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inkykeiji · 4 years

Text

i like the way they run, then fall, then die

character: shigaraki tomura

genre: gore/violence for torture, then smut

notes: this takes place before the events of break my bones but act as my spine! please, please heed the warnings. the entire first half of this is a torture scene. if you’re just here for the smut and would prefer not to read the torture, scroll all the way down to the three stars dividing part one from part two - you can still read the smut without reading the torture if u wanna, all you need to know is that tomura tortured + murdered a boy who had been harassing the reader at university and now he’s coming home. please please please stay safe <33 | title credit: nitro cell by city morgue

warnings: 18+, torture, murder, blood/gore, graphic depictions of violence, daddy kink, spanking with a belt, edging, mild degradation, possessiveness/generally toxic relationship

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

He isn’t usually one for torture—all this pleading drives him absolutely insane, makes it feel like a thousand tiny bugs are crawling under his skin. However, when it comes to someone who has wronged you, well…that’s a different issue entirely.

Men who bother you deserve to be tortured within an inch of their lives, and Tomura will gladly endure their pitiful begging; he wants to hear them beg and plead and cry like the pathetic pieces of shit they are. He wants them to suffer, and to suffer immensely, for even thinking about touching something that’s his, for daring to utter a disrespectful word to something that’s his.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Bleary hazel eyes open, blinking twice then squinting as they try to adjust to the bright light, a head full of orange curls lolling back heavily. It takes the boy’s hazy mind a few moments to register the fact that he’s tied to a chair, thick rope binding him to it.

Tomura knows the boy recognizes him almost instantly when their gaze meets and his hazel eyes widen in an almost comical manner, breath hitching painfully in his chest as he chokes on a gasp. A wicked, toothless smile spreads across Tomura’s face.

He’d have a hard time forgetting those ruby eyes that, impossibly, seem like they’re glowing under the fluorescent lights of the old abandoned A.F.O laboratory; those same eyes that had glared at the redhead over your shoulder only a few days ago as Tomura caught you in his arms.

This boy had been pestering you for a while now. You hadn’t thought much of it the first day it happened, wrote it off as some overeager and overconfident college boy, but by the third day you were sure this classified as harassment. Sick of repeating yourself and firmly telling the boy that you have a boyfriend and you’re not interested, you whined to Tomura about it that night after dinner, your head in his lap as his slender fingers carded through your hair—and inadvertently sentenced the boy to death, right then and there.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt more relieved in your life when you spotted Tomura leaning casually against the Maybach after your last class had ended, the day after you had voiced your complaints. Taking off the moment your eyes met, you ran into his waiting arms, cutting the boy off mid-sentence. Tomura must’ve given that boy an awfully nasty look, because the harassment magically stopped.

Or so you thought.

Nevertheless, the boy manages to spit out a shaky, “Wh-Who are you?” as he begins to struggle against his restraints.

“Aw, come on, you know who I am,” Tomura says like their old friends, walking a few feet towards him with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Where am I? What am I doing here?” his eyes dart around the room wildly, barely pausing on the three men leaning against the wall behind Tomura before they find his face again, big and frenzied.

Tomura’s smile spreads, revealing sharp white teeth. He isn’t usually one for torture—all this pleading drives him absolutely insane, makes it feel like a thousand tiny bugs are crawling under his skin. However, when it comes to someone who has wronged you, well…that’s a different issue entirely.

He doesn’t answer the boy’s questions, instead opting to pull out his phone and scroll through it quickly.

“You wanna see the love of my life?” there’s a slight bite to his tone as he shoves the device in the redhead’s face, pale hand gripping it so tightly it trembles a little.

The kid’s eyes fill with tears as he stares at your smiling face, tiny sobs beginning to sound from deep in his throat. His eyes flit between the screen and Tomura, an impending sense of doom looming over him.

“She’s real pretty, isn’t she?” he asks mockingly, a hint of a pout in his voice. “Pretty enough to harass, yeah? Pretty enough to render you incapable of understanding the word no, eh?”

“I’m sorry,” the kid’s already wailing, pathetic sobs beginning get under Tomura’s skin, blunt nails absentmindedly scratching at his wrist and forearm. “I-I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, I swear!”

“Ah?” Tomura stops for a moment, blinking at the kid with wide eyes, mimicking astonishment. “Now I know that’s a lie,” he smirks. “I heard her tell you, several times. Do you have hearing problems? Is there something wrong with your memory?”

The kid stares at him, mouth opening and closing quickly, exhaling shallow breaths in rapid little huffs.

“You seem to be hearing fine right now,” Tomura continues, voice still painfully calm. “And you remember her, and me, so I doubt there’s something wrong with your memory, right?” he stops, only a few feet from the kid now. “Right?”

The poor redhead can’t find his voice, only able to emit these tiny, pitiful sounds in the back of his throat, peppered between his obnoxious sobbing. He shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again, movements jerky and frantic.

Tomura’s eyebrows knit, and he tilts his head to the side. “Well, which one is it?” his voice is so casual, and he sounds almost as if he’s worried about the boy’s inability to decide.

Sighing after a beat of silence, Tomura tuts his tongue and shakes his head, cocking his gun. “Shame,” he points the gun at the kid’s head, closing an eye as he adjusts his aim, tongue poking his cheek.

“No!” the kid cries out, squirming against his restraints. “I-I—You’re right! There’s nothing wrong w-with my hearing or my memory, please—”

“Mm, thought so,” Tomura says softly to himself, nodding as he swiftly readjusts his aim and pulls the trigger, shattering the kid’s right kneecap.

The redhead lets out an absolutely bloodcurdling scream, throwing his head back as he thrashes wildly against the thick rope again, the legs of the chair scraping against the concrete.

“Ouch!” Dabi laughs from his spot on the floor, leaning back against the far wall, blue eyes dancing with mirth.

“Ugh,” Chisaki groans beside him, looking away in disgust.

Tomura takes a moment to admire his work, Dabi’s encouraging laughter inspiring another bout of confidence to surge through his chest. He had been close enough that the bullet caused the entire kneecap to explode, sending little bits of bone and flesh flying, thick blood immediately beginning to cascade down the boy’s leg, soaking straight through the denim of his jeans.

“Now,” he continues, speaking over the boy’s shouting with a levelled voice. “I’m gonna cut those pesky ears off your fucking head, since you don’t seem to use them,” he looks over at Dabi and nods once, prompting Dabi to hop up and leave the laboratory.

“But before that,” he stops in front of the kid and leans forward, his face only a few inches away. “Do you wanna know what her pussy tastes like? Hmm? I bet you do. I bet you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

He’s still blubbering, Tomura’s words barely registering, ears ringing from the gunshot. Crimson eyes search his face intently, bright with the intoxicating mix of adrenaline and exhilaration that the rush of torture affords him. Tomura wrinkles his nose a little at the snot running down the kids face and onto his lips, face red and streaked with gleaming tears.

“I’ll tell you,” he says, voice dropping into a growl. “It’ll be the last thing you hear before I take those good-for-nothing ears from you—what a treat!” he laughs a little, resting his hands on his bent knees, inching forward just a hint more. “She tastes like strawberries and honey; the perfect balance of tart and sweet. God, her cum’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, the most decadent cream…Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back with a malicious grin. “Now you got me craving her,”

Dabi returns then, coming to stand beside Tomura, and the kid’s so consumed with pain that he doesn’t even notice the little reciprocating saw in Dabi’s hands.

“Ah, thank you,” Tomura says as he takes it, a devious smile spreading across his face. He turns the saw on, testing it by squeezing the trigger a few times. “Perfect. Now,”

He grabs an ear by the cartilage and yanks, holding it taut from the head. The kid squirms, trying to wiggle his way out of Tomura’s grasp and he growls, asking Dabi to hold his head steady.

The saw slices through the ear like butter, cleanly slashing it from his head in one quick motion. Blood begins to gush from the wound immediately, streaming down the redhead’s cheek, thick, sticky drops dripping off his jaw and onto his collarbone.

“One,” Tomura counts gleefully, tossing the ear to the side. It hits the concrete with a sickening splat! a few feet away.

“Very Mr. Blonde of you, Tomura,” Chisaki rolls his eyes as Tomura moves onto the next ear, Dabi nearly snapping the kid’s neck as he forces his head to tilt the other way, allowing his boss easier access to the second appendage.

“Oh!” Dabi gasps as the saw neatly slices the second ear off. “We should set him on fire,” he suggests, sapphire eyes glittering at the prospect.

“Oh?” Tomura looks up at him, intrigued, decapitated ear still hanging between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you have any kerosene in your car?”

“Nah, but I could go get some—”

“Can we please finish this, already?” Chisaki whines, pushing off the wall and walking towards the two men. “My lunchbreak is almost over,” he checks his watch, frowning.

“Alright, Mr. Head Chemist, your lunchbreak is almost over. You have to head back to work—we are gonna find some kerosene,”

Chisaki sighs, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers. “Your father would like you at the lab today, Tomura,” he says flatly.

Tomura groans, shoulders slumping as he dramatically throws his head back to glare at the ceiling. “But the lab is so boring when there aren’t any experiments or testings going on,” he complains with a slight pout.

“I could finish him off, if you want,” Dabi offers.

“No! Where’s the fun in that? What good is torturing him if I don’t even get to see him die?”

“Look, I don’t care how you do it, just hurry up,” Chisaki spits, turning to walk away. “I’m going to my car—you better be in yours in five minutes,”

“God, he’s no fun,” Tomura mutters to Dabi, who nods in agreement.

“I heard that!” Chisaki hollers as he continues walking, not bothering to look back.

“You were supposed to!” Tomura calls in response, rolling his eyes. “Damn,” he sighs in disappointment, turning back to the boy. His face is slippery with blood, pouring down either side and streaking his neck and the collar of his polo shirt. He’s gone into shock from the pain, screams cut off into choked little whimpers and hiccups. “Looks like our playtime ends here,”

He shrugs, almost indifferent, cocks his gun again and fluidly aims at the boy’s forehead, pulling the trigger without a second thought.

Wet splatters of crimson stain the concrete, echoing throughout the mostly vacant building, the boy’s quiet little sounds cutting off abruptly. Tomura watches as the light fades from his wide, terrified eyes, watches as the hazel goes from vibrant to dull, and the kid’s head falls back, blood beginning to trickle down the bridge of his nose.

A car honks twice outside and Tomura snarls a little to himself, whipping his head around and glaring at the door to the lab, hanging half open and letting pale sunlight leak in.

His grip tightens around his gun, fingers flexing around the metal warmed by his palm. “I’m gonna kill him,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

“Nah, don’t be stupid,” Dabi laughs, shaking his head a little. “We still need him,”

✰ ✰ ✰

Tomura returns to the penthouse earlier than expected, startling you when large hands wrap around your hips just as you’re removing a loaf of freshly baked banana bread from the oven.

“Aw, baby, playing housewife?” he coos, breath hot against your ear, before taking the lobe between his teeth.

A sigh slips through your parted lips and you lean back against his chest, tipping your head to the side and eyes closing.

“Our bananas were going bad,” you explain softly, in a bit of a trance as nimble fingers rub small circles into your hips.

“Oh?” he asks, as if he’s genuinely interested, lips leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your neck. “It’s so cute when you get all domestic,” tender hands slide up your torso, coming to cup your breasts as he kneads them gently, tweaking a nipple through the thin material of your dress.

Your back arches as you try to press into his palms more, quiet mewls spilling from your lips.

“What’s gotten—” you cut yourself off with a sharp intake of breath as teeth sink into your skin. “What’s gotten into you?”

Tomura usually isn’t this…soft. He’s affectionate for sure, but his after work affections usually include slamming you up against the nearest wall, counter, or table and almost violently claiming your mouth with his, tongue invading viciously as rough, eager hands rip off clothing.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, tongue tracing the fresh bite. “What, daddy can’t miss his baby?” A hand snakes down your body and slips between your thighs while the other stays preoccupied with rolling your nipple between his index finger and thumb.

Little hands fly out to grip the edge of the counter as you yelp in surprise, steadying yourself as he pinches your clit. A dark chuckle sounds deep in his chest, vibrating against your back.

“Already so wet?” His fingers prod at your little hole through the flimsy material of your panties. “Did you miss daddy as much as he missed you?”

“I-I always do,”

“Oh yeah?” Moving your panties to the side, the pads of his fingers tease your slit, collecting wetness. “And did you happen to be thinking of something naughty while you were playing housewife?”

Two fingers push into you just as you open your mouth to respond, a small strangled hiss escaping your throat. It burns a little, tiny hole stretched around the digits, sucking them in.

“Hmm?” he frowns, looking almost concerned. You’d believe he was, too, if it weren’t for that wicked glint in his dark eyes, shining every time you emitted a soft noise of pleasure instead of an answer.

And then he’s curling his fingers against your spot every time you try to speak, frustration building in your chest until you’re finally able to force out, “D-Daddy, fuck me al-already!” lips set in a deep pout and eyebrows pushed together.

His fingers halt their ministrations entirely and he pulls back to look at you, ruby eyes studying your face intently, firmly pressing his lips together. It takes your clouded mind a few moments to register the words you just said, the high, whiny tone you just used…then your eyes are widening and a gasp claws its way out of your throat, shaking your head vigorously as if to say, I didn’t mean it!

“I’m feeling good today,” he begins slowly, voice even and controlled. “So you’re getting off with a few spanks for that attitude of yours. Now go bend over the dining room table,”

His voice sends chills pebbling across your skin, spikes of ice shooting up your spine. You want to protest—he can see it in your eyes, the urge tickling the tip of your tongue. You want to tell him you didn’t mean to talk back to him, promise! It’s just that you want his cock so bad! You swear! Scarlet eyes watch you sharply, daring you to utter the words, looking almost as if he’s hoping you do, just to give him an excuse to lengthen your punishment.

But you don’t want that—a longer punishment means you’ll have to wait even more before his cock’s finally inside you—so you force yourself to swallow the words and nod solemnly, sulking towards the table and draping yourself over it.

Calloused hands run up your thighs, taking the hem of your little dress with them and bunching the material around your waist. He smirks at your cute little panties, hands running over your ass and kneading for a moment before he hooks his thumbs in the waistband, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them and a low laugh rumbles in his chest as he feels the soaked material, bunching it up and stuffing it in his pocket.

The wood of the table is cool against your cheek, your heart palpitating in your chest as you anticipate the first hit.

Except it doesn’t come, and a beat of silence passes before you hear the gentle clinking of his belt buckle.

“No!” you gasp, little fingers curling around the edges of the table as you hug yourself closer to the surface, eyes snapping open and consciously forcing your head to stay pressed against it, not daring to look back at him. “No, daddy, please, not the belt,”

“Aw baby, you’re precious,” he chuckles a little, the sound making your stomach flutter. “Good girls take their punishments without complaint, and you want to be good for daddy, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you whimper, nodding against the table. He hums to himself.

“You will get twenty lashes for your behaviour, and you will count each one aloud,” Tomura explains as he folds the belt in his hands, the leather squeaking softly. “Do you understand?”

You nod again, earning yourself a superficial slap on your bare skin from the back of his hand. It still stings.

“Use your words,”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, feeling the smooth leather in his hands.

A tense, heavy silence settles in the air, your chest swelling as you subconsciously hold your breath in expectation of the first blow, crying out when the belt finally collides with your ass. The leather cuts into your flesh, leaving thin welts across the soft skin. Sharp slaps echo throughout the empty penthouse intermittently, mingled with the soft sounds of your uneven breath and pathetic little whines.

By ten, you’re whimpering into the table, tears leaking from your eyes and sharp edges biting into your palms as you grip it.

By fifteen, you’re full-on sobbing and having difficulty staying still, hips wiggling and legs trembling as you cry out the numbers, muffled by the table.

“Daddy,” you hiccup, blinking your bleary eyes furiously to clear them from tears. “Daddy, I’m sorry,”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” Tomura says a little breathlessly behind you, cock straining against his slacks. “You’re almost there baby, five more to go. Be a good girl and finish your punishment,”

The statement makes you cry harder, but you manage to force out the words, “Yes, daddy,” between your wailing.

The last five are, admittedly, the most difficult for the both of you. Your soft whimpers of “Please, daddy,” and “Hurts, daddy,” nearly enough to make him forego the final five. But an intentional brat like you must learn her lesson.

When the final hit comes, you unclench your fingers from the edges of the dining room table and flex them, feeling proud of yourself for taking all twenty. Tomura’s pressed up against you in an instant, his body folded over yours, pinning you to the table.

“My pretty little baby girl, you did so well,” the words are whispered into your hair as cold hands caress the stinging skin, using his feet to nudge yours further apart. “So good for me,”

A hand trails down and between your thighs, nimble fingers slipping between your folds. He groans a little as the pads of his fingers collect your slickness; you’re still so wet.

“Such a good, good girl, getting this wet for me,”

“Please daddy, c-can I—” a little hiccup cuts you off, the pad of Tomura’s thumb swiping across your cheek to catch a stray tear as you struggle to look back at him. “Can I have your cock now?” you whimper out, eagerly pushing your hips back and into his hand, almost as if you’re trying to grind against it.

Christ, what did he do to deserve such a good little slut like you? Your lashes are still wet, little droplets of water clinging to them, soft sniffles still catching in your chest. And you’re staring at him with those wide, glistening doe eyes, your lips puffy from crying, desperately awaiting his answer as your hips move in little circles, trying to catch your clit on his fingers.

You can feel his cock, pressed up against your ass through his pants, and it only makes you crave him more, little hole fluttering around nothing.

“Yeah?” he breathes, lips at your ear. “You want it?” he pushes his hips against you more, laughing a little when you whine and nod your head fervently, rubbing your ass back against him despite the way your sensitive, wounded skin snags on the rough material.

“Yes, yes, please, I-I want it,” you babble, your head gone hazy from the intense, heady mix of pain and desire, no longer able to think about anything else except how badly you need him to fill you up.

“Do you think you deserve it?” his voice drops an octave, smooth and low as two fingers dip into you again.

“Yes,” you respond without any hesitation.

He hums softly to himself, fingers pumping in and out of you slowly, knuckles curling periodically, pressing forcefully against your gummy walls and pulling broken, needy whines from your throat. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough, intense spikes of pleasure that have your stomach swooping as your hips squirm, trying in vain to bounce on his fingers, to speed up the pace just a little more.

“Please daddy,” you’re sobbing again, words garbled through spit and tears. “Please, please fuck me,”

“I am fucking you, baby,”

And you hate how unaffected he sounds, just a slight breathiness to his voice, hate the way you can hear his smug smirk.

“With your cock!” you cry in demand, a violent shiver coursing through your entire body as his knuckles press into that spot again, hard and ruthless in his assault of your poor pussy.

“There you go again,” he says, voice fading into a growl as his fingers begin to viciously curl over and over, rapidly picking up the pace. “Being a fucking brat. And you were doing so well, too…Didn’t your punishment teach you anything? Only patient little girls get daddy’s cock in their soaking little cunts,”

“Oh, daddy, please, please, I-I’m sorry! I just—”

“Maybe I’ll fuck your throat instead,” he muses, sadistic smile spreading across his face as you weep loudly, shaking your head with vigour and chanting out the word no. Tears are steadily streaming down your soft cheeks and Tomura’s not sure he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. It makes his cock throb, laughing at the way you moan wantonly when he grinds it against you again.

“You’re a greedy little slut, y’know that?” he whispers in your ear as the tempo of his thrusts increase more. “You’re lucky daddy’s giving you anything at all after the tone you used in the kitchen,”

“Bu-But I took my punishment!”

“Oh, my poor baby,” his voice is sickly sweet, fake and syrupy and absolutely dripping with derision. “Poor thing, has to take daddy’s fingers instead of his cock, poor thing has to have her tight little pussy stretched out before she can take my cock, you poor fucking thing,” a hand collides with your ass, the resounding slap! of your skin against his palm ringing in your ears, a pretty handprint already beginning to form on your abused skin.

You nearly scream, cutting yourself off midway to bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to leave little purple indents in the flesh, breathing out harshly through your nose.

“Insatiable little whore, thinking she’s entitled to my cock,” he spits, thumb finally finding your clit and rubbing quick circles into it. He can tell you’re close, pussy pulsing around his fingers, entire body jolting with each swipe of his thumb over your sensitive bud.

