.

Had he fucked it all up already?

Every little paranoid thought in his mind pointed to it being all his fault, leaving him agitated and irritable as they made their rounds– eventually settling on top of the Queensboro Bridge rather than their usual spot. They watched the sun dip down below the horizon, painting them both an ethereal gold. He filled the silence, but Ben…

Ben only gave short answers, nods of his head while he stared off into the distance as though he were somewhere else entirely.

Homelander didn’t know if he was furious or just fucking crushed.

“What the fuck is your deal?” He asks, words spilling out far more accusatory than he meant. “Someone piss in your breakfast or what?”

Ben cracked a weak smile, shrugging.

Homelander waited, finally moving to take off once Ben left his question unanswered. A strong grip caught him by the wrist, silently asking him to stay.

So he did. Arched an inquisitive brow, staring Ben down all the while. The bug didn’t release him– just sat there looking down at the passing cars with sad eyes.

Obviously he wants Homelander around but…

“I’m not…” Ben began, giving his hand a fluttery shake as if to explain his state of being in an act. “But I’m not good at talking about things.”

About things? Homelander thought to himself. That didn’t seem right– Ben was always quick to respond in their conversations. Always something sweet or witty, an anecdote here or a joke there.

Lost in thought, Homelander hadn’t realized a salty scent began to waft through the air until it hit his nose in a breeze. Was he–

Yeah… He is.

He peeks back just in time to catch Ben wiping his eyes furiously with the back of his hand. Homelander’s quick to free his arm and lay it over the bug’s shoulders, but he’s not sure what to do. Yeah, he knows how to comfort crying victims and sobbing children who don’t want him to fly away, but this?

It’s harder to comfort someone when they actually matter.

“Try me,” Homelander whispers.

“Does it ever…” Ben began, trailing off when his voice grew tight. “D’you ever just feel really… really alone?”

He watches Ben with baited breath, almost afraid to move. Of course I do, he wanted to say. Before he can reply, Benjamin speaks again.

“It’s like…” Ben gives a look of frustration, fingers flexing back and forth as he tries to convey something seemingly impossible. Like he’s trying to dig the words from the bedrock of his heart. “There’s so many people, but none of them…”

He gestures with his hands again, and somehow it makes sense.

“Did you ever watch that stupid show with the cartoon horse?” Ben asks with a sniffle. “S’fine if you didn’t– just, it’s got this line in it, y’know?”

Homelander curls his arm tighter when Benjamin swipes at more tears.

“Everybody loves you, but nobody likes you…”

A trillion pound weight forms in Homelander’s chest at just how strongly those words resonate.

“And I– like, I’ve got friends… family– sort of, y’know?” Ben continues, words hurried, voice tight. “But I’m always convinced they don’t.”

But I do…

“And it’s stupid,” Ben continues. “E-Everything about it is so fucking stupid! I’m supposed to be happy– I’m the happy guy who’s never–” He shakes his head and heaves a shuddering sigh. “M’always so outta place… And now I’m making you be m-my fuckin’ therapist…”

After a beat of silence, and another of Ben’s unnecessary apologies, Homelander speaks up.

“I like you.” He says. His voice comes out timid, and he’s not sure why. It’s like all the confidence and bravado of his usual self has been snuffed.

Like he’s staring at a mirror image of his own insecurities in the form of someone he adores.

“That’s–”

“I do,” he continues before Ben can go on. “I like you a lot.” He doesn’t know what words are coming before they fall off his tongue. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

Ben looks at him with teary eyes, and he has to swallow around a thick wave of emotion before he can continue.

“You’re sweet, Ben. You’re so fuckin’ nice, you make me wanna puke sometimes. Y-You help old ladies cross the street and tie up criminals I’d have rather lasered than let have another chance!”

“That’s Spider-Man, not–”

“Shut. Up.” He demands in a tone wholly unlike himself. “You– I watched you, before all this. To figure you out.” He was digging himself into a fucking crater sized hole by confessing this, but it was too late to go back. “I’ve seen you. How you always tip those useless fuckin’ cashiers even though they only pressed a button. Rushing over to wipe some old bat’s seat and table when she spilled her drink– and it’s not even your problem. Carrying cases of paper at your old job so the others didn’t have to, even when that mouth breather of a boss pretended to never see you go the extra mile!”

Homelander gripped Ben by the shoulders.

“I’ve seen how all those fuckin’ bozos smile at you when you walk away. Watched your friends practically fucking skip down a block after your little coffee hangouts or whatever, absolutely reeking of dopamine.”

He gives Ben a small shake, more so for himself as motivation to just say it.

“And I know how I feel about you.” The words weigh heavy in his throat, but every second that he stares into those sad, dark chocolate eyes pulls them free as though they were naught but strings. “I know how excited I am to see you after I finish all the show pony bullshit they make me do. Every text that isn’t from you is a– it’s a fucking disappointment! I don’t know how these fuckin’ phones work, but I wish I could have a special sound that means it’s from you.”

He hates the sob that chokes from his little spider, but he knows it’s the right kind when it comes with a smile. Somehow he’s doing this right.

“I spend all day thinkin’ about where we can fly off to! If we’re gonna sit at one of our spots or watch a movie at your place– if we’re…”

Ben lurches forward, throwing his arms around Homelander’s neck. The bug cries softly in the crook of his neck.

Homelander doesn’t know what that was. How he, for seemingly the first time in his life, pulled from nothing but the heart. No performing, no falsehoods, no bullshit.

He meant it.

All of it.

”I like you, Ben.” He reaffirms, rubbing a soothing hand between his little spider’s shoulders. “You can take that one to the bank.”

He waits, and waits, and waits, until he’s positive Ben fell asleep on him. So, he does what any superhero would do and flies him home– having his own little inner turmoil about how fucking honest the boy always makes him.

Homelander gets as far as depositing Ben onto the bed, but no further.

“Don’t go…” whispers a pitiful, sniveling little voice.

His heart hammers. For so long now, he truly has been enamored with the bug. Fascination at first, but now..?

So much more.

“Please…”

So he stayed. Let Ben snuggle up beside him, first just clinging to his arm in some silly desire to not push boundaries. That goofy position lasted only moments before Homelander offered him to rest on his chest.

“I’m a cozy guy,” he whispers. “I won’t bite.”

Just as he thought Benjamin was finally asleep, he heard a whisper.

“Hey, Johnny?”

He was the only soul on the planet who could call him that, let alone make it warm his heart.

“I like you, too.” Ben yawned. “You make things good.”

“Hmm,” he hummed teasingly. “I gave you such a big list earlier, and all I get is that I make things good?”

Ben nodded against him, clearly on the brink of falling asleep.

“Love havin’ you n’my life…”

With that, Ben was out like a light, leaving Homelander to let his own little tears finally leak free.

You make things good.

What a wonderful web he’s found himself tangled in.

[spacewizardtrek]

WARNING: This post will ruin you. Like Medusa; look at your peril.

But here is is. It’s the one you’ve all been waiting for.

Kirk bod appreciation #7: The RIDICULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL FACE. A highly technical and academic review.

This is a rather nebulous one. And not, on the face of it (pardon the pun) very philosophical, as it’s essentially about Kirk being stupidly pretty. This post probably will (it will) descend into just screaming and sobbing, but there will be, I promise, *some* meaningful insight into the meaning of ‘beauty’ and textual analysis of its role herein.

Beauty is subjective. But look at him. It’s not just being aesthetic, but it’s the *way* he’s aesthetic. Here I might repeat myself a bit, but stay with me. I may have mentioned before once hearing him described as ‘beautiful in the way women are often described as beautiful’. He is PRETTY. He is indeed often conveyed in the way the women stereotypically (not necessarily rightly) are on screen: perfect, smooth skin; soft, big eyes; luscious lips (his body is sensually curvaceous and furthermore it’s emphasised). He’s not androgynous though. He’s masculine. And yet I still sense what was meant in describing him as ‘beautiful in the way women are often described as beautiful’. He is a rather uncommon form of gender fuckery. He is a form of stereotype-subversion not commonly acknowledged. He seems to be everything at once, ALL THE GENDER; combines whichever traits he desires from those categories, and yet is undeniably a man and masculine whatever the ingredients. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE, one might wonder. The fact of the matter is, that it IS. And it teaches us something.

The FUCK. nO. You are not allowed to be that pretty, and you are NOT allowed to look at her like that. We’re trying to have a SENSIBLE DISCUSSION here.

Sorry, that was a non-sequitur / nothing to do with what we learn by Kirk’s embodiment; I was just ambushed by my own gif. Only the control of a Vulcan. ONLY that could possibly withstand this onslaught. And even that won’t hold up forever AS WE WELL KNOW

God.

This is going well, as you can tell.

OK. So, it’s claimed he has Eyes and Stupidly Long Weakness-Inducing Eyelashes. You know, from all that fanfic that goes on about ‘big, sparkling eyes’ and him fanning his ‘long, copper eyelashes’. I mean, yeah right, tropey mc tropeface -

IT’S TRUE. HE IS LITERALLY AN ANIME PRINCESS.

There are some moments where he just BLINKS and, how to describe it...how does a BLINK have that effect. It’s NOT ALLOWED.

...I’m sorry. It IS allowed. All of it. I am not shaming you your beauty. Never change, Jim. Never.

OK. I’m ok. 3 pics down, we can get through this -

Oh you are joking. Stop.

I don’t understand how anyone can be so beautiful. Life is a lie. Reality is fake -

- you did NOT just turn your big anime eyes on Spock. You do know this is why he ran away to PURGE ALL HIS EMOTIONS?

And for that matter, you know when Kirk looks his most beautiful? Literally WHEN HE’S LOOKING AT SPOCK. Spock talks some bollocks and Kirk just sparkles like a fucking angel:

Unbelievable. But utterly undeniable.

Sigh. Moving on.

Oh - someone once suggested I talk about The Lips. Lips are so wonderful aren’t they. So many wonderful things they can do.

And Kirk’s. They’re there in every picture: perfect, rosy, soft and madness-inducing. My advice is just...don’t think about them. But since I’ve been asked to draw attention to them, well, you’ve just sealed your fate. Scroll down at your peril.

I WARNED YOU.

I am pulling NO punches.

I’ve seen this great meme going around:

Excuse me though....CUTE?

That’s the understatement of the 23rd century.

Try impossibly beautiful, mind and body: heart of solid gold, soul deep in love with you. Those eyes and all their passion burned into your memories a thousand times over, along with - maybe, suggestibly, idk I’m extrapolating from all the goddamn tension - even the one unforgettable time he laid between lily-white sheets and gave himself to you; every gift of the mind, body and soul - and your ostensibly-forced Vulcan conditioning, that completely ignored how incompatible one part of you was with it, caused so much dissonance that you thought the only possible course of action for you both to survive was to BREAK UP, tear yourself from this beauty and love and sweetness to PURGE ALL EMOTIONS because nothing, nothing equipped you for this; you were set up specifically to fail, and fail hard in the face of transcendental love and beauty by those who rejected such things and didn’t understand you and could never imagine this for you and who instead of helping your beautiful neurodivergent brain flourish taught you to repress and caused you pain and shame and Gol was so hard and Kirk was so sad, so very sad and depressed and hurt and yet he couldn’t stop loving you with a bond so strong he called to you across the stars and Gol was all for naught yet you still didn’t know how to live like this, it was torture, torture until the mind meld with the living machine flashed your BIOS and you knew, love.exe was suddenly running with no errors and he came after you and held you and you held hands and, and -

.

*sobbing*

.

just...give me a moment

.

YOU WONDER WHAT THE SUBTEXT (FRIKKIN’ MAIN TEXT) OF STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE WAS ALL ABOUT???

The pain?? The angst?? The two logical entities seeking contact, love, THIS SIMPLE FEELING? That fucking moment when spock walks on the bridge and the only way he can control himself is to be SUPER Vulcan, while his love gazes at him with those EYES, fucking huge and glittering and hurt and loving?? Is it so much a mystery what memories these two are carrying, what’s behind the searing tension???????

Love him. Love him Spock. Take him in your arms and love him. He’s for you. All for you. Fucking hell guys. The fuck. This movie.

.

ok.

ok I can do this

CAN U NOT

those damn eyes I swear

It’s obviously not all just superficial physical beauty. What IS beauty? Narratively we do sometimes find this ‘prettiness’ enhanced and emphasized like the old vaseline lens to set the tone of a scene (he’s vulnerable and delicate, or someone’s indeed in love with him so we see their ‘lens’ on him); but it is somewhat intangible and nebulous and changeable. I don’t think aesthetic beauty, if one deems it so, on its own, would be enough for the likes of Spock (indeed, no woman could charm him thusly); it's about something deeper. It’s about who he is. Who he is inside: the beautiful AND the imperfect. How his good and bad - how his ‘all’ -  chimes with Spock’s 'all’. The Enemy Within deals with this, and shows how Spock loves all of Kirk, wants him complete, with both his light and shadow. The beauty of all of us is this totality and variance, not one intangible quality.

I’ll bet Spock’s parents knew immediately. Can you imagine Sarek trying to be a total bitch over Kirk, having heard the rumours and just wanting to have one more thing to reject Spock over, immediately projecting onto Kirk as some blow-up pretty-boy and how Incredibly More Disappointing My Son Is for being Obviously In Love With Stupid Illogical Human Doll Face Bubble Butt Bimbo Captain, and Amanda’s like, stfu, let me remind you Kirk is actually a Fucking Amazing Highly Decorated Starship Captain who Saves Your Life and don’t you DARE resent him just because he’s got tits/ass/tum/lips that won’t quit and is obviously the freakin’ sun Spock orbits. Mr ‘I married a human but that was special because it was logical’ or some bullshit. How is Kirk an illogical choice? I mean literally, Spock is a Science Genius™ on the federation’s FLAGSHIP whose well-matched Genius Captain™ understands him, accepts him, brings the best out of him, helps him fulfil his whole potential and is in love with him in the deepest and purest way and will be his bonded soulmate for ALL OF TIME and that fucking sour-faced bih at the start of that ep, ffs.

Of course Amanda stays in touch with Kirk, adores the fuck out of him, sends him old Vulcan lit on t’hy’la bonds (yes sarek, a T’HY’LA bond, so revered freakin’ poets write about it) etc because frankly her son could do FAR FUCKING WORSE.

FAR. FUCKING. WORSE.

Don’t...just don’t slip the bod into the equation, the face is enough for one post. We’re all in therapy for this already, let’s not relapse.

Oh, what’s the use. I’m gonna die. This is it. This is like the Monty Python joke that is so funny it kills you. This man is lethal. I need to stop this thread and purge all my emotions

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

That’s it. I’m dead. You’re dead. We’re all dead.

I hope, however, seeing this post was worth it. See you at Gol everyone.

.

.

The Forbidden Texts, DO NOT READ:

Kirk bod appreciation #6: The Curves. The Front. The...chest. AND THE AMAZING GREEN WRAP

Kirk bod appreciation #5: The Paws

Kirk bod appreciation #4: The Curves. The Back. Poetry in motion.  

Kirk bod appreciation #3: Season 3 (Part 1)

Kirk bod appreciation #2b: The Gluteus Maximus

Kirk bod appreciation #2a: The Gluteus Maximus

Kirk bod appreciation #1: The Tum

[mesozoic-system]

Bakugou Katsuki is not as bad as he seems.

Okay, fine. That's a lie. Bakugou is a loud and obnoxious asshole with little to no character development and will snap at anyone who breathes on him the wrong way.

Now that that's out of the way, let's move on to why he's like that.

You all know what PTSD is, yeah? If not, it stands for "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder". It's something that causes panic attacks, unnecessary aggression, trust issues, nightmares, anxiety, depression, and more. People will develop it after a traumatic experience. It takes years of therapy to recover... actually, most people never recover from it.

Fun fact: Katsuki canonically has PTSD. It's confirmed, and you know what? After everything he's been through, it's not much of a surprise. He's been through one tragedy after another and never seems to get a break.

When we first met Bakugou Mitsuki (Katsuki's mother) in chapter #96, we instantly realized how aggressive she was. I mean come on! She talked smack right in front of him and his teachers- in front of All Might who she knew her son was very fond of. Katsuki may be irritable, but to have your own mother backhand you in front of your own role model is a little much.

Later on in chapter #165 during the Provisual License Exams, we get a little more information that only points towards more abuse- and this time it's not so verbal.

Most people paid no real attention nor gave it a second thought in these panels, but remember when Katsuki suggested to use violence against the kids? Of course, you'd look at it and wave it off as "normal Bakugou behavior", but what he says next took me by surprise:

That's right. He was raised that way.

Which means either Mitsuki or Masaru (or both) had struck him in some way multiple times as he was growing up, and I doubt it was Masaru.

"Spoiled" my ass. He might have a strong quirk, but people don't turn into little monsters just by being praised. It'll definely boost his confidence, but not dramatically. This could also explain his aggression toward Midoriya. He realized how helpless he was and had power over someone else for once. But that's just a theory.

Okay, let's fast forward a bit. He's finishing up his third year of Middle School and is preparing for the UA entrance exams. He's pushed away his childhood friend to follow his own dreams and tells him to jump off the roof.

Literally.

And then he walks out the door only to regret it much, much, muuuch later in the series- y'know. The "character development" I was talking about.

Next time we see him though, he gets what he deserves.

One panel he's tramping through an alley with his friends, and the next, he's being swallowed alive by the most perverted-looking slime monster I've ever laid my eyes on.

While Izuku's dreams are being crushed by his own hero, Katsuki is fighting for his life in the middle of town. He's struggling, but all he could do was look back at all the dozens of fearful eyes...

Right there. Right now. Look at him:

He's terrified. He's humiliated and afraid and hurt and despite all of the heroes that were there, none of them had even attempted to save him.

And this is where it really starts. This is where it all begins. Next thing we know, Izuku's running straight for him... The boy Katsuki's bullied almost all of his life is risking his own in order to save him.

You know the story from there; All Might trains Izuku to withhold his power, they get accepted into UA, and then comes the Sports Festival.

Katsuki's already made up his mind: he's gonna win. He's willing to give everything he has to show the country what he's made of, and this may be his only chance to make up for the mishap several months ago. And Monoma, being a professional at making things worse by opening his mouth, rubs salt in the wound.

It was pretty easy to predict Katsuki's reaction: pissed off and more than ready to prove him wrong. He does, but it cost him his "first place" during the Calvary Battle. But that's okay 'cuz it's not over yet!

Welcome to the next and last stage of the festival: The Battle Tournament, where all the kids get to beat the shit out of each other until only one remains.

Turns out, Katsuki does win. It was a foolproof plan: get Todoroki to go all out on him so he can make a final impression before the end of the day. But it was obvious that Shouto was still unsure of himself, so Katsuki did what he did best:

He had to piss him off.

But instead of getting angry and bursting into flames like he had planned, Shouto threw away the battle at the last second, and everything Katsuki had worked for with it.

No shit he's gonna be upset! He worked his ass off to get where he was, and the whole point was to leave himself a footprint! His entire life had been dedicated to that moment, and it faded away right in front of him.

Midnight put him to sleep and he woke up and threw a temper tantrum.

Now this is was UA did wrong:

Why would you do that?! They were all aware of what happened to him only a few months ago, he obviously hasn't properly recovered from it, and they restrain him in front of thousands of people. They cover his mouth and gag him, lock his hands in a tiny metal box and expect him not to go insane. Helloooo?! Wake up! He's just a kid!

Several months go by and now it's time for camp. Katsuki is tired. They all are. It's been a long day of training and training and training, and suddenly villains come out of nowhere, and nobody is prepared. And who shows up? The League of Villains, and they're after certain students...

Tokoyami escapes safely, but Katsuki isn't so lucky.

Just think about that for a second. When we see Shigaraki holding a picture of him, it's the one where UA tied him up. He knows what this child has gone through and he pities him. To be honest, I think the LoV treated him much better than anyone ever has (except maybe Kirishima). They're hesitant, but they treat him with kindness. They didn't just want him for his quirk. They saw what the heroes did to him and wanted to help him get the revenge he deserved.

But when All Might showed up (more like "burst through the wall like the Cool Aid man"), Katsuki is instantly teleported in the strangest way possible... and the most traumatizing.

He chokes out this weird slime-like substance that devours him within seconds. Thankfully it only last that long, but then again, the Sludge Incident, remember?

Yeah, bet that brings back some memories.

But what must have hurt him the most was All Might's downfall and early retirement. He said it himself:

After several chapters, he finally burst. He's been holding all the pain inside of him until it bubbled over and he couldn't take it anymore. So he went to the only person he could- the person he hated and yet trusted the most.

Maybe the Class 1A concert helped him in a way. It seemed like it brought him down and maybe even relaxed him a little. And something incredible happens. Something we haven't seen from him at all until now...

(From here, I'll try to keep it short to avoid as many manga spoilers as I can. That and I'm tired...)

He began to change; started to support Izuku... in his own twisted way, of course. As chapters went by, he started to open up little by little. He admitted what he had done to Izuku in middle school to All Might, which had brought him some peace of mind. It wasn't quite the apology we had hoped for, but I guess it'll do.

And during the war, he made the greatest sacrifice, finally unlocking his quirk's full potential. Despite being unable to move, he used his quirk to throw himself in front of Izuku without thinking, taking a blow to his stomach. To his stomach.

He was impaled.

Holy shit.

Last time someone had been impaled was Nighteye, and he died from his wounds.

But Katsuki somehow managed to survive... And woke up ready to beat Izuku's ass if he didn't wake up.

Anyway, that's all I have to say (so far). However, I'm excited for Season 5 of the anime series! Can't wait to see our new story animated! I mean, I've been watching the episodes as they come out, but still.

-Blightcon

[tonya-the-chicken]

I’m not going to change your views but it does feel a bit dismissive when you say it wasn’t that bad because he had rich parents who neglected him but hey they got a maid for him and he probably wasn’t outcasted or bullied so hey it’s not that bad right 🤷‍♀️! I don’t know he definitely didn’t have the worse out of the villains but I don’t know it felt a bit dismissive is all. Although we need to all remember these are fictional characters so have no idea why the other anon needed to get so aggressive! Also the person in the notes I don’t know how to say it but uh the whole the Todoroki’s had a rich father they didn’t have to work a day in their life take is not a good look. Just because someone has parents with money it doesn’t derail the fact that neglect can cause trauma.

Anyways for the real reason I sent this, you wonder why Dabi is so insane. Well take into account the neglect alongside the fact that he burnt to near death up on that hill alone at the age of what 13? That’s got to be extra traumatising, especially for a child that was already not mentally ok. We also don’t know what his circumstances were like after that fire, like was he homeless? Or picked up by someone nefarious? Kind of like AFO(not him exactly but someone nasty) who maybe fed on his brewing anger and hate instead of positive healing. I’m sure we will find out at some point? I don’t think it was just what happened in the Todoroki household or the fire that broke his mind? There had to be other factors after the fire after his “death”!

[[WARNING!!! I love Dabi as a character but I am not a woobifier so if you are too much into him don't read!!!! No complaints taken, y'all will be blocked for being rude I am too old to deal with people unable to interact with me in good faith (anon it's not for you, you are good and I can't understand your point of view I am just not as good as a person and too old for that shit)]]

I don't think I will change my mind either but I feel like the belief that every trauma is equally bad is just... Simply wrong. Like, we can legit compare this stuff and how badly it affects our brain, what do y'all think psychologists research 🤷‍♀️ Like, your therapist won't tell you this because it's not their job to make you understand you not the centre of the Earth (and it won't help because it is a legit trauma response that is very valid but is annoying you're fucking 25 yo). And to say that, neglectful parenthood is probably the worst parenthood style, as far as I know XD I wrote coursework about this (neglectful bitches are having a lot of need to make us the biggest victims (the bitches is me))... It also feels really American to me? Like, are we going to pretend people who got to live in a nice house and were neglect somehow got it as bad as people living in poverty or warzones? Hello? Imagine telling some orphan "I know you have no parents but actually, my trauma of my father not spending enough time with me is just as severe as yours". Bruh couldn't be me sorry... Like, even taking into account the fact that we can have weaker or stronger nervous systems or be more prone to depressive episodes *looks in the mirror and cries* I simply wouldn't find the guts to say my trauma is as severe as idk people who had physically abusive parents or no parents at all or who were disowned for being gay

And like **again** I am not saying that neglect is not traumatic I WAS NEGLECTED THIS IS TRAUMATIZING AS FUCK. I just am living in a country at war and with lots of discrimination problems and I like... Can't say I am the biggest victim. Sorry I can't though there were times when I was a lot more bitchy especially before being in therapy so I understand where you are coming from and I know what I am saying won't resonate with everyone (it's ok go on your own healing journey I believe in you) but this doesn't mean it is garbage and won't help me or someone else... I've already talked once about it but as a person, I am very easily irritated and envious and really not your local Jesus and partially my trauma turned me like this so being more humble about my sufferings helps me not be a complete bitch (believe me or not but people with traumas and mental illnesses are often insufferable *looks in the mirror* not me though I am perfect... BUT IT IS OK TO BE INSUFFERABLE OK??? like, bitch, that's normal. That's normal to stink when you are depressed it's ok to be a bitch when you are hurting. Forgive yourself because I forgive you (when you are not being an abusive asshole but if you apologize and explain yourself I will forgive that too)

The reason why I talk about the fact he is rich is that I've got a disease called leftism and I am a person of several marginalized identities and since this fandom LOVES looking at characters like real humans, I looked at Dabi this way. And if Dabi was a real human, I wouldn't sympathize with him one bit. I would fucking hate him for being the biggest entitled asshole who commits crimes for the reason his Daddy didn't give him attention. Bitch, my Dad didn't give me attention either! But somehow I don't kill people! And I don't even have money!!!! But like... I am not denying that neglectful parents are not a problem. It is. But he is overreacting, bro. He needs to humble down and recognize the fact he is a fucking idiot (he is). He has inherently so much more resources to recover and heal himself than I had... Yes, I am just being jealous at this point but honestly. Making an entire country suffer for you is not a good thing and y'all need to stop using trauma and mental illness as an excuse for people. No! Being abusive to people because of neglect is not valid, is overreacting and you had no reason to do that. I am dismissing your trauma because you are exaggerating it to make me sympathize with your asshole behaviour. I won't judge people with different sets of standards as I judge myself

I bet it would be dismissive and bad if I said it in conversation with someone who is currently struggling with mental health and is not a murderer. But guess what! I don't talk with humans and my friends the same way I talk on my Tumblr about fictional characters 🤷‍♀️ Not to mention I don't have rich friends akabsksbxm

I think with Dabi there's this whole thing where we saw him at 14 (poor baby boy) and 24 (a grown-ass boy) and... Like, I am so sorry for 14 years old Touya not receiving the help he needs (bruh so relatable) but I am not gonna act like 24 years old bitch can't get his ass to a psychiatrist (extremely unrelatable and infuriating). We shouldn't apply the same standards to kids and adults. We can talk all day long about how society is bad and how our parents ruined us but at some points, you gotta take your life into your own hands and do something and be an adult. And it's fucking hard when you're born with a shitty brain that was fucked up by your parents even more in a society where no one gives a fuck but I sincerely don't know another way to live. You will feel bad and want to die but you either keep on recovering or keep on getting worse and at this point getting worse is Dabi's *choice* That's how I live, that's my framework and I am, of course, extremely fortunate in a lot of ways but I just don't know how are you supposed to survive without the notion that grown people are responsible for themselves and their mental health. We can't act like adults are babies

But as a character, Dabi is fucking hot ngl. Like, do I sometimes want to murder my entire family, make them suffer AND commit terrorist attacks? We all do. Dabi is the dark fantasy of us neglectful bitches craving some attention. Gotta kill the president and tell everyone that my Dad sucks. Imagine the entire country hearing your Dad sucks? That's the juice, that's the dream. Trauma makes you vicious. I get the sentiment. Imagine all those fuckers who made you feel like shit pissing their pants and crying? Imagine your Mom being afraid of you the way you used to be afraid of her? People do have the desire for some violent justice but like... Think of bullied kids committing school shootings. But instead of a kid, it's a grown man who graduated school and who also have a rich father

Ok too much about irl stuff and philosophy shit. I know my way of talking is kinda brute so just know the way I treat people is different from that I treat fictional characters, in particular, I don't call real-life humans submissive and breedable... And stuff...

Damn Dabi is kinda good to project your hatred of your parents in bruh, I should write a fanfic about that (would be cathartic)

To the plotline, I am also very interested in what the hell happened with him after burning because... How the hell he wasn't found? I kind of DON'T want him to be groomed at this point because I feel like it won't be as cool as him just more naturally evolving into what he became. Like, surely, he is an asshole but consider this: as a villain, he is morally obligated to be an asshole

I feel like someone hiding him and Touya overstating the gruesomeness of his living conditions to the dude so he feels *bad* for him and hides him and feels sympathy and Touya gets attention but also begins to reassure himself in the fact his Dad needs to be punished... Idk it's a lot of mystery but I feel like more suffering won't deliver the point the way I want it... I mean it CAN be handled this way and initially I thought a lot about Dabi being brainwashed a bit or having his memories altered so it seems worse to him or even him being groomed or lied too but nowadays I am not into it. I mean I believe in Horikoshi and that he will handle him well 🛐

I talk a lot so I will summarize

If we judge him as a real human

14 yo Touya - DID NOTHING WRONG IN HIS LIFE PROTECT HIM

24 yo Dabi - go fuck yourself bitch you older than me and act like a child and kill people, I couldn't care less about your trauma rich boy

If you want me to talk as his psychologist

Yeah, it is painful and sad, I understand him so much and surely, his trauma is valid as is his hatred but probably revenge won't bring him what he wants. And what he wants is love and attention. But he gotta make choices that will lead to his healing. He needs to *want* to heal. And we will step by step go to the healing because it is possible. He is loved and he is enough. AND YOU ALL MOTHERFUCKERS WILL HEAL I BELIEVE IN YOU BESTIES

Also his therapist (behind his back)

You won't believe it but my client is the most infantile attention whore I've ever met

But if we talk about him as a character... Very delicious soup

If you talk with your friends

Please, if your friends are being abusive to you or someone else don't even LET them say how their trauma made them this way. No. Nothing allows you to be an abuser. Call them out and stop them and make them talk to the therapist. Like, surely, there are extreme situations like severe mental illnesses or extreme neglect where we should be more forgiving but babying adults won't do you any good and won't make them recover

Yeah, I guess this is what I forgot to say. When I say "it wasn't that bad" what I mean is that I would be more forgiving to people who had it worse. It's more of a personal measure where I can tolerate stuff from people who had particular traumas or from those who suffered greatly (it's not my place to be a bitch here). I can forgive 14 years old or a poor person for stealing stuff but not the 25-year-old man who got no need for money and is not a kleptomaniac. I would be more forgiving to Shigaraki than to Dabi because Shigaraki was groomed a whole lot. Same for Toga, who is not even an adult or Twice who is a poor orphan. But that doesn't mean I would forgive them completely. All of them are shitty people. It's just that they had fewer resources and possibilities to not be what they became while Dabi had more but he acts like he is extremely hurt and the biggest victim which is like... There will be people like this in your life, please, don't make friends with them, they WILL abuse you

I talked a lot damn. It's adhd I can't shut up

[tfw-no-tennis]

mtmte liveblog issue 28

catch me completely ignoring dark cybertron lmao

yeahhhh so I'm just gonna skip dark cybertron bc no thanks. I did read the tf wiki articles for the issues tho, which is more than I did in the past, so at least now I kinda know what happened, though I had to suffer thru reading about dark cybertron to learn stuff about it. yikes. reading ABOUT dark cybertron further enforced my decision to not actually read thru it

anyways. the best part of dark cybertron was when chromedome threw prowl off that cliff. that was baller lmfao

a 1 page recap of dark cybertron is about all I can handle. thank you

ooh, the 6 months later smash-cut, I fucking love itttt

nautica’s here!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so happy I love her. also brainstorm, and I love their friendship sm

hvbjdkhfbshdfj god I love them. they have such a fun dynamic 

everyone eavesdropping on a therapy session vhbhdjkhafbhkjsdf. hipaa laws mean nothing as usual 

the casual reveal of captain megatron, oh god 

the title fucking slaps, as usual. this is one of my favorites - ‘world, shut your mouth.’ great stuff, and a song title/reference to boot! and this being part 1: towards peace...chefs kiss

and then we flash back to 6 months earlier...yknow now that I'm rereading this, mtmte has a LOT of framing devices used - there's story-within-a-story, flashback/flash-forwards, storytelling with narration, etc...I love it

god hbvhjakdfbshjkdf rodimus saying ‘magic’ and then the little *magic = science rodimus doesn't understand HBGKJHSDBFKHJSDF my idiot boy ily

rodimus roasting prowl is my fav hbfjdkafshsbjkf ‘maybe the knights can help us find a cure for your personality’ ily sm

and then prowl agreeing w/rodimus a few panels later about megatron’s guilt...

optimus...don't you think that making yourself chief of justice is...maybe a bad idea...like, maybe there's a conflict of interests here...just a little bit of bias...a bit too much history, perhaps...

the fact that all the big roles in the trial were given to high-ranking autobots who were heavily involved in the war...I see that cybertrons justice system is as much of a farce as their medical ethics and patient confidentiality laws 

the ‘you BROKE the MATRIX’ panel is so good bjhkdhfbajskhdf

rodimus: LISTEN dad I just wanna resume my space cruise with my frat bro ship I have no interest in politics

psychiatrists HATE him! local former warlord refuses to recognize the validity of psychological analyzation of people’s actions

ravage casually breaking hipaa laws and chilling in megatron’s therapy session like >:3

I love rung...he’s so good at like, passive-aggressively cutting right to the heart of someone’s issues, and he’s so generally mild that you can’t even really get mad at him 

the sudden inclusion of megatron as a major character in mtmte is kinda jarring at first - mostly, for me at least, due in part because I didn't read dark cybertron so this is like, megatron’s introduction as a relevant character in general - but I feel like jro does a great job laying a lot of intrigue down from the very beginning w/his character - like, I already want to know more about what his whole deal is, even though we have, ostensibly, seen pretty much all of his story play out already 

rung name-dropping froid...i remember that made me lose my shit bc cmon. FROID....jesus christ

rung and megatron: holy shit! we’re suddenly being drawn in a 90s-esque sci-fi tron-looking retro-futuristic style!

interesting that megatron sought rung out, and not the other way around

RIPTIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my favorite sharkboy is HERE

CREWDITIONS...YES....

