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slashbitch2 · 3 years

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The Very Nosy Neighbour

this fic was 100% inspired by this one here , but I mean it practically wrote itself I couldn't resist

NSFW

You can't remember much past waking up in an unfamiliar room- though 'room' is really a sugarcoated description, as in reality it qualifies more as some kind of cavern. You're sitting in a chair, ankles and wrists bound by an indistinguishable material. Whatever the binds are made of feels strong, so any attempts to struggle against it are futile. Yet, in spite of what really should be an extremely stressful situation, you find yourself completely relaxed. You briefly wonder whether you've been drugged, but with every sense feeling fully operational, that theory is soon dismissed.

Instead of choosing a more logical response to the circumstances you've found yourself in, you decided to focus more on your surroundings: not to form any resemblance of an escape plan, but simply out of curiosity. Although, the investigation is equally as ineffective. You're unable to name anything around you except for stone walls, strange (glowing?) vines and weird symbols carved above a few archways. Everything beyond that is either entirely lost to you, or shrouded in darkness.

With little else to do, you start to think back on the events that led you there, trying to glean any useful information from the blurry memories. The clearest image, therefore the most recent, is the smirking face of a woman, Agnes you realise. Though the malicious glint in her eyes doesn't quite match your perception of the nosy neighbour. But where is she now? Is she also in danger? You may not have known Agnes for very long, but are reluctant to let any harm come to her regardless.

With a clearer head, you consider calling for help, but a small voice at the back of your subconscious warns you against this. And the voice sounds smart, so you elect to listen to it. But what should you do instead? Where did this voice come from? And most importantly, should you trust it? Luckily, you aren't given much time to overthink the decision.

While trying to tune into this voice, footsteps echo in the distance, gradually drawing nearer. You hold your breath as the sound suddenly stops, leaving your eyes scanning the vicinity for any movement. The unpleasant reality dawns on you all too quickly: the footsteps were approaching from behind you.

“Well, well, well.” Someone says playfully, then snorts as they start walking closer. "Sorry to be a total cliché. I couldn't resist." It's Agnes. She narrows her eyes and smirks, folding her arms as she examines your constrained form. Subjected to her scrutiny, you find yourself swallowing, but your throat is too dry. Other small discomforts also become noticeable; your cramped limbs, aching back and the bruises on your hands. Well at least you put up a fight. The more rational part of you, however, realises that your hands are no longer bound. You stare down at them, flexing each finger as if checking they were all still fully functional.

Something suddenly knocks into your head and you grimace. Left reeling from the impact, you realise that you're slightly nauseated. Though not enough to stop you from reaching out to grasp the floating cup of water. The fact that the glass is suspended in mid-air doesn't go unnoticed, rather ignored, since there's too much happening simultaneously to comprehend any of it in sufficient detail. You swirl the liquid round, hesitant to drink, unwilling to trust your captor's apparent mercy.

"Drink up, dear." Agnes drags a chair forward, which seems to have just appeared out of thin air. She sits backwards on it, legs spread and arms resting on the back casually. "That's all you're getting until we're done here." The tone of her voice is both threatening and teasing. You're reluctant to admit it's quite a turn on.

One glance up at her prying expression and you relent, downing the chilled water way too quickly. Though you aren't given a chance to mourn your impatience, as with an effortless wave of her hand, Agnes refills the glass. While you sip at the water, she refuses to tear her eyes away from you for even a second. It's slightly disconcerting.

“Now," She claps her hands, startling you. "I assume you know why you’re here?”

“Not really.” You confess, unable to pinpoint why anyone would go to so much effort to kidnap you, especially Agnes, who up to this point had been an eccentric yet kind neighbour.

She sighs, more for show than anything else, and rubs at her temple. "Come on Y/N, let's not play dumb now."

Embarrassingly, a heat begins to pool deep in your gut, but you quickly dismiss the unwarranted lust. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh really?" She quirks an eyebrow, sitting upright. "You really have no idea?" The inquiry is ridiculing, and you can see that your naivety is starting to annoy her.

All you can do is shake your head and pray the sincerity is reflected in your eyes.

"Okay." She slams her hands down on her thighs. "I guess we'll have to go about this the hard way then, toots." A sharp gesture and your hands are bound before you once again.

By the time you're looking up, she's striding toward you with purpose, which does nothing to ease the building heat between your legs. Her hands clasp on the armrests either side, essentially trapping you, not like escape would've been possible without the extra precaution. Up close you finally recognize this isn't Agnes- in fact it never has been. There's a feral yet wise appearance to her, the facade of nosy neighbour dissolved in an instance to be replaced by a deranged, frighteningly powerful woman (or witch, you're undecided).

Despite your better judgement, you're unable to stop yourself from asking. "Who are you?" Your voice barely breaches a whisper, but she's standing close enough that nothing less intimate is required.

She looks mildly impressed, the corner of her mouth twitching almost indiscernibly. "Agatha Harkness." She extends a hand, smirking upon realisation that you're a little too tied up at the minute to reciprocate. "Lovely to meet you."

You swallow again, finding your throat to be a little less dry. "Likewise." Then decide to take another risk. "So what do you want from me?"

“Wanda's true identity.” She replies so quickly that you almost miss it, looking at you with an eagerly expectant expression.

Agatha's question confuses you further. “I don’t know what you mean.” Although your answer is honest, something at the back of your mind hisses lies.

"There's no need to lie here." Her patient humour had disappeared. "Trust me, no one will hear you, so drop the act."

For some unbeknown reason, her accusation angers you. "I'm not putting on an act, I don't know why I'm here or what you want from me." The bravery dissipates all of a sudden as you remember that you're not exactly in the position to command such authority. "Please, stop this."

Agatha purses her lips, stands up and turns away from you. She calmly moves forwards a few paces, and in the short amount of time you manage to convince yourself that she's given up. Until in a completely unprovoked move, she swings her hands to the left, sending her chair crashing into the wall in frustration. Whether this is part of her interrogation performance or not, it works. Your heart starts racing, and confusingly, the awkward heat between your legs pulses.

She runs a hand through her hair, still facing away from you. "Don't make this any harder harder than it needs to be." You can practically hear her grinding her teeth, but don't doubt that she was getting some enjoyment out of the situation.

"I can tell you that Wanda is my sister and only real family, that I moved to Westview with her and that I couldn't live without her." You start listing off some basic facts, desperate to prove to Agatha that nothing is hidden. That you're normal.

"What about your brother?" She swivels round, clicking her fingers as she tries to recall something. "Pietro!" She exclaims.

"Pietro..." You falter. Why does the name sound so familiar? The nausea worsens. You shake off the feeling. "Never heard of him."

“Liar.” In one swift movement, Agatha is right by your ear. The feeling of her lips brushing against your skin causes you to close your eyes. The close proximity was becoming overwhelming, and your body had chosen to react in a rather unfortunate way. Admittedly, you'd always had a thing for Agnes, but Agatha was on a whole other level. You dreaded to open your eyes, worried that she'd noticed your current state. Instead, you internally begged for mercy.

“Don't go all shy on me now.” She pushes your shoulder into the chair, compelling you to open your eyes. "If you don't want to talk, I have other methods." Her hand raises, a purple flow emanating from the tips of her fingers. It crackles and sparks, as if the power was barely contained, yet as she shifts closer to brush the hair out of your face, you don't flinch. One finger remained touching your forehead, then traced down to your jaw, and finally along to grasp your chin.

While the vaguely sinister movement terrified you, it also forced you hold your breath and grip onto the armrests for dear life. Why you'd decided this was hot was beyond you considering the many connotations of her words, yet your thighs pressed tighter together as she drew closer. You attempted to turn your head to the side, longing for distraction, but her hold on you kept your head still.

"This won't be much fun for you, dear." She sighed in mock pity, her breath hot against your skin... Which just tipped you over the edge. As hard as you tried to stifle the noise, a broken moan escaped your lips. You'd definitely hit a low point here. Too ashamed to face your apparent arousal, you screwed your eyes shut. Although, at Agatha's silence, you relented and opened them barely a minute later.

To your relief, or perhaps dismay, the woman was grinning like a maniac. Her eyes flickered down to your parted lips as she chewed on her own. Then carefully, as if she were testing the waters, her fingers began to rub against your jaw, and upwards to your mouth. Your breath deceives you by hitching as her thumb slips between your lips, stroking your tongue. At the contact, you can't help but arch into the touch. Agatha chuckles.

"I take it back." She murmurs, removing her hand. "This will be fun." Although the intimidation factor prevails, there's a certain desire mirrored in Agatha's expression which cancels out any remaining common sense. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, and even if you wanted to, there was little you could do to stop her. So, you give into your yearning, sighing as she climbs to sit on your lap. Immediately, her hand switches to gripping the back of your neck as she slams her mouth onto yours. You willingly indulge by opening further, allowing her tongue to slide between your lips. Her other hand lowers to grab at your chest, like she were trying to tug herself impossibly closer.

Without removing her lips, the hand massaging your chest shifts to your thigh. She still keeps her lips firmly pressed to yours, and with the lack of oxygen, you can feel yourself growing lightheaded. It almost feels like a challenge, one which you're determined to succeed at. Though when she eventually does break away, her hand suddenly slips between your thighs, and your breath is stolen from you once more. Wasting no time, she massages you through your clothes, dragging out an inevitable whine. The touch is both too much, and not enough. But judging by her malevolent smirk, that was exactly her intention.

Even though you were currently incapable of producing any reasonable thought, you still noticed that Agatha wasn't entirely unaffected. Her breathing was laboured, hips occasionally jerking against your thigh and eyes struggling to stay open. The influence you were having on her only encouraged you to moan louder, craving to see her equally dishevelled. Your plan seemed to momentarily fail as her hand retreated. But you'd certainly earned her attention.

She licks her lips, then abruptly changes her expression to look disturbingly like that of Agnes. "You wouldn't leave me out of the fun now, would you dear?" Her voice is high pitched as she basically sings her words. Although the question must've been rhetorical as doesn't await a response, instead you find your hands unbound, flung behind your back and bound together all in a matter of seconds. Then, she shifted her position, yanking your bodies closer so that your crotches were pressed together. She grunts, heaving forward to rest against you for a moment and regain her composure. And finally, without warning, starts to grind your hips together.

It doesn't take long for her movement to become more frantic, accompanied by her hair spilling onto her face. She remains impressively quiet, however, or perhaps you were just comparably loud. With the little pride you have left, you decide to take matters into your own hands, and start meeting each thrust with equal vigour. Miraculously, it works. She throws her head back with a remarkably loud moan, proceeded by change in strategy as she starts almost bouncing on top of you, hips losing their rhythm, pleasure overwhelming her. Startled by her lack of self-control, the heat in your stomach begins building exponentially fast. Your eyes slam shut.

A hand grasps onto your face. “Look at me!” She growls, then emphasises her demand by rolling her hips torturously slowly. The movement ceases. She leans her forehead against yours, staring directly into your eyes. “Come with me.” To your surprise, there's an audible plea in her voice.

At a loss for words, you nod. The pleasure had been building for so long that you knew it'd only take a few more grinds to push you over the edge. With your confirmation, Agatha resumes her thrusting, though soon succumbs, throwing her head back and uttering an exceptionally loud, high-pitched moan. She arches her back, pressing herself so far into you that the pleasure peaks. You groan, lurching backwards in a moment of pure bliss. All you can feel is Agatha, all you can think about is Agatha. Coming down from the high, you sigh and collapse forward to bury your face in the crook of her neck.

She tenses slightly at the contact, but soon relaxes into the strange embrace. You gently press your lips against her skin and feel her shiver, confirming your suspicion that it'd been a while since Agatha had received such affection. Motivated by a new, more innocent desire, you continue to pepper light kisses across her throat and behind her ear, simply enjoying the unexpectedly intimate moment.

Agatha finally breaks the silence, leaning away from your touch to look down at you curiously. "Wanda really has you under her mind control too, huh?"

Although still stuck in a post-coital haze, you muster enough brainpower to consider her words. "Mind control?"

"Oh, right." She smirks, a slight sadness perceptible in her eyes. "Forgot to mention." Before you can say anything, she swings one leg to the side, stiffly sliding off your lap and clasping her hands together. "You might want to reconsider where your loyalties lie, dear." She glances at you, then ambles to the opposite side of the room. "That's one fucked up family situation right there." Her voice teasingly calls out.

You feel yourself flush, strangely offended by her comment, and annoyed by her vagueness. "Like you can talk." Your response is a total shot in the dark, but must've hit a nerve since she slowly turns back to you, a suspicious expression upon her face. "Just a guess." You add, unwilling to know the details of whatever sensitive topic you'd just touched upon. Agatha easily shrugs it off, leaving behind a stifling silence. Eventually, it's a mixture of your own boredom and concern that prompts you to end the lull in conversation. "Are you still planning on interrogating me about something I know nothing about?"

"Oh, no I read your mind." She waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder. "Got all I needed."

Again, you're left suffocating in the confusion her ambiguity provokes, with nothing else to ask except. "How...?"

The inquiry must've been exactly what Agatha wanted to hear as she immediately dropped what she was doing to turn around and lean on the wall, arms folded in a casually smug pose. "Sex leaves you vulnerable." She smirked. "All I did was take advantage of the opportunity- but I'll spare you the boring details." With a flourish of her hand and a flash of purple, the binds holding your ankles and wrists disappeared. "You can go now. First door on the left."

Without sparing you another glance, she busied herself with some witchy task, allowing you to see yourself out. Massaging your wrists, you stood slowly, watching her expectantly. Surely she wouldn't just let you leave? Yet as you sauntered over to the door she'd directed you to, she made no move to stop you. "Bye then?"

Agatha looked up at you and winked. "See you around, neighbour."

#agatha harkness x reader #agnes x reader #agatha harkness

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cdyssey · 3 years

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Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

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Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.”

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe.

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise.

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home.

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her.

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears.

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire.

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening.

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself.

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts.

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace.

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse.

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

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the-fae-folk · 3 years

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2am musings on Character Creation, Originality, and More Writing Nonsense

Recently I’ve been fascinated with characters who are vaguely distantly reminiscent of the humanoid form, but very clearly and frighteningly inhuman. How many arms could a character work with? Four? Six? And how many eyes? Could I perhaps have a good nine of those? Wings? Of course. Lets have several sets. Also why don’t I give them three tongues and make them 12 feet tall and incredibly strong. And...oh no. I’ve just realized that I have, in fact, made a biblical angel.... Botheration. You know, characters need not be constrained to human form all the time. I’ve read plenty of books with animal characters like mice (”Redwall” by Brian Jacques), owls and wolves (”Guardians of Ga’Hoole” and “Wolves of the Beyond” by Katherine Lasky), and many many books with dragon protagonists (because who wouldn’t choose to be a dragon, given the chance?). But we could go further than that. If you did it well, there is absolutely no reason you couldn’t have a book entirely from the point of view of a little thimble, or a dust mote. Sure it might be weird, and you’ll constantly be bombarded with the desire to use personification (Giving human characteristics to something nonhuman). That’s not a bad thing, exactly. But I’ll bet there are lots of unexplored ways to write the point of view of a thimble without personifying it, possibly all kinds of weird ways. What if you wrote an entire story on the premise of living beings formed from dark matter? Since science is still working on this, the field is wide open for all kinds of probably highly unscientific stories that go in every direction. If the matter is so spread out that its invisible to us, perhaps the way they perceive the universe and reality is very different from us as well? Can they even tell we’re here? How would such a being think? What might their world be like? What could you do there? And then, in time, what stories could you tell? It would be a lot of hard work, and it would be incredibly weird. To be honest, there’s probably not a market for things like that. (there might be but I haven’t found it anywhere). Publishers are in the habit of going for books they think they can sell, stories and characters that people can relate to. I can see the value in relating to characters and stories. Sure. But I’m only marginally interested in selling my stories. No, what I’m interested in is what can be done with writing that we haven’t explored yet. I hear all the time “Oh there’s no original ideas left. Everything has been written already! You��ve just got to put your own spin on it!”..... um.... no? I’ve seen plenty of original ideas all over the place. In video games, in books, movies, shows, etc. Some of them fantastic, some incredibly stupid. And usually they were accompanied by a lot of borrowed concepts and ideas or even traditional formulas and styles (Because those things work. That’s why they’ve lasted this long). Furthermore, why can’t I relate to a being of dark matter? I might have to look pretty closely to find something in common with such a being in a terribly alien reality and understanding of living. But there’s always SOMETHING, even if its not the sort of thing I usually try to relate to (such as “we are both alive in some way” or “we are made of matter so we actively affect the universe in a significant way even if we can’t really figure out what that means”). It just means I have to improve my writing skills to make a reader relate to a character in that way. And not all stories involve characters you’re supposed to relate to. Sometimes you’re NOT supposed to relate to them but watch awestruck as they do things you would never dare to or don’t want to do, but enjoy witnessing anyway because wow.... that's something alright. Some of my favorite characters are ones I don’t relate to at all in any way. Heck... if I wanted to write about a being who lived outside of time and space... no physical matter and no conception of linear time, I could do it. Heck, I HAVE tried something very similar. It wasn’t my best work, but I proved to myself that it was possible! And now that I know that, I can work on getting better at it. The point I’m trying to get at here is this. When you’re creating characters, you don’t have to let yourself be confined to all the preconceived notions about what constitutes a character. If you wanna write a human or humanoid character, GREAT! Do that! Absolutely all the way. If you want to write a book or story that is likely to be published... MORE POWER TO YOU! GO FOR IT! But you don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. There are still unexplored wilds. The Art of Writing is still evolving in ways that would have been difficult to even dream of a hundred years ago (Or even 20 years ago!). I’ve seen fanfictions by that sleep deprived writer who decided two months ago that she was gonna do a full eight book series and she’s halfway done and somehow the writing is not just good, its so wholly original and groundbreaking that it redefines my own idea of what can be done with writing at every third paragraph. I’ve seen published books and poetry and essays like that too, that can make me stop in my tracks and have to reevaluate the ways that writing can be used. So go, explore. Create WEIRD and CRAZY stuff! Try something totally off the wall and bonkers! ... maybe it won’t work. That’s alright. Lots of things don’t. Some things don’t work if you haven’t built up the skills to achieve them. Some things just don’t work. But you can’t possibly know that unless you give it a go. Let yourself transcend for a short time beyond humanity, to think and perceive in truly alien ways. To live as something incredibly inhuman, and maybe even something you might not have considered could be a character before. Can you make the epic of the scrub brush vs the dish into an engaging tale without giving them human traits? You can. Can you tell me the epic battle between the spider and the fly? I’ve seen someone do that. So you can. How might a butterfly see and understand itself? What are the cultural norms of the deep sea hermit crabs? How do crystals communicate with one another, and what do they have to say (and why that’s important)? The possibilities are infinite. And so is your potential.

#creativity #writing #character creation #fanficion #writing thoughts #writing advice #musings at 2am #originality #original ideas #humanity #human #humanoid #personification #writing skills #stories #characters #feel free to reblog #if you want

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rowan-underthehouse · 3 years

Text

Shot Glasses and Shadows

Pairing: Castiel/ Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 2,011

Warnings: slight self-harm, mention of blood

Additional Tags: hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, Abandon All Hope Coda, Mentioned Jo Harvelle, grief/ mourning

Summary: Dean struggles with the aftermath of Abandon All Hope. Castiel is there to help.

Read it on Ao3 here

It’s the moments between hunts where Dean starts to lose his balance. When there’s no monster to fight, and the adrenaline pounding through his limbs fades away.

There are things he can do to stop it. He can make dinner runs while he tries to list the name of every song he’s ever put on a mixtape, or blast the radio until the speakers crackle, or sprint until his lungs burn. As long as he keeps moving he can fight it off. But as flames lick the glossy edges of the closest thing to a send-off they can give Jo and Ellen, all Dean can do is root his feet to the ground and watch.

He doesn't walk away from the fire until the photograph is reduced to ash. The crumbling of Jo’s gentle features is almost beautiful here. He wonders if Jo could feel the flames in her last moments. If she still believed her death meant something. If it felt beautiful.

“I’m going to clean up.”

“Dean you don’t-” Sam follows his gaze to the cluster of shot glasses still spread across the table, not finding the right words until his brother is already gone. Sam knows better than to follow.

It shouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to finish the kitchen, but Dean’s limbs are heavy with guilt and the half bottle of whiskey he’s already downed. He’d expected it to feel different to be back here. Everything warm and homey and right should have burned up with Ellen and Jo, but Bobby’s kitchen somehow missed the memo. This is still the same place they’d laughed and drank and squeezed out smiles around the dread no amount of alcohol could quite wash away just the night before. It’s Dean who’s out of place. He shouldn’t be here, surrounded by a past already so long gone it aches. It’s going to collapse in on him at any second.

The first shot glass that shatters against the hardwood floor is an honest-to-god accident. Dean lets the second roll out of the crook of his elbow, watching with the closest thing to satisfaction he can muster as broken glass dusts his boots. The third, he smashes into the worn countertop. He feels the blood pooling under his palm before he registers the glass wedged there. It brings a sick, bubbling laugh to the back of his throat.

He’s watching the blood run along the edge of a fourth glass, rolling it over in his palm when a hand appears on his shoulder.

“Dean,” The unmistakable crunching of dress shoes on glass pulls Dean back to reality. “You’re injured.”

Dean tosses the shot glass in his hands into the sink, almost disappointed when it doesn’t shatter. He shrugs Castiel’s hand off his shoulder, doing his damn best to ignore how cold he feels at the tiny loss of contact. Cas has that effect on people. That warm sort of feeling that starts deep in your chest and spreads to your fingertips until it feels like everything might be alright. Sam feels it too, Dean’s sure, but it doesn’t seem to be burning him up from the inside the way it does Dean. The relief he feels when Cas grabs his shoulder again is humiliating. He wipes it clean off his face before Cas can turn him around.

“You’re bleeding, Dean,” there’s more force to it this time. Dean stares expectantly, waiting for the feeling of grace stitching the fibres of his hand together, but nothing comes. Cas’s eyes fall to the floor. “I’m...going to get the first-aid kit.”

“So, what? Not going to mojo me back together? Cas, is there something you want to tell me?” He squares his shoulders, taking a step toward Cas. Of course something’s wrong. Not even an angel of the lord could get that close to Lucifer and come out unscathed.