“Feet apart, damn it,” he growls as he kicks at your ankles, forcing your legs to spread again.

Teeth bite into your tongue, refraining from nearly blurting out that you can’t help it, it’s too much, the pleasure is practically blinding, your thighs instinctually squeezing around his wrist.

And, God, you’re so close. He knows, of course, is able to read every micro-expression perfectly—every hitch in your breath, every mewl bubbling past your lips, every twitch, jerk, quiver of your body—and every time you’re teetering on that edge, he stops, slows his pace, takes his thumb away completely, until you’re a sweaty, shuddering mess, until you’ve gone dazed and numb from how badly you need to cum.

Finally, finally, when he thinks he’s tortured you enough, when your legs are nothing but trembling jello, when you’ve been fucked stupid by just his fingers alone, vocabulary seemingly reduced to the words daddy and cock—finally he removes his fingers and pushes the head in, and it stings a bit as your cute little cunt struggles to stretch around him.

“How are you still so fucking tight?” he breathes out, as if he isn’t the one who doesn’t ever fuck you with more than two fingers even though he knows that the girth of his fingers are, obviously, no match for the girth of his cock. Merely able to whine in response, you impatiently push your hips back, and then he really fucking snaps.

Before you even know what’s going on, your aching little hole is being filled entirely with one harsh, quick thrust.

He sets a ruthless pace immediately, growling about how much of a little cockslut you are, how you’re practically starving for his cum, how his cock must be all you dumb little brain can think about.

Your sweet cunt is clenching around him after only three drags of his cock against your spot, and the laugh he barks out is nothing short of vicious. His thrusts don’t slow, fucking you right through your orgasm, grunting about how pathetically easy it is to make you gush all over him.

The legs of the table screech as they scrape against the hardwood, Tomura moving the entire piece of furniture with the force of his powerful thrusts. And all you can do it take it, eyes rolling back as your fingers grip the edges of the table again, desperately trying to keep your legs from giving out entirely, body gone limp and bouncing vehemently as his hips piston into you.

Then he’s spilling himself into you, spurt after spurt of hot cum filling you up as his hips stutter, cock pulsing, strands of silvery-blue hair stuck to his forehead and neck.

Christ, you look so gorgeous all fucked out from his fingers and his cock, thick cum leaking out of you and down your inner thigh. The head of his cock drags over your ass, smearing excess cum across your skin, an extra little reminder that you are his, that you belong to him.

It glitters under the low light of the dining room—the sun’s almost completely sunk below the horizon now, the dim neon glow of the city spilling into the penthouse through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Mine,” he says softly, just a huff of breath forced from his heaving chest, thumb swiping though the cum and rubbing it into the deep, swollen welts.

Yes, you think, too far gone to use your words, throat sore and raw from your crying. Yours, forever.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki smut #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura #bnha #mha #bnha smut #shigaraki #tomura smut #tw degradation #tw violence #tw gore #tw blood #tw daddy kink #tw murder #tw toxic relationship

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

Seconding the 'mob guys watching over Chris for Paul's suggestion!

CW: References to murder/mob organization stuff, references to parental death, grief, referenced past whump of a minor

Every Tuesday at 9 am, just like clockwork, Sean Malley lumbers into a coffeeshop nestled into the corner of a flat featureless strip mall. Contrasting to the pale concrete nothingness of its surrounding, the little coffeeshop is painted a warm, rich brown along the exterior, with heavy platers spilling over with purple and yellow flowers every few feet until Sean reaches the door.

It’s a welcome bit of individuality along this ring of small strip malls and larger big-box stores kept out of the city proper by a pile of zoning laws too draconian to fight. He’s been coming here for ten years now, more or less, and has seen the little coffeshop through its earliest days struggling for business right to now, where he feels reasonably certain he’ll be dead long before they close this place for good.

He moves inside, the light immediately warm and slightly dimmed. The scent in the air of freshly roasted coffee beans and baked goods. The cannolis they sell came from him, Sean’s proud of that - his wife had a favorite recipe and he’d given it to them after she passed, hoping for one batch for the service. They’d just kept making them, having one ready for him when he popped in, and... well, they’ve sold them ever since. Even call them Christa’s Cannolis, handwritten in cursive on a little placard. She’d have been tickled pink, he thinks sometimes, to see it.

One of his knees comes and goes as it pleases these days, giving his step a bit of a shuffle-scrape. He’s smiling, though, and humming as he goes.

Life is good for Sean Malley, all things considered.

Truth be told, he hadn't actually expected to live this long. Keeping close to Conor and his family had paid off in the early days - just as his instincts had kept him safe when the Garden erupted in in-fighting, too. When the Clean-Up happened, during the Garden’s most vicious in-fighting, Sean had seen half the men he’d watched start as snot-nosed dumbasses taken out one by one, clearing the way for Conor’s fucking grandson to make his play for power.

Those kids who’d run lookout gigs and then moved on to guard duty or work with the cargo coming in... one by one those kids-turned-adults, with families of their own, had been removed from the picture. Fifteen, all told, a bloodbath stretched out over six months - sixteen, of course, if you count how Paul’s murder went all wrong.

The one comfort had been watching Conor’s grandson lay the groundwork for his own comeuppance the whole time - promising favors for loyalty and then killing the ones he’d promised those favors to. That’s no way to start yourself as leader, and... well.

Trash had been taken out, in the end. Riley Higgs had gotten rid of the poison - and the poison’s friends - and his crew’s a damn sight better than Conor’s grandson’s people had been.

Riley, for one thing, understands that an organization like the Garden works, in the end, on trust. On being a family.

Don’t kill your family without a good damn reason, now do you?

Now Riley... he had a good reason. And Sean had made sure Riley Higgs knew a few very important facts that kept him on the man’s good side, and very much alive when the dust settled.

Even if he had did have to live with a bum knee. And back. And his hip’s started twinging every time it rains...

"Morning, Mr. Malley!" His favorite barista calls out, giving him a wave from behind the counter. She's a pretty thing, just cute as a button. Probably in her late twenties but when you’re as old as Sean is, everyone looks like a child playing pretend.

Still, it always brings a bit of sun in the old man's day to see her bright pink hair before he ever takes his seat. He always tells her she should move on from here, do something with her life other than serve old men their coffee and watch them while away the hours.

But I like it here, Melody always replies, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. I like our regulars, too. Besides, this place pays better than the job I’d get with my actual degree.

"G'morning to you, Melody!" He calls back, moving to have a seat in his usual spot, sinking gratefully into the plush armchair by the bookshelf in the corner. His favorite coffee table book, a heavy thing full of photos of World War II, is already laid out on the side table next to it, bookmarked where he’d left off last week. "Busy day, today?"

Melody is already heading his way, coffee in hand just how he likes it, one of Christa’s Cannolis on a small plate in the other. Sean’s doctor has been on him about cutting out sugar, and he’s done it just about everywhere else, but he still has his cannoli on Tuesdays. Christa had been so proud of herself when she’d mastered that recipe...

"Not really,” Melody says with a shrug, breaking into his thoughts. “Just the usual morning rush and a couple college kids, wandered outside but they left their drinks, I figure they’ll come back. One of 'em looks like he got mauled by a real weak bear."

Sean feigns surprise. "Oh, does he now?" He takes a sip of his coffee and sighs happily. "Not too hot. You had it out already, didn't you?"

"I saw your car pull into the lot," Melody says, giving a little it's nothing gesture. “I knew you’d be in, so I kept an eye out for you.”

"You're a doll, Melody, and this place would be lost without you." He presses the twenty-dollar bill into her hand, and when she protests, he shakes his head, adds another ten, and closes her hand firmly around the cash. "Take it, take it. I'm an old man on my own, who've I got to spend it on, huh?"

"You're not that old, Mr. Malley," Melody sighs, an old song and dance between them. “You’ve got grandkids who could use it, too, you know.”

"Ha! Trust that my grandkids never want for anything, Melody. Besides, live the life I've lived, and sixty feels like eighty-two. Go on, then. Cilly'll be along in a bit."

He sits back to drink his coffee as she heads back behind the counter, watching through the front window the cars that pass along the highway, the scattering of people getting in and out of their own vehicles in the parking lot. It's a perfect, and perfectly normal, Tuesday morning. Just like any other.

A perfectly normal Tuesday where one creature of habit makes it a point to get a quick look at another.

A flash of red catches his eye, and he frowns, watching a bright red Northern cardinal alight on the bench placed outside the shop, preening one wing briefly and then seeming to look towards the lot.

Sean follows its gaze, silently chastising himself for being so utterly taken by a simple bird, but... Northern cardinals are more or less unheard of around here, especially in the city. This one seems to cock its head in his direction.

"Someone," He mutters to himself, "is a bit lost."

There's a peal of laughter, as the door opens, the little bell on top chiming to announce them, and there they are.

Two young people walking inside, heads tilted together. One of them has thick, wavy black hair, one of those haircuts the younger people like so much now, shaved on the sides but long on top. The younger guys in the Family wear their hair like that now and then.

Sean thinks he liked it better when everyone kept things neat and tidy, but times change, and the Garden can't stagnate just because an old timer's got opinions. Riley’s take is he’d rather is people look like they could be anybody anywhere, and Sean has to admit the kind of haircut he’d like to see would stick out like a sore thumb.

Both of them are wearing all black head to toe, the black-haired one in a tank top and baggy pants, a large yellow lightning bolt on a cord settled just below their collarbone. Honestly, if he gets past the hair thing, they’re cute as a button, too.

Really, though, he’s not here because of them.

He’s here to get a good look at the young man walking in beside them.

It’s funny - it’s been nine - ten? - years since he last saw Paul Higgs alive, the day before he and his sweet Ronnie were gunned down in their own home in the night... but tears still prick at the corners of Sean’s eyes when he see the ghost of Paul in his son’s narrow face.

There’d been a joke when the little one first came into the world, that somehow Paul and Ronnie had put together a child where her genetics simply skipped out entirely. He’d been a little clone of Paulie from the start, and he’s different as a man than he’d been as a child lining toy cars up at their feet in the warehouse on Saturdays when Ronnie needed a break.

Sean pulls his phone out, idly scrolling - his daughter had helped him to get Facebook and a couple other things besides, including some kind of app that had his favorite card games. He pretends now to be fascinated by something he sees, but in truth he pulls his camera up and starts recording.

“It, it, it could change everything,” Paulie’s boy is saying, breathlessly excited, hands moving through the air in a blend of gesture and general happiness. “You see? Everything! Make it, it, it-it safer, make... make things better.”

“I know, I know,” The other one replies, deep voice warm and thick with love, and Sean sighs, missing his Christa now more than ever. He consoles himself with a bite of cannoli. “I already told you I’m in, Chris, okay? I’m going to help you. You don’t have to sell me on it.”

Tristan ducks his head with a shy smile, and boy if he isn’t Paul’s spitting image in that, too. Paulie hadn’t smiled much, not like his kid does - maybe that’s what he got from Ronnie - but in a smile like that, well... you could see where he got it from. If you’d known Paul, of course.

Which the kid didn’t, not anymore.

“It could, um, be dangerous though.” They’re barely audible now as they go back to where they left their still-steaming drinks, sitting down on a nearby couch. “Nat’s worried. And, and, and you know Jake-”

“Chris, you could walk across a crosswalk when the light starts blinking and Jake would still worry about you,” The other one teases. Sean knows their name, but right now it won’t quite come to mind, lingering on the tip of is tongue, never quite landing. “It’ll be public, yeah-”

“Telling everyone who... who, who I am.” Tristan starts tapping his fingers on his pants, a peculiar finger-twist-tap-tap-tap gesture that Sean once knew as well as anyone, when the boy was small. But it’s the words, with a hint of nervousness lining them, that get his attention. “The... the whole world’s going to, to, to to-to-... to... to know about Tristan Higgs.”

Now that gets Sean’s attention. He cuts the video, sends it to Riley, and starts a new one. It takes work not to sit up, or drop his cannoli, or in some other way give himself away.

He knows, then?

How?

Sean looks down at his phone, looking over the scar on Paul’s boy’s forehead, the only remaining evidence of what had been much more visible the first couple times they’d seen him out after it happened. Sean and Cilly had figured maybe a fight - people get into them, really. Paul wasn’t exactly gentle as a lamb, and why would his boy be?

But now... he wondered. His instincts told him the two were related, and of course he knew from the time they’d worked with WRU pretty closely under the table that those memory things they did sometimes failed. Sean had done a fixer job once for someone whose pet had recovered memories too fast and killed a servant in a panic...

“Oh, Paul,” Sean murmurs. “What’d your boy do, hm?”

“I’m, I’m going to to to t-... to tell everyone who I am,” Paul’s boy is saying, leaning forward and taking the hands of the other one in his own, squeezing them tight. “I’m... will, will, will you come with me? When, when I... so someone’s there?”

“What? Holy shit, Chris, go to the Olympics? With you?” They inhale and exhale, blowing some hair from their eyes, and smile. “You should take someone who knows more than I do about all that stuff, Chris, take Jake, or-”

“Jake has has to stay here. To, to protect the house. But... will you come with me?”

Sean cuts the video, sends it to Riley, and this time adds a message.

Olympics are in Chicago this year. What’s Paul Jr. planning?

He feels eyes on him and glances up to find Tristan looking over at him, an expression of uncertainty on his face. Sean’s been watching him for years, popping up in places, the way you sometimes see the same faces at the corner store, the mom-and-pop, a coffeeshop like this one. Now, he watches Tristan look him over, knowing he’s familiar but not knowing why. Part of him, with a pinprick of an old, old grief, wishes Paul’s little boy would recognize him now.

Most of him knows it’s better if he doesn’t.

Tristan looks away, and goes back to talking, but his voice lowers and now Sean can’t quite pick up what he’s saying beyond a few scattered words. He gets a couple photos of the lovebirds with their head together, sipping coffee, and sends those on to Riley, too.

Job done, he settles back to finish his cannoli and drink his coffee. Tristan and-... Laken, his name suddenly supplies, only an hour after he’d started trying to remember it - get up and leave, Tristan’s arm around Laken’s waist.

Good for the kid, Sean thinks, with a smile. By this age Paul had an elementary school son running around, but you know, it’s good to take your time on these things, and it’s nice to see that all the shit they’ve had to stand back and watch still wraps up nicely into Paul’s boy living a pretty nice life indeed.

His phone dings just as Cilly enters - right on time at 10, like clockwork - and he glances down to open the message from Riley.

I’ll get one of our guys to look into it. This might give us the out on the business I don’t want to be in I’ve been looking for. Kid looks good, looks like Paul. Family genes run deep.

Sean greets Cilly, even older than him but a sight more spry, and glances out the window. The bird’s gone from the bench, of course. The day is bright and shining.

In Laken’s car, they’re halfway back to the house Laken shares with their roommates when Chris suddenly sits straight up. “Mr. Malley,” He breathes out, green eyes widening.

Laken jumps - he’d been silent, preoccupied and in thought - and nearly jerks the car into a curb. “Damn, Chris! You scared me. What’d you say?”

“The old guy, in, in, in the the the the-the-... the coffeeshop, who kept looking at, at me.” Chris rocks forward, hands on the dashboard, his eyes staring ahead but not at the road, they’re looking far ahead... or behind himself, back in time and not space, when and not where. “His name’s Mr. Malley. I, I, I knew-... my dad knew, my, my, my dad, my dad-”

He winces, the headache splitting him apart, and Laken hits their turn signal, pulling into the parking lot of a generic fast food place, swinging into a parking space and turning to look at him.

“Chris? You okay?”

Chris’s face has gone pale, cold sweat breaking out. It still happens, sometimes, and when they lean over to touch his shoulder he flinches back from them, instinctively.

Laken exhales. “Okay. Ride it out, Chris. Let the memory go if it’s hurting, it’ll come back to you. They all come back now.”

“No! No, I, I, I want-... Mr. Malley knew my dad, I went to-... work, with, with him sometimes, his his his wife babysat me, I... I know him. I knew him. I knew-” He turns to look at them, and they fight the urge to try and touch him again.

Not yet.

“Do you... do you think, think, think he knew me?”

Laken swallows. “I don’t think so. Wouldn’t he have said something, if he recognized you? If he was your dad’s friend? Are you absolutely sure that-”

“Yes, I’m, I’m sure. I know it was him. I, I, I know, he, he, he gave me me me Dinotopia books... for Christmas one year...” Chris jerked in a breath and let it out again, hands going up over his head, folding himself in half until his forehead rested on the dashboard, pressed to the cool molded plastic. “He, he, he, he came to their funeral, he hugged me, he said, you’re too young to to to to have to lose so much, and everyone said-... everyone said stuff I hated but but but not him, he said, he said-”

“Chris, please, don’t hurt yourself doing this-”

“He said grief gets worse before it gets better, and and and and he said-... he said... he said don’t let anyone tell you that R-Ronnie’d want you to to to be strong, she’d want you to scream your head off if you want to, your dad’d be proud if if if if-if... if you told us all to go to hell, and... and and and and it felt like he was the only person who who who knew them at all that day, everyone said, said, said stupid things but not him, not-... not him and not Mr. Cilly, not-... not my Aunt Jo, not anybody, but he-”

Chris chokes on a sob and when Laken throws their arms around him he melts into it this time, crying against their shoulder, the two of them uncomfortably arched over the center console and the gear shift.

“It’s okay,” Laken whispers, running their fingers over the slowly growing fuzz of his hair. “It’s okay. Let it ride, Chris. It’s okay.”

“He, he, he was my dad’s b-b-best friend-... Why d-didn’t he, if he saw me, why wouldn’t he-... I s-see him all th-the the the time, why doesn’t he know who I am?”

“Maybe he’s like Akio,” Laken says, and feels him trembling under their touch. “Maybe he’s always thought you were dead.”

“I w-was,” Chris whispers “When I, I, I was Baldur. When I was training. When... when I... was good. I was dead.”

“Chris-”

“I was dead,” Chris says, and they kiss his head, helpless to think of anything else to do. “When my p-parents died, I died, too. Mr. Malley made m-me feel like I I I wasn’t. Why didn’t he kn-know me? Why didn’t a-anyone know I was alive?”

“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

“Hurts,” Chris whispers. “Why, why, why didn’t anyone help me before she she she-... before I was-... why didn’t anyone help me?”

Laken’s own eyes burn, and they draw circles on his scalp with their fingertips. “I can’t answer that,” They say, low and soft. “I’m sorry. But you know you have people who can and will help you now.”

For a while, Chris’s only sounds are sobs, and Laken can only make soft soothing nonsense noises and feel like shit that it’s not enough.

“Ev, everyone knew she-she hated me,” Chris whimpers, and sounds younger than he ever has, and Laken wants to throw a punch or scream and they can’t do either, only sit in the car and glare at people who look in as they walk past. “Everyone.”

“Chris-”

“Everyone knew, why, why, why why why didn’t they stop her?”

Back in the coffeeshop, Sean and Cilly are in the midst of an argument about a baseball game that happened 30 years ago when his phone rings. He holds up one finger and picks it up, lifting it to his ear.

“I have a job for you,” Riley says, with his cheerful hint of brogue. Funny, to remember that this part of the family only came here a few decades ago. “It’s a job I know you’ll enjoy.”

“Watching Paul’s boy is my retirement gig,” Sean says amicably. “You know I don’t do the dangerous stuff any longer, Mr. Higgs.”

There’s a silence. “I’m going to do some looking into what you sent me. But in the meantime I need to give you a job, and you’re going to do it.”

“And why is that, Mr. Higgs?”

“Because you’re going to want to do this.”

“What is it, then?”

Another pause.

“I want you to find Joanne Botham.”

Sean thinks of the dour, angry woman who had ignored Tristan in his funeral suit, gathering mourners around her while she sobbed over Ronnie’s loss, Ronnie’s own son alone on a couch staring off into space until Sean himself had sat down and told him, don’t let ‘em say your mom’d be proud of you bein’ stoic today, kiddo. Ronnie’d want you to scream if you felt the urge.

The kid had looked at him like he’d been given water in the desert, a starving man offered a bowlful of broth. Mr. Malley?