‘we’re not allowed to take anyone who might remind rodimus of prowl’ vhbhjdkshfbhaskfd brutal

I love nautica so so much. a perfect autistic scientist after my own heart

I adore that nautica brought chromia along for moral support

hgvbjdakhfbhsj and then swerve saying that rodimus hates ‘trisyllabic names’ and nautica is like....but....‘rodimus’.....

and then nightbeat busts in to get all bbc sherlock on they asses hgbfhjadkfbjaskdf

WHY was perceptor at the crewditions if he was already part of the crew lmao

ooof, and then we have megatron flipping out when chromedome, a mnemosurgeon, shows up

also damn the autobots were rlly like okay so we wanna speed this trial up so lets just like, probe megatrons brain, that seems completely ethical, especially when you consider the history of shadowplay and stuff that our previous government had

I know important stuff is happening but megatron is holding a CUBE and I love CUBES so I'm distracted by that. C U B E

and then right after a scene where we see chromedome willing to perform mnemosurgery again - despite rewind’s like, dying wish for him not to - we hear that he’s been locked up in his room rewatching rewinds goodbye message over and over again :( I'm fucking depressed

I love nightbeat, he’s so funny and kind of an asshole

and then you see more missing letters behind them next panel...clearly nightbeat is right and there’s a mystery afoot...OR somebody is fucking with the ship’s lettering as a prank, which is a plot point I would absolutely buy

yeahhhh skids is right, chromedome is clearly Not dealing 

the dramatic graffiti on megatrons door...I wanna know who spray-painted ‘die’ everywhere like they're reaper overwatch

oh god. whirl vs megatron

really cool red lighting tho

GOD its so brutal, all the stuff megatron said about how he told the cons not to kill whirl...and doesn't that end up being false anyways? so he was just saying it to dig at whirl, which is awful

also I'm never over the fact that literally everyone - including megatron and whirl - blames whirl for ‘turning megatron violent,’ as if the entire Point isn't that whirl was a tool for a corrupt system, and if it wasn't whirl it would've just been someone else, and megatron turning away from pacifism was inevitable given the circumstances, AND also a choice on his part, so he really only has himself to blame for his OWN ACTIONS

bye bye whirls right arm, see you in lost light 

‘people never stop changing’ that IS something I say all the time...damn you warlord grandpa! how can you steal my philosophies?!

ohhh man and then rewind’s goodbye message being different....oooh

AUGH the fact that whirl was basically trying to goad megatron into killing him, just like he did in issue 1 w/cyclonus...It Hurts Man

also I do love the hint at who he’s talking to w/whirl shooting megatron with the bow and arrow earlier, and we know that atomizer is a fan of those

ok, but here’s where my philosophy diverges - megatron talks about throwing away his past and starting new, but I think that you have to learn from and build on your past...either way, megatron’s arc is one that I enjoy greatly from a character writing standpoint, and I'm excited to get it underway, especially w/how controversial it is lmao

big ole double-page spread...I like how you can pick out individual characters in the background crowd, which is crazy cause that's a LOT of people. also how come cosmos is so HUGE

phewwww 4.6 billion cybertronians died in the war, that’s INSANE. that's like, an incomprehensibly huge number. is there an estimate for their current population? I bet its not a lot. no wonder jro leaned into reproductive themes so much in mtmte/ll - of course the continuation of your species would be a concern for many if your numbers have been that greatly reduced

optimus w/his fancy tyrest-lookin crown

oughdajbfsbdf and the fact that megatron ALSO murdered 100 BILLION non-cybertronians...bruh. I feel like they maybe should've dialed those numbers back a little to allow his ‘redemption arc’ to run a little smoother lmao. but also I admire the commitment either way

and then we end w/megatron doing captain stuff, and seeing The Coffin...and we never did see rodimus in any of the flash-forward parts of this issue, did we???? I love how concerning that is. where's my BOY

also of course we gotta remember the warning from way back at the beginning of mtmte: ‘don't open the coffin’....

and so begins mtmte s2! man I love s2. I love mtmte in general lmao. s2 takes on the impossible w/the whole ‘megatron redemption arc’ thing, and I know that’s like, a divisive plot point and stuff, but from a writing standpoint I enjoyed it a lot...I think it was pretty much as well done as it could've been given the enormity of the task, and I thought it was a really interesting direction for the story to go in 

also espec if it’s true that hasbro was like ‘hey jro put megatron in your story and give him a redemption arc’ rather than jro like, planning/asking to do it 

anyways. I doubt ill talk much abt the disc horse(tm) here bc this is just for fun and also my own personal opinions and whatever, but I for one am excited to reexperience this stuff 

so yeah s2 off to a strong start with some wild shit already happening! cant wait to read more!

[hatsukeii]

Have I been inactive? Yes.

Am I tired? Very.

Should I apologise? Yes, I’m very, very sorry.

Is this going to be a short fic? Uh very possibly tbh sorry.

Will I get over my writer’s block anytime soon? Probably not.

Will I still write with writer’s block in an attempt to get rid of it? Yes.

Should you expect this to be good? Please God no I don’t want to disappoint.

Purely self indulgent Akaashi angst I thought of on a moving bus because my phone was dying but my laptop wasn’t.

Day 67 // Akaashi Keiji x Reader

Word count: 1.8k+

Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide, schizophrenia, cursing

Summary: Schizophrenia/ˌskɪtsə(ʊ)ˈfriːnɪə/ a long-term mental disorder of a type involving a breakdown in the relation between thought, emotion, and behaviour, leading to faulty perception, inappropriate actions and feelings, withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion, and a sense of mental fragmentation.

“Keiji.”

“Hi, (Y/N).”

“How are you doing today?”

“Pretty okay. I had a test earlier, currently praying I didn’t fail.”

“Trust me sweetie, you’ll be perfectly fine! You’re smart, algebra is a breeze.”

“I sure hope so too.”

What day was it? Ah, yes, day number 67. Disapproving looks were sent towards Akaashi, students whispering amongst themselves as they inched away from him. He was an outcast in their eyes as of now. However, no one understood the situation fully, which only meant there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“Is he crazy?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He needs a therapist.”

Ignoring the judgemental comments, Akaashi continued his conversation with you, a hand holding his head up as he dreamily stared at you sitting at the edge of his table, a warm smile plastered on your face as usual.

“If I ace this test, are you gonna let me put you in drag makeup?”

Seeing you roll your eyes, he snickered to himself, a tiny grin spreading across his face. 

“Sure, only if you ace it though!”

“Yo Akaashi!”

The familiar voice boomed from behind him, causing everyone’s heads to turn. Slapping a hand on his kouhai’s shoulder, the boisterous third year stared everyone down. Second years snapped their heads back to their textbooks, whispering to each other, obviously intimidated by the sudden appearance of Bokuto.

“What are you guys staring at, huh? Mind your own business, nosy little shits.”

Eyeing the spiker, Akaashi slowly turned around to face him. Seeing Bokuto was the other thing that made him smile. The way he easily raised Akaashi’s spirits was greatly appreciated by the setter. Bokuto was the only person Akaashi trusted enough to tell his rather complicated issues to. Taking a glance back to the front, you were gone, all traces of your existence vanished in the turn of a head. Furrowing his brows, Akaashi’s eyes darted from seat to seat, but found nothing. 

“Hm? Where did she go?”

Sensing his distress, Bokuto sighed, pulling him up by the sleeve of the setter’s school jacket. 

“It’s not getting any better?”

“What do you think, Bokuto- san?”

It pained Bokuto to see his kouhai like this. Akaashi went through way too much in the past few months, he didn’t deserve any of this. The constant and ongoing torture that was his mind, with a side of verbal bullying from classmates that didn’t understand, now that was too much to handle. Despite all that, Akaashi continued to live on, carrying the insults and grief on his back, and Bokuto respected him for that. Calling out bullies for being insensitive was the least he could do for his best bro. He would hold himself back whenever he saw Akaashi staring off into the distance, or conversing, waiting until he stopped to approach him. He understood this was the only way his kouhai could meet her. He watched as Akaashi shoved everything into his bag messily, worksheets crumpling under his laptop, pencil case still opened as pens spilled out into the backpack.

“Are you taking your meds?”

Akaashi was silent as he hauled the heavy bag onto his shoulder, but Bokuto already knew the answer to that question. He had not been taking his meds, although his doctor had urged him to do so. The professionals have explained to him multiple times before, his condition wouldn’t get better unless he took his meds, and cleared his mind off the root of the issue. However, that simply didn’t work with Akaashi. Telling him to clear his mind of the root would be equivalent to telling him to let go of one of the only people he truly, shamelessly cared about. No way in hell was he going to do that. For months, he had been emptying out his bottles of pills into the bin, acting like he took the medicine. That somehow fooled everyone in his family. They were stupid for thinking that he was okay. Shaking his head, Bokuto pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, concerned for Akaashi’s wellbeing. The two walked out of the classroom, pushing through the crowd of bustling students that were all keen to get out of the school as soon as possible.

“You wanna go out to the arcade after school? That might help you wind down.”

Frowning, Akaashi looked at the floor, fiddling with his fingers as he shook his head slightly.

“Therapy, my mom’s on my ass for it.”

A couple of students walked past the duo, snickering as they pointed at the black haired male. It was obvious what they were laughing about as they pretended to speak to air, making exaggerated movements every three seconds, before splashing a bottle of water all over Akaashi’s uniform.

“Oi, what the hell?”

“Bokuto- san, leave it.”

“But they can’t just m-”

“I said, leave it.”

Grabbing his hair, Bokuto groaned in frustration, before slamming his hands back down to his sides, slouching down and continuing to walk down the stairs to the entrance. He didn’t understand how Akaashi could deal with this. It must be so gruelling and depressing for him to have to deal with assholes like them that simply wouldn’t take the time to understand someone’s struggles. Akaashi’s mental compass was strong, so strong that he had never yelled at anyone, not even when he was a victim of their actions. It wasn’t that Bokuto minded sticking up for his kouhai, in fact, he was more than happy to do so. He just wanted Akaashi to speak up for once and not let shit like this go unnoticed.

Akaashi, on the other hand, he really could not give less of a shit. So what if he spoke up? He wasn’t going to get better anyways, no one would listen to his explanation. Fukurodani was a simple school. If you were seen as a misfit, you would get bullied. If you were seen as popular, you would get bullied. If you were seen as anything that wasn’t average, you best bet your ass you would be bullied for it. However, he swore that he would do whatever he could, take whatever punishment, or bullying, or insults that came his way, anything just to be with you for a bit longer. Anything to see that precious smile again. Fanning his shirt, the two parted ways eventually, Bokuto going to the arcade, and Akaashi going to his therapist.

“So, Akaashi, are you getting any better?”

Dr. Yuma pushed his glasses up, awaiting for his response. The teen fiddled with his fingers, seemingly nervous. How was he going to explain this? Should he just tell him the truth? If he did, the doctor might have his parents monitor him even more strictly, he might be forced to take the pills, maybe even have more frequent checkups. Part of him wanted to get rid of this, move on with his life, stop the bullying and so. However another part of him wanted to stay like this. At least he was still able to talk to her. He had close to no friends, all of them left after he started acting like this. The only one that stuck around was Bokuto, and he was forever grateful for that. Talking to you was like an escape from reality, bringing him back to better times, even if others couldn’t accept it.

“Yeah, kind of.”

Smiling to himself, the therapist jotted that down into his notebook, before continuing to consult his patient.

“So, how’re you doing? Do you still see or think of her?”

Looking at the floor, Akaashi bit his lip nervously, racking his brain for something to say.

“I still think of her. That hasn’t gotten any better. I can’t get her out of my mind. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t focus. I could’ve helped her, there was something I could’ve done, if only I had known about her depression. I... I could’ve helped her, there was a chance at saving her and I blew it. I see her once in a while, most often times at school. People look at me like I’m crazy when I’m talking to her though.”

Nodding his head slowly, Dr. Yuma continued to journal everything into the notebook.

“Well, according to my assumptions, you should stop seeing her about now. Are the meds not working?”

Akaashi’s eyes widened, cold sweat gathering on his neck.

“Akaashi... are you not taking the meds?”

Giving up, Akaashi looked at the therapist, eyes desperate and teary.

“I’m not getting any better and I don’t want to either. I want to stay with (Y/N), even if it’s not real. People can stare, they can laugh, I don’t care, I just want to stay with her. I have no friends as of now, they were all too weirded out by the thought of me suffering from schizophrenia. Apparently mental issues aren’t accepted into friend circles. What do I have to lose anyways?”

Completely breaking down, tears flowed freely from his eyes as he stared at his shaking hands. Akaashi shook violently, choking on his salty tears as Dr. Yuma looked at him sympathetically. What the hell was he thinking? Not taking his meds? Troubling his therapist every week with his worsening symptoms? He was selfish towards everyone that awaited his recovery from this disease. His family, Bokuto, his team, all of them. However, did he really want to recover? Would having schizophrenia be worth it, as long as you were still by his side? He wanted to see your smile again, the way you teased him, poked fun with him, the way you kissed him, held him, he felt selfish for wanting it all back, but you could really blame him? He was just as ready to kill himself as you were a few months back, Bokuto was right, this, along with the bullying, was too much for him to bear. Thank God for Akaashi being able to hide his emotions, at least he wouldn’t be troubling Dr. Yuma any more than he already is with his schizophrenia. 

“Akaashi, buddy, you’re going to have to get over her death sooner or later. This is going to affect your life greatly if you don’t and that will become far too troublesome to deal with. You need to start taking the pills and recovering, or the consequences will be quite negative. It’s not your fault, she never told you about her suicidal thoughts, you couldn’t have done anything.”

Eyes blurry from the tears he shed, Akaashi looked straight at his therapist, irises dull and hopeless as tears continued to roll down his numb cheeks.

“It’s bad enough that I couldn’t stop her from jumping, at least let me have fake hope that she might still see me. Please, Dr. Yuma, let me do that for myself.”

Setting down his notebook, Akaashi was able to take a glance at whatever was scrawled messily on the page.

June 20, 2020

Day 67, patient is not showing any signs of improvement. 

Heavily blames self for the suicide of significant other.

Rejecting help.

Not taking meds.

Reminder: Need to inform parents of situation.

Patient should come back again with family for day 68 checkup tomorrow.

Tags:

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Eh I guess I like writing stuff about mental issues lol my writer’s block is partially gone for now:D Hope you like this thing<3

[thanksjro]

The Persistence of Loss: More Ghosts Teaching Robots Life Lessons

This is a story written by Mark Stevenson, but it takes place in the Eugenesis continuity. Fun fact: when everything’s fanfic, that means everything’s equally canon! TMUK took advantage of this nodule of wisdom very frequently.

This is running on Microsoft Word in compatibility mode, by the way. No PDFs here.

It’s after the events the Epilogue of Eugenesis, and there’s a thing called “the List” hanging up in the new Autobase. You know, the one that was set up in the fucking concentration camp.

The worst part of this is how many questions are stirred up by the fact this is on printer paper. Where did the paper come from? Does this mean Cybertron has some sort of plant life that could be pulped down and made into paper? Did they bring some from Earth on the Ark?

What the List is isn’t directly stated, but considering the events of Eugenesis, it isn’t hard to guess.

Meanwhile, Bombshell, everyone’s favorite mind-controller and giant bug, is messing around with the Quintesson corpses, utterly fascinated by the way they’re built.

I never covered this in my breakdown, but the little dudes who were flying the Tridents? All those nameless nobodies? They’re hardwired into their controls. There’s no transition from steering to hand or seat to ass, it’s all one and the same.

Swindle is, of course, disgusted by Bombshell’s little distraction, but there’s not much point arguing with a guy like that, especially now that the tentative peace in the wake of the Quintesson invasion is about to be bashed in with a hammer, since Galvatron’s going to be back on Cybertron in the next few hours. Flattop cuts in, saying they’ve got company inbound.

Over at the remains of Delphi, Scourge has decided to have a little alone time, just thinking his thoughts. It’s nice and quiet, the sunset is positively lovely, and he’s honestly probably overdue for some sort of interruption.

Welp, looks like he wasn’t dead after all. I guess he just decided he was going to sit the entirety of the genocide out.

Though maybe he just didn’t realize it was happening, because this Cyclonus really is just stupid as shit. He laughs at a comment Scourge makes, completely forgetting that they’re in the Sonic Canyons, and nearly kills the both of them. Once the danger’s passed, Cyclonus finally asks Scourge what’s bothering him. What a good friend.

Back at Autobase, Rodimus Prime is sad. He’s always sad, but he’s particularly sad right now. We’re still only a couple of days beyond him having woken up, so he probably stopped self-isolating over Kup’s death roughly twenty minutes ago.

He’s currently reflecting on Emyrissus, the Micromaster he sent to assassinate Galvatron, whose death was as awful as it was predictable, or so Rodimus likes to think. He knew Emyrissus was going to die.

You see, this is why Rodimus is a better leader than Optimus is, at least in terms of empathy. He understands that he’s in a position of power, one that can make or break a person’s very life, and that scares the shit out of him. Regardless of Eugenesis Optimus being one from prior the horrendously long war, he was still enough of a figurehead to at least entertain the thought of his being put on a pedestal by those around him.

But no. Instead everyone deserved to die.

Thanks, space dad.

Stevenson, you are playing a dangerous game here-

Mirage and his friends are being ambushed by a group of Decepticons. He’s currently rocking around with Ramhorn and Kick-Off, and they’re currently barricading themselves behind a wall. Ramhorn, being a wildcard, runs out of cover and decides to just go for it. Mirage silently wonders if this is why the Transformers as a race can’t function outside of making war. That thought doesn’t get to the self-reflection stage, however, as he basically says “fuck it” and vaults over the wall himself, though he at least has the bright idea to go invisible beforehand.

Getting back to Scourge’s angst, it would seem that Nightbeat was right on the money about not having hit him with the mind wipe device. Scourge remembered everything, and it's tortured him for the last 27 years- even more if you think too hard about all the time travel. He was fully convinced that after he went through the wormhole, that was it- the Transformers lost, and he had his very own countdown. THAT would be why he blew himself up in Liars, A-to-D.

Now that it looks like everything’s going to be about as okay as it gets on Cybertron, he’s really not sure what to do with his life anymore.

These two fucking idiots have a great big laugh together, to the point where the nearby homeless population wonder if the Quintessons came back. They eventually calm down, and Scourge asks Cyclonus what I’ve been wondering for months: what he did in the Eugenesis Wars.

Over with Rodimus, Kup is at the door.

Alright, let’s see where this goes. I’m betting on hallucination.

Kup enters, closing the door behind him at Rodimus’ request, and comments on the state of the office. It’s positively dreary, and that’s with the inclusion of the window.

Kup seems to be a sort of manifestation of Rodimus’ self-loathing. He should probably see a therapist, but last I heard Rung was over with the Decepticons, and he’s probably the only mental health specialist on the entire planet.

Which makes me wonder why Galvatron hasn’t killed him yet. Guy’s not exactly a fan of therapy.

Kup’s tough love comes from a good place- he can see Rodimus is deep in the rut that is Depression™, and he needs a swift kick in the ass to help him get back on track. I don’t quite think that’s how this works, but something’s got to give, I suppose.

Because you see, Kup’s seen the future, and it ain’t pretty- Star Saber isn’t someone to be trusted, and his whole gang is going to be coming down on Cybertron like sharks smelling blood.

Then again, Kup’s not real, so what does he know?

Rodimus asks what this is all actually about, seeing as Kup always had a reason for showing up for anything. Kup admits that he wants to talk about Emyrissus.

The problem is that things are only going to get harder from here on, as the lines between good and evil are blurred, as the Autobots sink deeper into the dredges of war to try and win this thing. Emyrissus is just the most glaring example at present. Kup opens the door, and Rodimus worries that the Micromaster is going to pop out to join the conversation, but Kup just says that he doesn’t have enough memories of the guy to build him in his head like he can Kup.

Kup tells Rodimus that he needs to learn to let go, and stop blaming himself for everything that’s gone wrong with this war. Then he’s gone.

Rodimus goes to join the troops.

Over with Mirage, things aren’t going so hot. He’s been shot. HIs team members are either too busy to help, or completely AWOL. He scrabbles for his gun- very reminiscent of Liars A-to-D here- only to have someone else’s gun put to his head. It’s Bombshell. Look at the scenes coming together all nice-like!

Bombshell threatens to shoot him, and Mirage is very okay with this plan. He’s hit his nihilism barrier and broken clean through it- what’s the point? All they do is fight, all they do is kill, and one day there won’t be anything left, and all will be lost to time. There’s nothing worth living for anymore.

The postpartum depression is hitting Mirage very hard.

Bombshell recalls the Quintesson soldier, and orders his team to stand down. They won’t be killing anyone today. He promises Mirage that when the war is over, they’ll have a chat, then leaves.

Mirage is, understandably, confused by this.

Back at Autobase, Rodimus is being followed by a smattering of groupies, as he makes his way to the List. By the time he gets there, nearly fifty folks have joined the throng. He figures now is as good a time as any to speak to his troops, and he hops up on a toolbox so everyone can see him.

First and foremost, he tells them that he’s proud of them. Then thanks them for being here with him.

Then he addresses the elephant in the room.

Then Nightbeat pushes through the crowd towards the Prime. He’s fresh off the presses, and he knows what Rodimus was about to do to the List. He knows, and he encourages it.

With a flourish, Rodimus Prime rips the List off of the wall, and everyone bursts into applause.

Finally getting back to Cyclonus’ deal, it turns out he was buried under Darkmount the whole time. Bit anticlimactic, that. With the Mystery of the Missing Cyclonus solved, the two decide to go get plastered at Maccadam’s, and also maybe stab a few people. Good times.

Meanwhile, off-world, Great Shot enters the office of Star Saber, and they join in the long-standing tradition of talking shit about Old Cybertron. Star Saber is less than impressed with the Autobots, and how they got their asses kicked by a bunch of guys that look like flying eggs. Still, helping them out gives him something to do, and that something is rebuilding Old Cybertron into the gleaming, perfect image of New Cybertron.

And then there’s a quote directly ripped from Hitler himself, to really sell you on the fact that Star Saber is a Bad Fucking Dude.

The end!

This will most likely be the only non-Roberts Eugenesis-related work I’ll be looking at. There are others, but they’ve been lost to time. Also, they’re not really why I’m doing this, so… yeah.

Up next…

Huh.

Guess I’ll start on the professional stuff.

[thepencilnerd]

Melophile | Part II

– please read part 1 if you haven’t  – (it can be found on my masterlist ^^ )

melo·phile- noun; a person with great love and affluent passion for music

➵ A piano major and a composition major collaborating for a final semester project. It seemed straightforward, right? But what if you were forced to pair up with the school’s most problematic genius, Min Yoongi? Add to that the fact that he absolutely hated your guts and you had the perfect recipe for disaster. How can someone you’ve never even met before despise you like a sworn enemy? Getting to know each other was hard enough, but what happens when the most beautiful, painful, and darkest secrets force the two of you to expose the thing you each guarded the most—your own emotions?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: AU! enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, slow-ish burn 

➵ word count: 27k (sorry mobile readers)

➵ warnings: swearing, too much fluff, angst, discussions of depression, oral sex (m&f receiving), marking, biting, hair pulling, cumplay/eating, light impreg kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), i’m still screaming while writing these warnings bc i thought it’d pretty tame this chapter i was wrong

a/n: my longest work to date :’) i hope you all enjoyed and thank you so much for staying with me on this emotional rollercoaster <3 

Previously on part one of Melophile...

“Stop calling me that.” Each word came out through pursed lips and clamped teeth. Leaning into you so that he was directly in your line of vision, his lip curled into a smirk and his eyes flaunted a veil of malicious intent.

“Make me,” he snarled. Never in your life had two words made you more furious than at that exact moment.  

“Fuck you, Yoongi,” you spat out, face just centimeters away from his. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, I really am, okay? But you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me, so stop acting like you’re the only one who’s been hurt in the past.”

Moving closer to you in response, you felt his hot breath fan over your lips, making you lean back instinctively.

“I’m not hurt,” he pointed out with venom dripping from his voice. Leaning towards the shell of your ear, his exhaling breath tickled your neck.

“I’m broken, _____…” Yoongi growled.

“Fucking hell...” you muttered silently while pinching the bridge of your nose. Contemplating your reason for existence, you felt an unpleasant stickiness rub the inside of your thighs but ignored it as you found yourself studying the face of the sleeping figure beside you—what a great distraction to start off the day.

Yoongi’s sleeping face was the epitome of serenity. Lying on his side, his face pressed against the pillow like a marshmallow in a way that made his cheek and lips squish to the side lazily. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open the slightest bit, a faint snore emitting from his throat each time his chest rose and fell.

A grin sneakily crept onto your face when you took the time to admire how peaceful he looked. It was probably the first time you’d ever seen him so—exposed. Realizing the mistake of your words, your timing couldn’t have been worse when Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered open.

The corners of his eyes formed into half-moons as he crinkled his nose. Stretching over your body with his free arm, you shuffled away from his reach and rolled off the bed.

You let out a strangled yelp as your body tumbled onto the floor. As if you didn’t have enough bruises from last night already...

Hurrying to peek over the edge of the bed, Yoongi’s face bore a bemused look and you’d bet a million dollars he was about three seconds away from—

“Are you okay?” he chuckled, bursting into a fit of raspy laughter with a lazy smile. 

His upbeat aura made you analyze his face for any indication that he was hungover or on possibly on something, but all you saw was a genuinely cheery boy. 

“Y–Yeah...” you stuttered. “I’m good. Fine. I’m fine.”

Softening his gaze, he sighed and rolled back into bed, staring at the ceiling. What the hell were you supposed to do now? Struggling to find a way to break the ice, you only realized then now dry and scratchy your throat felt.

Clearing your throat, you scratched your head at your surroundings. “Is this your room?” Mumbling something that resembled an ‘mhmph,’ you took his half-ass mumble as a yes.

“How did we, um...” you hiccuped, nerves beginning to take over. You resorted to pointing to random points around the room sheepishly.

Hearing the rustling of sheets, you met his half-lidded gaze. He wasn’t wearing a top, yet you were the one who felt self-conscious and covered your chest with your arms—and you were actually wearing a shirt.

Sniffling slightly, he rested the side of his face on his arm lazily. “I piggybacked you here after you knocked out like a light,” he chuckled to himself, reliving the moment briefly. “Drooled all over my shoulder and everything.”

“I do not drool!” you exclaimed, wiping your mouth subconsciously while blushing furiously at his accusation.

“I beg to differ,” he smiled, flashing a gummy smile that made you hiccup. The conversation was becoming much too casual for your comfort, and you quickly got up on your feet to try and find your clothes. You needed to get out of here. You needed to get out of here now.

Unfortunately, your body betrayed you when your legs trembled and gave under you. Your muscles felt like jelly and you couldn’t even make an attempt at getting up the second time, so you slid down back into a cross-legged position on the floor as smoothly as you could, trying not to look as embarrassed or defeated as you felt. Yoongi hid his snort of amusement with a cough. 

“Where are my clothes?” you questioned, suddenly aware that you were dressed in black boxer shorts and a shirt too large to be your size. Your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the realization.

Hands shooting up to cover your chest instinctively, you stared at Yoongi like a deer in headlights. “You undressed me?!” you gawked.

Propping his elbow up, he rested his cheek on his hand as he chuckled. “Technically I redressed you after the undressing part, so it counts as a double negative,” he corrected. Smug bastard...

Wincing at the stretch you felt in your thighs from just sitting in a cross-legged position, you stood up again only to stumble again like a tower made of jello cubes. Yoongi sat up immediately, grabbing your arm to help you stay upright, but you tore yourself away from Yoongi’s warm hands. The soothing sensation of his touch was making you feel too comfortable for your own liking. 

Clothes. Door. Exit. Now. Four words you never expected to dictate your every move thereon afterward. 

He looked at you with a puzzled expression, taken aback by your irrational behavior. Yoongi opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as you spotted your pile of clothes in the corner of the room, you scurried across to pick them up. 

Yanking down the boxers you were wearing and pulling off his shirt, the smell of his cologne sunk through the fabric and made your heartbeat jump for a moment. Flashbacks of last night snapped like a series of camera shutters in your mind; his scent rubbing onto your skin, the texture of his hair between your fingers, the warmth of his lips against your neck, the feeling of his tongue—

“Pull yourself together,” you screamed in your head. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of your sinful thoughts, you jumped up and down into your jeans and threw on your hoodie in record time before he could make a remark about your nude state.   

Picking up your phone from his nightstand and stepping—more like tripping—into your shoes, you turned around and closed your eyes, crinkling your nose to focus and think about whether you needed to gather anything else. Once confirming that you didn’t bring anything other than your phone, you rushed out the door and left Yoongi with his mouth hung open. 

“Well shit...” he thought. 

It had been a full week since the “incident,” as you had labeled it, and you were cooped up in your dorm like a prisoner, only sneaking out to get snacks and coffee from the corner store across the street. The stupid week-long break could not come any sooner, could it? 

Words splattered like stray drops of paint across the walls of your mind as panic occupied every waking thought since that night. 

He knew your secret and you knew his.

You didn’t know why fear was growing on you like a parasite. It’s not like he was going to tell Powell. Even if he did, you’d probably just have to go to a few physical therapy lessons and get prescribed some medication to manage the pain. 

“He’ll restrict your physical participation hours and make you play less...” your subconscious suspected. There it was—that was your greatest fear. Crawling bugs, skyscraper-tall heights, deep dark oceans, and even being trapped in a burning building didn’t compare to the complete and utter dread you would feel if you had lost music. Just thinking about it was enough to make you bite your nails. 

As your silent nights of waking up, showering, eating a few bites of granola bars, and wallowing in your bed until you fell asleep became repetitive, Yoongi was as loud and active as he had ever been—in the form of texts, that is. 

