#they are also both so fucking calm. and have incredibly dry humor

[coffin-flop]

fucking first amendment auditors came into my job today, however the two people who were working the service desk when they were the funniest fucking ppl to have on the desk

#they're both big (tall + broad) white dudes in their 40s #one who is a d&d big time nerd and loves talking abt rhe fun genders and sexualiries in his game #and another who loves the new gay cinema movement and is constantly lending me trans movies #they are also both so fucking calm. and have incredibly dry humor #so like these ppl were chatting them up and they would give like one word answers #or really sarcastic answers #and it was just so funny to watch from the former of my eye #and then to hear them borh recount the tale lmao #personal #there was 0 drama I just hope they're not gonna post pics of certain books or movies to talk shit on the library

[cinnaminsvga]

a love that endures | Yoongi

→ summary: 

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look who’s coming over to say hello!”

{or alternatively: Yoongi and Y/N. Y/N and Yoongi. High school sweethearts that were never meant to last, until a reunion ten years later manages to reignite a flame that never quite burnt out.} 

→ genre: high school reunion!au, exes to lovers, fluff, humor, minor angst → warnings: shy!yoongi and shy!oc live rent free in my brain, mutual pining is poggers, hoseok and seokjin aren’t evil for once in a cinnaminsvga fic, implied smut so it’s pg-13 because i’m a wimp → words: 14.4K → a/n: SHE’S ALIVE!! this is dedicated to @himbeaux-joon​ who commissioned this piece ages ago. thank you again for requesting this because this was honestly so much fun to write. i’ve been in a bit of writing slump these past few weeks but this fic came out so easily and got way longer than expected (perhaps because it’s about yoongi and he’s always been the easiest one to write for me). enjoy!! ;o;

The mere sight of him is enough to knock the wind out of you.

Your body freezes, the hand curled around your paper cup filled with punch tightening ever so slightly. It isn’t like you’re surprised that he came; you aren’t supposed to be. Of course, you should have expected his arrival, but you’ve been hoping all night that he might have been too busy to attend.

He isn’t even on time—it has almost been two hours since the event started and you had been filled with a false hope that perhaps he had RSVP’d and decided he couldn’t make it. 

You had seen Hoseok, his best friend from your younger days, standing outside the entrance of the ballroom before they had started letting people in. The moment Hoseok saw you, he immediately came over to sweep you into a tight hug, his infectious laughter ringing in your ears. He had greeted you happily, expressing how much he missed you since high school, but never once bringing up the elephant in the room.

It wasn’t like you were going to bring him up first. No, that would be weird on your part. Nevermind the fact that going to high school reunions was a recipe for reliving past traumas and seeing all your childhood friends either married or pregnant—you weren’t going to be that person who asked where their ex was. You refused to be the person craning their neck to spy on the entrance every two minutes, hoping to catch sight of an old familiar face.

The problem is that you are that person, and you kind of hate yourself for it. However, it is also the reason why you are probably the only person in the entire ballroom who notices his quiet arrival.

He has never liked causing commotions, which is often apparent from the way he conducts himself. He walks into the room just as a loud round of applause breaks out; an old schoolmate of yours is walking up to the podium, probably the person who had arranged the get-together in the first place. It is a perfect distraction for him as he slinks past the door, keeping near the wall so as not to be seen by anyone just yet.

(Except he has been seen—he just doesn’t know it yet.)

You do not know for how long you stare at him, just that it takes you a moment to realize you haven’t taken a breath since he stepped foot into the same space as you. You take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your racing heartbeat to calm down. You swallow thickly, throat so unbearably dry that even drinking from your lukewarm cup of punch doesn’t seem to do anything.

But the undeniable truth is there, standing only a few meters away from you, and nothing on earth will be able to wash away the nerves flooding through your system.

After ten years of radio silence, Min Yoongi is in your orbit once again.

In the grand scheme of things, ten years wasn’t all that long. Four years in university had passed by in a blur, and the absolute chaos that ensued right after you graduated as you scrambled to secure a job and move out of your hometown had made the days seem shorter than they actually were. You had not even noticed that time was passing until you found that cream envelope waiting for you one day after work, your alma mater’s school crest painfully recognizable even after all these years.

During all that time, the world around you shifted without you noticing, and that meant people were changing too.

Yoongi is 28 now. And so are you, after many months of denial. You have not seen each other since you were both 18—both of you far too young to know about any of the things you would experience in the next ten years.

He might have grown a little taller since then, something you are sure that your brother will find amusing. His hair isn’t dyed like you remembered, as he has opted to keep it his natural dark black that you have not seen since you were both in middle school. It’s styled differently too: combed over and gelled back, with his bangs pushed back and his forehead exposed. When he turns his head to the side, a gasp spills past your lips before you can stop it.

“Is that a fucking undercut?” you mutter in shock, your eyes straining out of their sockets as you try to drink him in. Even under the dim lighting of the ballroom, his new haircut is hard to miss. No one else seems to be undergoing the same mental collapse as you, judging by how everyone’s attention is still fixated on the person speaking at the podium. How the hell is no one else losing their fucking minds to the sight of Min Yoongi with a fucking undercut? Some questions are impossible to answer, you surmise.

When you decided to attend the reunion, you had not once thought about how Yoongi would look like. Somehow, you had developed this stagnant picture of him in your head, even after all these years. To you, he will always be the boy with the stark blonde hair, the mismatched eyelids, the pouty lips, the dumpling cheeks. He is the boy who can’t wear his own contact lenses to save his life, the boy who sometimes wears his favorite leather jacket to sleep, the boy who only drinks Americanos like it was water.

Gone are those days, you realize. That image of him has been smashed to pieces, instead replaced by this dashing (and incredibly hot) man—a stranger. A stranger with unbleached (and healthy) hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He has his glasses kept away, and there is no leather jacket in sight.

But you can see him, if you look hard enough. The same spark in his eye, the same curve of his lips. You catch him smiling for a second, and his cheeks still puff up like dough. Maybe it’s just hopeless thinking, but you see him. It’s still him. To you, he will always be your 18-year-old Min Yoongi, the one who would greet you with a sweet kiss on the forehead every time you would—

Raucous applause breaks you from your train of thought, and you blink rapidly in surprise. You have to forcibly pull yourself out of your Yoongi-induced trance, clapping alongside everyone without really knowing what was going on. All of the extra noise sounds like buzzing in your ears, especially when it is drowned out by the roar of your blood rushing to your head all at once.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. We will begin the program right after dinner, so please feel free to help yourselves to the buffet! Cheers everyone!” You faintly hear your old schoolmate speak, before her voice is quickly overrun by the commotion of people walking over to the extravagant display of food. It takes a moment for the crowd of heads to disperse, so when you can finally look back to where you last saw Yoongi, he is no longer alone.

Hoseok has his arm slung around Yoongi, his infectious laughter loud enough to be heard over clinking plates and silverware. The two are as different as night and day, with Hoseok practically bouncing from excitement and Yoongi rolling his eyes from annoyance. But it is easy to see that his pout is nothing but a ruse; you can already catch the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

You feel your own seams breaking, unwittingly sporting a grin of your own. It is nice to know that Yoongi hasn’t been alone all this time, that he still seems close with his old best friend. You cannot count the number of friendships that you have lost over time, and you still grieve many of them during your quiet moments. Alas, it was often never even anyone’s fault, the strains of adulthood often being the biggest deal breakers in your relationships.

That is, of course, except for one.

“Enjoying yourself? I didn’t think we’d share the same voyeuristic tendencies,” says a voice, creeping up behind you. Now, normal people would not usually expect other sane people to invade your personal space and breathe directly into your ear, but that’s just your humble opinion. What you do know is that one certain individual enjoys breaking the mold when it comes to societal norms, and it is none other than…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You shriek, nearly sucker-punching the offending degenerate in the face. You hold back your fist from connecting with his face, but your resulting irritation remains. Whether that irritation is because you regret holding back or not will unfortunately also have to remain unanswered. “Oh God, it’s you.”

“Oh, no need for that. Most people usually call me Seokjin,” he snickers, thoroughly enjoying your flushed face. Kim Seokjin pats you on the shoulder, his trademark “pretty boy” smile still as radiant as you remembered. It does nothing to quell your urge to raise your fists again, however. “Hello, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here!”

“The feeling is not mutual,” you snort. Much like how Yoongi was with Hoseok, your derision is nothing but a rouse. As much as you want to kick Seokjin in the nuts, you also cannot ignore how much you want to hug him the slimy bastard—but you definitely will not be the first one to admit it. So like the tsundere that you are, you decide to insult him instead. “Why are you here? You’re not even from this class. Don’t you have other things to do? Or rather, people to do?”

“My heart! You wound me,” he gasps, grasping his chest as though he’d been shot. “How could you say that to your best friend in the entire world? Don’t you know how much I missed you?”

“Easy. I do it because the only other alternative would lead me straight to prison,” you shrug, but your grin betrays you.

This time, you don’t jolt away when he closes in for a hug. “And I guess I miss you too,” you say, your words slightly muffled into his chest. Like always, he sees through your prickly act because as much as you like to pretend, Kim Seokjin is kind of amazing—loose bolts and all.

“It’s nice to know that your tongue hasn’t lost its edge, though I suppose I wouldn’t be intimately knowledgeable in that area. After all, I still am very much a raging homosexual and pussy isn’t really my forte,” Seokjin guffaws, his volume causing a few nearby guests to raise their heads in alarm.

You bow at them, sheepishly apologizing on his behalf before grabbing him by the collar.

“Will you stop being embarrassing for just one second? I swear, I thought I retired from my babysitting job when I graduated high school,” you hiss, but the way his mouth curls up with mischief is answer enough. God, you missed this son of a bitch.

“Unfortunately for you, being a pest is part of my DNA,” he smirks, carefully plucking your hands off from his neck, as though your nails were not mere inches away from ripping his trachea into pieces. “Though, I am offended by your assumption that I am still the same slut that you knew. I’ve grown up a little, you know! I’m a changed man!”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you of all people have settled down,” you laugh, not missing the way Seokjin’s perfectly stenciled brow raises slightly.

“I know we haven’t seen each other since Christmas, but come on Y/N! You of all people should be applauding me for my improved behavior! You must have noticed how much I changed when I visited.”

“When you visited me last Christmas, you immediately insulted my taste in kitchen towels, went on Grindr to find a hookup despite my numerous pleas, and promptly desecrated my guest bedroom that no housekeeper or priest is willing to exorcise to this day,” you gag, shuddering at the memory. “And then you ate all my ice cream and proceeded to clog my toilet!”

“Um? Aren’t you forgetting that I also bought you that dress you wanted? Rude,” Seokjin retorts, not the least bit remorseful. “Well, that’s what you get for agreeing to be my best bitch for life. You know that I take pinky promises very seriously.”

Unfortunately, he does take his promises seriously. It is probably the only thing he’ll ever be serious about, as much as the man enjoys parading his depravity. “Okay, whatever. I’ll bite. Who’s the unlucky man you’ve managed to deceive into a relationship?”

“Oh, it’s someone we both used to know. I’m his plus one for tonight,” he says, supplying you with the most useless non-answer imaginable.

“Seokjin. We’re at a high school reunion. We know everyone here. That could be anyone!” you exclaim.

“Well, isn’t that fun? Then we can do a scavenger hunt!” Seokjin grins, clapping his hands together excitedly. He pulls you in front of him, forcing the two of you to survey the crowd. “Okay, hold your arm out like this—” After a few seconds of you failing to resist him, he manages to get you to unfurl your finger as if you were about to order something from the dollar menu at McDonalds. Unfortunately for you, the tall twink is stronger than he appears. “—and just keep pointing around until I tell you that you’re getting warmer!”

“Seokjin, I don’t think this is very—” you start, but Seokjin is already moving your arm for you. Like a hurricane, Kim Seokjin listens to no one but his own homewrecking whims.

“Park Chanyeol? Close, but not really. You should know that I don’t double dip with past flings,” he says, shifting you to the left. “Kim Namjoon? Now that’s a hunk of meat that I wish I’d taken a bite of, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a ruler. Pass,” he hums, continuing to move you bit by bit.

You’re both getting uncomfortably close to where Yoongi is, and Seokjin doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. You did notice that Yoongi had come dateless to the reunion (a fact, by the way, that you did not rejoice over when you had noticed), but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single. You have known Seokjin for more than a decade at this point, and despite your odd friendship, you are sure that he would never do anything to hurt you on purpose.

Though, that does beg the question… How far does his dick thirst really go? Maybe you’ll finally find out today.

“Warmer, getting warmer…” Seokjin inches you closer and closer to where Yoongi is standing. You feel frozen in his grasp, unsure if you wanted to know anymore. If Seokjin really is dating Yoongi, then what? It’s not like you were dating him anyway… What difference does it make if it’s Seokjin?

(It makes all the difference, but you refuse to think about it.)

“Nope, not Wonho... A little bit to the left… Bingo!” Seokjin declares, stopping your finger right on— “No, Y/N! Stop moving! You’ve gone too far to the wall! I was pointing at him.”

“H-Hoseok? You’re dating Hoseok?!” You squeak, an avalanche of relief flooding through you. You don’t even have the energy to pretend to be composed as your entire body starts untensing involuntarily, your shoulders slumping as though a weight has been lifted from you. “Why couldn’t you have just told me like a normal person? Why must everything be tortuous and dramatic when it comes to you?”

“I am a naturally insufferable and theatrical person. Sue me,” he shrugs, greatly enjoying the exhausted look on your face. “What? Were you actually scared that I was dating your sloppy seconds? What do you think I am? An asshole?”