People will say a lot of real stupid stuff to you today, Sean had said. His eyes had gone to Joanne Botham, and Ronnie’s sister’s icy glare when she looked at her own nephew had made his blood run cold with anger even then. Likely in the future, too. But you just remember Paul and Ronnie weren’t saints. And they’d never want you to be, either. I’m sorry for your loss, Tris. No one on God’s earth has loved their kid like yours loved you. Should’ve seen his face when he told us your mom was pregnant with you. Could’ve lit the world with all the sunshine there.

A clap on the back, a whispered thank you, and that had been the last day Sean Malley had ever seen Tristan Higgs alive.

Until, of course, Riley had told him there was a boy living in a pet liberation safehouse who looked remarkably like Paul. Until, of course, Riley had shared that he’d known Tristan Higgs was alive all along. Until, of course, Sean had been told he couldn’t make a move because WRU was protecting all the players who had stolen his friend’s kid.

Until... now.

“Mr. Higgs?” His voice drops, and Cilly sits up, alarmed at the sudden change in tone.

“You heard me. Find Joanne Botham. I have a feeling we are about to get the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

The phone goes dead on the other end, and Sean slowly sets it down, finishing his second cup of coffee in a gulp. Then he looks at Cilly, and starts to smile.

“Riley’s got work for us,” He says, and when Cilly’s eyebrows raise he doesn’t wait for him to ask for more. “Don’t worry. You’re going to like it. Finally get to do what we should have done ten fucking years ago.”

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @vickytokio @whumpiary @orchidscript @moose-teeth @nonsensical-whump

#whump #speak out arc #chris the strawberry blond romantic #emotional whump #grief tw #referenced parental death #referenced past whump of a minor #referenced murder #memory loss #memory recovery #recovering whumpee #caretaker and whumpee #hi made myself cry during chris's part towards the end wheeeee

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fanfic-me-up · 4 years

Note

Hiiiiiii can I request Bakugou x fem!reader?? (*≧∀≦*) Maybe he has a crush on you who has a healing quirk and helps recovery girl when it comes to helping the injured, like when class 1-A finishes up training and recovery girl normally sends her to deal with it all the time? She can heal people but it drains her energy so when she finished with it she takes naps on the recovery beds? Idk but thanks!much love❤️❤️❤️

This is a really cute idea! Thank you for requesting 💖

“Shut up and Heal me”

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warnings: Language (what do you expect, it’s Bakugou lol)

Synopsis: You’re a student at U.A. and Recovery Girl’s apprentice healer. When you push pass your limit to heal Bakugou Katsuki, who knew he cared enough to make sure you heal too.

“Wake up, dumbass.”

Your shoulder is shaken, abruptly waking you from your nap. A muscular silhouette takes shape as you pry your eyes open.

“Bakugou? Is that you?” Your voice laced with sleep.

“Nah, it’s Batman.”

You squint your eyes, still half asleep. Is this a dream? Bakugou rolls his eyes at your inability to detect blatant sarcasm.

“‘Course it’s me, dipshit. Get up.”

You check your phone and groan when you find you only got five minutes worth of valuable shut eye.

“You’re here early.”

“Aizawa-sensei let us out early!” Midoriya pipes up. He’s chipper for someone who looks one step away from passing out. Any trace of sleep vanishes when you assess his injuries, asking him a series of questions to confirm where he needs medical attention and if it’s life-threatening. You usher him to Recovery Girl’s office so he can get treated immediately. Typical Midoriya - always going plus ultra even for training exercises.

Bakugou’s no better as you take in the numerous scrapes and bruises raking his body. Despite his beaten-up state, the only open wound is on the right side of his stomach - a small pool of blood seeping through his muscle shirt. He’s been pushing himself much harder in training these past couple weeks and you know it’s the life of a hero, but you’re concerned for him as a healer and as a friend.

“You gonna stare all day or heal me?”

“Sorry, right, uh.. Take off your shirt and get on the bed.”

The words escape before you realize the implication. Bakugou raises an eyebrow before snorting.

“Tch. Weirdo.”

You flush as he takes off his shirt, laying down on the bed. The wound running down his abdomen is not deep, but it is long. It’ll be difficult to heal, but you’re always up for a challenge. You wash your hands before activating your quirk. A glowing aura surrounds your hands, transparent in color, but before you can focus on changing the color to heal Bakugou - a spaced out Kaminari stands before you with his signature thumbs up. Snot is running down his nose and his eyes have this blank look like no one’s home.

“hewwoo?”

“Oi! Dunceface! To your right!”

“wa-whee-whaa?”

That’s Kaminari gibberish for “Where?” Being Recovery Girl’s intern and constantly healing Class 1-A along with other students in the hero course has made you quite familiar with the unusual side effects of overusing one’s quirk. You created a book with translations for Kaminari’s most used gibberish phrases so you can treat him more efficiently. Today, you tried placing his juice box and cookies on the table to the right to see if he can find it himself. But he’s having problems finding what direction is right.

“Your other right, dumbass.” Bakugou growls as Kaminari bends down to look for his juice box under a chair. You giggle as you help him locate his snack before ushering him to one of the recovery beds to take a nap. He knocks out in no time, snoring softly. Bakugou grunts, his hand pressing against the wound on his side.

“Don’t touch, it could get infected.”

“Tch. I know, but look.” He releases his hold to show you the blood dripping down his abdomen. You curse for not healing him sooner when he was clearly a higher priority than Kaminari. How could you forget the number one rule as a healer? There’s no time to beat yourself up for it so you grab a cleaning cloth to wipe away the blood before activating your quirk once again. You close your eyes, focusing your energy into what you’re about to do which is close up a wound. Red swirls behind your eyelids and you focus the color down your body to your hands. You open your eyes to find them glowing a bright, luminescent red - a stark contrast to the dim lighting in the room. Bakugou hisses at the touch; your hands trailing along his abdomen. You look up to apologize when you notice Bakugou’s flushed cheeks, as red as your glowing hands.

“Are you okay? You’re a bit flushed.” You deactivate your quirk in your left hand to touch his forehead. It’s cause for concern if he has a fever due to an open wound, but you’re taken aback when Bakugou swats your hand away.

“I’m fine! Shut up and heal me.” He looks away, but you catch the persistent redness now making its way down his neck. You return to healing the wound. It’s almost closed, but you can feel your energy draining quicker than usual since you didn’t have enough time to recover earlier.

“Hey, you good?”

“Mhm. Al-most… done…” You bite your lip and clench your eyes shut to concentrate the last of your energy into closing the rest of the wound.

“Don’t push it, dumbass.” Bakugou grunts and despite the harsh tone, there’s a tinge of concern underneath.

“Heh.. could say… the same… for..”

You trail off and your hands glow brighter by the second that you can see red behind your eyelids. You feel the wound seal shut and when you open your eyes you see there’s not a scar in sight. This is the first time you were able to completely heal a wound on your own. You smile at your accomplishment.

“You can take your hands off.”

You flush before ripping your hands away. The quick movement gives you a head rush, the room spinning in circles.

“Whoa.” Bakugou grabs you by the shoulders and reverses your position so you’re laying down now.

“My head hurts…”

“No shit,” Bakugou snorts, “What’d I say about pushing?”

“Go beyond... plus… ultra…”

The last thing you hear is Bakugou laughing, a soft smile curling his lips, before your vision goes black.

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

You wake up to the smell of roasted coffee and cinnabons. Faint voices go back and forth, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. The light streaming in is gone; the room now darker than before. Jeez how long were you out?

“Took you long enough.”

You whip your head to see Bakugou sitting on a chair and nursing a cup of coffee. The bed next to yours is empty. Kaminari must’ve recovered meaning you’ve slept for more than an hour.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah, and? Wanted to make sure you didn’t die ‘cause of me.”

City lights shine bright, and the hustle and bustle outside suggests the city isn’t going to sleep anytime soon. Live music roars from nightclubs and people laughing on the street would entice anyone to join the party. It’s pretty hard to believe Bakugou would stay behind on a Friday night when it’s common knowledge that you need to sleep after overusing your quirk. But here he is, that same strip of red running along his cheeks and nose like he just got a cute little sunburn.

“You like laser tag?” Bakugou asks.

You raise an eyebrow at the random question, shrugging when you answer.

“Never played.”

Bakugou balks, shock written all over his face.

“You never - what kind of person - nevermind. If we hurry, we can make the last round.”

Maybe this time you really were dreaming. You subtly pinch yourself to make sure and nope, this is real life and Bakugou is inviting you to hang out.

“Sounds... fun? But I… um…I’m not really part of your squad…”

You didn’t want to overstep. It seemed like they were a pretty tight-knit group and you’ve never hung out with them outside of school. The fear of ruining their night because you didn’t vibe with them twisted your gut.

“Gimme your phone,” Bakugou says.

Still in a daze, you give him your phone without question. He takes his phone out and not a second later you hear a “ping” from yours, He presses a couple buttons before handing it back to you.

“Congrats, you’re part of the squad.”

You see that you’ve been added to a group chat called “keeping up with the crackheads”. You don’t have time to contemplate exactly what you got thrusted into as Bakugou is grabbing both of your jackets hanging on the coat rack, handing yours and pushing you towards the door.

“I- um.. Thanks… I guess...? Bakugou, what’s going on?”

You’re already halfway down the hallway, everything happening too fast without a clear explanation. Bakugou groans, clearly frustrated that you’re not a mind reader and he has to actually communicate what he’s thinking. He grabs your shoulders, gently shoving your back against the lockers, and planting his hands on either side of you. Being this close to Bakugou makes you feel a familiar flurry of butterflies as you’re caged in and forced to look into those crimson eyes.

“I. Like. You.” He smirks, getting a kick at your flustered state, before leaning away with his hands in his pockets, “And I know you like me too.”

You don’t know what to freak out over first. The fact that Bakugou knows about your crush or that he likes you back. Also, how does he know you like him? You haven’t told anyone about your crush, preferring to keep your cards close to your chest.

“Don’t talk in your sleep if you don’t want me to know how much you wanna run your hands down my ‘chiseled abs’.”

You squeak and cover your face with your hands, too embarrassed at what else you might’ve said in your sleep.

“Chill, dumbass, it’s cute.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, throwing an arm over your shoulder, leading you to a night full of riveting laser tag, making new friends, and first kisses. 💖

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki fluff #bnha fluff #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki fanfic #bnha #mha #fanfic-me-up #shut up and heal me

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topsytervy · 4 years

Text

Brownies ~ Rafe Cameron

Blurb: You have a craving for brownies at 2 AM and your boyfriend Rafe helps you make them.

Word Count: 1,598

Warnings: uh swearing. I'm pretty sure that's it

~~~~~~~

You sat on your boyfriends bed, scrolling through your phone as you tried to find a brownie recipe that caught your eye.

You were spending the night at Tanneyhill since the rest of the family had decided to take a weekend trip to the mainland. Rafe declined, deciding that there was no way in hell he could survive a weekend with his family.

So here you were.

It was midnight, Rafe had fallen asleep hours ago, but you just couldn't. Not with the craving of brownies as intense as it was.

You smiled as you found a recipe for caramel brownies that looked delicious and bookmarked the page so you could make them when it was a reasonable time.

You sighed, beginning to lay down but Rafe's voice scared you.

"You good, Y/N/N?" He mumbled, his back to you. You were about to answer when your stomach growled, causing Rafe to turn his head towards you, an amused expression on his face. "Or is someone a bit hungry?" He chuckled.

You smacked his shoulder. "Shut up. I've been thinking about brownies for the past two and a half hours at least." You replied sheepishly.

"And whats stopping you from making brownies?"

"I know damn well the only brownies Rose has in this place are from the box and I want to make them from scratch."

Rafe sat up and looked at you. "Then why don't we go get what we need to make them from scratch?" He grinned.

You shook your head. "No. We don't have to. It's late and you were sleeping and it's ridiculous to make them right now-"

Rafe placed his hand over your mouth. "It's never too late for brownies, baby." He smirked before getting up, tossing you one of his hoodies before pulling on a different one.

You grinned as you pulled on the hoodie before getting out of Rafe's bed, extremely grateful you wore slip-on shoes today as you quickly pulled them on.

You and Rafe ran downstairs before throwing open the front door, Rafe grabbing his keys as you did, and you raced to his truck, climbing in. You buckled yourself in as you waited for Rafe to finish locking the door.

Rafe opened the driver’s side door and slid in easily, buckling himself in before shoving the keys into the ignition and starting the truck.

"Buckled in, sweetheart?" He glanced over and you nodded as his hand found it's home on your thigh, the smile on your face growing. "Then let's get this show on the road."

During the ride to the nearest Wal-Mart, you grabbed the little notebook and pen Rafe kept in the glovebox and wrote down what you needed to get as the radio played softly in the background.

You looked over at Rafe with a small smile and he glanced at you.

“What?”

You shrugged. “Nothing. Just admiring you.”

You saw Rafe blush. “Well, stop. You’re distracting me and I don’t want to crash with precious cargo in the car.”

You felt your heart speed up. “Awe, Rafe, baby.” You cooed, resting your head on his arm.

Rafe shook his head with a chuckle. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s not like this is a new development.”

“I know but still. You shock me sometimes.”

“I hope it’s a good shock.” Rafe laughed as he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and easily pulled into a spot near the door.

“Of course it’s a good shock you silly billy.” You answered, leaning over to kiss his cheek before unbuckling your seat belt and hopping out.

Rafe followed your actions and easily fell into step next to you, grabbing your hand. Rafe grabbed a cart, leaning against it as he pushed it into the store and towards the grocery section.

"Alright, baby. What do we need?"

“Butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, unsweetened cocoa powder, flour, salt, and baking powder. Plus, caramel cause I want to add caramel.” You listed off as you looked at the little notebook in your hand.

“Of course you do.” He chuckled and you swatted him with the notebook.

“Shut up. If there’s anything better than brownies, it’s caramel brownies.”

Rafe shook his head before you lead the way down the aisles, picking up each ingredient and placing it into the cart.

As you crossed the last item off the list Rafe began heading to the home section. You raised your eyebrows as you followed him, stopping in front of the wafflemakers before grabbing one and placing it next to the groceries.

“Why are you buying a wafflemaker?” You asked.

“Cause every time you spend the night, Y/N, you want waffles for breakfast so we go out and get waffles. Now, we can make them at home.” He grinned, looking at you.

“Correction, We can make waffles at your home since it’ll be at your house.” You pointed out.

“Good observation.” He nodded before grabbing another waffle maker and adding it to the cart. “Now, we can make waffles at both of our homes and we have matching waffle makers.”

“Rafe Cameron, I am not letting you buy me a waffle maker.” You scolded, grabbing one of the boxes to put it back.

“Then I guess we will just have to move in together in order for both of us to have waffles.” He smirked before kissing your cheek and turning around to head to self-checkout.

You blushed slightly before following, looping your arm through his and resting your head on his upper arm as you walked with him. “You’d really want to move in with me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Who else is gonna make sure you don’t accidentally cut your finger off while cooking. Someone’s gotta make sure you stay in one piece baby.” Rafe pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

You rolled your eyes at his reasoning before walking in front of the cart as you approached the self-checkout lanes. You scanned the items and Rafe pulled out his card, paying for it as soon as the last item was in the bag. He grabbed the receipt before tossing it into a bag and grabbing one of the plastic bags.

“Thank you for taking me to Wal-Mart at a ridiculous time just to get things for brownies and thank you for paying. And thanks for buying a waffle maker cause you know how much I love waffles. You’re the best baby” You grinned as you walked ahead of him, turning around so you could face him.

“Anytime bubs. Just know that this means I get the first brownie out of the pan.” He winked.

You walked up to him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “I knew there would be a catch.”

An hour later, you sat on the counter at Tanneyhill, scraping the bowl clean of batter as you waited impatiently for the brownies to bake. Rafe leaned against the island, smiling as he watched you.

***

Rafe swiped some batter earlier multiple times, hence why you got the bowl. That was apparently a rule in your house but he was positive that you were making that shit up. Who has a rule about whoever swipes batter during the baking process, doesn’t get to lick the bowl, spoons, beaters, etc?

Supposedly, your nana.

Rafe would just have to ask nana Y/L/N at the next family function.

“What?” You asked, looking at your boyfriend as you licked the spatula clean before going back to scrape some more batter out.

“You got something right here,” He leaned over and took his finger, wiping your chin before popping his finger into his mouth.

You scrunched up your nose. “Gross, Rafe. That was on my face.”

“So? I’ve kissed you when you’ve had a crying session and snot was running out of your nose.” He shrugged.

You rolled your eyes before glancing at the timer next to you.

Three more minutes.

“You know, I could get used to this.”

“Hmm?”

“This. Me and you, in our own place, making food at an unreasonable time, a cat or a dog running around. Maybe a couple of kids in the future if you want them.” You stared at Rafe which caused him to get nervous. “Only if you want them because I’m, obviously, not going to be the one carrying them for all those months and delivering them and-”

“Rafe,” You cut him off from his rambling, “Your genes are way too good to let go to waste. Of course, I would love to have kids with you in the future.” You reassured him.

He smiled. “No, sweetheart. Your genes are way better than mine.” He argued.

You got down from the counter and wrapped your arms around his neck and he slid his own around your waist. “Either way then, our kids are gonna be fucking gorgeous.”

“Damn straight.” He smirked, kissing your lips as the timer went off.

Rafe’s grip tightened on you as you attempted to pull away and you groaned. “Rafe, I am not in the mood to wait another hour and a half for brownies. Please let me go so they don’t burn.”

“Since you asked politely,” Rafe gave you one last kiss before letting you go and you immediately grabbed the oven mitts. "Actually," He took the oven mitts from your hands and slid them onto his hands, turning off the oven before opening it to pull out the pan.

"I think I can take a pan out of an oven."

"Not without burning yourself you can't."

~~~~~

#rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx

109 notes · View notes

ephemeral-writings · 5 years

Photo

Baby steps // friends who supports one another stays together…sort of. what about best friends who falls in love with each other?

kyungsoo x reader (best friends to lovers!) feat. chanyeol word count: 10k genre: fluff, angst —

🌵

You’re six and too feisty for your own good. It usually gets you into trouble--a few too many scrapes on your knees and elbows is to show, but your dad finds it far too amusing when you discuss your day with him over dinner about the mean boy you stood up to who pulled on your braids to tell you that no, it’s not nice to call Chanyeol a dummy for touching a girl’s hair without her permission.

Tonight, you tell him about the new kid in school, a transfer from Seoul, and how interestingly wide his eyes are. You hold two spoons to your eyes to emphasize your amazement, even imitating the way the little boy introduced himself to the class this morning. “Hello, my name is Do Kyungsoo,” you repeated in a failed Seoul dialect.

The next few weeks, you try to befriend the odd boy from Seoul that no one else wants to be friends with. Kyungsoo is quiet, mostly because Chanyeol makes fun of his dialect, but where he’s silent, you make up for by running off your own mouth with stories that you think Kyungsoo is ignoring.

“My mom went away when I was two years old, so it’s just me and my dad and sometimes grandma and grandpa,” you tell him. Everyone in your town knows about this, and you figure it was only time before Kyungsoo learned about this, so decided to tell him yourself. Maybe he’ll appreciate it and see your efforts to be friends with him.

Surprisingly, Kyungsoo is intrigued by this information, so he asks, “Where does she live now?”

Your small right hand rise in the air and point to the clouds above. “My dad says that mommy is always watching me from the sky.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes grow the slightest bit bigger, if possible, and he stays gawking at you the rest of the recess as you talked and talked.

🌵

You’re eight and still don’t know how to control your temper. Your dad took a pair of shears to your hair this weekend, saying that it’s not practical to have such long hair in Daegu’s heat, but you don’t like how your hair falls just barely below your chin. It’s suppose to be long and pretty, like your mom’s was in the family portrait.

You’ve always had long hair, cherished every time your dad braided it, so the moment Chanyeol calls you ugly on Monday and, “Aw, does that mean I can’t pull on your hair anymore?” You lose it and push his big, fat meanness to the ground despite being taller than you. Chanyeol makes a scene and tells on you, your teacher sends you to a time out where you cried big, fat tears in lieu of not being able to restore the length of your hair.