Saturday

Min Salty: You good? [1:41 p.m.]

Sunday 

Min Salty: Earth to _____ ? [ 8:19 a.m.]

Min Salty: Did you get sick? [11:43 a.m.]

Monday

Min Salty: Are you okay? [4:50 p.m.]

Min Salty: Call me [5:01 p.m.]

Tuesday

Min Salty: _____ , talk to me [12:12 a.m.]

Wednesday

Min Salty: At least let me know that you’re alive [10:08 a.m.]

Yesterday

Min Salty: I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you need [9:04 p.m.] 

Re-reading each text was like stabbing yourself with a rusted dagger over and over again as the realization of what you had done loomed over you like a storm cloud. Lying in your bed, you buried your face in the pillow and screamed, thankful that everyone down your dorm block was away for a few more days. It killed you even more inside when you read over the text you had sent five minutes ago.

Today

Min Salty: Practice room 2B at 3? [2:34 p.m.]

You: sure [2:41 p.m.]

Thrashing your arms and legs wildly in an attempt to relieve you of your impulsive and rash decision, you huffed one more time before getting out of bed and changing into a pair of jeans. Rubbing your eyes and triple-checking whether you had just done what you think you had done, you wailed overdramatically, praying that this was all just one big nightmare. 

What the hell were you thinking? 

Blowing your wild baby hairs away from your face, you ignored the state of the bird’s nest of a messy bun that laid atop your head and didn’t bother changing out of your hoodie. You were way too used to wearing those since you started college. Packing your dorm keys and notebook into your backpack, you slung it over your shoulder half-heartedly and prepared for the storm that lied ahead. 

The entire walk across the campus was filled with dread and you didn’t bother cleaning up your disheveled state when you finally knocked on the door. When it swung open, you met his gaze for the first time in what felt like weeks. 

Yoongi was sitting on the piano bench with a cup-holder filled with two hot drinks and a paper bag settled on the guest table. He too was flaunting just as plain of an outfit as your black joggers and school logo-printed hoodie.

With grey sweatpants, matching sweater, and grass-stained sneakers, you both stared at each other with awe at your equal ability to feel so comfortable in your less than dress code friendly attire. You didn’t even notice until your eyes landed on his socks that they were different colors, to which you clamped your hand over your mouth and disguised your snort with a brash cough. 

“Don’t you look gorgeous?” he scoffed, admiring your equally casual half-strewn choice of an outfit. Pulling out two chairs from the side of the room and placing them next to the table, you opened your mouth to protest, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the room.

Starting with the coffee, he handed you the paper cup, tapping under your chin playfully because he found your dazed face amusing. Angling your head down low, you felt a pang of regret. He shouldn’t be this happy...

He tore the bag open to reveal an array of croissants, donuts, and pastries from the café across the street. You’d gone there so many times in the last couple of years, you would be a moron if you hadn’t memorized the menu by now. 

“Why did you—” you sputtered, pointing to the golden loaves of steaming hot fluffiness that made your mouth water. Sitting down, he patted the chair next to him, welcoming you to sit and make yourself comfortable.

“Food first then talk,” he halted. “You look like you haven’t eaten anything other than instant noodles and mix coffee in weeks—and I know better than anyone what that looks like...”

Scowling at his double-edged insult and scold, you sat moved the chair to be across from him rather than beside and sat down slowly like a cat who was exploring their new home. 

Were you dreaming? Why was he being so soft? Was he on something? Perhaps, plotting his revenge? Or worse, your murder? 

 Sensing your hesitant state, Yoongi shoved a mini-donut into your agape mouth. “I didn’t poison anything, you fusspot.” He continued eating his food in silence as if nothing were wrong in the world. Maybe this would be an opportunity for you to get some actual food into your system and not be forced to talk.

And who were you to turn down lunch?

Chewing the mouthful of glazed donut you'd been fed, you chewed slowly and closed your eyes to hold back the moan that nearly came out. Starchy bread and sugary fruit preserves had never tasted so good.

A few minutes passed in total silence. The only sounds came from the crinkling of papers as Yoongi pulled out more napkins and the gulps that came from the two of you idly sipping your drinks. Yoongi had finished eating, but you were purposely taking your sweet time by chewing slower than a turtle and being overly cautious with your now-lukewarm coffee.

Leaning back onto the wall, Yoongi looked up at your room, breaking the silence first. “You’re in a single-dorm?”

Pausing in the middle of chewing, you swallowed and nodded, reaching over for your drink again. 

“By request?”

Another nod.

“Does it get boring?” he continued, clearly seeing that he was getting under your skin with each question. 

God, why did he have to talk so much?

You shook your head a little too vigorously as you took the last bite of your donut before setting it down and then taking a few reasonably long gulps of your coffee, finishing that as well. 

“Why’d you call?” you finally asked. 

Chuckling at how he had broken through your shell with the peace offering of food and coffee no one could resist, he fumbled with the empty cup in his hands. “I just wanted to check up on you,” he replied simply. “Plus, I was bored out of my mind and you’re the only other person on campus so I figured it’d be smart to kill some time with practice.” 

You shifted in your seated position as the comment took you by surprise. “You knew I was fine,” you mumbled, voice coming just short of a shy child’s whisper. 

“I actually,” he cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about last week.” 

“It was a mistake.” That was all it was; a mistake. 

Yoongi’s eyes widened as his eyebrows lifted up, his expression morphing into one of shock at your unexpected answer. “No, I—”

Shaking your head, you gnawed on the inside of your cheek. The sooner you got this cleaned up the easier it’d be on both of you. “We made a mistake and we need to move past it. It wasn’t responsible for us and—”

“Bullshit.” The word came out in the familiar tone that he used with you that night; anger and rage directing itself into the fury of one single word. 

“What?” you scoffed, wide awake now more than ever. You couldn’t tell whether it was because you were shocked at his view on the situation or whether it was the caffeine kicking in and doing its magic. 

Stretching his neck to one side and exhaling through his nose, he couldn’t make direct eye contact with you and opted to stare at your hands wrapped around your cup. “It wasn’t a– you didn’t do anything wrong,” he altered his sentence. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Neither of us did anything wrong because you and I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he began to grow annoyed at himself. 

Why was he stumbling over his words so bad? 

“Yoongi,” you said firmly. It was your turn to take hold of the conversation. “Can we just pretend like none of this happened and go back to being—” Pausing to bury your face into your hands, you shrugged. “Whatever we were before.”

“You really don’t want to talk about it?” he asked bluntly. 

You refused to even give yourself a second to process the question before you responded with a firm no. His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek for a moment before he got up. “Should we work on the piece then?” 

For some reason, regret ate at you like a power-hungry monster that would never be satiated. 

“Yeah,” you responded robotically, sitting yourself down on the cold leather chair. “Let’s practice.”

Never in your life had those words tasted so bitter in your mouth. 

You wanted to say that moving past mortifyingly embarrassing moments in your life was a process in and of itself. You even dared to say that admitting them was the hardest part but of course, to each their own. 

It had been two weeks since you last spoke to Yoongi and timed seemed to move slower than ever. Whenever you found yourself pondering over the option of texting him, your pride got the best of you. 

Between passing periods and free time after school, you had yet to formally speak with him last week. You cringed internally as flashbacks of the week prior set off like landmines in your head.

Scurrying down the hallways like an undercover rat, you went as far as wearing sunglasses along with your hood to try and disguise yourself. Surely, Yoongi wouldn’t recognize you in this state, right? You were even wearing a colored hoodie, for God’s sake—completely unheard of for someone of your tastes. Black and grey hoodies were your wardrobes’ partners in crime.

You earned a couple stares from the crowds of people as you kept your back hunched and weaved through them, but it definitely won over having to run into Yoongi. Or even worse, actually having to talk to him. Chills ran down your spine. You’d have to face him one day, but this was the one things you could afford to procrastinate just a little bit. 

Then came the day when he too learned about your schedule after countless trials of “accompanying” you to your classes—while hiding from your line of sight. 

“_____!” he shouted through the bustling crowd, waving his arm in the hopes that you’d see him, but to aid him in the off chance that you wouldn’t run away from him this time. Somehow, by the laws of the universe and its devious ways, he managed to catch up to you and tug at your sleeve. 

Turning around after muttering a wave of silent swears to yourself, you turned around like a character who was moments away from being murdered by the serial killer. Spoiler alert: this scene actually had a happy ending. 

“I’m late for a class!” you chuckled wryly, cringing at your own forced and awkward tone. “Catch you later!” Waving goodbye, you sped off as quickly as your legs could carry you to your lecture. 

“Catch you later?” Did you jump out of a 70′s sitcom or something? Your pessimist mocked you, poking fun at your awful crack at an excuse. 

There was bound to be someone else who arrived at the lecture 20 minutes early, right?   

Lounging in the tightly nestled corner of the café, you were in the middle of shuffling through the notes from class when a certain someone decided to grace you with the gift of a heart attack.

“Jesus freaking Christ!” Your notes nearly flew into the air as you jumped like an animated cat. Turning around to face the person behind you who had made the ballsy choice to sneak up on you and poke your shoulder, Yoongi’s face greeted you with a cheeky grin.

“Busy?” he asked nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just given you the fright of your life. Looking at him with your eyes open to the size of saucers, you wet your lips and gulped, trying to think of a way to dig out of yet, another hole you had buried yourself in. 

Pointing behind you with your finger to distract him, you raised your shoulders and jutted your neck forward, contorting into an uncomfortable pose that screamed awkwardness. “Text me later!” you spit out, crinkling your nose with a forced chuckle.  

“But—” Yoongi’s sputtering faded into silence as you dashed out of there quicker than a farm dog that was herding a flock of geese. 

Each time you replayed the self-deprecating memories like a slideshow in your head, it was comparable to sticking your hand into ice cold water you’d scooped up from Antarctica. “Dammit.” Your voice came out hushed but dangerously close to being an audible growl and your fist slammed onto the wooden table. 

Studying in the library was a bad choice. Odd stares and hushed whispers scattered across the room like a swarm of bees and caused the people around you to shift in their seats. Murming a silent apology at your sudden outburst, you packed your things and tried to leave as quietly as possible.   

As you felt the satisfying crunch of leaves under your feet with each step, your eyes drifted off into nowhere while your mind was a million miles away. You didn’t know why you felt so strange. It was as if everyone saw the world through black or white lenses and yet, you were the only one who hallucinated color in between the lines. 

Huddling your arms closer to your body, a cold gust of wind blew across your face, making you shiver and prickle with goosebumps. A dull, aching sensation made its way across the tops of your hands as your muscles reacted to the temperature difference, forcing you to tuck them under your armpits. Fashionable isn’t it? The weather of the autumn and winter months always bid the worst for your hands, and yet, your forgetful self always let the errand of buying a pair of stupid mittens slip your mind. 

It had also been a week since you’d gone anywhere near a piano and it stuck like a wine stain on white linen. You were jittery and anxious like a stranded survivor balancing on on the tip of an iceberg. Since you had a natural inclination to let out your emotions through playing, your cognitive acuity also felt at an all-time low. The rare possibility of running into your professor while you were in this state was soul-crushing, and the off-chance that he might see your restricted playing ability was even more so debilitating. 

Even though you hated to admit it, the best thing you could probably do for your hands was to go and play, even if it were for a few minutes. The doctor—even though it was his sincere recommendation for you to stop playing altogether and consider taking up stress ball yoga instead—told you that light activity was actually beneficial in regulating your chronic pain. 

The occasional Advil helped as well, but you’d been popping the tryhard M&M’s like candy on a regular basis since sophomore year, so your built-up tolerance to the orange-coated tablets rendered them useless. 

Debating between taking a hot shower back at the comfort of your room and going to practice for an hour (or three), you settled on the latter. You could use the extra hours anyway—you knew better than anyone how much you needed them. 

You took your usual shortcut around the quad and turned at the corner of the brick building you’d grown too acquainted with throughout the years. Stepping into the corridors, warm air welcomed you like an old friend as the buzz and whirring of the heater indicated that it was on full blast. Thank God. 

Treading down the length of the hallway with tentative steps, you were surprised to see that there were quite a few people occupying the studios. You recognized a few classmates through the glass panes of the doors. 

Judging by the pointless blabbering, incessant arguing, harsh thumping of keys, and scattered frustrated groans, the muted sounds that were still clearly audible through the soundproof rooms made you chuckle. Something told you that these were the master procrastinators who didn’t decide to start on the project until now...

When you reached the end of the hall, you were relieved to find an empty room. Finally. Sighing in relief, you had never found the flick of a light switch and whoosh of a closing door more satisfying than in that moment. 

Sprawling your things out haphazardly onto the floor, the overly-stiff lid of the piano opening made you scrunch up your face. If this piano was the only one out of tune in the building, you were going to—

You didn’t even finish the thought before your finger pressed on a key as if it had a mind of its own. “Thank the tuning gods,” you sighed, bringing your hand to your chest and exhaling out the air you’d held in your lungs. Sure, it was one of the older models the school’s inventory had to offer, but it was still miraculously in tune. 

If anything, you let out a ‘hm’ of intrigue as you sat down. You’d never played in this particular studio or on this piano before, but the different weight of the keys and peculiar texture of sound that emanated from them piqued your interest. 

Playing on a different piano than your usual model could best be described as a painter who had to paint with a completely different base canvas, colors of paint, and a set of brushes. Whereas a painter was familiar with his or her usual painting medium and more than comfortable with the feel of their brushes, the process of adapting to a new set of materials altogether was neither difficult nor easy, because they didn’t know what they were dealing with yet. 

It was just different. 

Pianos were almost grouped in the same theory, except rather than produce a visual piece with brushes and paint, you had to paint a picture with sound; an odd medium considering the less physically pliable nature of it. 

This piano in particular, for example, required more weight on certain keys to produce an equal amount of sound as the others. The texture of the sound was also a different quality, this being more rustic and ragtime sounding than the new models lined up in the front entrance studios. Those sounded much more acoustic, crisper, and sharper, fitting a more classical and structured repertoire. 

Starting easy with a few scales and basic pieces you learned when you were younger, the aching in your hands still lingered, but the pain grew more than bearable since your hands had warmed up. 

What were you going to practice today? Chopin? Beethoven? Lizst? Forming your mouth into an ‘o’ shape at the last name, you quirked your lip into a meek grin. When was the last time you played one of that psycho’s pieces? 

Settling on Liebestraum No. 3, you took a moment to try and remember the piece by heart. Closing your eyes to concentrate on picturing and mapping out the piece in your head, you breathed deeply and grazed your fingertips across the keys. 

The collection of three pieces was also known as Dreams of Love and the third piece’s gentle and melodic hymn was just that. The beginning of the piece was soft like a lullaby, enveloping the listener into a space of warmth and tenderness; like the sparks of a newly blossoming and dreamlike relationship. Hypnotizing and consuming, the simple unfolding melody drew you in completely.

The second cadenza then transitioned into the harsh reality of love, becoming more weighted and melancholic as the tempo not only sped up and became more frantic, but the tones and harmonics also developed into more complex ones. Desperate, heartbreaking, and filled with the raw reality that love had the ability to take just as much as it had to give, your hands no longer dictated how well you played at that moment; your humanity did. 

The final cadenza was the one that shredded your heartstrings. After the highs and lows of falling in and out of love, the dynamic returned to its former soft and lulling roots, reminding you that the everlasting form of love and eternal happiness was truly unattainable, and only lurked in the distant world that was your dreams. 

The words that constantly lurked in your head sent a pang of guilt into your chest, erupting and manifesting itself physically into the delicate and drawn out keys of the pieces final notes. Would you ever be happy?

Coming down from the euphoria that engulfed every nerve in your body, tears brimmed your eyes. Scoffing at yourself, you sniffled, dabbing away the wetness that dampened your cheeks as self-pitying chuckles left your mouth. This was a definitely a first. 

The sudden sense that someone was watching you made you grow suspicious. Snapping your head around to the door, your body went cold as a figure was visible through the glass pane of the door. 

Yoongi.

You remained frozen in place, unable to move from the wave of anxiety that swallowed you whole. Your throat was dry and your tongue felt like it was cemented to the roof of your mouth. Turning back around to face the piano, you tried to wipe the remaining tears as discreetly as you could, but you realized that your puffy eyes and red nose betrayed you. 

Facing back to the door, you pressed your lips into a thin line and hoped that it would mask any indication that you had just bawled over a stupid piece. God, you felt so pathetic...

Through the reflective pane, you tried to make out his expression but felt your heart hiccup when you zoned in on his face. He sniffled once before looking down at his feet, then back up at you, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his glassy eyes. 

Was he—crying? 

Blinking hard through your still-puffy and damp eyes, you squinted to try and get a clearer view of him through the glass, but in the blink of an eye and almost as soon as he had appeared, he was gone; vanishing like a figment of your imagination in a dream you had rudely woken up from. 

Your feet felt like they were cement blocks weighing down on the pedals. Unable to come to your senses enough to stand up and stop him you could only stare blankly at the door as the illusion of his echoing footsteps deadened into silence.

Today

You: 4A in 20 minutes? [5:22 p.m.]

Min Salty: sure [5:26 p.m.] 

Trying to push past and cross the awkward tightrope of a situation that you had created, you felt your breath hitch in your throat and form a hiccup instead. You weren’t sure what surprised you more, the fact that he had replied quicker than you anticipated or the actuality that he had replied to you at all. 

Biting your cuticles raw, your nerves were stinging you like a swarm of angry bees. You were already in the studio, of course, and had been practicing for an hour or so before the idea popped into your head. After that, the text had been saved as a draft for about ten minutes before you eventually swallowed your ego and placed your finger on the dreaded send icon. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Exactly two-minutes had passed since his response and each tick of the clock was like the ring of a bell, signaling that it was feeding time for the growing monster that was your anxiety. 

You hissed through your teeth when you accidentally bit down too hard on your cuticle too hard and made a pool of bright red blood flood the edge of your nail. Simultaneously, the click and turn of the doorknob made you snap your head up and freeze, halting your pacing steps. 

Smoothing over the top of his hood, Yoongi fashioned a plain black shirt, tattered burgundy jacket, distressed jeans, and scuffed white sneakers. It didn’t take you a second longer to notice the black dust mask he had over his mouth, either. Whether it had become a habit of yours or a natural inclination to study him from afar, you always found yourself staring for a moment too long before you spoke. 

“You’re—” you cleared your throat. “—early.” Glancing at the clock, you made sure that you read it right. “Really early.”

He pulled out a chair and slung his bag onto the floor. “I figured you’d be here already.” His voice sounded rough, but not the abrasive kind of rough—the sick kind. When did he get sick? Did he take any medicine? Why was he here?

“Shut up...” you reminded yourself. “It’s none of your busine—”

“Are you sick?” Repressing your negative subconscious, you cared more about his health, for now, more than your ego could force you not to. He shook his head no rather than give you a formal response, refusing to speak and therefore, confirming your suspicions. 

He hadn’t even taken off his mask yet and you were pretty sure it was about 75 degrees outside; more than toasty enough for him to walk around without a mask to keep his mouth warm. 

“Yoongi, you should go home and rest,” you sighed. Instant guilt began to gnaw at you. 

Another forceful head shake and a few suppressed coughs later, he sat down on the chair and pulled out his notebook. It was bad enough you had your own pride to deal with, and adding Yoongi’s into the mix wasn’t going to lead anywhere. You weren’t putting him through this today. 

Taking his notebook away from his lap, you set it on top of his bag and kneeled down, placing your hand on his forehead. As you expected, it was slick with sweat. 

“Christ, you’re burning up...” you swore, flipping back and forth between the palm and back of your hand to make sure that he was really that hot. Gently grabbing your wrist, he craned his neck away from your reach and pulled your arm away from his vicinity.

He took his mask off agitatedly at your relentless nagging to try and prove his point. “I’m fine.” His voice was stern but still weak, a clear indication that he was anything but that. Frowning with concern written all over your face, he simply stared vacantly into your eyes while still maintaining his hold around your wrist. 

Shaking your head at his hardheaded attitude that mirrored yours, you pried his fingers off of your wrist and pressed the back of your hand to his damp cheek. Yoongi’s eyes went wide as his face instantly heated up and flushed at the contact. 

“You’re running at least a 100 right now, Yoongi,” you scolded. “We can practice anytime, but right now, you need to go home and rest.” Your hand was still resting on his cheek while you spoke while he continued looking at anywhere but your eyes. 

You pulled your hand away from his cheek and let out a near-inaudible gasp when he clutched your wrist again. Bringing your cool hand back to his face, you swallowed tensely when he slid his grip up to your hand and guided it to the side of his face, cupping his large hand over yours so that it was now cupping his cheek. 

He closed his eyes tenderly at the coolness of your hand, relishing the soothing and comforting touch that only you could ever provide. Your eyes fluttered a few times before you gave into his silent plea. Running your thumb over the delicate skin of his cheekbones, a twinge of woe struck your chest at the sight before you. 

“Why do you make me feel this way...” you murmured to yourself. 

“If only I understood the way I felt about you...” Yoongi thought. 

A soothing and not-entirely awkward silence filled the room. Yoongi’s throaty breathing and occasional sniffles were the only other noises that were distinguishable, and your intermittent hiccup decided to grace you with its presence towards the last three minutes of the hour. 

“Yoongi?” you whispered. Had he fallen asleep? Sitting up? Was he secretly a horse? 

“Mhm?” he hummed. Whew—still awake. 

Holding back the tiniest grin, you sighed. “Let’s go back to your dorm.” 

Mumbling something in his enervated state, you helped him up to his feet and slung his arm over your shoulders to keep him upright and on his feet. You could only pray that he was still conscious enough to have control over his legs. 

That day, you learned that dragging a barely conscious man who was twice the size of you into the boys’ dorm block was a sight worthy of earning a couple tentative stares. The childishly logical part of your brain wondered how serial killers did it. 

“Hm, I don’t know _____, maybe the fact that they’re absolutely maniacal psychopaths who possess four times the upper body strength you do helps,” you huffed, verbally exercising your strain as you tried to walk straight while propping Yoongi up. Was he drunk or really that sick?

Where was the RA anyway? Paying that high price of tuition should at least warrant a decent resident advisor for safety reasons. 

Brushing the shoulder of a stranger, the guy stared at you with terribly confused eyes as he stopped brushing his teeth. Panting heavily, Yoongi grumbled another illegible sentence of nonsense as you took a breather to ask the stranger where his room was. Logically, it had to be one of the only single-dorms in the building, so you prayed it mirrored the layout of yours and was at the end of the hall. 

The doe-eyed boy pointed to the end of the long corridor, the minty toothpaste bubbles foaming around the sides of his mouth as it remained parted open in confusion. You quickly thanked him and stumbled slowly but surely down the length of the hallway. Even though it was safe to assume that his door was locked, you turned down the lever and were surprised when the door swung open. Yoongi apparently doesn’t lock his door on the regular...

Thankfully, the layout of the room did, in fact, resemble yours, so you were able to find his bedroom with ease. You convinced yourself that fact that you had woken up there one fateful morning certainly played no part in it. Flinging himself (along with the frustrated force that resulted from your built-up and rushing endorphins) onto the mattress, he landed into the rumpled sheets with a thump. Apparently, he also didn’t have a habit of making his bed before he left his dorm. 

You let out a final harsh exhale. You did it. Stretching out your shoulders as a reward, you were more than positive that they’d be sore tomorrow. When was the last time you worked out? A trick question with a secret option C. You couldn’t be bothered to. 

Pulling off his shoes and peeling his jacket off of his body, you started to question whether he was secretly blackout drunk or truly terribly ill. He was out like a light within the first few steps into his dorm. You splayed his crinkled blanket over his body loosely, careful to keep him insulated but still allow some room for air to circulate and allow breathability. 

When your fingers brushed away the blonde hairs that were stuck on his sweat-dampened forehead, he shifted from his side-lying position, reaching out instinctually to grab your hand again. Yoongi kept his grip on your wrist firm, locking it close against his chest like a child’s teddy bear. He nuzzled his head into your wrist like a puppy, nosing the soft skin between your pulse point and prominent vein. He couldn’t help it that the cool skin of your poorly circulating limbs felt like ice packs on his burning hot skin. 

You blinked a couple times trying to process the options you had. Each tug in an attempt to free your arm from his grip only resulted in him clutching tighter, and he seemed to mumble something as his face contorted into a recognizable expression of discomfort. Nightmare?

Finally realizing that he wasn’t going to let go of you anytime soon, you gave up. It’s not like you had anything better to do today. Kneeling down beside the bed, you placed your free hand underneath your chin and propped your elbow on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position and wait for the situation to pan out for a couple minutes. He’d have to let go of you eventually. 

You couldn’t hold back the burning desire to admire his sleeping features. He looked so at peace compared to his day-to-day mood, almost like an entirely different person. Rubbing over his knuckles involuntarily, you didn’t even realize you were doing it until you felt his grip relax with your touch. Judging from how he had his mouth slightly parted and the steady rhythm of the rising and falling of his chest, you concluded that he had fallen asleep. 

Not wasting another second, you stealthily slid your hand out of his caging hold and folded the remaining edge of the blanket over his arms. You stood up and brushed off your red kneecaps and tip-toed to the door, closing it as softly as you could. Yoongi needed to sleep his heart out. 

Was it wrong to just leave? You stopped dead in your tracks when you realized that by the time he’d wake up, he would be starving. It wasn’t easy eating when you were sick, and Yoongi’s comment last week about him knowing what a month’s long diet of instant noodles and coffee looked like made you shudder in guilt. Gathering every single bit of patience and empathy you had left in the degrading bones of yours, you diverted yourself away from the exit and to the kitchen. 

Single-dorms on the university campus were like miniature studio apartments. Usually reserved for students on an as-needed basis, there were only six or seven in total. So far, Yoongi was the only other person you had met who occupied one. You hated to admit it, but he was probably the only other person you had talked to and gotten to know this much in all your years of attending the school. Would you dare go as far as to say he was your only friend? 

You quickly shook off the thought and went back to digging around his kitchen. His fridge and cupboard inventory didn’t come as much of a shock to you. It was, for lack of a better word, horrendous. 

The small refrigerator was practically empty, and the only things occupying the near-empty shelves were a couple apples, a half-dozen pack of eggs, a measly portion of fruit salad (probably from the mini-mart down the street), a package of mixed and chopped vegetables for soups and stews, one styrofoam takeout box, and a suspicious looking tin-foil boat. 

Don’t even mention the side compartments. Those were reserved for a few energy drinks, half-opened caffeine shots, packets of takeout condiments, a full-sized bottle of ketchup, a block of cheddar cheese, and a torn open foil pack of butter. Quirking the edge of your lip into a dumbfounded pucker, your face relaxed into one of comedic amusement. How could anyone live off of this—garbage? You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word “food.” That would be offensive to the existence of food itself. 

His freezer was completely empty, so moving onto the cupboards was either going to be a big mistake or a happy accident. You prayed deep down it was the latter. Then again, you also could not have been more wrong. 

The cupboards weren’t any better. If anything, they were worse. The grey-painted plastic backboards were the only things visible, usually a sign that a student had just moved in days ago. In one corner of the lowest shelf was an almost-empty box of granola bars; the shitty 99 cent ones every seasoned uni student stocked up on in bulk before the semester started. Beside it was a newly opened bag of rice. At least that was the one food item in this crapshoot that seemed remotely new. 

The rest of the shelves held two worn-out, rusty frying pans, and chipped glass china. Those were probably hand-me-downs from senior students who couldn’t be bothered to throw their old belongings away after graduation. There was a whole recycling bin full of them in the storage shed by the cafeteria 

You bit your lip, trying to think of what to make with what little you were given. Omelet? Boring. Soup? Painfully more boring. Curious, you unwrapped the mysterious bundle of tin-foil and discovered a very fresh marbled flank of beef. Cheering internally, you set to work on your favorite childhood dish that you were most confident in cooking: fried rice.  

You were more than willing to buy him another pack of meat. Hell, after the shock of seeing his fridge? You were more than willing to buy his groceries for a whole damn month if it meant he would take care of himself. Your grandparents always sent you too much money at once anyway. It wasn’t as if you had friends to go out and drink with, so paying for dinners wasn’t a usual activity you took part in. 

You started off by washing the rice and setting it up on the stovetop to boil. It would take the longest to prepare, so it was only natural to get that out of the way first. Next came the simple process of chopping up the meat, cooking it thoroughly, combining the packet of pre-cut vegetables, and then mixing in the rice last. On any other given day, you would have seasoned the meat with at least a pinch of pepper, but you didn’t exactly have that option considering the given circumstances.

It didn’t take long since the limited and pre-measured ingredients boxed you in along the way. Plating the rice onto the only dish deep enough that Yoongi had available, you used the same pan to quickly fry up two eggs. The smell of steaming hot food made your stomach grumble in response. 

Not to stroke your ego or anything, but you enjoyed patting yourself on the back for your accomplishments every now and then, no matter how small. Self-assurance was good for the old pessimistic soul. 

You tried to think of any other thing you could add to the meal and ogled the table when you nearly forgot. Shuffling back to the fridge, you cut up half an apple and arranged the slices into the plastic mini-mart bowl of fruit salad. Then, you eagerly jumped towards the bottle of ketchup and shook it vigorously with arms that were already starting to feel sore from lugging around Yoongi earlier. 

Drizzling the condiment over the golden heap of steaming rice, the red zig-zag streams finished off the orange and green vegetables quite nicely. You covered it with the only other dish Yoongi had in his cupboard and hoped it would still be warm by the time he woke up. Sighing in satisfaction as well as exhaustion, you didn’t pause to check the time. 

“Shit...” you muttered. The sky was already pitch black, meaning that it was well past 9. You facepalmed. How long had you been here? Mind you, you also completely forgot that you still had an essay due next week. Do you know how much easier life would be if your laptop grew its own set of hands and just wrote it for you? 

If you checked up on Yoongi before leaving, you had a feeling he would wake up the minute the doorknob clicked, so you thought it was best just to let him rest. Sneaking out of a dorm for the first time in your life, the door creaked ever-so-slightly before latching shut as Yoongi and his dorm returned to their all-too-familiar state of vacancy. 

Getting up the next morning was certainly an interesting process, to say the least. You sat in your tangled mess of bedsheets for about ten minutes before coming to the realization that yesterday was everything but a dream. It hit you like a bucket of cold water that had just been dumped over your head.

Throughout the entire day, you hobbled through your classes with hunched shoulders and a rounded back, feeling a constant strain in your upper body each time you tried to straighten out. “Working out” was a mistake. 

As the deadline for the performance was almost at the two-month mark, you grew more and more anxious with each passing day. It wasn’t anything special. You always had a healthy amount of anxiety revolving around academia but your performance nerves were on a completely different level. 

Humming to piece to yourself, your phone buzzed from your pocket as the blaring of your ringtone sounded. Your parents didn’t call you during the weekdays and you couldn’t think of anyone else who had your phone number. “Perks of having no friends,” you thought. Fishing it out of your coat pocket, your eyes widened when Yoongi’s name flashed across the screen. 

Your fingers swiped across the green icon absentmindedly, accepting the call with little hesitation. “Hello?” Didn’t he usually prefer to text you rather than call?

“Hey,” he replied. He sounded a lot better than yesterday but his throaty tone made it clear that traces of his cold still remained. “Are you free?”

You hiccuped. “Wh–yeah. Yeah, I’m free.” Of course, he knew you were free. It was a trick question. After following you around and trying to catch your tail, he had familiarized himself with your schedule, just as you had done a few weeks prior. “Do you want to book a practice room?”

A sniffle suddenly sounded from behind you and echoed in the receiver, making goosebumps sprawl across your neck. Not a millisecond after, the line clicked dead. Rip it off like a band-aid or peel it off slowly and painstakingly? Opting for the former, you closed your eyes tightly and mouthed a silent swear, turning around in slow motion like something out of an action film. 

Low and behold, there was Yoongi shifting his weight back and forth on his heels. “I was actually wondering if you wanted to go on a—” he paused to rub the back of his neck; he only did that when he was nervous. “On a hike?” 