You stare at him. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Seokjin scoffs. “If I wanted to get roasted, I would approach two tops at a gay bar.” He pauses. “Wait, are you seriously not going to congratulate me for finally snagging a boy who has a functioning moral compass?”

“Define ‘snagging.’ Did you, like, tie him up and blackmail him to become your boyfriend like those terrible One Direction Wattpad fanfics, or—” You stop halfway, giggling at your friend’s unamused pout. “Okay, okay. Yes, Seokjin. I am very proud of you. Congrats on finally becoming an adult. Your hoe days are over.”

“Who said they were over?” He snorts. Noticing your alarm, Seokjin rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m not into infidelity and you know that. I just meant that I’m still a hoe with significantly fewer options.”

“How did that even happen in the first place?” you say, jabbing your thumb in Hoseok’s direction. Thankfully, the man in question is still busy talking to Yoongi, though you don’t know for how much longer. If Seokjin isn’t lying, then there’s a high chance they’re going to walk over to say hi and you’re not sure if you’re mentally prepared to go through the five stages of grief all over again.

“Believe me, I’m surprised as well. I started dating Hoseok after he asked me for help with his sister’s wedding gift. He asked me to help arrange an itinerary for her sister’s honeymoon in America,” Seokjin explains with a dreamy smile. He sighs, holding a hand up to his chest. You can physically see the heart emojis circling his head like a halo. “We hit it off from there and dare I say… Not only is he the only person who can keep up with my high maintenance lifestyle, but dear Lord, he could totally be recruited into the NDA for his astounding dick game—”

“Ever heard of TMI? Gross,” you interrupt, your face crumpling in disgust. You shove him away when his loud cackles start rattling your eardrums.

“You were scared though, right?” he says through his giggles. “When you thought that I was dating Yoongi?”

Of course Seokjin had noticed your mini-mental breakdown, judging from the shit-eating grin on his face.

“N-no,” you stutter, but your heated cheeks and averted gaze give you away. “E-either way, I wouldn’t have cared if you did!” you say. You know, like a liar.

“I bet you don’t care that Yoongi got significantly hotter in the past ten years too, huh?” Seokjin teases, snickering loudly. Under the harsh lighting of the fluorescent chandelier lights, you might have mistaken the boy in front of you for the devil instead of your best friend of almost twenty years.

“I sincerely rue the day I introduced myself to you in the third grade,” you hiss, sipping from your cup to hide your humiliation.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re all embarrassed,” Seokjin coos, pinching your cheeks with the gentleness of an ape. You slap his hand away, unable to think of any retort.

“Cat got your tongue? You didn’t even deny it when I accused you,” Seokjin laughs. He claps his hands jovially, acting as though he’s enjoying a show at the circus. Given your performance tonight, that statement isn’t all that far from reality.

“I don’t need to defend myself from you,” you say, puffing your cheeks indignantly. “I just… think he looks handsome. Is that illegal or something?”

“Certainly not. Though, you might want to dial down the pining a teensy bit,” he singsongs. “That’s how I found you in the first place. I sensed your pining from a mile away and came as soon as I could!”

“I wasn’t pining!” you exclaim. “I was just… admiring the plant beside him.”

“Right, sure,” Seokjin says, arching an eyebrow in challenge. You feel your hackles rising at his smug expression, your ‘Seokjin-is-about-to-ruin-your-life’ alarm ringing in your ears. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I brought you over there to say hello? After all, my boyfriend is over there and as much as I enjoy pestering you, I also want to be with him very much.”

You whistle lowly, impressed. “Wow, that’s actually kind of sweet of you.”

“Yes, I know. Kim Seokjin’s heart grew three sizes that day, yada yada yada.” Seokjin says sarcastically, but his lovesick smile ruins the effect. When he opens his mouth once more, the mirage instantly disappears. “But you would understand if you saw how much he’s packing—”

“Shut up, I didn’t ask—”

“Fine, then let’s ask the man himself! Besides, you know you’re being ridiculous, right?” Seokjin tuts, annoyed. He fixes you with a glare, making you feel like a scolded child. “It’s just Yoongi. You and I both know he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body and probably would love to see you after so long.”

You wave your hands around helplessly, almost sloshing your drink onto a nearby bystander. After muttering a meek apology at your harried classmate, you turn back to Seokjin with a defeated sigh.

You know that he’s right, and you absolutely hate him for it. “Jinnie, I’m a mess! I can hardly think with Yoongi standing meters away from me, much less if he were to stand right in front of me! I’m just going to embarrass myself,” you lament, holding your head in your hand.

“That’s true. You will definitely embarrass yourself,” Seokjin hums, nodding sagely. He shrugs his shoulders. “All the more reason we should do it. Relax, I’ll be your wingman like old times! All we have to do is remind him of all the fantastic, mind-blowing coitus you had in your youth and he’ll be a goner for sure.”

“If by goner, you mean he’ll be gone from my life permanently this time, then you’re right,” you groan. You have a half a mind to dump the remainder of your disgusting punch all over his expensive Bottega Veneta coat, though you also don’t want to spend the next three months receiving packaged turds from Seokjin in your mailbox. “Please, just let me suffer in silence for the remainder of the night, okay? Is that really too much to ask?”

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look of who’s coming over to say hello!”

Swiveling around, you see that your intuition is right: Yoongi and Hoseok are swiftly making their way through the crowd, one of them appearing to be more enthusiastic than the other. You swallow thickly, your palms growing damp as they get closer to where the two of you stand.

"Seokjin, we gotta go!" you hiss, but your panic goes largely ignored as your best friend leaves you to envelop his lover in a dramatic embrace.

The two men exchange teary and heartfelt touches, acting as if they had been separated by years of war instead of the meager minutes they had spent apart to greet their long-time friends.

"My honeybunch! Oh, how I've missed you so much!" Seokjin cries, nuzzling his nose into Hoseok's neck. You might have mistaken him for a vampire with how aggressively he sniffs Hoseok's skin. Had Seokjin been 5% more unhinged, you do not doubt that he might have started suckling on his boyfriend like a leech.

"Oh, hyung. It's barely been an hour, but why does it feel like it has been forever?" Hoseok sighs forlornly, jaw clenching as though he's in pain. He croaks out a sob, lifting Seokjin in the air and spinning him around. "My love, let us never part again!"

You take a few steps away from them, trying to make it apparent to all the bewildered onlookers that you have nothing to do with homosexual Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

"What kind of shitty production is this? I want my money back," you murmur, fake-gagging behind the two of them. The lovesick fools pay no mind to your disgust; in fact, they seem to relish in it. Their efforts double, their theatrical kissy-smoochy sound effects causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "Seriously, I've had enough of this and I've only been forced to witness it for two seconds."

"Tell me about it," says a voice to your left. Startled, you nearly let out a shocked gasp when you realize that Yoongi had found his way by your side, his own disgusted gaze fixed on the bumbling buffoons still lost in their world. He glances at you for a second, quirking his lips into a small smile. "Hey, Y/N."

In just six words, Min Yoongi manages to make time grind to a halt. You gape at him, your brain ceasing in function. It takes you a full minute to realize that the man standing beside you is not a figment of your imagination. You had been so caught up in the absurdity of the situation that for a moment you had forgotten that Yoongi is a real person.

It's Yoongi, your first love. The person you haven't seen or spoken to in years. The man who has haunted your dreams for over a decade. He's standing right beside you, and he's smiling at you. He's here, he's hot, and he's saying hello.

Like the incredibly eloquent and profound person that you are, you reply: "Yellow!"

You had meant to say "Yoongi, hello!" like a normal person, but your brain had amalgamated your words during its rebooting process. And so, you are left standing there silently, frozen by your embarrassment. You swear you can hear a pin drop as you beg for the earth to swallow you whole.

Unfortunately for you, the floor remains painfully tangible beneath your feet, forcing you to clear your throat and expound on your mystifying exclamation. Yoongi watches you with curious eyes, patiently waiting for you to speak.

"W-what I meant to say is, uh," you stammer, your cheeks heating up to an alarming degree. "Those yellow streamers are pretty tacky, don't you think?"

Nice one. In terms of comebacks, you would personally give yourself a C for effort. (Note: C stands for "Can I please shove a fist up my ass and crabwalk the fuck out of here?")

Yoongi contemplates the tacky decorations in question, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. They pretty much look like the stuff we'd make in elementary school during Arts and Crafts." He points to your mutual friends, grimacing in annoyance. "Them, on the other hand? No child should ever come into contact with those heathens."

"You're right," you snort, shaking your head.

There is a long and awkward pause. Yoongi clears his throat, swaying from side to side while staring at his shoes. You aren't any better, twiddling your thumbs as you will your cheeks to stop flushing. Your senses are practically screaming at you to run away and hide forever, but your limbs feel disjointed from the rest of you.

It's like we're at the zoo on a date and the monkeys won't stop fucking each other, your mind unhelpfully supplies, offering you an image that will permanently make its home on the backs of your eyelids.

Desperate to break the silence, eventually you say, "Hey, Yoongi—"

Right at the same time, Yoongi says, "Hey, Y/N—"

Another pause, but this one is slightly less tense. The two of you share a nervous laugh, though yours sounds a little bit more hysterical. You motion for him to speak first.

"I, uh... wanted to say that you look great. Yeah. Like, you haven't aged a day at all. N-not to say that I don't think you've matured or..." Yoongi stumbles over his words, his voice cracking.

Instead of feeling relieved that he's just as nervous as you, his anxiety only exacerbates your own. There's a reason you have never been good at public speaking, and this is a good example of why:

"No! I get what you mean, don't worry about it," you laugh, on the verge of a mental breakdown. What the fuck is this conversation, even? "You look exactly the same too. Umm... Of course, except for the, uh, hair?"

"Oh, you mean the gray hairs?"

"No, no! Of course not! I m-meant your hair looks really hot—I mean good! It looks GOOD," you repeat, frantically emphasizing the last bit. You had instinctively panicked, your voice rising in pitch.  If your cheeks weren't flaming hot already, then they're definitely redder than Seokjin's ass after a Friday night of fun.

The apples of Yoongi's cheek match your own flustered state, though you can imagine that you’re probably at least a hundred times worse. “Well, thank you. I was actually feeling self-conscious about my hair, so hearing that from you is really… nice,” he says, brushing his hair shyly. “I’m kinda done with bright colored hair for now, so seeing my hair in its natural state is still kind of weird.”

“I seriously doubt that Y/N was talking about your hair color, Yoongi,” Hoseok interjects, magically reappearing behind you when you don’t notice. You flinch in surprise, causing him to let out a hearty chuckle at your jumpiness. It seems that today is “Let’s scare the living shit out of Y/N” day with how many people have crept up on you in just one night.

Beside him, Seokjin looks like a bomb ready to explode, his fist jammed up his mouth to keep his guffaws from slipping out. “God, this is even better than the cringe compilations I watch on Youtube,” he wheezes, wiping a stray tear.

“Don’t be so mean to them, hyung! Don’t mind him,” Hoseok says to you, bowing apologetically. He smiles cherubically at Yoongi. “See, Yoongi? I told you that Y/N is even hotter up close!”

“God, fucking kill me,” you hear Yoongi groan.

“So, have you guys caught up yet, or have you just been fumbling around each other like a couple of horny teenagers?” Seokjin snickers, narrowly avoiding your heel stomping his foot.

“We’ve only just said hello. Leave us alone, jackass,” you huff.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, Hoseok and I can go on our merry ways if you wish—”

“Yoongi! Did you tell Y/N about your work back in Seoul? I bet she’d love to hear about it,” Hoseok interrupts smoothly, saving you from further embarrassment (courtesy of his infuriating goblin of a boyfriend.)

You blink in surprise, turning to the man in question. “You live in Seoul now? Did you move there after finishing university?” you ask.

“Well,” Yoongi starts, clearing his throat. He’s permanently pink at this point, not that you mind in the slightest. He always did have the cutest blush (and once upon a time, you used to love teasing him about it.) “I sort of dropped out of university early. Decided it wasn’t really my thing, you know?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Yoongi. You were a fantastic student. I’m sure Y/N remembers how smart you are,” Hoseok says, winking inconspicuously at you.

You force out a laugh in response. You know perfectly well what he was trying to do; Hoseok isn’t slick in the slightest, though you do admit that you are intrigued to find out what Yoongi had done over the years.

It isn’t like you haven’t been keeping tabs on him. In your defense, it’s hard to stay away from news about Yoongi when he’s such a big deal. So what if you’ve watched a couple of his interviews and streamed all of his songs? He’s always been talented with music, and all the radio shows seem to agree. You couldn’t get away from him if you tried (and it’s not like you were trying very hard, anyway.)

Yoongi shrugs, rubbing his neck bashfully. “E-either way, I decided to tough it out, you know? Follow my dreams and all that, even if it nearly killed me.”

“And now, he’s working in a famous idol company as one of their head producers,” Hoseok finishes for him, chest puffing up in pride. He slaps his best friend on the back, not noticing that he had inadvertently caused Yoongi's spine to cave in from his strength. “Yoongi is so cool, and humble too! He’s been working behind the scenes for a bunch of big names and never got greedy for attention even though he totally deserves it.”

“Damn, so no street cred? Bit schewpid, innit? Imagine all the chicks you could’ve landed, bruv!” Seokjin says, imitating a terrible British accent. You make a move to hit him in the groin, but for once, Hoseok beats you to the punch.

“Nope! Yoongi-chi is super single, aren’t you?” Hoseok says with a sweet grin, ignoring the pained groans of his lover on the floor.