“Ms. Lee says that you can come back in now.”

Kyungsoo is staring down at you from where you’re kneeled on the floor. Slowly lowering your arms, you rub the snot from your face which makes Kyungsoo judge you but you don’t care. You’re still sulking about your hair.

“Why are you crying?” He asks.

Kyungsoo doesn’t understand why Chanyeol’s bullying makes you so upset when it’s just Chanyeol, the mean kid who doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body. He picks on Kyungsoo, too, but the smaller boy never bats an eye and instead turn the other cheek from his incessant mockery.

“I look prettier with my hair long, didn’t I?” You’re not really expecting Kyungsoo to say that you look pretty, because Kyungsoo was your best friend and you know that he would never say something that like. And just as you know him so well, he replied with, “You’re ugly either way.”

Kyungsoo calling you ugly isn’t as upsetting as Chanyeol doing it, you know that Kyungsoo can be mean and really harsh sometimes, but he was your best friend and would never hurt you hurt you.

Kyungsoo thinks he should probably say something to make you feel better, but can’t bring himself to. You’re his best friend, and maybe that makes it harder, but just when he thinks he’s made you upset again, you break into a grin and retort sassily. “You’re ugly too, Soo,” you chortled, poking a finger to his chubby cheeks.

🌵

You’re 15 and don’t understand boys at all. And that includes your dad.

“She’s really nice, sweetheart, and she’s been wanting to meet you for a while now,” your dad coos. Your dad, get this, has a girlfriend. The world has stopped spinning, all the fishes in the sea stopped swimming, and you’ve stopped functioning.

You knew your dad had a friend that was a girl, but what? When? What? You’ve started hanging out at your grandparent’s place more often, and tonight, your dad decides to disclose this crucial information that he’s in love with a woman...that wasn’t your mom.

You start crying without even noticing, your mouth still full of rice that’s suddenly really difficult to swallow down. Your dad pulls you in a hug immediately, shushing your cries with gentle ‘don’t cry, baby, it’s all right, everything will be okay’.

---

You’re uncharacteristically quiet and Kyungsoo notices right away when you’re just poking around your slowly melting ice cream.

“Why do you have this look on your face like something died in your ice cream?” Kyungsoo goes to take a spoonful for your strawberry swirl and makes a face when he’s tasted the sugary confection. “Yuck, you’re gonna get diabetes if you keep eating that. But nothing died in there, so what’s wrong with you?”

“Soo,” you croaked, “My dad doesn’t love my mom anymore.”

Kyungsoo gives you a perplexed look. “What do you mean?”

“He says he has a girlfriend and he’s, he says he loves her,” you whimpered. “What do I do, Soo?”

Kyungsoo isn’t fond of sentiments. He doesn’t know what to say to make you feel better, but he thinks it’s not ‘better’ that you need, it’s the truth and Kyungsoo can do truths. He’ll try to be less bleak about it, though.

“Don’t you want your dad to be happy and be in love?” He starts off. You nodded hesitantly, wanting to add more to it, but Kyungsoo shushes you with a look to let him finish.

“Look, your dad falling in love with another woman doesn’t mean he doesn’t love your mom any less. But your mom has been gone for a long time. Who knows, maybe it’s a good thing that your dad will have someone to love instead of just missing your mom all the time.” Kyungsoo shrugs his narrow shoulders, acting nonchalant, while you’re absorbing everything he said. Everything he said is right. Kyungsoo is smart and logical for a boy his age. How did he get so wise, you wondered.

“And before you pull the ‘but he has me to love’ card, he does. But you’re his daughter. He expects you to fall in love on your own and eventually leave him as well. It’s life, you dummy.”

Oh, no, you’re tearing up again. You don’t want to leave your dad in the future. You love him with all your fifteen year old heart.

You hear Kyungsoo’s chair screeching as he stands up to go ask the cashier for napkins, and soon he returns, shoving the wad of napkins in your tear-stained face. He lets you cry for a while, awkwardly smiling at a lady who looks at him in disappointment. Geez, you’re such a handful.

“Well, that’s assuming that you’ll find someone that can handle you for the rest of their lives.”

🌵

You’re 18 and lordy lord is it a weird time in your life. You’ve come to terms that you have to share your dad with your step-mom now, but you’ve never thought that one day, you’d have to share Kyungsoo with another girl in his life. His mother didn’t count because she left them when he was young. So, as long as you’ve known Kyungsoo, he’s always been just yours.

Okay, fine, he doesn’t belong to you, but point sustained.

Her name is Sohee, and she’s in the same grade as you and Kyungsoo. Her mother is some hotshot realtor and she lives in the biggest house in town. When she moved here six months ago, she took an immediate interest in Kyungsoo, and after many attempts at confessing, Kyungsoo finally accepted her.

She’s pretty, like really pretty, so it confuses you that she liked Kyungsoo, your ugly, stupid, and ugly best friend. Okay, fine, fine. Kyungsoo wasn’t ugly. But you can’t say he was good looking either! It’s just not right! All you could give credit to him was that he grew into his button nose and wide eyes.

There’s a knock on your door and your step-mom pokes her head through the crack. You invite her to step closer and walk into your room. She briefly glances at the photo of you as a baby and your parents sandwiching you between them on a bed.

“I was going to ask you if you needed any help getting ready, but it seems like you’ve got it all under control,” she smiles tenderly. You return it just the same.

“Do I look okay?” You’re wearing a slight bit of makeup and you’ve curled the ends of your long hair. It makes you look really girly and so unlike you, but you’re going out with Kyungsoo and Sohee and a few of her friends for barbeque so you think that maybe you should look at least good enough to hang with them. Geez, where’s all this insecurity coming from?

“You look pretty, dear, you always do,” she replies. She brushes a stray strand of hair out of your face and inspects you closely, motherly, and you appreciate the gesture however much it makes you miss your real mom.

---

You shouldn’t have been surprised that Sohee was friends with the popular kids. You just hate that you didn’t see it coming, to see Park Chanyeol sitting on the opposite side of the only available seat left.

“Hey, Y/N! You made it!” Sohee cheers. It’s just a casual lunch hang out, and you’re aware she looks pretty every day, but you’re floored by how pretty she looks in a flowy white dress and her hair in a half updo. Kyungsoo gives you a ‘sup nod when you meet eyes. He’s sitting on the left of his girlfriend, your seat being on the right of Sohee. You greet everyone else at the table as you settle in, and they all respond kindly despite probably not knowing who you are.

Everyone talks amongst themselves and across the table. You yourself try to engage, but can’t really find anything to add to the discussions. You keep quiet for the most part and eat the grilled meats when it’s ready. Suddenly, you feel someone tug on your hair and look up from the grill to see Chanyeol smirking at you.

“You grew out your hair again,” he speculates the obvious. “I forgot how fun it was to pull pranks on you, Y/N.”

Your cheeks turned red unconsciously, and Chanyeol is quick to point it out and friendly mock you out loud. His boisterous laugh is loud enough to catch everyone’s attention at your table.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Y/N! You still get worked up so easily over something so small.” Chanyeol guffaws. He leans towards you and tease, “Would you believed me if I told you that I actually liked you back then?”

You glare at Chanyeol, spiting the fact that he’s grown up handsomely and too tall for you to glower at when he’s taller than you even sitting down, and he’s making you blush right now. No, you don’t like Park Chanyeol, but he’s teasing you again and pulling on your hair like you guys are six again and you hate how belittling it feels. You’re pissed.

“Am I suppose to feel flattered, Park?” You snap. By now everyone is watching you two, glaring down one another. Kyungsoo growls your name, and snaps you out of it. You turn to meet his hard stare and his subtle head shake. He’s mad at you? Oh, hell no.

“Sorry,” you mumble to the whole table. “I forgot that I have to help my mom with something.” In your stricken state, you let the three letter word slip. But it was too late. Your heart sinks when you see the look in Chanyeol’s eyes shift.

“Don’t you mean ‘step-mom’?”

This time Kyungsoo calls out Chanyeol’s name, deep and threatening. “Yah, Park Chanyeol.”

The shift in attention from you to Chanyeol is all you need to slip out of your seat and out of the restaurant.

---

You don’t go home after leaving the restaurant. You know better than to worry your step-mom by coming home early, just an hour after you’ve left.

Instead, you go to the ice cream place that you and Kyungsoo have been religiously visiting since you guys were fifteen. You get three hefty scoops of your favorite flavor, courtesy of the worker who knows you a little too well.

You park your bum on one of the stools, refusing to sit in your usual spot without Kyungsoo there. Just when the thought your best friend crosses your mind, your phone chimes with a new message.

‘U ok?’

‘Yeah’ You send back quickly. Three minutes pass, and you figure Kyungsoo saw your reply and is leaving it at that. But then another one comes through shortly.

‘Ok. Don’t finish all that ice cream, there’s too much sugar in that crap’

Your smile comes reflexively.

---

Around 4pm, you go home. You sat in the ice cream shop for a total of three hours, talking to the worker there, until he clocked out and left you bored out of your mind for the last hour.

Your dad is home from work, the evidence in his usual work shoes sitting in its shelf slot.

“I’m home,” you announce. Your step-mom greets you back from where she is in the kitchen, preparing dinner. You head towards the kitchen for some water to wash down the sugar still in your mouth.

“Where’s dad?” You ask.

“Showering. Dear, would you mind watching over the stove?”

You agree to, standing in front of the pot of soup and stir it in interest. It’s dad’s favorite.

“How was lunch with your friends, hm?” Your step-mom asks as she chops up stalks of green onion.

You pretend to be really interested in what was cooking on the stove top, responding distractedly and vaguely. “It was fun. I’m still a little full from how much I ate.” Lies, you felt sick; you should’ve listened to Kyungsoo and not eaten all that ice cream.

Your dad walks into the kitchen, giving you a smooch on your cheek and then your step-mom.

Your step-mom resumes what she was saying before your dad walked in. “You can have a small dinner, so that way you won’t go to sleep hungry later, okay?”

Dad butts into the conversation. “You’re not hungry, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “I had lunch with Kyungsoo, and Sohee.” You add the last bit almost as an afterthought. It makes you strikingly uncomfortable that every time you mention Kyungsoo nowadays, it’s followed with Sohee’s name. Now you really feel sick, period.

After dinner which you sat through just for the sake of keeping your dad and step-mom company, you took a quick shower. You had forgotten about the makeup on your face, and came out of the shower looking like a panda.

You’re wiping your eyes with makeup remover when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you say, assuming it’s your dad or step-mom. However, it’s Kyungsoo. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” he grunts, shutting the door behind him as he makes himself comfortable in your room. He sits on your bed, right by where you’re sitting on a chair in front of your vanity. He watches you finish removing your macara.

“What’s up?” You questioned him after you’ve completely rid of your panda eyes.

“Do you think I should break up with Sohee?”

Trust Kyungsoo to come in like a wrecking ball with this sudden quandary. You’re shocked to say the least.

“Wait, what?”

Kyungsoo repeats the same question, and that’s when you notice how tired he sounds. He sounds completely drained as he sighs. You’re not sure what to do or say in this uncharted territory. In fact, the entirety of Kyungsoo and Sohee’s relationship was uncharted territory.

You ask the obvious question. “Do you not like Sohee anymore?”

He sighs again, digging his palms into his eye sockets. “That’s the point. I’m not even sure if I ever liked her to begin with, Y/N.”

You probably give him the stupidest face reaction ever, one of confusion and judgment. “Kyungsoo, you can not be stupid enough to call her your girlfriend for almost four months and not have had a single feeling towards her.”

Kyungsoo shrugs. You steadily breathe through your nose to maintain your composure.

“Okay, fine. Then why the sudden epiphany that you don’t want to be with her anymore?”

“I mean,” Kyungsoo massages the back of his neck. “This isn’t sudden. I’ve thought about this for a while now. Today, after what happened, it just made it more clear.”

“What do you mean?” You go to sit next to him on your bed.

“Sohee kind of got upset after you left. We talked it out just before I came here, but she said she didn’t like how I got in between you and Chanyeol, like I was acting jealous that Chanyeol could have really liked you.”

You snort. “Chanyeol did not and does not like me. He’s just being a jerk.”

“That’s what I told her, but she wouldn’t believe me,” he groans.

“That’s dumb. Is she insinuating that you actually have feelings for me? Me.” You point a finger at yourself and laugh. “There’s literally no way.”

“...I know. So, what do you think I should do about Sohee?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Soo. Just do whatever you think is right.”

---

Chanyeol eventually apologizes, a few weeks after the sour encounter you had. He corners you at school, said he didn’t mean to say the things he did and apologized for the low blow. He was being sincere, you could tell, so you accepted his “I’m sorry for being such a dick, even when we were younger I wasn’t nice to you at all, so I’m really sorry’. It felt too formal to shake it off, so he opted for a boyish one arm hug that melted away all your bitterness about the past.

You tell Kyungsoo about your truce with Chanyeol later that night. He’s over at your house again, this time staying for dinner with your parents as well. Your dad always liked Kyungsoo, ever since you told him about ‘the boy in your grade who also lost his mother’. Of course, you learned later on in life that your mother’s passing was different from Kyungsoo’s mother leaving him and his father for another man.

“So you guys are friends now?” Kyungsoo questions, moving your potted cactus to a spot he deemed more suitable. You let him do as he wishes since it was his gift for you, and you got two brown thumbs.

“We basically bro-hugged it out, and he apologized for what happened last week,” you say, shrugging. “It hardly constitutes as friendship, but at least we’re not enemies anymore.” Kyungsoo hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t respond with anything else on the matter.

“So,” you start, sudden trepidation flooding your heart. “I heard about you and Sohee.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t bat an eye as he continues organizing your desk, merely makes a sound of acknowledgment that he has heard you.

“Are you okay, Soo?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just silently replacing your notebooks into your file boxes and pens into your upcycle candle jar. Kyungsoo’s bedroom in comparison to yours is shockingly different. Whereas you find comfort in feeling as if your room was homey, Kyungsoo kept his immaculate. He cleans it daily, you swear, and there’s never an item misplaced. It drives Kyungsoo up the wall when you refuse to do the bare minimum as to reorganize your desk after a week of use; your bed and clothes, he doesn’t care for, but desk clutter is the worst kind of clutter, according to him.

When he’s finally satisfied, he turns to join you on the bed, planting himself on the opposite end, right by your outstretched legs.

“I’m not sad, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he starts. “We were dating for four months, and if I’m being honest, I wasn’t happy at any point in time during those months.

“I think I only agreed to be her boyfriend because she had this power over me, urging me to just say yes, so I thought - what the hell - she’s pretty,” Kyungsoo confesses to which you have to force your eyeballs not to roll back. “But she was also controlling.”

You frown at this, very deeply, and very hurt that you didn’t know about how Sohee was treating your best friend.

“Bottom line is, I wasn’t happy with her and I’m so glad I finally broke it off.” Kyungsoo is grinning, relieved and wistful.

“I’m sorry,” comes your apology. Kyungsoo questions it, baffled at why you were saying sorry as if his dumb mistake was your fault. “I don’t know. I feel like maybe I should’ve noticed something like this. I feel bad that you were unhappy this whole time when I had no clue.”

You’ve always pride yourself in understanding Kyungsoo a little more than anyone else. He was your left arm and right leg for goodness sake. Kyungsoo had his tendencies, to bury everything remotely burdening and bare it all himself, but you should’ve been able to pick up on that. Right?

Kyungsoo shrugs, as if saying, “Whatever, what’s done is done.” You’re left staring at each other for a good few seconds before you’re lifting your arms up, wondering, “Hug?”

“I told you I’m fine, Y/N,” Kyungsoo repeated, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not talking about you,” you muttered as you crawl towards the end of the bed. “I need it. For me.”

Kyungsoo, though the least affectionate person you’ve ever met, can never say no to you when you look genuinely sad? Why were you sad? He simply opens up, allowing you to crawl into his arms and wrap your arms underneath and up around his shoulders. You squeeze him tight, surprising Kyungsoo who is virtually your pillar from toppling over--and shit. You’re suddenly crying. He makes sure your sniffles are crying sniffles, but honestly he could already feel the unevenness of your breathing from the way you’re pressed against his chest and he knows that you’re suppressing your cries.

“Why are you crying?” He asks. He opts to play with the ends of your hair, unable to bring himself to comb his whole hand through it. Kyungsoo hopes and prays that you can’t feel how fast his heart is beating.

You don’t though because yours is pounding in your own cavity, so heavy and aching that all you really feel from Kyungsoo is his warmth.

“I missed you,” you whispered. You realize the weight of missing Kyungsoo was different than missing your mom. You hate to think that you’ve gotten used to the absence of your mother, but Kyungsoo was here the whole time yet you felt so far from him these past few weeks, months even. He tells you this, you predicted he would.

“I’ve been here the whole time, though.”

“Shut up, Soo, I know that. Just...give me a moment. Please?” Your plea settles in the valleys of his chest, seeping into his veins in lethal waves.

Kyungsoo, now patting your head occasionally, sighs a deep sigh. You stayed in that position for five minutes until Kyungsoo finally complains about his aching back.

🌵

You’re finally the ‘A’ word, inevitably, age 22 and fresh out of college. You got a degree in history and working on getting your credentials to teach. You went to college in your city; it was small and humble, but you couldn’t imagine yourself leaving Daegu’s familiar charm. Everyone you knew, had grown up with left the minute summer was over, and they shipped off to different cities and countries and whatnot. Okay, maybe not every single person you knew. Park Chanyeol actually came back after three semesters at uni, deciding that school just wasn’t for him.

Presently, you’re on baby watch while your parents are on a five-day vacation, one that you suggested and only mildly regret doing.

“Seojun, it’s time for lunch. Aren’t you hungry?” You ask the two year old sitting in his playpen. He’s banging on his little toy that is suppose to promote motor skills but he has yet to figure out that it doesn’t require mindlessly banging on the dang thing.

Halfway through setting up his lunch, the doorbell rings. You make sure he’s still occupied before taking your sights off him.

“Kyungsoo?” He standing there, on your threshold, like it was the most casual thing for him to show up on a random Saturday afternoon. “What are you doing here?”

Kyungsoo cracks a grin as he eyes your stained shirt. “Visiting. Can I come in?”

You attempt to smooth out the creases on your shirt due to Seojun’s grabby hands as Kyungsoo walks further into your house. He easily makes his way over to your baby brother who’s curious about the strange man he’s only met through videocall.

“I’m going to finish up preparing his lunch,” you tell Kyungsoo, and he nods with a soft look on his face.

As you roll rice balls into baby bite-sized rounds, you steal glances at the man playing with your baby brother, attempting to will your heart to stop fluttering at how utterly gentle he was being.

His hair is shorter than the last time you saw him-- through a screen-- it’s now shaved on either sides, leaving the top just a few inches longer than the rest. He’s wearing a grey sweater that fits snug against his chest and biceps--

“Done!” You shout, a little too loud for Seojun who trembles cutely on his wobbly bum. “Would you mind bringing Seojunnie over?”

You shouldn’t be as mesmerized at the sight of Kyungsoo’s taut forearm supporting Seojun’s bottom as much as you were. He seats him on the high chair and Seojun goes to town with his lunch without much prompting.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” You ask while sliding him a cup of water.

Kyungsoo takes a sip before responding. “I messaged you this morning,” he defends, but you actually haven’t seen your phone all day. You were occupied with Seojun since yesterday and you normally don’t expect calls or messages. Kyungsoo knows this so it doesn’t entirely puts him in the clear.

“You hadn’t mentioned anything last week when we spoke,” you grumbled. “So, how long do I have you for this time?”

Kyungsoo usually stays in weeks at a time, never going longer than three weeks unless it was the holidays.

“I’m done with my internship, decided to move back for a little while,” he explains. Kyungsoo studied and graduated with a major in engineering, and started interning at a company right after he finished. That was almost two years ago, and he was finally done.

You try not to think about how little is a little while, focusing on how for now, you have your best friend back by your side.

---

Turns out it wasn’t that long. Kyungsoo was gone again by the following month, landing a job in Seoul, with benefits and a pay more than you could dream of with your teaching job. You’re happy for him, extremely happy, and so proud to watch him grow and succeed in life. So you suck it up, brush away the ache in your chest, and send him off with a happy smile.

