#where he looks in the mirror and calls himself a sellout and then feels better

[musicalchaos07]

For New Yorkers Jancy: apartment or townhouse (with + without kids)? Manhattan or another Burrough? If Manhattan, Midtown, the Village, etc?

Hi Anon,

Apartment definitely. They strike me as strictly Manhattan people (they are still transplants after all). I think at first they live in Greenwich Village but then when they get married Ted helps them with getting the down payment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen bc he heard it was Up & Coming (Which Jonathan has feelings about and Nancy is like just smile and nod and please don't talk about gentrification with my republican dad. Also Ted also helps out bc he didn't have to pay for their wedding and Mike & Nancy are both in New York at this point) (if they're going to tell me ted is making 100k in 1985 I'm running with it)

And then I go back & forth with myself if they stay there or move Back to The Village after they have their second kid in 2002.

[clefairymuke]

oiiii i have a request for a oneshot or maybe something fun to add to your regrets fic (whatever you find better) I think it would be funny a reader x the scouts drunk and levi finding them and being all cute taking care of reader :3

thank you for this request!! sorry for how long it took, but it managed to pull me out of some writers block that’s been kicking my ass lately. thank you for suggesting it and reading!

as always, much love! <3

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Red Wine | Levi x Reader

pairing: levi x reader

themes: fluff

tw: swearing, alcohol use

word count: 2511

True fun and relaxation is not something you typically experience.

Of course, when you signed up for this whole Scout Regiment thing, you weren’t expecting nights out in bars and plush queen-sized beds with wool blankets. You expected exactly what you got: exhausting days and mostly sleepless nights, demanding grief and waking nightmares. One thing you hadn’t expected, however, was how stale it would get. These thoughts are why you ended up where you are now: propped lazily against a wall surrounded by your friends, loud laughs bubbling freely from your ever-smiling mouth, and a bottle of wine in hand.

While the “why” is clear to you, the “how” is a bit more cloudy. Around the complete euphoria in your head stands a thick fog blocking your memory — that, or the fact that your drunkenly dwindling attention span can no longer support a thought lasting more than a second or two. All you know is that you’re here now, and you’re having the time of your life. Your eyes and ears skirt past Eren and Jean arguing without stopping to listen in as you pass the bottle to Mikasa.

For once, you aren’t thinking about how Levi could make this experience better. Although you love being in the company of your boyfriend, you can’t help but imagine his disdain if he were to witness your situation. You can almost feel the ferocity of his razor sharp-glare creeping up your spine as you picture it within your mind.

You lay your head back on the concrete wall that keeps you upright and close your eyes. Although you had shown to be quite social when the bottle first began to be passed, you now wanted nothing more than to take a nice nap — or to go vomit just to ease yourself of the queasy feeling that was overtaking your stomach. Either would suffice. You listen to your friends chatting mindlessly around you, their care to be inconspicuous slipping away with the wine. You watch Connie drain what was left in the bottle, leaving you to curse at the fact that you would be stuck in the uncomfortable kind of drunk that left you a bit nauseous while still conscious enough to be prone to anxiety.

You sit there in a dizzy oblivion for what could have been five minutes or fifty, tuning out the antics of the rest of the people in the room as they laugh and roughhouse. Your stomach stirs and turns, but your mind begins to clear: you notice Connie and Sasha choreographing a dance routine to music only they could hear; Mikasa and Armin sit quietly chatting behind Eren as he and Jean argue over who is more adept at fighting; Ymir and Christa are making googly eyes at each other over their giggles.

“Hey, guys?” you say, your brain lagging behind your mouth by at least a few seconds. “I’m probably about to throw up.” You quickly discover that you’re right, as your gut begins to bubble and your mouth begins to water.

“Oh, fuck,” Connie mumbles as he looks around the room desperately. Sasha looks disappointed as he stops dancing and approaches where you sit against the wall, gripping your wrists in his hands and helping you to your feet; with both of you being drunk enough to show it, stumbles are surely present. Time skips, and you’re kneeled in front of the toilet, Connie leaving to give you privacy — you’re decidedly much drunker than you thought you were.