“Because if something happened, something that we should know about, you better spit it out before it gets someone killed,” Dean closes the distance between him and Cas, staring down with what he hopes reads as more malice than concern and waits. Cas should be snapping back at him or threatening to throw him back to hell or something but he’s just standing there, gaze cast at the floor.

“It’s not important. It won’t affect my ability to help in your fight against the devil,” Dean turns away with a scoff just loud enough for Cas to hear. Somewhere deep beneath two hours worth of whiskey he knows he’s trying to start a fight, but he doesn’t care.

Even turned away, Dean can feel Cas’ gaze burning into his back. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something useful?” He nods in the direction of the library where every piece of lore they could find is still strewn out on the desk. The words taste bitter on Dean’s tongue, but if it gets Cas to do something, anything, other than stand there and stare straight into Dean’s soul (Maybe literally. Dean hopes not) it will be worth it.

Dean doesn’t turn around until the footsteps have faded from the kitchen. He drops the remaining shot glasses into the sink and kicks Jo’s chair in as an afterthought on his way out the door.

Sam and Bobby are nowhere to be seen, no doubt already tucked away in their respective rooms trying to figure out how to get through the night. Dean doesn't bother asking how they got Bobby up to his old room now that the sofa has been temporarily dragged back to its place in the library. He suspects Cas had something to do with it.

The fire is little more than embers when Cas comes back around the corner, battered first-aid kit in hand. Dean’s stomach churns. He should apologize.

“Throw another log on.”

Again, Castiel fixes him with that stupid, sympathetic, stare and does as he’s asked.

“You’re grieving.”

Dean almost laughs. “Really, Cas? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You shouldn’t try to stop it. It won’t help,” Cas settles on the sofa and unpacks the kit, examining the contents carefully while he lays them out on the end table.

That old rage bubbles up in Dean's chest again. “So what am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit here and moan about it in the middle of the friggin’ apocalypse? We have work to do, Cas. Stow the Vincent Grey crap.”

“Give me your hand.”

He thinks about arguing. About trying again to stir up some kind of fight just to feel something other than hollow for a few seconds. Angry is easier. Safer. But then, this is Cas. He knows every atom of Dean’s body and can recite his earliest memories like the goddamn pledge of allegiance. There’s no point hiding. He lets some of the tension holding up his body seep back into the floor.

Cas is more gentle than Dean can handle. All calloused hands and careful touches that are anything but clinical. Letting him in is frighteningly easy. It’ll be letting him go when he finally realizes the Winchesters and all their problems aren't worth the effort that will be like pulling stitches.

“They trusted me,” It’s barely a whisper, but Dean’s throat closes around the words. “They trusted me, and I led them to their deaths.”

“You did the best you could. They knew the risks,” There’s a strain in Cas’ voice Dean has never heard before.

Dean’s eyes are burning. He can’t bring himself to meet Cas’ gaze until a thumb swipes across his cheek, brushing away the tears there. For once he finds himself thanking god in all his infinite absence that Cas doesn’t realize the intimacy of the gesture “You did the right thing, Dean. You tried.”

There’s a weight to his words that Dean can’t quite pin down, the teary smile plastered on his face making Dean want to either wrap his arms around Cas or make a break for it. He shoots for somewhere near a more reasonable middle.

“Are you uh…” Dean is struck very suddenly by just how bad he is at this, But he has to try. It’s Cas. “Are you holding out okay?”

“Human grief is different. It’s...heavier”

If tearing down heaven brick by brick could pull that weight off Cas, Dean would do it in a second. It terrifies him how far he’s willing to go.

“Yeah.”

The mess of bandages Cas eventually manages to secure around Dean’s hand isn’t pretty, but it’s a relief. He tosses the bloody glass in a trash bin and dries his now clean hands on an embroidered dish towel that may have been colourful twenty years ago. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

He’s halfway to the door by the time Dean swallows his pride enough to say something. “Cas, wait. Have you - eaten anything? It’s been a long day.”

“I don’t eat.”

Dean spends the longest ten seconds of silence in his life wondering if he could bore a hole through the floor with his eyes to crawl into. This may be the dumbest excuse he’s ever come up with, which is not an easy title to win.

“Are you asking me to stay?”

Maybe it’s the whiskey clouding his mind or the idea of spending the rest of the night drinking his way through whatever’s left of his liver alone that finally snaps a cord in Dean. He sinks back into the couch, exhaustion taking over.

“Please.”

With a creak of old springs and cushions creasing just enough for Dean to slide, Cas is back on the couch, a good few inches closer than the last time. Of course, it doesn't mean anything. Cas is an angel. He can’t understand the way the closeness makes Dean’s heart leap out of his chest. But the way he presses his shoulder against Dean’s is distinctly and undeniably human. He doesn’t want to be alone either.

The next few hours drift by in near silence, broken only by offers of whiskey and the occasional non-committal remark. When Dean’s eyes slip closed, his head lolling against Cas’ shoulder, Cas doesn’t try to wake him.

Once Dean does finally open his eyes, it’s with a pounding headache, and his face pressed against the rough fabric of Cas’ shirt. Through the fog of sleep Dean slowly becomes aware of his limbs tangled with Cas’ where they’ve sprawled across the sofa. He’s a split second away from launching himself onto the floor when he registers Cas’ hand resting loosely against Dean’s back. The slow tide of his breathing. He can’t be asleep but Dean’s never seen him this relaxed. His hair is a disaster where it’s rubbed against the arm of the sofa and his coat is more on the floor than his body. He must be meditating or praying or whatever the hell angels do to recharge their heavenly batteries. It would be rude to interrupt him, Dean reasons, and he’ll be awake again within a few hours. There’s still plenty of time before sunrise. A few hours can’t hurt. In the moment before he’s pulled back to a dreamless sleep, Dean swears he catches the shadow of wings cast against the wall, curled around his body.

…

It’s not unusual for Sam to be awake before his brother. He rolls out of bed some time after sunrise, stumbling toward the kitchen before he’s even finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He very nearly walks past the tangle of limbs on the couch before Bobby rolls into the room, gesturing for him to stay quiet.

“They haven’t moved since Cas brought me back down here. Let them rest. They need it.”

And they do.

When Dean finally stumbles into the kitchen, Cas having disappeared mere seconds before he woke up, Sam doesn’t say a word about it, just smiles into his coffee mug. It’s good to see someone keeping Dean steady for once, and if Dean isn't ready to admit it yet, that’s a problem for another day.

#supernatural #deancas #destiel #my writing #supernatural fic #destiel fic #deancas fic #spn #spn fic

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silveryfairy · 4 years

Note

hey man if it's not too much trouble, could you give us a brief rundown of the Nocturnes? It's just, every morning I wake up and there's a new one, and I Care everyone in this establishment a lot though I don't really know them, thank you kindly have a nice day

let my preface this by saying: aayushi, i love you, and your enthusiasm and interest for the things i create never ceases to bring me joy. you are the kind of friend i think everyone should have and i say that completely genuinely outside of this bit.

i say that as an apology in advance for what i’m about to unleash upon you, because what you’re going to see is the product of my friend @himepapillon and i’s absolute BRAINROT and what comes of it when not only two people make an oc universe from scratch but what happens when we then have to explain that universe to other people

you are in no way required to retain this information as to be completely honest me and jeremie haven’t fully either and we’re the ones who MADE this shitshow. below is the shoddy family tree i lovingly crafted in ms paint

let us begin.

for starters, i’ll specify some things:

1. not every oc on this chart is mine, as it’s a collaboration between me and jeremie - the koenig family and bishop family belong to faer but the rest is all me baby! for the sake of your soul i will only be going into my half of this Mess

2. the universe this takes place in is a pretty wacky and silly one, just, like, Slightly removed from reality. these characters are all completely batshit insane and do things that no human being probably should. it’s all portrayed critically, as the general concept of this whole thing is “the goings-on of a bunch of unhinged corrupt rich people”. we kind of flip flop on how seriously stuff is played but if i had to slap a genre on this it’d be, like, black comedy drama. i know a lot of these concepts sound kinda fucked to write but that’s just because i’m trying to describe them in a SOMEWHAT concise way without going into Super Introspective mode

the nocturnes are an incredibly influential and rich family in the uk that tends to produce very influential and rich people. they’re also all a little bit insane. the main characters of this Saga are the sons of desmond and xanthes, the family’s resident Power Couple and biggest figureheads. they suck ass but that will become apparent the second i talk about their children.

from oldest to youngest, the nocturne boys are:

ichor nocturne, 25 - the eldest, ichor was disowned from the household when he was 18 for unruly behavior, sent to live alone on a farm so he couldn’t tarnish his family’s image any further. since then, you’d think the isolation has driven him a bit mad - he’s a very prolific cotton farmer and has been doing astonishingly well for himself, running his farm on his own with only his parents’ inheritance as help. ...that, and, of course, the blood of the people he executes to keep his crops growing - or so he believes. he moonlights as an executioner in the small town over, exterminating the ‘pests’ of the city. despite his newfound violence, he still routinely checks in on his siblings, finding ways to mysteriously end up at their door to pay visits. the older brother instinct still hasn’t left

icarus nocturne, 23 - the second eldest (only by technicality, as he is a twin), icarus is the family’s golden child! but not in terms of business or anything, oh no - icarus is a famous heartthrob teen (sorta) musician! he’s been in the limelight since he was a little boy, being an actor as a small child and getting into music as he grew. his general Look(tm), accompanied by infectiously happy rave music, is a trademark cutesy mask over his face with oversized clothing - meant to express as much energy as possible as he bounces about the stage. in reality, he lives a life as forced and controlled as possible by virtue of... living the fucked up life of a child star. but his parents have someone to take the fall - so, what of his twin?

achilles nocturne, 23 - icarus’ younger twin, which wouldn’t mean much... in any family but this one. achilles has had it drilled into his head since the beginning that he was a mistake next to icarus, to the point where legally, he does not exist. following icarus beginning his career, achilles was unpersoned completely - living in the family’s basement with the height of his education being for a very specific purpose... needing to be icarus’ body double on tours and for paparazzi - after all, they can’t have icarus’ purity tainted by all those clamboring fans! it’s a godawful situation. on the bright side, though, achilles has found a hobby where he can be himself: twitch streaming! yes really. under the name of 1upanonymous, hidden under a mask just like his brother, achilles at least has a fanbase that can love him for who he is! ...uh, kind of.

tomasine “tommy” nocturne, 16 - the youngest of the bunch, and it says a lot about his siblings’ capabilities that he’s the technical heir to the nocturnes’ various businesses and fortune. tommy is just a feral 16 year old that doesn’t give two shits about any fame or fortune, he just wants to party and drink and have fun like any other kid his age! he’s rebellious, loud, and charmingly annoying (to his brothers anyway), and has no real care for the gravity of his family’s situations beyond finding it annoying that they want him to be all PRIM and PROPER and BUSINESSY EEWWWWW. he’s just a funny loud little child trying to live his best life. loves his brothers fiercely

already a mess of people. and really, all you need to know about or really keep in mind are those four: the upcoming characters are largely just side ones we came up with because we thought it’d be funny to flesh out this fucked up family more. so let’s get into the anatra branch of the family - headed by jael nocturne, xanthes’ brother and the siblings’ uncle

jael anatra-nocturne, who i am not giving an age for my own sanity trying to decipher this fucking timeline - a crude and playful uncle, jael is someone the nocturne boys either love (icarus, tommy) or hate (achilles, ichor). constantly joking, as he expresses affection with loving insults - kind of a money-driven asshole, but a lovable one - he’s a career politician and met his current husband, joaquin, on the job. or, well... no longer current, because jael’s funny life of debauchery, toxic masculinity, and making fun of his nephews, came to an abrupt end when he was assassinated on live television. yipes!

joaquin anatra-nocturne, who also does not get an age - jael’s former secretary and current widow, joaquin is the local wine uncle. im not sure if that’s a classification but it is now, because he is one. an unapologetic gold-digger, he (publicly) took jael’s death frighteningly well, and is now living his best life with a revolving door of new boyfriends. his relationship with jael was a genuine and very loving one, and joaquin IS devastated by his death, but both of them just found the bit of pretending to be this loveless gold digger/politician couple very funny, and being as suspicious as possible around his husband’s death is exactly what jael would have wanted joaquin to do

taddeo anatra-nocturne, 14 - the youngest child of these two, a shy little boy with big Child In A Horror Movie energies. makes potions in the backyard and probably decorates his clothes with animal bones n stuff when he’s older. despite this he’s pretty harmless, nice and fiercely loyal - tommy especially thinks he’s fun and likes to hang out with him at family gatherings - just so long as you look past the creepy dolls he likes to talk to and fires he likes to set. especially close with jael and wants to be a miniature version of him, buuut still being a shy tween taddeo hasn’t been able to act on that much.

dailon anatra-nocturne, 20 - the adopted second child of jael and joaquin, dailon is a moody and unstable delinquent that was snatched up by them just as he was about to age out of foster care. while he has a chill ‘cool-older-even-though-he’s-younger-cousin’ demeanor, the tension when he’s around his parents - jael specifically - can be cut with a knife. dailon hates his dad: ‘someone who expresses affection with insults and jokes and likes seeing people pissed at him’ and ‘someone who’s volatile, short-tempered, and sullen after living in a foster home most his life’ are just as bad of a combination as you’d expect. dailon gets himself into a lot of trouble, and is an overall very self-centered prick, but we’ll get more on that in a bit.

HELL FAMILY...2!!! that’s the last of the families to cover, buuuut there are still some other names on that list - mostly connected to dailon. this is REAL “just going on in the background” shit that you also do not need to know whatsoever (except for mitzi she’s pretty important she’s just down here for organization purposes) - i just like to play god and make characters get into drama.

[tw: cheating, unhealthy relationships, stalking]

mitzi “moon” altberg, 23 - achilles must feel very far away by now, but we’re back to him for a second! mitzi is his ex-girlfriend he met online, a fan-to-employee-to-lover and one of the maybe two people outside of the family achilles has shown his real face to. however, achilles growing up deeply unstable - between his parents’ abuse, having spotlights on him and adoring fans both as icarus’ body double and as a streamer, and in general not really growing up to be any kind of well developed human being - made this relationship a complete disaster. he grew obsessive and controlling - and when she tried to ignore him, he broke his one rule (to never go outside without permission) to find the hotel she was staying at in real life and show up to confront her. the incident was completely covered up, both by the nocturnes and with their connections, and so mitzi was forced to stay silent. this entire thing is based on this song! as time heals wounds, though, mitzi will end up doing pretty well for herself and putting achilles behind her - even getting a new boyfriend, jared!

reynard fiala, 20 - dailon’s (ex-)boyfriend, who he’s enraveled in his own weird soap opera subplot with. reynard is a relatively chill person, with an interest in art and taxidermy - just as morbid as dailon’s brother, but in a more. Normal way. genuinely a sweetheart who does not deserve what happens to them: getting cheated on with dailon’s best friend. yipes^2! while it's earth shattering in the moment, all reynard will really want to do come some time to process is to move on and for him and dailon both to heal in peace... far away from eachother (which is easier said than done since taddeo thinks reynard is super cool and loves having him over, the awkwardness between them and his brother be damned)

jared summers, 21 - the most normal person here. a longterm best friend of dailon’s, and yes, the very same one i just mentioned. he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer - what we in the industry would call a himbo if his dumbassery didn’t cause very real damage - who had been pining for dailon for years and him dating was no deterrent, and dailon, thinking the world revolves around him as he tends to do, accepted jared’s confession so they just kinda started dating on the side. jared has the moral backbone of a pool noodle, and even after it causes dailon’s relationship with reynard to fall apart, will need a wholeass intervention to be staged to make them both realize just how shitty they’re being. after that, though, jared will end that mess and be on his way to becoming a better person himself - with the help of a sweet girl he’s met online.

jared and mitzi dating in the future is the most contrived thing on the planet but just hear me out that it’ll be HILARIOUS for achilles to check in on his ex-girlfriend and find she’s dating his cousin’s best friend, who said cousin was apparently dating on the side. very small world, it is.

anyway, thank you if you’ve somehow stuck around to read this entire thing - this isn’t even getting into jeremie’s half of this whole ordeal, which includes some of these fellas’ friends and partners, as well as more crazy rich people nonsense. it’s been very fun to think about and i do love it all dearly, even if putting it all together it’s SUCH a mess.

we don’t intend to make anything Legit out of this, it’s honestly just a fun way to pass the time. it’s the adult equivalent of playing dollhouse. in our minds this is like a 20 season soap opera but actually explaining it to other people it’s just like this

but thank you again for letting me babble i hope it was somewhat entertaining! and again, godspeed if you managed to read this much XD

#nocturnes #ichor nocturne #icarus nocturne #achilles nocturne #tommy nocturne #jael anatra nocturne #joaquin anatra nocturne #taddeo anatra nocturne #dailon anatra nocturne #mitzi moon #jared summers #reynard fiala

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casmoments · 4 years

Text

One Broken Half

Original Imagine: Imagine you’re Castiel’s commanding officer, in charge of punishing him for his rebellion. Reader Gender: female Word Count: 3600 Warnings: not as dub-con as the imagine might suggest but still. i strayed very slightly from what it implied and there’s a mutual connection between cas/reader. that being said, the circumstances are obviously not friendly. derogatory language, light violence/violent threats, roughness. "angelcest" if you are sensitive to it. the brother/sister terminology is explicitly defined with an alternative meaning, but if you think it might bother you to see those titles, then be wary. no sex but it’s still smutty. might potentially finish a more evolved sequel.

Though heaven was absolute, you supposed them guilty of one error: you were not a good choice for this job. The history you thought you could ignore, the feelings you once reigned, broke past all confines and blinded you.

The brethren of angels was not founded like human relations. There was no biological foundation or recognizable trait to call your brothers and sisters legitimate kinfolk. But that did not open grounds for lewd engagements, to debase the host in any depravity, to entertain humanistic curiosities.

All the same, you and Castiel always had a… fondness for one another. You once served as a unit, a pair, as some angels did. The stories conceived by mankind had so much muddled reality that they sometimes confused your partnership, assuming you were one solitary being.

Though if you were honest, that claim was not wholly unfounded; you sometimes felt like one entity. Eons had unfolded, centuries all but dawdled with no company but stars, a growing earth, and a familiar presence flooding your space. And if your grace had ever entwined with his, it was nothing to remark upon. There was no real corporeality to identify debauchery or sin. You and Castiel were close, and though you lacked much physicality, it sometimes manifested in physical terms anyway.

You sometimes wondered if they separated you for that reason. You never thought anything of reassignment, plucked from his side and promoted to a higher position in heaven. He continued with his duty and you continued with yours. And you never before possessed the capability to consider sentiment. That… fondness was the deepest your considerations ever ran. Neither of you were built to endure the labours of human affection and emotion. You were partners and then you weren’t. If there were empty, aching patches in your grace, invisible wounds between wings or flames or limbs, then you had ignored them and their possible ramifications.

It was harder to ignore now. You were not technically occupying a vessel but this particular cell recreated vessels to inhabit while in heaven. It was meant as a form of torture, encasing an angel in a body and restraining all their powers, forcing them to feel what it would be like to fall, to be human. Unfortunately, it affected everyone contained. Not only were the victims restrained in empty vessels, forced to feel them like bodies, but the supervisors and interrogators were likewise bound. The only different was the chamber’s sentience; it responded to your wiles and commands but ignored his.

All the same, you did not appreciate vessels on earth and you certainly did not appreciate this sensation. Everything felt so immediate—hot, bright, cold, crawling under your skin. Millennia worth of knowledge, experience, and battered emotion began to burn like something tangible. Though you maintained a stoic reserve, your heart beat faster than resting pace.

Much faster, still, at the sight of him—a sight you barely understood. He seemed to barely understand it, and it affected him more bodily.

But there he sat, forced onto his knees before you, arms spread and hands manacled to individual chains, fastened to the ground and preventing much movement. The room was completely empty, white marble stretching all around you, pillars of silver and reflective glass every so often. But the cold wash of white was a faraway thing. An unfamiliar heat rolled through your human body, some deep significance wrought from his mussed hair, from his unbuttoned shirt, from his dilated pupils, his parted lips. A reaction to things you did not fully comprehend—the pinnacle of confusion resting in his obvious reciprocation.

“Control your vessel, Castiel,” you demanded, hoping disdain would mask your unease. He shifted uncomfortably, audibly responding to pain for the first time since this session began. It was a low groan, one which fanned that heat low in your body, creating discomfort between your thighs. You recognized your arousal for what it was, though you did not understand why you felt it.

But he clearly felt it as well, that groan, that bulge in the front of his trousers, betraying the wrath in his voice and the fire in his eyes. Though this session began with his gentle persuasion—you don’t have to do this, he had said, appealing to emotions you did not have, or emotions you thought you did not have—he had now reached the height of fury. He refused to surrender, as stubborn as you. His convictions were locked. You now stood at a stalemate, caught in a repetitive cycle of physical action which no longer resembled your chore.

You were not a good choice for this assignment. There was too much, too much history between you and him. Somewhere deep in the pit of this human form, you felt the tendrils of your true essence expand, almost like it was reaching for him. You swallowed hard, recalling the long centuries of your partnership—recalling that first hesitant brush, a strange burning sensation which delved to a comfort like no other, wings brushing, flame twining, limbs hooking, and a power rippling from the core of your being outward, singing until it met its likeness in a separate entity.

You quelled those thoughts, bat them down, turned your eyes to the resolute white marble.

“Why are you here, Castiel?” you asked, the same question over and over. If he was smart, he would reply with his crime, allow this to unfold smoothly, fall back into quiet complacency where he belonged. Where you belonged. Where you both belonged. But he would not. He would confess to no crime. Even if you did pry the words from his mouth, he would show no remorse. You were not even halfway done.

And he was goading you on. He was trying to make you angry, trying to make you feel. He had succeeded once already, moments before now. You had lectured him on respect, on seniority and servitude.

“We are not our Father,” you had said. “We do not have the eyes to perceive true good and evil, to judge for ourselves where we should stand. We rely on his word, the will and order, and that cause is just, it is goodness itself—”

“You do not take your orders from God,” Castiel had snapped, all but snarling at you. “We took our orders from Anna once, now—”

“Anna,” you had spat the name, recalling a tragic spiral of human messes. You then reared back to strike him, summoning your blade to your hand. “You will not utter Anael’s name in this chamber, you insolent—!” You had paused, his wrath having dissolved. It was not replaced with fear, however. He tipped his head and regarded you with a warm sort of curiosity. You lowered your hand, blade smacking your leg. “What?” You shouldn’t have asked, knowing his reply would only disorient you. But you did and he met your gaze, eyes so blue they reminded you of his true form, and it warmed you in unfamiliar places.