“A hike?” The word felt foreign in your mouth. As far as you were concerned, yesterday’s fiasco was enough physical activity to last you for the rest of the year, but Yoongi wanted to go on a hike? “Aren’t you still sick?”

He shrugged. “A little cardio might help me burn it off and do me some good.” 

“You’re not plotting my murder, are you?” you gulped. Why was that always the first logical explanation that presented itself in your head?

Blinking at you for a moment, he chuckled and shook his head at your comment. “Not unless it's by physical activity. And it’s only up to the viewpoint. You’ve sprinted to classes farther than that.”

He had a point. The school was built atop a hillside and the viewpoint was, as its name entailed, a spot where you could look over the entire campus. It was about a five-minute walk outside of the gates and the climb wasn’t too steep. It certainly beat running a whole campus-length to each of your classes. 

“What about practice?” you sputtered, tongue weighing down your mouth like an ankle weight. “We haven’t gone over the piece in weeks.” 

Throwing his arm over your sore shoulders and bringing you close to him, he sighed. “Learn to live a little, _____. We still have two more months. A walk might clear your head.” Since when was Yoongi the voice of reason? 

You allowed him to walk a few steps ahead of you and ducked under his arm swiftly when you got the chance, freeing yourself from his hold. The concept of space bubbles around Yoongi had grown dangerously close to popping now. 

“Okay,” you cleared your throat. “Fine, fine, let’s go.” Picking up your pace, he trailed behind you with an amused smirk. 

Was it the cough medicine making him loopy or was he just particularly charming today?

“Min Yoongi, yo–I swear to God—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before collapsing onto the grass like a sack of potatoes. “If I ever get the strength back in my legs, I am going to smother you with a pillow,” panting between each word. 

By the time you made it up to the top of the hill, the sun was already set, making vivid orange and dusty pink colors streak across the darkened sky. The air was colder up here than back down on the campus level but you tried your best to hide your discomfort whenever your hands throbbed from the cold. 

Yoongi laughed as his eyes crinkled and his pearly white teeth showed in a gummy smile. “Good luck with that,” he chuckled. Making himself comfortable and sitting down beside your limp body, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, breathing in deeply. The walk actually did in fact, miraculously clear up his stuffy sinuses. Wonderful. 

Sitting up, you tried to rub your hands as discreetly as possible so as to not make him worry but failed when cracking of a few knuckles caused him to snap his gaze to you. He unzipped his jacket and flung off his hood and you immediately stopped him. 

“Nope,” you retaliated quickly. “No. Put it back on. Don’t even think about doing anything textbook cliché or I’ll roll you down the hill like a Lincoln log.”

Raising his eyebrows slightly at your distaste and choice of a non-threatening threat, he shrugged his jacket back on with a quizzical pout. “Don’t you have a pair of mittens or something?”

You grumbled a no in response, embarrassed that even he was aware of how ridiculous it was. A calming silence cast over both of you, the only sound coming from a few crickets chirping and the murmuring city far below. Your teeth started to chatter a couple minutes in, making genuine concern spread across Yoongi’s face. 

“Come here,” he sighed, gesturing to his open arms. Widening your eyes, you raised your hands assuringly.

“I’m fine,” you chuckled nervously. “I just have really bad circulation, that’s all.” It wasn’t a total lie. You really did have awful circulation and it constantly made your hands and feet cold. Not a day went by when you didn’t wear socks and a thick wooly sweater around your room. 

“Do you want to get sick too?” he asked with a bite in his voice, almost as if your stubbornness was beginning to get the best of him as well. “We’ve done worse things with fewer clothes on anyway...”

“Hey!” You jabbed his side. Narrowing your eyes at him in a silent message that he had won this round, you scooted over beside him as he wrapped his arms around your frame. It never ceased to amaze you how no matter the situation, whether it was his hands around yours or his arms around your body, you seemed to fit perfectly in his hold like a matching puzzle piece. 

Nestling yourself into his warm figure, you felt yourself relax into his touch. It would be a sin to deny that he had an unexplainable effect on you. The softness of his jacket, the heat radiating from his body, and his natural scent lulled you into a dazed state, too relaxed to even care about boundaries anymore. 

“Can we talk about it now?” he whispered, voice coming out muffled because his cheek was squished on the top of your head like a child’s. 

Fluttering your eyelashes open at his sudden request, you swallowed tensely. How did you not see this coming? You pulled away to get a proper glimpse of his face. “What is there to talk about, Yoongi?” 

“Don’t say my name like that,” he cut off abruptly. Had you already ticked him off? Giving him a look of confusion, he shook his head and looked down. “Don’t say my name like you pity knowing me...”

“Yoongi,” you exhaled faintly. He didn’t interrupt you this time. “I don’t understand what you want to talk about. We got angry at each other, we fought, and we made a mistake. That’s all.” Forcing out the last phrase felt like swallowing a jagged blade. You hated admitting it because of how untrue it was. 

“It didn’t feel like a mistake to me, _____.” His face remained firm as he used your name, speaking with an unflinching air of confidence and assuredness that only he could muster. 

It was your turn to shake your head and scoff. “What do you want me to say? That it was amazing? Because it was. It was amazing, okay? Everything felt so fucking perfect and I hate admitting it—” Pausing to breathe, you groaned and tangled your fingers through your hair at the sudden outpour of emotions you’d kept bottled inside of you for weeks. 

"Because feeling that good and happy for once scared the shit out of you, didn’t it?” he finished for you. Looking up at him, his gaze remained glued onto you, completely unfazed at your expected outburst. 

The question that made your heart race like the beating of a butterfly’s wings suddenly presented itself on a silver platter. 

“How did you know about my RA?” Your throat went dry as the words felt like chalk on your tongue. Had he told Powell yet? 

Leaning his head to one side, his jaw muscles tensed. “It doesn’t take a doctor to see that you're in pain outside of class.” He said it with a tone of dripping bluntness. “Not to mention how sensitive you are to the temperature changes; how you always rub your hands when it’s cloudy outside because it’s cold; even after playing a long piece because your fingers start to ache, and how abnormally swollen your joints get after a long day.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed into a dumbfounded frown. How did he know all of that? You weren’t even remotely aware of the fact that he was cognizant of your existence, much less your usual habits and mannerisms. “How do you notice all of that?”

Yoongi's jaw muscle tensed but he didn’t respond. 

Licking your lips nervously, another equally anxiety-inducing question made its way to the tip of your tongue. Moving your hands down to his sleeved arm, Yoongi’s breath hitched in his throat when you looked at him softly, silently asking for his permission. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, hesitant for a brief second, before tipping his chin down once.  

Your fingertips lightly brushed across the smooth skin of the top of his hand before grasping the edge of the sleeve cuff. Sliding it up slowly, the scars that were hidden became exposed, the milky tone of his skin contrasting with the rough and darkened scratches that were scattered across the entire length of his arm. 

“Gnarly, isn’t it?” He let out a nasal scoff. These were the only battle scars he was sure he would never flaunt in all their glory. The pads of your fingers carefully brushed over the delicate skin, studying the textured pattern like an ancient relic; one that would leave an impression in the mind for all the wrong reasons. 

“What happened afterward?” Your voice was cautious, coming out just shy of a whisper. Would he trust you enough with this? 

Yoongi’s jaw clenched again. Before he could say anything, you slid his sleeve back down over his arm and instinctively held his hand for support. Gripping yours back in response, he took a deep breath to compose his thoughts before speaking. It was now or never. 

“Powell found me. Whether it was because of fate or some bullshit theory of the universe, I don’t know, but he rushed me to the hospital and stayed with me for the entire week in the recovery unit.” A cold gust of wind blew and he was the one who held your hand tighter. “I didn’t tell my parents of course,” he chuckled dryly. 

“They never supported me in music until the day I got my scholarship here. Before that, they practically forced me away from anything having to do with music. ‘You’ll die starving and poor; you won’t have a proper job; and when you’re on the streets, homeless and begging for money, we won’t be here to help you. Just to tell you, We told you so.’ If I told them, I knew they’d force me to move back in with them and take on the family trade; scrubbing pots and serving drinks for drunkard business mongrels until 3 a.m.”

Yoongi’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the memory but his eyes remained centered. “I took a semester off to recover and decided that it was probably best for me to just drop out since I couldn’t play anymore. PT was a crapshoot. There was nothing left here for me.” His eyes glazed over momentarily but returned in a split second. Did physical therapy really not work? Had he even tried a single session? 

“Then Powell spent the entire semester practically begging on his knees to try and convince me to switch majors to composition and theory instead,” he grinned faintly, even letting out a ghost of a chuckle. “It took a month or two, but I figured I owed him that much. The old man practically raised me like his own son ever since freshman year.”  

He turned to face you, gaze landing on your intense ones with a soft smile as his thumb rubbed over your hand. “Everyone thought I got sucked into the party scene, failed all of my classes. I think some of those idiots assumed I got hazed into a gang or a cult. Like those morons knew anything about me...” 

You bit your lip. People were truly the worst. Not to mention immature, gossip-mongering, feeble-minded pre-burnout college pricks. 

“The hospital seemed like heaven compared to the hell I stepped into when I got back. I was like an animated corpse. I rarely ate, couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t even bother going to classes. I’d just sit my bed all day and stare at the ceiling like a rock. I was too afraid to sleep because every time I did, I’d have nightmares about it.” 

He frowned at the pang of contrition that struck him. “The headlights centimeters away from my face and blinding my eyes, the sirens ringing in my ears, the creaking metal wheels on the gurney...” Shaking his head, tears flung off his face and a droplet landed on the top of your hand. 

Your eyes fell to the grass at you held back your own budding tears. No matter how badly you wanted to scream that it was all over and in the past and that you were there for him, all you could do was sit and listen.

“Everything just felt so fucking empty…” he whispered, tugging hard at the edge of his lower lip between his teeth. “That night with you in the practice room was the first good night’s sleep I’ve gotten in two years.” The confession took you by surprise, your eyes lighting up like a spark from a firework. 

His eyes softened at your reaction. “When I got rolled into the ER, a nurse was rushing down the hall with me, holding my hand the entire way. I was busy blacking in and out of consciousness.” He stopped to grab your hand and bring it to cup his cheek, closing his eyes instantly at the contact-comfort. “But she had her hand by me the entire time until I completely knocked out in the operating room.”

Stroking your thumb over the sleep-deprived hollow that sunk in under his eye, his eyebrows knitted together and he clutched your hand tighter, afraid that if he let go, you’d dissipate like a figment of his imagination that was too good to be true. That’s why he wouldn’t fall asleep yesterday...

“It was dangling there like bait in right in front of me; taunting me, insulting me, mocking me like I was nothing—like the universe was reminding me that I was never going to be able to love anything else ever again and that I’d just have to live with it,” he continued with his face strained, expression taut as he tried to focus despite reliving the painful set of memories. 

He hadn’t bothered touching a piano since that night, refusing to accept the fate he’d have to gamble in anticipation of finding out whether he still had the ability to play or not. In reality, he didn’t know whether he could still coordinate his muscles—and he had absolutely no desire to find out any time soon. 

Yoongi let out a huff through his parted mouth. “Do you know how easy it is for people—things—to come into your life, give you everything that you would ever want and could possibly ask for, and then have them take it away just like that?” Seeing his breath through the frigid air, you had a feeling it wasn’t the weather making his words sound cold, but the emptiness and distance he had created within himself.

Gnawing on the corner of your lower lip, you kept your gaze focused down at your hands. It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. Somehow, you finally found the courage to speak. “Is that why you hated me?” you asked in the barest of a whisper, your voice quieter than the rustling of the leaves on the trees. “Because you felt like I took that away from you?”

“No,” he replied instantly. Fluttering your eyelids at his unexpected and confident response, you frowned at him, confused. 

“I never hated you—didn’t—hate you because you played the piano,” he shook his head, eyes directed to the ground wistfully. “I was jealous.”

Your gaze softened at the confession as you swallowed nervously, awaiting his next words. “You looked so happy,” he smiled, letting out a chuckle that was too full of melancholy. “I knew from the first moment I saw you playing by yourself in the studio...” Yoongi’s voice trailed off, face melting into an expression you couldn’t read. 

Staring into his eyes, you silently pleaded him to continue. The corners of his mouth lifted into a gentle smile as his pearly white teeth barely peeked through his lips. “From the moment I saw you on my first day back, I knew I was screwed,” he grinned. “I wanted to hate you so badly but you were so perfect, how could I?”

A rosy flush crept onto your face at his heartfelt words. “You were alone in the studio two hours before any classes started and you were just playing your heart out,” Yoongi remembered the day clearly, the vivid details of the first time he encountered resurfacing like the fresh morning air after a rainstorm. The way his heart raced in his chest made it seem like it had just happened yesterday. 

“I thought you were some competition kid who got a free pass into school because of personal connections or an arranged acceptance, but I just heard you playing and—” he chuckled, shaking his head again. 

“You weren’t just reading notes and playing the piece like a robot; you were breathing the music and I could feel it.” Yoongi’s fingers stroked the palm of your hand. “I could feel you. In every single piece I’ve ever heard you play: Campanella, Liebestraum, Fantaisie, Moonlight Sonata...”

Your pulse was racing like the engine of a sports car. Judging by how confidently he listed down the pieces, he knew each of those pieces by heart, recalling each exact moment when you had played the melodies like a page out of the book of his recollections. Campanella was the piece you’d chosen for your junior year exam, Liebestraum your senior, Fantaisie was simply one you practiced for fun, and Moonlight Sonata was the piece Powell had asked you to play for an exhibition recently. 

“I tried so hard to avoid you and hate you and completely despise your existence,” he scoffed at himself. “You glowed brighter than the stars when you played. Seeing it from you made it hurt so much more because I missed that feeling more than anything,” he paused. “But I couldn’t. I was already in too deep, so I just ignored you.”

For the first time, a lengthy and comfortable silence befell the two of you.

“I didn’t know what who I wanted to be until I started college,” you admitted suddenly, confidence stemming from the seed Yoongi had planted with his truth. 

“My mom taught me how to play the piano when I was four. She’d put me in her lap while she played and let me press the keys.” You chuckled at the flashback. “I didn’t think much of it until I fell entirely in love with it in middle school. It was this weird need, this urge to play whenever I was happy, angry, sad, annoyed, and frustrated. I felt like it was the only friend who understood me better than the actual people I knew.”

Yoongi gave you an understanding smile, sympathizing with your logic by the nature of personal experience. 

“In high school, everyone thought I was the one who had my whole life plotted out like a map: a loving family, supportive parents, good grades.” A ghost of a smile grazed your face at the distant memory. It felt so close and yet so far like you could reach out and touch it, yet it was a fingertip’s length from being torn away from you.  

“During senior year, I found out that I really didn’t have a passion for anything. Not even for music—at the time,” you filled in. “I shut everyone out with these gates I built. I hated how lonely I was, but who else could I blame? I didn’t want people to see me for who I thought I was: a passionless, unmotivated, lazy, worthless failure who would never amount to anything.” 

Shaking your head, tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, yet refused to cry over something as stupid and insignificant as this. Seeing this, Yoongi simply laced his fingers through yours firmly, wordlessly showing his support for your endurance. 

“I auditioned for fun one day after seeing the posters stapled across our school’s bulletin board. Didn’t expect much at the time since I didn’t think you could do anything with a degree in music, and in the beginning, I actually thought I was right,” you laughed wryly at yourself. 

“Undergrad was pretty awful. Playing as a student with a major was so much different than playing for fun. I was so stressed with deadlines and projects and practice hours, I almost forgot why I started playing in the first place.” Your mind wandered back to the long, sleepless nights you spent in the studios trying to perfect what would never even come close to the synonym of perfection.

“Then in my sophomore year, I got to take more classes with Powell and he completely changed my life. I wish I was exaggerating, but he really did change who I was as a person, not just a dazed university student. I don’t think I’d still be here without him.”

Your lips formed into a tender smile. “I started getting my passion for playing back and I learned to appreciate the value of my scholarship. I guess now, I’m just hanging in the middle.” Yoongi’s eyes studied your features intently, concentration remaining unswayed for the entirety of your release of emotions. 

A couple moments skimmed by before you resumed speaking. 

“I like spending time at coffee shops, taking the bus to the bookstore when I have free time, and sometimes I even make an effort to actually greet some of the people there—but I like being alone,” you admitted. Yoongi’s ears perked up at your last phrase.

“I like doing things by myself and being able to have control over everything in my life so that I don’t have anyone to blame other than me when shit goes downhill,” you rambled, swallowing your words while you spoke like bitter medicine. Yoongi’s smoldering gaze, as it lay on you, was intense enough to start forest fires.

You sighed heavily. “But frankly, I don’t like being lonely.” The confession bled past your lips like spilled ink from a bottle, leaving a splattered and stained trail as it seeped through your mind. 

“No one does,” he responded honestly. Directing your watery eyes to his softened gaze, you looked down at the pair of your hands entwined together.

What was this in his eyes? 

Who were you to him?

Yoongi, on the other hand, didn’t waste a single second before cupping the sides of your face and bringing you into a kiss. The force took you by surprise and made you land on your back with a soft thud, causing you to burst into a fit of laughter against his lips.

It didn’t take you longer than a couple of flashes in your brain synapses to give into his magnetizing touch. Making out on a hilltop in front of the city lights never crossed the line of sounding appealing other than outside of a cheesy rom-com, but Yoongi’s warm lips preoccupied every train of logical thought that ran cross your mind. God, what was he doing to you? 

You’d slept with him once and you still managed to get butterflies like a giddy teenager who was in their first relationship; immature and blind with infatuation. You tangled your hands through his hair like second nature as his weight pressed on top of you, making you feel secure under him. The kiss was tender and patient—a stark contrast to the last time you had locked lips with him. 

“Can I be alone with you?” he asked suddenly, breath fanning across your lips because he refused to pull away farther than three centimeters from you. 

You laughed heartily, making him flash his pearly whites and peeking pink gums again. “Is this your dumb way of asking me out?” Smiling widely in response, his lips connected with yours again, effectively shutting you up. 

“I don’t want to pretend like I don’t have feelings for you anymore, _____,” he murmured into your ear. “Do you know how hard it’s been having to act like I hate your guts for the past three years when I can’t stop thinking about you on a regular basis?” 

Another awfully timed blush graced the tops of your cheeks. You shoved his shoulder playfully at his seemingly sarcastic yet sincere compliment. “Stop being such a softie, it’s gross.” Yoongi pouted, feigning hurt at your teasing comment. His childish face made you burst into laughter, vibrant and full of life. You’d swear on your life that he had a million personalities buried deep underneath that facade of a stone-cold gargoyle. 

Biting your lip, you shook your head, picking at the grass to distract yourself. “What if I’m sleeping and this is all some dream that’s way too good to be true?” you mumbled. How did you go from avoiding each other like water and oil to melding perfectly like paper and ink? 

“Then it’d be your dream and my nightmare...” he murmured, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his lips remained centimeters away from contact.

You laughed shyly, shoving him away teasingly at his admirably honest nature. “So three years, huh?” 

Again, Yoongi chose not to respond, allowing you to take note of yet another one of his habits: refusing to answer a question he knew he was guilty of.  

You only had one shitty, wonderful, stressful, joyous, short life. Might as well make it worth living with what you were given. 

As you gazed deeply into the dark eyes that belonged to the person who you once thought hated your very being, you realized that you were entirely and utterly screwed—because you were completely captivated by each other. 

The best part? You had a million more reasons to discover exactly why. 

Relationships were never you or Yoongi’s thing. Whereas the typical couple would spend hours at a time arguing over stupid things, trying to work it out but only tearing their hair out in clumps and eventually breaking up, you never saw the point in arguing in general. If you argued with your partner, you would request to break up. Simple. Clean. Painless. Well, at least for one.

It was a really black and white way of seeing the complex web that composed a relationship, but to you, it was just blatantly obvious. Some called you cold but that was just another opinion. 

Why argue if you’re “in love” with each other? Why fight if you’re “in love” with each other? Why hurt the person you love if you can choose not to be with them and let them be happy? Holding onto people for the sake of a quote on quote, “relationship” despite hurting each other was selfish and pointless. 

To you, that wasn’t love. It was self-sabotage. 

“You okay?” Yoongi’s voice peeped from above you, mumbling into your hair. 

“Hm?” you hummed, snapping out of your daze. He chuckled deeply at your deeply unwavering expression, pressing a kiss to the top of your head tenderly. You were currently tangled in the sheets of his bed after waking up from a nap. Today marked the first week of your official relationship and you had to admit, it was pretty nice. 

Okay, nice was an understatement. It was perfect. 

You had yet to get into an argument, as both of you had quite passive and anti-argumentative personalities. Then again, you were still technically in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, so it was bound to pop up at some point. 

Your days together were few and far between spending time in the studio practicing, sleeping over at his dorm (courtesy of his ever-so diligently working resident advisor), walking each other to class, texting and video calling for hours until one of you fell asleep, and occasionally going up to the viewpoint when the weather conditions proved to be favorable—and you had chugged four cups of coffee. 

It was like something of a fairytale, and you were always worried that you’d wake up one day to find out that it was just that: a false reality you had conjured up in your own head. But if it was a dream, it was one you never wanted to wake up from.

“Hold still,” you scolded for the tenth time. 

Yoongi grumbled. “I’m trying, but it’s hard when you’re tickling my neck.”  

Huffing at his fidgety muscles, you blew a hair out of your face and kept your hands busy. “It wasn’t my idea to dye your hair, dummy.” He hummed an off-beat tune in response to your incessant scolds. 

In the early hours of the morning, you had gotten a text from your loving and selfless boyfriend that he needed to save a few bucks and needed to touch up his hair. You, being the only other person he spoke in the whole universe (practically), so graciously agreed. It was about five minutes into the hands-on activity that you were beginning to regret your generous and giving disposition. 

Thankfully, you didn’t have to deal with the fumes of bleach as Yoongi had opted to dye his hair back to his natural dark brown color. He mentioned something about his growing lazy temperament and it becoming too time-consuming to continuously touch up the dark roots every few weeks. It wasn’t exactly the best for his hair either, the blonde ends breaking off due to the harsh chemicals and his inability to spare the extra five minutes to use conditioner. 

“Then why did you dye it in the first place?” you laughed, dumbfounded at his odd reasoning. 

Mumbling something in an inaudible hush, you shot him a confused glance. "I was going through a phase...” he said clearer this time, tucking his chin down in shame. 

Lifting your eyebrows, you nodded, accepting his answer and sensing that he wasn’t going to elaborate any time soon. “You know, you could just let it grow out and style it like that, grown out roots and everything” you offered. “I’ve seen a few celebrities who pull it off pretty well.” 

“Eh,” he let out a disgruntled sound, crinkling one of his eyes.

You snorted through your nose from holding in your laugh, making him flinch as your breath tickled his sensitive neck again. “Sorry,” you giggled. Continuing brushing the pitch-black gel over his roots, you were trying to be careful and not let it get on his skin. As far as your experience in hair dye went, the stains would wash out easily with some warm water and soap, but you didn’t enjoy the extensive process of cleanup it would lead to. 

“Does it bother you?” you asked, referring to the color differentiation of dark roots to beige blonde hair during the grow-out process. 

Thinking over it for a minute, Yoongi pouted and gave into his perfectionist attitude as he clicked his tongue with a “yup.” Holding back a grin at his undeniably soft personality, you couldn’t believe that you still hadn’t woken up yet. You intentionally blew a puff of air in his ear, causing him to jolt from his seat. 

“Hey!” he was the one to scold this time. 

“My advisor is going to kill me.” 

“If you die, I’ll kill you.” 

Scrunching your nose at his menacing threat that made absolutely no sense, he let out a sleepy grumble, nestling his head into your hair and inhaling your scent. 

“Just because your advisor is shit at his job, doesn’t mean that mine doesn't notice when I’m gone,” you pointed out. 

Yoongi mumbled lazily into your hair in the hopes that you’d drop the topic and go to sleep. It was an idle Friday night and the two of you had spent the entire day at the studio practicing the piece. Since you only had classes from Mondays to Thursdays, you got into a routine of meeting up and spending the whole free day in the studios. 

The last day of the week was what Yoongi looked forward to more than anything because it usually ended with you burying yourselves in his bed sheets with a random episode of The Office playing on your laptop and falling asleep tangled in each other. 

“Yoongi,” you groaned. “What if I get in trouble?” 

He hummed something inaudible into your chest once again, tickling your collarbone with his whispers. No way were you letting him fall asleep that easily. It was only fifteen minutes past 8. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Poking his shoulder playfully, his mouth was still closed, indicating that he was indeed fully awake. He always parted his mouth slightly when he was asleep, another habit you picked up early on the way before your relationship started.  

Then an idea struck you. There was that favor you needed to repay him for...

Prying your body away from his arms gently, you bit your lip coyly, smirking at his clueless sleeping body. Your hand trailed down to the band of his sweatpants slowly, making him gulp. Running your fingers along the bundle of fabric near his hipbone, you were surprised when your hand met his already-hard length. 

Yoongi’s eyes were now fully open as you shot him a questioning gaze. “Your fault for being so goddamn attractive all the time...” he defended, jutting his lower lip into a pout and not bothering to hide his blatantly obvious hard-on. 

Dropping your mouth in a mock offended gape, you raised your eyebrows as a chuckle of disbelief came out. “I haven’t even touched you yet!” 

“I get hard just thinking about you,” he admitted all-too casually. Smacking him on the shoulder from embarrassment, you shook your head and couldn’t help but bury your face in his chest. 

“It amazes me the same Min Yoongi who despised me a few months ago would turn out to be the softest cheeseball I know,” you scoffed. 

Kissing your nose, he wrapped his arms around you and turned onto his back, rolling you on top of him. The change of angle made you immediately feel his hardness pressing under you. You rested your chin on his chest innocently, rolling the piling lint on his shirt between your fingers. 

Yoongi’s eyes started drifting off again, too tired to keep the ball rolling, but not before giving you another idea. Keeping your chin resting atop his chest, you began rolling your hips slowly against his, making him suddenly choke while exhaling. 

Lifting his head to look down at your seductive grin, you batted your eyelashes sweetly, feigning innocence as you continued grinding your hips over the growing tent in his pants. 

“_____,” he whined, rubbing his tired eyes. “You know there’s nothing or anyone I’d rather be doing right now, but I’m a little sleepy.” Pressing a swift kiss to his lips, you ignored his excuses and slid down to pull down his sweats. 

“Who said you had to do anything?” Your voice was too cocky for your own good and Yoongi was, as he had mentioned, too tired to even sit up and watch what you were doing. You had all of him to yourself and at your mercy. 

Snapping the band of his boxers against his skin, Yoongi let out another soft whine as he started growing more impatient and harder with your teasing pace. His clothed member was straining against the tight cotton of his briefs and made you lick your lips in anticipation. 

You palmed him through the thin fabric, drawing out teasing him for as long as possible to make his pleasure greater in the long run, but it forced another throaty growl out of his mouth. His gruff tone made wetness pool immediately between the junction of your thighs. 

Unable to handle your own slow pace for much longer, you yanked down his briefs in one swift tug as his length immediately sprung out against his toned stomach. It was just as perfect as you had remembered. 

You were seconds away from biting your lip to the point of breaking the skin. Wrapping your hand around his hardness like a magnet, it throbbed underneath your fingers, already oozing precum from the red and swollen tip. Each time you pumped up and down his length, it caused a bead to well up and pool around his slit. Fuck—how was he was so perfect?

“_____,” he moaned through a strangled whine. Watching his face with every precise stroke, Yoongi’s face flushed bright pink as he clenched his jaw and rubbed his forehead in frustration. Words of encouragement weren’t needed to put an end to your teasing; your own blooming arousal took care of that. 

Gnawing on your lower lip, you couldn’t hold back your desire anymore as your tongue darted out to lick a slow line along his tip, grazing the dimple of his sensitive slit with the flat edge of your tongue. He arched his back off of the bed instantly and almost came with a single touch. 

Unable to talk and already breathless from the contact he had been waiting for since that night, you peppered kisses down his thick member and licked a stripe on the prominent vein beside his tip, causing him to jolt again. Your core throbbed seeing him in such a vulnerable state, while Yoongi knew that at that exact moment, he belonged to you, and only you.  

Finally wrapping your lips around his head, your tongue smoothed over his cock, sucking with just the right amount of pressure to keep his nails digging into the mattress. Swirling your tongue around the tip tantalizingly slowly, you guided his hands into your hair, directing him silently to tug your tresses. 

Obeying instantly with a moan, lewd sounds began filling the room as you began bobbing up and down mercilessly, varying your speed and pressure occasionally to keep him on edge. You even went as far as to grasp him with your hand and drag his tip across your slick and swollen lips which earned you another deep moan from him.  

“Fucking hell,” he moaned, throat raspy and rough from holding back his cries of pleasure. Pausing your unholy administrations, you gave your jaw a break by gripping his base tightly with one hand and swirling your tongue around the index finger of your free hand. He craned his head back in an overload of pleasure as you used it to rub over his slit, toying with his red tip. 

Everyone had a different piece of advice regarding giving head. Some said you needed to focus on the tip; others said that the balls were highly disregarded; a few said that the spot where the head met the length was the most sensitive. All in all, it really depended on the person, and to be quite honest, you weren’t that experienced. 

Yoongi was an exception, as both of you had learned your respective kinks out of genuine interest and desire for mutual pleasure, not as a nagging chore or contract payback. 

Not to mention the first time you’d slept with each other was—enlightening. 

“Fuck, _____,” he growled, moving your hair out of your face to gaze into your eyes. “How are you so fucking perfect?” Huh—even when he was blissed out, he was still the romantic type. 

You broke your character of confidence as a shy grin escaped. Wrapping your mouth around him again, he let out a grunt and threw his head back onto the bed. The sloppy, obscene sounds returned once you repeated your actions, his knuckles moving out of your hair to grip the bed sheets for fear of hurting you. His fists were clenched so hard, his knuckles were white. 

Yoongi’s body grew warm, a sheen of sweat formed on his forehead, and he began pulsating in your mouth more frequently; he was close. Closing your hand around his throbbing length, you gripped him firmly and coordinated your pumps with your mouth, making him throw his head back in pure ecstasy. 

His hands found their way back to your hair, trying to pull you away as a warning that he would cum soon, but you swatted them away. Grabbing your hands instead, he laced his fingers through yours in a death grip, heart pounding so hard that it nearly burst through his ribcage. 

His pants grew increasingly urgent and his moans were primal. He found his release with the cry of your name as his cock shot hot spurts of cum into your throat and on your readily cupped tongue. The sensation of him throbbing in your mouth as his breathing calmed down was such a powerful feeling, and add to it the pleasure of seeing him writhe in pleasure beneath your fingertips? 

It sounded like a recipe for a perfect Friday night in both you and Yoongi’s books. 

Sucking his remaining release off of his softening length, you savored the satisfying, salty taste like fine wine as it coated your tongue and throat. It felt so wrong but too right. You wiped off whatever you could from his spent cock, hating to waste anything. Once you were done, you tugged his boxers back on as Yoongi brought you into his hold and wasted no time kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue. 

Parting your mouth to calm your breathing, Yoongi’s eyes bore into yours with blown out pupils, still coming down from his high. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant by sleepyhead.” His euphoric chuckle reverberated like the baritone of a bass. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do that?” you moaned softly under your breath, licking the remnants of his release off of your index finger as you nestled into his side.

He gazed at you warmly as his mouth broke into a gummy smile and eyes into half-moons. “That’s supposed to be my line.” 

Suddenly, a mischievous expression glassed over his features. You narrowed your eyes. “What is that face?” Smirking with a sinister gaze, Yoongi was now wide awake, giving you no time before flipping you onto your back and tickling your sides. 

“Hey!” you giggled, trying to swat away his arms like flies. Without giving you a formal warning, he tugged down your shorts making you yelp in surprise when the cold air hit your dripping core. 

Licking his lips in excitement and carnal instinct, he flashed a far too innocent grin at you before he delved in, unable to hold back his mundane hunger for another second. 

It was going to be a long weekend.

Digging around the fridge, a bundle of asparagus landed in Yoongi’s hand as he caught it mid-air from falling. You were already crouched down and braced for impact, but unfurled your wound arms, taking a peek at the grinning figure above you. 