Just as you start to vomit, you hear Eren defeatedly say, “Oh, fuck me.” That can’t be good.

The space goes silent save your groans. The most imaginative depths of your brain think that perhaps a titan is looking in the window, waiting to bring you all to your doom. How convenient for half of the newest scout recruits to be intoxicated and defenseless. When you hear Levi’s voice say, “Stupid fucking brats. Where is she?” you wish it were a titan instead.

A chorus of voices answer, “Bathroom.” What a bunch of fucking sellouts, you think to yourself. Your heartbeat begins to pound in your throat again as you hear his footsteps grow near; when he taps at the door a few times, you let it all out — out of fear or simple drunkenness you are unsure. “God damn it,” you hear him mumble before the door handle turns and his hands find your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail.

He rubs your back in a manner you can only describe as passive-aggressive. You can tell he wants to scold you — and you’re definitely in for it once you get to feeling better — but you can also tell that he wants to care for you. That’s why you try to pretend not to hear his curses as he lectures you on responsibility.

“Why the hell are you drinking with these idiots? I wouldn’t be mad if it was a glass or two, but there are three empty bottles on the floor in there. Three. No wonder you’re puking your fucking guts up,” he mutters, voice low enough for only you to hear despite his angry tone.

You feel your eyes watering as your stomach settles for another brief moment. “Levi,” you say, your breathing labored, “now is not the time.” You hear him scoff before you begin to dry heave, his hand moving a bit more caring across your back as he holds onto your hair. Your gut starts to feel a bit better as your brain realizes there’s nothing left. He places his hands under your arms and lifts you gently to your feet before flushing the toilet. You stumble awkwardly to his lead as he escorts you to the sink.

He reaches around you to turn on the water, which is cold to the touch as he holds your hand beneath it. “Clean your mouth out,” he says, nudging his hand around yours until you form a cup. “It’s disgusting.” You oblige him, lifting it to your lips. You feel it drip down your chin as you swish it around between your teeth, looking up in the mirror to see your blushing cheeks and droopy eyes. Levi stands behind you, dressed in no more than a grey t-shirt and some comfortable-looking pants. His hair is neat and combed, which doesn’t quite match the rest of his attire, but you aren’t complaining. He looks as ethereal as always. After you spit, he grabs your shoulder and spins you around to face him.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing the tears that had formed on your face away with his thumbs. You shake your head at him, your eyes trailing down to the ground. Here comes the scolding.

He sweeps you off your feet, to your surprise, holding you bridal-style as he carries you out of the bathroom. You lay your head against his shoulder, seeing the walls of the room and the faces of your friends go blurrily by as he strides to the door; they all look terrified.

“Laps,” you hear Levi announce to your friends, his voice icy. “At dawn. I don’t give a shit if you’re hungover.”

A chorus of groans is the soundtrack for your exit as the door slams shut. The walk back to Levi’s suite is spotty at best; you’re unsure of exactly how long it’s taking. The scenery around you feels more dreamlike than anything — you find yourself hoping that you’re still propped against the wall with your friends, sleeping soundly and dreaming of Levi catching you red-handed. When time jumps and he’s laying you down on his couch, you’re pretty sure you’re awake.

You hear rustling around as you lay there, still half waiting for a scolding. He rejoins you rather quickly, setting some things down on the side table and gently lifting your head. He sits, letting you back down slowly to lay in his lap. “I brought you bread,” he says, taking it from the table and placing it in your hands. “It’ll soak up the alcohol. There’s water over here when you need it.” You inspect the bread lazily before nibbling on it. The very idea of chewing something and swallowing it is enough to make you nauseous, but you trust his judgement.

You feel his hand fall atop your forehead and his fingers draw circles in your hair. You don’t fight the grin threatening your lips. “Are you okay, my love?” he asks, his voice soft. This is the tenderness you had fallen in love with many months ago; the one thing your friends are blind to. He carries himself with such coldness for the public — he is rude, and blunt, and insufferable, and unobtainable. With you, however, he could be kind. He could be loving. The speed with which his gentle voice melts your heart never lessens. This is Levi at his most vulnerable.