🌵

You’re twenty-five, turning twenty-six today, and life is okay. You’re a high school teacher as planned and you like your job and where you are in life.

You wake up to Seojun jumping on your bed, screaming, “Happy birthday noona!” You literally have to peel him off like a leech after a while when he wouldn’t let you go to get ready for work. He says it again at the table over breakfast, followed by a chorus of happy birthdays from your parents as well.

“Thank you, thank you all,” you say, voice full of mirth. You make a mess of Seojun mop of a hair before parting for work.

The day goes by quickly when it’s filled with smiles and thank you’s towards your colleagues who greets you a happy birthday. Few of the ladies expressed their envy of your youth, being the youngest teacher and all, but all you could think in the back of your mind was whether you were ready to be another year older.

You’re meeting up with Chanyeol for dinner later that day. You try, but to no avail, to stop your mother from giving you suggestive looks when you tell her that you’re spending your birthday with Chanyeol.

“He’s just a friend, Mom,” you said. “Chanyeol and I will never, ever be, so just give it up already, okay?”

Your mother simply walks out of your room with a singsonged, “Whatever you say, dear.”

Chanyeol picks you up at seven. He comments on how nice you look in your little black dress, to which you thank him and return to him the same; he wore a pinstripe shirt with a blazer thrown over for a casual but put-together dinner look. Chanyeol, being the popular guy in high school like he was, was always aware of his wardrobe. He had his admirers to please, and you make a joke to him about it.

“You’re not trying to impress me, are you, Park?”

He shrugs. “Depends on if you’re impressionable.”

You chortle goodnaturedly. “Not since you called me ugly when we were eight.”

He winces. “Damn, I hope Seojun doesn’t learn to hold grudges like you do.”

The drive to the restaurant that Chanyeol had made reservations with was fifteen minutes away. You had made him promise not to go overboard for your birthday; you’ve only spent your three previous birthdays with Chanyeol but he always somehow manages to make the celebration bigger than it should’ve been. The previous year he took you to the aquarium, and the year before that, he surprised you in your classroom. Let’s just say the kids were more than ecstatic that the classtime spent was more or less than unproductive.

You couldn’t explain how Chanyeol and you had gotten so close. After bumping into him at the market, you rekindled the unlikely friendship that was you and Park Chanyeol, the popular high school kid who was expected to evolve into your typical college frat boy but surprised the world when he returned to his hometown. That and the fact that you both understood each other quite well.

“Order anything you want. It’s my treat tonight.” The waiter comes over with a bottle of champagne that Chanyeol had reserved. The menu consists of steaks and seafood specialties. The steak, good lord, is almost over $50, so you smother your usual craving for beef down and tell Chanyeol that you’d like the seabass with a salad and veggies which was still up there.

“Seriously, Y/N?” Chanyeol gives you a doubtful look. “You can eat five-six rounds of brisket when we barbecue and you’re telling me you want seabass?”

You pinked at his frank observation. “It just sounds interesting! I want to try it and you can’t stop me,” you argue, adding a sassy hair flick over your shoulder.

Chanyeol succumbs reluctantly and flags the waiter down who takes your order. Chanyeol orders your seabass and the steak for himself, and you just know it’s his sly way of giving you want you actually want.

“Have you spoken to Kyungsoo today?” Chanyeol asks when the waiter walks away.

Kyungsoo. A name once so homey, but foreign as of late.

You shake your head at the question, reaching for your glass to wash the imaginary bitterness away.

“He’s probably busy with work.” At least that’s the reason he’s been giving you whenever you try to contact him only for him to message hours later that he can’t talk at the moment. You don’t blame him of course; life gets busy and it wasn’t like you weren’t the same. Teaching proved to be an around the clock job as you spend as much available time when you’re not teaching, planning lessons and grading papers.

You wonder, but try not to dwell, on the fact that he’s forgotten your birthday. Maybe even forgotten about you. You scoff out loud at the thought. The slight sweetness that was in the wine had gone sour all of a sudden.

Chanyeol, of all people, was the first to recognize your feelings for Kyungsoo. Yes, you had feelings for your best friend, if you could still call him that. Feelings that weren’t all platonic and that scared you at first, when you got really moody during his last relationship with some girl at his uni.

Even your parents brushed it off as your first mid-life crisis where you refused to leave the house and ignored every soul that wasn’t under the roof.

It was Chanyeol who eventually called you out on your feelings when you both were drinking one night, and you got mad at him for saying nonsense. After sobering up(and brooding for 2 days), you called Chanyeol and apologized for calling him terrible names and kicking him in the shin. He wouldn’t accept your apology until you fessed up and admitted your feelings.

“You’re killing me here, Y/N,” Chanyeol presently groans, making you roll your eyes. He’s become somewhat of a part-time relationship confidant to you, though you’d never admit what a mess you were out loud.

The food arrives and you both dig in. Chanyeol cuts off a chunk of his steak and puts it on your plate, as you expected. You get ready to scold him, but with one look at his stern expression, you pause, letting all arguments die in your throat.

“Thank you, Chanyeol,” you say. There’s a heaviness in your chest because no matter how great Chanyeol was to you, you still wish that it was Kyungsoo that was taking you out to dinners and visiting you at work and taking you to the aquarium. Not that you were comparing Chanyeol to Kyungsoo...but technically they both aren’t compared in any other ways besides being your best friend. Damn, now you just missed Kyungsoo, period.

“Yah, yah,” Chanyeol admonishes when he notices your smile quivering. “None of that today. We’re celebrating your birthday, okay?” He picks up his flute and motions you to do the same. “To 26,” he cheers, softly connecting your glasses together in a faint clink.

For the rest of the night, you catch up with Chanyeol; his life as a chef was interesting to say the least as he shares stories about all the various people who visits his restaurant. You talk until Chanyeol shakes off his slight buzz in order to get behind the wheel. When it’s out of his system, Chanyeol grabs the bill and drives you guys back to a convenience store near your house.

It’s a funny look-- both of you dressed for a fancy dinner but are sitting on the table outside the store with bottles of soju, doing shots. Well, you’re doing shots. Meanwhile, Chanyeol is nursing you who’s getting drunker with every shot. He takes one for every five you take.

You were doing good, not dwelling on Kyungsoo for the most part, but the alcohol messes with your coherence to block him out, and next thing you know you’re flooded with all these damn emotions.

“Chanyeol, have you ever loved someone?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

You think he might be joking so you retort back with, “And it can’t be your mom or sister, Yeol.” He surprises you when he simply smirks and repeats his answer.

“Do I know this person?” You ask. This was news to you. Chanyeol, as far as you knew, never dated in high school and hasn’t gone out with a girl in a few years. He was flirty by nature, but despite girls flocking around him, he’s never made one his girlfriend.

Chanyeol asserts that, no, you didn’t know this person. He simply states that it was a girl he knew of since he was young. You wanted to ask him if he still loves this girl.

You’re downing another shot when, suddenly, your phone rings with an incoming call.

“Yah, Kyungsoo is calling you,” Chanyeol informs you, knowing you probably can’t see straight to read his name.

“Should I pick up? What should I do? I’m not thinking straight.” In your sluggish, panic state, you stumble and slur on your words. Chanyeol answers the call for you before it’s too late.

“Hey, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says into the device. “Y/N is a little out of it right now.” Kyungsoo says something back that Chanyeol relays to you. Whispering, he tells you, “He says he still wants to talk to you.”

Reluctantly, you take the phone and put it to your ear.

“Hey, Soo!”

Kyungsoo sighs softly on the other end. “Are you drunk?”

You make a sound that sounds vaguely similar to an excited baby. With your heart pounding in your ribcage, you don’t trust yourself to vocalize anything, nevermind coherency.

“How was your birthday?” He asks after a few seconds.

“Work, dinner, now soju,” you summarized, giggling at the end. You hear shuffling of papers in the background. “Are you still working?” It’s almost midnight, and he was still working?

Kyungsoo hums in response.

“Soo, it’s too late for you to be still working. Whatever it is, it can wait. Get some rest, hmm?”

“I’m getting ready to leave,” he says.

“Good.” You smile over the phone, feeling safe that he can’t see the love pouring out of you. Damn, you need to keep. It. In. Check.

“Just wanted to make sure I get in my birthday wish before it’s over,” he mumbles. There’s a somber tone to his voice and you recognize it as the same one he used before when he told you that he wouldn’t visit for the holidays because of deadlines.

“It’s okay, Soo. I’m okay,” you murmur back. “Thank you.” Kyungsoo goes silent on the other end for a minute.

With both of you not saying anything, Chanyeol mouths, “Did he hung up?” You shake your head.

In another few seconds, Kyungsoo sighs before telling you to get home safe and that he’ll give you a call tomorrow morning.

You give Chanyeol the phone back(even though it’s yours) and knock out on the table. To twenty-six!...

🌵

You’re still 26. It’s one month after your birthday, and Kyungsoo surprises you with a call during your lunch break. It’s odd because you sent him an article talking about how sugar was once considered medicinal, and that was this morning and he hadn’t responded. Leave it to Kyungsoo to ghost your message and skip right to phoning.

“Transferred? What do you mean?” You wipe the sauce that drips down your chin. Gross.

“I put in a request to move to the office closer to Daegu, so I’m moving back.” Kyungsoo tells you over the phone.

“But-but why? I mean, not that I’m not happy about this news, but…” You don’t voice out the fact that Kyungsoo being in Seoul made your coping to stop thinking about him a little easier. Not that it was ever successful, but that’s besides the point. How will you keep your feelings in check with him living fifteen minutes away from you?

“Well, Chanyeol was the one who gave me the idea.” You make a mental reminder to murder Chanyeol later. “I just went ahead and asked to see if it was possible. It took one month for them to agree, but they finally did, so, I guess I’m coming home,” he concludes.

---

Even though Kyungsoo is back, it’s different from before. You guys aren’t teenagers anymore, but adults with obligations and a proper job that requires you both on tight schedules. Even so, you guys are making an effort to make up for lost time and try to see each other on the weekends.

You don’t know why it takes three weeks after his return for your family to invite Kyungsoo over for dinner, but your mother brings it up in the morning over breakfast, and tells you to message Kyungsoo.

‘Parents ask if you wanna come over for dinner??”

‘Sure. Tonight?’

‘Yep :)’

‘Ok’ And just like that, Kyungsoo was coming over for dinner with you and your family.

Your dad gives Kyungsoo a fatherly hug when he arrives, clapping his back twice and saying things like, “You’ve gotten big, son. You working out?” and “It’s great to have you back, so I have a second pair of eyes to keep an eye on Y/N,” —he whispers that last part but really, he wasn’t even trying. You roll your eyes with a pointed look.

Seojun was always a social kid-- just like you were in most ways-- so it doesn’t surprise anyone that Seojun is accepting Kyungsoo so easily. You and your parents observe the little boy who won’t stop bothering Kyungsoo throughout dinner just to blabber something irrelevant to the man. Kyungsoo takes it all in stride, even letting Seojun settle on his lap in order for Seojun to at least have his dinner while playing with his new hyung.

“So, Kyungsoo, are you seeing anyone?” Your dad asks, making you choke mildly on your dinner.

“Dad!” You exclaim in place of Kyungsoo who couldn’t express his shock that your dad out of all people was inquiring about his love life. Your dad mouths, “what?” at you. You haven’t even touched that subject since he got back, for both of your benefits. If Kyungsoo wanted to tell you, then he would at his own time.

Kyungsoo smiles goodnaturedly, and answers, “Not at the moment, sir.” You try not to ponder his very specific answer paired with the gentle look on his face. Does that mean he had a girl in mind?

“Dad, quit it,” you grumble when he goes off tangent about the know-hows of courting a woman. Your step-mom jumps in with, “Honey, we all know that it was me who had to pursue you before we finally started dating.” While your parents begins a discourse about the beginnings of their relationship, you quietly finish your dinner and began on the dishes since your mother did the cooking.

“Need some help?”

You turn around to see Kyungsoo with his used bowls walking towards where you’re standing in front of the sink.

“Wanna help dry?” You suggest but Kyungsoo shakes his head, offering to do the washing instead. You shrug and let him take over as he pleased. Kyungsoo was always the more neat and clean one of you two.

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” Kyungsoo states. “Are you doing anything?”

“I’m meeting with Chanyeol tomorrow,” you reply, replacing the clean and dried utensils in the drawer. “We’re watching a movie and probably grabbing lunch afterwards.” You tell him. You’ve been hanging out with Chanyeol regularly on Sundays because it was his only day off.

“You could join us for lunch, if you want to,” you say.

Kyungsoo hesitates for a while. “You sure? Shouldn’t you ask Chanyeol to make sure it’s okay first?”

“He won’t mind, seriously. We see each other so often that I’m surprise he isn’t sick of me yet. He’ll be more than happy to have someone other than me there.” You scoff.

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer to that, but agrees with a pensive look as he completes the dishes. He doesn’t voice out whatever he’s thinking about the rest of the night.

----

“I still can’t believe how hard you cried.”

You and Chanyeol are sitting at the pizza place you told Kyungsoo to meet you at, having your typical banter. This time, it’s about the movie that you guys just watched.

“Look, it was sad, okay? Simba literally had to watch his dad struggle and die right in front of him! After he made that promise to always be by his side, too? Devastating, and you don’t have a heart if that didn’t kill you inside, Y/N.”

“Yes, but you were literally sobbing, Yeol. Parents were giving you looks.” You mimic some of the looks you saw, from worried to straight up judging.

“I don’t care. Simba lost his father, I deserve to mourn.” Chanyeol frowns deeply, sinking further into his seat. You’re mumbling about how even some of your students were more mature than this gigantic man when Kyungsoo arrives.

“Yah, Do Kyungsoo!” Chanyeol’s mood immediately turns, and he’s all big and goofy grin as he claps Kyungsoo’s shoulder in greeting. “It’s been awhile, dude!”

Just because you’re still bitter that Chanyeol called you heartless, you mock the way he says dude, as if he doesn’t call you dude half the time. Kyungsoo grins at your silliness while Chanyeol blatantly ignores you.

While the two reacquaint themselves, you go to order the food after a short discussion of what flavors everyone wanted.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The worker manning the register asks kindly. You return the smile he gives you that oddly resembles a puppy. You focus on the menu in your hand as you repeat the different flavors and items you wanted. He types it all into the machine, repeating your order back, and completing with, “Anything else, pretty?”

You almost choke on your spit. Looking up at the worker, your eyes made a brief glance at the name on his tag that read: “Baekhyun”. You’re too shocked to answer right away, which this guy, Baekhyun, notices.

“Sorry,” he meekly apologizes. “I couldn’t help myself because you look so pretty.” Apparently the idea of subtlety wasn’t in this guy’s dictionary, and you couldn’t help the red from painting across your cheeks at his frank compliment.

“No, it’s okay. I was just taken aback, but thank you,” you shyly beamed. Baekhyun smile becomes even brighter when you’ve responded positively. You have to look down again to hide your blushing cheeks when you decided how utterly cute the guy was.

“If that’s all then your order will be ready in fifteen to twenty minutes, pretty.” You manage to meet eyes with him again, thinking it’d be rude to not when he’s clearly talking to you, and he steals the short moment to send you a flirty wink.

Dazed, you walk back to your table not too far away. You can only hope that Chanyeol won’t embarrass you about your red face in front of Kyungsoo.

But, alas. “Dude, I can feel the heat of your face all the way from here.”

“Shut it, Park.”

If Kyungsoo wanted to join in on Chanyeol’s antics, he doesn’t show it neither does he comment on what he and Chanyeol most likely witnessed. You only kinda want to kill Chanyeol for his irresponsible mouth because the compliment from Baekhyun, though a little too forward for your liking, was still nice and pleasant overall.

For the next hour or two, you guys spent lunch catching up on each other’s lives while reminiscing about the simplicity of the past. Kyungsoo learns about Chanyeol’s profession as a chef; he looks mildly jealous at this revelation.

“Kyungsoo really likes cooking, actually,” you find yourself telling Chanyeol. Since high school, Kyungsoo would occasionally surprise you with homemade lunch that he would make alongside his father the night before. And because he was Kyungsoo, it always tasted better than you’d expected.

“We should get together and cook a meal one day!” Chanyeol blurts excitedly. He also rudely adds, “Y/N burns everything she touches.”

“Yah!” You throw punches to his arm that actually hurts.

“It’s the truth!” Chanyeol howls. “I feel sorry for your future husband! Better hope he has an iron stomach!”

“Then I’ll just marry someone who can cook for the both of us!” Two seconds after, you realize the implications of your statement and regret everything instantly. Chanyeol hides his smirk while you give him a death glare to shut up. Kyungsoo, again, stays quiet.

The lack of response makes you both glad and upset, leaning towards upset and you didn’t enjoy the way your heart clenched tightly. It feels similar to when baby Seojun would hold onto your fingers with a vice grip.

Kyungsoo was a man of few words, sure, but you’d rather have him and his snide remarks than this silence. Silence meant that it wasn’t even worth his breath to acknowledge, nevermind be affected by.

After lunch, Chanyeol parts ways to run some errands--so he claims, but the subtle wink he sends you tells you otherwise. Kyungsoo is the one to suggest getting ice cream.

“Maybe at your favorite place?”

You perk up at that, telling him that you haven’t visited that place in a while. The shop recently underwent some renovation due to a leak, or so your inside man tells you.

“Are you sure you don’t want the strawberry swirl?” Kyungsoo asks for the fourth time while setting the scoop of red bean ice cream in front of you that you requested. He has a scoop the mint chocolate chip for himself.

“Sadly, I’m not like I used to be,” you frowned. “Last time I tried eating the strawberry swirl, I got a major headache from all the sugar.”

Kyungsoo snorts. “Guess I don’t have to say I told you so anymore.”

“You don’t, but why do I still hear you saying it in your head?” You place your chin on your propped up palm, cocking your head to the side in mockery. Kyungsoo simply chuckles before shoving a spoonful of his ice cream into his mouth. You shouldn’t be, but you find yourself staring a few seconds too long at his lips. They’re plump and pink and too inviting.

“Y/N?” You hear someone call out. Looking up, you see a tall man, burly and jacked up. It’s Son Hyunwoo, a fellow teacher who was closest to you in age, being four years older than you, though his looks could easily fool anyone. Standing by his side was a little boy whose eyes looked uncanny to his father.

“Hyunwoo oppa!” You beam brightly. Unnoticed by you, Kyungsoo is thoroughly confused because you called this man with such delight and affection. What even.

Hyunwoo walks over with his six year old, a little cutiepie named Hyuk.

“Hi, Hyuk-ah!”

Being just like his father, Hyuk face is straight even as he politely bows his tiny little head with his hands on his belly, greeting you. He’s so darn cute that you can’t not fuss over him.

“I almost missed you because you look so different with your hair,” Hyunwoo comments, ruffling the top of your head as you had just done to Hyuk. Usually, you wear your hair in a low bun because your female colleagues had once said that you looked more mature with the particular look. Without the do, your hair is still on the shorter side, barely grazing your shoulders.

Consciously, you curl the hairs framing your face behind your ears, all the while simpering like a teenager in front of her crush. At least that’s how it looked to Kyungsoo who has to choke on his spit for you to remember his presence.

“Oh, right,” you startle. “This is Kyungsoo, my childhood best friend,” you announce, gesturing to poker-faced Kyungsoo. “And this is Hyunwoo oppa. He’s an athletics teacher at our school.”

Hyunwoo smiles amicably, offering Kyungsoo a handshake. Without a choice, Kyungsoo puts his hand in his awaiting ones, but regrets it immediately when he notices you outright ogling at Hyunwoo’s huge biceps flexing in front of you.

“I thought we were interrupting a date, but good thing it’s not one, right?” Hyunwoo grins, seemingly harmless but it ticks off Kyungsoo anyways, especially when you quickly jump in to deny such assumptions.

You know that Hyunwoo says the darndest things, but this was top-tier blasphemy and not because you didn’t like Kyungsoo that way(unfortunately); you’re trying your best to play it off because you didn’t want what Hyunwoo said to make Kyungsoo uncomfortable. And you’re slightly emotional again.