“No need to rub it in, Seok-ah,” Yoongi grumbles defensively. He coughs into his fist, grinding his foot into the floor. He throws a glance your way. “Just been… too busy, I guess.”

From the floor, Seokjin holds up a hand, grasping at Hoseok’s pant leg to hoist himself up. “What a coincidence. Y/N is super single too. In fact, her pussy is so dry that there’d be no chance for any yeast infections to develop—WAIT, DON’T HIT ME AGAIN I PROMISE I’LL BEHAVE!” Seokjin is on his knees, holding his arms up in surrender as Hoseok’s boot is about to connect with his stomach.

“I know I said I was into BDSM, but not like this!” Seokjin says, faking a sob.

“Then behave, darling,” Hoseok replies, eyes lighting dangerously. When he returns his attention to you, you and Yoongi back away instinctively. “Sorry about him. We have an… arrangement,” he says, waving his hands vaguely.

“Understood,” you both say, not understanding but also not wanting to.

Seokjin manages to straighten up eventually, his skin slightly paler than it was before. “A-as I was saying,” he exhales, still gingerly cupping his crotch. “Y/N has been single for so long, but I don’t blame her. Not after that awful disaster of a boyfriend, right? God, Sungjae fucking sucked ass, and not even in the sexy way.”

“Um, yeah…” you say hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. You can feel Hoseok’s and Yoongi’s eyes trained on you, but you’re not confident enough to know that you can keep your face neutral.

With your gaze averted, you don’t notice the way Yoongi’s posture tenses. “Is that so,” he says carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hoseok says. You can hear the genuine sadness in his tone, and you chance a peek at him. He pats your shoulder gently, giving you a soft smile. “Honestly, I feel you. I’ve definitely been there, done that. That’s why I’m grateful for Seokjin-hyung, believe it or not. He’s been really good for me.”

“Hah, I told you I’m a good person!” Seokjin says. Again, he goes ignored.

“It’s fine. It’s all water under the bridge,” you say, shrugging. You can still feel Yoongi’s persistent gaze on the side of your head like a brand. You’re kind of afraid to see what sort of expression he has despite the curiosity burning inside of you.

You are still in the middle of debating if it’s worth explaining or not (and to a lesser extent, why you feel like you need to explain yourself to anyone), everyone’s attention is caught by the onslaught of waiters bringing in a fresh batch of food to the buffet. Your stomach growls in response, and you are reminded of the fact that you haven’t eaten since breakfast in preparation for tonight’s event.

“Hold that thought, Y/N,” Hoseok says, holding up a finger. “Hyung! I saw a platter of tuna belly and I know that shit is gonna disappear in two seconds. Let’s head out!” He tugs Seokjin in a hurry, the elder’s gangly legs flying about as he trips over himself to keep up. Seokjin yelps and hollers for him to slow down, but the hangry Hoseok train stops for no one. They run off, leaving Hoseok-and-Seokjin-shaped dust clouds in their wakes.

“Wow,” Yoongi says, dumbfounded. “Did we just get ditched by our two self-proclaimed best friends in the world?”

You nod, equally dumbfounded. “I guess we did.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking traitors.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

Without your friends acting as buffers, the pair of you return to your painfully awkward states. You rack your brain for a conversation topic, anything to keep the tension at bay. You don’t feel nearly comfortable enough to ask him about his love life, even though you want nothing more than to shake the details right out of him. For perfectly sane reasons, of course.

Lucky for you, Yoongi thinks of a solution. “Um, I guess we should go grab our food as well? I’m assuming we’ll be sitting together since our friends are... you know. Unless you don’t want to, then that’s also perfectly fine with me. I can find somewhere else to sit.”

“I’d love to sit with you,” you say, cringing at your choice of words. Love to? What are you, desperate?! your brain screeches at you, and you mentally beat yourself in the coochie.

Deep down, you know that you’re overreacting, but you can’t help acting like a blushy teenager talking to your crush when you’re around Yoongi. It’s almost as if you’ve reverted to your high school days, back when you’d both started to notice your feelings for each other and the steady flow of butterflies erupting in your stomach had felt less like a burden and more like a revelation.

After tossing your disgusting drink into a nearby bin, you and Yoongi line up behind the rest of your classmates for the buffet, the scene reminiscent of having lunch at your old high school cafeteria. You’re still mildly distracted by Yoongi’s proximity, not looking at what food you were getting and randomly scooping and hoping you don’t dislike all of them.

From the corner of your eye, you notice that Yoongi’s plate is steadily piling up, probably with enough food to feed two people. You’ve never known Yoongi to be much of a heavy eater, but you suppose that free food is still free food at the end of the day.

“So,” Yoongi says after a beat. He pulls you from your trance, and you catch the small smile on his face that tells you that he figured you had been distracted. “How is Jungkook, by the way? He graduated from university a year ago or something, right?”

You pause, your hand stilling on the metal tongs. “How did you know he graduated last year?”

He shrugs. “Well, assuming that he didn’t take any gap years, I did the math and figured he should be at the age where he’s looking for a job.” He turns to you with a sly grin. “Plus, I’m still his friend on Facebook.”

“That’s surprising,” you comment. You backtrack a little, “And I mean it’s surprising in the sense that… All his posts are reshares from dank meme pages and I thought you wouldn’t be into that.”

Yoongi laughs. “I’m not. But… it’s nice to know how things are back home, I guess.”

Do you wonder about me, too? you think, but you internally shake your head. But why would he? He doesn’t owe you anything.

“And your dad? I heard he got hip surgery last fall,” Yoongi says.

“Wait, Jungkook has been posting about our dad’s surgery on his Facebook?”

“Oh! No, not exactly.” Yoongi clears his throat, suddenly nervous. He heaps a big portion of kimchi, some of it staining his sleeve. “I… called him a few days ago, to catch up.”

You’re staring at him, and you dimly register the people lined up behind you huffing impatiently. “You… called him? You have his cell number, too?”

“No, I just… happen to still have your home telephone number memorized and hoped that you guys hadn’t moved,” he says, a little guiltily.

You’re silent for a moment, thoughtlessly scooping more bean sprouts onto your plate than any sane person would be comfortable eating. The two of you inch along the buffet display as you attempt to process his sudden confession.

On one hand, you’re slightly betrayed that your own brother hadn’t thought to mention that your ex had called him, but on the other hand, what would you have done if he did? Ask if you could say hello? The Y/N from last month probably would have laughed if she had known that Min Yoongi still cared enough to call and check on her family, much less have her landline memorized even after all these years.

He still cared.

Unbeknownst to everyone in the room, your heart skips a beat at the thought. You cradle a hand to your chest, urging your nerves to quell. Keep it together, you beg your stupid, naive heart. You can survive one night without falling in love again, can’t you?

...can you?

“I…” you stammer. You swallow thickly, desperate for something to say, anything to stop your mind from going in the wrong direction. “They miss you, you know? You have no idea how many times my parents ask if you’re coming home for Christmas, or—I don’t know.”

“Yeah, my parents are the same. They always wanna know if I’m coming home for the holidays, and they,” he hesitates, swallowing thickly, “They always ask about you, too.”

Oh.

“Oh,” you mutter lamely. Your cheeks feel like they’ve been lit on fire the moment you got here, and you haven’t even visited the bar yet.

You finally make it to the end of the long buffet table where there is a large chocolate fountain just begging for you to ravage if only your stomach wasn’t besieged by butterflies. Yoongi glances at you, his own hands too full to get any desserts, but he still pauses as if he’s waiting for you. When you make it apparent you aren’t interested in the mouthwatering cakes and pastries (a big fat lie, but you also don’t want to vomit in front of him and your hundreds of schoolmates), he raises a brow as though he’s surprised.

“What? I’m not that much of a sweet tooth,” you scoff.

“This is coming from the girl who broke into her little brother’s piggy bank to buy some ice cream from a passing street vendor?” he teases.

“That’s the old me. Now, I make enough money to buy my own sweets,” you say smugly.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought he looked endeared.

The pair of you search for Hoseok and Seokjin, only to find that the couple had somehow found a table for all of you somewhere near the back. With one last longing glance at the wondrous chocolate fountain, you walk away with Yoongi in tow. You have to push through throngs of people, a few old familiar faces stopping to say hello before they notice the precarious situation on Yoongi’s plate and let you through. You wave at them, promising to greet them later before turning to Yoongi.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to see all these people again? Not gonna lie, it’s almost hard to recognize a few of them.” You note some of the crazy hair colors and drastic fashion choices that you never thought you’d see a decade ago. An even stranger sight, however, is the occasional schoolmates with little ones attached to their hips. You recognize one of the new parents, your mouth dropping in shock.

“Wait, is that Seulgi? And is that her—”

“Her son? Jesus Christ,” Yoongi mutters, equally as bewildered as you. “Damn, I did not expect her of all people to be one of the first to have a kid. I’d always thought it’d be Sooyoung.”

You nod in agreement. You observe the little boy tug roughly at her skirt, his tiny fists making grabbing motions at the cookies on her plate. “Yeah. I always thought I’d have a kid before Seulgi, at least. What a surprise.”

You speak before you think, and it takes longer than it should have for you to realize your mistake. By then, Yoongi’s expression had already morphed into astonishment, his eyes bugging out as he chokes on his spit.

Your cheeks are burning, your mouth opening and closing as pure panic seizes you. You cannot believe that you just said that! No fucking way! Did you eat lube this morning or something? Why are words just spilling out of your mouth at an unprecedented rate?! You’re begging your brain to come up with something, anything, to control the damage, but alas your thoughts remain resolutely frozen.

If aliens were to choose to study the human race right now, they’d be sorely disappointed to find the lack of intelligent lifeforms. No complex thoughts going on over here! Not one goddamn neuron firing in this bitch!

“O-oh, well, that’s…” he trails off. He clears his throat, his jaw clenched as he awkwardly tries to feign composure. “I didn’t know you were, um, interested? Well, n-not that I think you were averse to the idea of having kids, since I remember you mentioning it when we were, um,” he pauses, struggling to find a word other than dating, or together, or in love, or not painstakingly careful around each other, like every conversation topic was a fucking minefield.

“Younger?” you supply. A safe, neutral word. Yay for you! You deserve a snack from your animal care keeper right about now.

“Right,” he nods. He looks down at his shoes, revealing his flushed neck. He’s frustratingly adorable like this, but it does nothing except distract you. “Were you, um, planning on having a kid with your ex-boyfriend? Before you broke up?”

Ex-boyfriend? Why is he bringing him up all of a sudden? You stare at him in confusion for half a second before realization strikes you. Thankfully (or unthankfully), it seems that Yoongi misunderstands the implication behind your words and has taken your little slip-up the wrong way. For once, you are so thankful that Yoongi almost failed Math during the 10th grade and never learned to put two and two together.

“Definitely not,” you bark out a laugh, but it sounds incredibly forced, even to your own ears. You stare at the plate of food in your hands, a wave of unpleasant memories washing over you. “I doubt he’d ever want kids, anyway. Seokjin used to make fun of him and call him the world’s biggest toddler.”

Yoongi winces, his brow furrowing. “How long were you together?”

“Like, two years?” You shrug. “It felt longer, to be honest. Even if we dated for so long, I could never imagine myself having a family with him,” you say.

It was almost the truth, but not quite. While your ex-boyfriend had undoubtedly been a pain in your ass, he wasn’t completely bad, especially in the beginning. You had enough self-respect that you would have ended the relationship earlier if he didn’t have any redeeming qualities. The main problem was that he had a tough act to follow, and you don’t think any man on earth would be able to live up to your lofty expectations at this point, not when you’d constantly be comparing everyone to—

Yoongi speaks up again. “Seokjin seems to really dislike him. Was he really that bad?”

“Seokjin has never really liked any of my past flings,” you admit, rolling your eyes. (You fail to mention that Yoongi has always been the only exception.) “Despite his own disgustingly high body count, I can’t say he was wrong. Sungjae was a self-centered prick who never gave me the time of day. Hell, I was almost thankful when I caught him cheating. It was the final push I needed.”

Even though it’s been so long, the pain of seeing your ex-boyfriend locking lips with a stranger he had randomly picked up from the street still throbs inside of you. It wasn’t like you were particularly sad or surprised to find out, but you’d always been a bit sensitive to people who kept secrets from you. Plus, it kinda sucked to know that they had fucked on your favorite Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Fucking bastard. If I ever saw him in person, I’d definitely kick his nuts ‘til he’s left with a concave crotch,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

You laugh. You have to confess that the mental image is satisfying. “You don’t even know what he looks like though!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Seokjin would tell me if I asked,” he huffs. He mutters something else after, but his volume drops to a whisper and you have to step closer to properly hear him.

“What? Sorry, I missed that,” you say, but you could have sworn he said something like “I wouldn’t have done that if it were me” but you couldn’t be completely sure.

“N-nothing,” he stutters, waving off your confusion. He tacks on a smile, but you can tell that he must have been embarrassed by whatever he’d said. If it was anything like what you thought he’d said, then you could understand. It wasn’t like he was wrong, anyway.

He makes a move to rub the back of his neck, but he greatly underestimates the weight of his platter and nearly drops everything. Something deep inside of you kicks in, and your body instinctively moves to hold his plate with your free hand, saving him from a very messy situation. However, that also means that your hands are now touching each other, your fingertips grazing his knuckles.

Instead of letting him go like a normal person, your ape brain makes the first move (as per usual).