“You okay there?” Yoongi’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, helping you up from your hunched position. Taking the bag from his hands, you beamed at him in response, turning back to the stovetop. 

He sighed. “You really didn’t have to stock up my fridge, you know.” Sneaking a carrot off of your cutting board, he popped it into his mouth like a 12-year old badgering their mother in the kitchen. “The apocalypse isn’t until—” he snuck a glance at his imaginary watch, filling his cheeks with air and pursing his lips into a puffer-fish face pout. “—400 years from now.”

You rolled your eyes at his ever sarcastic jokes. “If the apocalypse doesn’t kill you, your diet of energy drinks and expired caffeine shots will,” you lectured. 

Yoongi couldn’t help but smile warmheartedly. Not at your nurturing actions, but at you. He still felt like this was all a dream, too good to be true. Wrapping his arms around your waist, you fit into his larger frame like a lock and key as he nestled his head into the crook of your neck. 

“What’s on the menu today?” he asked, voice producing ticklish vibrations just under the shell of your ear. 

Turning to face him, you scrunched your nose. He wasn’t just a cheeseball—he was officially the biggest, softest, sweetest, weirdest, and most amazing person you had ever met. You never thought you’d say anything even remotely close to that in your entire life.

“Your favorite,” you answered in a sing-song voice. 

The corners of his mouth turned up into a cheeky smirk you knew too well. His hands trailed down slowly to your hipbones, rubbing soothing circles into them out of habit. He licked over his bottom lip teasingly, all while keeping his eyes glued on you. Yours were focused on washing the rice. 

“Yoongi,” you warned playfully, knowing his expressions like the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes drinking in your features, your very existence an oasis for him, a once deserted and desperate man. “Don’t even think about it.” 

He pouted, jutting his lip out as his eyebrows furrowed into a dramatic scowl. “But I’m hungry!” he whined impishly into your hair. 

“I’m making lunch,” you giggled. “Just wait.” Your eyes widened at the last word, emphasizing your point. 

Trailing gentle pecks long your neck, he murmured softly into your ear.  “Not for fried rice...”

Your hands froze in the midst of opening the bag of spinach.

“Yoongi!” you groaned. 

Another Wednesday, another solitary four hours spent in the studio alone. After your classes were over, you texted Yoongi saying you needed a few hours alone to practice freely. Just because you were in a relationship didn’t mean you had to spend every waking moment with each other. 

Besides, he and you were both aware of your respective personal space and private time you needed to spend doing your own things. Yoongi also mentioned that he needed to finish up a beat he was making for a friend, so it worked out well. 

You walked out of the studio with a scarf wrapped around your neck, sheltering you from the biting wind that graced the campus grounds. Skipping down the stairs, you were greeted by the back of a person whom you had become very well-acquainted with. 

Hearing the sound of your gleeful steps he had memorized down to the last click, he turned around—with a pair of to-go cups in his hands. 

Your eyebrows raised up as your mouth broke into a mixture of an endeared laugh and astonished chuckle. Leaning down, he pecked you on the cheek, feeling his heart flutter at your effortless beauty. 

“Was she even real?” he wondered.

“You didn’t have to,” you awed. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to get dinner anyway.” 

Yoongi handed you the cup marked with the symbols you knew by heart: double-shot of espresso, a pump of mocha, a single packet of hazelnut creamer, and two packets of sugar. 

“Your hands need to stay warm,” he insisted, rubbing over your hands that were now wrapped tightly around the cup. 

Biting your lip, your cheeks were hurting from smiling so much at the simple but meaningful gesture. “Thank you,” you blushed sincerely, not just from the wave of emotions that washed over you but also from the cold. 

Was he even real? 

You nearly twisted your ankle trying to catch up to his speed-walking figure. 

“Hey!” you shouted, panting heavily at how quick he was on his feet. Was he training for a marathon behind your back? “Yoongi! Hold–wait up! Slow down!”

No matter what you said, it didn’t seem to faze him as he continued walking. Hunching over and putting your hands on your bent knees to hold yourself up, you took a couple deep breaths before sprinting as fast as your burning legs could carry you. 

“Min fucking Yoongi, if you don’t stop right now, I will—” You didn’t manage to finish your sentence before stumbling over a jagged crack in the pavement and falling with a gasp. The impact was abrupt, the shock not giving you a chance to let out a proper scream. Silent accidents were the ones that hurt the most. 

Yoongi was by your side in the blink of an eye, almost tripping over the ditch himself when he ran back to you. “_____!” he shouted in pure panic. Well, that certainly broke his vow of silence...

Helping you get off of your stomach and sit up straight, he winced when he saw your forearm. The injury was nothing more than a wide scrape on the damp cement, but the rocky debris and dripping crimson trail made it appear all the more appealing for a Stephen King movie. 

You cringed at the wound yourself, but more so at the stinging pain that began to spread over your elbow. Minor cuts and scratches were gifts sent from Satan himself. The thought of it getting infected made Yoongi pull out a pack of tissues from his bag as he pressed the bundle firmly over your wound. His face was still locked in an uncomfortable grimace. 

“Let’s go back to my dorm. I have a first-aid kit,” he mumbled, helping you onto your feet and bending down on one knee. You raised your eyebrow at his odd position, only realizing a few seconds afterward that he was offering you a piggyback ride. 

You let out a nasal scoff. “Yoongi, my legs are still perfectly mobile. Get up before you get your clothes wet.” You had enough to deal with his bitchy mood today and it certainly didn’t help that it had been raining a few hours prior to his temper tantrum. 

He pressed his lips into a firm line, refusing to respond or get up from his crouched position. Was he messing around? After a minute of complete silence, you huffed, annoyed at his ridiculous and adamant form of an apology, and saddled onto his back. 

Hooking his arms beneath your knees as you looped yours around his neck, you realized how much of a cheeky shit he truly was. Yes, he hated acknowledging it, but even he knew how ridiculous this argument and wanted to use the close proximity a piggyback would give to his advantage—even though the two of you were as stubborn as garden weeds. 

“Are you going to talk to me now?” you asked, propping your chin comfortably on his shoulder like a perched bird as he began walking the two of you back to his dorm. 

Sniffling once, he prodded the inside of his cheek in an effort to distract himself, too prideful to answer you right away. 

“Yoongi...” you sighed faintly, saying his name the way you did whenever he tugged at your heartstrings. He exhaled harshly through his nose once before finally speaking. 

“I don’t like how nice you are,” he said bluntly with an obviously sheepish tone of shame coating his voice. What?

“What?” you repeated out loud this time, unable to hold back your animated face of utter confusion.  

When he didn’t reply, you tugged on his ears like you were scolding a child who’d just been caught licking dollops of icing straight from the piping bag. “Min Yoongi,” you called out half-threateningly. 

He let out a whiny grumble, a sound that was a combination of a grumpy obese cat and worn out AC motor. 

“I don’t like how nice you are to everyone,” he repeated. “Especially to guys.” 

Your mouth was parted in an ‘o’ shape and your eyes were narrowed like an animated character’s. Was he—no way...

Your eyes widened to the size of the moon when he blushed. Oh my God. “You’re jealous?!” you screeched. He jumped at the volume of your voice. It was the first time he had ever heard you genuinely scream and he imagined it was what you would sound like if you were at a concert. 

Were you a Liszt or Chopin person? Rachmaninoff? Maybe Beethoven? He nibbled on his lips to hide his grin. Why were you so cute? 

“Earth to Yoongi?” you deadpanned, waving your hands in front of his face to get his attention. Snapping his eyes to you and blinking out of his daze, he returned to his stern expression. Tipping your head to one side, you stared at him with half-lidded eyes, tired of his antics. 

No wonder relationships didn’t last long; human beings were naturally and wholeheartedly stubborn as fuck. Flaring your nostrils at his unyielding disposition, you clicked your tongue between your teeth, resorting to blatant, unfiltered honesty. 

“Jungkook was just being helpful—and I was being polite.” Enunciating the word, Yoongi paid no attention to it, as it wasn’t one he had registered in his dictionary. 

There it was. Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat at your ability to lay out your non-implicit thoughts onto the table. “You could’ve told me he was the idiot who told you where my dorm was when you were hauling me into my room that day.” He defended his reasoning, still unconvinced. 

“I didn’t even know who he was until we met him today,” you groaned, repeating what you had said earlier for the fifth time. This was all so torturously textbook newly-blooming relationship bullcrap and was making your head pound in your skull. 

Jungkook, the boy you’d seen that day when you dragged Yoongi down his dorm corridor and who had directed you to where his room was, recognized you during lunch today. Being the social butterfly and sweetheart he was, he found it in his best interest to introduce himself to you formally.

During the conversation, which lasted just short of a minute and a half, Yoongi’s glare was practically burning crater-sized holes into Jungkook’s face the entire time, imagining his face as target objects ranging from a checkered dartboard to a chipped wooden knife block. 

He jutted his lower lip into his signature pout. “Well I didn’t exactly enjoy seeing the little prick recognize you and shout like he’d just won the damn lottery...” he remarked bitterly, irritation directed purely towards Jungkook and not you. 

“Did he really not have a better way to grab your attention? I was this close to filing a lawsuit for hearing damage.” Unable to bring his fingers up to mimic a pinch, he narrowed his eyes tightly instead. “Nearly burst my damn eardrum running over to you and calling you 'superwoman lady...’”

“Yoongi,” you hummed, a chuckle escaping your lips like a song. “You’re jealous because of some sophomore who happened to recognize me from carrying her boyfriend—” you emphasized. “—to his dorm room because he was sick?” 

Coming to terms with your lawful point, he mumbled something under his breath that you could’ve sworn was, “Not back then I wasn't.” 

“I’m in love with you, you idiot.” Poking fun at his jealous side, it was quite endearing to know that he cared about you to the extent of fuming like a kettle in the presence of other guys. Grabbing one side of his face with one hand, you gave him an affectionate peck on his cheek, causing him to blush like a middle-schooler. God, he was so innocent. 

After a couple more leisure paces in the direction of the boys' dorm, you stopped for a moment to look at you properly. 

“I still think you’re too nice,” he closed with a ‘hmph,’ continuing his way back to his room. You could only hold back your hearty smile for so long before it burst. 

“No freaking way, buddy,” you scoffed. Tossing another kernel of popcorn into your mouth, Yoongi pointed to his open mouth. Popping one into his, respectively, you returned to your bantering debate. 

“Liszt is obviously far superior to Chopin,” Yoongi remarked snarkily. You’d gone over this for the past hour, killing time while the pre-packaged cookie dough you bough baked in the oven. 

Another sarcastic puff of air left your lips. “Are you kidding me? Other than the fact that he had freakishly large hands and made a pact with Paganini and sacrificed both of their souls to the Devil, I don’t think this is even a real topic up for grabs.” 

Snatching the kernel from your fingers in the midst of bringing it to your mouth, Yoongi chortled at your gaping jaw. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” His straightforward and genuine eyebrow raise made you shrug. 

“I don’t know. You listen to La Campanella and tell me.” Mirroring his inquisitive expression and raising your eyebrow, his voice vibrated in a lengthy hum. 

“Hm... Well played, _____. Well played...” Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, trying his best to seem intimidating like a dollar store Sherlock Holmes. “But you mastered Campanella in your junior year, so who’s the real soul-sacrificing Devil here?” 

You poked your tongue out, launching another piece of popcorn into his readily awaiting mouth to shut him up. However, your aim was a little too northbound and it ended up hitting his forehead. You laughed to the point where your stomach was cramping. You assumed it was karma taking your side. 

Days blurred into weeks and before you knew it, it was the night before the performance exam. No matter how many times you’d been forced by your school assignments to play for an audience, it never ceased to get your heart pumping—for the wrong reasons.

Sighing, you flung your body into your freshly washed bed sheets. It was only 10, but you figured since it would take you a few hours to fall asleep from the nerves, it’d probably be best to knock out early. 

“Not too late to sneak over and cuddle with me, you know,” a voice reverberated from your phone speaker. 

You chuckled at Yoongi’s determined and unwavering stubbornness that stemmed from his giddy fondness for you. Your advisor had eventually caught you sneaking into your dorm room a few days ago and if you had, oddly enough, listened to Yoongi’s pestering and stayed in his room for the night, you wouldn’t be on room lockdown right about now. You felt like a prisoner in your own dorm. 

Wrapping the blanket around yourself like a swaddle, you hid your gleeful smile with the bundle of sheets as his equally gummy grin displayed on the bright screen of your phone. Both of your room lights were all off so his cheeky face was all the more visible. 

“She let me off easy and didn’t give me a suspension and that was because I’m one of the good students on this block,” you reminded. “I don’t think I want to push my luck.” 

Yoongi huffed exasperatedly, irked that he wouldn’t be able to hold you tonight. “Are you ungrounded tomorrow?” He spoke in pout. That damn pout...

Burying your face in your blankets and clamping your hand over your mouth to hide your squeal, your mind couldn’t help but wander to the crude beginnings of your relationship. Was this real? 

“Yup,” you mumbled sluggishly through the fabric. “You’re buying dinner after the performance is over.”

Letting out a sigh, he lied down on his bed and rested his hand comfortably beneath his head, allowing you to get a full glimpse of his body, only now realizing that he was shirtless. Despite the darkness that cascaded both of your rooms, you could clearly see the definition of his lean but built muscles, the veins on his forearm rippling with each time he shifted on his mattress. 

“Who gave you permission to be so hot?” you yawned out, accidentally letting the lewd thought slip past your lips as you grew increasingly sleepy with each sentence. He laughed huskily in a low voice, admiring your state of sleep-drunkenness, as you liked to call it. 

His raspy voice wasn’t just the thing you’re ears were blessed with in the mornings, but also at night when he was equally as exhausted as you. It was like a second piano to your ears, lulling you to sleep each time whether it was through video calls or cradled by his side.  

Bundling the sheets around his body, you whined faintly at the loss of your favorite sight. “I don’t know, my girlfriend. She’s cool or whatever,” he whispered, eyes beginning to droop shut like yours. “But don’t tell her I said that.” 

The word still felt like a new muscle stitched his tongue, every sentence that contained it sounding a million times better with the coined phrase. Yoongi continued cherishing his new reality: he had a girlfriend and it was you. 

You couldn’t respond with words, just a fuzzy, softhearted grin. “Love you, dummy,” you yawned again. 

Yoongi yawned in tandem with you, lips curling into the gummy smile you loved.  “I love you, _____...” he managed to say before allowing sleep to consume him.  

Neither of you even bothered to end the call, a habit you had developed from the hundreds of times you had rung each other and fallen asleep to each other’s voices. The first few times resulted in you both waking up with absolutely no battery and having to forgo your phones for the whole day, however, you quickly learned that splurging $30 on a portable charger just for these occasions was well worth it. 

What if you mess up? Are your hands warm enough? 

What if you forget a section? You should’ve fit in a few extra hours in the studio yesterday. 

What if your fingers cramp up? 

Did you remember to take an Advil? Should you have taken two? 

A million questions pestered your mind like a plague, buzzing and ringing in your ears loud enough to make a swarm of steroid-filled bees jealous. Pacing around backstage as the muffled sounds from the auditorium filled the space, you were a few paces away from boring holes into the ground. Performance jitters were the worst and your anxiety made them all the more unbearable. 

“Hey,” Yoongi interrupted, placing his hands on your shoulders to snap you out of your pool of overwhelming thoughts. “Calm down. Breathe. You’re starting to make me nervous.” 

Running your hands through your hair, you groaned and uttered out another apology. Why were you so stressed out? It wasn’t a full audience. Just your entire class plus the comp majors and table of judgmental executioners, more commonly known as the board of music teachers. The entirety of their presence was the icing on top of your cake of nightmares. God, what you would do for a slice of double-chocolate cake right about now...

“What—” you started but Yoongi knew better to cut you off early and derail your train of thought before it arrived at the station. 

He cupped his hands around your flustered cheeks, his cooling touch bringing relief to the blistering hot skin that began to rise with your heartbeat. 

“Do you know how absolutely phenomenal these past few months have been?” Articulating his words in unison with his heartfelt gaze, his thumbs stroked over your cheeks softly, assuring you wholeheartedly with the fewest words he could. 

“I know how much pressure you put on yourself, but I also know how much more you love playing the piano,” he spoke soothingly. “Don’t think about them or messing up. Hell, don’t even think about sticking to what we fixed and picked on during practice.”

He brought you into his arms, making you lean onto his chest and listen to his steady heartbeat that thumped through his shirt. “Think about enjoying it to the point of not having any regrets. Of what it feels like while you play. Think about how you love it unconditionally through thick and thin, and how you wouldn’t give up anything in the world to let it go.” 

His words flowed like a stream in your head, smoothing over the rocky slopes of your worries and fears and replacing them with ripples of passion and confidence. Just as you pressed a kiss to his lips, the stage coordinator signaled to you with a frantic wave. It was your turn. 

Yoongi held onto your hands tightly for just a moment before giving you a small grin and going to find a seat in the audience. You took a deep breath. You only had one chance at this; you were going to make it count. 

Taking even-paced steps onto the stage, you closed your eyes and murmured a  wordless prayer to whoever might be listening. Whether that’d be the piano gods themselves or the ibuprofen coursing through your bloodstream and numbing your nerves, it didn’t matter. You needed to play for you. 

Not hesitating or wasting any more valuable seconds, your fingers brushed the cold keys, a sudden rush of eagerness filling your previously buzzing nerves. Your muscle memory activated like the flick of a light switch, the soft melody of the beginning exposition filling the echoey stage all the way to the back of the concert hall. 

Your fingers stroked the keys with such accuracy and precision, nailing each of the complex chords with ease. The development was coming up next. Changing your tempo from the quick-paced and exciting beginning to a mellow and even-toned pace, a pre-recorded track suddenly flooded through the onstage speakers but you didn’t have time to react.

You could recognize that beat from a million miles away. 

It was the same solemn tune that Yoongi was playing in the studio that night alone; same melodic chorus, orchestral strings, deep bass, and right down to the synth pad that started towards the end of the section. The flowing melody and tempo blended with your playing harmoniously, producing a euphonious sound that pushed you to play with more urgency and passion. 

The unexpected harmony made you smile, on the verge of tears as you could only comprehend one message that rang as clear as a bell: he wrote this for you. 

Before you knew it, you were already finished with the last recapitulation, the final remaining notes trailing off gently into what you assumed would be the end of the track, like that night, but it didn’t stop. It continued into another excerpt that melded perfectly with the coda you’d composed; vibrant, fuller, lively, vivid, and colorful—happy. 

The full-bodied and adagio resonance of Yoongi’s composed track with what sounded like a philharmonic orchestra and synth board contrasted like day and night from your constantly moving fingers. High off of the adrenaline of playing and euphoria of music, you paid no attention to the burning that had spread in your fingers during the first two minutes of the piece, instead choosing to bask in the utter state of bliss you were in.  

The track slowed down in sync with your playing, toning down the fast-paced and riveting chorus that had reverberated through the room seconds ago and replacing with it with the delicate and gentle closing notes that finished the piece.

It was over. You did it.

A momentary pause enveloped the auditorium, silence washing over the audience like a crashing tide. Your fingers were resting on the keys for a second before a roar of applause replaced the dead silent concert hall. 

You did it.

The panel of teachers were all standing on their feet, their warm smiles and nods of approval and continuous claps almost making tears trail down your cheeks. Looking around the crowd of people to try and find Yoongi, a finger gently tapped your shoulder, making you turn around with glassy eyes.

There he stood in all his gummy cheesiness, smiling his heart out. You sniffled, unable to hold back the tidal wave of tears that overwhelmed you as you burst into sobs and threw yourself into the safety of his arms. Enveloping you into his ever-warm and comforting embrace, he pressed soft kisses on the crown of your head, keeping you secure in his hold. Refusing to pull away even for a brief moment, he stroked your hair soothingly, urging you to take your time to breathe.

Sniffling once more, you managed to croak out a word or two. “When? How? Why—” you couldn’t finish before breaking into tears. You were a mess.

Even though the entire auditorium was still filled with the continuous applause and praise from the audience, Yoongi leaned down and chose to whisper into your ear. “I told you. Ever since that night when I saw you in the studio alone…” You could practically feel the happy smile that danced across his voice.

It was the first dream you didn’t have to wake up from.

It was real.

All of this was real.

The first thing you did after finishing your presentation was sprint like a marathon runner to the dressing rooms and change out of your quote on quote, “formal” attire. Consisting of a pair of black dress pants and frilly blouse with heels, your feet screamed in relief when you changed to your usual outfit of straight-cut jeans, oversized sweater, and frayed sneakers. 

Yoongi handed you a bouquet of flowers as you strode victoriously out of the concert hall to the stairwell at which he was waiting. You widened your eyes and had to blink a few times to make sure that this was still real life.

“Is this a practical joke or rom-com gesture?” you giggled, accepting the arrangement of dark red roses, lemon leaves, white snapdragons, and baby’s breath buds. He went the extra mile by personally requesting a gold ribbon to be weaved through each of the rose buds, making a sentimental warmth spread throughout your chest. Breathing in the fresh scent of the flora, the earthy and undeniably pleasant scent filled your airways.

Yoongi’s lips quirked in a shy grin and hid his gummy smile, rubbing the back of his head like he always did when he was apprehensive about something. 

“I figured I missed out on doing this on our first official date,” he shrugged as his tongue caught on the unused word. “So, I felt like surprising you on our twenty-something official one. And I might have snuck in a slice or few of cake in your fridge... ” 

Your jaw dropped to the floor. His face shifted back into the cheesy Chesire Cat grin you adored before humming a soft ‘ah’ and pausing his steps to reach for something in his bag. Was there anything that could make this day any better? 

Fishing through his disarray of loose papers and crumpled notes that decorated his bag, he pulled out a box that had miraculously not gotten squished or dented inside. It was wrapped in rose gold colored polka-dot wrapping paper and adorned with yet, another glittery gold ribbon tied into a neat bow. 

Making a shy face at the extensive detail, you carefully tugged on the end of the ribbon as flecks of glitter flew up in the air, the knot coming undone with ease. Yoongi offered his hand out to hold it.

Smiling, you moved onto the wrapping paper. Trying your best to peel it by the tape because you hated to tear it and make a mess, you finally got to the box. You pulled to top off to reveal another layer of tissue paper. A fluffy bundle of fabric was folded neatly underneath, making you take on a puzzled frown. When you took them out and unfolded them, you couldn’t muffle the gasp that escaped.

A pair of fuzzy mittens with a matching beanie.

“Yoongi...” you gawked. Rubbing over the feathery light, cozy fabric, he was still smiling widely at you, feeling pure happiness at seeing you so overjoyed from a pair of mittens.

Taking the bouquet, crumpled wrapping paper, and empty box from your hands, he set them down on the ledge beside the stairs. He first put the fluffy tasseled beanie on your head and smoothed out your baby hairs. Then, he rubbed your already-cold hands for a couple seconds to warm them up before sliding the plush gloves on.

“I don’t like it when you’re cold…” he said softly, rubbing circles over the tops of your hands through the wooly fabric. Cupping his cheeks with your warm and well-circulating hands, you pressed a single deep kiss onto his readily puckered lips. 

“Your room or mine?” His breath grazed your pink lips, a distinct warmth emanating from his body compared to the crisp winds that blew against the pair of you.

Biting your lip at his query, you shoved his shoulder teasingly. He already knew the answer.

Making out and walking backward was anything but a non-hazardous concoction. You practically topped over the door ledge while walking into Yoongi’s dorm, continuing to stumble over the bumps and dents in the poorly boarded floor. He managed to pull off his shirt and unbuckle his belt before shoving you onto the bed, and you only made it to the zipper of your jeans before landing on your back with a soft thud.

Caging you in between his forearms, he reunited his mouth with yours in a heated and feverish kiss. You captured the delicate of his lower lip between your teeth, nipping, tugging, and sucking on it to tease and satiate him for the time being. You had the whole weekend for yourselves.

His eyebrows furrowed as he couldn’t resist anymore and gave into his body’s demands. Grinding his clothed member into your aching center, you moaned at how hard he was beneath the fabric of his jeans. Satisfaction and adrenaline surged through you and you couldn’t help but be the least bit proud at the fact that only you had this effect on each other. Undeniable lust triggered by unconditional love, aided with consistent support and mutual understanding; a thing so many people craved but so few had the ability to cultivate.

Yoongi let out a husky growl when your hands tangled into his dark hair, gripping firmly at his scalp and trailing down his bare back. Although your nails were trimmed short, they still left red lines down the defined ridges of his shoulders and back as he moaned into your mouth at the sensation.

Grasping you by the roots of your hair, he maneuvered your head to bare your neck to him, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses at the exposed and delicate skin. Nipping teasingly at the junction of your ear and pulse point, he bared his teeth in a grin before sucking a deep purple bruise into the skin, causing a rush of arousal to flow down your thighs.

“Yoongi,” you moaned out hoarsely. His pouty lips continued trailing down your neck before stopping, giving you to a moment to hastily take off your sweater and throw it mindlessly onto the floor. You’ll pick it up later. He licked his lips at the sight of you in all your beauty, pressing a soft kiss to the dip of your collarbone. He couldn’t help it when his lips instantly attached to your breast, massaging the other with his hand and lapping at your nipple skillfully. Moving onto the neglected side, you arched your back into his firm erection when he grazed his teeth over the sensitive nub.

Another gush of wetness flooded your thighs as you rubbed your legs together instinctually at the dampness. Yoongi noticed this like a hawk, eyeing your every movement keenly. Smirking, he slid down your unbuttoned jeans with one firm tug, swiftly yanking the loose-fitting pants down like a candy wrapper, except this sweet treat was one he could never get enough of. The best part? He didn’t have to worry about cavities.

Taking a moment to admire the string of arousal that trailed from your core to the string of your thong as he pulled them off, he gulped, saliva pooling in his mouth at the mere thought of lapping up all of your juices. His sculpted fingers rubbed small circles over your drenched folds, bringing the arousal coated digits to his mouth for a taste. He couldn’t wait another second.

Yoongi delved face first into your center, not caring to clean up the trail of wetness that painted your thighs beforehand. His cheeks were coated with your essence and he licked up as much as he could, his entire mouth cupping over your core in a desperate attempt to hear your delectable moans that spurred him on. Hearing your vocal sobs and whines of pleasure made him moan as you gripped his hair, the vibrations of his gruff voice making your body tingle with even more pleasure. It was a never-ending cycle of mutual pleasure.

You were in absolute heaven. Alternating the use of tender flat-edge of his warm tongue with the firm tip, you could’ve pulled a muscle in your back from how much you were contorting into the bed. Each time he sucked harshly at your swollen clit, it forced out a euphoric cry from you, teetering amidst the peak of your pleasure and the brink of startling ecstasy.

You tried to be gentle with his hair, but when you pulled your hands away from his tangled mess of locks, he growled in disapproval, immediately demanding that you return your hands to where they were by moving away from your aching core and biting at your thighs.

You wanted so badly to take his throbbing and dripping cock into your mouth. You salivated at the utter thought of it and it sent another stream of arousal down your thighs and into Yoongi’s mouth. Two fingers slowly stretched you out, pumping deliciously into your tight heat in sync with the flick and suckle of his tongue as it produced a high-pitched gasp from you.

His free hand came up to knead your breast, pinching and twisting your sensitive nipple agonizingly slow. He gazed into you with jet black pupils, a carnal aura surrounding his every breath, leaving you with no choice but to surrender to him willingly. He continued sucking at your clit while curling and pumping his long fingers into your heat at the perfect pace, earning a drawled-out moan from you each time. His dick twitched against the straining fabric of his boxers, begging for some kind of attention, but Yoongi ignored it.

Tonight, it was all about you and he was going to make sure you knew that.

The obscene sounds of his tongue working relentlessly against your drenched and throbbing pussy made you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood in a feeble attempt to drown out your moans. As he pinned your hips down with his forearm, his fingers suddenly changed pace, moving faster and curling deliciously against your tight walls. His mouth wrapped over your clit and fingers began pumping furiously, the bursting pressure of your peak shattering like glass with one last suck.

“Fuck, Yoongi!” you exclaimed, grinding into his mouth during the first few moments of your high to ride it out as long as possible. Feeling like a boneless pile of jelly from your staggering orgasm, you felt him smile against your dripping center, lapping up your flowing juices like an oasis in a desert. Your clit throbbed from the remnants of the overwhelming pleasure gifted to you by his talented tongue. By the time he was done, the only evidence that you had just had the best orgasm of your life was only visible on his face, his chin completely drenched in your essence.

Yoongi licked over his lips and swiped over his chin with his thumb to collect the remnants, popping his finger into his mouth to savor the taste he could never get enough of. His forehead glistened with a light sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling visibly from the effort he had just spent. How did he still have the stamina for more?

Lost in the blissed-out haze that came from your high, you chuckled lazily, still swimming an orgasm-induced trance. You’d never came like that before and you were more than sure you’d never be able to without the help of Yoongi. Smiling drunkenly as your post-orgasm blush dispersed along your face, a soft giggle left your lips when Yoongi hovered over you before flipping you over.

Lying on top of him, your hands ran down the svelte muscles of his chest and abs as you tasted yourself on his lips, the remaining wetness that spread over his chin coating yours in an act that was too sinful for you not to relive in the years to come. Literally.

Your mouths tangled in a fervent kiss full of desperation and need, running your hands over his toned body without any logical thought. The faintly metallic but not too bitter taste of yourself on his tongue made another pool of arousal stream down your folds. The pleasure was all yours now.

Before you scooted down to his desperately throbbing member, you made sure to appreciate the beauty that was Yoongi. You captured the delicate flesh of his vascular neck between your teeth and sucked blooming marks into the delicate skin, grinning in satisfaction when they mirrored yours but were half the size.

Nosing at the skin beneath his ear where his pulse pounded like the delicate wings of a hummingbird, your exhaling breath tickled the shell of his ear, making him let out the barest hint of a giggle. Tugging on the small hoop earring that decorated his ear lobe with your teeth for a sweet moment, you moved back to his torso.

Tracing across the picturesque sketch of his abs and the V-line that led down his pelvis, his skin felt hot beneath your lips, evidence that his blood was rushing just as much as yours had been not too long ago.

You forced out a grunt from him when you palmed his hard length through his unbuckled jeans, wasting no time and pulling the thick fabric down along with this cotton briefs. His immaculate length sprung up against his stomach with a soft slap, the head of his cock red and oozing precum. Rubbing over the dripping slit with your fingertip, his knuckles turned white from gripping the sheets so hard. He couldn’t think straight.

“_____,” he begged, Adam’s apple bobbing to expose his dewy neck. The glossy sheen that glossed over his entire upper body made your body hum with pure desire. He was so perfect…

You rubbed over the head of his cock a few more times just for the sheer satisfaction of watching a bead of precum form at his tip and pool around your index finger. Placing your now-glistening fingertip in your mouth, you hummed at the musky taste that coated your tongue. Without teasing any longer, you finally pumped his throbbing cock, licking down the length for more lubrication while trying to focus on his head.

“Fucking–God, _____,” he choked out through a guttural moan. With clenched teeth and hands now tangled in your hair, he didn’t have to guide you as you went to work pleasuring him. “Fuck.” He was like putty in your hands, melting into a pool of boiling hot magma with one single touch.

Stroking the base of his cock while you bobbed up and down the upper half, he jolted with the pace at which you were going. Your tongue swirled around his sensitive head and into his slit every few seconds, making him writhe in absolute ecstasy.

Yoongi let out a carnal growl, pulling you up by your arms up and up to his body. He cupped his hands your ass while his mouth locked onto yours in another deep kiss, exploring your mouth with a hunger he only possessed when he was with you; one that no matter how much time passed, would never be satiated.

Massaging your pillow-like cheeks with his firm grasp, you both moaned into each other’s mouths when your dripping wet slit found his dick. With the feeling of your slick pussy grinding over his bare length and your hands raking through his disheveled head of hair, Yoongi almost came right there.

This was completely different than the first night you two had spent together. The first time was entirely filled with sinful lust, primal hunger, and frantic passion. It resulted in a battle of teeth clashing against tongues, bruising grips, and hasty eagerness, allowing neither of you to feel the full extent of your deepest desires. 