“Appa,” Hyuk suddenly interrupts by pulling on his father’s hand. “Ice cream.” He pouts adorably, having been patient enough as his dad talks, but he’s getting anxious to get the ice cream his dad promised him after their doctor visit.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow Y/N,” Hyunwoo says to you, offering Kyungsoo a curt nod. His hand lingers on your shoulder too long for Kyungsoo’s liking, something he makes apparent after the father and son leaves.

“Isn’t he a little too comfortable with touching a woman that’s not his wife?” Kyungsoo mutters.

“What? Hyunwoo oppa? He’s not married,” You say, bewildered and slightly peeved by Kyungsoo’s tone of voice.

Kyungsoo frown deepens. “What?”

“He’s a single father, Soo. His wife passed during childbirth, so it’s only him and Hyuk.”

If the ground could open up and swallow Kyungsoo whole, he’d like that every much. God, he feels like a complete douchebag. He didn’t even have the right to feel...jealous, not when you weren’t his g-

“You could be really insensitive sometimes, you know that?”

“What? I didn’t know!” Kyungsoo voiced loud enough to attract the attention of the workers. You shot a glare at him to not start, not now. “That’s not fair, Y/N. I’m sorry that I don’t know everyone that’s in your life, and the details of their lives.” Maybe we don’t even know each other. “Maybe I should be sorry for moving back here in the first place,” Kyungsoo snaps.

The thought has crossed your mind, of why Kyungsoo decided to come back. A foolish part of you allow you to think that you were the reason. Your eyes are flooded with tears before you could try to will them to stop, wallowing up so high until they had no choice but to let gravity pull them down. Kyungsoo’s heart drops to his stomach seeing you cry, wanting to apologize immediately when he knows just how fucked up what he just said was.

Feeling hopeless and utterly gutted, you managed to lock eyes with Kyungsoo, rendering him speechless. You nod once in silence, unable to speak at this point, letting more tears trickle down your face before you’re getting up and walking out of the ice cream shop.

---

Would you have believed Kyungsoo if he told you that he sort of started loving you from the very beginning? Okay, okay, maybe not from when you almost broke his arm from pushing him too hard on the swings. Maybe it’s from when you consoled him after catching him crying, that was when you were fourteen.

Kyungsoo sure as hell think not, just like how you didn’t believe Chanyeol. Kyungsoo’s exhausted the idea of you and him as something more than best friends at this point, and somehow he was still not sure-- not confident that either of you would be happy being together. He tried distancing you, doing the most as to move back to his hometown to study and start up a new life, leaving you behind. But distance be damned because Kyungsoo couldn’t stop thinking about you. Of your stupid quarells, getting heated over debates about trivial matters. You serving him burnt food with a guilty smile on your face. You falling asleep while studying together, and you crying because you hate studying period.

Kyungsoo can function perfectly without you. He cooks well, studies well, earn well, even socialize well contrary to popular belief. But when he’s alone in his bed at night, reflecting on his day, he finds nothing remotely significant to end his day with. It was honestly how he finally gave up on his act of “busy settling in” and finally gather the nerve to call you. Since then, phone and video calls were the loopholes to his effort to stop...feeling things for you. When it became too difficult to not see or talk to you, that’s when he finally snapped out of it. He found himself a nice girl in his engineering club and they dated for a few months. She was smart, pretty, and a lot like his first girlfriend. Then he realized what a shitty thing it was to do, use a girl as a distraction from who he really wanted, and broke up with her.

Kyungsoo knows when he has messed up. He doesn’t apologize often but he does when it counts. He knows today’s event went considerable south because he was simply too cowardly to admit that he loves you, and that he wants and maybe even needs you. Kyungsoo realizes, albeit late, that he’s fucked up. Royally. And he needs to act before he regrets it.

---

The rest of your family is out of town, visiting relatives in the city, so when the doorbell rings, at 1 in the morning no less, you’re worried that something’s gone wrong.

With a nervous heart, you open the door only to reveal Kyungsoo. His frown is deeper than ever, his hair messy like he couldn’t stop running his fingers through them all night.

You let out an audible groan. “What are you doing here, Soo? God, I thought,” you pause mid sentence, scared to voice out your pessimistic thoughts for the universe to hear.

“Can I come in?”

Without answering, you wordlessly retreat into the house as Kyungsoo closes the door and follows behind you. You start to put on the kettle to brew some tea. After that scare that woke you up, you’ll need some help falling back to sleep.

“What do you want? What’s so important that you have to scare me shitless when I have to be awake in five hours?”

You’re standing by the kettle, watching it closely with your arms crossed, hips resting against the counters. Your countenance exudes hostility, but inside your nerves eats away at your insecurities.

Kyungsoo stands a few feet away, looking stiff and troubled as he figures out what to say. He promised himself he was going to do it, now, tonight.

“Do, do you know why I moved back?” Kyungsoo takes one step closer towards you, beginning to round the island.

You make a face. “What?” He repeats his question and this time you answer. “Yes. You moved back because you got relocated for your job,” you say, confidence flowing through your voice.

Kyungsoo smiles woefully. “And how about why I moved away in the first place?”

“This is getting ridiculous. The answers to these questions are so obvious that I don’t understand why you’re asking me this, Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo makes his way closer. “No, they’re not that obvious, Y/N, because you’re wrong.”

With less than five feet between you two, you’re getting unnerved by the sher scent of him that emits and propagates the kitchen space. Kyungsoo doesn’t look away from you once, as he continues speaking.

“The answers to both of these questions are the same. There’s only one single person in this whole world that can turn and flip my world upside down and it’s you, Y/N. I left because I couldn’t be with you; staying next to you while feeling the way I did towards you and not lose myself in you. We pick fights with each other like it’s our job, and we forgive each other in the end like it’s a given. But I didn’t want that. I wanted,” Kyungsoo falters, before continuing. “To hold your hands, to kiss...to kiss away your tears, and be the man you deserved.”

“I felt stuck between being your best friend and wanting to be more. I got frustrated because whenever I looked at you, at us, all the signs in the universe said that we wouldn’t work. I did what I thought was best and left, but it was the stupidest decision I ever made because I never, ever stopped liking you once after I realized the way I felt. I can’t go on, not having you know this. And I know it was cowardly of me to do that...I know that you might not...not feel an ounce of romantic feelings for me, but I’d rather tell you now before it’s too late.”

Following Kyungsoo’s confession, there’s only the sound of the water boiling rapidly filling the air. Kyungsoo brings it upon himself to walk over and turn off the fire, but that also meant walking closer to you; you who is stagnant, utterly speechless at the revelation. Your ears heard the words Kyungsoo said, but your brain short circuit the minute he said the words ‘feelings’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence with the pretense that he. Fucking. Loved. You.

“Y/N, say something, please.”

“Give me a sec,” you growl, gnawing at your lips. It’s bad enough that this is how you have to confess, but to realize that you both could’ve just said something years ago and you wouldn’t have cried your stupid heart out. Zeroing on that thought alone, your first instinct was to stir a fight.

“I can’t fucking believe you made me cry all those times just because you couldn’t-- okay, fine. I’m also at fault because I’ve liked you since god knows how long and didn’t say anything, but,” you pause abruptly to finally look at Kyungsoo in the eyes, and you notice how he’s just inches away. You’re aware of the warmth that his body radiates, and it pulls you in closer.

It’s Kyungsoo’s turn to be confused because, what, you liked him too, and for how long? He really wants to punch himself.

“Look, we can’t turn back time, so we’ll just leave it at that,” Kyungsoo says, reaching for your hand. When he finally grasp it, it’s small and soft compared to his and he thinks for a moment that he wouldn’t mind holding your hand for the rest of his life. “I’m sorry for being a coward, sorry for making you cry when all I wanted was for you to be happy, and healthy. I promise to try my best because that’s what you deserve.”

You’re mad blushing and frowning at what he said. “We have to make up for loss time though, somehow. God, we’re so stupid.” You stare intently at your intertwined hands, heart fluttering at how Kyungsoo draws his thumbs across your knuckles as if he was familiarizing himself with your hands. He swings it back and fro absentmindedly.

“I’m in no rush,” he says. “Baby steps, anything is fine with me.” He tugs a little more intently, pulling you towards him. You think you might die with how many butterflies are living in your stomach and how he makes your heart pound erratically. Next thing you know, you’re untangling your fingers from his’, disappointment briefly falling on his face, but then you’re wrapping your arms around his waist. You’re so warm, from blushing no less, and he feels it through your clothes as your body mold against his.

With some bit of confidence with not having to look at Kyungsoo in the eyes, you softly ask, “Does that mean you’re not even going to kiss me?”

You think-- think-- you felt Kyungsoo’s heart skip a beat, but it could’ve been your own heart also. Kyungsoo hums, as if contemplating, which makes you nervous because maybe you shouldn’t have asked. But then he grabs your arms from around his waist and unleashes himself from your embrace, keeping your hands safely in his. Kyungsoo peers into your perturbed eyes before dropping his gaze to your lips. He gives you half of a smile, one filled with adoration, and leans in to plant a kiss. You’re pleasantly surprised with the forehead kiss he gives you, sending a new wave of warmth across your cheeks and spread down your neck; the butterflies decidedly have settled to live permanently in your tummy.

Kyungsoo pulls away after eons have passed. “Baby steps,” he murmurs, rubbing your exposed arms when he feels goosebumps manifesting.

Baby steps, he says, but Kyungsoo doesn’t tell you how he might not sleep a wink if he chooses to kiss your lips. Someday he will, but for tonight, he basks in the feeling of you in his arms in the middle of your kitchen, kettle long forgotten. Though he almost, almost, threw out all his inhibitions when you send him off with a kiss on his cheek, treading a little too close to his lips, and whisper good night.

A good night implies that you and Kyungsoo got some sleep, but in your respective rooms that night, all that went through your minds was what the future held for you two. As best friends. As lovers.

#exo scenarios #exo kyungsoo #kyungsoo scenarios #exo #d.o #kpop scenarios #kyungsoo fluff #kyungsoo angst #exo fluff #exo angst #i started writing this when that's okay came out #and here it is now LOL #sooooome reference to the lyrics but it's not glaringly obvious #inspired mostly from the song #and my pain when ksoo e word #can u tell how much i just wanna hug ksoo?#okay that's it #thank you for reading!!#annnnnd let me know what you think pls!

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bettsfic · 5 years

Note

We spend a lot of time appreciating you as an amazing writer, but even just from online interactions, it's obvious that you're also a great teacher. If you feel like sharing: any good teaching stories that made you feel great about undergraduate teaching / reminded you of why your work is important?

at the end of my first semester, a student, i’ll call her jessica, sent me an email saying how much she enjoyed the class and how she was planning to be a teacher some day, and she wanted to be a teacher like me. i printed the email out and put it in my journal. it was the first kind email a student had sent me, and i read it over and over.

a couple months later, at the beginning of the next semester, just an hour before i met my new students, i found out that jessica had died over break. it was alcohol and drugs, a party where she left and no one followed her back to her dorm to make sure she was okay. she was nineteen. i looked at her instagram, where her final post was a selfie with two friends, and the caption read, “i love college!”

it’s hard to say exactly how her death affected me, but i think about her all the time. i think about how fragile life is, and about the toxicity of college culture, and all the pressures and expectations put on students, and how they’ll graduate with mounds of debt that will take decades to pay off. i think about how hard and hopeless it is to be a young person today. i think about the surprised, grateful faces i get when i show students the smallest shred of kindness or empathy.

this is my fourth year teaching and i’ve now had around 300 students. i have yet to meet a bad one. i’ve met students who have been pushed to their limits, who are exhausted, who are in the wrong place and have no idea, who have unchecked trauma, who are utterly terrified, who are lonely, sad, overworked, or just plain overwhelmed.

once, i did a Q&A for a practicum of new creative writing teachers. i’d given them my syllabus prior to the class. they were surprised to read my lax policies, and one of them asked what i do when a student does the bare minimum, or maybe even less. creative writing is an “easy” class. inevitably you get the “lazy” students who sit in the back and work on homework for other classes, and hand in five dr. seuss sounding poems at the end of the semester.

to that i said, any student who doesn’t want to write is either overworked, afraid, or both. being overworked can’t be helped. college students are working to master their time management skills in an environment that doesn’t allow them to fail. but fear can be faced and conquered. i base my entire class around fear. they have one major assignment: write your biggest risk. i firmly believe your biggest creative risk ends up being your greatest reward. sometimes students aren’t up to the task, but if you build an environment in which they’re eager to show you the dark, ugly parts of themselves because they know you will receive them eagerly and openly, they tend to make amazing things.

i start each semester with probably over half my students utterly apathetic or even flat-out disgusted by the idea of creative writing, and i end the semester with a stack of self-assessments and evaluations talking about how much the class helped them not only see their own creative potential, but also to be less afraid to take creative risks in other environments.

i had a student, we’ll call him alex, in my composition course last year. admittedly i put less effort into comp than creative writing, mostly because it’s not my curriculum or my primary field of study. alex sat at the back of class the entire semester, asleep, on his laptop, or talking to the people nearest him. he did not participate. he did not do the reading. he did not turn in his homework. he didn’t even know my name. on the second to last day of the semester, he turned in several assignments at once, and came to me before class started saying he’d done most the work, and could he come to office hours so i could get him caught up on the rest?

no, i said. i was too busy working with students who had been seeking my help throughout the semester. he took it well, and said thanks anyway, and in the end scraped by with a B-, mostly due to my lack of a late policy. if i’d had one, he would have failed.

i was surprised the next semester to see him on my roster for creative writing. it was clear he didn’t like or appreciate my comp class. on the first day of spring semester, he came to class high. at the end of class, i have all of my students fill out a notecard with their name and other pertinent information, and on the back i have them draw a picture. when alex turned in his card, he had only scrawled his name across the front, and on the back he drew a bird smoking a giant blunt.

the next class, i announced that anyone who came to class drunk or high would be asked to leave and they would lose their attendance for the day. i didn’t want to call him out directly. honestly, i didn’t know how to handle the situation. my mentor told me to deal with it head-on, but i didn’t heed her advice, and i wish i had.

alex kept coming to class high. he didn’t do the reading. he didn’t participate in small or large group discussion. he didn’t do the prompt-fills or turn in any assignments. when he’d behaved this way in comp, i wasn’t bothered by it. nobody really likes comp. but this was creative writing, a class i put 200% of myself into and which i expected students to appreciate in kind (and for the most part they really do).

midway through the semester, i ask students to schedule a one-on-one conference with me. it’s required. they get a grade for showing up, and another for doing a write-up of what we talked about. alex, like the prior semester, did not show up for his conference, or even write a risk draft for me to comment on. he sent me an email an hour later apologizing and asking if we could reschedule. the kicker: he began the email “liz.” i ask my students to call me by first name. i tell them at the beginning of the semester and again in week 5 when they inevitably forget. so alex had now been through 4 of my “the name you need to call me” lectures. and he still called me liz. and he had the audacity not to show up for his conference with no notice, wasting a half hour of my time, and then ask to reschedule.

my mentor was right. i should have dealt with it sooner. i shouldn’t have let myself get as angry as i did. but i replied to his email with a laundry list of things he’d done wrong, and i told him he was out of chances. i wasn’t rude, but i was very firm, and expected him to forward the email to his parents and the department and try to get me fired.

instead, a couple hours later when i arrived in class, he was sitting in the back of the room with his hood over his head. i was surprised to see him. it was the last day to drop classes and i expected him to be gone. he approached me as i was getting set up, and he was weeping. like blubbery, snot-nosed weeping. my first thought was that he was manipulating me somehow. boys who don’t get their way do desperate things sometimes. he told me he turned in all the assignments, and did the reading, and he’d do better from them on, he promised, and could he come to office hours? would i give him one more chance, please?

i told him to see me after class. during discussion, to my surprise, he raised his hand for every question. he was extremely off-base on most of his comments but i appreciated the courage it took not only to show up to class a weepy, tear-filled wreck, but to actually participate through it. after class, he apologized for having lost his shit earlier. he asked how he could make everything up. i told him i’d give partial credit for what he’d turned in, but he needed to come to a conference.

a couple days later he showed up at my office. i asked if he had a rough draft for me to look at and he said he didn’t, not because he didn’t try but because he didn’t know what his biggest risk was. i asked him to write an essay about how he’s struggling in college, and to use it as an opportunity for self-reflection.

up to this point, alex had been a bad bullshitter. before, when i’d confronted him about not doing the reading, he said he couldn’t because he hurt his knee. i asked what a knee injury had to do with reading, and he blubbered through an answer. he even feigned a limp, but later that day i saw him walking normally to another class. he had ridiculous excuses for everything. so when he sent me his essay, i was expecting more of the same.

what he wrote was not bullshit, but a blunt and honest account of all the problems he was having, sans whining or pity-seeking. the boldest statement he made was that he was extremely lonely. i searched between the lines for ways he was trying to manipulate my sympathy but found none. he was flat-out admitting the truth: he felt like college wasn’t right for him, he was far away from home, he thought he would make friends but he hadn’t made any, and his girlfriend was still a senior in high school and he missed her a lot.

“it feels weird not having a happy ending,” he told me. “i kept wanting to find a positive note to end on.”

“sometimes things just suck. an essay doesn’t have to answer the questions it poses,” i said.

suddenly i got a different picture of alex’s life: he was depressed and alone, self-medicating with weed and who knew what else, and slipping through the cracks of all his other classes, where he had professors who, like me the prior semester, paid no attention to him.

he told me he really liked the class, and liked me as a teacher, and he would spend the rest of the semester trying to be better. i’d had students say similar things just to placate me and then didn’t follow through, but alex did for the most part. he still struggled with due dates, but he kept an open line of communication with me, and owned up to his failures. he did all the reading and participated in every class. by the end of the semester, he was a different person. he told me his girlfriend had gotten into our school and that she was coming to visit him soon. he revised his essay several times, got an A in the class, and gave me a hug at the end of the semester and thanked me for my patience and understanding.

i think this story stuck with me so much because it’s about my own failure. i do my best to reach out to struggling students, but most of the time if you lend a hand, they don’t take it, and there’s not much you can do. i should have tried to help alex sooner, or be more firm with him earlier on like he apparently needed. i need to learn to be more comfortable with confrontation and own my authority in the classroom. but mostly it reaffirmed my belief that everyone is hurting, and “bad behavior” is nearly always the result of a bigger picture that sometimes we can’t see.

#pedagogy #writing advice #Anonymous

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iloveyouthree-thousand · 5 years

Text

and we might not be able to save everyone (but I’ll be damned if I can’t save you)

I wrote this a while back, but I never posted it on here, so I cleaned it up a little and decided to put it up because, god help me, I can’t think of anything new to write.

Warning: this fic contains mentions of suicide. Please stay safe.

/ / /

"Kid, I'm going to need you to listen to me—just this once—and I promise I'll let you go to bed at whatever time you want for the rest of your long, long life," Tony starts, his attempt at being calm becoming less and less convincing with every passing second, "but I need you to step away from that ledge."

"I just wanted to help, Mr. Stark. I just—I didn't want anybody to get hurt," Peter stammers, a dark blue jacket and jeans fluttering in the wind while his face—his horribly pallid face—was left exposed to the night air.

The kid's innocence had worn off steadily throughout the past few years. Oh, he still had a heart of gold and manners fit for the Queen of England herself, and you would be hard-pressed to find someone who still didn't see eighteen-year-old Peter Parker as the living embodiment of an actual fucking ray of sunshine. This kid, despite losing nearly everything he ever loved, never ceased to be the count-your-blessings-glass-half-full kind of person. It was remarkable.

Behind that happy-go-lucky exterior, though, Tony knew he hid a world of hurt.

He knew that several times a month Peter retreated to a soundproof room in the basement of the Compound and buried himself in a pillow, only to return hours later with blood in his ears and looking like he had seen a ghost. He knew that sometimes Peter went home and held his eyes shut until the sounds of Ben's cries were drowned out by sleep. He knew that, tucked into the back of his closet, was the small black suit and the shoes he had worn to his parents' funeral, still caked with the same dirt that he watched the groundskeepers cover his parents' graves with, long after everyone else had left.