“Your hands are still cold,” you say dumbly. You had wanted to say more, like “your hands are still as cold as they were from when we were younger,” but bringing up your past together, even for something so harmless, still feels taboo. You keep your hands where they are, your eyes locked on his. It feels like you’re in the middle of a dramatic TV show while I Will Go To You by Ailee plays in the background. You can almost imagine the numerous ads for random Korean cosmetic products framing the two of you in slow motion.

Yoongi chuckles, reluctantly pulling away from you. You already miss the sensation of his skin on yours. “I guess some things never change, huh?” he says, wavering slightly. He stares at you for another moment before shaking his head, as though he’s pushing away some unwelcome thoughts. He turns away, leaving you behind to make his way to your table.

Despite the unbidden emotions bubbling up your throat and threatening to spill over, you have no choice but to follow.

At the table, Seokjin and Hoseok speak mutely with each other, though the exaggerated expressions on both their faces tell you that they had been in the middle of an argument. When Yoongi takes his place beside Hoseok, the couple pauses in their bickering to greet you.

Hoseok looks at Yoongi’s overflowing plate. “Dude. I know I teased you about being a skinny twig a while ago, but I wasn’t implying that you gorge yourself.”

Yoongi jolts in surprise before staring back at his plate. Weirdly enough, he looks just as shocked as Hoseok to find the amount of food he had gotten, as though he hadn’t even noticed.

Perhaps he was just as distracted as you had been? you think, staring at your own meager pickings. Oops, you definitely didn’t get enough food to fill your ravenous appetite.

“That’s fine. I can share with you guys,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin peers at your plate, smirking knowingly. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Y/N would love to get some of your food. It seems like the two of you either over or underestimated how much you’d eat.”

“Aww, cute!” Hoseok coos, pinching Yoongi’s cheek. “You still have the habit of getting food for her. That’s so sweet that you still remember that about her!”

You had been in the middle of taking a swig of your water, but Hoseok’s comment nearly causes it to spew out from your nose. You cough harshly, beating your chest as your nose burns, among other things.

“Hoseok!” Yoongi scolds. He hits his friend on the shoulder, but Hoseok’s giggles refuse to stop.

“Oh shit, you’re totally right! Remember all those times when either one of us was forced to third-wheel with them?” Seokjin guffaws. “Y/N always orders something gross whenever we eat out together, and Yoongi ends up having to share half of his food with her when she starts moping.”

“I did not mope!” you retort vehemently.

“You kind of did,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, but you catch him this time.

You cross your arms, scowling. “Did not!”

Yoongi covers his mouth to fake a cough, but you can tell he’s smiling from how his eyes start to crinkle.

“You guys are so cute,” Hoseok sighs, squeezing Yoongi into a hug. Yoongi paws at him weakly, but you know that he enjoys skinship too much to push his friend away.  Still, he pouts cutely, his cheeks puffing up like a pastry.

“Anyway, why were you guys arguing a while ago?” Yoongi asks, changing the subject. “Seokjin-hyung is kinda red in the face.”

“Oh, we weren’t really arguing. Hyung had gotten some wine from the bar but he forgot to get me some,” Hoseok says. He glares sharply at Seokjin. “Bastard.”

“You just said we weren’t fighting!” Seokjin whines. He stands up, raising his arms in surrender. “But fine! I’ll go get your damn wine,” he sulks, groaning when he stretches his back and a few worrisome pops resound from his joints.

“Damn, hyung. I know I told you that I hope you grow up well when we were kids, but I didn’t think you’d take it that literally,” Yoongi jokes, earning a sharp laugh from you. Yoongi glances at you then, visibly proud when he catches the wide grin on your face.

Seokjin gasps, offended. “I am not old! I’m literally a year older than you guys! And here I was, about to get you both drinks as well! It sucks to be the nice one in a friend group,” he sniffs.

“Yes, we are eternally grateful for your service,” Hoseok says sarcastically. “Oh, and remember to get some drinks for Y/N and Yoongi-chi too!” Hoseok adds, slamming his palm on Seokjin’s sore back.

Seokjin yelps, before biting his lip. “Owwie, that hurt,” he moans, winking salaciously.

As the closest person to him, you make it your right to jam your heeled foot onto his gelatinous and push away with a shout of disgust. “Leave, wench!” you snarl, but you’re unfortunately drowned out by his cackling. Even so, he does make his leave, affording your table some level of peace.

“So,” Hoseok starts, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He cradles his chin with his hands, smiling innocuously at the two of you. “How’s it goin’? Are you both having fun?” he says, laced with meaning.

Ah, you had forgotten; peace was never an option.

Though he is undoubtedly less annoying than Seokjin, you still don’t trust the way he’s staring at you, like he’s waiting for one of you to jump into the other’s lap and recreate his favorite porn scene.

(A terrible thought to have, especially when you’d probably be as begrudging as you should be if you were swayed sufficiently.)

“It’s going fine, thank you very much,” Yoongi responds, giving his best friend a stern look.

You nod wordlessly, unable to trust yourself to keep from stammering and making your frayed nerves apparent (if they aren’t already.) You grab your glass and busy yourself with your drink to delay answering.

You don’t notice that you had taken Yoongi’s cup by accident until you’ve already gulped a third of his water, dropping it with a loud clunk. “Oh shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to drink from yours,” you say sheepishly.

Yoongi smiles at your concern. “No worries. It’s just a cup.”

“Sharing cups too? Damn, what happened while Seokjin and I were away?” Hoseok laughs. Yoongi flicks him lightly on the wrist in retaliation.

“It’s just a cup,” he repeats before turning to you. “Sorry, I think he’s a bit drunk.”

“Haven’t had a single drop of alcohol but whatever,” Hoseok says, shoveling a large piece of tuna belly into his mouth.

The sight of him eating reminds you of your own hunger, your food slightly colder now after talking to Yoongi and your friends for so long. You take a spoonful of chicken, the taste not terrible but not as good as you would like. Your face must give your disappointment away because you hear Yoongi chuckling beside you.

“Bad food again? Guess you really are the same,” Yoongi says, low enough that Hoseok wouldn’t hear. He pushes his plate towards you, carefully nudging some of his bulgogi onto yours. “This tastes kind of sweet, so I’m not really into it. But you prefer it sweeter right?”

All you can do is nod in agreement, watching as he piles your plate with his food. His sleeves, which had already been stained previously by some stray bits of kimchi, become even more saturated with sauces and oils. Now that you see it up close, his sleeves seem a bit too long for him, his palms half covered like sweater paws.  

Without thinking too hard, you place your hands over Yoongi’s wrists, his entire body freezing as he waits for what you will do. Gently, as though you’re approaching a frightened kitten, you fold his sleeves until they’re no longer dangling into his food. The gesture is more intimate than you had intended, his proximity allowing you to smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne.

Paco Rabanne, your mind reminds you. Of course.

You pull away, trying your best to appear as unfazed as possible. You clench your hands and dig your nails into your skin to keep them from trembling. “If I’m the same, you’re no better. You always used to forget to pull back your sleeves before eating.”

After a beat, Yoongi returns from his stupor, licking his lips. “My hands were cold,” he explains.

“I know.” You lick your lips too, suddenly parched despite all the water you have drunk.

A forgotten treasure trove of memories resurrects inside of you, things that you had thought had been buried too deep for you to find again. You are filled with this odd feeling, an awareness. An old wound has resurfaced, one that you thought had healed long ago.

That wound throbs, still.

It’s so strange, being with him like this. A piece of your past that has come to your present, both the same and different as you remember. He knows parts of you that no one else will, as do you with him. But those parts were only ever supposed to stay buried: memories, after all, aren’t supposed to be tangible.

And yet, here he stands: real, alive, close.

It leaves you feeling emptier than before.

The atmosphere grows somber after that, neither of you offering much to the conversation. Hoseok is more than happy to pick up the slack, filling the stark silence along with the occasional hums from Yoongi. When Seokjin returns, he makes no note of the change in mood and focuses more on eating and talking with his partner. It allows the two of you to remain deep in thought.

You are pushing your remaining bits of food around your plate when the soft instrumental music playing on the overhead speaker stops abruptly, and the sound of a microphone being tapped prompts everyone to turn to the front of the ballroom. The host of the event announces that the next part of the reunion will begin shortly and encourages all the performers to head to the sound booth to prepare. A couple of your schoolmates rise from their seats, most of whom were the students you remembered being part of choir or band.

You half-expect Yoongi to stand up as well, but he stays rooted to the spot. Apparently, Hoseok is wondering the same thing.

“Yoongi? Didn’t you say that the organizers asked you to perform some of your songs?” Hoseok questions.

“They did.”

“But?”

Yoongi brings his fingers to his teeth, biting on them anxiously. Your hand makes a move to pull them away, but you think better of it. No need to supply your friends with more teasing ammunition. “But I changed my mind last minute. I felt kind of embarrassed to be performing my own songs. I’m more of a producer, not a performer.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Yoongi. You’re poggers, as the kids like to say,” Seokjin pipes up.

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but he’s right. A lot of people like your music and think you’re a great performer,” you assure him. “And I like your music, too,” you add shyly.

Yoongi’s hand drops from his mouth, eyes glittering with disbelief. He looks like he wants to disagree with you, but eventually decides to just smile in gratitude. “I didn’t know you listened to my music,” he says quietly.

Before you can reply, Seokjin chooses to interrupt with his migraine-inducing cackle and ruin the moment (as he is prone to do.) “Oh bitch! If you only knew how much this girl loves your music. She even buys your physical CDs AND collects your photocards.”

“I do not!” You scream, flinging a piece of bread at his head. You refuse to peek at Yoongi.

“Don’t worry, Y/N! I collect his photocards too. Wanna trade sometime? I’m missing the one when he still had mint hair,” Hoseok giggles.

“Will the two of you stop? God, it’s like you both had been planning to embarrass us as much as possible,” Yoongi exclaims, incensed.

When neither of them responds, you and Yoongi whip your heads towards them only to find two self-satisfied, smirking shitheads.

“Why watch reality shows when you can make your own?” Seokjin says in lieu of an answer, pointing finger guns. He blows you a kiss with a wink.

You clutch your chest, pretending to wince in pain. “Augh! Poison damage!”

Seokjin scoffs. “Swagever, man. You’re just mad because you’re angry,” he retorts, sticking out his tongue.

While you were occupied bickering with Seokjin, you had not seen that one of your old schoolmates had invited herself to your table. She sandwiches herself in the space between you and Yoongi, bumping you roughly enough to topple you out of your chair.

“What the fuck?” you yelp in surprise, holding onto the table to balance yourself. After straightening back into your seat, you find that your view of the world has become obscured by asscheeks the size of beachballs.

“Hi Yoongi,” she purrs seductively. Or at least, what she thinks is seductive. To you, her voice sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard.

“Hello?” Yoongi says, but it comes out sounding more like a question. It’s clear that he doesn’t remember her name, as he searches your eyes for help. You shrug unhelpfully; you deleted almost all the names of everyone that you had gone to school with right after graduation. Besides, her horrendous plastic surgery makes it even twice as hard to discern her identity.

“Hi Hyejin,” Hoseok speaks up, answering your unspoken question. Oh, right. The name does ring a bell, somewhat. You don’t recall her looking like a cartoon character before, but you suppose beauty standards are meant to be subjective. Maybe she wanted to look like a One Piece character.

Hyejin purses her lips into a tight smile but doesn’t return his greeting. She turns back to Yoongi, bending forward until her boobs are practically smooshed against his face. You wonder idly if stabbing her chest with your chopsticks would cause them to burst like a balloon, or perhaps drain like a puss-filled pimple. Both, you surmise, would be very entertaining to watch.

“It’s been a while since we’ve last seen each other, hm? I heard you’ve been very busy ever since we graduated from high school,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh, yeah? Some of us have jobs,” he says, passively dissing her. You let out a strangled laugh, causing Hyejin to aim a glare back at you. You bring your (his) cup of water to your lips, feigning innocence.

Hyejin rolls her eyes. “Right. But I meant that you’ve become a real star back in Seoul! I didn’t know you were such a musical prodigy!”

“I’m really not. I just work hard,” he shrugs. He’s visibly uncomfortable, especially since Hyejin was pretty much breathing the same air as him. Every time he leans away from her, she takes it as an invitation to come closer. He is nearly lying horizontally at this point, his back parallel with the floor.

“Humble as well as handsome? My, my. I didn’t think you’d be such a charmer,” she laughs, saccharine sweet. She twirls her dyed brown hair with her perfectly manicured acrylic nails. You rub at the goosebumps forming on your arms, cringing at the phantom sensation of her nails digging into your skin.

“Just spit it out. What the hell do you want so you can leave,” Seokjin interjects. Everything about his demeanor says calm and collected, but the way he presses his lips into a thin line says otherwise. You can sense the air dropping in temperature, despite the embers burning behind his eyes.

“I came over here to ask if Yoongi could give me his autograph, that’s all. I am his biggest fan, after all,” she sulks. She winks at him for extra measure. “And maybe his number too? I’d love to discuss your music with you sometime!”

“Oh, um. That’s—” he cuts off, hesitant to answer. He tugs at his ears nervously, exchanging subtly alarmed glances with you.

You remember that signal very distinctly; it’s a distress call that he would do whenever he needed a way out. He used to do it a lot when you were at social gatherings, especially when people would trap him in boring or awkward conversations. He never did like socializing with people outside his circle, but he was often dragged to parties by his more extroverted friends.

He might be hot as hell with his stylish clothes and jaw-dropping undercut, but he’s still awkward as hell around strangers. When the universe created him, they made sure to keep everything in balance. If they hadn’t been fair, you certainly would’ve died much earlier.