“I’m just drunk,” you tell him, your words slurring into each other. “I’m not dying.”

You hear a chuckle barely pass over his lips like a spring breeze, the sparkle in his eyes reminiscent of the way the sun reflects off the surface of a pond. The peaceful nature of your position is a worthy opponent to how your insides wage war on one another: nausea, dizziness, and the beginnings of what will become an absolutely splitting headache all contained within one disoriented body. “I would’ve gone with you, you know,” he says suddenly after a serene moment of silence. “I would’ve known when you needed to stop drinking.” He combs his fingers against your cheek, silvery eyes softening into pools of undeniable adoration.

“You would’ve been a complete buzzkill,” you reply, half joking as you close your eyes and enjoy the rare affection.

You hear a cross between a scoff and a laugh come from above you. “Keeping those brats from getting you so wasted that you start puking isn’t being a buzzkill. It’s called taking care of you.”

“I think I’m not drunk enough,” you say honestly. “We ran out of wine right at that stage where you could go to sleep or start throwing up, but there’s absolutely no chance of having a good time.”

He taps the top of your head with two fingers, prompting you to let him up. You oblige him, using the opportunity to lay down your bread and take a sip from the glass of water that rests on the side table. You watch as he saunters back toward the kitchen, wondering what he was doing somewhat, but mostly just trying to get a grip on your senses. You sit up as you wait on his return, laying your head back against the plush upholstery and taking deep breaths.

He’s back as quickly as he left, both hands behind his back in a feeble attempt to hide the wine glasses as their stems poked around to your view. You feel a smile creep onto your face as he unveils his master plan: a bottle of red wine and a glass for each of you. “Don’t expect this often,” he announces as he sets it all on the table, pulling a wine key from his pocket. He joins you on the couch, scooting in close so that your knees brush before you hear the satisfying pop of the cork and the relaxing swish of liquid on glass.

“You’re expecting me to believe that Captain Levi is offering to get drunk with me?” you giggle, almost nervous to reach for the wine in front of you. He laughs off your comment, reaching in front of him and lifting the glass to his lips; he takes only a sip before looking at you in expectation. You take yours as well, holding it up to his jokingly before you both bring them to your mouths.

After your first gulp, time begins to melt away. A movie-esque montage begins in front of your eyes: the sight of the man you love, once so stoic and so stiff, loosening and laughing the night away at your side; the feeling of typically isolated and scarce hands trailing carelessly along the length of your arms, warm against the sensitive skin of your wrists and your thighs; the smell of red wine spilled innocently on hardwood and upholstery without complaints or uprooting to clean it; the sound of his velvet and brass voice with his uncensored expressions of love, whispered and melodic; the taste of mint and jasmine tea on his unusually wandering lips.

What might be thirty minutes or three hours passes in a flash, leaving you sprawled across the couch with the drunken mess that is your typically reserved lover, legs utterly entangled so that you were unsure where you ended and he began. He’s whispering to you — that much you know — but his words are slurred, and you’re unbelievably distracted by the feeling of wet kisses being peppered along your jaw and ear. He grasps at your back, massaging and caressing and leaving no inch uncovered by his calloused hands as his touch reminds you why you breathe and laugh and plainly exist.

“Levi,” you whisper, your mind a tangled ball of twine save for the feeling of his breath on your cheek.

He hums in response, not bothering to look up at you. You can feel his grin against your jaw.

“We should get to bed, love.”

You’d be left to wonder how the two of you made it into the next room when morning came; rest assured there would be a trail from the couch to the bedroom door made from clumsily knocked-over knick knacks and your discarded clothes from the day to clue you in. If you were sober, you’d care enough about Levi’s wrath tomorrow to clean up behind the two of you; however, you aren’t sober, and you don’t care enough.