Tony also knew a thing or two about emotional baggage—about carrying around the loss of people you love well after everyone else has moved on. He also knew that Peter would grin and bear it for as long as he lived, hiding behind the Spider-Man mask by night and behind his own bubbly façade during the day.

Peter took the worst things that life could throw at him and turned them into strength and resilience and unrestrained compassion, and it was precisely those character traits that had Spider-Man parading around a children's hospital that morning.

The visit was part of a charity event to raise money for and put smiles on the faces of terminally ill children, and Peter had been looking forward to the visit for weeks with an excitement that was palpable. Tony had gone as himself, leaving the Iron Man suit at home while still giving the kid some much-needed moral support. He stood in the background, not bothering to hide his pride as Peter displayed his webbing abilities for the children, a grin no doubt spread across his face under the mask.

And then everything had gone wrong.

A maniac had heard about the hospital visit. An explosion destroyed an entire wing of a hospital. Sixteen people were dead in a little less than a second, before Peter or Tony could even blink. Eleven of them were children. There was nothing Spider-Man could do but watch in horror.

The Daily Bugle headline for the evening had read 'Spider-Man: Don't our children deserve better?'

Tony would’ve purchased every single copy, would’ve strung the ratty journalist up by his toes if it meant that Peter would never see the stupid headline, but the damage was done.

And now his kid was standing on a roof, ready to jump into the wind like he’d done so many times before, but there were no webs to catch him this time.

"Peter, it's not your fault. Those people—those kids, there was nothing we could do."

Tony was in his suit, poised to catch the boy if the unthinkable were to happen. They were sixteen stories up, one for each of the victims that Peter hadn't been able to save. Rhodey was also suited up, on call to swoop in just in case. No one was going to be scraping Peter Parker off of the sidewalk tonight.

Peter's hands were trembling at his sides, no, his whole body was trembling. His eyes were wide-open, locked onto the streets below, and he was crying so hard he was hiccuping, snot dripping down his nose and tears pooling in his eyes. He looked like a shadow out there—a broken, fleeting wisp of the boy Tony knew and loved.

Peter lacked the physical energy to fight anymore. At some point, even Atlas buckles under the weight of the world. Everyone has their breaking point. And while Tony was certain Peter's name wouldn't be written in the obituaries tomorrow—he wouldn't let that happen—he was terrified that something inside of Peter had finally given in. It didn't matter if Tony or Rhodes snatched him out of the air or not, if Peter jumped, a part of him had already died.

"Pete, look at me, please." His impossibly wide eyes were still vacant and frozen, but they managed to train on Tony.

"I've been here, at the end of my rope, when it was too much. I know what it feels like, that helplessness, that absence of control. Because you're a superhero, right," he chokes, "a card-carrying member of the 'earth's mightiest heroes' club, but they don't tell you when you sign up how much it absolutely sucks.”

And it does, it sucks and it’s not fair, because for every person you save there are dozen more that you lose, innocent people that die without a hero to fight for them.

“They don't sit you down and explain that sometimes the bad guys win, and that most of the time, even when they don't, the good guys lose. We lose and we lose and we lose over and over again."

"Death doesn't discriminate, Pete," the tears are streaming down his face now, "it takes and takes and takes and you know what the worst part is? We get knocked on our ass again and again, but we have to keep fighting. We have to keep living and carrying the weight of the ones that aren’t so lucky and it’s hard. I know that sometimes it feels easier to just break the cycle, to just jump and let it all be over with. Trust me, I know. But heroes--they have to get back up, even when it feels like there’s nothing left to fight for, even if it sucks and even if it’s not fair, because that’s what heroes do.”

Peter's eyes shift nervously to the bustling street hundreds of feet below him.

"Yea, yea," he whispers, "with great power comes great responsibility."

"Yea, kid,” Tony says softly, his words carrying in the wind, “and I wish more than anything that you didn't have to bear that responsibility, that you could just be a normal kid worrying about normal things. But I know that some higher being out there gave you these powers knowing that you could handle them—that you could use them to change the world. And as much as I want to kick that someone's ass for robbing you of your childhood and making this your life," he gestures to the trembling child, "we need you Peter."

"You've never had a selfish bone in that entire body of yours, it's infuriating, really," he chuckles drily, "and I know you didn't suddenly grow one tonight. Peter, think about May. You’re her whole world. And Ned, and MJ; Peter those kids need you. Queens needs its favorite superhero. And I--I have always been selfish, so I’m not afraid to admit that I need you too," his voice is so thin now, but he desperately tries to keep his cool composure as Peter turns back to stare out into the night sky, tears precariously close to falling, his chest heaving in a way that makes Tony's heart skip a beat.

"We can't always save everyone, but I'll be damned if I can’t save you. We can work through this together, in time, but first I need you come here. Please, Pete,” he says, and his voice is breaking, he’s breaking, “please, just come here."

It takes him a minute of staring at Tony and then the ground below, but he takes a step back and then two and three and in less than a moment he's in Tony's arms, tears leaving hot trails down his face. Tony stumbles out of the suit, taking the kid to ground with him, clutching him like he might disappear at any second.

"This world doesn't deserve you kid. I don't deserve you."

"Mr. Stark, I-I'm s-s-sorry," he sobs, gripping the man's shoulders and bleeding tears into the fabric of his expensive suit.

"Nope, no apologies, not tonight kid."

Tony thinks back to one gruesome night, back when he was still a kid—just around Peter's age. Howard Stark had come in and seen the pills strewn everywhere, his son lying in a daze, eyes glossed over, clinging to life. He remembered the screaming, Tony, Tony! How could you do this—how—how could you do this to us? And then it was a mess of hospital lights and a tube down his throat and he had pulled through, but Howard barely even looked at him for the next couple of weeks, and it just made him curse those damn pills for not taking him soon enough. He knew his father cared, that he was probably more scared that night than he'd ever admit, but that feeling of utter loneliness in the darkest moment of his life is something that Tony never wants Peter to feel.

So he just holds Peter, reaching a hand up to brush his hair back before resting his chin on the top of his head. His fingers toy with the navy material of Peter's sweater, needing to just feel him, as he repeats, whispering into his hair, "not tonight kid."

#irondad #tony stark #peter parker

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guzma-reader-hell · 5 years

Text

Date Nite

Dis for my buddy @boxdfoxeninc . There’s no fucking excuse for this being so late, but I wanted it to be nice because she caught me a beautiful salandit shiny named opal and I owe her my life (and two more chappies of dis beautiful adventures of Lynnie and Guzma) I hope you enjoy this my friend, and that as it goes on that it makes up for the wait and for the effort you put into getting me my dream Pokémon ❤️

...

“It’s fine.”

Mantra of the night.

“It’s alright.”

“You good fam.”

“I gotchu.”

But deep down Guzma knows it ain’t alright. It ain’t even remotely close to fine, he ain’t good, and you barely got yourself.

Chasing dreams, making a fool of yourself, you’ve done it all. Just like him, and one of the many things that endeared him to you. Everything he tried to do to make trial captain was all for naught, and better than anyone he knew the state you were currently in. It was just the problem of your denial that prevented him from giving you the help you truly needed...

Date nights hadn’t been this tense, not since you visited before your last trip to Sinnoh. A bundle of nerves had come to see him at least a year ago, crying about how nervous she was to take on the Sinnoh league all over again, and oh my god what if I don’t make it, what if I fail, spouting all these different worries and anxieties pickled and stuffed up into one big fuckaroo of a thing you called life. Then when you left, unable to call or write because you wanted to commit fully, he agonized endlessly but trusted in his pride for you. Well... no news came. Everything had gone dark for a few minutes, and there were no new updates on the Sinnoh League champion. Guzma, well, he’d been living a life of debauchery after leaving his parent’s house and forming up his own ragtag group of criminals, and ironically there wasn’t anyone else he could think of that he wanted to share his accomplishments with but you. It was just that when you finally came home, and he managed to get you alone before anyone else, he found you oddly closed off to everyone, even the one criminal boss you trusted from the beginning.

This bullshit sucked. Plain and simple. But what could he say?

“It’s fine.” You insisted. “Order whatever you want babe. It’s all on me.”

“Ya sure?” Guzma finally settled on. “Don’t look alright Lynnie...”

“Naaah.”

You waved it off, like swatting imaginary cutieflies out of your face. The Ronin set he wanted to share was costly, for normal folks it meant half a month’s salary. For trainers, it was more money than you could expect to battle for on the islands without a VS Seeker.

“Told you, ‘s fine. I’ll buy this time.”

“Uh...”

“Yeah.” You insisted, “No trouble at all my dude. Besides, like you’re in a position to buy anything, with your broke ass.”

He shrinks back, not at your comment, but your laugh. It sounds too hollow. Too depraved of any sort of joy. It speaks the volumes of words that won’t come out of your mouth no matter how many times someone asks you how life treated you in a colder climate. There’s only one indication that your trip even existed (because let’s face it, all interactions have basically indicated it never happened). Your Pokémon, a grizzled Infernape that drapes its arms lazily around you every now and again, seems to bear the only souvenir of a scar, and it’s an old one at that... There’s no fanfare, no presents for anyone save for the scarf you’d gotten him.

What can Guzma say? You won’t talk to him about the things that plague your mind as the appetizers come out, bowls of miso soup and a plate of tempura that he devours but you can only pick at. Naturally, as expected, there is no conversation the whole of dinner even though he wants desperately to catch up. To have both of you brag about successes, cry about failures, anything save for this damned silence that will not end. But he can’t reach you, all he can do is reach the food, and it’s been a while since he’s eaten this good. So the only thing he can do at the moment is eat. The aforementioned Ronin Set is gone the minute it hits the table, and the sad piece that Guzma has spared you sits untouched, going lukewarm by the time the bill hits the table and you’re paying for everything on a card.

It’s the next sentence that worries him: “I’m not sure what’s on this one but let’s give it a try.”

Oh hell no. Not if you were just as broke ass as he was. Immediately he flags down the waiter, nearly tackling the poor man as Guzma tails after him on the pretense of taking a leak before you both return home. He stuffs a wad of cash into his hand unceremoniously, assuring him rather gruffly that if he brings back the receipt and card in one piece that he can keep the change. It’s not that hard to convince the waiter, especially when Guzma doesn’t pay attention to how much of his hidden stash he slaps into the other man’s hand before hightailing it back to the table, and considering the fact that the locals know him well in Malie, and will give this hardened criminal whatever in the hell he wants.

The waiter comes back and presents your card and receipt with a flourish. You take it nonchalantly, and Guzma thanks the gods that you simply take the card and stand up.

“Ready?” You ask, seemingly ready for the night to end. Infernape follows behind, equally disenchanted with everything that Sushi High Roller has to offer.

“I...”

He wants to make a scene, cause a dramatic altercation because, as one Ms. Clavel might say: Something is not right.

He suddenly find himself pushing the chair out behind him, the noise harsh as the legs scrape the flooring. Guzma has to book it after you, because you’re already out the door and walking into the brightly lit streets by the time he catches up. You look back briefly, shrugging when you see him panting, breathless with anger, and you’re about to tell him goodnight when the nuclear bomb decides it’s time to drop.

“<i>What the fuck is your damage?!</i>”

You’re caught off guard. The world stops spinning on its axis, holding breath from the moment the first word exploded from his mouth into the mushroom cloud that formed the rest of the sentence. The rest of Malie floats away on the wind, a blur of colored lights sprinkling magic droplets into the dark fades away until there is nothing. No city. No people. Just a void. A vacuum in space and time that Guzma has created with the halting bark of his voice and the pent up rage and aggression that cannot be matched by anyone but himself.

“You’re acting like a brat!” He screams, getting right in your face and his eyes blazing with something so fierce that even infernape cannot come to your rescue.

“You leave me for a year, ya don’t call or write to me, or even think to lemme know you’re still kicking... then ya come back and have the audacity to axe me out and take me to this tired date so you can avoid questions and treat me like imma fuckin’ stranger to ya! This is BULLSHIT! Why the hell you don’t tell me what’s going on with ya?! Come on Lynnie! Talk to me! TALK GODDAMN YOU!”

His words have knocked the breath out of you. It’s... quite a long time before anyone moves or says a word and he’s about to go for it again when you suddenly break down and begin sobbing, infernape trying to resuscitate you from your break down and nearly torching Guzma when he drops to his knees to come and get you up off the floor. You struggle briefly, once, twice, before pushing infernape away and collapsing in Guzma’s arms where your facade of holding it together reveals quite the contrary.

You closed off because you were broken. He doesn’t have to pry to get you to talk because in that brief instant that you’re clinging like an animal to him he knows. He knows you’re here for good. He knows that you tried your best at everything you’ve done and come back a failure because he’s gone through the exact same shit, taking a nine iron to the face to show for it. You don’t need to tell him that becoming the champion fell through, because the emotion you exude and the mantras of “I did my best” slipping out between the dry heaves and snot bubbles is so heartbreakingly familiar, so mind numbingly sad that it takes everything inside Guzma not to break down into a million pieces right there with you in the street. One thing he knows... and he knows it for certain... you are not going home tonight nor any of the other nights after. He will be go to hell if he lets you out of his sight and out of his life ever again.

#guzma #guzma x oc #for friends #guzma reader insert #guzma fiction #pokemon sun and moon #pokemon reader insert

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my-soul-sings · 6 years

Text

Prompt by @patient-blossoms on @dailyau:

This is pretty normal for us but you look terrified, you’re not from around here are you? AU

When Jim asked me to cover a report for him in a small, quiet town, I expected to find quaint little shops and homes, old ladies feeding the pigeons on benches, and young people sipping on tea and eating pretty cakes at quiet cafes.

I thought he was doing something nice, maybe as a sort of early birthday treat for me, though it’s two months too early. I kind of brushed that detail aside at the time, because I just really needed a break from frequent late-night stays in the office churning out articles and getting pushed around to do other people’s work. You could say I was desperate to have an excuse to get out of town for a bit.

I guess I should have known better than to trust someone who gave his blind mother a furry pillow for her birthday and told her it was a cat.

I inch backwards slowly till I hit the grimy wall of the small alley I’m in. I hastily take a step forward, grimacing and hoping it doesn’t leave a stain on the back of my favourite denim jacket.

“You okay?”

My head snaps up, and I meet the hazel brown eyes of the man who just saved me. He’s panting, with droplets of perspiration running down the sides of his chiselled face and neck. Aside from a cut lip, he looks like he just finished a 2-kilometre jog and tripped at the end of it. You wouldn’t think that he just won a fight bare-handed against four relatively big thugs who could barely manage to bust his lip.

To be fair, this guy isn’t exactly petite either. He looks like he works out a lot. He has big shoulders, huge pecs that rival the size of my own chest and a rounder butt than mine. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had an eight-pack hiding underneath his tight black shirt. He’s a full package deal.

He gives me a once-over to check that I’m not wounded when I don’t offer an answer. I’m fine, aside from the bleeding scrape on my temple, and potential bruises on my arms. He, on the other hand, has bleeding knuckles, though I’m not sure if they belong to him or my attackers.

A groan sounds from the side, and I notice one of the thugs lying on the floor struggling to get up on shaking arms. If he didn’t just try to rob me, I’d actually feel a little sorry for him. All those bruises have got to hurt.

He utters a profanity directed at us as he slowly attempts to get up. In the next second, he receives a hard kick to the face and rolls over till he hits the opposite wall, before he finally stills again. I turn away, unable to stomach any more violence for the day. A wave of nausea washes over me and I do my best to keep it in.

Hopefully the guy isn’t dead, or I might be an accomplice to a murder.

“Damn, I just washed these too...” The man clicks his tongue as he peers down at his white sneakers that are now covered in dirt. His right shoe has some blood on the top now, and I’m guessing that belongs to the thug he just kicked. “Guess this is what I get for helping someone out.”

Well, he could have picked a better spot to kick if he really didn’t want to ruin his shoes.

“Is this your first time getting robbed?” he asks casually, leaning his weight on one foot and cocking his head to one side. He’s acting as if we’re meeting for the first time on a Tinder date instead of standing in the middle of a dark alley that smells like a garbage dumpster, with four men lying unconscious on the ground.

“Yes,” I reply, not meeting his gaze. I don’t know if I can trust him, after all the things I’ve witnessed in the span of fifteen hours in this small town. Everywhere I’ve been today feels like a scene out of a movie. There were druggies and alcoholics walking the streets, yelling profanities to the air and shattering glass bottles on the litter-covered ground. Someone flipped over a table in a small shop while I was having lunch and then a fight broke out between what seemed like mafia gangs. I didn’t stay for long to find out more, in fear of earning a knife in my chest or a chair to my head.

He might have just saved me, but this guy might be another shady character with other motives in mind for keeping those guys from robbing me. Maybe he’s going to sell me off to some underground human trafficking business. Or maybe he’ll try to rob me instead. Multiple scenarios cross my mind, which makes me break out into even more cold sweat as my heart palpitates.

All I want to do is get out of this town, drive all the way to Jim’s house and bash his head repeatedly with his favourite camera. He’s going to pay for making me go through this just to cover some silly story on their new goose mayor.

“You don’t seem to know any self-defense moves either. You’re not from around here, are you?”

I shake my head. So knowing self-defense is normal here? I guess that’s not too surprising, considering all the things I’ve seen today. Gang fights, drug deals and daylight robberies... What’s next? A serial killer?

...Probably shouldn’t jinx myself. I’m only heading home tomorrow. I need to find a way to not get knifed in my sleep tonight.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” he questions, raising a curious brow. “Still scared?” Amusement gleams in his eyes as he leans in slightly to get a closer look at my face.

I duck down to avoid having him get too close, picking my bag off the ground. I pat off stray specks of dirt. Or maybe it’s dog poop. I try not to think about it.

“Thanks for the help,” I say curtly. “I should go.” Better get out of here while he’s in a relatively good mood. Maybe he’ll let me go without asking for anything in return.

I turn on my heel, ready to hightail it out of there, but his hand wraps around my wrist before I can take a step away from him.

“What’s your name?” he drawls in a deep voice.

Swallowing thickly, I do my best to hide the trembling in my voice. “Why- Why do you need to know?”

“Because I want to?” He sounds amused. At least he’s not angry. Good. “The name’s Dustin.” He releases my wrist when I turn so that I’m half-facing him.

“Oh. Hi.” I cringe at my flat reply. Better think of something fast. I don’t want to reveal my real name, lest he uses it to track me down or something. What’s a good girl name to use? Uh... Um...

“So what’s your--”

“J-Jenga. Name is H-Hannajenga.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Your name is... Hannajenga?” he repeats.

“Y-Yeah. Parents were a big- big fans of the card game.”

“Right...” he mutters, not bothering to ask further. I guess weirding him out is one way to get him to not target me. Good going, Anna.

“So... Hannajenga, are you in a hurry to go somewhere?”

Crap, I am so screwed.

“My great-grandfather passed away today and we burying him so I’m leave now bye.”

I’ll admit, I’m not the best at coming up with excuses on the spot. Not to mention, my brain forgets that grammar exists when I’m panicking as much as I am now. In my defense, Dustin can probably break my neck with one hand if he wants to so my fears are a hundred-percent justified.

“Too bad then. It’ll have to wait.” With one sharp tug, he grabs my arm, spins me around and I stumble, nearly slamming straight into his chest. Instinctively, I grab at his black bomber jacket to steady myself. He reaches for my other arm and holds me in place, before his face slowly leans in closer towards mine.

Oh no. Ohhhhh no. This isn’t happening. I haven’t even had my first kiss yet. I may not know any self-defense moves, but there’s nothing stopping me from inventing some.

I dig my heels into the ground and raise my knee, aiming for the spot where the sun doesn’t shine. I’ve seen enough shows and read enough books to know that this is an effective way to immobilise a male attacker.

Unfortunately for me, Dustin is too fast. He steps to the side, and my knee only finds air. I’m not about to give up though. I lunge for him, forming fists with my hands and attempting to throw a punch to his nose. He catches my wrists easily with his big hands, and pushes me back, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the ground clumsily like a rag doll.