However, the deeper you fell in love with each other and the greater time you spent in each other’s company, sex became less about the physically pleasurable aspect and more about the raw emotional and near-spiritual bond you felt while connected.

Legs and arms entwined in a mess of tangled limbs; sticky bodies glistening with sweat; his hair sticking to his forehead and yours strung across his damp chest; the soft puffs of faint panting and the warmth of your bodies wound tightly against each other that lulled you into the best slumber you could possibly ask for. That was what you loved more than anything. The total submission of your barest state exposed in all its vulnerability and your mutual ability to look after one other unconditionally was more than you could ever ask for. He was yours, and you were his.

Yoongi’s hands ran over your shoulders and the small of your back, reuniting them with the plush pillows of your ass, admiring your rosy flushed face with awe.

“You’re so beautiful…” he said in a quiet voice, afraid that if he spoke with valor that you’d vanish like an illusion conjured by his deepest desires.

Calming down your heavy breathing, you placed a hand against his beating heart, the pronounced thumping of it underneath your fingertips causing goosebumps to scatter down the back of your neck. He placed one of his hands over yours while the other found your free one, cupping it against one of his cheeks tenderly. Nosing the delicate skin where your wrist met its socket, he inhaled gently, drinking in the feel of your soft skin against his.

Your fingers traced over the hollows of his cheekbones, marveling at how he appeared more beautiful than a millennium-old sculpture. You always took the time to admire and cherish every part of his body and his eyes were no exception. The deep-set and piercing gaze you had first feared was now a sight you hated to part with. Running alongside the hairs that stuck to his forehead, your focus settled on his lips, smiling heartily before pressing a slow and patient kiss to them.

“I love you so much, Yoongi,” you whispered against his mouth, earning you a smile back.

He clasped your hands tightly, pressing fluttery kisses to the tops of your knuckles before locking his gaze onto you. “I love you, _____...” He spoke in a hush like he was keeping a secret, you name rolling off of his tongue like a sacred hymn he held closest to his heart. 

Studying the darkened gaze that cast over his eyes, your instincts clawed at you. “I need you inside me now, Yoongi.” Your voice came out in a whining sob, begging him to take you. 

Slowly sitting down to guide his member into your aching heat, he kissed you with even more urgency and passion than you thought was possible, basking in the feeling of you consuming each other through the linking of your bodies as he buried himself hilt deep. 

“Fuck, you’re always so tight for me,” he hissed. Dirty talk wasn’t really something you two prided yourselves in, preferring to voice your desires through physical actions alone, but you sure as hell didn’t have any complaints about it. It always seemed to come naturally for both of you and ended up sounding like praise rather than command. 

Your velvety walls wrapped around his thick length and made him twitch inside of you. Grinding into his hips from your dominant position, Yoongi nestled his head into your chest as he began pounding into you mercilessly, all while paying equal attention to your sensitive bundles of nerves on your breasts. 

Words weren’t needed to direct each other when you knew one other like clockwork; every kink, erogenous zones, sensitive spots—especially pace. 

He leaned back onto the wall and lifted you by your hips, allowing you to hover over him at an angle that made him drive into a spot deep inside of you and gasp. “Oh my God, Yoongi, right there!” Your moans turned into pants and sobs of overwhelming delight at the deeper angle at which he was filling you.

A drop of sweat beaded at Yoongi’s furrowed brows, his tense expression a result of him also feeling the torturously delicious feeling of you encasing him. He couldn’t hold back for much longer and neither could you.

“Yoongi,” you warned, feeling your walls tense with each additional thrust he managed to power through his growing exhaustion, not from the physical act of relentless thrusting, but from the pure willpower he was exerting from holding his orgasm back. Your nails dug deep crescent half-moons into the ridges of his shoulders while his fingers pressed blossoming bruises into your hips, reminding you to gawk at them later.

Feeling your tense body, Yoongi used up the last remaining bits of his energy to pound into you furiously, exerting as much force as he had left. A sharp intake of breath came from deep inside his chest when you came around him without further warning, your unbelievably tight and utterly drenched cunt clenching around his cock and making him finish not a second later. 

Bottoming out completely before sliding out and back in, it was almost too much when he continued hammering into you at a slower pace, his pulsating member shooting continuous spurts of hot cum deep into your heat. With his teeth bared in a silent snarl and your mouth parted in euphoria, you rolled your hips over his a few more times before collapsing on top of him, his spent cock still somehow twitching and filling your heat with thick spurts.

Yoongi’s eyes were half-lidded and dazed from his equally powerful orgasm. Staying inside of you for a few more seconds to ensure that as much of his cum remained inside of you as possible, you yelped when he slid out and replaced his cock with his hand, cupping your cunt to prevent any from seeping out. You giggled lightly at his concentrated face when he flipped you onto your back.

He also took great pleasure in scissoring your mixed fluids together between his fingers and bringing them up to his lips for a taste; another one of his post-sex habits. Curling into your drenched lips to scoop out more of the unholy mixture, you didn’t need to ask as he slid his coated fingers into your mouth, swiping over your readily cupped tongue as the evidence of your releases slicked down your throat.

“Kinky...” you giggled, running his fingertips along your lips before pecking them.

Yoongi gave you a half-parted gummy grin and chuckled. “You love me more for it.”

Completely spent, he kissed you deeply before he climbed into the covers, comfortably nestling his head into the valley of your breasts and nosing the soft skin. You cradled his head and pressed a delicate kiss to the top of his frizzy hair, raking through the messy knots with your fingertips. His exhaling breaths grew soft, indicating that he was on the verge of falling asleep.

Even though he mumbled the words into your chest, you broke into a heartwarming smile at his entirely too pure personality and held him in the security of your embrace. “I love you, _____.” 

There it was again: your name. 

It never sounded as good as it did unless it flowed from his lips. 

“I love you too, Yoongi,” you whispered, your soft whisper lulling him into a deep slumber as his eyes drooped shut while his steady breaths coaxed you into the darkness of sleep as well.

It was real. 

Some time in the near future...

You woke up to an empty bed, frowning in confusion instantly at the cold sheets that greeted you. Where was Yoongi? Almost as soon as you had asked the question, the smell of bacon and fried eggs filled your nostrils, making your mouth water.

Throwing your legs over the bed and climbing out of the disheveled bundle of sheets, you threw on one of Yoongi’s wrinkled shirts over your bare body, smiling sheepishly at how it draped over your thighs and stopped right above your knees. Brushing your teeth and rinsing your face in a record amount of time, you made your way to the kitchen and were greeted by the amusing sight of Yoongi dancing to the playlist you used when cleaning your room.

Jumping around like a maniac, he was too absorbed in his dancing and oil-spattering bacon to notice you leaning on the counter. With a cheeky grin gracing your face, Yoongi’s eyes bulged out of their sockets when he saw you. Clearing his throat harshly, you broke into a bright fit of laughter at how bashful he was. Was that what you looked like when he caught you dancing in your room?

“Good morning,” you giggled, nibbling the corner of your lip to hold back a snort.

Yoongi turned off the stovetop with the click of a knob, plating the hot food onto your dishes. “Good morning,” he played off cooly. Carrying the two plates to the small dining table, he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before setting them down.

“Happy Anniversary,” he exclaimed, returning to you to give you a proper kiss. Smiling onto his lips, you laced your arms around him as he wrapped his around your waist.

You scowled playfully but broke into a smile. “A little birdy told me a while ago that anniversaries were stupid…” you hummed jokingly, referring to the surprise you gifted him a year after you started dating. It was just a handwritten card and matching set of hoodies, but Yoongi let it slip that he thought regular anniversaries were cheesy and a little cringeworthy. 

But he wholeheartedly appreciated your gift though, refusing to wear anything other than that exact hoodie for the majority of his classes. Often times, he asked you with puppy eyes and a pout to wear yours—even on some days when it was 80 degrees outside.

“Must have been a really drunk bird then,” he shrugged. You weren’t terribly hurt by his statement that night because you truly did understanding where he was coming from. Those couples who had hebdomadal anniversaries did, in fact, make you want to gag. Anniversaries in your mind were supposed to be reserved for monumental occasions and milestones, not as petty excuses to receive stupidly expensive gifts from each other.

You beamed, pecking his lips once more. “Mhm, not a very cute peeper either.” Your comment made Yoongi raise an eyebrow, nuzzling his mouth into your neck and blowing raspberries against your skin until you surrendered.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you gave up, choking your submission through joyous laughter. “Let’s eat, Yoongi!” Eyes lighting up in victory, he pulled out your chair for you before sitting down himself.

“Happy Anniversary, Yoongi,” you chuckled, lips forming into a loving grin at the gummy smile that blessed his sparkling eyes.

Reaching over the table to hold your hands and rub comforting circles into them, he blinked slowly, imprinting a picture-perfect snapshot of this moment in his long-term memory for years to come. “Happy Anniversary, _____,” he beamed.

“Are you sure about this, Yoongi?” you asked cautiously, rubbing his hands in the hopes of soothing his buzzing nerves. “We don’t have to do this today…”

He pressed his lips into a firm line and nodded, keeping his eyes glued on the black and white keys that lie before him. “I’m ready.”

Releasing his hands from your grasp, you patted them softly before letting them hover over the keys. Not having touched a piano since before the accident, the unfamiliar cold feeling of the wood made Yoongi’s breath hitch in his throat.

His fingers suddenly started to shake as bile rose in his throat and his face went pale, turning colorless enough to make the piano keys look off-white in comparison. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like epoxy glue and felt heavier than a cement block. With his pupils dilated dangerously wide and beads of sweat forming along his hairline, his throat closed up, restricting his airflow.

Your eyes widened immediately, alarmed at his visceral reaction as he snatched his hands away from the keys and couldn’t bear to face the instrument for another second.

“I ca—I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do it,” he choked, shaking his head vigorously while hiccuping, trying to take in breaths of air as he began drowning in the memories that suddenly poured in.

You cupped the sides of his face and smoothed your fingers over his tear-stained cheeks gently. “Yoongi—look at me.” Shutting his eyes tightly, more droplets of his painful memories trailed down as his hands shook, the pads of his fingers squeezing coin-sized bruises into your forearms.

“Look at me,” you said more firmly the second time. Opening his eyes slowly with shaky eyelids, he swallowed the lump in his throat before making direct eye contact with you. “I’m here, okay? I’m right here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m right here with you, Yoongi.”

Relaxing his grip, his fingers that were pressing into your skin moments ago slowly began rubbing small circles into your forearms, soothing the numbing pressure as your blood began to circulate again.

“I’m so—,” he sobs choking on his tears, your lulling shushes helping his breathing calm down and slow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—” His repetitive please continued into mumbled whispers. 

As he continued to mutter his robotic sayings, you soon realized that he wasn’t apologizing only to you—he was apologizing to himself.

“Yoongi, it’s okay,” you whispered, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your neck as his tears left trailed down your chest, leaving a glistening trail of wetness that made your eyes sting with your own tears. Your heart shattered seeing him in such a state of distress, but all you could do was murmur softly into his hair while his shoulders continued to shake. 

This too was real. 

“Bach Invention No. 8 already?” you gawked. “Yoongi, how?”

He shrugged, shoulders rising up to his ears in humble yet clearly visible accomplishment.

“You were playing Hanon a few weeks ago, what are you putting in your cereal?” you chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief and awe at his consistently growing skills.

“I had a pretty great teacher,” he smiled warmly, patting the seat beside him and inviting you to sit down. Shaking your head at his lively and glowing image, you set down your two cups and made yourself comfortable.

It had been nine steady months since Yoongi had composed himself to start playing again and it would be a lie to say that it hadn’t been a time-consuming process. Slowly but surely through tears, overwhelming breakdowns, neverending hours, long nights, and emotional outpours, Yoongi’s natural instinct and eagle-eye muscle memory kicked in, aiding his subconscious breaking down the mental barrier he had formed since the accident.

The first few months were a struggle as he was stuck in his own head and high expectations. He stayed up constantly trying to master the most basic warm-up exercises, refusing to give up until he knew it by heart. Even during the deepest pitfalls of exhaustion, you stuck by him, likewise refusing to leave his side until he was half-asleep and drooling on the keys.

You, on the other hand, had finally gotten around to accepting physical therapy, regular check-ups, and after four years of putting it off, had your prescription officially signed off by your doctor. 

The short-span of your potential professional career was inevitable, but you processed and accepted the outlook better than you did when you were first diagnosed. You had grown up since then. You weren’t a young, naïve, immature, want-it-all child anymore; you were just you, and that was more than enough. Life wasn’t about doing as much as you could for the quantity in hopes of happiness, but rather for the quality of happiness that you were living with what you could accomplish to your heart’s extent. 

“Why not 13?” you asked curiously, referring to the piece that was in the solemn and dark minor key. Yoongi’s lips curled into a sheepish grin, sensing where you were going with your question.

“Major keys are nicer to listen to,” he mumbled. Fumbling with your fingers in his lap as he usually did when he felt the need for a distraction. “Minor scales are too depressing.”

Nodding your head in agreeance with his response, a soft chuckle reverberated from deep inside his chest. You gave him a comical eyebrow raise. He brought your hands to his cheek for what felt like the millionth time in the span of your relationship, leaning into your easing and tranquilizing touch as he melted in your hands. 

After years of ignoring the adverse effect of your struggling circulation, the effort you dedicated last year in looking after your health had paid off; your hands were finally warm. All the more inviting for Yoongi to cup them around his plush cheeks. A healthy diet, consistent sleeping schedule, and regular hikes up to the viewpoint with Yoongi really went a long way in terms of lifestyle. 

Thinking over his words, he shook his head rightfully so. “There are too many good things in life to do instead of drowning in that kind of ocean…” His kissed the top of your hand as his eyes met yours in a stare that radiated unconditional affection, complete fondness, and total selfless love.

Life was, in fact, too good to spend it wasting away in the shadows.

Some time further in the future...

Shuffling through the array of papers that littered the desk, you were seconds away from ripping your hair out. How were you going to do this? You started with the syllabus. That was probably the first step in starting a lecture, right? Then the expectations for the class? Goals? Learning outcomes?

God, were you even speaking English at this point? The abrupt buzz of your phone alarm snapped you out of your thoughts instantly. As crowds of students in what seemed like the hundreds flooded the lecture hall within seconds, you started to panic. Anxiety flooded your throat like thick smoke, forcing you to gulp a hiccup down. A gentle nudge on your shoulder caused you to turn around, coming into the view of none other than Yoongi.

“You okay?” His eyes voiced concern, eyebrows turned downwards as he studied your face with flowing sympathy.

You nodded, pressing your lips into a tight line. “Fine. Fine. All fine. Everything’s great.” Your speech flowed out like dreaded word vomit.

Yoongi rubbed your shoulder to ease your rippling waves of uneasiness, trying to relieve your bubbling apprehension. “Powell asked us to sub his class for a reason, _____. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’ll be amazing and I’ll be right by your side to help,” he convinced. “Okay?”

Swallowing down the sheet of sandpaper that lined your throat, you nodded.

The students were now fully seated and quiet, the soft hums of a few sorting through their bags and pulling out their laptops. The sea of L.E.D. apples and brightly lit block print logos made you nauseous. Once they were all settled, you cleared your throat.

“Thank you all for coming to today’s class,” you greeted with as much authority in your voice you could muster. “My name is _____, and this is Yoongi.” Pausing to direct your attention to him, he tipped his chin up lazily, reminding you of the first day you’d encountered him in a setting much like this one. Your eyes softened at the reminiscent memories. Time flies... 

“We will be substituting for Professor Powell, as he is out sick for the week,” you explained. 

A few scattered hollers and applause were heard from parts of the hall, making Yoongi shoot you a smug grin. You frowned quizzically for a brief moment before shrugging it off. “As former graduates ourselves, we are very aware of the immense pressure Professor Powell puts on you as first years in the graduate division. Trust me.” You turned your body to Yoongi, signaling him with a small nod. “We’ve both been there.”

He chuckled, taking the reins of the conversation smoothly while you began handing out the syllabus for the final project. “Powell might have discussed this project with you last semester or you might have heard legends about it from your upper classmates while you were freshmen.”

Yoongi didn’t bother using the title of “Professor” before he spoke, making some students gasp audibly. His voice was the epitome of confidence, self-assurance and clarity coating his voice like velvet as he articulated his words with consistency.

“The syllabus that is being handed out to you explains the details of your final project. Your partners have been chosen for you and will not, under any circumstance, be altered to fit your personal preference.”

Whispers spread across the entire room like a swarm of bees, students gasping and mumbling, appalled as they analyzed each detail written on the page. Your echoing clap silenced into their incessant grumbles. That seemed to grab their attention.  

“As Professor Powell has said multiple times prior to the start of this semester and I’m sure as far back as your undergraduate days.” A grin formed on your lips and you glanced over at Yoongi, who was already smirking and staring back at you with his lip in between his teeth. “The audience needs to see who you are through the music; experience your deepest memories, feel your deepest pain, and live through your life up until this point.”

“You’ll laugh, cry, scream, and want to rip each other apart with your bare hands,” Yoongi added on with conviction in his voice, standing up straight and no longer leaning against the wall. “But above all the setbacks and obstacles, you’ll come out as stronger musicians and even better artists.”

“Complain and fail. Choose to work independently from each other and that implies that you are working against one other,” you noted. “You are there to help each other through difficult times, not leave the other person hanging when things get tough.”

Yoongi sighed. “It sucks, we know.” He glanced at you thoughtfully, a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. “But we promise it’ll be worth it.”

At this, a student in the front row raised her hand, a wide-eyed curiosity glinting from her eyes. You smiled and gave her the cue to speak. “By chance, you guys aren’t the seniors who passed this same assignment with a full grade four years ago, are you?” Her naïve and self-answering question made you and Yoongi look to each other knowingly, embarrassed and honored that the rumor was still flying about, alive and well as ever. “You two are like living legends!”

The class erupted into another wave of applause and gasps, sounding like a sound effect out of a comedy club’s built-in soundboard. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckled, leaning his head to one side and side-eyeing you lightheartedly. You also found yourself blushing and chuckling awkwardly, sighing as you avert your eyes to anywhere but the crowd of eyes glued onto you and him.

“It’s kind of a funny story…” you hummed. 

“Why did you start liking me?” you asked. Lying down on the blanket that was strewn on top of the grass, Yoongi shifted beside you, admiring the spot on the viewpoint he picked out. The view of the campus never ceased to take your breath away. 

The longest three seconds of your life passed before you turned on your side and he peeled his eyes away from the dim sky, redirecting his gaze to you. Taking your hands into his, the edges of his lips curled into the tiniest smile, staring thoughtfully at the sight he had never imagined in his wildest dreams would be here right in front of him. 

“Because you gave me everything I could ever ask for without wanting anything in return, and I don’t deserve it.” His words flowed like ink from a fountain pen, soaking through the pages that bound your love for him. 

Pausing before continuing, you couldn’t prepare yourself for what he had to say next.

“It’s like you’re too good to be real. Here. In front of me.” he clasped your hands tighter. “I still feel like don’t deserve you.” At this sudden confession, his tense expression softened. “Like I’m not enough for you...”

The dark and piercing stare you used to cower in fear at had now revealed itself to be the only one you knew that was full of vulnerability and as delicate as a glass menagerie. They were eyes you had grown fond of, admired, and more than anything—wholeheartedly and unequivocally loved.

Running his thumb over your cheek, you cupped over his hand in response, making your heart flutter at the delicate flush that spread across his face. 

“Min Yoongi...” you sighed as your eyes began to form budding tears. Shaking your head while trying to hold back the painful smile that threatened to escape, you took a deep breath. 

The lump in your throat returned tenfold when you looked up and saw that his eyes were glued onto yours, his deep brown orbs watering with glassy tears and lip quivering with the infinite ocean of amour he felt for you. You had already fallen in too deep to drown.

All these years later and you still made each other’s hearts race like a soaring kite. 

Whether it was from the cold or the bursting dam of repressed emotions, it didn’t matter. You cupped both sides of his face and brought his forehead to yours, pressing lightly and maintaining contact so that you were trapped directly in-line of each other’s eyes. You couldn’t help but smile and allow a tear to trail down your cheek when his hands cupped over yours.

“You’re right. You aren’t just anything to me,” you whispered, your voice near barely audible to anyone except Yoongi. “You are absolutely everything I could ever ask for and more. 

Yoongi swallowed the rush of nostalgia that flooded his mind and closed up his throat. “I have never in my entire life met someone who comes close to how you understand me, wait for me, and push me through my bad days,” he croaked through blurry eyes. 

You sniffled, brimming tears finally spilling like the puddles of your youth you once basked in. “You make me the happiest and the best person I can be, and I love you more than anything else in this entire world...”

“And I promise that I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way.” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he finally spoke, completing your words like the last piece of a puzzle fitting perfectly in its place. 

His words and soft lips sealed a kiss on your forehead, your eyes fluttering softly at the ardor you felt only while in his warmth. You kissed him back, the saltiness of your mingled tears leaving watercolor thin streaks down both of your cheeks.

Words would never be enough to express the bond you and him shared. He could only pray to whoever was listening that you felt it as strongly as he did, and you for him. 

A song composed with no more than the painful memories of your past, tender youth of the present, and limitlessly unbound fate of your future, your paths entwined with the string of fate and aria had brought you together to this exact moment in time.

Passionless pursuit in the chase for perfection; a journey filled with sorrows in the hopes of leading to the smallest sliver of happiness; an outcome neither of you had expected to come to fruition in your wildest and most distant dreams.

Everything else is arbitrary. Happiness through the darkest of times stemming from the willingness to fight and determination to be happy—that is what you made your lives out to be. 

The faint glint of the rings you both bore reflected against the lamp post bulbs, an even brighter light emitting from both of your smiles. Had it already been a year since he’d asked for your hand? Yoongi’s fingers ran over the engraved metal, tracing the near-microscopic words that were etched into the band. You did the same with his, the loop of silver feeling cool against your fingertips.

It was real.

This was real.

[alleiradayne]

Keep Your Hands To Yourself

Summary: In a random moment during research, Natalie notices how huge Sam’s hands are. Square Filled: Handholding Warnings/Tags: Fluff. Smut. Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester/Natalie Murphy Word Count: 1,569 A/N:  For @spnkinkbingo. Sam and Natalie also have a bit of a history with her hands. He’s been helping her through an injury with physical therapy and massage. Beta’d by @atc74. Song: Keep Your Hands To Yourself by Georgia Satellites

“Jesus, they’re huge.”

Sam fumbled the book as Natalie handed it to him, and it fell to the floor of his room with a hard smack.

He leaned over from his desk and picked up the small tome. At least, in his hand, the book appeared small. But for most folks, it would seem a normal sized hardcover, unwieldly in one hand, but fine for two hands or in a lap. “What did you say?

“Your hands,” Natalie muttered as she leaned from his bed and held one of hers up to his holding the book. “They’re… Christ, they’re massive.”

“Oh.” His mouth dried and his tongue thickened, ungainly as the sudden warmth of her fingers enveloped his. “I… yeah, I uh—I suppose. They’re kinda like the rest of me. Big and clumsy.”

Pink. He had never seen her cheeks so bright with color before. But then the implications of what he had said sank in and that familiar sting prickled the nape of his neck. Her fingers teased at his, at the back of his hand, his wrist. He imagined she had not intended to touch him so, but it wasn’t the first time they had connected in such a away. And if Sam had any say, it would be far from the last.

He returned the book to his desk, then held his hand out to her, palm up and fingers splayed. Excitement brightened her face with a giddy smile as Natalie grasped his hand in both of hers and wrenched it to her within in an inch of her face. Sam lurched over the arm of his chair, but smiled all the same, her enthusiasm endearing.

“How? I can't imagine having hands this big,” she mused as she traced the grooves in his skin. “Can you palm a basketball?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “I can. I throw a sixteen-pound bowling ball, too. But I haven’t played either sport in years.”

A bewildered shake of her head dislodged her hair from behind her ear. “I can't even fathom that. What else can you do?”

“Plenty of things,” he started as he took one of her hands in his. “But nothing like you can do.” With the tips of his fingers, he traced each part of her hand as he spoke. “Nimble fingers, narrow palms, thin wrists. You fit anywhere and are so precise. I envy that.”

He swore her blue eyes glowed in the lamplight, wide and full of wonder as she looked up to him. “Sometimes I wish I had the strength instead.”

“It's overrated,” he said. “Takes a lot of work to control it.”

“But you do. I've felt it,” she stated with a nod as she prodded his palm.

He had to take the chance, lest it eat him alive with regret. He slid his chair around to sit before her, his knees parted wide for hers. “I guess I do,” he started as he curled the stray wave of her black hair behind her ear. “Yeah, you’re right. I am intimately familiar with my own strength.”

Natalie froze under his touch as his fingers slipped into her hair at the nape of her neck. “It’s impressive,” she sighed as her eyes flicked to his lips and she licked her own. “I appreciate the… self-awareness.”

“Thanks,” he said through a laugh as he averted his gaze as he took her hand in his. “I know you enjoy the work we've been doing here,” he added as he lifted her hand. “How does it feel?”

“Great,” she sighed longingly, then shook her head. “I mean, better. It feels much better.” She paused as she averted her gaze with a breath. “Your massages are… they're good. Very… good.”

His imagination ran wild as he withdrew his hand from her hair, for he swore that Natalie ever so slightly turned into his palm. With both hands, he held her left and spread her fingers to smooth the muscles of her palm. His thumbs rolled over the knots and ropes, easing them to release, and Natalie all but melted. “Good?”

“Mhm,” she replied with a nod, her eyes rolled closed and shoulders relaxed.

“Are you falling asleep?” he asked.

She bit her bottom lip as she squirmed between his knees. “Nope.”

With her relaxed posture, rosy cheeks, and deep breaths, Sam understood. He almost stopped as that realization took hold, but a little voice in the back of his mind urged him on. He wanted to see the end of it, see if it would play out like he imagined. Like he hoped.

Sam took her free hand in his and pulled her into his lap. Natalie required little convincing, straddling his hips and pressed flush to his chest. When their lips met, he threaded his fingers with hers, intent on keeping her in his grasp. Natalie obliged him as she tightened her grip with equal insistence.

And then she moaned. More of a whimper, she sighed into him with a roll of her hips, grinding against the bulge in his pants as if to demand more. More than happy to oblige her, Sam teased the backs of her hands with his fingertips, and all manner of responses emanated from her; a squeeze from her hands, a deeper kiss, another firm roll of her hips. Sam succumbed to the torrential onslaught of her lust and committed to his course.  He tore his hands from hers for a moment, grasped her by her ass, and lurched for his bed. Their kiss broke apart as Natalie bounced upon the mattress, her chest heaving for breath as she stared into his eyes.

It was a gamble. They had yet to discuss preferences. But given the risks he'd taken up to that point, it had to be a safe bet. Sam gathered her hands once more, lifted them over her head, and with great care, he leaned into her.

Natalie, bless her heart, lay back on his bed without protest, and as she came to rest, Sam pinned her there, fingers wrapped around her wrists. A cursory glance found her smile, a small quirk at the corner of her lips, one he had caught so many times before.

“Is this the part where I struggle against you and you keep me pinned down?” she asked.

His grip eased and slipped into her hands once more. “Only if you want to,” he replied, then placed his lips ever so gently on hers. She returned that kiss with a buck of her hips, and Sam settled between her spread thighs with a smooth roll of his own.

All the while, he held her hands, and Natalie moaned repeatedly, muted against his lips as she rolled into him. As much as Sam wanted to keep hold of her, he wanted more, and so, he parted from her but not without an order. “Keep your hands up there.”

She nodded as he released her, hands remaining above her head. With haste, he unfastened her pants and stripped them to her ankles along with her underwear. To himself, he did the same, no flourish of his cock, no long, lurid gazes, no time wasted. Between her thighs, he angled himself into her, his shaft grasped in one hand, and as her wet cunt enveloped him, they moaned together, hear soprano accompanied his deep baritone.

Completely consumed, Sam returned his hands to hers, fingers threaded and palms enveloped. Short quick thrusts started them off until he elongated his strokes, and try as he might to hold back, a desperate whimper fell from his lips. Natalie caught him with a kiss, hard and greedy as her tongue dove into his mouth. He struggled to keep up, to maintain focus, but the sudden coupling aroused him beyond anything he could control. In only a few minutes, his orgasm threatened release and he hoped Natalie was not far behind.

The words burst from his lips as he parted from their kiss. “Fuck, Natalie, I'm so close.”

Her long moan pitched in time with his thrusts, and her own hips rocked to meet his. “Come, Sam, I wanna feel you.”

The warmth spread from his aching sack at her command, and a long hard flex of his cock filled her with his cum. Sam growled into her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Aftershocks pulsed through his hips and into his groin, echoed by subtle twitches his cock, and Natalie moaned in the wake of his release.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered as he rose.

Natalie shook her head as she writhed against him. “Don’t apologize, that was fucking great. But... ”

Without another word, Sam released her hands and dropped to his knees. Between her thighs he settled, lips inches from hers. Cum oozed from her cunt, and Sam licked his lips in anticipation. He looked up to find Natalie’s eyes wide, her jaw slack, and breasts heaving with rapid breath.

The thought occurred to him in a moment of inspiration. Sam reached up to her, hands stretched and fingers grasping. Natalie’s hands meet his with a lacing of fingers, slotted together as though pieces of a puzzle, and Sam hummed his pleasure through his nose.

A devious grin spread across his lips as tightened his grip, and Natalie struggled against him. When she settled, defeated, he neared her sopping flesh, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“Ready?”

The Whole Thang:

@atc74 ​ @hannahindie ​ @bevans87 ​ @meganwinchester1999 ​ @plaided-ani-on-hiatus ​ @oneshoeshort ​ @jonogueira ​ @andkatiethings ​ @elfinmox ​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester @princessofthefandomrealm ​ @just-another-busyfangirl ​ @jmekitchens ​ @81mysteriouslyme @dolphincliffs  @seenashwrite  @canadianspnhunter ​ @meowmeow-motherfucker ​ @depressed-moose-78 @staycejo1

Sam’s Sasstresses:

@morganas-pendragons

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN KINK BINGO MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[lessonslearnedonmyknees]

A letter to Sue

I used to hate mother’s day. It was painful because i was a child my mother never wanted but never had the balls to say that. i would have been better off if she had given me for adoption or given me to my father when they split. No, i wasn’t that lucky. I gave birth to my own little girl about 8 years ago. I did what was best for her. I couldn’t handle a  kid and i didn’t think it fair to the child to try to force that on myself. I gave her for adoption. The pain i feel when mother’s day hits is for the mother who never wanted me and the kid i couldn’t have taken care of anyway. The pain didn’t stop. The pain hits every year and i cry. I cry bitter hot tears for what i didn’t have and couldn’t keep. It lasts a day. I pick myself back up and carry on. I allow the pain to hit and move on.

There is no point in being bitter and hating the day. Those that know me, know i want nothing to do with the day, so they don’t mention it to me. it’s just another day. Those that don’t know me wouldn’t think to say it so it doesn’t matter. The few that might actually say it, i politely thank them and move on. An outburst would feel good in the moment but not later. I went off on someone who was attempting to be kind and sweet. There is nothing good that comes from that. so i thank them and move forward.

I write my daughter on mother’s day. I send her mom a thank you every year for being able and willing to take on this child i could not handle. This joy of a person that will grow up kind and loving. That i can be proud to say is a part of me.

I write a letter to my mother every year. I don’t send those. They are mean and bitter. They are my way of healing the pain. They are the reason i don’t hate mother’s day. They grant me a release to the poison that woman feed me for so many years. i am posting this year’s letter as a catharsis for me. if it offends you, i am sorry. This is the warning. It speaks very ill of the woman who raised me and i feel no guilt or shame in writing or sharing it. if you do not like it, don’t read it. if you want to message me about respecting my mother, please just block yourself now. i have a high respect for women  who act like a mother, i have no respect for this woman.