“Yoongi, don’t you have spare CDs of your music?” you quip, dragging Hyejin’s attention onto you. Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, suspicious.

“I do?” He stares at you blankly.

You resist hitting your forehead in exasperation. “Yes, Yoongi. Remember? You left a couple of them in my car.”

Yoongi’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh, right! I left my CDs. In your car. That we drove here. Together. We came here. Together. Yes, correct.”

From your periphery, you can sense Hoseok barely holding onto his sanity after witnessing that pitiful display. Who can blame him when Yoongi’s infamously terrible acting skills are having their first appearance in over ten years? How he managed to pass Drama class is still a mystery to this day.

“Yup,” you say, popping your p.  You give Hyejin a winsome smile, your hands folded neatly on your lap. You can almost see the steam blowing out of her ears. It fills you with delicious satisfaction. “Why don’t Yoongi and I go get them so he can sign one?”

If her eyes had been made of lasers, you’d be a cauterized mess jumble of organs by now. Can’t say you would regret it either way.

“How kind of you.” She sneers. “Also, I wasn’t aware that you two were still a thing.”

“I wasn’t aware that we were required to inform you of anything,” you retort placidly. You plaster on your fakest grin. “Now, if you can please move your fat ass—I mean, if you can please move out of the way so I can go to my car...” you trail off, gesturing for her to leave.

After a few more indignant sputters on her end, she eventually makes her exit. She throws a couple of poisonous glares, but they go largely ignored by you and your friends. With her gone, you feel as though you can finally breathe fresh air again.

“Great stuff, Y/N! Congrats on winning your first bitch-off,” Seokjin chirps, back to his usual self. You roll your eyes at his antics but smile nonetheless.

“Thanks. I learned from the best.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “So, are we still gonna go?” He looks back and forth from her to you. “Just so we can pretend you actually have my albums in your car?”

“Trust me, Yoongi-chi. She does have your albums in her car.” Seokjin titters. “I wasn’t kidding about the photocard collection.”

“Ignore him. And yes, I do have your albums. I listen to them in my car from time to time,” you say, attempting nonchalance. “I’d hate to give them away to that bitch, but if it keeps her away...”

Away from you is left unsaid, but it’s heavily implied.

(No, you aren’t jealous. You’re above jealousy. It’s not like that bitch would ever have a chance with him anyway, unlike you—!

Woah there, cowgirl. Let’s stay on the right path. Don’t want your heart getting chewed up and spat back out all over again, do you?)

“I’ll just mail you a new one. Signed, if you want. You can probably sell it on eBay or whatever.” He tries to say it like a joke, but his brow is too furrowed to be convincing. (You want to kiss him there and make it go away.)

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so all you do is nod mutely. You stand up and Yoongi follows suit.

“We’ll be right back. If she comes back before then, tell her to scram,” you tell Hoseok and Seokjin. They salute you in response (well, Hoseok does. Seokjin does a very rude gesture with his fingers that is supposed to mimic something explicit. Feel free to use your imagination.)

The walk to the parking lot is a quiet one. The two of you stay side by side, his strides naturally matching your own. Unlike before, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence for once, content to just be in each other’s presence.

The hotel that your reunion is being held at is unusually unpopulated. The lobby consists of a handful of employees milling about, a few of whom look ready to fall asleep on their feet. You nod politely at the bellboy who opens the main doors for you, declining his offer to call the valet service to fetch your car.

“Just hand me my keys. I’ll look for my car in the parking lot.” It wouldn’t be hard to find, anyway. Your beat-up Toyota Corolla looks as though it’s been through three wars and then some.

It isn’t long until you find it parked close to the entrance. You unlock your car from the passenger seat, shimmying the glove compartment open to reveal your collection of CDs.

“Wow, you weren’t lying when you said you listened to my music,” Yoongi says, voice loud amidst the tranquil night. It startles you, and you accidentally knock over some of the albums onto your car floor. On top of the pile lies Yoongi’s most recent album, the one you recall he had released a couple of months ago.

Strange, how just hours ago you were listening to his music on the way to the reunion, only for the boy on the cover of the album to be just inches away from you.

“Yeah, well. You’re a pretty good artist,” you say.

“Only pretty good?” he repeats, amused.

“Don’t push it,” you snort. You grab the album on top, waving it in front of him. “This should be good enough, right?”

He plucks it from your grasp, an unreadable expression clouding his eyes. He chuckles, but there’s an edge of sadness in his tone. “Good enough,” he agrees solemnly.

His sudden quietness is different from the peaceful one before. It’s sorrowful, maybe regretful. He looks like a man stuck in grief.

“Did you know that I didn’t finish this album before releasing it?”

The question seems a little out of the blue, but you answer regardless. “No, I didn’t. They don’t sound unfinished to me.”

“The songs themselves aren’t unfinished,” he explains. He turns the album over, his finger running down the back where the tracklist is printed. “One of my songs never made it in.”

“Couldn’t you have delayed the album launch so you could complete it?”

He shakes his head. “It was actually the first song I finished out of all of them.”

“Then..?”

“It didn’t matter, at the time. I wrote it for someone specifically, but I didn’t want to put it on the album if she—they didn’t listen to it. It wouldn’t matter if the whole world heard that song because only they would understand it.”

“But now? What changed?” Fear and hope run down your spine in tandem when the question tumbles out of you. You hold your breath, and the world shifts from its axis.

But he doesn’t elaborate further.

x x x x x

You return to the hotel after acquiring both an album and some more tension. The album feels heavy in your hands, weighed down by secrets you are still too afraid to uncover. Not that Yoongi would ever willingly divulge them to you—because revealing them would make them real, and making them real would mean you would have to accept them, and accepting them would cause you to—

“They’re gone,” Yoongi announces when you reenter the ballroom. You can’t spot your table from the entranceway, but the certainty in Yoongi’s tone makes you believe him.

“No fucking way. Did those two little shits ditch us to exchange body fluids or something?”

Yoongi grimaces. “Please don’t say it like that. It’s bad enough that I was sitting close enough to Hoseok a while ago that I got accidentally footsie’d by Seokjin hyung.”

You wince, placing a pitying hand on his shoulder. “God didn’t make us his strongest soldiers.”

Yoongi tries dialing Hoseok a few times, but none of the calls connect. “Just my rotten luck,” he groans. He types angrily into his phone, worry creasing his forehead. “He was supposed to be my ride back to his place.”

“Seokjin isn’t answering his phone either,” you say apologetically. “How much do you wanna bet this is part of their evil scheme to leave us together?”

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest,” he deadpans. He sighs tiredly, rubbing his temples. “I suppose I can take a taxi there, but I also don’t know if he’ll be home to open the door for me.”

“Then why don’t you just stay with me?”

You don’t know what you’re doing.

In your head, the offer makes sense. He’s just a friend, you remind yourself. Nothing is stopping you from rekindling a friendship with him. You have purely platonic intentions. Friends help each other out.

Never mind the fact that your heart hasn’t stopped fluttering the entire night. Never mind the fact that you’ve caught yourself staring at him just as many times as you’ve caught him staring at you. Never mind the fact that you don’t want the night to end, not now not ever.

(Never mind the fact that you’ve never quite stopped loving him.)

So when he accepts, you convince yourself that offering had been the right thing to do.

(Maybe. Hopefully. You just wish your heart doesn’t end up as collateral damage.)

The drive home is short, thanks to the late hour. You had asked him if he had wanted to stay until the end of the reunion, but he had declined. “Nothing else left for me there,” he says.

You feel as though he’s hinting at something. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. “At least I get to keep my album.”

Yoongi laughs, short and sweet.

As much as you try to fight it, sitting in the car with him brings up a lot of memories.

The two of you in the backseat as his older brother drives you to his house for dinner, backpacks filled with crumpled notes and loose pens, a promise of an intense study session for your upcoming exams ready to be broken. You remember how the sky would turn orange in the afternoon, the warm light streaming through the car window and washing Yoongi’s skin with a soft glow.

His cheeks had looked inviting, his lips even more. And you would lean over, kissing him like it was easy. Because it was easy, and you never had to think twice about it.

Your trip down memory lane doesn’t end in the car. As you walk up the steps to your childhood home, you hesitate by the door, your keys frozen over the lock. You can hear Yoongi’s soft breathing behind you, but his presence doesn’t feel as stifling as you thought it would be.

You’re far from being at ease, but you aren’t frightened either. Mostly, you’re just filled with anticipation. Of what? You aren’t sure.

“Excuse the mess. Jungkook is in the middle of moving out so there’s just stuff everywhere,” you say just as you open the door. You toe off your shoes by the entrance, kicking them off haphazardly into the pile of sneakers and boots.

You hear Yoongi huff out a laugh behind you. “Aish, that kid. Still hasn’t let go of his Timbs, huh?”

“He has also been really into chunky sneakers these days. I think he’s finalizing his transformation into Thumper,” you joke. “He’s staying at his new apartment for the weekend with my parents, so you won’t be seeing them. They’re helping him settle in.”

“Really? He didn’t mention moving when we spoke. Where is he moving to?”

“Busan. He and his best friend from college are going to start a restaurant in his hometown. Which is funny, since neither of them are the best chefs.”

Yoongi whistles. “Still, that’s impressive. I can’t remove the image from my head of when he was a kid. He was so scared of anything. He wouldn’t let go of your mom’s leg even if his life depended on it.”

He steps deeper into the house, his gaze jumping from end to end as he surveys your childhood home. You watch him, noting how right he looks standing there in the middle of your living room, like a chipped painting that has been restored.

It’s scary, how easily you’ve accepted him back into this place.

He stays rooted to the spot, the moonlight filtering through the kitchen windows and illuminating his frame. The air pulses with something magical, something dream-like, and it muddles your vision. It’s the only explanation you have for why your chest tightens when he turns to face you, with a gaze filled with sadness, mourning, yearning.

“Jungkook’s height chart is still here,” he murmurs. The small nicks on the kitchen door frame are hard to see, and other people have mistaken them for signs of wear and tear. But he knows what they are because he was there when your mother had etched the first scratch.

He looks at your ancient dining table, his hand brushing over the surface. “This too,” he says, rubbing at a large burn mark on the wood.

“Mom made sure to use placemats after that. I didn’t think a sizzling plate would burn through the table like that,” you say, giggling as you reminisce. “You know, we still use your mom’s galbi jjim recipe. We haven’t found a better one.”

“I’m sure she would love to hear that,” Yoongi smiles, but it fades just as quickly. “It’s so… strange. Being here again and seeing that nothing really changed.”

But things did change. Upstairs, in your bedroom. That night, ten years ago.

You still remember what you had said to him, when you had said it to him, how you had said it to him.

It was a sunny afternoon, the time of day when you’d be on your way home from school. The two of you had stood in your room, neither of you wanting to sit because sitting meant staying, and staying only made this harder.

There hadn’t been many tears in that moment; those were shed only after the realization had sunk in, when you’d fully understood what had happened. At the time, the decision had been as easy as breathing.

Except you had both been drowning. The clock was ticking down to the end of high school, and the inevitable wasn’t slowing down.

Yoongi wanted to chase his dreams in Seoul. You wanted to stay closer to home, with your friends and family.

You weren’t going to be the one to hold him down. You weren’t going to be that person, not when he’s destined for greater things than his hometown could offer—not even a girl who loved him would be worth staying for.

He had suggested it, first. He had been prepared for you to cry, or maybe scream, but you did none of that. Instead, you pulled him close, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. You wanted to make it last, imprint the sensation onto your brain so that his warmth might stay with you, even after he’s little more than a distant memory. You trembled, terribly so, even though the beginnings of summer crept on your skin like a brand.

It’s time to let him go, Time whispered. You refused to listen, just for another moment.

Let me have this last moment, you beg. But Time refused to listen.

“Do you know?” Yoongi had spoken into your neck, had hoped his words would stain there. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Love, not loved. “I did,” you say. You think better of it. “I do.”

When you separated, for good this time, it had left an ache deeper than you could have ever imagined.

But you were young. Young love was supposed to hurt, but it wasn’t supposed to last. “You’ll find others,” your mother had said, brushing a soothing hand through your hair as you sobbed.

Then why? Then why has it lasted this long?

It has been a question you’ve asked yourself, and you’re starting to think that the answer has always been right in front of you.

The answer is standing in front of you: real, alive, close.

“Why didn’t you ever date again?” you ask. You ask even though you know he can lie, if he wants. He can tell you anything and you would believe him.

But he wouldn’t; you know he wouldn’t.

“I was afraid of closing a door that I never meant to close in the first place,” he says. His voice crackles like static, but that might be the blood rushing to your head. He moves toward you but keeps a hand’s width away. Still too far.

He continues. “After that day, when I left,” he swallows, “after I left, I think… I think I left a piece of me with you. A-and I don’t think I ever stopped…” he cuts off, exhaling shakily.

“Stopped what?” you breathe.

“You know.” He waves his hands around helplessly. They fall heavily back down to his sides, defeated. “You know?” he repeats.

You do. Because you are the same. The old wound had never healed; it burns and it bleeds like new.

Your skull feels like it’s stuffed with cotton when you close the distance between the two of you. He circles his arms around your waist, tentative, but he relaxes when you wind your arms around his neck. Your vision is warped, so you choose to close them. You wait, with bated breath, as his warmth inched closer and closer.

The sensation of his lips on yours jolts you back to your senses. His kiss reminds you of your youth, of a love that had made you excited to start your day. Even now, your body remembers, and it rejoices.

The tenderness does not last long before it turns fervent, tongue and teeth crashing like waves against the shore. If his kisses could speak, they would tell you stories of how much he missed you, of how much he mourned the time you had both lost. They would tell you of the days when he’d almost pressed your number onto his phone, of the nights when he’d stare at the polaroids he had kept of you.