“You’re angry,” he had said. You narrowed your eyes, gripping the hilt of your blade tighter. “You are not as indifferent as you would like, Y/N,” he clarified, looking at you with a much too knowing eye. He then narrowed his own gaze, looking at you with a twisted disgust. “Do you think you can hide that from me, sister?”

“You are not the Castiel I knew,” you had said, voice shaking, fingers quivering. You ignored how the familiar title panged inside you. And it remained true; sister did not mean the same thing as in human tongues. It wasso much more. It was far beyond intimacy that humans could comprehend. You cleared your throat. “You see and know nothing.”

“I am me,” was his sharp reply. You released your hold, dropping your blade. It clattered to the ground as you set to contemplative pacing. “I see you,” he had continued, words biting, “I know you. You won’t do this.”

“You don’t know what I’ll do,” you had said.

“I don’t,” was his sole admission, looking up at you. “That’s not what I said.”

You won’t do this, he had said. Your actions were unpredictable but he knew you would only go so far.

You had dropped to your knees in front of him, grabbing him by his hair and yanking his head back. He made a small noise of surprise but otherwise controlled himself, closing his eyes and drawing his lips together. You let go of his hair to free the tie around his neck, tossing it over your shoulder. That was when you called to your blade. It lifted off the ground and rebuilt in your hand. You used it to cut away the trenchcoat he wore, the black suit jacket following. He stared at you while you worked, his breath running over the side of your face. You looked at him only once, your faces frighteningly close.

“You disgust me,” was all you said, tearing the clothing down. It fell in shambles around him. His gaze darkened then. You assumed it was ire, did not interpret the dilation of his pupils through any other means. You tossed your blade behind you and grabbed his shirt. You ripped it right down the middle, buttons popping off, an angry tear sounding in the empty chamber. He breathed a bit harder as if the blow had been delivered to his person. You opened up the shirt, slamming your hand into the middle of his chest. It had some effect, winding him, but it did not last.

“How could you let yourself become this?” you had asked, more distressed than you wished. You steeled yourself immediately, backing away before he answered. You marched a few paces and then whirled around, at which point you noticed the effect you had. He breathed unevenly, gaze thrown aside like he could not bear your sight. Your eyes fell to the hard evidence of his arousal, and the first wave of heat had struck you then.

And that left you here, in your little stalemate, breath ragged and bodies hot. You cleared your throat, looking away from him as you spoke again.

“Castiel,” you said, a little throatier than you would have liked, “name your crime and pray for absolution.”

He looked at you but said nothing. His stare was intense, defiant, challenging. Your feet carried you towards him, the thought barely conceived before it was realized. Parts of your grace seemed to spur you on, two very different bodies encouraging action. You powered every frustration into righteous anger, glaring as you circled him.

You stopped behind him and stared. He looked at you over his shoulder, as insolent as ever. You stormed towards him, all but slamming yourself against him. His head hit your legs and you bent over, crouching slightly.

“When your superiors question you, then you answer them,” you barked, hooking your arm about him. You wrapped your hand around his throat, angling his head to bare some of his neck.

His only response was a barely stifled moan. You tightened your hold on his neck, palm rubbing against his throat, fingers squeezing.

“The horrific realizations of humanity,” you snapped. “Look how their lessons have debased you. This would have shamed you to consider once. Now look at you.” You tore back the collar of his ripped shirt, exposing more skin. You held his throat, keeping his head tipped, revealing a tantalizing stretch of skin that begged to be ruined. “You take pleasure in this now.”

The chains rattled slightly; he must have tried moving. His hands were caught where they were, far at his sides. Your eyes remained fixed on that untouched bit of skin. Other hand still gripping his throat, not tight enough to strangle but strong enough to threaten, you ran a finger from below his ear, down his neck, over the dip leading to his shoulder, stopping only when you reached the shirt again. He breathed so hard, you could see his chest rise and fall with every breath.

And you couldn’t help it. He radiated heat and it was so achingly familiar. Your forms were completely different… and it somehow felt more real than ever. Your body felt empty, age-old tremors rattling beneath your skin, every inch of flesh vulnerable and wrong. His body practically begged for yours, as yours did for him. And you were close, far too close and never close enough, your chest against his back and your hand on his throat and his skin right there under you—

He moaned, long and low, when you closed your lips over that juncture between his shoulder and neck, biting into the soft flesh. The chains rattled again, a frustrated sound bursting past his lips. You licked over the little bite, immediately marking a similar brand beside it. You relished in the sounds he made, the way his breath would catch, how his shoulders shook, the bob in his throat moving beneath your hand.

“If only you were half as good at being a soldier,” you snarled, speaking right into his ear, “as you were at being a whore.” That only drew another deep groan, adding to the heat in your body. “Should I test the limits of this room?” you asked. “And the limits of you?” You finally released his throat, curled your fingers around the collar of his shirt. “If I willed it, you would be without this garment, wouldn’t you?” Sure enough, the white shirt vanished as if it had never been there, your hands falling to his bare shoulders and squeezing. He grunted, leaning back slightly, your clothed breasts pressing against his bare back. “And you would enjoy it. As I suspected.”

His next sound almost resembled a whimper, helpless and forlorn when you moved away. You circled him again, stopping to stand in front of him. He stared up at you, that stripe down his shoulder and neck marked red, glistening in slight from wet kisses. You moved onto your knees in front of him, flattening your hands against his stomach and sliding them upward. His eyes fluttered closed, lips pressed tightly together. The chains rattled a bit.

“You serve heaven, not humanity,” you said, “enslaved as you are to their decadence.” You rolled your thumb over a nipple, looking there before sensing his gaze. You looked up, saw he stared at you with a feverish intensity.

“Decadence,” he growled, leaning as far forward as he could. You leaned back, tipping your head, and still his mouth hovered above yours. “You should learn to flatter yourself, sister,” he said, lifting his head so the tip of his nose brushed yours. You licked your lips, raked your teeth over your bottom lip because it seemed to ache in wanting. You dug your fingernails into his chest, dragging them down. His eyes closed in an expression of pain but the sound he made revealed pleasure—pleasure right down to his core and yours.

“You don’t serve me either,” you breathed. He opened his eyes again, that fire yet burning.

“You would like me to.”

His words ran down your body, sliding past your own suit jacket, your dress shirt, your pants, and every article beneath. You felt it on your skin, between your legs, and somewhere deep inside. Your heart raced, and its thunder was affected by fear.

“I have no likes,” you stammered, “I have no desires.”

“Lying is a sin,” he said—always too smart for his own good. Always too much heart for his own good. Always too much everything for his own good. His good and yours. He was falling and he was going to drag you right down with him. You could feel a heavy weight inside your chest, yanking you down, lower and lower. Your hands roughly moved over his abdomen and sides, like they were fighting some invisible force, fighting to stay while that force removed them. You had no idea what to do.

You knew what you wanted to do, though. And that thought unsettled you, even while the cavities formed by fear were filled with liquid heat, born of the passion in his gaze.

You fought yourself, a three-word battle that raged in terror. With a frustrated exhale, your hands went to his belt and unbuckled it. You fumbled a bit, distracted by his breath, by his eyes locked on your face, by the hot pulse of your own blood. You parted the belt and undid his trousers, tugging them down his thighs.

“Y/N,” there was desire and maybe fear in that voice, though maybe not fear for himself. Your mind was a bit foggy, torn between a hundred thoughts. You couldn’t think straight in this body.

You ignored his voice, grabbing the sides of his boxers and pushing them down as well. His cock sprang from its confines, throbbing, rigid, dripping precum, and your lips parted in a wordless wonder as you looked at him.

“Oh,” you scarcely breathed, lifting a hand, carefully wrapping your fingers around him. He closed his mouth, biting back a sound, breathing hard through his nose. You experimentally moved your hand down his length, revelling in how his entire body seemed to quake with need. “This anatomy grows harder with arousal,” you murmured, stroking him again. “You must be very aroused, Castiel. I never thought you could feel so hard…”

“Y/N—”

“Brother,” the title again spoke volumes, whispered from some place you wanted to forget.

He moaned, leaning towards you, hips bucking into your hand. Your actions were slow and you recognized that, though you did not speed them, continued to slowly work him in your warm grip. When he adjusted to your cadence, he lifted his head slightly. You were close enough that his lips brushed your cheek, his nose pushing at a bit of your hair. He breathed against your skin, licking his lips, the action touching you.

“Your anatomy experiences dampness with its arousal,” he said, speaking low, that deep voice of his rolling over you. “Are you wet for me, sister?” You made a small noise, almost whimpering, moving your hand faster. He dipped his head forward, panting in your ear. “You are,” he growled, “your body knows what it is missing.”

You shook your head, though lying was futile. You were soaked and he would know. Your brother in divinity, your Castiel—

You could feel he was on the cusp of a climax. You delivered him to the brink and then stopped, abruptly seizing him, drawing a wretched sound from his throat.

“Y/N,” he groaned, “you can’t—”

“Now you have favours to ask of me,” you said dryly, squeezing him. He made a pitiful sound, the chains rattling for a prolonged moment. You remained there, gripping him, listening to his frantic sounds, watching desperate expressions shadow his face as you stroked him again. He shook his head and then nodded, tugging on the chains again.

“Please,” his voice broke. If only his resolve could so easily fracture. You considered drawing out this moment. You could no doubt pry some interesting confessions from him. But there was no lasting victory in any comment. The second he was relieved, he would return to his stubborn self.

“I should keep you like this,” you said, telling him as much. “I should leave you alone, begging for me to finish you.” He whimpered, the sound rolling into a moan as you started stroking him again. “But I won’t,” you said, breaking into a little noise of your own, “I want to see you at the height of human depravity.”

The very second you released him, he came with a cry, panting, spurting a mess of his own ejaculation across his body. You pulled your hands back, watching as he groaned, as his tense body slackened, as the chains protested his slumping form. You grabbed his chin and lifted his head, looked into eyes which reminded you of a much older story.

“Things are different now,” you said, not even sure what you meant. Did you mean to reject him, to put him in his place? Or had you delivered yourself across some unexpected bridge? Who had broken whom?

You received no immediate answer. He was suddenly clothed, at least in pants and a shirt. You both looked confused and then footsteps resonated behind you. Your commanding officer stood in wait, looking none too pleased. You rose immediately, stepping away from Castiel. You bowed your head, anticipating admonishment. To say you had lost track of your goals would be an understatement.

“You will seek absolution elsewhere,” your superior said, frowning. “I will handle this rebel myself.”

You started to leave, pausing in your retreat. You looked back at Castiel whose fiery resolve returned all at once. He glared at the high-ranking angel though you knew from experience it would not take long for him to break Castiel down. Some angels were better at this than others. Honestly, you once counted yourself among them. But Castiel…

He looked over at you, something softening in that gaze. The unsatisfied tension in your body sprang to life. You stumbled from the chamber, exploding into your celestial form. Electric currents seemed to run through every little wavelength, every chaotic wonder of your composition. And though you were no longer in a human body, you were overcome with despondency, a keen lamentation, a perfect heartbreak. You could not weep in this form and you seemed to suffer all the more for it.

Curled amidst stars, you supposed you knew exactly who had broken whom.

castiel x reader masterpost

#castiel #castiel x reader #cas x reader #castiel imagine #castiel x you

15 notes · View notes

ddaenghoney · 5 years

Text

chapter eleven

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): none; just that sweet, sweet character growth.

Word count: 5302

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

You slide two fingers along the trackpad of your laptop, scrolling to the next page of song lyrics that you just finished the evening before. A more somber mix of words to fit the ballad that the group needed for their next album. You rub your jaw as you count syllables, checking the rhyme scheme, then your head tilts as you begin to discern whether the whole thing sounds understandable. Though the track’s ambiguous nature gives it character, deluding the true intention entirely isn’t what you want.

“You know,” Your eyes narrow at the interruption Namjoon’s voice brings, along with some cups of variously colored froths. He hunches over the bartop casually doodling art atop the latte’s white foam top as he continues along, “I think you should take a lawyer with you this time around.”

“What’s the point if I’m just going to resign to, likely, the same terms as before?” You sigh, curling a lock of hair around your finger as you think about the meeting upcoming in a few days. If it was like the first one there would only be Yerin, her secretary, and the company’s primary lawyer that wrote out the first contract.

“But that’s what I’m saying; if you bring along your own lawyer, then they can help argue some change.” He says in a small voice that’s mostly focused with perfecting the lines of a dog image. “It can’t hurt to try, right?”

“She’s just so dead set against any of what I’ve said about receiving credit before though.” You mumble, trying to get back to your own work with hope that he’ll drop the topic that he’s been bringing up periodically ever since you received notice of the meeting.

“You’ve worked for them for five years now.” Namjoon lifts up his head from the design, eyes decisively staring into your own as he speaks with conviction, “They owe you change, even if it isn’t a complete one-eighty from how things have gone so far. They’re shitty people if they don’t treat you like a human by this point.”

You smile at him, dryly speaking the reality, “They’re a business.”

“They’re only doing well because of you. That’s undeniable.” He smiles in return, bringing forth a bit of pride for you as his friend. Namjoon straightens up, stretching his arms as he nudges the drink towards you, “If you threaten to leave then maybe they’ll change their mind about the contract? Here take this, I’m still not good at this kind of latte art.”

Your chin rests on your palm while you glance to the drink. It presents a cute fluffy blue dog, with admittedly oddly positioned eyes. You refrain from laughter. “Looks better than the flower you tried last week. Thanks, Joon.”

Namjoon nods, moving the cups off with a smile as he turns to the sink behind him. Figuring he’s bugged you enough about the lawyer idea for the day he leaves it be, returning to the atmosphere before as he turns down the bar while Jinsol exits with two plates of food for customers.

“Yoongi was also telling me that I should get a lawyer.” You say on your own, not thinking that you could potentially give Namjoon hope that you’ll eventually agree with the two of them by keeping the conversation going. He turns back to you, wiping his hands dry on a rag. “Even said he’d get his lawyer friend to go with me if I wanted. Someone named Kim Taehyung.”

“How much does he charge?”

“Yoongi said he’d do it for free as a favor to him,” You shrug, taking a slow sip of the drink to see if it was too hot. “They’re good friends and have known each other for awhile.” Namjoon nods, arms crossing as his eyebrows furrow in consideration to the news. “But you and Yoongi need to stop acting like Yerin won’t just drop me if I start talking about changing the contract this seriously.”

“Y/N, you’ve given them more than ninety percent of their musical repertoire. That’d be the most idiotic business decision she could make.” Namjoon frowns, trying to find a reason for why you’re unable to see how much of an asset you are for SoundWave even though they treat you oppositely.

“And I’d take away one hundred percent of their reputation if the public finds out how much I have to do with that, Joon.” You trace the circumference of the ceramic with your index finger, eyeing the art that had further disfigured after you took a sip. “They can go on without me involved, and there’s no reason to keep me if I’m just going to destroy everything they’ve worked for. Cost-benefit analysis is what they call it in the business world, right?”

“Well, no, but close enough,” Namjoon leans back against the counter. “To be honest, even if they give you just a few pieces credited here and there, that would be a big improvement, don’t you think? You could start there.”

You nod, hearing your phone vibrate beside your laptop to alert you of a text, but ignoring it so you can explain the most recent nail in your coffin. “But since I’m now ‘Yoongi’s girlfriend’ any credits they give to me are going to look suspicious as hell.” You watch Namjoon blink evidently not considering that idea before. He all the sudden sighs gruffly and rubs his neck,

“Fuck, I bet that CEO did that on purpose too.” You nod as his bitterly spoken assessment, having come to that conclusion previously. Considering how frighteningly calculative Yerin is, that’s definitely within the scope of possibility. “She really pisses me off, Y/N.”

“Me too, but, fuck, she does her job well, right?” You huff and then take another long gulp of the latte while Namjoon’s head shakes slowly in contemplation. “I can see why the board lets her handle so much stuff independently of them. She has everything figured out.”

A part of you is willing to believe she set the past five years up like a chess board, strategizing from the advent of their song contest. Perhaps only looking for one or two interesting enough songwriters to trap into the pawn slots and lead the company to success at exponential rates. The lens that seemed clairvoyant and absent of illusion in the pitch to work longer in the company, all selected carefully to tie into the bigger picture Yerin created.

With how finely woven the company is, collectively seemed together to stop the outside from seeing what truly goes on behind the scenes, it’s almost believable in retrospect that Yerin had this picture in mind from the beginning.

You’d like to think there are things unforeseeable, however. Hopeful in that respect, though you can’t grasp a thought of what would shake up Yerin’s disposition so that she would agree to new terms in your contract.

“Maybe I’ll take Yoongi up on his offer…” You ponder aloud, not catching Namjoon’s eyes open wider with excitement at your voice. You finally go to your phone, checking it to see a new message,

Yoongi, 4:56pm: If you’re not busy can you call me?

“You should.” Namjoon’s blurt is out into the air as an uncontainable rambling. One loud enough to catch the attention of other patrons if only for a quick glance. You smile at your friend’s eagerness to jump onto that little sway of opinion, watching him nod longer. “If you’re dealing with legal stuff you should involve a lawyer-- even if you don’t think it’ll help. Why not, right?”

“Legal ‘stuff’, huh?” You giggle when Namjoon rolls his eyes smiling despite you cutting him off to tease. “He wants me to call him, so I’ll ask.”

“Wants you to?” Namjoon raises an eyebrow, though the lightness of his lips insinuate he’s somehow pleased with your news. It’s your turn to roll your eyes, and then attempt shooing Namjoon off with your hand, but he doesn’t budge as he questions with a large smile forming, “Bet he misses you like you miss him-”

“Stop, you know it isn’t like that.” Your lips frown, wishing he wouldn’t bring that subject up even as a joke. Namjoon’s lips clamp, but his teasing expression remains, seemingly undeterred by your weak rebuttal. “Not actually dating, Joon.” Namjoon only nods to which you sigh, shifting on the stool to face slightly away from him. “He probably just wants to complain about it being cold where he’s at.”

“Okay,” Namjoon nods again, stepping once down the bar to start assisting with a newly entered party. “Warm him up with your voice then-”

“Fuck off!” You watch him scamper off like a startled cat, and shake your head at him hitting his hip against the corner of the bar. You bite your lip when Namjoon glances back at you with a pained expression from the collision, but nonetheless gives you a thumbs up to cheer you on in your phone call endeavor even though you think he’s acting ridiculous.

It takes only a moment to open the message thread with Yoongi, then click into the contact information to call. You skim through the lines on your laptop screen as quickly as you are able to while the line buzzes in wait. Three beeps and Yoongi’s voice registers in an answer,

“Hello?” He sounds somewhat puzzled and surprised and there’s a small moment that you think you should’ve texted him first, but you go ahead and respond,

“Hey, you wanted me to call?” The screen before you becomes a blur, its shine leading you to shut it close as you listen in on Yoongi’s voice when he says back sheepishly,

“I did, yeah. Just because I’m kind of bored here,” His volume lowers into a mumble as he goes on, making you smile gently. “Ah, but if you’re busy then don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not. Just looking over some lyrics, but I’ve been messing with them since yesterday practically nonstop, so I should probably take a break.”

Yoongi hums, recalling the texts back and forth the day before where you’d mentioned the words not sounding just right. Lying back into the armchair in the green room, he stretches an arm, voice as comforting to your ears as usual, “You at least went to sleep though, right?”

“Yeah,” You tighten your lips after the response, feeling a beat pass as you try and mumble the next part quickly and quietly, “At four, but-”

“Four?” Yoongi chuckles begrudgingly, rubbing his face with his hand, and then sighs in discontentment, “You’re worse than I am.”

“Is that a compliment?” You ask him innocently, trying to navigate away from the potential reprimand for your sleeping habits as if you hadn’t done the same in response to some of the unruly hours Yoongi has said he’s fallen asleep at too. He just laughs on the other side of the line, causing you to bite your lip and try a new conversation that you’re sure would be something he’d react to like Namjoon, “About the lawyer friend of yours… Do you think he’d still be available for the meeting?”

---

Kim Taehyung stands pleasantly in the lobby of the company when you arrive days later. He greets you with a bright smile that makes you wonder if he can actually be as intimidating as Yoongi stated he is in contractual meetings. With his perfectly wrinkle-free suit, clearly tailored for himself, and luxuriously bronze leather suitcase, you can at least say his appearance is telling enough that his finances at least back-up a success record.

“So just to make sure we’re on the same page from the conversation on the phone,” He gestures for you to enter the elevator before himself as he speaks, following you along inside. “I’m here mostly for appearances, correct?”

“Well,” Your voice is high, smile sheepish from the verbiage used to describe Taehyung’s involvement, “Yeah-- but I’d still like to argue a little for it, but,” You pause, thinking that your own disposition seems weak and not positive for the outlook you want to search for in this meeting. “I just don’t want them to fire me for arguing too much, if that makes sense.”

“Although it’s certainly not proper for them to fire you for something as common as negotiating the terms of your contract, I understand why you’re apprehensive to speaking up about it because of the inherent hierarchical differences between you and the CEO. Nevertheless, I’ll take your lead for how much you would like to push for adjustments.” Taehyung speaks with ease, words flowing like silk. Relaxing as it is to have someone like him ready to discuss details on your behalf, you still find the idea daunting.

Even if by some grand means you succeed in somehow regaining all the rights to songs you write and music produced, what will that make the company think of you? Beyond Yerin and the board of directors, exists coworkers you know fondly, some as friends, and some simply respected. People with their own ambitions and work that they try to build high like yourself, and now you stand in an elevator on the way to an office to potentially crack the glass of the established.

As you exit from the elevator on the top floor, Yerin’s head secretary rises from her desk with a smile of familiarity. She gestures across from her to empty waiting chairs, stating pleasantly that Yerin is currently busy, but the meeting is expected to go on as scheduled. You simply nod at her words, sitting in the seats with Taehyung while your mind wraps around the situation about to unfold.

You aren’t so naive to believe that she’ll shut you up from the first word of contention, but where beyond that she’ll let it wander is unknown to you. It’s unimaginable that Yerin’s face would even concave with any shock or fret about this topic, because there’s never been a moment that you’ve witnessed her out of control. The way that the company operates, is organized, stays on top is thanks to her collectiveness. Ethical or not.