Sue,

How long since we last talked? A few years ago when i begged for a call for my birthday, that it would be nice to just talk to you for a few minutes on that day. I don’t even count that, the last spoken words were years before that. I gave up on having you in my life. Not because i don’t want you there, but because you are way too toxic for me.

How do you tell your 18 year old who is suffering from depression and a suicide attempt, you are kicking them out? that you can’t live with them anymore? You were told multiple times by multiple teachers and therapists i was likely autistic. Your response? “It’s just a behavior thing. If she prays and asks god to help her, he will. She just needs to behave normally and it will all work out.” ever wonder why i turned my back on your “god”? that right there. i couldn’t be enough for you and i was never good enough. So i tried a final time and walked away. Did you know i got diagnosed at age 30 with autism? Of course you don’t.

I remember when a family friend sat the 4 of us down and told you about my self harm. Your response was typical for you. “what did i do wrong as a mother?” and the ever popular “what did i do to deserve this?” i was the problem, always. If there was a fight between my sister and i, you sided with her. Told me to just go along so she’ll shut up. it was always on me to be the bigger person. Telling me i was the reason you were in therapy, that made me feel so good.

The fun part is i was the good girl. i never snuck boys into the house when everyone was sleeping to fuck them. i don’t know if you ever knew about that one. i didn’t tell you back then because your precious sweet eldest daughter would have kicked my ass for telling on her. Her first time was with a black guy. You didn’t know that part i am sure. After all your racist self said you didn’t care if we dated a black guy, just as long as we don’t get serious or marry one. well..... i hate to tell you this, but i kinda am in a long term friends with benefits semi-serious relationship with a black man and i am happy. I bet your weak little heart would stop when you found out it’s a poly relationship.

Did you know she enjoyed kicking me when i was down. As often as she could. if i was better at something than her, she would try to find a way to tear it down. Art g&t in middle school, she stole that from me because she didn’t want to sit and wait for me after school. She loved the music they played and had more of that music that she recorded on tape than the stuff you bought her. But it was the point of it. she didn’t want to stay so she found a reason to get me removed. I didn’t care for the music myself, i loved the art. It took me years after that to realize i had talent and i still doubt that talent to this day because of that. but you backed her because you actually loved her.

I would bet all my artistic talent that if She had told you her step dad was touching her, you’d have done something about it and not told her to stop lying. You never understood me but swore up and down that you did. No, had you understood me, you’d have known why i couldn’t succeed and tried to get me help before being forced into it. i was a burden to you and you made that very very clear.

When i came out as gay, you’d have thought i told you i killed a dozen people and used their entrails in satanic rights.

SO yeah, i am glad you aren’t in my life and i don’t have to pretend or try to be normal any more to even feel the slightest bit of acceptance. I never once felt loved or accepted in my own space until i left new jersey. Sit on your happy little high horse and sneer down at me. but while you’re looking all high and mighty up there, notice that i am not even looking at you any more. i take the time out once a year to write this to you so i don’t have to cry anymore. so my birthday isn’t sad. the reason these don’t get sent to you is i don’t care enough for you to even try to reach out. i am done and have been for years. i will continue to write one every year until the tears stop for loss of something i never even had. I will still always care and will probably cry at your passing but i don’t want you in my life ever again.

Happy Mother’s Day Sue and hope you’re birthday is filled with as much joy and happiness as mine always were. Thank you for not being in my life anymore. It was the best gift you could have ever given me.

 Sincerely, 

The child you never wanted

[selfless1978]

See this?

was on the board when I walked into my therapy appointment today. 

Let me zoom in on this spot right here.

Did you know communicating was so complicated?

*leans back in chair* 

now, that I've had time to think todays session over, I think it’s time to take my fucking stand.

those this is meant for will probably never read this, but I really don’t care. that isn’t what this is about. But, I was namelessly shamed in public, and, it may be petty, I will retaliate in public.

Therapist approved, sometimes petty is needed. Bet you didn’t expect to hear that one, did you?

i’m fucking tired of hiding in my corner wondering what the hell I did wrong.

fact is, like it or not, i’m not the only one at fault here.

See, the thing is with communication is, it’s not solely dependent on what I’m trying to say, the meaning is also dependent on how you take it. I know what I was trying to do, and say, you were the one who misinterpreted it. 

So, yes, maybe I could have been clearer in my writing, questions, feelings, but I am not responsible for how you take it. If you feel it was manipulative, and that is what you chose to believe without clearing things up, that’s all on you.

I’m tired of feeling guilty for what you think.

So, now, with that door now opened, let me continue.

I am no innocent, I know this, I understand this. Fuck, I’m living it every day. I make mistakes. I’m fucking human. If I fuck up, I will apologize, if you let me. On the other hand, I am a person looking for help because I can’t make heads nor tails of who and what I am. You know what the therapist told me? I’m a very insightful person, but I am one who can’t put my feelings in the same line with my observations and reasonings. There is even a term for it. Stuck point.

I’ve got a shit ton of stuck points.

now, let me zoom in to here.

Look at this real hard.

This, is how I think. This is my ticker. This is how I see the world. This is what I want to change. 

See some things in there? I do. Lord knows I’ve whined to a lot of you often enough about these things. You’d be blind if you didn’t see some of these repetitive habits. I know I needed help. I also know I may have pushed some of you too far. I get that. Don’t think that just because I kept doing it that it fell of deaf ears when I was told I needed help. But, until I finally got into therapy, who else did I have? 

some of you do remember that that fucking waitlist was over a year long, right?

of course I was going to be repetitive, I had no one else to turn to beside those  I trusted. I literally had no one to take me by the hand and guide me on how to break these habits. Not knowing how to change is a far cry from not wanting to change.

Does it make it ok for me to turn you guys into my personal therapists? No. It does not. I fully understand that too. Stop beating me with it upside the damn head. I can’t move on from it if others refuse to let me. I’m not proud of who I was during my worst meltdown, I have no intention of going back there, so why am I still being held accountable for it. It’s not who I want to be, and I don’t want to be that way again.

Now, on to this little box. It combines with the picture above.

And it all adds up to why I REact the way I do.

1) because so much shit has gone wrong, I over compensate by trying to ‘fix’ things. oh? you bully my friend? come here motherfucker, i’ll knock your lights out. oh? we don’t mesh as RP partners? what do I have to change? Oh? I accidentally upset you? Let me grovel for three days apologizing.

why is this?

it’s because I’m trying to take control back of my own life. I’m trying to combat all these uncontrollable scenarios by trying to fix any and everything I can. I have a huge Mr Fix It complex. It’s also one of, if not the core, reasons why I can’t let shit go. I have to have some kind of positive resolution. It eats at me, so hard. None of you understand fully the depths of my pain when I can’t fix something. It breaks me, I cry for days, weeks on end. Because, once more, I was proved that I have no control over my life and I’m a piece of shit not worth living.

Think about that the next time you start a fucking countdown and not informing the other person they are the target then completely shut them out. 

2) See that other green arrow? Esteem. Despite my big ass mouth, I don’t have a very good self esteem. Something goes wrong, it’s my fault. I did it. I fucked everything up. It’s all on me and I’m a horrible human being. And if I can’t fix something, it throws me into a pit of depression that I can’t crawl out of. Because I can’t fix a damn thing if the other person refuses to talk to me.

Why is that? How is it my fault that a damn plane lost a wheel and it fell onto my house of all places?

Because, as a society, we are engrained to believe bad things happen to bad people, and the good people get all the good things. Therefore, my therapist is fighting the wall of, “All this happened to me, I deserve to take over hell”.

I accepted my blame, not willingly, but I did all the same. Because to me, it was the ‘normal’ thing to do. I would sit here and go “what did I do now?” and rarely ever question the belief that, hey, guess what, it’s not all my fault. I ended up hiding, not talking to anyone, shutting even more folks out who were only on the peripheral of events.

3) and this ties in with three, the lesser ones. Trust, intimacy and safety.

I trusted you. I tell you things in confidence, and it was thrown back in my face. I let you into my safety zone, I let you see the most vulnerable parts of me, and you slap me in the face. Using what I told you in attempts to heal and move on as reasons to feul your ‘gut’ feeling.

Well, your ‘gut’ needs some Imodium because it was completely off the mark here. And now there is shit all over the floor.

So, go ahead and sit back. Wash your hands of me. Sit on your high horse of miscommunication and, therapist flat out stated, hurtful behavior. Call me out on things I did to protect myself, ignoring the hypocrisy that you did the exact same fucking thing to me. Keep sucking in the public sympathy while I sat here in silence and cried just as much as you say you did. Let them call me a bully, idiot, manipulative. You, are no better than me. We both made mistakes. Your horse is no fucking higher than mine after all.

It took me this long to come out and say these things, but by god, I’ll still have my god damn say!

I had reached a point where I was tired of trying to fight these fights. I was tired of having my mistakes held up to my face. I wanted so very much for someone, anyone, to just take a stand up and put the gloves on for me. Because I couldn’t see the point in it anymore. I was tired. Just mentally done with trying to figure any of this shit out. I didn’t have the energy or will power to respond earlier.

Well, guess what. I see a different point. And It’s one I need to make. I should thank you for giving my therapist something current to use to help me.

I’ll very well still stand up on my feet after getting knocked down. Sure, it gets harder and harder each time. But I’ll keep dragging myself up, dust myself off, readjust, and move on.

The main reason I posted this, in all honesty, is to give the rest of you some insight on my thinking. Some kind of glimpse in my head. I have no intention of bringing this up anymore after this. And, honestly, I shouldn’t even have to type this out. But, I tell you now, it’s out. Read over what I’m saying very carefully. If this is the kind of person you can not deal with, then I advise you to not interact with me.

I make no pretense on being guiltless or blameless. I am what I am, if you can handle it is now up to you. I can’t give you any better insight with out recording my damn therapy sessions. I’m going to mess up. After all, I’m only fucking human.

[raendown]

Day 3 of @madatobiweek and today’s prompt hidden relationship was inspired by this wonderful art by @dimancheetoile. Bet you forgot I wanted to write something for it, eh? 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3535 Summary: Shattered by those they trusted, Madara and Tobirama bring the jagged pieces of themselves together in the practice of kintsugi. What once was broken is brought back to life with an unexpected appeal.

Edit: lol when you forget to go back and actually add the information

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

But Broken Live On

It was hard to say which surprised him more: finding out that his partner of six months had been cheating on him for two or finding Madara half-drunk in the same bar he had chosen to drink his own worries away in. After standing in the rain for five minutes because the shock of seeing his partner fucking another man had rendered him immobile and forced him to watch for that long, dealing with a drunken and possibly volatile Madara seemed like a great time in comparison.

And what did he have to lose, really?

Tobirama ignored the bartender’s pitying look when he ordered two bottles of sake and no cups, only tossed a few notes on the counter and swiped his poison of choice, toting them over to where his worst enemy sat slumped halfway down his seat. When he slid in across the booth Madara blinked at him foggily.

“Yeah,” Tobirama agreed with the other man’s vacant expression. “It’s been that sort of day.”

Halfway in to his first bottle his noticed that the other patrons in the bar were giving them a wide berth, likely more afraid of the violence they were capable of rather than the trouble they were likely to cause. Anyone with eyes could see that neither of them were in the mood for more than drowning their respective woes. Still, he was grateful for the privacy it afforded them both; despite sitting only a tabletop apart, the lack of interaction made it feel as though he were perfectly alone.

Eventually, once he’d gotten about a third of the way in to the second bottle, Madara stirred and seemed to finally register that there was someone sitting across from him. His dark eyes squinted blearily in an attempt to steady his vision but when he figured out it was only Tobirama he did nothing but slump further down and wave his hand sloppily for another bottle of whatever he was drinking. When the bartender arrived to drop it off Tobirama caught his arm and quietly asked for two more bottles.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea, Senju-sama?” the man asked nervously. Tobirama glowered.

“Just for that you can bring three and I’ll thank you to shove your opinions up your own ass.”

He scoffed as the man scuttled off. Across the table, Madara let out a rumbling belch.

“Coward,” he commented shortly.

“All men are cowards.” Tobirama swigged down the last of his first round of sake, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “Dirty cowards who can’t say shit to your face but they sure can fuck around when your back is turned.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Madara conceded.

After watching his companion drain his own bottle Tobirama gave him an assessing look. “You drink like this a lot?” It certainly would explain why he was so grumpy all the time if he was constantly dealing with hangovers. Madara shook his head no, disproving his half-baked theory before it was fully formed.

“Special occasion,” the man grunted. Tobirama had never heard anyone put so much venom in to two simple words. Nor had he ever been so intrigued.

“Go on then, what are we celebrating?”

“The cowardice of men and the fucking around they do behind our backs.”

“Right. Right.”

Neither of them spoke as their drinks arrived on a tray, served to them with a tight expression. Tobirama stared the bartender down until the man turned and walked away with his spine held stiffly upright, his body language caught halfway between offended and terrified. Civilians were fun to rile up, even if he had too much decorum when sober to lower himself to such petty activities.

Alone again, both of them picked up whichever alcohol happened to be closest to hand, paying little attention to who ordered what, and raised their bottles to clink them together in the most depressing toast Tobirama had ever seen. Once they had both drank deeply and he had discovered that Madara preferred whiskey as his alcohol of choice, he mirrored his companions pose with a heavy slump.

“I’m sure you’ll be ecstatic to know that you are now only my second least favorite person in the world. Never thought I would hate anyone more than I hate you but life’s funny like that, I guess. Except I’m not laughing.”

“You’ve never laughed in your life,” Madara pointed out, following his observation with a muted hiccup.

Lowering his chin, Tobirama looking his companion dead in the eye and flatly drawled, “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Oh much better.”

“Hn.”

“So I know what ruined my life. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Excuse you but I do not wear panties.” Tobirama frowned, trailing of for a moment. “And if I did I would look fantastic in them. Not the point. I don’t wear panties. I mean Jurou asked me to once but fuck him.”

“Here here!” Madara chugged back a few mouthfuls. “Why are we fucking him?”

Tobirama threw both hands in to the air wildly, just barely missing one of the sake bottles. “Because he’s fucking other men! Six months! Down the fucking drain! I gave him everything he ever asked of me and what do I get for it? Nothing. I get fucked around.”

In his anger he almost didn’t notice the unsteady yet contemplative look he was getting,

“You get cheated on too?” Madara asked, his voice strangely quiet. Tobirama snapped his head around, pausing to press the heel of his hand against his forehead when the motion caused the room to spin around him and sent a wave of nausea crawling down his throat. When he regained his bearings he dropped the hand.

“Too?” was all he managed to say. Madara grunted.

“At least all you wasted was six months and not two damn years.”

Scrunching up his nose, Tobirama grunted back. “Didn’t even know you were dating anyone, to be honest.”

“Yeah well, same to you. Who would date your stupid cold face?”

“Well I thought Jurou but look how that one panned out for me.” It was no wonder he never took his brother up on all those offers to talk when he felt down. Rehashing it now really wasn’t helping him feel any better. Clearly he was not the talk therapy type.

Madara shifted in his seat, a flash of guilt there and gone from his face in the same moment. “I get that.”

“What about you, huh? Two years. That’s…that’s really shitty, Uchiha.”

“Shitty doesn’t even begin to describe it. I mean, I’m not saying I was perfect to him or nothin’. But he never complained so how was I supposed to know he wasn’t happy? Then I go out to the shed to grab…and he’s…shit.” Unable to make himself say it, Madara shook his head violently, trying to cast the images out by sheer force of will.

“We should do something about it.” Generally not a man much given to crimes of passion, revenge served hot sounded much better to him after – Tobirama had no idea how much sake he had consumed by this point.

“Yes! We should! We should fuck around on them!”

Tobirama let his head fall back so he could bark out a laugh. “It wouldn’t accomplish much,” he pointed out. “But damn if that doesn’t sound like it would make me feel a hell of a lot better. Get what you give or however that saying goes.”

Struggling to right himself on his sticky booth seat, Madara leaned forward across the table, hair spilling over the scuffed wood like swirling pools of ink. “We should – we should go fuck. In one of their beds. That’d fucking show ‘em we don’t care. That they don’t matter! We don’t need them, right?” His eyes were full of shadows and fire and Tobirama smothered the last shreds of sobriety and good sense with a wicked grin.

“Right,” he breathed.

How they got out of the bar, he didn’t know. It was almost like he had accidentally used his hiraishin without knowing as one minute they were standing on shaky knees and holding on to the table to steady themselves, then the next they were stumbling down a half lit street somewhere, laughing raucously as they used each other for support. He couldn’t remember if they paid for the rest of their drinks or not but such a small detail felt so far away when he was much too busy admiring the flush of intoxication on Madara’s cheeks.

Where they were or where they were going felt supremely unimportant and Tobirama wondered for a moment if he had ever been so free of worry before in all his life. Suddenly he had a new appreciation for why Hashirama liked to get drunk in the gambling dens so often. If this was what it felt like to lose his head to alcohol then he wondered why more people didn’t do this every day.

Surely the morning headaches couldn’t be anywhere near as bad as the rumors made them out to be. Hashirama had always been a shameless exaggerator.

Eventually they stumbled inside a house whose wards nearly fried him alive before Madara disarmed them at the last minute, snickering and describing in awful detail the gruesome death he had only barely avoided. Tobirama listened, fascinated.

“I don’t think I’d like that,” he decided after a very serious moment of consideration.

“Yeah, you’d look even dumber with your head fried off,” Madara agreed.

They fumbled through the door together, hands fisted in each other’s clothing as both of them tried to pull themselves upright using the other’s shirt. Laughter slowly faded away in to silence, the sound of it gradually swallowed up in the dark emptiness of the home, and Tobirama only realized he was up against a wall when Madara pressed in closer to him and there was no room to back up.

When his swaying vision found Madara’s face, there was a heat in his eyes and a grin on his mouth – and Tobirama had never found him so attractive.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

“Maybe.” Pushing up on to his toes so that their eyes were level, Madara bit his lip and did his best to pretend his fingers weren’t tracing the shapes underneath Tobirama’s skin tight shirt. “Didn’t we come here to fuck? Around? I mean we can fuck and fuck them around I, uh, think. Yeah?”

“Same thing,” Tobirama managed to spit out before lurching across the last couple of inches before them and crashing their mouths together. Embarrassingly, he mostly missed. On the other hand it didn’t seem like his companion cared very much. After correcting for his bad aim, Madara kissed him back with more passion than Tobirama had been on the receiving end of in his last three relationships combined, drawing a satisfied groan from his throat in response.

Their feet stumbled as Madara pulled them away from the wall, guiding the way blindly through the house, but both of them refused to separate. It felt amazing to experience passion again, to feel wanted and desired after the shock of realizing that they weren’t enough for the others who were meant to be loyal to them. Alcohol left their bodies both numb and hyper aware and that was enough to distract from the vague looming thought of what consequences might await them after tonight, leaving them free to indulge in the rush of what was happening in the here and now.

Eventually they made it deeper in to the house and managed to tumble down on top of a bed. Not even Madara seemed completely sure that this was indeed his own bed but it mattered little to either of them as he threw a leg over to straddle Tobirama’s thighs, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“I want – I want to ride you.”

Tobirama grunted, more than okay with that but lacking the faculties to express his agreement. Instead he reached up to pull Madara down in to another kiss while his other hand began to tug at someone’s obi; his or Madara’s he had no idea. They struggled together to remove their clothing, giggling together as well when Madara’s shirt got stuck in his hair and when Tobirama couldn’t reach to remove his pants with another body sitting across his hips.

Amusement was forgotten as soon as they were naked, however. Hands immediately began to wander, tracing muscles and stroking skin, clumsy in their inebriation but the floating sensation of the drink only increasing their excitement. Madara whined when Tobirama’s fingers found his entrance, bucking in to the touch. In return Tobirama pressed more firmly against him even as his other hand lifted away to search under the pillow and on top of the night stand.

“Damn it,” he cursed. “Where the hell-? Lube. Need – ah!” A shudder wracked his body and cut off his words, distracted by the teeth Madara had just clamped in to the tendons of his neck.

“Under the pillow.”

“S’not there.”

“Inside the – the pillowcase.”

“Ugh. Difficult.”

As soon as Tobirama found the little tube he’d been sure would be close at hand, he wasted little time in popping off the cap and distributing a small amount, reaching around to press his fingers back to the spot they had just been prodding. A sloppy grin of triumph lit his features when Madara whined again and pressed back, gasping when two of his fingers slid in together.

“No slow,” Madara growled. “Need – ahhh.”

“Need to shut up and lemme work is what you need.” Tobirama did his best to ignore the flush on his cheeks. For some reason it felt incredibly important that Madara not know how much he was enjoying himself at the moment and yet he was determined to make this good for the older man.

It was obvious he was doing well at that endeavor, too. Madara squirmed and bucked, his hips writhing constantly as he fucked himself open on two, then three of Tobirama’s fingers. Each time he found the angle for those fingers to brush up against his prostate he gave off sharp cries of ecstasy and shuddered until he lost the angle and had to search for it all over again. Tobirama encouraged him with unsteady caresses of his free hand even as his mouth mumbled a continuous stream of nonsensical words, half praising and half teasing the man for his enthusiasm.

Madara either didn’t care or couldn’t hear him past the blood thundering in his own ears as he continued to writhe and pant until finally his cries turned to half-coherent begging.

“I’m – I’m open, I’m fine. Need – just fuck me already! Gods stop, stop, let me ride you damn it!”

Rather than giving any sort of articulate response, the only thing Tobirama could do was gurgle out a sound even he didn’t recognize, removing his fingers hastily to reach down and use a bit of leftover slick to coat himself with. He guided Madara’s hips to where they needed to be and then gently encouraged him to slide down.

Completely unaware of how utterly wrecked his expression was, he didn’t understand why Madara was moaning before he even sank down on the prize he had just been begging for. As soon as he did, however, neither one of them were capable of thinking too much beyond the sensation of a tight grip around a thick cock. If Madara had been sober he would have noticed the pain of not being stretched enough but in his current state he was overwhelmed with nothing but the need for more.

What he did notice was his own lack of coordination and how difficult it was to lift his body up when he could barely feel his own limbs. Resting his elbows on the mattress and raising his forearms, Tobirama helped by giving Madara somewhere to brace himself, their fingers entwined as the older man used his palms to push off of. He must have found a good angle once again because right from the very first time he raised himself up and let gravity bring him back down he was moaning like a cheap whore.

As most drunken sex is, it was sloppy. Tobirama did what he could to rock with the hips riding him perhaps rougher than should have been pleasant. Madara’s throat grew hoarse with more noise than he had likely ever made before during this type of activity. Neither of their movements had any of the usual elegance they exuded yet it still felt incredible. Something about the wildness of their joining, the lack of inhibitions in their every thrust and cry, made the experience more intense than anything either of them could remember.

It didn’t last very long, though. Within barely a handful of minutes Madara was gasping, head thrown back to let his hair spill across Tobirama’s thighs while he babbled at the ceiling.

“Close! Fuck so close! Just like this…just like this…”

“Don’t,” Tobirama groaned underneath him. “Just wait for me you – hnn – you bastard.”

“But–!”

Squeezing their linked fingers, Tobirama closed his eyes tightly as rocked his hips with increasing urgency, chasing the end he could feel dancing just out of reach. He needed something, although it took an embarrassingly long time to realize what.

Madara nearly squealed when Tobirama let the support of his arms fall away, bringing the man crashing down on his chest. Tobirama drew him in to a searing kiss and rocked his hips again, thrusting a hand between them to stroke his partner and that was it. Both of them tumbled over the edge to the broken rhythm of their bodies, voices muffled as they continued to kiss almost violently, biting at lips and sliding their tongues together until finally their hips went still and Madara collapsed helplessly on to the man beneath him.

Chests heaving, limbs trembling, neither of them spoke for a short time while they slowly came down from the high. After a few minutes Tobirama realized that he was absently stroking Madara’s endless waves of hair but didn’t bother to stop now that he’d started. It was soft and felt nice between his fingers and he didn’t see why he should deny himself the pleasure.

Eventually he felt the other man stirring, fingers clutching at his skin, and the reality of why they were here came crashing down on him like a cold slap in the face.

“Feel any better?” he asked quietly, wincing when his companion stiffened in response.

“No.” Madara’s fingers tightened in his side a second time but he said nothing about it. The alcohol mostly numbed the pain anyway. “Did we get back at them?”

“Yeah. Sure did.”

“Then…shouldn’t it feel good? I mean it felt good but…I don’t feel good. My chest doesn’t feel good. Ugh, how do people deal with all of these stupid emotions all the time?”

Madara burrowed himself further in to Tobirama’s sternum, digging his face in to the sweaty skin as though wishing he could crawl inside and hide from the world. Rather than say anything about it, Tobirama simply lay still and continued to pet the man’s hair. How could he possibly say anything when he wished he could do the same?

“What do you think I did wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Tobirama’s heart missed a beat and just like that he could once again feel the cracks that the alcohol had filled in for a time. “Whatever it was, I must have done it too.”

“Yeah well…you’re dumb.”

“And you’re an ass.”

“Thanks.”

Honestly, Tobirama thought that being call dumb just after a round of amazing sex shouldn’t have been so comforting but at the moment he was willing to cling to any bastion of normalcy in the raging sea of confusion that was his emotions at the moment. Neither he nor the man currently falling sideways on to the bed were particularly good at emotions even on the best of days.

“Do you want to sleep?” he asked quietly. Madara hesitated.

“I’m all sticky,” he whined.

That, at least, Tobirama knew how to fix.

On shaky legs he stumbled down the hall until he found a bathroom, wetting a small hand towel and returning to the bedroom to help Madara clean up. After tossing the soiled cloth towards what looked sort of like a hamper to his fuzzy vision, he fell back down on to the bed, instinctively curling himself around the warm body already there. It registered only dimly that this was still Madara but he couldn’t bring himself to care. They were both sad and broken and he felt the oddest sense of comradeship between them for the first time in their lives.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Madara mumbled in to his pillow. Whether he meant for the rest of that night or simply in general, Tobirama wasn’t sure. Either way he agreed.

They fell asleep with satisfied bodies and aching hearts, twisted together and holding fast to each other as their only comfort in a world that had hurt them both.

[tylerwritez]

Saturday, June 19 2021

I dont know how I feel about the day yet cos right now its only 10:13. I dont post these exactly on the days I write them, but I write them on these exact days nonetheless.

My throat still hurts, my ass hurts, oUch,.... I'm sure you know why. Like, when you suck dick, it takes throat strength to make sure you don't fucking vomit everywhere and like. I OBVIOUSLY dont have that strength since I had to wash vomit outta my hair this morning

Hes so hot tho oh. My god.

Whatever. New day. So we talk about new things.

Star seems kinda sad but I dont really know why? She said on her story that people dont really go outta their way to talk to her... idk. I shot a good morning dm and now I'm here. I made my bed. Packed up my shit. Every time we pack things up my parents rage cos they always find shit they dont want to see: monster cans, evidence of my self harm, etc.

We have 1 more week then school is OVER and I move outta this house cos of the divorce. Jay will be gone too... I still have his insta, but I might ask for his number... just in case. I always get weirdly attached to people I fuck even if there was never any romantic part of the relationship. We are just friends.

Apparently we are going to the pick n pack today with my friend let's call her Zara. It's notfar off from her real name but whatever. Basically pick n pack is where you go to a vegetable garden and pick vegetables

I have a test soon but idk if I'll study for it. I NEVER really put work into studying or pay attention in class and I'm holding an 82 average. I got a 39 once, so once I retake that quiz I might be in the 90s. Sorry Mr. Renal, I simply can't bring myself to care about your class 😢

I LOVE my art class tho. It's just doing ART!!!! ART TIME!!!! Art is the best and I would post some of mine but my irls would proabably find me then. Like my name isnt ACTUALLY Jude Shepard. I'm just using it as a penname and also cos that's what they called me in my dream. But other than that everything I tell y'all is real. I'm making buttered toast rn.

3:38 p.m.  sat june 19th

I've decided to include a song recommendation with every entry. Today's recommendation: A Match Into Water by Pierce The Veil

Okay so it turns out we didnt go to pick n pack with Zara. Instead we went to downtown... White Ave. It was sunny n we walked a bit, got lemonades and a bit of candy, went into stores, idk. BUT. The notable part of this is that next to the farmers market there were all the usual activist groups: falun gong, vegan, whatever... but one of them looked like it was a LEFTIST GROUP, possible marxist.

I wanted to talk to them so badly and wanted to see how I could help the cause. See, I'm a communist. AND IM NOT HERE TO DEBATE THAT. I'm here to talk about my days. Anwyays I wanted to talk to them sO BADLY. but my parents wouldn't leave me alone. And like. I hate political discussion with them. They just upset me and they get mad and I CANT AFFORD TO MAKE THEM MAD. I play everything that goes on with me on the Down Low, I dont talk about anything about myself because if I do, I get less freedom in my life. They have control in my life, so I have to appease them. Because of this, I unfortunately did not get to talk to the communists :(

Hopefully they're still there next time... I'm kinda mad >:(

Also Star replied to my good morning text... I told her to have fun shopping since that's what she told me she was gonna do... she just said "thanks" and I was concerned because THATS NOT HOW SHE TYPES? I feel like shes sad over something but i dont know what.

The day me and Jacob did stuff, I was supposed to walk her to her bus stop like I always do. But I didnt (duh) I took Jacob home.

But IT WAS ONE! DAY. And I told her my dad called me over so.... I apologized too and she seemed mad at herself, but in the way that's intended to make you feel bad.

I dont understand her sometimes. I LOVE HER. DON'T GET ME WRONG. I love her so so much shes such a great supportive funny attractive girl! But soemtimes she gets upset and I can never tell why: is it the depression? Is it me? Is it soemthing else entirely? And she'll never tell me.

Whatever, I'll ask her how she is tonight and maybe we can Talk :/

I might never tell her about Jay... :P I might never tell ANYONE about Jay. It's our little secret I guess >:))))))

Man see? I'm no saint. I guess that's what'll make this blog worth reading. I'm a bit conflicted about the whole thing cos I KNOW this is morally not right but. I'm doing it anyways. What can I say? I'm used to lying and hiding things for my benefit. I had to do it to survive and now? Now I do it for funsies.

I'm gonna pack some more stuff, TTYL ♡

UPDATE: we had to go look at houses for the move (since my parents r divorcing) and I didnt get to pack much of anything yet

I'm definently over my cal limit today...

        Cold sweet or carbonated drinks help with my throat pain so I'm downing them like they're NOTHING and since we have no zero  cal cold drinks I'm DEAD... and no, water does NOTHING.

Jeez, its raining out.

And FUCK JAY cos hes still on my mind.

Its 4:11 p.m. now.

Its now 7:56 p.m.

I kinda feel like an edgy main character in an edgy movie rolling up to the park and sitting #alone in the Treez like the emo band music video protagonist I am.

Sometimes its exhausting to talk to people I care about in a serious way or that I talk to in a more sincere manner like Star and Jay and others. Even if they're just friends. If our interactions are serious and not really casual and usually play out like long deep conversation, I feel like to respond to or even read their messages, I need to have like an hour allotted to conversation. Soemtimes I see the messages early and have to pretend I didnt see em cos I dont have internet to respond or time to respond its. Funny. Idk.

Anwyays I'm binging chocolate in a park alone and like. Rotting my fucking teeth OH WELL 🤷🏻‍♂️ whatcha gonna do.

Its 8 now so I should head home. I just biked to the s4ve 0ns to get my dad white choclate but. If I'm going to s4ve 0ns... YOU BET YOUR ASS IM GONNA STE4L SHIT. THAT PLACE IS EASY AS FUCKKK.

Also I'm kinda addicted to sh0pl1fting. The THRILL I get from it is so insane. It's fun! And you get free stuff! I know If i get caught I'm risking a lot. I'm aware. But I dont really care. Every step I take nowadays is risk taking. So why not take more?

I dont care about nonsense therapy. Fuck that.... actually I'll explain why i dont go to therapy for my shit:

1. I cant

2. I don't trust it

Anwyays yeah.

My throat still hurts. Idk, I just like to be in the sun and shit ALONE.

ALONE! It's so funny to me how now I like my time alone but as a kid I'd proabably kill for some positive attention. Well... it's more complex than that, but I wont go into it tonight.