They would ask if you still love him like he still loves you.

He tastes of desperation, and you are likely to be the same. It is a desperation you haven’t tasted in years—but it doesn’t feel scary like it used to. Time no longer feels like it’s racing against you, like you had something to prove before the hour was over. This reckless abandon feels like home against your skin—it is an ache being soothed after having ripped your scabs over and over again.

It’s Yoongi.

And when he pulls you to your room, he doesn’t even need his eyes to find his way as his feet still memorize the floorboards. He struggles with the doorknob, forgetting that it always jammed, but it’s okay because you can always teach him again. You can teach him everything again.

The bed creaks under your weights and even the mattress sounds like it is sighing in relief. That sigh echoes from your lips when his hand slips under your clothes, his palm stopping over your heart.

“I won’t break it, this time,” he says. He promises. “If you let me.”

You wonder if he can feel your heart soaring, pounding against your ribs. “I think the line has long been crossed to ask for my permission.” You place your hand over where his is laid. You squeeze tight.

This time, you don’t let him go.

#bangtanarmynet #armiesnet #btsbookclub #bts scenarios #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts #bts imagines #bts fluff #high school!au #min yoongi #yoongi #suga #yoongi scenarios #suga scenarios #yoongi fluff #bts suga #bangtan #bts fanfic #FUCK ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE IVE WRITTEN ANYTHING #PLS TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!!!!! EX DEE #okay time to head to class sob

[xseaxwitchxkpop]

NSFW Alphabet: Sub!Yeosangie Edition

A/N: I couldn't wait I had to do this now lol what is patience??? Also forgive any mistakes I wrote this at like 2am lmfao

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A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Doesn't matter what kind of sex it was, he will always be a content and giggling baby boy afterwards. He absolutely needs nose kisses and boops as rewards, like a cat, and needs to bury his face in your neck so he can smell your scent as a way to calm him and bring him back down to earth. He will also love it when you gently thumb his cheekbones!

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part on him is probably his hands just because he uses them so often to hide his face when he's flustered. His favorite body part on his partner would probably be the neck because he is another one of the members that values intimacy and there's something very sensual and intimate yet very possessive about his face and head buried in your neck.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He doesn't really have a strong preference for cumplay of any type and he doesn't have a strong opposition to any cumplay either. So long as you're having your way with and he's living his best sex life, he doesn't care if you spit his load in his mouth and make him swallow it or if you cum in ass with your dick or fake cum

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He'd only have kinky sex as a submissive with a partner he loves and trusts dearly so he's pretty open about want he wants and doesn't really have much of a dirty secret to keep. However, if you pull at his teeth hard enough, you will find out that the one fantasy he has been keeping from you is that he wants you to have him use a hollow dildo on you during his caging period for that extra layer of humiliation and degradation...plus you don't have to be punished when he is also being punished during this fantasy

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's had hook ups in the past, not a high count or anything, maybe like 5 or 6, but those were always relatively vanilla and/or had him in a more dominant position which he wasn't a big fan of. He knows what he's doing when pleasuring you, that's for sure, but in a solid relationship, he learned to let himself go and found that he absolutely CANNOT go back to even a shadow of a dominant position in bed.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

His favorite position is definitely cowgirl, with you on top. He loves that with this position he has easy access to your thighs and ass, the ease with which you can choke him lightly or more intensely, and the sheer amount of control you have in this position while allowing him to touch you because that's how he grounds himself, always has to be touching some part of you or you touching some part of him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Sex with Yeosang is light-hearted most of time, very warm, very giggly, very cute, and very humorous. He likes cracking jokes or delivering some dry wit and sarcasm in the bedroom because that's just who he is and he doesn't see why that can't translate to the bedroom. Because of this, I feel he would prefer gentle domination and a partner who should know how to banter well both outside and inside the bedroom. He does like it slow and sensual sometimes, but if he's in a very soft mood, he'll prefer sensual touches rather than sex itself. On occasion he does like it rough and fast, but it's gotta be a VERY specific mood for him.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Like the others, definitely trims but just calls it a day at that. He doesn't really bother with shaving all the way and doesn't care if you don't either.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Another member that values intimacy to the highest degree! Humor is part of how he connects with people and navigates the world, so the same is to be said in the bedroom. He loves when you make him a giggly mess with humor in the bedroom with and feels more connected each time. Surprisingly, he doesn't shy away from eye contact and he actually really likes it because it adds another layer of intimacy to the experience! Also forehead kisses...you might be the dominant one, but there's something so sweet and reassuring and very intimate yet possessive about subs giving their doms/dommes forehead kisses and that's exactly what he does to you! Every single y'all have sex, without fail, no matter how kinky or light.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

The only times he really jacks off is either guided masturbation from you or if he is intensely horny to the point it is literally interfering with what he has to do that day in which he'll just get it done and over with in the shower or a quick one in the bathroom. This has nothing to do with rules put in place, he just doesn't have a high sex drive despite his incredibly dirty humor.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He's open to trying most things, but not as many things as San. Some of Yeosang's kinks would include choking, biting, hair pulling, light restraints, sensory deprivation, voice kink, temperature play, edging, pegging/anal play, caging, light nipple play, marking, and nail scratching.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Literally any place he can comfortably lay flat because his fave position is cowgirl. One of his top favorites, however, is a rather large ottoman that he has to prop himself up on by the elbows when he leans back in a sitting position so you have to kind of sit on his lap and this forces him to use his lower body strength because he also has to fuck into you if you're fucking him in this position. Also don't forget, when the mood hits him, to rail him on a table or counter or coffee table or on a balcony window with him wearing a skirt and oversized sweater!

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

You commanding him to do something with a gentle and sweet voice gets him going like nothing else. The best part is that you can do this in public very blatantly and none would be the wiser save for you and him. What also really turns him on is when you're very attentive and can read him easily without having to ask or say anything; you do that, he will pounce on you and be the best service top you could ask for.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Touch deprivation. I know I said he is into sensory deprivation and he is -- just more so in the sight, hearing, and scent departments, those he can handle. If he can't feel you somewhere on his body, whether you touching him or vice versa, he will freak out and immediately get pulled out of sub space, even if he's very deep in it (and being pulled abruptly from sub space or dom/domme space is very harsh on the psyche and can take minutes to DAYS to rectify and heal so is a very big no-no in the BDSM community). He also does not like to share at all; you are his and he is yours, no negotiation. He's a very possessive submissive because he trusts you with a side of him that maybe one or two other people know about and that is his safe space -- he cannot have others enter that space because he would no longer feel safe.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

If asked what heaven was, he would respond with you sitting on his face and tugging at his hair. That's his favorite position to give you oral! He also really likes when you go down on him because one wrong move and you could easily bite his dick...it's the power you yield with nothing but your mouth on his most intimate parts and a hand on his thigh and another on his abdomen.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

As I've pointed out earlier, light-hearted sex is what he likes best, so the pace is...moderate? There's nothing pushing y'all to be fast and rough and there's not an air of heavy emotion and lustful passion for each other so y'all just go at a pace that's matches whatever happy and joyful mood and banter is happening. On the rare occasion he does want it rough and fast, he wants to be brutally fucked until he can't think, can't make a sound, tears staining his cheeks, asshole gaping, and drool running down the sides of his mouth, panting to try to catch his breath.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He really doesn't like them. He prefers taking his time and having what could be called "care-free sex."

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He likes experimenting with new things every once in a while, but for the most part, he likes to stick with what works and if something new works well, he adds it to his rotation.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Can go two or three rounds, depending on his mood and level of exhaustion. With rough and fast sex, he can only take one round unless you decide to overstimulate him (which is every time) in which you can draw out two orgasms, one after the other. But then he is spent and it's aftercare time!

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He's got a set of dildos and anal plugs, mainly to prep himself for you, but you'll sometimes use them on him to fuck him with unless you're using a strap on. He also has a couple of cock cages because he's into chastity and a couple of cock rings for fun, but other than that, he prefers good old touching and teasing with what you and he were born with.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

His teasing comes in the form of banter and benign insults, hoping you'll engage and respond with a hand on his throat or a quick dick grab. Other than that, he isn't much of a tease -- if anything, his partner is the tease to him because it's so easy to make him flustered.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He's certainly not the loudest in the bunch, but if you hit his spot just right, he'll be moaning so fucking loudly that it could be heard on the planet Mars. For the most part, though, he just pants and lets out whimpers here and there, most of his enjoyment is shown through his body language and facial expressions.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He absolutely lives for wearing lacy lingerie beneath his clothing just for you. He doesn't so this as often as he'd like to because of his job as an idol, but when he can, he takes full advantage and wears a lacy bralette AND lacy underwear that does nothing to support his dick btw.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His length is average but he is on the girthier side which caused you to have to work yourself open and up to his size. The first time he dove into you wasn't terribly painful, but there was a bit of a sharp pain that quickly disappeared into pleasure.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

I'd say he probably has an above average sex drive, but not necessarily a high one. He is a healthy male who is in damn good shape, so it goes to say that his sez drive might increase a bit because of that. Anyway, sex itself isn't frequent but there are loads of sensual touches all the time -- he can't get enough of you in that sense.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The atmosphere created with the typical light-hearted sex y'all engage in added with the sleepiness of post-orgasm bliss makes for a perfect concoction of sleeping medication. You're warm and content, he's warm and content, so y'all fall asleep in each other's arms. For the rough and fast sex, though, you have to make sure he doesn't fall asleep immediately so he doesn't go into sub drop, so you do your best to lightly tap him on the cheek and keep him talking, hydrated, and fed.

#ateez #sub!ateez #yeosang #sub!ateez alphabet #sub!yeosang #sub!idol #sub!kpop #my works #lemon hours #ateez headcannons #ateez imagine

[hatterstan-shameblog]

Nobody asked for this but I'm gonna do it anyways...

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Fluff Alphabet: Takeru/Aguni Edition

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

A = Attractive what do they find attractive about the other?

Takeru: only reason he let Aguni wear regular clothes and not swimwear is because he saw ARM in that tank top and was like "oh damn okay 😳." So, y'know, that. (And he'll never admit it but he kinda likes how Aguni is a little bit taller than he is....) Also likes that Aguni has a really dry, deadpan sense of humor—he ways finds a way to make Takeru laugh, even when he's not really trying.

Aguni: I think the physical aspect of things wasn't really a make-or-break for him at first—like, yeah, Takeru's a good-looking guy, but that's secondary. He liked how Takeru is such a live-wire, very loud and colorful and seemingly fearless, no matter what kind of trouble they got into. (But also...he likes the hair. That's a thing for him.)

B = Baby do they want a family? why/why not?

Takeru: If they end up with one somehow, then, sure. But, like. He's not going out of his was to make it a thing. (But also, he has his cat, Ziggy, who he calls his baby, so...)

Aguni: Would secretly love to be a dad but is too worried he might mess the kid up or something. Is more than happy to be 'unofficial parent' to the neighborhood kids, though. Handing out ice pops to the kids that show up at the shop, keeping an eye out and telling them to get home before dark, maybe even showing one or two of them how to throw a better curveball...you know. Real Hallmark channel shit. (And yes, for those who were wondering: Ziggy the cat loves him and often curls up on his lap while he watches TV)

C = Cuddle how do they cuddle?

They don't really "cuddle" outside of bed. Just kinda sit next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, no big deal. But in bed, Aguni lies on his back with his arm sorta outstretched while Takeru...well, my man is worm on a string but OFF the string, he just flops all sorts of ways and a lot of them don't look comfortable but he falls asleep in minutes so whatever.

D = Dates what are dates with them like?

I don't think they do "dates"—they've got a long-term thing going on, so they often end up on the couch eating takeout and watching movies. I think they'd go to the movie theater sometimes (and talk shit for the entire film lol) and every once in a while grab dinner somewhere nice...but, usually because they have some cool limited-time-only dessert item that Takeru insists they try. (And Aguni pretends to be upset about having to get dressed up and go out, but is actually rather pleased to have a little romance...and get something to satisfy his sweet tooth.)

E = Everything you are my ____ (e.g my life, my world…)

Aguni: Emergency Medical Contact

Takeru: Co-Signer On The Apartment Lease

F = Feelings when did they know they were falling in love?

Takeru: About a week after Aguni (drunkenly) confessed his crush. Literally spent a whole week like, "Wow, it's a shame I don't love him back. He's so kind and handsome and smart and funny...too bad, I guess..." until one night he sat up straight in bed and said "Hold up." He then immediately called Aguni and began demanding why Aguni didn't tell him he was in love with him this whole time.

Aguni: They had been friends since they were kids, so it's hard to say when his feelings went from "you're my best friend" to something different. But, once he figured it out, he swore never to mention it because that could complicate their friendship.

G = Gentle are they gentle? If so, how?

Takeru: Yes and no. He's got a bad case of "grabby hands" and often yanks Aguni to and fro to look at something or whatever. Just zero respect for the man's personal space. But otherwise...I imagine he's not particularly rough or gentle, just kind of normal. EXCEPT when it comes to the emotional stuff—like, the real heavy things. I think he's very gentle with that, not asking too many questions and just sort of taking care of him where he can.

Aguni: Generally gentle—physically, emotionally, whatever. But I do think that he's confrontational, like when there's an issue, he comes straight out and asks Takeru what's going on. Even corners him, sometimes. He seems like a "no bullshit" guy, and since Takeru is "Mr. 99% Bullshit" he's gotta deal with it as best he can.

H = Hand/Hold how do they like to hold hands?