The two of you fall into the bed you share, intertwining your limbs like the threads of a tapestry, laying out plainly and beautifully the comfort you find in him. Your head finds his chest and his hands find your lower back, pulling you flush against him as his eyelids begin their threats to close before he is quite ready. He murmurs out your name, his hold on you growing more snug when it passes his lips. “I love you, s—” he falters, nuzzling his face in the top of your head. “So much.”

It’s short — and a pretty common thing for someone to say to the person they love — but it means everything coming from him. “I love you, Levi,” you tell him, praying to whatever is up there that you’ll remember this in the morning.

Soon, the two of you stop stirring and whispering. As you breathe him in, you try to hear his words in your mind as many times as you can before you slip out of consciousness. You begin to drift off to sleep, peaceful and content in his arms as you’ve ever been.

[jungnoir]

anti;

min yoongi | his worst enemy is himself. | 1.6k words. | angst, eventual fluff.

a/n: kinda personal and written in under an hour? kudos if you read this mess. inspired by zico’s anti.

There’s something funny about fame. The more you become the you what others want, the more you lose the you that made them fall for you in the first place. Sometimes, it’s trickery. Sometimes people don’t really want your wild, even if it arouses their interest and makes their eyes sparkle like celestial bodies. Sometimes they just want the satisfaction of knowing they tamed the beast. They slew the monster that was your inspiration, your individuality, your very being. They just want a show, and all shows have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Min Yoongi believed he would never fall victim to that mentality, even as company after company turned him down and his crowds of adoring fans struggled to hold more than a handful at best. He kept his heart locked in a cage, covered said cage in cement and threw said cage into a fiery volcano (if he was going to be dramatic about it). He tossed his feelings away at night, let them stew in the corners of his small room like hissing demons, claws outstretched and ready to drag him under for another wave of crippling sadness. On nights like those, he’d slip on some headphones and turn his music up to deafening. 

By the time he found actual luck, met the six boys he could call his family and made a new name for himself making music that more people would hear, his main focus was the haters behind computer screens and bulky, wannabe-tough street rappers who tried to strip him of his authenticity. He focused on reflecting the comments about him being “just an idol rapper”, because when you’re young, your biggest haters are on the other side of your skin... right?

He proved each and every hater wrong, put a middle finger to their faces because they were people with voices and not just his own floating in his head, suffocating him at night and making him restless. He cursed their names and laughed at their downfalls, because they were people and they weren’t just thoughts his worried mind would fabricate in the dead of night. He could put his hate to a name, put his abhorrence to a face, and this worked well for him until it didn’t.

Nobody knows what hell is until the one you’re fighting is yourself.

One morning, he woke up and couldn’t look himself in the mirror. Then the next, and the next, and the next. People would tell him his eye bags were too heavy and he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself. He slept too long and ate too little, worked too hard and found no joy in what happened around him.

“You look dead on your feet, Yoongi.” Namjoon would joke one morning, when Yoongi would tumble out of bed off of three hours of sleep, face puffy and eyes stinging. 

“Let’s not bother him, he’s working.” Hoseok would say, ushering the maknaes from Yoongi’s studio and flashing him an apologetic smile before they disappeared.

“He’s too much of a night owl. I don’t think he ever stops doing things.” Seokjin would laugh when asked how he was enjoying his roommate. 

“If you get even just a moment to yourself, you’re going to be crushed under the weight of every painful thought you’ve been caging away.” His mind would hiss, in the minutes he’d find himself struck so mentally exhausted that he’d just need a moment to stare at a wall and not fucking think.

Suddenly he’s not so worried about the ugly faces that swear up and down he’s all bark, no bite. Suddenly... he’s just trying to shut himself up.

Whether it’s blasting his music or going to parties or throwing himself into a mindless marathon of Overwatch with Jungkook and Taehyung, he’s always, always trying not to hear himself think. He knows, deep down, what he wants to do. Knows that if he could find a quiet place to do it, where he wouldn’t bother anyone with his voice and wouldn’t alarm anyone to check on him, he’d stand and scream at the top of his lungs the loudest “fuck you” he could ever utter. He would scream it towards the sky or scream it toward his reflection in the mirror, but a silly part of him is convinced the strength of the agony in his voice might make it shatter. 