Your phone buzzes, jolting nerves across your spine that collected in tense shoulders.

Yoongi, 1:57pm: Hopefully you’re not already in the meeting room, but I just wanted to tell you it’ll all be okay no matter what happens.

You exhale through your lips, reaching to fiddle with your hair as a smile tries to force its way on your lips.

Y/N, 1:58pm: About to go in. Thank you so much Yoon.

“Ms. Y/N,” Your eyes lift from your phone as the secretary calls out to you, “She’ll be ready in just a moment.”

You begin to nod, smile politely in return though the action freezes when the doors to Yerin’s office open. Because of the oddness of coincidences, you stare in a stunned silence as black boots clatter on the tile while Jimin walks out of the office, bowing his head in goodbye to those in the room as he does so. Profanity of different calibers jumble around in your mind, rising in internal volume as the door behind him shuts and Jimin’s eyes find your person.

A moment feels like it freezes, as though crossing paths is unheard of to the both of you. In reality, you’ve both spoken to one another since the party, as short and dismissive the comments in various meetings were. But outside of that space, there’s something unnatural about passing along each other still. You know it’s mutually felt, because Jimin’s eyes remain on you longer than they should, returning your stare that unconsciously questioned what he would do.

Then you wonder why he left Yerin’s office to begin with. Though she is not absent of communication with employees, the setting appears more formal, rather than a casual check on how he’s been. With his manager nowhere to be seen, it leaves the question unanswered as Jimin finally steps along.

Returning focuz from you, he goes to the elevator unspoken. Like he would’ve months ago while you were both secretly involved, but in the current time, it leaves your throat with a tiny knot. Words and actions of the party flash through your mind, and you try to shake it off when the sound of the elevator dings off to your side. You just look at your phone,

Yoongi, 2:00pm: Let me know how things go afterwards, I’ll be here to listen.

Jimin steps into the elevator, turning on his heel to face the front and reach to click the button to his floor. His eyes moves reflexively towards you once more, curious of why you sit evidently waiting to speak to Yerin. He bites his lip, worrying in his thoughts of what she had just mentioned to him, but the tension in his jaw subsides as he takes in your expression. A soft curl of your lips gazing down at your phone, reminiscent of times in the past, Jimin can’t help but remember in that moment.

As the elevator door shuts, he feels every morsel of air filling in his chest that wants to be expelled, but his lips stay in a blank line, while Jimin stares at his blurry silhouette reflected in the elevator door. He has no right to feel the prickling that fights with the oxygen in his lungs, but the image of your brightened expression is infectious to his focus in a way that doesn’t feel good. Regretful.

Jimin shakes his head, sighing as long as possible. He watches the reflection’s arm move with his own as he strokes back his hair, suddenly hit with a harder wave of that emotion. The emotion that was never about you and always about himself. Unchanged still, as he learned from that meeting that went absolutely no where he wanted it to but to further doubt his own capabilities in his career.

He blinks, lips pursing into a frown only to stop a groan from escaping. He instead clicks his tongue, stretching his neck as the elevator stops on his floor. No matter what you’re there for, Jimin hopes you get what you want out of it. The thought strikes him into a standstill when he steps through the door. Jimin’s lips part, wondering why the selfishness escaped from his mind just like that.

In the waiting area before Yerin’s office, the secretary rises as a man exits the elevator. You know from past times that he’s the head contract lawyer, and the memories of his snarky way of speaking nearly cause your eyes to roll outright, but you just hold it in exhaling a breath instead. Taehyoung looks through his phone beside you, presumably through his calendar from your vague glimpse to it, so he’s unaware of the lawyer feet away casting him a look that turns into a stunned stair.

Your eyebrow raises in interest, gathering that in one way or another through the lawyer community, you suppose, that he recognizes Taehyung. You leave it be to speculation, not taking the initiative to alert Taehyung to the lawyer’s somewhat hostile stare because he quickly scampers off into Yerin’s office anyways.

Any kind of reputation to garner that reaction you’re happy with, if you’re honest. That lawyer always pissed you off with his disrespectful deposition anyways.

“Ms. Baek is ready for you both now.”

Taehyung stands before you, doing nothing to question the long sigh that you make. Gathering that you loathe the meeting and are evidently nervous, he thinks the reaction is rather common. Still he’s encouraging when you finally stand beside him, smiling optimistically at you with a thumbs up acted out with his free hand.

The contrast of the other lawyer’s reaction to how mellow Taehyung acts towards you makes you snicker, and return the thumbs up. A little lighter on your feet from his easy to along with personality and Yoongi’s gently comforting texts, you lead the way this time, entering through the doorway as the secretary politely opens it for the two of you.

“So he was her to represent Ms. Y/N, after all.” Nam Dohyun greets the two of you before Yerin who sits calmly in her desk chair ignoring the jab-like remark of her lawyer. “Kim Taehyung independently representing two of our employees now. How coincidental, I wonder if you’ve asked your other client to hand out business cards for you.”

You think the argumentative way Dohyun speaks to Taehyung is odd, considering the fact that meetings like this tend to have outside lawyers assist the employees. Up until now, you’ve likely been one of the odd few who have refrained from seeking independent advice, so perhaps there’s animosity in the business relationship between the two that you don’t know about. You assume the other client Dohyun referred to is Yoongi, which allows your mind to speculate shortly that in the merger maybe there had been alterations made in Yoongi’s contract or other negotiations. Definitely something if Taehyung is already seen in a threatening manner as Dohyun leads you to believe.

“Referrals only, actually.” Taehyung smiles pleasantly, though rather feigned as Dohyun and you feel the chill he sends out. Yerin sighs, standing from her desk,

“Mr. Nam, watch your tone.” She gestures with her hand to the long table set aside for smaller meetings such as this one. “Let’s continue this there, since there are more people than anticipated.”

“This should be a short meeting, I believe.” Dohyun speaks first as the two parties sit across from one another. He reaches into his suitcase to bring about the paperwork as he continues along. “Because there’s been no true push for change, I’m happy to assume that the terms of your contract are still very suitable to what you want out of your position here, ma’am. Financially, I’m positive it will only become more lucrative as the company continues to grow and your royalties continue gathering how more money than someone such as yourself would know what to do with.”

Your lips tighten into a line as Dohyun’s insulting, calm voice rambles irritably along. Refraining from showcasing the annoyance, you try to keep your mind occupied on Yerin as she sits across from you poised. Her eyes follow the path the contract makes across the table, and she’s empty of fervent emotions, simply monitoring the ordeal until her voice is needed.

Taehyung slides the top copy in front of you, while he takes the bottom one for himself to skim through. You finally break away from trying to extract any information about the state of Yerin’s attitude from her expressions, and join in a fast read through. Entirely similar to the first one you signed years earlier, but the percentage of earning through royalties is raised by a considerable margin.

You consider its new amount as a move from Yerin. She knows you’re dissatisfied, and even if Dohyun acts oblivious to that fact, you believe the entire board would have information about the fact. So this increase in revenue, which would tremendously strengthen your financial assets is put in place as an attempt to nullify your mouth. Maybe Yerin thinks money is where the discontentment stems from.

“I’m sure you recognize the pay increase you’ll be receiving through royalties in this new version of the contract. All other terms are kept the same. However, because of the assistance your work has done to bring so much success to the company, we believe that you deserve more recognition through improved finances. It’s quite a lucrative opportunity for someone as young as you are.”

Though you pay little attention to the verbal ego stroke of Dohyun, you nod absently to his words, flipping the page as you try to search for any other changes. Even though he said royalty percentage is the only difference, you give a chance that there is more. A surprise alteration that would actually make you ecstatic in the way that money would never do. But there is no such thing.

It makes you bite your inner cheek that you’re so hesitant now to sign again where years earlier you were so eager you barely cared about listening to Dohyun ask you to take a few minutes to consider. Perhaps it’s maturity, or just dissatisfaction.

You glance towards Taehyung who sits waiting for your reactions to the contract. You slide the paper back to him, not catching Yerin’s eyes narrow slightly from your actions.

“My client is actually interested in adjustments to the contract that are unrelated to finances.” He says fluidly, pushing their contracts to the center of the table so that there is space for his briefcase as he sets it down. “Using her last contract, I revised it with new points of what she desires to change.”

Yerin takes the contract from Taehyung as he stands to properly hand them off, while Dohyun snatches it with a small, unhidden glare. She reads through it silently, while you watch with an increasingly heavy heartbeat. Trying your best to ignore the rumblings beside her from the company lawyer, you instead cast all your attention to Yerin who undoubtedly is more important for how this will play out. She sets the contract down, prompting Dohyun to sit upright and ready himself to speak until Yerin raises her hand to keep him quiet,

“Y/N, I’ve told you before that allowing you to receive public credit for songwriting and production will only lead to dissent from the public. It’ll irredeemably tarnish the reputation of SoundWave and every single idol or group that works out of the company, as well as those of us involved in the original terms of your contract from the beginning.” Her hand rests back on the table as she finishes her direct speech, nothing more than the smallest crease of her brows to indicate that Yerin is at the most irritated that you have continued to bring this argument up.

You feel Taehyung’s eyes as he looks to you, waiting further to gauge how far you’re willing to take this attempt. But the indecision of what you want feels like a tormenting battle, because what she says is true. Undeniably, there would be so much negative repercussions for this change, especially if any word gets out that the artists have all been simply lying about how much they work for themselves.

Even if you are rightfully owed acknowledgement that the creations are yours, it’ll come at the cost of so many careers and reputations that it feels greedy. You know it’ll do more harm for SoundWave than good for you in the public’s perspective, but it hurts watching everyone around you claim what you made is theirs.

“I realize that.” You say carefully, hands in your lap knotted into fists to help you maintain composure. “That’s why the contract only specifies that a certain percentage of music would be properly credited to me. The idols will still largely be seen as the songwriters and producers that the public think they are, I’ll just be added in like some of the other names you allow into the credits.”

“Which songs? At your discretion or ours?” Yerin asks rhetorically, earning an irritated glower from Taehyung who still sits beside you in silence to let you lead. “And what happens when this contract’s terms aren’t enough to satisfy your selfish desire to have your name in all of the albums? Are we simply supposed to grandfather out the perception that our idols are self-sufficient until it has transferred to being completely engineering by songwriters and producers behind the scene, and assume the public will simply be on board to go along with such an outrageous idea?”

You sit still, watching as Yerin’s sentences end leaving her with visible scowl. Clearly annoyed now. Similar to the anger that she expressed towards you, Yoongi, and Jimin months earlier, but presently it’s because of your own stubbornness. Though her own unyielding demands are also to blame, so tension releases from your fists and your eyes tighten into a glare,

“Your plan right now is to continue to lie to the public. The reputation of this company is already destroyed, it’s just waiting for them to find out. Keeping me locked in a contract that forces me to lie with you all isn’t my fault. I didn’t make the original contract that puts business gain above public trust. And frankly, I’m not trying to ruin SoundWave right now, I just want my name next to my songs. The artists still sing them, perform them, make money from them-- this whole company capitalizes ridiculously off of my work, and all I’m asking for is my name to be public.”

Beside you Taehyung watches curiously, a bit surprised that the eruption of a speech left you with such an intense disposition opposite to how nervous you were when meeting with him at the lobby. But this closer resembles what Yoongi mentioned about you to him.

Yerin’s erect posture falters as she reclines back into her seat, eyes fixated in angry slits towards you still. Not as menacing, shifting towards a bothered stare as composure appears to regain itself in her.

She examines you, knowing you’re miles from your comfort zone, having never spoken to her like this before. There’s not a single moment in the history of you at the company where you’re appeared so set in the fire of argumentation, and on one hand it’s mutually respected by her because she realizes completely that you’re just trying to fight for what you believe necessary. Yerin can’t fault that when years earlier she’d done the same for herself to get her to where she is today, but at the same time it isn’t a quality that she can reward in this situation.

“With the addition of your public relationship with Min Yoongi, it’s even more unlikely that the public will give positive attribution to your name should you begin to be credited outright. Your first exposure will be put under scrutiny because people will assume you’re using him for the work, or that he’s manipulating the company for his own gain. In either scenario, you won’t be well received. On top of everything else it’ll do to SoundWave’s reputation. For the sake of the company, and all of its employees, including you, I can’t let your terms be agreed to.”

Candidly said as it is polite, Yerin lets her decision take over the ambience. Spilling into every molecule of air, you’re left with no choice but to consider what she says as unchangeable. Just like you expected all along. From the first time you started to ponder the idea, you knew the outcome would be as it is now.

An uncredited employee is the extent of what you can be in SoundWave.

“While I understand you’re upset,” Yerin starts again, entirely calm. Like she’s won. “There can still be made adjustments into your salary and the royalties you earn as a way to mediate your frustration-”

“It’s not about the money.” You’re voice is calm too; flowing like drops into a lake that don’t disrupt the water. And your eye contact into Yerin’s is direct as well. Incomparably challenging from that of any you’ve made with her years earlier. You can tell by her slightest of frowns that Yerin realizes this is different from other times. Unwavering like you would have been even months earlier at the beginning of the year.

Yerin opens her mouth, to try another angle, but your head shaking is enough to make her stay silent, listening as you finish the meeting in a cut,

“I won’t renew my contract then. Once the time stated in it ends, I quit.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know via ask, comment, rb with tags– however ! i’d just really appreciate feedback 🥺 i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire @tsvkino-usagi @xionysus @baebyjoonie

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here4theheartbreak · 5 years

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Spooky Stories with Bangtan 7 (final)

Story Seven: Delicious (Jin)

AO3 Link Here! Relationships: Hoseok x Jin, OT7 Poly

Genre(s): general, spooky/kiddie horror Rating: Teen

Tags: scary story, mild blood/gore, body horror, ghosts

Summary: Jin knows he can't let Hoseok figure out his mistake. No one has to know.

Word Count: ~1.6k words Written For: @btspolyshipbingo (Square: Free Space)

A/N: The final fic in my series of Halloween shorts. Some have ships, some do not, but they are all based on the kid’s book series Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. They may or may not all be connected ;) you’ll have to stay until the end to find out. Some will have character death, others are more funny. Hope y’all enjoy and have a happy Halloween!

Hoseok was a hardworking man with a fierce temper. This temper was something his boyfriend Jin knew all too well. His anger was often displaced onto Jin or his other few friends, who did their best to appease Hoseok as much as they could.

So, it was no surprise when Hoseok brought home the fresh, large liver from the butcher that Jin was eager to agree to cook it for dinner.

Hoseok was in a tense mood that day already, and as Jin served him lunch, he struggled to soothe Hoseok’s temper. He knew his cooking would help; Hoseok had said many times that Jin’s cooking was one of the few reasons he kept him around. That and his oral skills.

As they sat for lunch, Jin chatted at Hoseok about the death of a downstairs neighbor and the procession of mourners to the funeral home next door. He could sense Hoseok didn’t care, but he wasn’t being told to shut up, so maybe it was doing some good for Hoseok’s mood. When Hoseok finished lunch, he dropped the silverware into the bowl and pushed it toward Jin.

“Okay, enough. I have to go back to work.”

“Sure, of course. I’ll see you tonight?”

Hoseok grunted at him on his way out, slamming the door and leaving Jin in silence.

Later that afternoon, Jin began working on the meal for Hoseok. He hadn’t prepared liver in a long time and wanted to make sure he could do it well. After simmering it for a few hours, the air fragrant with cooking spices, he cut off a bit to taste. It was perfect. Jin’s stomach grumbled and he realized he had skipped lunch in his haste to impress his boyfriend with the meal. He cut off another bit, popping it into his mouth with some of the vegetables. He groaned, leaning on the counter as he took another bite, his stomach gurgling happily. It was absolutely delicious. Best thing he’d cooked in a while, if he was being honest.

Before Jin realized what he had done, the liver was completely gone. A panic rose in his throat like hot oil. It was too late in the day to get another one, and Hoseok monitored their money closely. Someone else might understand; Jin was under a lot of pressure as well and indulgences of this sort rarely happened – but not Hobi. Perfection was the only tolerable trait, and this was far from perfect. Jin stood in the kitchen, wracking his brain for what to do. How could he salvage this, making Hoseok happy and save himself from the tongue lashing or worse he was bound to get with an unhappy lover. And then it hit him.

The funeral parlor was abandoned and silent as the grave. A frighteningly fitting description, Jin knew as he snuck through the small window into the basement. He made his way up the stairs, palms clammy as the reality of what he was about to do settled into his bones. He had no other choice. He had to make sure Hoseok was happy or he’d pay Hell.

The neighbor’s casket was sitting in an icy cold room just as barren and terrifying as the rest of the place. Jin lifted the heavy wooden lid, startled to see just how peaceful the elderly woman looked. If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed she was simply resting in an odd choice of a bed.

But a closer look revealed the heavy makeup used to hide the bruising around her eyes and the ghostly pale sheen of her skin hiding under the caked on cover up. Jin tried not to look at her face as he undid the smart outfit she’d been dressed in. The material was beautiful and heavy, it had to have cost quite a bit. Jin scowled at the pale flesh, a shadow of veiny marbling that remained. Was he really about to do this? Jin asked himself. He withdrew the large hunting knife from his inner jacket pocket. It glinted off the sickly grey lights, catching his attention. His jaw twitched. He very nearly turned and ran, but the fear of what Hoseok would say or do was too strong. Taking a steeling breath, Jin lifted the knife to the smooth, pale flesh in front of him.

“That was really delicious, Jin. Thank you,” Hoseok said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He sat back and patted his stomach. Jin smiled softly, trying to hide his unease.

“I’m glad.”

“Did you want any?”

“No, I’m full – I ate earlier. You finish it… Was your day better?”

Hoseok nodded. The question set him off into a ramble about the students he was teaching new choreography to, effectively shutting off any concern he may have had about Jin’s expression as he finished up the perfectly fried liver.

That night, Jin laid next to Hoseok, listening to him breathe steadily as he slept. The image of the elderly woman continued to swim in front of his closed eyes. The coldness of her flesh, the sounds her body made, the smell of cooking liver. His stomach twisted and flipped and Jin was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten for many hours – he knew he would have lost everything in his stomach if he had. He reached out, touching Hoseok’s hand. As gruff and cruel as he could be, Jin did care for his boyfriend.

He began to count his breaths, still holding onto Hoseok’s hand lightly, and found himself drifting off. And then he heard it.

“Who took my liver?”

Jin’s eyes snapped open. He had to be dreaming.

“Who took my liver?” The voice came again, closer to their closed bedroom door. Jin’s heart began to pound faster. The door creaked open, loud as a scream in the quiet room. Jin’s breath caught in his throat.

“Who took my liver?” Closer now. Footsteps tapped toward the bed. Now Jin saw her. The same greyed face, mocking life for the final time. She stared at Jin with wide eyes, dull and dry. “Who took my liver, boy?” She rasped, her voice sounding like sandpaper over rough wood.

Jin’s voice caught in his throat, a scream bubbling against his vocal cords. Her cold hands reached out, clawed, arthritis bulged knuckles that even death couldn’t resolve.

“Did you take my liver? I want it back!”

“He did!” Jin finally sobbed, pointing to Hoseok’s sleeping form. “I—I fed it to him! Please!”

The woman hesitated for a second, fingers inches from Jin’s tear streaked face. She stared at Jin, unblinking, as if deciding.

“And then she pounced!” Namjoon screamed the final word. As he did, Jungkook leapt from the bush nearest to them, landing square in Jin and Hoseok’s laps.

Both screamed and Jin shoved, rolling the cackling Jungkook off them and nearly landing him in the crackling fire.

Namjoon cracked up, holding his stomach as he was hit with peals of laughter.

“Oh, Namjoon-hyung, stop being mean!” Taehyung lamented, wrapping his arms around Hoseok to try and calm his shivers.

“Sorry! I couldn’t help it!” Namjoon said between laughing fits, a signal he wasn’t really all that sorry.

“Why’d you make me the bad guy?” Hoseok whined, leaning into Taehyung.

“He’s just mad you made him do extra choreo last week,” Jimin joked. He smiled softly at Yoongi, who looked paler than usual in the firelight. “You okay?”

“Me? Psh.” Yoongi shrugged. “I’m fine. Just dumb kid stories.” He moved a little closer to Jimin. “But if you’re scared… I’ll hold your hand.”

Jimin grinned and took his hand, kissing it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” Jimin whispered, and Yoongi smiled a little. He lowered his gaze, relaxing against Jimin’s side.

“That was mean, Namjoonie,” Jin whined.

Jungkook climbed back into his lap, pressing apologetic kisses over his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon finally said, his laughter finally fading. “But it’s Halloween and we’re camping in the woods. I had to tell ghost stories.”

“Those were terrifying,” Hoseok grumbled. Namjoon rose and wiggled himself between Hoseok and Jin, wrapping his arm around their middles.

“I love you all, no matter what I did to you in the stories.”

Jin rolled his eyes, smirking. “You just don’t want us to say no sex because we’re mad.”

“Hey, he killed me in my story,” Jungkook tried to defend.

“And made spiders burst out of my face!” Jimin said, shuddering visibly. “I’m not a scaredy cat but that’s just twisted.”

“At least Taehyungie just got a ghost puppy,” Yoongi said.

“I’ll take my flesh and blood dog, thank you,” Taehyung said, still curled up against Hoseok.

“Should we go to bed?” Jungkook offered.

“Yeah, now that you two have scared almost all of our boyfriends into insomnia,” Taehyung said.

“Hm, yeah, but if they can’t sleep, we can always find other ways to tire them out.”

“Don’t even think about it, I’m not fucking you in a tent,” Jin grumbled. Jungkook pouted, but smiled through it.

“How about just some cuddles then?”

Jin glared. “No more jump scares.”

“No more until next year,” Jungkook agreed.

The seven made their way into the large tent behind them until only Jin and Jungkook remained to take care of the fire.

“It was fun, right? Even though you were scared?” Jungkook worried.

“Of course. It’s Halloween babe. I’m not bitter and neither is Hoseok. You spooked Yoongi good too.”

“We did?” Jungkook asked. “Namjoon-hyung and I worked really hard on his version of that story. I’m glad it worked.”

Jin reached out, tucking Jungkook’s shaggy hair behind his ear. “Happy Halloween, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook grinned. “Happy Halloween, hyung.” He crawled into the tent, ignoring the complaints and grumbles as he kissed over each member’s cheek.