Pls watch me die of diabetes soon from eating all this fucking chocolate.

My parents said to stop drinking monster and I wANT THEM TO TRUST ME so i can go out with my friends... but also I shoulda got monster outta spite. Heart palpitations my ASS.

Tonight I'll be talking to Jay AND Star. At the same time. Which is awkward... Which is MY OWN MESS TO CLEAN UP. I actually accept full responsibility. But also its awkward.

Whatever. I'll sort it out.

My parents arent being as complicated as usual. I guess they're tryna reverse all those years of... emotional neglect i guess? Something.

Something. Which isnt nothing.

But also I think they're guilty over the divorce. Like. Today my dad was like "do u ever feel sad? Blah blah blah... how do u feel rn" and I was like smiling tryna play off his question like it was absurd and I said "uhm idk... *fake laugh* normal?"

THE TRUTH WAS THAT I WAS A BIT CONFUDDLED ABOUT WHAT I WAS GONNA DO REGARDING. LITERALLY CHEATING. ON MY GF. WITH SOME DUDE IN MY ART CLASS. JUST FOR SEX.

But then he was like "this isnt normal." And he looked all sad.  But on my way to the park here, I thought about it a bit more. And actually... it IS normal. The divorce rate is smthn like 60 percent in the states and 40 percent in canada... which is where I live.

Yknow... if my irls find this,,, all I have to say is sorry. Be as mean as you want.

I've already accepted my fate as a degenerate scumbag anyways lol.

Actually... how DO I feel? Hmm... laying in this field.

Urgency.

I have a lot of stuff to do.

Physical pain, but that's not. A FEELING.

I guess anticipation to TALK TO PEOPLE.

Regret from my binge... I better get home.

You know what's so funny to me? I cant purge on my own... but dick makes me vomit. Like the one time I DONT want to throw up, I do. Damn okay.

Well its 8:18 so I'm going home maybe. Soon. For now, I think I'll stay a little longer.

Yknow one thing I didn't expect to be sore was my arms... which I used to prop myself up to... yknow, suck Jay...

I still remember he said: "you're trembling." And I was like FUCK because I thought the trembling was HIM... •_• it's okay though I'll learn to do better.

Idk tho... I feel comfortable with him. Even as nervous as I am and embarrassed to be. Naked. In front of soemone else. And such. He makes me feel comfortable. Look, I did my best, DUH of cOURSE I did my best, I'm the type who will work hard at stuff even if they're getting hurt. I didnt mind honeslty. My goal in that part was just to make him feel good. Equal exchange, yknow? He did the same thing to me.

But like, he can tell when I gag and he tells me not to hurt myself and of course I keep going, I'm not about to SToP. But. I dont kNOW. Him talking to me like that makes me feel a lot safer doing stuff like that you know?

I like when he starts kissing me and touching me like he cant contain himself its almost animalistic and VERY FUCKING HOT

I feel like I talk about him too much but you gotta realize that was my FIRST time

1. Sucking dick

2. having MY junk sucked

3. Having anything put. Inside me. (It was just his finger but stILL)

So yeaH. Of course I'm gonna talk about it. A lot.

He said I was adorable. He said he likes how, when he leans over me, I take in a breath... how he could make me flinch.

THATS HOT ISNT IT.

I feel like I'm getting lost in his charm when I shoULD be tryna fix shit with my girlfriend. She seems sad and I'm worried.

But there isnt much more to say until I DM her tonight...

I really fucked up, didn't I? I totally fucked up and now my brain is all confused. But I have to remember that Jay is only about sex. He would be nice to cuddle, since hes fucking HUGE and I'm kinda on the short side, but he doesnt talk to me out of love. He does it out of lust. And yeah... I really only want sex from him too. But like. Star and I are COMMITTED. We got our feelings wrapped up together. Emotionally and romantically.

So. I should proabably like... stop fucking with Jay. Tell Star what I did. And hope she forgives me. That's the morally correct thing to do.

But like... do I EVER make the morally correct decision? No. Not really. I'm a piece of shit. Whatever. Its highschool anwyays we arent mating for life. IM NOT SAYING WHAT I DID WASNT BAD. IT WAS. VERY BAD.

but I'm gonna keep making bad decisions.

I DO FEEL BAD.... but look. If we're being logical about this and tryna maximize my benefit here,, I should keep Star as my girlfriend and TREAT HER WELL... but with Jay as a fuckbuddy on the side. Hes leaving the school soon anwyays so then we'll hang out less...

That's my plan, anyways.

I KNOW I'm a bad person. I'm aware. But it's just a fact of life.

I'm cheating with my cards here in so many places: stealing, lying, cheating, disobeying my parents, not paying attention in class.. IM KIND OF AN ASSHOLE KID. Idk. It's kinda whatever to me. I'm fucking harry Houdini, okay? I can get out of anyhting. This isnt me being cocky... I have historically gotten out of MANY tight situations, even some that risked my life, and I'm still here. I think I'm a walking lucky charm or SOEMTHING

Welp, we know if gods real I'm going to hell.

I dont really care. Idk. I guess I'm just at that risk taking phase in.my life. That doesnt  justify anything... but it explains it. And it's possible to explain without justifying.

Man,,, I guarantee whoever reads this blog is gonna hate my guts.

Whatever. It's my fucking journal/diary lol.

I can sorta say whatever I'd like.

It's funny because I always thought I was trustworthy and had no commitment issues BUT HEY I GUESS NOT.

I keep telling myself, cut him off, YOU AVE A GIRLFRIEND, FESS UP AND APOLOGIZE... but then I picture his STUPID smirking face and I CANT.

Maybe I am in love double.

Doesnt matter if I am... i still did a bad thing.

DAMN.

Well... I'm headed back home now. 8:41. I'm gonna pack my shit, change, watch youtube,,,, I guess I should check my google classroom and like. do my fucking homework... cos I haven't done it yet.

Then I'll update yall.

11:51 p.m.

Hey guys I'm back with an update.

I talked with both of then... star doesnt seem interested in having an actual conversation,,, shes just talking  about  random bs. Which is fine but I dont rly get what shes saying half the time COS SHES NOT BLUNT ENOUGH. and then the other half shes going on about how much she hates life. Like.

I do love her. We've bonded. I AM concerned about her. But sometimes I feel like she doesn't really try. Like I can talk her down from suicide all I want but everything I say is wrong and cliched and based off my own experience with suicidal thoughts and like... my mentality has always been sorta toxicly masculine. Push through, and push through alone. I CANT ALWAYS HELP! And it makes me feel shitty. Idk. She'll be okay, I know so cos of her story posts and drawings.

I feel bad but I know I can't help much. We talked a little. Idk, we didnt get anywhere. I love her but shes acting in a way that tells me soemthing is wrong but I CANT FIX THAT THING. SO. yeah, theres not much to say. I wish I could take away all her pain but I can't.

I talked to Jay as well... I DONT KNOW WHATS HAPPENING BECAUSE I LIKE HIM SO SO MUCH. SO MUCH. HES LITERALLY PERFECT. sexy, kind and super considerate, he always makes sure I'm comfortable... I dont KNOW,,, hes sweet.

Hes not romantically interested in me. Which is a bit sad. Sometimes I want to tell him "I love you!!!" But then I remember that we are, in his words, friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. Two horny teenage boys who just wanna fuck... and be friends. That's all. That's us. We aren't romantically involved nor will we ever be. I hate how my brain gets so attached to anyone I fuck... especially since I kinda see Jay as an "older brother" figure, which makes no sense until you actually meet him and vibe with him... and like,,, I've always wanted that?

Tommorow I'm gonna ask for him to come over to watch a movie... but idk if I should actually ask because my parents kinda hate me now for fucking up so much. I'll do my homework and clean my room first... which will take up all my time proabably :( it's okay. Maybe some other time :(

I dont want him to lose interest in me though.

.... its 1:56 a.m.

Okay. Okay. I'll say it. I love him.

Goodnight, tumblr.

-Jude

[criminalmastermine]

So, fun (not fun at all) fact:

*TRIGGER WARNING*

(also probably nothing you want to read so...)

Yesterday, even though it's not written anywhere and by government and general medical staff is not official... I've become disabled.

I never wanted this to happen to me. I bet no one lays on their bed and think: "oh, wouldn't it be cool if tomorrow I go to my doc's and he tells me: hun, you're disabled."

This conversation I was having with him was already going terribly wrong because... There's honestly a lot of fucked up things going on whenever I have to go see this particular doctor.

This doctor is my psychiatrist. We've been seeing each other for 3 years and a half. Previously, he saw my mom, when she was alive and treated her to his best. I requested my mom's medical records because... Oh well, it just looks to me I'm losing it the same way she did but faster. I got denied, clearly. Med records are BS and gosh the bureaucracy you have to go to get a sheet of paper is really a pain in the ass.

My mum died 3 years and a half ago. This is no one's business so, I'm just ranting because... Idk. Keeping it on my chest just fucking hurts. It was very sudden. She told all the doctors, the nurses, the auxiliaries, my father and family not to disclose a single word about what was going on. She was at the hospital for 17 days and I found out she was dying 2 days before she did. I never even got to say goodbye. So of course, my already existing depression got worse and I went through loss and had to verbally abuse my family doctor into getting me a psychiatrist because my family doctor didn't think I needed one.

Before that I had struggled for years on end with depression. I tried to commit suicide several times and almost succeeded twice. I was medically dead for maybe like a minute before they brought me back. But of course, because depression is not considered a real illness among my family members (even my mum who had suffered from it turned a blind eye) and the society I live in, everything just got ruled out as a mistake.

A fucking mistake.

I found early on that hurting myself was a shameful but useful way to take my mental pain away and cover it by physical one. So as an 11 year old pre-teen/child I scratched the living shit out of myself and blamed the dog or my clumsiness on it and, even if no one believed it, they nodded their heads. And that's honestly part of what I wanted. I didn't want people to find out I self-harmed myself, that I was depressed or that life was meaningless to me as whole most of the time, because I knew it would pain people around me and gosh, maybe it's because I'm a Pisces, or really empathic. Or maybe just plain stupid. I thought lying to them and myself was the best thing to do. Was I wrong.

There was a side of me that craved constantly that someone would notice that I wasn't okay and they would explain to me why that happened to me or how I could make it stop or whatever. I just... Didn't want people to know I did all that shit to myself.

So I kept all my emotions bottled. I saw people suffer around me and voicing it. I saw how those people got attention from teachers and family and friends and they treated them with cottons. And I didn't want that. I didn't want a different treatment. I didn't want people to pity me. I just wanted someone to tell me how to make it stop. And since I knew no one would be able to explain it to me without me having to talk about every single thing in my life that hurt me... I kept my mouth shut. I kept it shut for so many years that when it came the time to voice them, nothing came out.

I used sarcasm to cover my pain when I talked about thing that hurt me because I was on therapy and I had to talk about what hurt me. And I talked about it like I was a third person seeing a little girl's life get ruined over and over again. And then, my therapist told me she had patients that needed help more than I did. With a single sentence she invalidated all my pain. She invalidated a year of me trying to open up for the first time in 20 years. And I had a breakdown. Had to be stopped by nurses, was sent to my psychiatrist. Was sent to a mental hospital and my friends thought I was a weirdo. I isolated myself and no one cared. No one reached out. And I focused myself on writing and living through social media and good feeling dramas to pretend I wasn't damaged.

But it never worked. And I had be admitted again and again in the hospital. I tried all the pills, I took them all without a single complain because I just wanted to be normal, to lead a normal life.

I enrolled in school and I got kicked because I couldn't get out of bed. I was either too depressed or too drugged to live a normal life. And I got invalidated again. And I got scared, that this would happen to me for the rest of my life.

On the several times I stayed at the mental hospital I saw all kinds of people. I saw people so kind and non judgemental, people that understood me. But they weren't nurses nor doctors. They were patients. People much older than me, people that could have been my mum or my grandma, that saw a little broken girl and showed more care than people that have been with me for years.

And I got kicked from the mental hospital too. Because I used sarcasm. Because I smiled. Because I was kind. Because I was trying to live a normal life. Because they all said the same shit since I could understand the words: "you're highly intelligent, you could do better than this, you can stop this". But wouldn't I made it stop if I could?

And life got worse and then better and worse again. And I smiled, I laughed and talked. And people never saw the ugly, depressed side of me. Because I chose not to show it. Because I didn't want to hurt them by showing them it.

And then yesterday, after 3 years and a half of constant pills, treatments, admissions, opening the bottle that spilled my emotions evenly. I finally broke.

I used sarcasm. And my psychiatrist said to me: "You are so intelligent and have learned to hide things so well... You talk about your problems in a joking manner. That's why people who haven't seen you the way I've seen you behind this closed door can't see the pain you're going through. At this point, there's nothing much else I can do for you. I'm a doctor, I give people medicine to help them boost so they can continue working. But no matter what I give you, there's something stopping you and I can't do anything with my methods anymore but keep you drugged and sleepy so you don't hurt yourself. You are afraid of studying or working because they've kicked you out. There's places you could try to go to. Places where with your disability they would understand if you couldn't make it a day."

And the world stopped for me.

What did he mean by "disabled"?

People at the mental hospital, younger people, craved that title. So they could free themselves from many things. So they could get stability without having to apologise for what they couldn't do. They wanted to be disabled mentally so they had an excuse.

But I don't. I've only wanted to move on, heal and get to where I could get because of my own merits. And now it's not possible because I carry a title that will have people look at me in a different light. And no one knows what went inside those walls. I don't want it to happen. But it's there. It's true. I can't change it.

Someone finally admitted what I knew but didn't want to admit seriously because I was and am scared. I'm broken. And I will never be fixed. And even if I got fixed, I would never be the same.

There's two only treatments available for me. Imagine your average psychiatric ward from 1930's and their inhumane treatments. That's the only medical choice I have left. And they can't warrantee it will meld the broken pieces.

Is this the only thing left in my life? A fake smile, electroshock and inner pain? Is that all you can see in my eyes?

So what if I'm broken? Haven't I been for a long time? Am I not the same as I was before? Why are they looking at me differently?

Why can't I see myself in the mirror as I was anymore?

[tessatechaitea]

Aquaman #1

In 1994, Aquaman was reduced to playing at State Fairs with only 1/3 of his original band.

It's as if the cover artist was only told that Aquaman would have long hair in this series three minutes before the cover was due. Or maybe Aquaman's insane hair is simply there to distract from whatever the fuck is going on with his legs. I know he loses a hand in this series but I didn't know he started off missing his left leg below the terribly misshapen thigh. Don't look so shocked that I own an Aquaman comic book! Think of it more as owning a Peter David comic book. And even Peter David couldn't keep me reading Aquaman because I only have two issues of this series. Cue King Beauregard linking to Ookla the Mok's song, "Arthur Curry," in the Disqus comment section. It's seems crazy to me that Aquaman has the worst costume of any major DC hero and yet he doesn't wear his underwear on the outside. Think about how unappealing the 1986 camouflage Aquaman suit must have been if editorial decided to go back to this orange and green eyesore? If I had been editing this comic book in 1994, I would have put this copy on the cover: "This isn't your father's Aquaman! This Aquaman is your father!" How did "long hair on an old guy with a full beard" translate into "Aquaman is super cool now, kids!"? I probably should just put this comic book back in its protective casing rather than read it since it's one of the few comic books I own that might be worth something. It's definitely in mint condition (or near mint since, you know, I breathed on it), probably because I never actually read it. I don't know for sure that I read it but it is an Aquaman comic book so Vegas is giving pretty shitty odds on my having read it. Unless I mean good odds? Which odds are good and which odds are bad? I would say shitty odds are things like winning one dollar for every five dollars bet. But that just means the odds of winning are good so that probably means they're good odds, right? So maybe read the opposite of what I wrote in that Vegas odds sentence.

"They" have never had a wet dream, apparently.

That previous caption might sound like I've eaten my own semen while having a wet dream but I totally didn't. That previous sentence might sound like I'm protesting too much but I don't know what that means and, anyway, you tasted your semen during your wet dream! Aquaman hopes he's dreaming but he can feel and taste and smell and remember and read, so he's pretty sure he's about to die. The way I know I'm dreaming is that when a dream becomes increasingly uncomfortable or horrific, I often think, "You know what? I bet this is just a dream!" And then I wake up. Which is totally a mistake! I need to train my brain to stop waking up once I realize I'm dreaming and start taking control of the dream. Although I'm not sure how enjoyable a dream would be if I were consciously in control of it. Then it's not a realy dream anymore and it just becomes an IMAX daydream. The great thing about dreams is that they're surprising. It's the only way a person can truly surprise themselves. Hallucinogenics help a bit but you're still in some kind of control. I once thought I invented comic books and that Jupiter was following me around a strip club parking lot while on mushrooms but I've never fucked a vampire as the sun rose and turned her to dust while I orgasmed like I've done in my dreams! Hey, some of my dreams might be problematic or completely gross but I didn't approve them! Like the one where I murdered the old lady so I could live in her house but I didn't want things to seem too suspicious by covering it up so I just propped her corpse up in the corner of the living room. Or the time a friend made me a personalized flavor of Moon Pie called "Murdered Baby's Soul." Dreams are like presidential campaign ads that don't have the candidate saying, "I approve this ad!", at the end of it.

Aquaman was dreaming. Also, he sleeps in a regular bed with sheets and blankets in a cave under the ocean. I would have had him sleeping in a giant clam shell with a manta ray comforter.

Garth visits Aquaman in his cave which isn't full of water so I guess the bed is forgivable. But it doesn't explain why Aquaman was floating over the bed tangled in his sheets. Maybe that will be explained in the post-Zero Hour continuity. Aquaman hasn't been seen in weeks and hasn't been answering his JL pager (Ha ha! Old technology! So funny!) so Aqualad has gone looking for him. He finds Aquaman sitting in his own filth and coral. He probably heard one too many jokes about speaking with fish and he's had it with topsiders.

Aquacave?! Guess who has Bat-Penis envy!

Garth was worried about Arthur and has come to help him which is why he begins screaming at him and pushing him around. I know being berated and treated like shit is the only way I've ever gotten any kind of breakthroughs in therapy. Garth and Arthur get in a fight and the art confirms that the cave is definitely filled with water. So that bed really doesn't make any fucking sense at all. At least it confirms that Aquaman isn't possessed by the devil. After Garth gets his ass kicked, Aquaman begins to feel better and is ready to go on an adventure with Aqualad. Oh, so that was Aqualad's plan! Smart kid whose willing to take a severe beating from a friend just to put a smile on their face. I never would have thought of that. I would have thought, "My friend is really feeling down! I should be empathetic and compassionate while listening to them vent their problems!" But now Peter David has taught me another way. Punch my depressed friends in the face so that they can have a good time fighting back! This is a game changer! Aqualad is on a military mission for the United States Government. A nuclear submarine has been sunk and it's lying too low on the ocean's bottom for the military to deal with it. For some reason, they think Aquaman, being the water guy, can handle a submarine leaking radioactive material. I'm just going to assume Superman was still dead at this point and Batman's back was still broken. I don't know why Wonder Woman wouldn't have been tasked for this mission unless it's just because the U.S. military is full of sexist jerks. Aquaman and Aqualad begin to investigate the ship when they're attacked by Lupo the Butcher.

Does Garth die?! That would make this Aquaman series cool!

Murder Chef was the one who requested Aquaman be sent on this mission. If the military didn't acquiesce, he was going to blow the nuclear submarine apart. I knew it was fucking suspicious that the military asked Aquaman for help! Even Aquaman should have known better! Aquaman is captured by Murder Chef who introduces himself as Charybdis. He wants Aquaman for his life force or something. Previous to capturing Aquaman, he's been draining Dolphin of her life force. I don't know anything about Dolphin except that she had nice nipples in her Who's Who entry. Let me dig it out and show you.

That diver just came in his scuba suit.

Don't be surprised or creeped out that this fact was lurking in my memory. I grew up in the pre-Internet era! You had to find sexually stimulating material wherever you could! And you were fucking grateful for it! This was as great a find as the succubus or the Type V demon in the D&D Monster Manual. Hell, I even jerked off to the Caryatid Columns in Fiend Folio! Aquaman #1 Rating: B. I might have given this issue an A+ but Dolphin lacked the visible nipples I'm used to her character exhibiting. But this issue still gets a worthy B because Garth was left bleeding in the ocean while the sharks circled. He's totally going to die, right? Although I never purchased Issue #3 so I'm guessing I was disappointed that Garth didn't die. Still, you'd think Aquaman losing his hand (spoiler for next issue!) would have kept me intrigued. I bet in 1994, I read this series and was all, "Fucking Aquaman! Like anybody actually cares about the environment! Fucking virtue signaler! [Sorry I Coined the Term "Manic Pixie Dream Virtue Signaler" in 1994 by Me] His excess of caring makes me love oil and corporations now! It's his fault I'm such a selfish asshole!" Man, I was pretty cool in 1994. Now I'm almost 100% pure virtue signaler! Oh, Aquaman! I judged thee by my youth alone and could not see past your idiotic power to speak with fish to lay my sight upon the wisdom of your passionate defense of our only world!

[mthevlamister]

Prom!

Hey again for @stonermurphy and @le-gay-le

I managed to change someone from boyf riends to this and I’m happy.

Next up I change my girlfriend’s ship.

I do take requests for RichxMichael, ChristinexJeremy, EvanxConnor (ohhh DEH is here), JaredxEvan, JDxMichael (the slushie ship), and more. Just send me a message with a prompt!

TW: suicidal thoughts, panic attacks.

Prom started out great.

Rich and Michael were in the back of the PT Cruiser; Bob Marley was playing in the background. Michael was making marks all over his boyfriend, and Rich? Well Rich would forever deny how loud he was.

It was wonderful, until Jake and Jeremy opened the door to the car. Rich pushed Michael away, his face flushed red. “Mi-Michael, come on.”

“Really Jeremy? Come on.” Michael whined, getting out of the car. He took Rich’s hand, leading him out to the car. “I could’ve gotten further.”

“Oh please, you’d say ‘Michael is making an entrance’ if you got that far.” Jeremy said. “Christine is waiting for me and Chloe is waiting for Jake. I can’t believe the minute Jake and I left the car you pushed Rich to the back and jumped him.”

“Okay I would totally say that, it would be worth it. Also, he looks good in a tux, right princess?” Michael turned to Rich, smirking.

“Don’t call me printheth.” Rich mumbled. “You look better in a thuit.”

“Please change his username to princess.” Jake said, wheezing at this point. 

“Change your own utherame to printheth if you want that name tho bad!” Rich hit Michael’s arm lightly. “Don’t change it.”

“I wouldn’t change it babydoll.” Michael whispered in Rich’s ear, wrapping his arm around him.

That damn name made Rich turn red. He hated that Michael had this power.

“Rich? What’d he say? Why are you red?” Brooke walked over, she was followed by Chloe, Jenna, and Christine. They must’ve been either bored or worried. “Are you okay?”

“I have my secrets to get my boyfriend to be quiet. I will never share them, they are mine.” Michael said. “I also know how to sneak pot into prom.”

“My name’s Michael, let’s get stoned in my basement and prom!” Jeremy mocked. “Ten bucks you brought some weird drink.”

“I tried. Richard wouldn’t let me.”

“You bet your athth I wouldn’t!” Rich said, grabbing his boyfriend’s arm. “He needth to try other drinkth.”

“. . . Richard almost finished all my Mountain Dew Red.” 

“THUT UP!”

“Hey! Hey, c’mon. Let’s go inside okay? I want to dance.” Christine smiled, taking Jeremy’s hand. “Of course, with the guy I am totally into.”

Everyone groaned.

~ ~ ~

Rich forgot why he tried to be cool for Michael.

The nerd was doing the robot.

THE ROBOT!

“Michael I thwear to everything I know you’re the biggetht geek I know.” Rich said, laughing his ass off. “You’re tho cute.”

“Try it Richard, I want to see a cool guy do a geeky dance.” Michael took Rich’s hands, grinning like a madman.

“You think I’m cool?” Rich flushed again. 

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I?” Michael frowned. “Richard.”

“Yeth?”

“You’re the coolest guy in the world.”

“Am I cooler than a vintage cathette?” Rich teased, remembering what Jeremy told him about Michael during the SQUIP. He thought it was hot.

He got shocked for that.

“You’re cooler than Red Mountain Dew and Crystal Pepsi on a hot day. Dare I say you are cooler than Apocalypse of the Damned!” Michael said, grabbing Rich’s shoulders.

“No way, you’re thitting me!” Rich got to play the game with Michael a few times before prom, he was actually amazing. He didn’t have the heart to tell Michael he played it and beat it awhile ago.

“I’m not thitting you.” Michael teased him, kissing his cheek.

Rich was about to come up with a response until he heard the song change and Michael pulled him to the dance floor.

It was Whitney. God why was Michael so excited?

“Michael, thith thong thucks--I uthed too many wordth with an eth, haven’t I?” Rich covered his mouth.

“Nah babe you’re good, and this song totally sucks. I want to dance with you though. This is the only music worth dancing to!”

“I beg to differ.” Rich said, twirling his boyfriend.

“Hey Rich, can I talk you to you?” Jake placed a hand of Rich’s shoulder, smiling. “Sorry Michael, can I steal him?”

“Go for it.” Michael replied as cool as he could. He waited until Jake took Rich to the punch table to begin to freak out.

He hated parties. 

He didn’t know he hated them until Jake’s Halloween party. That was his undoing. 

And here he was.

Alone.

Again.

He stopped looking up, the faces passing him were making him dizzy. He couldn’t breath. The dread was settling in his stomach. He felt his eyes burn, his legs were numb and he ran. He ran to the bathroom, at least that would give him comfort. He needed to be there.

He should have told Rich, but he didn’t. 

He was scared Rich wouldn’t care.

~ ~ ~ 

Rich became nervous.

It had been ten minutes since Jake finished telling him about how Chloe was telling Brooke how she was going home with him. Rich of course was glad his friend got this chance but he noticed Michael was missing.

He waited, maybe he just went to get food.

Now he was scared.

He ran outside, praying to everything he knew and loved Michael was getting high out back.

He wasn’t.

He didn’t know what made Michael leave, he didn’t care. Somehow it was anyone but Michael’s fault and he’d fight anyone who hurt his boyfriend. 

“Jeremy! Michael ith mithing and I’m worried!” Rich grabbed the tall boy’s arm, not caring Christine was holding that very arm. “He’th been gone for fifteen minuteth now!”

“Let me think, oh god prom was a bad idea why did I--bathroom! Shit! Grab Jake and follow me. Christine I’ll be back okay?” Jeremy turned to his girlfriend.

“Okay, that’s fine! Make sure he’s okay for me, alright? I’d go in with you but--”

“No, you have to come Chrithtine! Get Jenna, Brooke, and Chloe!” Rich cried, looking desperate, “He may need all of uth!”

“I’m on it, okay?” Christine smiled. “I’ll bring the bathroom keys, in case he locked himself in there. I’ll get the gang!”

“Me too.” Jeremy ran off with Christine, getting the rest of SQUIP squad.

~ ~ ~

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t--” Michael repeated over and over again in the bathroom. He did, in fact, lock the door. He wanted to disappear all over again. He felt alone.

He didn’t notice the door open with seven other teens searching for him.

“--SUCH A GODDAMN LOSER! I CAN’T DO THIS!” Michael was punching the wall, hoping he could break the world.

He was almost breaking his hand.

He broke down in sobs, collapsing to the floor. “Can’t do it. I can’t do it again, don’t want to be alone again. I hate being alone! I’m always fucking alone!”

“M-Michael? Hey, what’th wrong?” Rich moved closer, slowly easing to a crouch next to the crying boy. “Babe look at me.”

“R-Richard? Oh god, y-you weren’t supposed to see me like this. Why are you here? Aren’t you talking to. . . I. . .” Michael turned, stopping when he saw the rest of the group there.

It wasn’t the best idea to bring them all there.

“Hey, player one. Calm down, okay? We’re all here. We’re still your friends!” Jeremy sat down with Rich, smiling at Michael.

“Michael why would we leave you alone? We love you!” Christine sat down with them.

“Can I rub your back? If you need space it’s okay.” Jenna said; seeing Michael nod she sat down and ran her hand up and down his back. “What? Personal space is important!” she said to the group.

“Want to ditch and get Pinkberry?” Brooke asked, hearing Michael snort she sat down with them. 

“We’ll go after if you want, okay?” Chloe sat down, leaving Jake the last one standing.

Jake stepped closer. “Shit Michael you’re going to make me cry, come on man. Take deep breathes. Look me in the eyes, okay?” Michael complied. “Alright, deep breathe in,” Michael did so. “I want you to hold it, good! Now let it out.” Jake patted Michael’s head as he did so.

“. . . I wanted to die.” Michael whispered. “That night, during Jake’s party. I wished I stayed at home, offing myself or-or that I was never born. I tried that night when I got home. I-I should’ve stayed in the damn house, I should’ve stayed in the fire! I think about that every night! I-I don’t know why I’m saying all this shit, god I shouldn’t be saying this.” 

Rich stared in horror, this wasn’t the happy-go-lucky Michael he knew. This was a tired, sad, depressed Michael. A real Michael.

“Would it have been better if I stayed in the bathroom?” Michael looked up at the group, smiling.

“NO!” Rich screeched. He grabbed Michael’s hands. “NO NONO!”

“Rich don’t shout.” Jeremy said, his eyes were wide and he looked like he was going to cry. He wanted to shout too, scream how wonderful Michael was.

“Michael you’re totally important, you saved the whole school--no! You saved the world from the stupid supercomputer! We’d be mindless robots without you!” Chloe said, crawling closer. “That would suck!”

“I-I bet someone would figure it out. Richard was screaming for the stupid drink, Jeremy you figured it out during the play right? You would’ve been able to get it and save yourself.” Michael looked even more tired at that point, letting his head fall.

“Let’th go home, okay? Let’th go to your houthe. I got him guyth, I’ll drive uth to hith houthe.” Rich helped Michael up, sending the group a sad smile. He walked to the PT Cruiser. He got in the drivers seat and helped Michael buckle in. “Michael? Are you going to therapy?”

“My parents don’t believe in therapy, I usually get high when I feel like this. It helps me suppress my emotions.” Michael said, leaning on Rich’s shoulder.

“Not healthy, let’s get you home. I’m gonna thtart you with my therapitht, okay? Good, I’m glad you agree.” Rich said, rubbing his boyfriend’s arm.

They both jumped when Rich’s phone made a noise.

Brooking it to class: We’ll meet you two at pinkberry, everyone loves frozen yogurt when they’re upset.

Richard: Got it, bringing the rest?

Brooking it to class: Yup!

Rich smiled, turning the car on. “We’re making a thtop babe.”

~ ~ ~

“Strawberry frozen yogurt? You’ve got good taste Michael!” Chloe complimented the boy, she was getting her own. “Now for toppings what do you want?”

“I have no idea, I’ve never had this stuff before. What’s good?” Michael stared at the toppings area. “. . . I want actual strawberries on it! Is that cookie dough?! Why did nobody take me here before?!”

Rich watched his boyfriend place toppings on his yogurt, he felt himself relax. Michael wasn’t going to hurt himself. Rich was going to stay over at Michael’s house that night. Michael was going to start therapy the next day.

“He never told me about this, I swear.” Jeremy was still in a state of shock, unforgiving to himself. “I can’t believe I never notice, he always acted so. . . perfect!”

“Hey, it’s okay we’re getting him help.” Jenna said, smiling. “I want chocolate froyo, be back.”

“I’m getting some too, Rich you want something?” Brooke stood up, smiling. 

“Nah, I’ll eat thome of Michael’th.” Rich said, keeping his eyes on his boyfriend.

“I want some!” Jake stood up and went to the machines, just in time for Michael to sit down.

“Hey babydoll, want some?” Michael held out a spoon. Rich nodded, scooting closer. “I’m sorry for dumping all that crap on you earlier, I really wish I was normal--”

“Don’t. I’m glad you told me, thith way we can help you. I’m glad I’m here for you, now give me a kith!” Rich put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Michael grinned and kissed Rich.

It would get better.

Thanks for reading, be sure to send your own ships and prompts!