The only time they "hold hands" is when Takeru is grabbing Aguni's wrist to drag him somewhere (or run away lol) and when Aguni is pulling Takeru's hand back to stop him from touching something...

I = Impression first impression/s

I headcanon that they met very young, like grade school age. After school, in the park, where Takeru was chilling in a tree and Aguni walked by and he was like "Hey, there's a spider up here, wanna see?" and Aguni is like "Not really, I don't like bugs..." Now, Takeru, being "weird bug kid extraordinaire" can't believe his strange little ears and hops down from the tree and starts explaining why bugs are so cool and that Aguni is wrong...and Aguni listens as this funky, tiny firecracker just talks his damn ear off. Aguni liked how excited Takeru got about things, and Takeru liked how Aguni actually listened to him. And they were fast friends after that!

J = Joker are they into pulling pranks?

Takeru fucks around all the time...and doesn't often find out, because Aguni tolerates all his antics. (To a certain point, but still.) Every once in a while, Aguni will tell some harmless little lie just to watch Takeru freak out—he told him once that Lady Gaga was leaving the music scene forever, and Takeru screamed so loud the neighbors filed a noise complaint.

K = Kisses how do they kiss?

I think they most often do quick pecks—at the breakfast table, when they get home from work. You know. Domestic stuff. But when it's not like that...I think 9/10 times it's Takeru initiating, and Aguni reciprocates by wrapping his arms around him in a big hug (because he likes it but also to keep that skinny little weirdo from wiggling so damn much, he's always moving, he can't just be still—)

L = Love who says I love you first?

Neither! I don't think they really say it at all! Why say something that doesn't need to be said? (At least, that's how they see it...)

M = Memory their favorite moment together

Aguni: It's not really a memory, but...just how they have breakfast together some mornings. Sipping coffee, discussing whatever's going on in the world, the general "togetherness" that comes with it is one of his favorite feelings.

Takeru: The time they spent a full 24 hours in a karaoke booth singing 80's hits and knocking back tequila shots and ordering way too much food.

N = Nickel do they spoil? do they buy the person they love everything?

Takeru: Absolutely buys stuff for Aguni all the time. Mostly random snacks, or little knick-knacks that catch his eye. And also clothes, but...Aguni doesn't always approve.

Aguni: Doesn't buy Takeru stuff BUT leaves vases of flowers he grew on the table for Takeru to find.

O = Orange what color reminds them of their other half

Anything bright and obnoxious reminds Aguni of Takeru—red in particular, which also happens to be Takeru's favorite. And Takeru thinks Aguni has calm and soothing blue-green vibes. Like the ocean, beautiful and serene, but also dark and capable of incredible destruction.

P = Petnames what pet names do they use?

Takeru: All of them. Darling, babe, sweetheart (but he calls everyone those lol). Aguni-specific ones are always over-the-top and ridiculous like "brightest star in all of the heavens..." and he always gets an eye-roll for his efforts.

Aguni: Absolutely does not use pet names. Just says "hey you" or something. Once called Takeru "babe" and Takeru had to stop washing dishes and sit down because he was laughing so hard.

Q = Quaint what is their favorite non-modern thing?

Takeru: I feel like he would collect a ton of vintage stuff—clothes, records, just random little bits and bobs he comes across. But his favorite is definitely his record player—it belonged to his dad, and he keeps it in a place of honor in the hat shop.

Aguni: A set of very old and well-cared-for gardening tools. Takeru got them for him for his birthday, and he legit treasures them.

R = Rainy Day what do they like to do on a rainy day?

Lay on the couch and do literally nothing. Takeru gets the left end, Aguni takes the right, and they binge trash TV shows all day. (And also they make box-mix brownies and eat them straight out of the pan. It's "their thing.")

S = Sad how do they cheer themselves/each other up

Takeru: Aside from all his self-destrictive behaviors (binge-drinking, dangerous situations, etc.) he just really needs a good laugh. And Aguni somehow always manages to make him laugh with an unexpected, deadpan comment. Also, he makes Takeru actually talk through his problems instead of ignoring them...

Aguni: if he's in a bad mood, you just need to let him work through it on his own. He hates being "talked down to" and feels that most attempts at cheering up are cheap, so most people don't attempt. Buf...Takeru is not "most people" and breaks out his most ridiculous jokes to try to get Aguni to crack a smile.

T = Talking what do they love to talk about?

Other people! You know Takeru is the "XOXO Gossip Girl" of the neighborhood, but Aguni...he's like a little old church lady and ADORES hearing all the latest drama.

U = Unencumbered What helps them relax?

Both of them have the same method of relaxation and it's...bubble baths! Aguni does a basic, skin soothing soak and just hangs out in the warm water with a book or maybe just his thoughts to keep him company. But Takeru? He's got some fancy bath soaps, and he takes in a glass of wine and lights a few candles and does a face mask and it's a whole EVENT.

V - Very thoughts about each other

Takeru: Thinks Aguni needs to loosen up and take more risks...but also just loves the guy to pieces.

Aguni: Kinda wishes Takeru would calm tf down sometimes...but also knows that it's just how the guy is and wouldn't dare change him.

W = Wedding when, how, where do they propose?

They're not really the marrying type! They just have a mutual understanding of commitment and that's that.

(But if they did have a wedding... I think it would be a relatively small affair with all their closest friends and family. Like a dinner party, but somewhere extra nice and with lots of good food and alcohol. Intimate and meaningful, with just enough "extra" to satisfy Takeru.)

X = Xylophone What’s their song?

"Total Eclipse of the Heart" because they hid out in a karaoke booth (different from the 24-hour event that Takeru cherishes so much) to es ape the Yakuza and Takeru sang it over and over to pass the time.

Y = You the ___ to my ___ (e.g the cookies to my milk, the macaroni to my cheese)

"Breaking" to my "Entering." The "Assault" to my "Battery." (They both hate this sort of thing and try to come up with the worst answers possible lol)

Z = Zebra if they wanted a pet, what pet would they get?

They already have the cat, Ziggy, who is their perfect little angel.

#alice in borderland #hatter #danma takeru #alice in borderland netflix #imawa no kuni no alice #imawa no kuni no arisu #writings and such #hatter/aguni #aguni morizono

[luninosity]

Catching up on @evanstanweek ficlets again! Here’s Day 3, prompt: on set.

Read at AO3 here - 2,336 words of on-set love confessions, set during The First Avenger - or read on tumblr below!

#

Sebastian’s watching Chris. He often is, can’t seem to help the track of his gaze—can’t pull away from the magnet-tug that’s Chris Evans’ loud laugh and gesturing hands and philosopher’s eyes, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to. Right now the low hazy grey lighting of the broken bar sits on Chris’s shoulders and turns him into a grieving supersoldier: a man hollowed out by loss, left with a gaping hole right through his chest.

 Chris is so good. So brilliant at emotion, at getting character. So thoughtful and so generous with his feelings, the kind of bravery that holds nothing back. He is Steve Rogers, through and through: a hero, shining blue and gold.

 Sebastian’s not that brave. Not that brilliant. Good at angst and pain, or dry humor, or intensity, maybe; but he’s in character for it. He does love people and stories, and he thinks he’s funny, sometimes, and he thinks he might want to be a writer, sometimes, and he can shove an entire pizza slice in his mouth when he’s comfortable around friends, but.

 It takes him a while. Exhaling. Stepping out. Speaking up. He wouldn’t say he’s shy, because he isn’t, not once he knows people. He’s just…not Chris Evans, who wears joys and vulnerabilities openly, with pride, unafraid.

 Sebastian looks at Chris, and aches with emotion, and says nothing, every day and every minute on this film so far.

 He’s technically done for the day, though he’s not at all done on this film; he’s spent the morning running around with Howling Commandos and being a young and terrified sergeant thrown into war. They’d filmed Bucky’s fall from the train the day before; Sebastian had honestly loved it. The emotion’d been easy: love and loyalty, throwing himself in to fight alongside the other half of his heart, the moment of sheer shock, a small but gloriously physical drop onto thick mats. They’d let him do that one, because it wasn’t a long fall and they needed to see his face. He hoped it’d been good; everyone seemed pleased, at least.

 He shifts weight, wishes he had a pillar or a wall to lean on. He watches Chris some more.

 They’d caught the stunned disbelief on Chris’s—Steve’s—face at the fall, yesterday. Chris is so incredible at nuance, at blazing emotions, even in a few-seconds-long shot. Sebastian had said, after, “That felt really good, that last take?” and had meant, I think you’re a genius, I think I want to work right next to you forever, I think I love you.

 Chris had gotten kind of pink-cheeked because Chris is too damn self-deprecating, and had said, “Oh—um, thanks, man, you too, I mean it felt good to me too, I mean we’re fuckin’ awesome, obviously,” and had nudged Sebastian’s shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a quick resting of a hand. “Craft services? They got blueberry bagels, someone said.”

 Chris, bagel-focused, clearly had not heard Sebastian’s internal monologue. And if he had, wouldn’t reciprocate.

 Which is fine, of course. Chris never needs to know, and Sebastian’s ridiculous emotions will calm the hell down and go away. Any day now. Sometime. Soon.

 But he’s watching Chris, and Chris is pretending to try to get drunk, pain visibly shredding him inside; Chris is Steve and Steve can’t believe it and has to believe it and wants to scream, to shout, to punch a hole through the world—

 The scene’s fantastic, of course.

 They get it in maybe three takes, rapid-fire, Chris laying out his heart for the watchers. His voice cracks; it’s getting rougher, the third time.

 They do it a couple times more for different close-ups. Sebastian takes a step closer, between takes. His boots—he’s changed; they’re his own boots—are louder than he’d recalled that morning; Chris looks over at the sound.

 And maybe Chris looks surprised, or relieved, or grateful, for a split second; maybe it’s all in Sebastian’s head, though, because the next second they’re right back into it, capturing Steve’s heartbreak.

 It’s a wrap for the scene, eventually. And Chris is done for a few hours too, though he’ll need to stick around; he’s got some close-ups to do inside a mock airplane, being bounced around, for what’ll be the big final self-sacrifice. Sebastian loves the heroism and pain of it; he’s always loved good writing, and he’s got a good feeling about this script and about this universe, which he’s a tiny part of now.

 Chris doesn’t get up right away. Just scrubs both hands over his face, shoulders slumped. Hayley Atwell’s gone off to talk to the director; Joe’s nodding, listening to her. Nobody’s checking on Chris.

 And that’s wrong, that’s wrong and not good and not right—Chris has just been hurting, the way that Chris hurts for the world, and Chris should never be hurting, not while Sebastian’s alive—

 Sebastian’s legs move before his brain makes a conscious decision. He’s picking his way across artistic rubble and taking a few running steps and putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey.”

 Chris actually jumps a little, which isn’t the best start. “Oh! Uh, hey, hi, did you, um…have a question? About Steve and Bucky, or somethin’?” The Boston comes out extra-strong; it does that when Chris is feeling a lot, or tipsy, or simply exaggerating to make someone laugh.

 “No,” Sebastian says. “Or, well, yeah, we might want to talk about some of those flashback sequences, so we’re on the same page with emotion and all, but.” He licks his lips, realizes he’s doing it—a nervous habit, one he’s had for years—and stops. He can taste chapstick on his tongue. “I just. Wanted to. I don’t know. Are you…I mean, that looked like a lot.”

 “You…” Chris trails off. He’s looking at Sebastian’s face with astonishing intent; Sebastian would say even desperation, but that’d be ludicrous. Chris doesn’t have any reason to feel desperate about him.

 He tries, “I know you, um, like tea? Not coffee? We could go grab, um, tea. If you want.”

 “Tea,” Chris says, a little blankly. “But you like coffee.”

 Sebastian’s starting to get kind of worried, here. “I do, but you gave it up? We could maybe head back to your trailer, and you can, um, relax for a minute, and I can…try to make tea?”

 Chris stares at him some more.

 “Or not,” Sebastian throws in helplessly.

 “Yes,” Chris says. “Yes, yeah, yes—you—fuck. Okay. Jesus, Chris, get it together,” and he even shakes his head like a puppy flinging off water, and Sebastian kind of wants to grin and also scratch his tummy.

 Well. Maybe not scratch. He can think of better things to do with Chris’s stomach. Mostly involving his tongue.

 And he should absolutely not be thinking of that when Chris needs his help. He sticks out a hand. “To the end of the line? Or at least your trailer.”

 Chris looks at the hand, and then takes it, hauling himself up out of the chair. His fingers are large and strong and a little cold, and they squeeze Sebastian’s for just a little too long, as if wanting to hold on.

 No. Must be Sebastian’s heart thinking that. Wanting what he can’t have.

 He walks with Chris through behind-the-scenes set-ups and teardowns, props and people rushing to and fro, the corners of trailers and the shouts of movie-making going on. The sun’s warm, if light; the ground’s hard beneath his boots. He keeps stealing glances at Chris, who doesn’t seem too talkative. Sebastian’s poor overworked heart wants to take each sensation, each sight and taste and scent of this backstage moment, and fold them up safe deep inside.

 Chris is letting him help. That feels like sunshine.

 Chris’s trailer’s simple, unpretentious, unfussy; script copies and notes lie scattered around, and he’s got some weights, and some Disney-movie DVDs. Sebastian smiles, because that’s so very Chris: delight in the magic, always.

 Chris, still in costume, sits down on his sofa. He breathes out, and looks up. “Thanks.”

 “For what? How do I make tea with this?” He’s poking Chris’s electric kettle. He does sort of know how it works, in theory. His mother has an old-fashioned kettle; he’s got fancy coffee-making machinery; he should be able to combine all this knowledge. “Where is your tea?”