“Happy Halloween, everyone,” he said when he reached his own sleeping bag. “Don’t let the ghouls get you.”

#networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #btsguild #btsbookclub #kwritersworldnet #armiesnet #thebtstown #ficswithluv #hyunglinenetwork #thekimlinenet #jinseoknet #ghosts #halloween #halloween fic #2seok #seokjin #poly bts #scary stories #mywriting

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hellfireandbookshops · 5 years

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This blog has crossed 1k followers, I am so overwhelmed! Thank you all so much!

As a way of celebrating I have decided to break my 4-year hiatus on publishing fanfiction! I’ve posted chapter one of my short stories/drabble collection which you can read on AO3 here. A preview is available below the cut!

My plan is to update as often as I can with short stories and drabbles exploring the lives of the ineffable husbands after the apocalypse. All the drabbles will exist in the same universe and be in chronological order. So far there are 30 chapters planned, and I am open to prompting too!

Thank you guys so much for sticking around for my descent into Good Omens obsession and keeping me creating content, I appreciate and love you all <3

~O~

You can stay at my place if you like.

Boarding the bus to Oxford (the bus that would drive to London anyway) was a silent affair. Crowley got on first, a brief gesture with his left hand ensuring that they would make it home tonight. Home being the demons residence, of course, no matter that Aziraphale hadn’t actually agreed to go there yet. If he was certain of anything right now it was that the angel shouldn’t be exposed to the ruin of his bookshop. Not tonight.

It had been horrific enough for Crowley. The aged rafters had crumbled to ash, the scent of burning paper surrounded the demon and choked in his lungs. All that uncomfortable heat licking at his skin, a dangerous reminder that whatever once stood there was now nothing more than dust in the wind. Fuel for a vicious flame. He’d called for Aziraphale but he had known the second he parked outside the angel was gone.

For the last six thousand years, Aziraphale has always been on his mental radar. An energy output ever-present in the back of his mind no matter where he went; it was how he managed to follow him across the globe al these years. It burned in him like the north star; leading him home.

There was nothing amidst the fire, though. Just an absence the likes of which he hadn’t felt since rising through the earth in the garden of Eden. An indicator that his best friend wasn’t in this realm anymore; discorporated or destroyed completely, he had no way of being certain. Oh, he’d hoped it was the former. That way he could just pop back down again with another body, surely. But who was to say the archangels hadn’t intervened and put a stop to whatever relationship they had? Crowley had been openly pleading with him in the street just an hour beforehand and hellfire would do a slap up job of eradicating an angel and his shop.

Crowley wasn’t entirely certain even he’d be able to stomach looking at the carcass of his friend’s home right now, not after grief like that.

So they’d go to the flat.

He took the seat beside the window, staring out at the quaint little village lit up in the night. It looked sickeningly nice. The kind of thing you’d put on a postcard to your nan. To think the world almost ended here today, in picturesque rural England. Oh the hidden dangers of a beautiful thing, much like an angel brandishing a flaming sword he supposed.

So busy waxing poetry about some scenery, and wasn’t that embarrassing for a being from hell, he hadn’t noticed the angel slide comfortably into the seat next to him. It was a little surprising, to say the least. Throughout the millennia, sitting together involved a fair amount of space between them. Crowley used to joke about leaving room for the holy ghost, but close quarters had simply never been worth the risk to them. Being caught talking was one thing, being caught cuddled together like illicit lovers was something else entirely. So park benches found the demon sprawled on one side and Aziraphale propped stiffly on the other. Any time they met at alternative Rendezvous point number 2; the number nineteen bus, Crowley would sit in the always conveniently absent seats directly behind his friend. Inconspicuous may not be their middle name, but at least they made something of an effort.

Pressed side by side with their shoulders brushing was different.

Though if either of them were being perfectly honest; everything was different now. Reality as they knew it was rewritten; or at least… He thought. Even Crowley couldn't be entirely certain what had happened on that airfield today with little Adam Young.

The bus pulls away and Crowley resolves to leave that train of thought behind. It’s going to take more than their journey’s length home to properly wrap their heads around it. Instead, he takes a large mouthful from their open bottle and wordlessly offers it to his companion.

“I don’t think we should really drink here.” The angel uttered in hushed tones, ever wary of the opinions of onlookers. Despite his protests, though, he does take the bottle into his own hand.

There was barely any passengers at this hour, Crowley knew, having cast a glance around the vehicle as soon as he’d boarded. A young woman near the front, headphones firmly in place and eyes drooping shut. A couple of seats behind them, there sat two young men both absorbed with their phones, uncaring of the world around them. Finally, at the back, a rather run down looking businessman skimming a broadsheet newspaper. Unlikely any of them would give the two eccentric gentlemen at the front a second glance. “I don’t think anyone cares, angel.”

Regardless, Aziraphale insisted, “I do.”

He was clinging to the bottle like an infant might cling to a safety blanket, but he was making no move to actually drink from it. The demon sighed deeply. “Suit yourself.”

Neither of them spoke for some time following that. Many people might assume that being friends for roughly six thousand years would leave very little to talk about, these people would be wrong. Crowley had long since mastered reading Aziraphale like one of his books, and he wouldn’t be dim enough to imagine the angel couldn’t do the same. They understood each other almost frighteningly well. Thus, the silence itself was practically a conversation.

The press of Aziraphale’s shoulder against his own was an act of showing comfort as much as it was the other seeking it for himself. Actual physical contact between them, at least in Crowley's opinion, was always a signifier of something consequential. Whether that be a handshake declaring an arrangement, or the brush of their fingers when they exchanged items (an incident involving Nazi spies and a church sprang to mind). This felt like it was much the same.

Rather than just innocently brushing, Aziraphale was gradually letting his weight come to rest against the demons side; and though he was loathed to admit it, Crowley was doing the same. Very soon they’d be propping each other up in a display of mutual reassurance. It enveloped him in something rather soothing.

Flashes of love, he remembered Aziraphale describing once on the drive back from Tadfield.

At the time Crowley had brushed him off, declared the notion ridiculous. That was more because of his irritation at having found no leads than it was the lack of understanding. He was not a being of love, but he certainly knew what it felt like. That energy on his radar was what it felt like. Like sinking into a hot bath. The waves of it washing over him in a cascade of warmth, circling his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach. Filling him up until he felt like he was glowing with it. That love he understood; he’d been feeling it since Eden, and it was only identifiable to him as Aziraphale.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to bring himself out of his thought process and register the angel's words. Luckily for him, staring off into the distance in broody silence was something of a signature behaviour, and as such raised no query from the other when it took several seconds of just staring at him to form a response.

“That depends entirely on what you’re referring to. I said a lot of things.” Was what he settled on.

Amused but unwilling to admit as such, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes just briefly; a fleeting smile gracing his features before it was gone again. “You said I could stay with you tonight.”

Crowley continued to stare, dumbfounded. “Of course I meant it, why wouldn’t I mean it?”

The angel had no particular response to that; a minute shake of his head that Crowley would have missed had he blinked, and choosing to forgo his earlier shame by bringing the bottle they’d been sharing to his mouth. There was a hefty swallow of alcohol.

Worst of all his angel’s usual warmth is buzzing beside him; it almost makes the demon uncomfortable to sit next to. The only reasonable comparison is a live wire. It’s something volatile and dangerous like it wasn’t moments ago, as if the angel was trying to forcibly keep something under control and failing.

Crowley hadn’t the faintest clue how to interpret this.

“Angel, I meant it,” Seemed a good place to start as any. It worked in some small way; Aziraphale turned his head enough to meet his gaze, those impossibly wide eyes making an appearance as he hung on Crowley’s every word. Damn those eyes. “I’m not going to leave you out on your ear, am I?”

Crowley wasn’t going to leave him at all. That much should be painfully evident if the two failed attempts at abandoning earth were anything to go by. Going anywhere without the angel just wasn’t an option for him anymore. Probably hasn’t been for about a thousand years.

Yet Aziraphale still looked so lost. He’d always had such an expressive face; he could tell more stories than his bookshop could hold with the things that face could do. Currently, his eyes were glistening, brow softly furrowed, cheeks dusted pink, lips parted on words that aren't likely to be spoken. Crowley knows that face will be the end of him one day.

“I’ve got a few bottles of 2009 Essence Bordeaux that I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” He offers, gently. “Averting the end of the world seems appropriate, don’t you think.”

The atmosphere around them begins to feel less dangerously electric and more like a mildly concerning fizzle.

“You’ve never offered that before.” The angel says suspiciously.

“I’ve been ageing it.” One shoulder lifts a little in a half shrug. “I’m sure a decade will suffice.”

“You said that about the Roussanne,” The demon groaned and turned his gaze away at the stark reminder of that process gone wrong. “and a decade was in fact far too long.”

“You still drank it.”

“It would have been a shame to waste it, really.” The sigh Aziraphale gives is fonder than he likely intended it to be.

They share a smirk and it feels like something all their own, secretive and special. On Crowley’s mental radar, everything settles back to normal with a wash of warm water over his very being. Whatever was troubling his angel seemed to be on the back burner for now.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

It’s almost completely inaudible. The demon turns his head to catch it and instead finds himself eye to eye with his best friend. The way he’s staring at him with such wonder makes Crowley glad his heart is entirely decoration; otherwise, it would be thumping in his chest like a bass drum. The gratitude clearly wasn’t just about tonight, he could understand that much, it was all-encompassing gratitude.

Not just thank you for letting me stay the night, but rather, thank you for staying by my side all this time.

He wanted to reply that there wasn’t anywhere in any universe he’d rather be, but admitting such things out loud weren’t becoming of a demon. Nor were they becoming of Crowley, honestly, who still flinched when he was called nice. So the only appropriate response seemed to be to demonstrate this point non-verbally. Specifically by slouching in his seat and leaning his weight against his friends side a little more, a slow grin adorning his features.

Aziraphale huffed a delicate laugh and rolled his eyes at the behaviour, likely not expecting a response any other way. The angel didn’t stop there, however, those perfectly manicured fingers reaching across to brush against the back of the hand lain in Crowley’s lap. The confident nature of the action was lost about halfway through, Aziraphale looking as if his limbs had acted of their own accord rather than his instruction and he was unsure where to go from here. Between them, the temperature starts to feel a little humid.

Crowley, not one for half measures, decided to aid his friend in his time of need. He flipped his hand over and entwined their fingers without a second thought.

There was something to be said about his role in this relationship, if it had an official title it would likely be something along the lines of ‘Here to Finish What Aziraphale Starts’. His job description was to pull the other out of near-death situations at the last second, give him a gentle push into beneficial decisions; and as of this moment assist him in instigating the affection he clearly wanted but wasn’t quite ready to ask for. Not that he had ever been anything but glad to hold this particular role. Crowley was, and always had been, unashamedly open about everything. At least in his opinion, he had been.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had spent six thousand years denouncing their friendship in one breath and then asking him for lunch the next. It only made sense to the demon that the other was a bit skittish about hand holding.

Neither of them said anything about it- Obviously. But it was the most relaxed either of them been since arriving in Tadfield. The air around them settled back into something familiar.

For right now at least, Crowley was content to believe that this could be their eternity.

#1k fic celebration #I had to publish this before I tried rewriting it again #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #my writing #my fic #my ficlet #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale & crowley #aziracrow #a/c

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sunyoonandstars · 6 years

Text

⊱ 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ⊱⊣∷∷∷∷∷⊢⊰ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ⊰

word count 4.309

angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝟣 || 𝓇ℯ𝒹 𝒸ℴ𝓃𝓋ℯ𝓇𝓈ℯ𝓈

No. No. You must be mistaken.

You must be.

As you stand there staring, frozen, petrified, incapable of moving, your mind starts wandering. Trying to run away when your body can’t, desperately attempting to escape a truth you can't deny. Struggling to pinpoint where it all went wrong, and when exactly it was that you had known.

The doubts. They had begun creeping up on you, slowly, sneakily, over the course of weeks, months maybe even. Growing, like a pit in your stomach, stretching out its dark, thorny branches, reaching for your heart and threatening to swallow it whole.

Namjoon, the love of your life as you would have called him lovingly, convinced of the truth of your statement just yesterday, had become distant. Cold. And now you finally understand why.

Unable to either breathe or avert your eyes from the sight that currently burns itself into your memory, you watch as Namjoon's hand slides down the back of another woman who is straddled on his lap as though she means to claim him as hers. When you begin to comprehend what is going on, a searing pain shoots straight through your heart and down your spine like an electric shock, paralyzing you, keeping you in place, glued to the floor.

No. You must be seeing wrong.

He would never do such a thing. Not to you. Not Namjoon.

You had tried calling him repeatedly today, your calls always going straight to voicemail, and your numerous texts, too, remaining unread, undelivered even. Joon must’ve turned his phone off to focus on his work you figured. Knowing that he’d been planning on locking himself in his studio all day to finally get some songwriting done after having been stricken with a creative block for weeks in a row now, you had no reason to be suspicious. Or so you believed.

Since you were planning on leaving town, though, you had felt the obligation to let him know at least so he wouldn't get worried for no reason. Like last time. When he almost called the cops when you were nowhere to be found.

What you hadn’t expected, however, when you decided to drop by his studio with snacks and drinks for a little surprise visit was to find the door to it unlocked. And to be faced with the scene right in front of you now.

A soundless gasp parting your quivering lips, eyes burning with tears uncried, you stall in the doorway to Namjoon’s studio, your senses deadened by shock as you feel your heart being crushed by your chest that caves in on itself under the weight of what you see.

No. No way. Those kisses, those lips, those hands. They are meant for you, not for this strange woman currently caressing Namjoon's bare chest.

In utter disbelief, refusing to trust your own eyes, you blink them. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Finally, however, you can’t help but realize the reality of the scene playing out right in front of you.

There is another woman with him.

With Namjoon.

Your Namjoon.

And he is with her.

Kissing her.

Fucking her.

Drinking her up with hungry gazes.

She’s still sitting in his lap, her arched back facing the door, her legs wrapped around his waist, her slender arms encircling his neck while Namjoon’s big, strong hands – the hands that used to touch only you in such a way – are entangled in her long, dark hair. You can hear both of them breathing heavily from where you stand. And your ears ache with the sound of their lips passionately interlocking, Namjoon moaning, calling her his 'baby'.

No.

No way.

This can’t be real.

It can’t be.

Slowly, silently, careful not to make your presence known, you take an uncertain step backward, then another one into the abandoned hallway, not bothering to close the door behind you, eyes still wide with horror.

Trembling, your knees having turned to water, you stagger down the corridor until your legs can carry you no further. And there you stay, barely holding yourself upright in the middle of the dark hall, your whole body shivering, hands, still holding onto bags of rice cakes and soda, shaking uncontrollably.

Breathe, you remind yourself.

You have to breathe, y/n.

But your entire world has just collapsed around you in a matter of seconds, so your body clearly sees no use in maintaining its essential functions. You can’t even sense its desperate desire for oxygen anymore at this point, the expectable burning of your lungs merely missing, nowhere to be detected. You don’t feel anything right now, not even real anymore. You are numb. Dead.

All you can feel is the ground falling away beneath your feet, a dizzy spell threatening to overwhelm you, your head pounding while your brain desperately tries to process the meaning of what you just witnessed.

This can’t be real.

Namjoon would never — But he did.

You have trouble fighting the nausea building up in your stomach.

You need to get out of here. As far away from Namjoon, from her, from them, as you possibly can.

Right now.

Cruelly slowly making your way to the emergency exit, breathing heavily, your limbs benumbed, supporting yourself against the wall, struggling to move forward, you call your best friend without even giving it a second thought, your fingers operating your phone almost automatically. He picks up immediately.

"Jimin-ah, I’m feeling sick," you scarcely manage to get out the words, doing your best to hold in a sob. "Can you please come and pick me up?“

"Of course, Y/N!“ You can hear the genuine concern resonating in his soft, familiar voice, the mere sound of it already being of comfort to you. "What happened? Where are you?“

"I’m in front of the studio. Joon – Namjoon's studio. Outside. Almost. Back exit.“

"But … if you're with Namjoon, shouldn't he –?“

"He’s busy.“ Your words are laced with bitterness so sharp you can almost taste it. Then again that might be the bile.

"Oh-Okay …“ Jimin unmistakably hesitates; you’re infinitely grateful he seems to decide to refrain from digging any deeper for the moment. "I’m on my way, y/n. Hang in there. I’ll be right with you.“

"Thank you, Jimin. Thank you.“

You hang up and force yourself to keep going until you finally make it outside, shakily inhaling the first breath of fresh air, bringing one hand up to your face in order to shield it against the brutally bright daylight stinging your teary eyes.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, your trembling legs ultimately give out, leaving you to stumble and almost fall down the few stairs. You just about manage to steady yourself and catch your fall, your free hand firmly gripping the rusty banister next to you as your gaze, directed downwards, involuntarily settles on your shoes. The red Converses. The fucking red Converses you were only wearing for him. Because Namjoon would never shut up about how sexy they looked on you the day you first met, and kept telling you how he couldn’t get enough of you in them.

Lies. All lies.

Obviously, he's had enough of you. A long time ago.

All of a sudden a realization strikes you like a slap to the cheek: These aren’t even your shoes you are staring at through a blur of angry tears. They are his, just like you believed you were. But they are a lie now, too. Everything was a lie. Every last one of the sweet nothings Namjoon used to whisper to you. Everything. Was. A lie.

The sudden awareness of this harsh truth lets the nausea boil up in you once again, more forcefully this time. Panting, you stumble further into the narrow alleyway behind the BigHit building, tears streaming down your face while you empty your stomach onto the sidewalk. You can’t seem to stop vomiting, not even to catch your breath. It’s almost like your body wants to get them all out. All those feelings you still have for Namjoon. For the man who promised to always protect and never hurt you, to stay true to you and by your side for better or for worse. Who knew how you’d been hurt before and swore you could trust him, that he would always love you.

Always. How ridiculous. The word itself. Preposterous. Nobody can love anyone always and forever. There is no always, no forever.

Our time on this planet is limited. And so is our capacity to love another person, it appears. Never, not even in your wildest dreams, had you imagined, though, that Namjoon of all people would betray you like this, that he was even capable of cheating on you so shamelessly. You had always believed him to be one of the most mature, caring, and honest people you knew. People, however, change, you remind yourself, and they apparently never seize to surprise you.

So, as you stand there, gasping for air, bent over a puddle of your former stomach contents, your temple leaning against the rough, cold rendering of the wall, shivering, freezing, you can’t help but wonder what it was that pushed Namjoon over the edge.

Was it you? Did you lack something? Did you not take good care of him? Did you not give him all your love and affection, your undivided attention? Did you not try your best to make your relationship work despite everything? Did you not satisfy his needs? Did you not wait for him patiently whenever was preoccupied with his work, canceling and postponing plans you had made weeks ahead? Did you not go along with his busy schedule as an idol without ever complaining?

How could you possibly have failed Namjoon to deserve this?

When Jimin arrives, he finds you pacing up and down the pavement in front of the BigHit building. Restless, you keep running your hands through your tousled hair, a frighteningly anxious, almost frantic glare in your eyes, your face white as a sheet, your breathing flat and its rhythm far too rapid.

You don't appear to take notice of him standing there, right before you, but, instead, stare right through him as though he were a ghost.

Alarmed, Jimin grabs you by your shoulders to stop you in mid-step.

"Hey, y/n. Y/nnie, calm down. It’s alright. I’m here now. I’m here. Okay?“

Torn from your racing thoughts by the welcome sound of his familiar voice you look up at Jimin, only now made aware of his presence. You don’t resist when he pulls you in for a tight, reassuring hug.

"You came," you whisper into the rough fabric of his old denim jacket, a single tear of relief making its way down your cheek.

"Of course, I came, y/n. I will always come to you. And now, let’s go. Let’s go and get you home.“

"Not to the dorm!“ you call out in panic, unintentionally raising your voice and pulling away from his embrace. Jimin’s eyes widen with surprise at your unexpectedly strong reaction. Nonetheless, he merely nods, no questions asked, consoling you with a sweet smile.

"Alright, y/nnie. As you wish. I’ll just drop you off at your apartment then, or wherever else you want. I don’t mind where we go. All that matters to me is that you are comfortable. Okay?“

"Thank you, Jimin. My apartment is perfectly fine.“

"Good," he smiles at you, his smooth, soothing voice already having a noticeable calming effect on you. People do change, but not him. Jimin always has been and always will be your medicine, your tower of strength. When everything comes crumbling down, he is the one you can count on. And at this moment, you are overcome with infinite gratitude for his generous soul.

Somewhat confused by your teary-eyed gaze lingering on his angelic features for a few seconds too many, Jimin tenderly dries your cheeks with the rim of his sleeve and gives you another grin.

"Let’s get going, y/nnie. The cab is waiting just around the corner.“

Gently, he takes you by your elbow and leads you towards the vehicle parked by the side of the street, proceeding to place you in its backseat before he sits down next to you, never once letting go of your arm.

"Just sit back and relax, y/n. Close your eyes," he suggests, and you gladly comply, allowing your eyelids to flutter shut while you listen to Jimin giving directions to the driver in a low voice and politely asking him to turn down the music, probably afraid your rest would be disturbed otherwise.

"Don't worry, y/n, I'll see to it that we arrive safely. Just take a nap. I'm here."

How can he still be so sweet and caring towards me?, you can’t help but wonder. After everything that you put him through all those years ago.

Jimin's kindness and clemency will forever remain an enigma to you. For now, however, you push aside all thoughts of your shared past and decide to indulge in Jimin’s comforting presence. Settling into the hug he offers with a sigh, you lay your head on his shoulder and lean into his warm body.

"Y/n?" he hesitantly speaks up after a few minutes of welcome silence, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hmm-hmm," you hum in response, unable to muster the strength necessary to open your eyes and look up at him.

"I – I was just wondering ... Are you 'sick' sick, or did something happen? Was this perhaps another one of your panic attacks?“

You can feel your heart twist in your chest. It’s not ready yet for this kind of conversation.

"Don’t know," you reply, keeping it short to hide the shaking of your voice, glad you don't have to face Jimin as you lie to him.

"You wanna talk about it?“

"Not particularly.“

Jimin just nods quietly before he pulls your head closer to his chest, apparently having noticed your muscles tensing up in reaction to his questions. In a slow, tranquilizing rhythm he then starts caressing your hair, one arm resting around your shoulder until he suddenly stops. You can feel his head shoot up.