And that would be fine. He kinda wants to watch something else shatter besides himself.

Instead, he resigns himself to his studio more than ever; empty bowls of microwave ramen and drained glasses of the worst alcohol he’s ever had litter one particular corner of his desk, and he had just managed the strength to move them all into one place if only to make him feel like he had control of at least one kind of clutter in his life. His headphones are on, studio style and noise-cancelling and much better than the crappy ten dollar ones he’d had in his teenage years, and his music is loud enough to make his head hurt, but for once... it’s not working. For once, the music doesn’t scare away his thoughts. For once, if anything, they’re even louder.

They won’t love you for long.

You’ll be a sellout soon. Why did you give up the real deal for this glorified shit?

Look how much you’ve hurt your family, your friends. You could have a stable job right now if you weren’t so damn stubborn.

They won’t love you for long.

They just like your face. You’re just another pretty idol rapper.

Someone younger is going to come along and they’re going to finish you.

They won’t love you for long.

His mind hurts with the weight of every word, heart clenching tight and wanting to burst as he can only mutter “please” and “stop” under his breath. He wants a break. He wants... he wants to break.

Your last song was trash, can’t you do better?

They won’t love you for long.

Have you seen these rappers today? They’d smoke you in a second if they got to go up against you.

They won’t love you for long.

Are you scared? You should be.

They won’t love you for long.

Every terrible thing you’ve imagined happening will happen. Because you-

“Yoongi?”

They won’t love you for long.

Just quit. You and I both know it’s about time.

They won’t love you for-

“Yoongi? Can you hear me?”

Don’t ask anyone for help. You’re way past that.

They won’t love you-

Suddenly the music he wasn’t even able to listen to is gone. He can hear everything outside now, can hear the loud thumping of his heart, can hear his quick breathing, can hear his sobs he didn’t even know he was letting out.

And there you are. Dressed in his sweater and your hair tied up in the messiest knot known to man and he loves it, loves you. You’re so beautiful, do you even know? 

Your hand is holding his headphones and your eyes are wide but not in horror. In heartbreak. You see his ruby red cheeks and the salt water that streams down his flushed skin, and he continues to sob even as he stares right at you, something he’d never do in your presence if it had been any other day. 

You hold those headphones and toss them aside in favor of pulling him into you, his head falling against your soft middle, and the minute he feels your fingers brushing his scalp and your soothing voice telling him it’s alright, he breaks down completely. He knows his sweater is practically ruined with his snot and tears but he doesn’t care and neither do you. 

You hold him like that, whispering sweet nothings, affirmations that quiet down the dark feelings inside him and leave him feeling peacefully empty for once. His sobs are the most pained you’ve ever heard, and with the door to the studio still open, the six boys in the dorm are summoned to the rescue. Each one piles in, all in shock at the sight of their Yoongi, their Yoongi, broken down in tears and looking absolutely destroyed.

One by one, they all look between you (his lover, his best friend, the one who he can tell all his secrets too but managed to leave out the greatest one) and him (the strong one, the logical one, the one who always knew what to say and never let anything get to his head). And one by one they gather and close around the both of you in a cocoon of warm arms and strong love. You can feel their feelings for Yoongi, the sadness that they had found him this way and the urgency to help him know he wasn’t alone, and it warms the atmosphere but your hearts still hurt and call for him.

And Yoongi? His heart is not completely healed. It might not be for a long time. The bad feelings will creep back and his bad thoughts will circle around his head once more. He might end up right back here once more as a tearful, pained mess again and it’ll hurt just as much as it did the first time.

But. All he can think is as long as he ends up exactly here, in pain but being loved by all of you, he could tell the voices to go once more. He could sleep another night and wake another day and live. 

He doesn’t mind if the dreaded “they” won’t love him for long. He doesn’t do it for them: the critics, the music elitists, the naysayers. He does it all for the people who love him, the people who are holding him right now.

The thoughts in his head are tough, but Min Yoongi is one hell of an adversary.