“Firstly, I don’t fight girls.” I hear Dustin’s voice and his footsteps as he steps closer. The asphalt crunches beneath the soles of his shoes, muffling the sound of my dismayed groan as I find a new scrape on my elbow, along with dirt on my jeans. "Secondly, last I checked, punching someone isn’t how you thank them. And thirdly,” he squats down next to me as I get up. “That’s not how you form a fist, Miss Hannajenga.”

I back up till my back hits the wall, and I curl up instinctively. My eyes go to his shoes, where the blood stains still remain. This is it. I’m going to get beaten to a pulp just like these guys on the floor next to me. Maybe worse. Tears spring to my eyes as terror seizes me. There were so many more things I wanted to do with this life, and so many things I wanted to say to my family. Guess time’s up for me.

If I die today, I’m going to haunt Jim for the rest of his miserable life.

Screwing my eyes shut, I brace myself for the first kick that will crack my skull open, but even after counting to five, nothing comes.

I hear him squat down, and I press closer against the wall, a whimper escaping me before I can stop it.

“Wait. Are you- Are you crying? What the hell? Why are you crying?”

“P-Please don’t kill me,” I plead in a tiny voice, my shoulders beginning to shake with sobs.

“Fuck, I just said I don’t fight girls.” He sighs exasperatedly, taking my hands gently and lifting them to reveal my face. I probably look like a mess. My mascara isn’t waterproof, my hair is a mess from the scuffle with the thugs earlier, and I’m an ugly crier. At least snot isn’t running down my nose yet.

I take a chance and look at his eyes. He’s telling the truth. There’s no malice in them. I only find traces of guilt and worry in his frown.

“I wasn’t going to attack you. I was just gonna say that you should get that wound on your head looked at. They hit your head against the wall pretty hard earlier.”

Most of my suspicion and fear clears. If Dustin really wanted to attack me he could have done so earlier. He wouldn’t have let me attack him and let me get away with it with nothing more than a rough push to the ground. Even that was just in self-defense.

He extends a hand towards me to help me up. It doesn’t seem like he means any harm. Warily, I accept it, and he grips it firmly to pull me to my feet.

“I feel fine,” I tell him honestly as I wipe my tears away. “Thanks for saving me. And... sorry for trying to hurt you earlier.”

He waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be able to hurt me even if you tried anyway.”

True.

“Are you heading back to wherever you’re staying? I can give you a ride. It’s getting late and it’s dangerous for you to walk along on the street at this time. Lots of bad guys are roaming the streets and pretty girls like you won’t escape their notice.”

My cheeks warm at the compliment, and at the devious smirk he throws my way. He’s cute, but still, there must be a reason why he’s offering to do all this for me.

“Why are you being so nice?” I ask.

His smile widens. “Do I need a reason to help a pretty girl who’s in distress?”

So... does he want to get in my pants or something? Because that’s definitely not an option.

“I’m not trying to get in your pants,” he laughs, as if having read my mind. My face burns and I avoid his amused eyes. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind,” he pauses to wink, “but I’m really helping you out just because. It’s not cool for guys to team up against a girl like that.”

“So... you’re the only good guy in this town?”

He chuckles. “Not the only one, but I guess sober people like me are rare to find here.”

“What’s a guy like you doing here then? You look a little out of place from all the,” I gesture vaguely in the air, “drunkards and druggies here.”

“I grew up up here,” he replies. “Long story short, my parents got a divorce and I moved away with my mom. I come back occasionally to visit my dad.”

“I see. And you happened to be passing by when you saw me getting mugged?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, placing his hands in his pockets. “So, do you want a ride back?” he offers a second time.

Normally I would say no to getting a ride from a stranger, but he did just save me like a knight in shining armour and he is kind of cute...

“Just promise not to kill me or threaten my life in any way?”

“Promise.” He flashes me a charming grin. Damn. That’s not very good for my heart.

“Okay then. Follow me, Hannajenga.” With that he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving me with my lips parted and staring dumbly at his broad back.

First things first, I really should tell him my real name.

#writing #writing prompt #writers on tumblr #drabble #writer #writeblr #my writing #OCs #original

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ghost-is-pan · 3 years

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It’s weird having family that love you. Yes it’s cool n’ all. But it’s not properly reciprocated.

I don’t love my blood family. I care for them as people. Which they confuse with my overthinking how I see them. Which isn’t the case but pop off I guess?

I’m tired of explaining over & over & over again. I’ve been asked the same question in the same damn tone so many god damn times-

From Orange-“so you don’t love me?”

No. I don’t. I care for you as a person. I love you as a human & person. Not as family. Because blind loyalty to someone you don’t know is just stupid to me.

My younger brother on my moms side also asked the same question way before orange ever did.

To be honest I do like orange more because to me he’s less annoying. I appreciate Lime. I do. Trust me. But lime gets on my nerves. He blindly cares & loves me even though I would honestly watch him cry if I didn’t get in trouble. Heartless? Maybe. Do I care? No. Because I’m being honest with myself.

I’ve also been raised to only say sorry when I mean it so…. Yeah no apology there. I do have an odd attachment to my older brother though. I grew up with him decently & miss where I grew up a lot. So it’s that. I’ve thought about how I care about him normally & it’s the same. As a person love. Not this magical “FAMILY LOVE OMFG ITSMSNSNZJXJ” Shit.

My friend loyalty is very similar to what most people consider family-like loyalty. Which in a sense it is. Because my found family is always going to get my best. I can be myself & not be judged. I will ALWAYS love my found family more than my blood. It will never change.

But I don’t want to hurt lime’s feelings. He’s sensitive, heart of literal gold. & creative. Creative as shit. We have our artistic skill in common. I’ve known that little bitch since he was in diapers. I was there when he took his first steps. I was there when he scraped his knee for the first time(funny & sad he got it when he was like 10) since I’ve known him as a baby. Maternal instinct says to care for him. Not hurt his feelings to his face. Tolerate his little bullshit he finds joy in. I will always see him as a child. “Pure” in a backwards way(pfffffft)

I do find him fucking gross though- will insinuate it to his face. Always goes over his head. That won’t change. I’ve always seen him as gross. The type of nasty you can hug- but not want to touch your things.

Orange is a different card though. I met him In person when I was 14. I’m almost 16 now. So 15 lmao. Anyways. Since I met him when I was more controlled over myself. His shenaniganary was & is tolerable. I see lime as an annoying snot filled pug to kick. Orange is more like an over sized very skittish dog. Over/easily excitable. And also annoying at times, but manageable. He doesn’t press my buttons. He can be left alone for days on end & be fine.

They’re literal days where I don’t talk to him. Been a few times where he’s come back from a trip & I didn’t notice.

I have sadly(?) noticed that I am happier without contact with most of my family. Even my mom annoy’s the shit outta me. & no. Not in the normal way either. In the “should I consider this a toxic trait? Or leave it…” type of way.

I can stay happy with my family & talk to them for a few hours. Anything more than that then it turns to “leave me the fuck alone”

No moral to this post besides the fact that I. Really hate family based media/shows. Found family for the win everytime.

Family stresses me out. Which is why I hate the end of the year more than the beginning.

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jimincheoreom · 7 years

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A Cure For Hope || bangtanvlogs__prologue;

PAIRING: Kim Seokjin / Gender Neutral Reader, OT7/ Gender Neutral Reader

WORD COUNT: 2,695

WARNING(S): death, cancer, descriptive anxiety attacks, to be added

A/N: This is going to be a dark series, it's focused on death. No, this is not a 13 Reasons Why! Au, this has nothing to do with that show. Additionally, all knowledge of brain cancer is based on what I have researched, but I am most likely not correctly portraying it correctly. Also, I have anxiety, anxiety attacks are different for everyone, what I have depicted in this series is based on my own experiences. Also yeah, I made yoonseok/sope a canon ship in this series, it was actually accidental.

SUMMARY: A sudden diagnosis and death leaves a series of vlogs in the hands of a grieving group of young adults six months later.

|| Prologue || Vlog I || Vlog II || Vlog III || Vlog IV || Vlog V || Vlog VI || Vlog VII ||

“I'm dying,” his hands are shaking while gripping yours, “I have a brain tumor.”

Your eyes are glazed over in shock, a deep chilling fear rooting itself deep into your body. Your mind is churning into overdrive, trying to piece together everything that Seokjin is announcing. The glass blanketing your eyes begins to dribble down your cheeks, creating glistening trails of sorrow. Your bottom lip begins to quiver, words getting choked at the back of your throat, setting it ablaze.

“I… I don’t know how long I have left,” he lets out a shaky breath, “I’m not going to go through treatment, even if I did, the tumor has grown too large to be safely removed.”

You shudder, “how… how long have you known?”

His eyes dart around the room, not resting on one singular object, “almost a year,” he brushes his thumb across the back of your hand, “Originally, I was scheduled for surgery, at that time there were only small patches of cancer, but during a routine visit the doctors discovered that the cells had spread. Now it's in my brain... It’s at a point where there’s no guarantee of anything… it’s only getting worse. I don’t want to live the last of my life suffering from chemotherapy and radiation treatments, especially when they won't cure me, but just prolong a terrible existence with a terrible disease.”

You swallow the fear that's nestled in the back of your larynx, “who else knows…?”

You see him hesitate, his eyes flicker back over to yours before they flutter away somewhere else. “No one else, I haven’t told the boys yet.”

You can hear the lie his voice is coated in, yet ignore it, your mind to preoccupied over the sudden confession to even process anything else. “I…” you inhale a shaky breath, “we’re going to…”

He lets out a bitter laugh, his own trail of tears dripping down his tanned cheeks. “We’re going to make the best of this.”

You nod and lean across the small breakfast nook table, moving your arms to wrap around Seokjin; his soft deep blue sweater rubbing across your skin, giving you some sense of comfort. His hand moves up to brush his fingers through your hair, fingers running soft strands through his hands. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering shut as your breathe deeply and inhale the scent of his musk. Seokjin smiles and continues to drag his fingers throughout your hair, in order to comfort you. The small apartment seemed all too big at this moment, the only comfort you wanted and needed was Seokjin’s embrace, the apartment felt alienating. The ticking of the clocks, the washer rumbling, the creaking of floorboards. Everything was too much to process all at once, even if they were minuscule things.

The bed is too cold, too hot, too big, and too small, all at the same time. Your body is thrust into the air, sweat dripping down your back and clinging to your t-shirt. You whimper softly and look down at your shaking hands, your vision so blurred you can't tell what is real and what is imaginary. Your vision is swimming along with your brain. Your chest is heaving, trying to pump breath or anything it can into your chest. You feel like you’re drowning and begin to claw at your throat, your nails dragging harsh red lines down your neck as it gets irritated. Feeling the panic surmounting you push yourself onto your knees and begin to crawl towards the edge of the bed. You fish around on the nightstand and grab the electronic device laying on it. Your vision calms down, although tears are dribbling down your sleep, whether they're from your dream or dry eyes you're not quite sure. Sniffling you unlock your phone and swipe through your contacts, pressing the contact name of a certain black haired dancer. You're sniffles increase as you hit the green cal button and bring the device up to your ear.

“Hello?” The groggy voice and distinct ‘why the hell are you waking me up this early,’ voice greets you.

“Jimin?” You let out a small sob and you begin to attack your face, squishing and rubbing everything together into one large mess. “I-I,”

Instantly, you hear the shuffling of sheets and a mess being disturbed along with a short ‘fuck!’ on the other end of the line. “Hey,” he’s struggling with something, “I’ll be there in like literally five seconds.” The line cuts and you stay seated upwards in your bed, tears and snot blanketing your face.

The buzz of a card being accepted and the door closing behind the male, along with his quick padded footsteps keeps you company temporarily in the otherwise desolate apartment. You look down and notice that your sleek phone is still resting in your motionless hand. Your mind zones out into some other place, not noticing the young male turn on the lights nor crawl onto the bed and rub your back gently. His motions are obviously him trying to be polite, along with ignoring the sweat crawling down your chilled back. He hums softly, the tune giving you little comfort. He brings his hand up and gently brushes the tears off your cheek, still humming. “Again?” He’s still humming, trying to breathe whatever comfort into the air that he can.

You nod weakly, soft sniffles and sobs still falling from your throat. “Y-Yes.”

He sighs and continues to rub your back, “it’s okay… we’re going to get through this.”

“Its…” you frown, “it's been half a year already.”

“Healing takes time. No one expects you to get over Seokjin’s death in a day, a week, a month, or even a year. All of us are still grieving, none of us are over it.” His voice is soft as usual, his tone is soothing as you're coming down from the panic you were in.

“Thank you, Jimin.” You nest your head in his shoulder as he continues to rub your back.

He nods and smiles softly, “of course, what kind of best friend would I be otherwise?” He gently pulls back and takes the phone from your grasp, slides off the bed, and gently placed it onto the nightstand. “Come on, let's get you into bed.” He pulls the covers back, letting you moved around and lay back down on the bed. He drags the covers back over the top of you and kisses your forehead. “Rest well.”

“Jimin?” You stop him as he’s standing in the doorway, about to turn off the lights, “can you stay with me?”

He nods and smiles, “of course,” he turns off the lights and leaves the door open, “I'll stay in the living room, don’t worry and get some rest.” With that, he's gone, the door is left open but in the pitch black of the apartment you can't see anything.

The next morning, the sound of the fire alarm wakes you up. Your body is in panic mode and you fly out of the bed and into the kitchen, only to stop mid-step as you notice Namjoon slamming a broom against the alarm, Taehyung scraping black hunks of food into the trash can, and Yoongi staring in horror at the other two. You blink, your mind trying to process exactly what in the fuck was happening. The door suddenly slams open, the three dancers pedaling in, screaming about ‘you better not have woken- oh fuck hey you're up.’

You wave at them and look back at the other three in your kitchen. “I uhm,” you tilt your head, “I appreciate the gesture but… why are you letting three people cook for me, two of the three not even knowing how to cut fucking onions?”

Hoseok hops over to you and grabs your shoulder, “Yoongi said he had it under control but…”

Yoongi snaps at Hoseok, his hand reaching up into the air as he holds a rubber spatula, “Hey fucker! Don’t throw me under the bus! You’re the one who said, ‘oh we have to dance at 3 in the fucking morning!’ and then you don’t come back to help us cook until you hear something go wrong. Then you fucking blame-!”

You swoop forward and remove the spatula from Yoongi’s hand before it turns into a ninja star and decapitates someone, “take the sexual tension somewhere else, please.”

Yoongi’s face turns bright red and he turns around, his back to you and begins to grumble as he picks up a knife, beginning to cut up vegetables. The knife makes a harsh noise against the chopping block, his aggression being taken out on the food. Hoseok frowns and tiptoes forward, sweat glistening down his arms and making his black t-shirt cling to his body. He wraps his arms around Yoongi’s waist and leans his chin on his shoulder, “Hey, listen.”

Yoongi shrugs his shoulders but can't move Hoseok off of him, “shut up, ass.”

Hoseok sighs and kisses the side of Yoongi’s neck, causing him to tense immediately, “I'm sorry.”

Namjoon suddenly clears his throat, “while this is cute and all, I'm hungry.”

Jimin rushes forward and slides into the kitchen, “right! Let's start cooking again, right, Kookie?”

Jungkook nods silently and moves forward to the kitchen too, “of course.”

You chuckle softly, “Thank you guys, really, this means a lot.” You love into the kitchen and hip bump away the couple, “now, out of my way.”

The seven of you begin to work together in small groups. You pair up with Namjoon to assist him as he needs the most help, minus Taehyung. Naturally the maknae line drifts together and so does Yoongi and Hoseok. You all work together as a well-oiled machine, quickly fixing a tradition breakfast. You and Namjoon set the table while the others bring the food to the table. You all begin to chow down on the food. All that surrounds the apartment in the clacking of metal chopsticks and spoons, and sometimes the occasional chatter from the seven of you. At some point, Taehyung’s hand brushes against the vase which contains a snowdrop flower. He shouts in horror and Namjoon’s hand is pushing the vase back onto its base before all disaster crash lands onto the table. Suddenly, a barrage of notifications comes blasting through the room, everyone's phone is either vibrating up a storm or the ringtone is cutting off and repeating midway through a jingle.

Namjoon pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at the notifications roll in, “What the… it's the YouTube channel…”

Everyone stares in shock at him before Taehyung speaks up, “We haven't touched the channel in months though…”

Namjoon is the first to click on a notification and open the video, starting in shock at his phone. He looks up and around at the table before making eye contact with you. His eyes shift from shock to some other unidentifiable emotion. Your mind is reeling, what is going on? Why is there such a panic on the youtube channel, is this some joke? Namjoon takes a heavy sigh before he connects his phone to the television. “Someone posted a video, most likely it was set on a queue.”

The screen on the tv glitches slight before you’re hearing a voice you had blocked from your memories, to relive the soft tone of his voice is too much agony to bear. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He’s pausing, as if he’s trying to collect his thoughts, “I know this is going to be scary to some and catch others completely off guard. I began recording these series of vlogs the day I decided to forego treatment of any kind.” There are tears, they are hiding behind your closed eyelids, waiting to trickle down your cheeks. “I filmed these vlogs out of order, so some days you will be able to see the worsening progression of my health.” There’s a small cough, and for the first time you look at the television and stare in horror at the screen. His skin, once emblazoned with melanin, is now almost papery-white, he looks like a ghost. His eyes are sunken into his head, his once plump lips dry and cracked beyond hope. He looks like shit, and you can only imagine how much pain he was in during the filming. His appearance mimics that of his last few weeks, probably only days before you forced him to stay in the care of a hospital, any comfort you could provide for him is completely gone. Even while he was dying he never lost his personality or his companionship to you. You can recall the nights where you both stayed up together and lied next to each other in bed in silence, both brains thinking of ways the end was going to occur.

“Jesus…” Jimin mumbles under his breath and into the sleeve of his sweater.

Seokjin had not edited the footage, that much is visible. The vlog is raw footage of him, raw footage of his condition reaching its peak of deterioration. Some of his words are slurring into others, he’s stopping every so often and staring into the camera as if he’s a lost child, one who is looking for someone to guide him through the video. His body is aching and his appearance is the once shining Seokjin, but now riddled with disease and fatigue. He begins to ramble on again, most of his words aren’t reaching your ears anymore, all noise being filtered in sounds like it's coming through water. “My love,” your head suddenly perks up and you zone back in on the television. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“No.. Seokjin.” Your mind and mouth are reacting autonomously.

“I wish I could have stayed in your arms for just a bit longer just so you could…” he’s lost for words once again, “so you could understand how much your love meant to me.” He smiles gently before holding up a list. “I decided to do something for all of you. I made a series of vlogs, each of the boys has their own specially dedicated to them. All of these vlogs should post within a year after my death, if not then technology has failed me. I have a set of rules for these vlogs.” He clears his throat and holds the paper closer to him. “One, the vlogs cannot be watched out of order. Two, the only person allowed to watch all of the vlogs until they are completed and watched by each respective member is you, Y/N. Unless you watch each vlog with the member that corresponds, no one else in the group is allowed to watch the videos. Three, please, please, do not delete these vlogs or try to break any other rules. This is my last wish to you all.” His head is turning and he’s looking at the clock near him. “I need to go now,” he looks up for one final time and smiles, “goodbye.”

Everyone sits in silence, any form of appetite now forever lost. Your mind is swimming, no idea how to comprehend what exactly has occurred. You can feel your chest contracting, your vision blurring, your heart pounding, your ears ringing, everything is happening too suddenly. It’s as if the world is crashing down, you're on the mainstage, and no one is around to support you. Small whimpers burn their way up the back of your throat, your entire body is burning, burning, burning. You feel hands touching your skin, that only causes your mind to break down even further, your skin now feels as if it is crawling. You want to scream, have the enjoyment of your voice going raw and destroying itself. As your mind completely shuts down into inky darkness you hear the zilch of the television auto-shutdown. Away from the scene, everyone stares in horror as Jimin is carrying your body to your bedroom. All eyes focus on you except for a single pair, whose inky eyes gaze upon a singular snowdrop petal crash landing on the table.

#bts writing squad #bts #jin x reader #bts x reader #bts angst #bts imagine #bts scenario #jin imagine #jin scenario #bts!au #youtube!au #Kim seokjin #jin #idk what else tot ag #im stressed #fic: acfh

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