"Yah, y/n, why aren’t you wearing any shoes!?“

"I puked on them," you truthfully reply, omitting unnecessarily painful details.

"Should I go and get them? I could drive back after I drop you off and leave them with our dry cleaners. They’ll look as good as new once they’re done with them.“

"Don’t bother.“

"But … weren’t they your favorites? Your red Converse Highs? You wear them all the time. They’re basically the only flats you own.“

"Yeah," you sigh.

"But … don’t you love these old things? Aren’t they, like, special to you and Namjoon?“ Jimin keeps on asking, sounding increasingly confused, reasonably astonished by your indifference.

"Forget about it. They’re ruined. Their days are over."

Your cold, resolute tone prevents Jimin from making any further inquiries. He knows you. He has known you for years now, probably better than you know yourself, maybe even better than Namjoon does. He knows your boundaries, and he knows very well not to push them. So Jimin decides to merely offer you his silent consolation instead. Even unaware of what is troubling your heart, he strokes your back, his fingers dancing across the thin fabric of your shirt, tracing soothing shapes and lines on your covered skin.

When you finally arrive at your destination, Jimin helps you out of the car, offering his assistance when he notices how unsteady your steps still are, and slowly, with you leaning onto his shoulder, guides you upstairs and into your humble studio apartment. You don’t even need to give him the access code to the front door. Jimin’s fingers still remember the sequence of numbers you’d written down for him more than three years ago.

"Thanks, I can take it from here," you say without looking him in the eye, the two of you still standing in the doorway.

"No way, y/n. I’m not leaving you in this state. I haven’t seen you this shaken up since —," he pauses, his voice cracking, the silence building up, filling the room in between the two of you, rapidly becoming unbearable, smothering. Jimin darts you an inquiring glance, but you try not to show any reaction.

„Well —“ He clears his throat. You can tell his cheeks are blushing out of the corner of your eye. "I haven’t seen you this shaken up in years. I have no idea what happened to get you into this state, and I won’t pry. But if you’re ready to tell me, feel free to. You know I’m always here for you, y/n, willing to listen. Until then, I won’t bother you with any further questions. I just want you to rest and get better, to take care of you as a friend, that’s all. Will you let me? Please?“

Weakly, you nod your hanging head, indicating him with a gesture of your hand to follow you inside. Jimin gives you a faint smile, his eyes still searching yours for any kind of clue as to what might have stirred you up like this. You avert your gaze, though, but don’t resist when he takes you by both your shoulders, lightly pushing you towards your bedroom.

"Now change into something comfortable and lie down. I’ll make you your favorite tea. It’s still that weird blend, cocoa bean, and licorice, right?“

You can’t help but grin.

"Yeah, that’s the one,“ you chuckle.

Jimin face lights up at your response.

"Good. I’ll be right back, y/n. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime.“

You nod, still grinning to yourself, even after Jimin has left the room and closed the door behind him.

He’s too good to you. A fact you are painfully made aware of once again as your eyes casually sweep over a framed photograph while you get undressed. The picture, placed on your bookshelf, half-hidden behind a dusty vase, shows Jimin and you with your arm thrown around his neck and his wrapped around your waist while you give him a peck on the cheek, your faces beaming with naive happiness.

Those two people don’t exist anymore, you promptly remind yourself as you force your gaze to detach from the photograph. They were another you and another him. Ages ago.

As you snuggle into your pillow and blankets, however, you are faced with yet another picture, another memory, sending a sudden, piercing pain through your entire body, originating from your chest where your aching heart beats too fast for your thoughts to keep up.

It’s a Polaroid of you and Namjoon, taken on your birthday the first year you spent together as an 'official' couple. It was captured by Taehyung if you remember correctly. He was a little embarrassed by the scene taking place in front of him back then, taunting you, taking a photograph only to show the two of you how disgustingly and wildly in love you were acting even in public. You and Namjoon, however, were rather fond of the Polaroid as it turned out, since it depicted you entangled in each other, you sitting on Namjoon's hips, one of his hands placed on your bottom, the other one buried in your hair, your lips locked in a deep, passionate kiss. He’d never been afraid of public display of affection once the two of you had made it official, meaning not only making officially known that you were dating, but that you were deeply, madly in love with each other.

Were.

Such a hurtful little word.

You close your eyes as the tears start blurring your vision again and bury your throbbing head in your pillows, unable to stand to look at the image for even one more second. Even long after you have shut your eyes, though, does it keep haunting you, showing up in your feverish dreams as you sink into a shallow, restless sleep …

𝓉𝒽𝓇ℯℯ 𝓎ℯ𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓆ℴ ...

"Jimin-ah! Jiminie! Come back here! I want to sing for you!"

Boisterous laughs and shouts like those of playing children echo throughout the karaoke bar.

It's not that you mind other people having a good time. Not at all. Tonight, however, their laughter makes you flinch.

They're too loud. Too happy. Too pretty.

Everything you are not and never will be. Because you are a nobody.

"Here you go," you smile as you hand a glass of milk to one of the boys lounging around a flatscreen television on which the lyrics to a famous American rock ballad are running past at high speed.

"Thank you so much," he looks up at you, grinning shyly. "For going through so much trouble."

"Oh, it's nothing, really," you effortlessly lie, not mentioning that there is usually no milk served at this venue and that you personally had to climb down various flights of stairs to fetch a carton of milk from staff storage in the dark basement at three in the morning.

"Thanks anyway," the guy smiles, politely bowing his head.

"It's okay. Does anyone else want to order? Another round of drinks perhaps?" you ask as you take a look around and into the handsome faces gleaming with youth and promise.

"No, thank you," one of the young men who you believe to be the eldest replies, in doing so relieving you of your duties for now.

"Yoona," you address your coworker who is supporting her tired body against the counter of the bar as you stride past her, too fast for her to notice the change in your expression. "I'm gonna take a short break. I need a smoke."

She shows no reaction whatsoever, her eyes remaining pinned to the group of boys who have been your only customers for hours now.

The second you step outside into the brisk night air and onto the fire escape, you can feel the tension falling from your shoulders like a heavy cloak, and with it the mask you have been wearing, revealing a worn face and weary eyes, glassy with tears.

Your hand is trembling so violently, you struggle to light your cigarette. Sniffling the tears back, you step away from the door and closer to the railing, gazing down at the nocturnal streets of Seoul, getting lost in the lights, gladly welcoming the icy cold that sings your wet cheeks and numbs your fingertips.

"That's not good for you, you know."

You almost drop your cigarette.

Eyes wide with surprise, you turn around to get a look at the intruder.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the young man hastily apologizes, looking down, apparently too shy to meet your gaze.

His features are unusually soft. Before you know it, you are overcome with the desire to caress his cheeks and kiss his luscious lips.

"No, don't worry. I meant to go back inside anyway, so –"

"Oh, no. No!" he cuts you off. "Don't feel like you need to leave because of me. I'm glad you're taking a break, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I noticed you were working already when we came here, so your shift must have started even before we got to the bar. Which means ..." He tilts his head to one side, brows furrowing as you believe he calculates in his head. "... you've been working for at least nine hours. Without taking even one break. And it's so late. You must be tired. So, take all the time you need. Don't mind me. I'll go if I make you feel uncomfortable."

"No," you shake your head, to your own surprise. "Not at all."

"Good," the pretty stranger smiles the most brilliant smile you have ever seen, turning his bright eyes into sparkling crescent moons.

"You want one?" you offer him a cigarette.

"Oh, no," he is quick to decline. "I'm not allowed to smoke."

"Not allowed to?" you raise a brow.

"Yeah. It's kind of in the contract and all," he shrugs it off, being so ominous you are instantly intrigued.

"Contract?" you inquire. Until you recall his singing voice from earlier. "Oh. Are you – Are you an idol!?"

"Kind of," he says as if it's nothing. "But it's not like we're famous yet or anything. We'll probably never make it big. So, no need to act differently with me than you would with any other guy."

"So, when we meet again in a couple of years, and you are suddenly world-famous, should I bow then or something?"

"No," he chuckles. "That's not what I meant."

"But I think you will be."

"What?"

"Famous. I believe you'll make it big. I really do."

He looks at you directly now for the first time, his glance almost too intense for you to handle.

"You do?"

"I do. You're ... You just have something about you, you and those boys. And there's just no way I'm the only one who can see that."

"All right," he smiles, eyes shining.

"All right," you nod, feeling your cheeks blush.

"But I meant what I said earlier," he goes on, all of a sudden serious. "This is not healthy for you. You should really put out that cigarette. And put on my coat."

Leaving you no chance to decline or resist, he drapes his parka around your shoulders and takes the glowing cigarette butt from your cold, stiff fingers.

"I paid for that, you know," you scoff, shocked by his charming brazenness. "With my hard-earned money."

"Well, how about you spend that money on something else instead? Like, I don't know, a snack or a face mask. Something that makes you feel good without ruining your lungs and all."

"I'll see," you shrug. "Maybe I'll give that a try. Can't make any promises, though."

"All right, that's something, I guess."

He now steps up to you, assuming position next to you by the banister, following your gaze out into the light-sprinkled winter night, watching as your breath turns into hazy clouds, dancing in the dark before they merge, becoming one.

"I'm Jimin, by the way. Park Jimin."

"Jimin?" you call out, still half asleep. To your surprise, he actually answers.

"Yes. Yes, y/n, I'm here." Carefully, he takes your hand into his, patting it gently.

"Did you know?" you mumble, blinking your droopy eyes in an attempt to chase away the sleep that urges you to return to its twisted realm of dreams and shadowy half-truths.

"Did I know what?"

"Back when we met, at the bar," you clarify, struggling to grasp a clear thought. "Did you know I was crying?"

For a few seconds, silence occupies your bedroom until Jimin breaks it with a breathed little laugh.

"Yes, I knew. Of course, I knew. You had mascara tears all over your face. It was kinda hard to miss."

"Oh. I had no idea. Why – Why didn't you say anything? I really couldn't tell you knew."

"What does it matter now?"

"I ... I ... don't know," you reply truthfully, feeling your mind slip away already, slowly drifting back into a restless slumber. "But ... thank you. Thank you for understanding."

Jimin lets go of your hand to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes as they gradually flutter shut again.

"I could tell that you wanted to be strong, y/n. That you were strong. And I wasn't gonna take that away from you."

Those are the last words you hear before you tumble back into the pitch-black nothingness of sleep.

ℰ𝓃𝒹 ℴ𝒻 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉ℯ𝓇 𝟙 || 𝓃ℯ𝓍𝓉 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉ℯ𝓇 ⤐

A/N: This is the re-release of a previous series I published in early 2018. It is in the process of being revised and edited. There will be new chapters and scenes added to the chapters to come. The series was originally based on a one shot request made by @im-cxnfused.

Tagging @gnoeccsij

Send me an ask if you wish to be tagged. Feedback is always welcome. Furthermore I encourage you to listen to the playlist (while reading) if you’re ready for the feels.

None of the GIFs used are mine. Credit goes to the original creators. I genuinely admire your work and dedication.

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jamesashtonisbae · 5 years

Text

The Freshman Series Ch. 1

Word Count: 4,591

Pairing: James x MC (the series), Chris x MC

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Language, sexual undertones

Summary: Ch.1 of Book 1 of The Freshman by PB.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to pixelberry studios. A lot of dialogue is from PB. I will change the storyline a bit when things are out of character for people, particularly Lacey and James.

Ch. 1

"Ah! The smell of college! It smells like… the inside of our car,” Lacey said, gazing out at Hartfeld’s campus. It looked just as beautiful as when she had visited in the winter. Though, every tree’s leaves were changing to beautiful shades of yellow, orange, and red instead of being blanketed by snow. Although everything was autumn colored, the air was still warm from the sun’s rays. Lacey rolled down her window and took in a deep breath, “I can’t believe I’m here finally.”

“Well, baby. You are. I’m so proud of you for making it here. You have no idea how proud of you your father and I are,” her mom said, easing the car into a parking lot near the main quad on the campus. She was trying and failing to hold back tears, Lacey could tell.

“Mom! Thank you!” Lacey grinned at her mother. She loved her so much, and knew she was going to miss her family. They lived in a suburb of Boston, a poor one, but one with great community nonetheless. Lacey had spent her whole life around people she knew, and she had never lived anywhere else.

“Now, do you know where you need to be dropped off?” Lacey’s mom’s question interrupted her thoughts.

“Uhh…” Lacey stuttered, looking around and recognizing her new dormitory across the quad. “I think here is fine. I’ve just got those two suitcases of clothes, and it’s a small campus. So I’ll be okay. Thanks Mom!”

“Oh – okay!” her mom said, a bit taken aback. Lacey could tell she had wanted to help, but Lacey also knew if her mom stayed she wouldn’t want her to leave ever, and now was not the time to beg her mommy to stay with her. “Well, you’re welcome Lacey! I hope your move-in is stellar, baby!”

“Thanks, Mom! I love you! I can’t believe I’m here!” Lacey squealed, wrapping her arms around her mom and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Bye baby!”

“Bye!” Lacey jumped out of the car and took in a deep breath before grabbing her two suitcases from the trunk of the car. She slammed it shut and waved as her mom drove away.

The campus was bustling with people, hauling carts, parents hugging their kids. Guys tossed around footballs, girls lay out on the lawn of the quad sunbathing. A huge smile broke out on Lacey’s face as she pulled her suitcases behind her. She was here, at college. This was where the next four years would take place. This is where she was going to fall in love, become a talented journalist, make her mark. Or, at least, where she hoped all of these things would happen.

She made it mere feet before she realized that her bags were a bit more than she could handle, "Ugh. These suitcases weigh like a thousand pounds. Maybe I shouldn't have brought so much—“

Rounding the corner, she ran smack into a guy jogging by! As she fell, he gripped her by the hips and spun her so he would take the brunt of the fall. Which wasn’t very comforting either. He was made of solid muscle. Her face turned instantly red as he helped her up gently.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" Lacey exclaimed.

"My ego's a little bruised. If the other guys on the football team saw me get tackled by a pretty girl, they'd never let me forget it,” he replied with a laugh. He stuck out his hand to take hers, "I'm Chris, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, I'm Lacey,” she replied with a grin, taking him in fully. He was tall, very tall, and his eyes sparkled, the same shade of blue as her favorite sports drink. And he was handsome. Very handsome.

"Lacey... for some reason that rings a bell. Huh. So... are you okay? Nothing broken, I hope,” he brought her back to reality with his question.

"I'll be fine. My hand is just a little scraped up,” she said, inspecting it.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" he asked, still holding onto her opposite hand. She blushed as she noticed he wasn’t planning on letting go of it anytime soon. Their eyes met and she felt the electricity between them.

"Well you could kiss my hand and make it better,” Lacey smirked, leaning her head to the side and batting her eyelashes.

"If that'll help..." He took her scraped hand with both of his, and pressed his lips to her it, pulling his eyes away from hers. She grinned as he continued to caress her hand after pulling his lips away. Their eyes met, and she took in a deep breath, gazing into his eyes. With his opposite hand, he ran it through his auburn locks. Up close, he was so handsome. She was internally swooning, but externally, keeping it cool. Super cool. Oh god, did she just say that in her head

Externally she said, "It feels better already."

"Any other bumps or bruises you need me to fix?" Chris said, honey dripping from his lips, looking like he wanted to devour her. And if Lacey was being one hundred percent honest, she probably would have let him devour her. No, not probably, definitely, she definitely would have let this very handsome man whom she had just met devour her

"Let me think about that..." Lacey tilted her head to the side, pretending to ponder where she wanted him to kiss her next. Knowing she was going to say her lips were sore and she wanted him to kiss her there.

"Chris! There you are!” an impeccably dressed, frighteningly hot girl said cheerily. Lacey blinked a few times to take her in. Her blonde hair shone in the sun and she wore a beautiful grin on her face, aimed at Chris. “Don't forget about the Kappa house mixer tonight."

"Oh... Becca. Hey. I'd love to go, but I promised my roommates I'd hang out with them…” Chris trailed off, glancing over at Lacey. His body language changed, as he closed himself off to Becca. Lacey raised her eyebrows slightly, but they seemed to know each other, so maybe she was misreading it. Maybe he was uncomfortable with Lacey being there.

"Too bad... I promise you'd have a better time with me..." Becca said, trailing her finger down his chest.

"Uh, we're kind of in the middle of a conversation..." Lacey said softly, seeing if she was right about how Chris’s demeanor had shifted when Becca touched him. He seemed to be super uncomfortable.

"It looked to me like you were just leaving," Becca said, a sneer on her face.

"Actually--” Lacey shrugged, as Chris looked at her with pleading eyes.

Just then, Becca dropped her iced coffee, and it splashed all over Lacey’s pink floral dress.

"Seriously?!" Lacey exclaimed trying to brush the coffee off of her dress, but it was to no avail. She was only making it worse. Way worse.

"Oops. I'm so clumsy!" Becca said, tilting her perfect blonde head, grinning over at Chris while running her hand up and down his arm.

"Lacey! Your outfit! I'll go find some napkins,” Chris exclaimed, reaching out and grabbing her arms and squeezing them lightly before running off to grab something to wipe it off with.

The second he was out of earshot, Becca leaned in close, and sneered at Lacey, "Just so you know, Chris is mine."

"Oh, he's your boyfriend?" Lacey said, automatically rethinking her entire conversation with him. She shouldn’t have flirted with him like that if he had a girlfriend, regardless of how he was flirting with her. She knew better than to do that, and she didn’t act like it at all. She started sputtering an apology, when Becca angrily interrupted her.

"Not yet. But he will be,” Becca sneered angrily again.

Now Lacey was mad. This girl had just spilled coffee on her for literally no reason, "Forget Chris! What about my clothes? I spent all morning choosing this outfit.”

"And that's what you wore?” Becca said, looking her up and down, “How... sad."

All of a sudden, Chris ran up with a stack of napkins in his hand. He wasn’t even panting, or sweating, and she recalled his comment about being on the football team. He sure did look like he was on the football team. He sure felt like he was on the football team. Lacey had a feeling she was going to be doing a lot of stalking of the football team when she got moved into her apartment that night.

"This is the best I could do,” Chris whispered, leaning in closely to where Lacey was standing, his lips brushing over her ear.

"It's a good start...” Lacey said, annoyed by the stain on her dress and the heavy suitcases she was toting around, too annoyed to notice how close Chris was standing to her, “I'll just find my dorm and change. See you around, okay?"

"You can count on it,” Chris grinned, and Lacey had a fleeting hope that they would see each other a lot this quarter. She grinned back at him as she walked away, very excited about the prospect of being that close to Chris again, but then very distracted by the stain forming on her dress.

Lacey trudged across the campus, moving towards Branstad Hall. It was miles away. Or so it seemed. In reality it was a short sidewalk walk. She made it there in no time, forced the door open, and made her way to Suite #440, via the elevator. It was a penthouse suite. And it was relatively cheap for campus housing. At least she thought it was. Neither of her parents had gone to college and very few of the people in her neighborhood had either. She didn’t have many people to guide her through the process, except for her high school basketball coach, who had helped her with everything from applying to enrolling in classes.

"This looks like the place!" Lacey exclaimed when she was standing in front of her door. She had no idea where her key was, so she did the next best thing. She knocked. The door swung open, and she totally missed the thin, tall, dark-haired, olive skinned girl standing there as she took in her new home.

"Wow. This place is huge!" Lacey exclaimed. Spinning around. There was a kitchen, and a great living room, with comfortable, dark blue couches and a coffee table with adorable flowers on it. Next to the couch was a bookcase stacked with books, with one shelf cleared, probably for her books. She took in the full kitchen, complete with bar stools by the sink and counter area, as well as a table for four.

"Aaaahhhhh! New roomie! You're finally here! ...and covered in coffee?" her new roommate exclaimed, grabbing her and pulling her into a hug.

"Haven't you heard? It's the hottest look for fall,” Lacey said, putting her hand on her hip and popping it.

"Oh yeah? Well you're definitely pulling it off. Seriously, you're super pretty,” the roommate said.

"Thanks... I am super pretty,” Lacey said, turning to her roommate with a sly grin on her face. She was starting to feel like herself again as she chatted with her roommate, who she hoped would become one of her good friends by the time this quarter was over.

"Not exactly modest, are you?" she asked Lacey with a smirk.

"Should I be?" Lacey said cheekily. Generally, Lacey was pretty confident in her abilities, and as a three-sport athlete in high school that included being confident in her body. And her ex-boyfriend, plus the other boys in her school had made her very confident in her looks. Sometimes a bit too confident, but Lacey had never shied away from it, even if she should have.

"Good point. Here, let me help with those bags... I'm sure you want to find your room and get out of those coffee-stained clothes,” the roommate said again, and Lacey realized she didn’t know her name.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Lacey stopped her, “I’m Lacey Morgan.”

The girl picked up one of Lacey’s suitcases and led Lacey through the suite, “I’m Kaitlyn Liao.”

"Wait...” Lacey began, looking at the multiple doorways she saw as she walked down the hall, “do we have this whole place to ourselves?"

"Ha! I wish. In case you haven't heard, the school's in a housing crunch. This is a six-person suite! We'll be sharing this place with one other girl... and three guys!" Kaitlyn said cheekily, clearly already catching on to how much of a player Lacey was. Or how much of a player Lacey thought she was. She probably wouldn’t admit it on the first day of college, but she was a serial monogamist. Although, people changed, and Lacey had found the first man she was going to try to get into her bed.

"That's sexy! I wonder if I'll hook up with all of our roommates, or just a couple of them,” Lacey said, placing her finger on her chin and looking up towards the ceiling.

"They say the number one rule of freshman year is not to do exactly that... But I don't always play by the rules,” Kaitlyn said, grabbing her arm and giggling.

"I'll keep that in mind,” Lacey winked.

"Here's your room. Hurry up and change, then we can hit the Welcome Week Fair! Oh, I almost forgot! Every year, they set up a massive slip 'n slide in the middle of the fair! It looks super fun... and it's a great excuse to wear a bikini!" Kaitlyn was a whirlwind, but Lacey could already tell that they were going to be kindred spirits. Kaitlyn was just spunky and crazy enough that Lacey would probably have trouble keeping up, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

"So... are you going to do it?" Lacey asked, trying to remember which suitcase her bathing suit was in.

"Definitely. You only get one chance to make a first impression. Sliding through the quad in a sexy swimsuit is a great way to make an entrance. I'm gonna go change! Be back in a sec, okay?" Kaitlyn shouted, already leaving her room.

Lacey looked around her room. There was a bed, a desk, a chair, a dresser, and a closet. As she looked around and threw her big suitcase on her bed. As she rummaged through it, she spotted a hint of teal.

“Aha! There you are!” She pulled out her pink and teal strapless bikini and slipped into it. She looked at herself in the mirror, and smiled appraisingly.

In a flash, Kaitlyn had run back into her room, a black bandeau bikini on.

"What do you think?" Lacey smiled, modeling her new, free from coffee stains, outfit.

"I think I'm roommates with the hottest girl at Hartfeld!" Kaitlyn exclaimed, wrapping her in a hug.

"You don't look so bad yourself,” Lacey said with a wink. Kaitlyn did a double-take, and for the first time in their conversation, Lacey began to wonder if Kaitlyn maybe was interested in women. Kaitlyn didn’t owe her an answer on that, so Lacey pushed the thought out of her mind, thinking if it were true, it didn’t make a difference. She would try to keep her friendliness only friendly and not flirty from now on.

"Ready to go make a splash?" Kaitlyn said after a beat.

"Let's do this." Lacey exclaimed, and they grabbed a couple of towels before sprinting outside.

On the grassy quad, which was now full of people, they found dozens of people manning booths for various organizations. Students milled about, talking to people at booths and other students. Parents were saying tearful goodbyes as their kids tried to pull away to join the mayhem. People walked around with food from various tables and drinks they had grabbed at others. Adults stood back as students rushed about in every direction. Onlookers cheered as freshmen coasted down the slip 'n slide!

"Here goes nothing!" Kaitlyn yelled, tossing her towel over at Lacey, then running and jumping onto the slip ‘n slide. All of the people around started to cheer. A blonde girl shouted something unintelligible, and a blonde guy next to her swooned.

"My turn!" Lacey exclaimed after Kaitlyn returned to grab the towel from her.

Lacey sprinted across the grass and threw her arms in the air before leaping and slipping down on her stomach.

"Ahhhhh!” Lacey exclaimed as she slid. It was exhilarating in a way that sliding shouldn’t have been. Because it was childish, but Lacey was thrilled. She reached the end and heard a deep voice, which sounded like it was talking about her.

"Who's that girl? She's like... a slip 'n slide angel!" a guy, a hot guy, with an athletic build and jet-black hair, said.

"That's Lacey. She's the one I was telling you about, Logan” a familiar voice said, and Lacey turned to see Chris standing next to the guy with the jet black hair.

"No fair. How come beautiful girls never knock me over?" Logan asked, whinily.

Out of nowhere, Kaitlyn ran up holding a couple of snow cones. She handed her one over to Lacey, while sucking on her own. Lacey’s eyes were on Chris, and for a brief moment they made eye contact. He smiled and ran his head through his hair, then waved. She waved back, grinning.

"I don't know what flavor you like, so I just got rainbow,” Kaitlyn said cheerily.

"Thanks!" Lacey said, grinning widely and turning her attention to her roommate.

"I've never seen someone so happy to get a snow cone,” Kaitlyn stated suspiciously.

"I'm smiling because I think a cute guy is into me! This morning, I ran into this super cute guy, and I overheard him talking to his friend, and he thinks I’m pretty” Lacey grinned, drinking a bit of the slush from her snow cone.

"I'd love to meet him..." Kaitlyn said, much less cheerily. Internally, Lacey noted that Kaitlyn was probably interested in her. She felt badly, because she didn’t anticipate feeling the same way about Kaitlyn.

Shaking herself from her own thoughts, Lacey looked back over to where Chris had been standing, but he wasn’t there anymore. Lacey frowned quickly.

"I guess it'll have to wait…” Lacey said glancing back over to her new friend.

"I'll look forward to it..." Kaitlyn said, sadly again.

After taking a few minutes to dry off, and eat a snow cone, Kaitlyn pulled Lacey along towards some of the booths.

"Let's see here... a capella? Nah. Not a nerd. Student government? Nah. Don't care."

Just then, Lacey spotted a familiar face at the Kappa Phi Sigma booth a few steps away...

"Becca..." she said with a disgruntled sigh. Hopefully Becca wouldn’t find something to spill on her bikini.

"Lacey. Could you not stand so close to our tent? We don't want people thinking Kappa Phi Sigma would associate with someone like you,” Becca sneered. Becca did a lot of sneering, Lacey was noticing.

"Wow, Lacey, is this girl serious?" Kaitlyn asked, appraising Becca. Who was, decidedly, hot. For some reason Lacey could not get how hot Becca was out of her head.

"Unfortunately."

"Time to move along,” Becca said, waving her hand away from the booth.

"Are you sure, Becca? I mean, look at her bikini... it's pure hotness! Aren't we basically honor bound to sign her up?" the blonde next to her said.

"Madison, would you please stop undermining me?" Becca was shrieking now. Lacey wouldn’t have pegged Becca as a shrieker. She was a powerful woman with a grand presence. It didn’t seem necessary, and Lacey wondered what was wrong. Becca was clearly the “it” girl on campus, and she could easily have ruled it, including Lacey, if she were just a bit nicer.

"Don't worry, Becca. I'm not interested in joining any sorority that associates with someone like you,” Lacey said flippantly.

"That's what I thought. Buh bye,” Becca grinned, sipping her iced coffee through a straw.

"I see you got a new coffee, Becca. Hope you don't drop this one,” Lacey smirked.

Becca huffed, then took a long sip of her coffee. It looked black. At least Becca had good taste, even if she was being rude, "I said, buh bye."

"Fine, I'm going. But only because I want to,” Lacey steered Kaitlyn away from the booth and back towards their dorm.

"Well, that was interesting... Looks like Ms. Queen Bee was completely jealous of your look!” Kaitlyn said.

"Is that what just happened?" Lacey queried, remembering the incident with Chris from earlier.

"Totally. She knew you were a threat, and she lashed out. I can't believe it... your first day and you've already got a nemesis. You're so lucky!" Kaitlyn squealed, clapping her hands.

I don’t really think I’m that lucky. Lacey was entrenched in her thoughts as she and Kaitlyn started back to the dorm. She let out a sigh, and looked up across the quad towards the English building, which was where she was going to be spending a lot of time. Maybe she should just be focusing on her studies, and not the drama that came with guys. And as soon as she had that thought, that was when she saw him. He was wearing a crisp white shirt under a gray sweater and a navy blazer. A bit odd for September. It was a very toasty day. But Lacey’s gaze raked over him. It was a great look for him. He already bore a striking resemblance to her favorite actor from Black Panther and Creed, so he definitely didn’t need help in the looks department at all. The look made him appear to be a quiet, introverted writer, and Lacey hoped that was what he was. It meant that he was exactly her type. In that moment, she decided she needed to meet him, and she started walking off towards him.

"See something you like?" Kaitlyn asked, obviously noticing that Lacey was drawn to the tall black man across the way.

"You mean that guy? He's absolutely my type. This day keeps getting better and better,” Lacey said, glancing over at Kaitlyn and practically swooning.

The guy looked over at Lacey and smiled. Lacey’s heart melted and she shot a brilliant smile back to him. She could feel his eyes running down her body. Even though her hair was wet, she was covered by a towel, and her cheeks reddened, she could totally tell he was checking her out. She would have been lying if she said she hadn’t been checking him out up and down, too.

"Okay, he's definitely checking you out... and who can blame him? You look super cute in that bikini.”

Lacey gazed at him, and their eyes met for what felt like an eternity. A moment later, the guy gave a small wave, walked into a nearby building, and disappeared from view.

"Hey, it's getting dark, and I just got a text from our roommates! They're all home!" Kaitlyn observed, pulling Lacey back to reality.

"Sounds like it's time to head back to the suite,” Lacey said with a grin, glancing back to where she had seen the tall, attractive man. She wanted that mystery guy. Until she met him, she was very content with Chris, but who knew when the next time she saw him would be?

Lacey and Kaitlyn made it home and went their separate ways. Lacey showered quickly and then changed into a tank and jeans. After giving it a second thought, and looking down at her porcelain skin, now tinged pink, but not sore, she threw on her flannel. She wanted to unpack, but realized that she should meet her roommates now, and that unpacking would have to wait. So, once she at least pulled out her bedding and made her bed, Lacey brushed her dark brown, almost black hair out of her face, and started out towards the living room.

As the sun set, Lacey walked into her living room and found a girl standing in front of a painter's easel.

"Hey, you must be Lacey. I'm Abbie!” she said, turning towards Lacey. Her curls bouncing as she greeted her.

Lacey reached forward to shake her hand...

"Ah! Careful! I'm covered in paint, and I don't want to ruin your outfit!” Abbie exclaimed.

"Oh, you're an artist?" Lacey asked, looking over at the easel, noticing there was an almost completed painting on the canvas.

"Wow... no. I'm a long way from calling myself an artist. I guess I'm... a girl who paints? Anyway, the guys are all up on the roof. I'll catch up to you later,” Abbie said with a smile, turning back to her painting.

"No way! You're coming with us, Abbie... you can finish your painting later!" Kaitlyn argued, having just entered the room wearing a cute purple tank.

"I guess I'm close to done... what do you think, Lacey?" Abbie asked, gesturing towards her painting.

"Give me a second to fully appreciate your work..."

Lacey stepped back to look at the painting. It was of a girl looking in a mirror, her reflection wearing a tiara. The painting was colored with beautiful violets, and sky blues. The colors married nicely, and Lacey could tell that Abbie had skill.

"So? What's your review, Lacey?" Kaitlyn asked, with a head tilt towards Lacey.

"It looks amazing, Abbie... I was just wondering, where'd you learn to paint like that?" Lacey asked, amazed at how beautiful it was.

Abbie blushed and looked at the floor, "I may have spent every lunch period in the art studio during high school... My art teacher was a big influence on me. She really helped me find my style, you know?" Abbie said, and Lacey could see how passionate she was about painting. And she completely understood how big of an influence this teacher must have been. But she mostly could see how Abbie loved to paint. She was a pretty girl, Lacey would have to have been blind not to see that, but while talking about what she loved, she was stunning.

"That's so cool. The closest thing I had to a mentor in high school was Cosmo,” Kaitlyn mused.

"Well, I guess we find inspiration where we can, right?" Lacey chuckled. She was still admiring Abbie and her painting.

"So! Now are you ready to come up to the roof with us, Abbie?" Kaitlyn asked.

"Sure... but only if I get to pick the music." Abbie said, pulling off her apron.

"Your wish is my command. Now let's go!" Kaitlyn exclaimed, rushing up the stairs. Lacey and Abbie smile at each other and file in behind her going up to the roof as well.

"Nice. We've got an amazing view!" Kaitlyn shouted, already looking over the railing as Abbie pulled Lacey over to where the guys were standing.

"Ready to meet the guys? This is-" Abbie said, tugging on the sleeve of a red Henley. The guy turned around, and Lacey gaped at him.

"Actually, we've already met,” Chris said, grinning widely and running his eyes up and down Lacey’s body.

"Chris? You're my roommate?" Lacey asked incredulously. This day was crazy enough already. And now, the one hot guy she’d actually met that day was her roommate. Holy crap.

#choices #tf/ts/tj/ts #choices tf/ts #choices tf #james ashton #james x mc #james x lacey

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giselleendiron · 5 years

Text

@derrieuxmelanie !!

She’s frighteningly poised; an immaculate marble statue erected in the center of a balcony elevated high above treacherous waters. This...uncomfortable stillness is but a side effect of queenship, a consequence of having a higher status. It’s an inescapable trait that always manages to trickle its way down the generations of the Endiron family tree until it rests upon the steady shoulders of the newest monarch. Giselle remembers witnessing her father in this very same petrified state, and it was only when either she or her mother slipped their hands into the rough palms of his own that he would be pulled away from whatever endless stream of thoughts that managed to carry him away from reality. They’re so much alike, Giselle and her father. In these years without him, she’s only come to see their similarities even more. He is perhaps the only other living creature in this world who understands how she’s feeling now. She wishes he was here to guide her, to help her with Kael and to serve on her council as someone she could trust. Alas, he belongs to the world now; he and her mother both do. There’s not a living soul that knows where the two of them have taken off to and she’s quite certain that they intended for it to be that way.

The creek of gold-plated doors and the heavy footfall of her personal guard is enough for the Queen’s attention to be turned away from the sound of crashing cerulean waves (it doesn’t take as much for her to come back to reality like her father). She turns to look at him, rich brown waves cascading down the expanse of her back as a ghost of a smile gently tugs at the corners of bare lips. Her appointment has arrived and a simple waving of her hand is enough to grant the guard permission to allow entry to the woman. Melanie is, of course, afforded all of the pageantry of being properly announced upon her entry and it is with an honest smile that Giselle greets her. “My lady,” She’s formal in all things, even when behind closed doors Giselle is still a helpless victim of etiquette. “thank you for coming. Please, join me out on the balcony”.

Her silk train webbed with twinkling gold flakes slinks elegantly across glossy marble floors as Giselle leads Melanie out into sitting area on the sun-soaked balcony. Of all the leaders of the Seasonal Courts, it is Melanie who has proven herself to be the most loyal to Giselle’s cause; a fact that the High Queen takes great comfort in. Giselle’s a firm believer in rewarding loyalty, and that is exactly what she intends to do today. “I’ve had a pitcher of wine set out here for the two of us but I’m afraid that it’s turned rather warm now” She adds with a slight chuckle following after as sinks into the cushioned seat at the small table and directs Melanie to do the same.

#( &&. melanie )#( giselle? a roman statue? more likely than you think )

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abitterlifethroughcinema · 5 years

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MORE WOKE! Film Reviews for Spring ’19

We Shan’t Leave You Again Without Some Dope Films to Step To

Lucas Avram Cavazos

Beautiful Boy #### premiered a couple of Fridays ago here in the Iberian peninsula, and this is a film that hits on so many levels, especially within the confines of the USA at a time when more people are dying from drug overdoses in North America than almost anything else. Telling the story of Nic Sheff (Timothée Chalamet) and his horrid struggle with meth (but really all manner of drugs) and how that affects his familial relationships, most significantly with his father, played to impeccable perfection by Steve Carrell. Director Felix van Groeningen makes his English-language debut with such a tour de force that it’s ever so apparent that he has been slowly crafting his oeuvre over the last decade-and-a-half. (MUST SEE: The Broken Circle Breakdown) Adapted from two separate autobiographies by the Sheff family (dad and son) on the subject matter of a young adult’s journey into massive addiction, the director’s take on this subject matter becomes a lesson in patience, in futility, in the understanding of the addiction process. There is a specific scene that stuck with me, a moment of medical jargon that simply emblazoned itself in my memory because we, the viewer, start to learn just how certain drugs (most especially methamphetamine) severely inhibits and erodes pertinent cerebral functions…often to the point of no repair. So as you watch the deterioration of this wonderful young man, it becomes all too real that sometimes the only way to help anyone, even when it’s family you love, is to let them the hell GO! The thing is…that hell is exactly what you may feel when doing so, just like the father feels he has caused his son. You especially feel that at one brutally moving scene towards the end of the film, when it’s fair game to say that all is lost. For anyone who has ever struggled with drug addiction or has experienced this in one’s family, the truth that it tells is something that is as redemptive as it is heartbreaking.

Pet Sematary ###…It’s sad to say that this remake is just a bit better than the first interpretation that did its best to butcher a Stephen King classic three decades ago…Can it be that long ago now? Yes…yes, it can. That said, it does something that outshines the original film and highlights the need of more discussions on our very westernised inability to deal with our fear of death, an inevitable part of life. In that vein, they respect the tenants of the King novel because that is truly what he was aiming for, this critic would say. Revamping the narrative of Louis and Rachel Creed fresh from a move to Maine from Boston, along with their cute-as-heck kids Ellie and Gage, plus kitty Church, we see the perfect little family getting away from the city to a life of relative tranquility, or so one thinks. After a series of odd deaths, the one that strikes fear into the hearts of men is the greatest fear any parent can face. A bit earlier in the film, their new neighbour Jud (John Lithgow) mentions not to venture out alone in the woods, for fear of the danger within. This naturally acts as a foreshadowing on things to come, but it also helps foment some fertile ground to talk about the Wendigo, spirits that possess humans or animals, making them monstrous…which incidentally is also used in medical lexicons as being a psychosis. When that greatest of parental fears occurs, after a seeming resurrection of the dead family cat, the need to try and practice the same possibility of burying their daughter in the forestal pet cemetery occurs, so we get to see what happens. It almost becomes almost too much to bear. Sequencing slight moments of creepiness with dramatic tinges makes things ever so gripping at times, but the languid nature of a rather quick film culminates in an eerie, if expected, ending. Better for the local box office perhaps had it been released around Halloween, this stronger piece makes an effective case for turning a formulaic remake into a wannabe think-piece of sorts.

Boy Erased #### Dealing with a situation that can not be overstated in its ridiculous tactics to make life a Mike Pence wet dream, this latest celluloid effort on the topic, after some time I might add, of Christian, gay conversion camps is likely the best one yet. I recall a film from years back called But I’m a Cheerleader with Natasha Lyonne that took a comedic look at this topic, as well as, Chloe Moretz’s dramatic The Miseducation of Cameron Post; however, here we get a dose of reality that paints these camps in such a light that it’s hard not to see why these institutions should be closed and deemed unlawful. I realised a bit into the film that the acting in it was brutally honest and frighteningly real, at times like watching life being played out in front of your eyes on a screen. Lucas Hedges stars as a sexually-confused, Christian teenager in this practically perfect and poignant outing by actor/writer/director Joel Edgerton, who creates a canvass of middle-class, deep-US believers’ lives in a way that definitely struck a chord to this youngish Judeo-Christian watching. Baptist minister and wife Marshall and Nancy (Aussie royalty Russell Crowe and Nicole Kidman, respectively) quietly shuffle their son off to a conversion camp called Love in Action, in an attempt to reprogram him. Director Edgerton plays programme director Victor Sykes, a man whose likely quasi-sordid past is the demon that forces him to reign over this camp like a military official…Flea of Chili Peppers fame makes the best cameo as a teacher at the camp, good Lord! Detailing all of your family’s dirty secrets, and thereby airing out all dirty family laundry, is just one of the many ploys used by the camp to “cure” their clients/patients/students, I mean…what can you call these poor kids? Your heart will likely break watching the insanity, so do be warned, but there is a redemptive factor that shines through with the incredible performances by Hedges and his cinematic parents, and stay through the credits…they catch us up on the au courant life of the man on whom this story was based, Garrard Conley…tears.

#abitterlifethroughcinema #theclubwithlucas #beautifulboy #SteveCarell #timothee chalamet #pet sematary #stephenking #BoyErased #lucashedges #nicole kidman #russellcrowe #WOKE #bcninvose

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another-miracle · 6 years

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[hanahaki], two

one / two / three

hanahaki disease [花吐き病 ]

the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

Obi stares at the words, reads them once, twice. Then over and over again. He looks up at Ryuu- who looks every bit as uncomfortable as he does- then looks down again. His hands grip the book tightly.

“...What is this?” Obi asks.

Ryuu sighs, “It’s a disease that fits the very thing you’re describing to me now. I took the liberty of searching up diseases with symptoms of coughing when you were gone, and I came across this one. I thought it was completely bogus.”

Ryuu lifts the petal Obi handed him earlier, inspecting it with dull eyes. “I guess not.”

Obi stares at the boy. He doesn’t seem... surprised. Maybe he doesn’t know-

“It’s Shirayuki-san, isn’t it?”

Obi immediately doubles over, coughing.

“W-what makes you say that?” Oh god, oh god, a twelve-year-old can see it. What if Zen-

Ryuu hums. “You two are always together.”

Obi then proceeds to finish hacking his lungs out, the vestiges of his cough disappearing when Ryuu offers him a glass of water. It hurts going down.

“You don’t seem worried,” Obi heaves.

Ryuu hums again.

“Like I said, you two are always together.”

It happens in snapshots in Obi’s mind. The gradual realizations- punctuated with an increasing number of petals leaving his lips. Obi wonders when his lungs will finally give way.

The night air is crisp, and Obi hears the doors to the room adjacent to his open. Shirayuki walks out, resplendent under moonlight, and he is caught unawares. She smiles and bids him hello. He replies, and soon the conversation drifts to those they’ve left behind in Wistal.

“After such a long time, anyone would go a little mad,” Obi gripes, a smirk forming as his gaze falls to the ground between them.

“Zen’s probably lonely too,” Shirayuki replies, soft, and Obi feels a coughing fit threatening to break through his chest.

“It’s late now, so it’s better if you went to bed,” he tells her, “Goodnight!”

She smiles and Obi retreats behind closed doors. Immediately, his body throws itself onto the bed, his coughs resounding through the room. The bed shakes as he hacks out his lungs for the umpteenth time. When he no longer sees red hair behind his eyelids, he breathes out. Ah, he didn’t think she’d be awake.

Bringing his hand up to his face, he recalls soft skin, a light pressure, and delicate, fragile warmth. If he stares hard enough, maybe he can etch the feeling into his palms. Smiling, he muses.

“It was nothing, right?”

It is cold, frighteningly so- and a part of Obi is terrified.

Shirayuki is formidable in face of the unknown- an entity he has never trained to fight against- and this- this isn’t like Tanbarun anymore, when he was her guard. Now, she stands between death and life of an entire city, up against something that has taken down more men than he has. But she looks ever-headstrong in the midst of orders being barked all around her, her eyes holding a determined glint that eases the fear in his heart by a margin.

“To be split by a gate,” he says quietly. “Well it’s fine.”

She’ll be fine.

A tightness in his chest takes on a form he is not used to, and Obi resigns to the reality that this is not merely about what he wants anymore. Her life cannot be measured the same way he does his own, so Obi agonizes through the cold while slotting knives through his hands. Coughs barely leave his throat now- it is not his life he is worried about.

When Zen stares at him later in the woods, a part of him knows that Zen knows. When he orders Obi to stay behind, Obi is sure. But Obi knows as well, that a prince’s life isn’t as privileged as his to squander on chasing after love to the edge of death, and so decides to do so on Zen’s behalf. His heart pulls towards Zen nevertheless, for as sure as the snow is white, he is the one who wants to be at Shirayuki’s side the most.

And so would she, Obi thinks.

A petal leaves his lips as he reaches the gates. Another falls out as he sees her back among the never-ending shelves of Lyrias’ libraries. Ryuu passes him a glass of water, and it still hurts going down. But the tightness in his chest lessens, and Obi continues to squander his life away, willingly, gladly.

Five days have passed since Shirayuki and Ryuu left for Lyrias. Obi thinks that a part of him has already left with them, but he isn’t ready to surrender time to a place yet. Though his time at Wistal has been the longest he’s stayed in one place, two years seems like eternity next to the flickers of space he’s filled jumping from one place to another throughout his youth. Needless to say, he is restless aboard the ship- but soon finds his answer.

“I like Miss,” is the answer he gives Zen.

To his credit, Zen accords the right amount of shock mixed with surprise, as if it is the first he’s heard of it. Obi wants to laugh, because- even Ryuu noticed, how can Master not?

“But I do know that you have been watching Shirayuki closely,” Zen says instead. “That’s why I’ll find it insincere to send you to where Shirayuki is without confirming your feelings.”

This bastard.

“...you’re an honest guy, Master.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

Obi loves Zen in a stupid kind of way; one that hates him as well, but he cannot say this is the first time his heart has pulled toward him. Zen’s gaze is soft under starlight as he talks of Obi as more than a tool to use, gives him form when his mind convinces him that he is nothing. It hurts him more than he would like to admit, that this man- this life- grounds him more than anything else has before. Obi is afraid of what will happen when the roots need to be pulled out.

“I’m sure you know the kind of person Shirayuki is.” Zen’s voice is steel now. Obi listens with rapt attention. “I need someone to depend on, someone who can follow her movements. And that I feel-” his gaze cuts through Obi, “is something only you can do.”

Zen smiles.

“Obi-”

There must be a word for this tearing of skin from bone, this reach for the unknown, this leap of faith bestowed upon him, wrecking and breaking him down into an existence he barely recognizes-

“-from now on, I want you to stay by Shirayuki’s side.”

Obi is knocked onto his knees. His fist presses against the hard wood. Head bowed, eyes closed, Obi surrenders.

“If it’s for you and Miss, I’m willing to head anywhere.”

Later on, when Obi returns to his cabin, he doubles over and grips onto the headboard of his bed for stability. The petals that drift onto the floor are bright red, and through laboured breaths, Obi smiles helplessly.

He’ll be seeing Miss soon.

Shirayuki grips onto him like a lifeline.

Immediately, Obi breathes easier. “Firstly, there’s nothing to worry about now, Miss. Everyone is alright, and they are now headed to the royal castle.”

A loud exhale rushes past her lips, and Obi is dragged down by his arms as her knees seem to give way. His heart swells- he’s here, with Miss, and everyone’s okay. He hasn’t felt this happy about returning before, he’s glad that Shirayuki can rest easy knowing that they’re fine.

Then she looks up, gaze impossibly tender, and something in Obi’s chest seizes.

“Welcome back, Obi.”

Vines unravel from his throat, and for the first time in a year, Obi breathes without difficulty. That alone causes him to panic.

“Up we go!” Obi grabs Shirayuki under her arms and begins twirling her around. It can’t be-

Shirayuki’s face is coloured with pure shock and Obi can’t help but burst out in laughter. He twirls her around some more, and opens the wound in his side. Shirayuki promptly shouts her disapproval. In response, Obi placates her by lying- though, he’s sure she knows- but ultimately distracts her with the thought of seeing the rest as soon as possible.

It is only when Obi later sees Shirayuki emerging from the library with Zen, hand-in-hand that his throat closes up again, chest tightening. He coughs out a few petals before returning back to his room.

It strangely does not feel like relief.

With Zen in Lyrias, Obi takes measures to keep out of their way. One, to give them their much-needed, much-anticipated alone time together. And two, to prevent either of them from finding out about his condition.

After Zen leaves, Obi lowers his guard.

It is a mistake.

When the first letter for Shirayuki arrives from Zen, Obi receives an untimely reminder of how things scarcely ever go his way in the form of a coughing fit harder than anything he has experienced before. He is bent over the table in the library, Shirayuki gently petting his back while giving worried looks to Ryuu, who in turn looks terrified as he stares at Obi, glass of water in hand.

Don’t, he mouths.

Ha- I wish, Obi thinks as the first few petals leave his mouth and fall promptly into the lap of their origin.

Shirayuki holds one, bright red, between her thumb and forefinger, and looks questionably at Obi. Then Ryuu. Suddenly, understanding washes over her gaze and her eyes widen.

Ahh, Obi thinks.

Shit.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #wow this was really easy to write compared to the first one #hanahaki AU #yixin's fic

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song-of-amethyst · 6 years

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Pandora Hearts review (spoilers inside)

So I’ve just finished reading Pandora Hearts, also just ended drying my tears haha. Reading this manga is almost literally going down the rabbit hole. Almost literally for all the references to Alice in Wonderland this manga contains. It’s not like it takes any relevant plot elements from the novel, just some aesthetics, names and expressions (whether stated explicitly or not) out of their context. The manga’s genre is Psychological Horror, so “off with their heads!” and “we’re all mad here” are what, in a frighteningly literal way, represent most of the plot, especially the latter.

Heavy spoilers below the cut.

The ending crushed my heart in a hundred pieces and burned it to ashes. I am glad we got to witness the alternate happy reality that is the second “Unbirthday” and if I weren’t so obsessed with finishing the story I would have stopped there for sure. I actually considered it, I knew it was just a breather and, like Oz put it, a happy dream, but I would have been alright with an end where this dream would keep going on. When it was over and revealed to be an alternate reality, I believe it was a way to better crush the readers heart with thoughts like “this is what could have been, and look what was instead”. I could definitely have lived without the last farewell with Gilbert and the Epilogue, and I would have spared some tears at least. To be honest, I thought the Epilogue could have been happier. For example, the case of Ada who has lost her father, brother and uncle and got rejected by Vincent on top of that. I’m not sure if Gilbert kept close to her or not (with his duty with Glen), but the solitude of that girl was probably one of the most painful thing of the manga and she deserved none of it. Her feelings and actions were always kind and sincere towards the main cast and I was a bit surprised Oz was not doting more on her. Heck if I had such a sister she’d be my world! (well there’s the matter of the 10 years separation, too...). She gave unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness and only got neglect and rejection. Even her father’s tragic death got him more attention than her. To be honest, I thought those who died had it better than those who lived for the most part, especially since that is exactly the manga’s creed that was transmitted through Elliot “dying is the easy way out, the strong ones are those who keep living while bearing the burden of hard decisions and circumstances”. Funny that he was the first one to go, in the most sad and strong of ways, despite his own words. I’m not sure whether his death or Oscar’s ranks first in the TearJerkerRanking, but they made me understand why heroism was so overused. Common heroism in fiction has always failed to impress me, but this time, the focus was more on the struggle and the dark side of the hero, and the most painful point was that the final sacrifice was voiced as a selfish wish rather than an altruistic all-loving virtuous fact. Elliot committed horrible crimes while allowing himself to become oblivious to them by the power of his Chain. Even so, he chose to recognize the facts, to force himself to admit to the sins of killing his own family, even though he was on the verge of death and his Chain was whispering words of salvation that’d have been so easy to believe in. He could have easily let himself go while believing in his own innocence, to give in to his delusions (that were so deep that even the reader believed in his innocence), but he didn’t allow himself to do it. He didn’t allow his words to Oz to be lies, and he didn’t allow others to deal with his own faults. “I won’t let that small guy bear the burden of my death” was said in such a self-absorbed way that the noble intention behind struck a lot harder than if it were said in a more conventionally selfless way. The same goes for Oscar. No one can say that the thought of actually strangling Oz to death didn’t cross his mind, he actually even started moving his hand before stopping when Gil discovered Jack was the one with them. (and in the back of your mind, you note that it was also Jack clinging to Oscar on purpose a few moments ago to make the dark feelings in Oscar’s mind stronger and further torture Oz). Jack wouldn’t miss for the world that opportunity to break Oz beyond repair with a shaken Oscar from the information he just received who wouldn’t even be able to deny hating Oz. It was of course Gilbert’s unshakable faith in Oscar that gave him the strength to struggle to forgive Oz, to accept him and love him wholly and admit to it powerfully, despite having no power to physically fight Jack and getting literally hurt. “My selfish wish is for you to be happy, may it become a cruse that clings to you forever”. Again the wording, along with the image of the children Oscar loved with all his heart (Oz, Gil and Ada) is so painful that just thinking about it makes me cry all over again. The man was so full of love that those closest to his heart could see right through it and Ada, who didn’t see his last moments, was still convinced he died with a smile on his face. Coming back, going to get tissues. (having tissues in front of your computer might look suspicious, but if people notice you’re using too much of them they’ll understand you’re just reading or talking about Pandora Hearts). Maybe the reason I love PH’s heroism is because of that creed the author kept on conveying through the characters starting from Break’s backstory. “It’s not wrong to do something for someone else, but it is wrong to use others as excuses for what you do”. It is alright to help others, but it is not for them as long as you do it of your own volition. It is your own wish to do so and you should be prepared to face the consequences alone, regardless of whose best interest your actions are in. Even if you do not benefit one bit from it, it is still your choice and thus, your wish. The Epilogue shows a mentally healed Vincent who has accepted himself, is sincerely grateful for Gilbert’s presence by his side while accepting that Gilbert shares this feeling and accepts him just as much. And then, he leaves him 4 long years to find his brother’s most beloved friends, and when he says he did something for him, he actually corrects himself and says he did it for himself. Funnily enough, that is the only action we’ve seen thus far that he does for Gil and that actually makes him happy and is everything he wishes for. It is the only time we see where it could be justified to say “I did it for you” because that was actually a huge help, but he still corrects himself, a constant reminder that you should have the strength to acknowledge your selfless actions the same way you do your selfish ones, that you should neither make excuses nor expect rewards (unless you are specifically asked to do something, then maybe you could claim partial responsibility, but the situation is different from the one at hand so let’s not get into that). At any rate, it is a creed to live by, and I will try my best to do so.

Xai’s death could rank pretty high in the reasons there’s salt water on my face (although less than Break’s own, for reasons). I mean, even though the guy hardly did anything to gain the reader’s sympathy, he still gets it when we see his eyes, when we understand his reasons that are so human you can hardly see him as unfeeling anymore, and when we see him acting for once like a father. Not like Oz’s father, but like a father anyway when he dies to protect Ada. Looking back, the painful thing is not Xai’s death in itself, even though that was a noble way to go, but Oz’s feelings as he sees him as if it were the first time. He notices for the first time how gentle and sad his eyes look, he notices the way he can act as a parent by shielding his daughter with his own body, and he knows of the sadness his existence brought him and right then, the boy feels more than anytime before how wonderful it would have been to be loved by this father, to be acknowledged by him. And while he feels this, he looks right into those sad eyes who reflect nothing but hate towards him and his contractor, while hearing the man actually talking to him for the first time, only to say “I will keep on cursing you until my last breath”. To the boy who has lived all his life for the one purpose of getting even the slightest bit of approval from this father who always looked distant and terrifying, that scene gave him an actual peek into this of which he’s always dreamed. He has the courage of looking at the man for the first time and sees a father that is capable of loving and sacrificing himself for his child, and his wish gets stronger than ever, only to receive the most harsh and definitive rejection he could’ve heard. And it is only natural his tears cannot stop no matter what, it is only fitting that this is the time he cried the most and couldn’t get himself to stop even though he was trying hard to repress it. “Father actually loved you, Ada, I’m glad”. And that is as close to the news of her father’s death as Ada could get, and she could only look at her brother’s red eyes and deduce how long he was crying.Was he mourning a father he always held in high esteem even though he never received the slightest bit of care from (and who happened to be the one to send him to the Abyss)? Or was he crying for the loss of his oldest wish right when it looked the most appealing? Probably both, maybe there are even more reasons. Maybe somewhere, even in the back of his mind, he was noting that his sister just lost a father who loved her, and that her brother wasn’t going back to help her heal.

Break’s death was also moving in that sense that I didn’t get sad just for the dead one, but also for his closest ones. It is true that Break is definitely a lovable character, that he has suffered a lot through the story (losing his master, going through an illegal contract and becoming a criminal only for karma to hit him back with a changed past worse than the original one (and I think that is a good thing because I feel that fate hits the good ones sooner for their crimes rather than later, giving them more opportunity to atone). He loses his eye in a violent and cruel way, gets a Chain that brings him closer to death every time he uses it, loses progressively his sight until he can’t even see the face of the one he loves most, and even though he was seeing his death coming and was supposedly prepared for it, his friends’ concern for him and the way he got attached to them all despite trying his best to put distance between them (probably because he was aware of his inevitable fate), all of that still got the best of him at the very end and he admitted to his oldest friends that he didn’t want to die, that he wanted to keep on living along. Sharon’s breakdown was incredibly sad, as she parted with her most precious friend, knowing the parting was just as painful to him. And then, there is that girl who asks to mutilate her dearest friend’s body. We can only guess the degree of horror that a devastated Sharon felt at the moment, along with the full knowledge that she could not protect him even if she died doing it. Even though that will wasn’t carried in the end, and even though Lily’s cruelty is a manifestation of her innocence, I don’t see Sharon ever forgiving her for those words.

Leaving the deads and survivors aside, and back though to the character of Jack who left me a mess of feelings I can’t quite put my finger on, something painful that is different from everything I’ve talked about until now. To be honest, I’m not sure what is the kind of “bad” I feel for him, or why I am so dissatisfied with his end. If I had to choose a word, maybe I’d go with Abyss no Ishi’s own words “寂しい/sabishii” because it fulfills my meaning better than the common translation of “lonely”. Because not only does it describe how lonesome he is but also the crushing feeling and dissatisfaction his whole situation inspires me. Basically, this character is a nightmare to my empathetic self; I can’t even see his true feelings and the little we got to see, because it is extremely removed and seems to hide so much more, makes it so overwhelming that I’d rather deal with Oscar’s death twice instead (just kidding, I’m out of tissues). The fact is, the man is completely insane and drives anyone who tries to understand him (or even those who don’t in the main cast) almost just as mad. At first, when everyone still trust him, I had little interest in him as a person, and slightly more as a character because his appearances seemed to advance the plot and I was always looking forward to that. But he nevertheless always had a comforting gentleness in his demeanor and speech, and a sad elegance in the physical contacts he initiates and holds, it made him friendly and intimate, even if as long as he was thought to be a good guy, his contacts remained respectful. As the plot progressed and grew darker, there was probably something extremely comforting in this intimacy (as much for the characters as for the readers, which is the kind of feelings needed to make the audience attached to him before the revelation in volume 17), so much that Gilbert believed that he was his master and everyone trusted him (and I know no better expert at manipulation). Although thinking back of that particular time, why did he move behind him so he could talk to him about how he was cut in the back (unbeknownst to us at the time, by his own doing) , putting his hand on said spot? At the time it looked like a sad and comforting gesture, but was he actually hiding something by moving behind Gil where he wouldn’t see him? The man could fool anyone while looking them in the eyes, so maybe the gesture wasn’t complete manipulation. Did he touch his back because he felt sad for Gil, because he felt guilty for hurting him? Here is the actual problem: I believe he doesn’t know himself. Even when he started taking control of their shared body with Oz in morally arguable ways (the murder of Isla Yura), he still gave away a righteous impression, killing the evil guy and giving Oz and Alice the comfort of knowing it wasn’t Oz doing it (even if he would have done it if he could). But again, there was something singular about that scene. In the original Japanese text, that was the harshest he ever talked to someone. Even as he committed awful deeds, his way of talking, the degree of politeness of his speech, never changes once (with the only exception of Isla Yura). This is a symbolism largely employed in Japanese fiction and that is usually lost to translations, as authors try to give different personas and characters very distinct ways of talking; Break uses usually a sarcastic tone with a stiff, formal language. He however, uses an extremely rude and harsh language in his final talk with Vincent, and a touchingly natural way of talking to say his farewells to Sharon and Reim. Which brings me to the point: was that particular disgust in Isla Yura Jack’s own feeling, or was it, once again, a subconscious performance? Even though most characters decided he was never sincere, I still believe there are traces of his real self all over the manga and I want to see it so much that it is a nightmare. His insanity’s roots are very complicated as well. It was, for most of the manga, simply implied he let himself be consumed by his love for Lacie to the point of obsession and completely lost it after her “death”, but in the last volume, Oswald says that he was completely insane at the very beginning (that would make it from the moment Oswald knew him). Jack admits himself that he lost himself during the 8 years where he forsook every sense of morals or evil and made use of every possible mean to get to Lacie, eventually losing the ability to recognize his own feelings with the sole exception of his resentment for Lacie who made him lose every shred of sanity, and that is the source of his obsession for her, the one feeling he could feel was his and made him feel alive. Suddenly it made sense why he showed no sign of attraction towards Lacie when she tried to test him with a quite ambiguous situation in volume 18, and why despite knowing she lied to him about meeting him again in one week, he simply accepted it. Later he would fail to explain to Oswald the reason for that, even as he was getting desperate and given dangerous information by Levi. But that is exactly the character of Jack, he has absolutely no understanding of who he is, and is extremely skilled in seeing the lies and the needs of others, a clear, mirror-like water pond indeed. If most of his expressions are calculated or subconsciously fake, the only times when we have the impression of seeing raw emotions are his anger at Oswald and Oscar who gave an accurate analysis of his most-loathed self he changed into for the sake of finding Lacie, and tears when Oswald disappears and when, 100 years prior after his first confrontation with Glen, he looks down at an unconscious, injured Gilbert while apologizing, and also that maniac breakdown when the tragedy is over and he sees Oswald’s body and realizes he did it (also if we count the harsh disgust with Isla Yura but, unlike the others, he was not alone in this case and he acted as was expected from his role at the moment.)

In the final volume, when we hear Jack finally really talking about himself, he says that he feels that Oswald is his dear friend, and Gil and Vince his cute little friends and that he wants to protect them (despite the fact that he betrayed every single one of them), but he is not sure whether it is his true feeling or just once again a performance he is not himself aware of. We get a peek into his twisted mind and what we see is not pretty, and it is the one time he speaks with the most honesty with, going as far as admit he had a filthy past to Glen. This character might be the one true villain of the story, but it feels like the author still wanted to give him a Freudian Excuse, or at least motivate a certain part of the fandom to do so, and so, looking at his past, it was not so hard to come up with. We have an apathetic adolescent on the streets who has no reason to live and no reason to die, only living in total indifference. And then he gets attention from one person, and she suddenly changes the world for him and the world for him becomes her. She shows him what it is to be cared for, what life has to offer, what is beautiful about the world. And she shows him all the immoral ways a boy with his social level (somewhere near absolute zero) can use to keep on living, all while teaching him how to question their immorality, to never accept common sense as a reason. And that is, although it is philosophically interesting, a very dangerous reasoning, especially for an extremely suggestible adolescent who has no one’s advice to hear but hers. Morals exist for a reason; it is what keeps society together, what keeps the mentally ill from falling. And falling he did, really hard, and whatever happened after she suddenly left him created a monster that would end the world with a sweet smile on his face while asking the friend he just betrayed and tried to kill why he was angry at him. There was no good or evil in his intentions, those notions probably stopped existing for him somewhere along the way. Right before he disappeared, Oz (who despite rightfully resenting him for what he did was the only one who still cared about him enough to ask, whether because of their contract or their time together or his heart of gold it’s anyone’s guess) asked him if there wasn’t, in fact, a moment in his life where he could have chosen another path that wouldn’t end in tragedy, and Jack actually considered it for an instant before simply saying it was impossible. Was it really? Or was he just afraid of considering it? Did he just not wish to leave regrets behind as he was disappearing? Again, anyone’s guess. But I thought it was interesting. If, that beautiful tea party Oz dreamed of was an alternate reality, was there an alternate story where Jack, Oswald and Lacie faced a different fate? All three of them were simply erased from existence, but so were Oz and Alice after all. I felt like they got a new hope because there was a reality where things would be fine. If Jack’s every reality was as twisted as his soul was found to be after Sablier’s tragedy when he was denied the cycle of rebirth, then it is a logical conclusion that Abyss’ core would not allow such absurdity, there would never be hope for him. But what if, that path he considered for one second before denying it, what if it actually were a choice? In the end, somewhere in them, Alice and Vincent still found it in them to like him all while holding some kind of grudge against him. Is that relevant in any way? Has the past trio been erased forever from every reality, or is there, somewhere in the Abyss the light of hope?

That is the conclusion I stopped at by exploring my expectations of the story. Every person’s circumstances, expectations and reading is sure to make us experience the story differently, and yearn for different conclusions. For situations and moralities that are satisfactory in regards to our own experiences and beliefs in life. I think I could relate to that fear of not knowing myself , and to the fear of such extreme dejection and loneliness. That is why, to the person with some father issues that I am, that painfully happy tea party dream was still fulfilling in some way. It is frustrating that it is something lost forever, but just the fact that it could have been, that the path, the possibility really existed, is strangely comforting. It means life is still worth living, that there are paths worth striving for; if such an ideal was a real possibility, then equally or at least enough happy ways are bound to exist as long as we look for them. So yes, just knowing for sure about the “possibility” is enough to keep going, despite how much pain there was in the reality we know. We can still do something with the hope, with the remaining time.

And aside from that, there is that moral dilemma that I can’t help but muse about sometimes. Does Jack deserve to be get the forgiveness of at least one person? Is madness a possible justification for such scale crimes? Now I don’t think there is a right or a wrong answer. Betrayal and murder are serious offenses to be sure. The man was long lost to insanity by the time he took action. But saying that no soul actually deserves the dehumanizing fate of simply being excluded of the natural cycle all other human souls go through is a valid argument in my opinion too. If the distortion of his soul was that it knew no good and no evil, then what of those who are aware of these notions and commit evil deeds nonetheless? To be sure, arguing morals is simply useless. But every truthful thing we’ve seen of that person inspired me nothing but pure desolation. I just thought he ended as lonely as he started. Well, that’s what one gets for backstabbing friends. But that’s useless unless he gets time and a sane mind to reflect upon those things.

I... ended up writing quite a lot. I really needed to write my thoughts because the manga left me an emotional mess. However, if anyone happens to read some or all of this, it would definitely make me very happy.

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