 “Seb,” Chris says. “I—hang on, does anyone actually call you Seb?”

 “Um. Not really? You can. I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. Chris uses last names often, an affectionate Boston-bro shorthand for friendship; Sebastian’s somehow always been Sebastian or Seb, in Chris’s voice. He’s wondered why, though he’s thought maybe Chris just doesn’t feel that close to him. Not deserving of the bro-status.

 “You don’t mind, or you don’t like it, and you’re being nice about it?”

 “I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, too quickly. “I like it.”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says.

 “Really,” Sebastian says. “Either. Whatever.”

 “Jesus,” Chris says, face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…just tell me if I’m sayin’ something stupid, okay? Please.”

 “But you’re not!” Sebastian comes back over to the couch. That damn magnet again. Tugging his bones. “You’re not, it’s fine, we’re good, Chris. I swear. Really.”

 Chris doesn’t look up, so Sebastian drops to both knees, right there at Chris’s feet, and tries not to think of all the times he’s wanted to do exactly that. It’s easier not to think of it, right now, because he’s genuinely concerned.

 He peeks up at Chris’s face. “Hey. Kinda worried here. Not about you, I mean, about your kettle, it’s got all these buttons, it’s like a rocket ship, I’m afraid if I touch the wrong thing it’ll explode.”

 Chris snorts, almost a laugh, and then does look up. His eyes go right to Sebastian’s, so close and so blue; and then all at once he’s moving, leaning forward, one hand reaching out and cradling Sebastian’s head, and then—

 They’re kissing. Oh, god, they’re kissing, Sebastian on his knees in front of Chris and Chris bending down to claim him, hand in Sebastian’s hair—

 Chris kisses like reprieve, like the release of storms, like the dive into a heated pool on a chilly day: wholehearted, devoted, anxious to lick and taste and plunge into every part of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian, who’s been kissed before, has in fact never been kissed before, because no other kiss has ever been a kiss, compared to this.

 His knees dimly register the hardness of the trailer floor, and his neck’s at kind of an awkward angle, and Chris is still mostly in the Captain America suit. None of that matters. Nothing else matters at all, because Chris wants him and Sebastian’s whole self yearns for Chris, and Chris’s tongue and taste and tug at Sebastian’s hair are all white-hot gloriously perfect.

 Chris pulls back almost as abruptly. They’re both breathless; Chris whispers, “Oh, fuck…” and takes his hand out of Sebastian’s hair, but then touches Sebastian’s cheek, cups his face, as if unable to stop touching. “I…fuck…I didn’t…I’m so fucking sorry, I just…”

 “Why?”

 “What?”

 “Why’re you sorry?” Sebastian tips his head into Chris’s hand. “I’m not.”

 “You’re…not.”

 “Chris,” Sebastian says, and then runs out of words. He hopes Chris can see it, can read it, in his eyes. On his face. “Yes.”

 “Yeah?” Chris reaches out with the other hand too: framing Sebastian’s face now, tender and awestruck. “You mean that.”

 “I mean it,” Sebastian says. “But—”

 “Oh god,” Chris says, “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I—”

 “No! No, just…are you okay? I mean, from earlier.” Somewhere amid the kissing his hands’ve ended up on Chris’s thighs; apparently they just want to be there, and now rub along Chris’s legs, soothing and caressing and learning all at once. “I mean, I wanted to—”

 “To help,” Chris groans. “You came over to help—because you’re the sweetest fucking person I know, god, you’re perfect, Seb, the nicest and the warmest and the best—and I fucking, Jesus, practically mauled you—”

 Sebastian cuts that anguished recrimination off by diving forward and getting his mouth back on Chris’s. After some in-depth affirmation, he breathes against Chris’s lips, “Don’t think you’re doing any mauling I don’t like.”

 Chris’s eyebrows go up.

 “Really,” Sebastian tells him.

 “Huh,” Chris says. “Huh. Okay. You—okay.”

 “No,” Sebastian says patiently. “Are you okay?”

 Chris stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Mid-laughter, scoops Sebastian off the floor. Flops them both down across the sofa, holding on. “God, you’re incredible.”

 “The best, you said.”

 “And I mean it. You just make it all…feel better, kind of?” Chris strokes a hand down Sebastian’s back, over his t-shirt. “That’s what it was, earlier. Like…being Steve, losing Bucky, but that’s you, and all at once I was thinking about losing you, and I just felt like…like someone’d dropped me off a train, y’know? Like I’d never get up again.”

 “I’m here.” Sebastian wriggles against him. They fit together: bodies pressed close, every piece of them learning each other. He’s half atop Chris, but with one of Chris’s legs tangled through his. “I’m here.”

 “I know.” Chris rubs his back again. “And you were there, too. You were right there and I could look up and find you, and it was like I could remember how to breathe. And then you were here, asking about tea and looking at me like—and I just had to kiss you. I want to kiss you. Seb. Sebastian. God, I fuckin’ want—everything. I know it might get complicated, I know we’re in the middle of making a movie, but I can’t not want everything. Together. With you.”

 “Well,” Sebastian says, “good to know,” and stretches to kiss Chris again. It’s that simple, if not easy: the future’ll change, but it does that anyway, sprawling out in all sorts of directions. And he thinks it’ll be a good direction, with Chris at his side. “Because I want everything with you too.”

#evanstan #evanstan week #evanstan week 2021 #my fic #chris evans #sebastian stan #such fluff #love confessions

[hopeshoodie]

I can’t believe it took me until part 8 to do my favorite boy but

 Here are the pros and cons of dating

Noah

 Cons

Noah is really non confrontational, so he tends to let issues fester. It’s not that he’s trying to let things build up, it’s just that he doesn’t think they’re important enough to bring up. He won’t start a fight about them when they’ve built up, but if MC is angry about something he’ll mention that there’s a bunch of things he’s let go but not have specifics. It ends up coming out like ‘yeah well what about all the other things?!’ ‘what other things!?’ ‘I don’t remember!!’. He’s not actively keeping track of all her mistakes, he genuinely does forgive and forget, but then when tensions come to a boil he needs to point out that there has been conflict that he just ignored. He’s not trying to guilt or gaslight MC, but sometimes it feels like it. If she thinks especially little of his intentions, it feels like he’s just pulling things out of thin air to be mad instead of focusing on the issue. That’s not what he’s doing- he just doesn’t address little things until they feel like big things. But of course he hasn’t done the introspection to truly understand how doing this is hurtful or articulate that he doesn’t mean it to be. 

When he and MC disagree, he lets things go wayyy too easily. This is fine if MC is a really mature, self-reflective person who can see that she’s crossed a line after the fact. But if MC is a little more selfish/immature, like Lottie, this is a huge con because he doesn’t give her accountability that would help her grow. We saw this with Hope- she wasn’t able to recognize how harmful her temper was when she was dating Noah because he never pointed it out, he just rolled over. If there’s a genuine problem- financial, emotional, logistically, he’ll ‘let it go’ until it’s a way bigger problem (and much harder to solve). 

Sorry that most of these cons are about how he fights with people, but that’s what we saw in-game lol. I’d love to know more about how Lucas or Rahim fight with their partners. But when you’re arguing, Noah tends to focus on really little details of what you said instead of listening to the whole thing and getting a sense of the bigger picture. So let’s say the issue is ‘Noah, I need you to tell me when you’re borrowing my car because you took it to the gym and then it went from having enough gas to get me to work in the morning to being on empty. This morning I had to stop for gas and that made me late.” The issue there is actually ‘please tell me when you’re using my car”, but he fixates on the gas part and says “well fine I can fill up your tank”. So he focuses on little details that he can fix instead of acknowledging the actual problem.

He internalizes things so fucking hard. Yes he intellectually knows that when MC gives him feedback on things she’s talking about his BEHAVIOR and not him as a person, but he definitely feels like shit about himself if he makes a mistake and MC calls him on it. He’ll definitely beat himself up about things for weeks after it happens, and his internal dialogue in general is pretty toxic. 

I can see him being a bit of a workaholic. Not in the same sense that Camilo is in Boat Party, but Noah definitely will go into the library on a day he’s scheduled to be off if he has projects to work on or will stay late because he got engrossed in research. Same thing now that the library’s closed because of COVID- it takes him two times as long to put everyone online and work from home, so he’s spending more time working than ever. He views it through the lens of the ‘greater good’- getting that display set up for the patrons is more important that seeing his wife two hours earlier because many members of the community outnumber one person. Plus he just cares so much about his work that he has a hard time seeing it as an inconvenience to other people.

He loves his family so much. Even when MC and he get married and have kids, he struggles to prioritize them over his siblings and parents. So if his little brother Arlo needs money, Noah won’t hesitate to give him a loan even if he and MC are struggling financially. If his aging mom or dad can’t live alone anymore, Noah will invite them to move in with his family, even if their house isn’t big enough to accommodate more people. I can see this being a huge point of contention, especially in that second scenario where MC would have to take on a caretaker role as well. Noah just wants to help people so bad and has a hard time saying no, so that can sometimes impede his partner.

He’s really used to living on low income, and so he has a lot of frugal habits and concessions that he thinks are normal that someone more middle or upper class might find irritating. These are all coming from my experience and things partners have complained about- but think things like only eating out once a month or refusing to turn the heat on until it’s dangerous or making his own laundry detergent. He grew up doing them out of necessity (and still does, student debt on a public librarian’s budget? I couldn’t do it), so he doesn’t realize how strange or frustrating his habits might be to someone who isn’t used to it. He also has a really hard time justifying spending excessive amounts of money, so if MC has lavish taste there’s going to be some conflict.

He doesn’t like initiating anything. Conversations, activities… you know *smirk emoji*. He will, but the ratio of when Noah suggests something to when MC does is like 1:8

My boy is beautiful, and his clothes look lovely, but he has 7 outfits that he rewears all the time. The closest thing to fashion is him putting a different button up shirt underneath his vest. It’s definitely a joke at work that he wears the same sweater, button up, and quarter length shirt just in different colors. You know that vine where the teacher walks into the room wearing the same shirt in different colors, saying the same ‘hello’ for like a million days. Noah’s coworkers remake that with him, because that’s exactly what he does. 

He’s a bit of a homebody, and loves routine. For me, massive plus, I love that. But for someone who wants to party regularly or be spontaneous, I can see constantly changing plans and going out with people being really draining to Noah. He has a small group of close friends, so he’d struggle to remember MC’s friends' names if she has more than five. Don’t get me wrong, Noah will take MC to galleries and dates at least three times a month, but it has to be discussed and scheduled in advance. 

Pros

Honestly, what isn’t a pro about him? Noah is a steadfast, thoughtful, and kind person. His politics are about taking care of people, providing them dignity and respect, and building community. He loves his family and is incredibly patient. He’s incredibly smart but not at all classist or condescending about it. I know this is supposed to be about how the islanders affect the person they’re dating, but oh my god he’s such a good person I love him. Let’s just say the pro for this is his positive aura. 

He’s really good at group dynamics and listening, so he goes out of his way to make everyone feel heard and valued. If someone says something and no one acknowledges it, he’ll specifically engage with them so they’re not left hanging. If someone’s trying to get a word in but can’t, he’ll get everyone’s attention then say ‘so and so had an idea’. He’s not one to boisterously laugh in group settings, but he always makes eye contact and smiles if you make a joke that flops or say something he agrees with. If people are teasing about something, he picks up if it’s gone too far really easily and will gracefully change the subject/tell them to knock it off. 

He’s super conscientious about respecting boundaries and ensuring the people around him are taking care of himself. If MC and him are long distance and texting after 10pm, he’ll be like “I love you, but we’ve both got to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow”. He’ll always check and make sure people have eaten when meeting up with them, and if they haven’t he’ll insist they get food from somewhere. 100% gives you his jacket, brings you water bottles, in general just wants you to take care of yourself. 

Above all else, Noah just always ensures the people around him feel safe. The last thing he’d want to do is make people uncomfortable, so safe driving, safe spaces, safe sex are all musts. He’s really good in crisis situations because he can calm people down and encourage them to think critically.  

Building off of that, he’s really aware of how much of the housework is being done by who and always tries to ensure he’s doing his part. I bet that was a big thing he ripped on Rahim for- Rahim expects his woman to clean up after him and do the bulk of the domestic work, and Noah knows that’s bullshit. I think Noah likes cleaning, anyways, and will usually take laundry/disinfecting bathrooms/cleaning dishes over cooking or running errands. But the mental load of keeping track of recipes/groceries that need replenishing and keeping up with kids needs, he’s aware of the imbalance and does his part. Obvious plus, because it sounds fucking exhausting to date a man. He fucking hates vaccuming though, and will splurge on a roomba. 

He has a dry sense of humor that’s very based in puns and hyperbole. Sometimes it’s hard to know when he’s joking or not, but he never makes you feel bad for missing a joke or dwells on something for too long. He absolutely subscribes to the Mcelroys’ No Bummers rule, there are some things you don’t joke about and he’s happy to shut down inappropriate comments or ‘jokes’. He definitely prefers physical gaffs and dumb ways of saying things, so his favorite comedians are John Mulaney and Chris Fleming. While humor isn’t an important part of how he relates to other people, Noah enjoys being around funny people and won’t shut down their energy like Rahim, Marisol, or Hope. 

This is just me projecting again but Noah is generoussss. Even though he doesn’t make a lot of money at the library, he still has a ‘mutual aid’ budget each month (and goes over it often). He’s the first one to give money to panhandlers, donate to gofundmes, and give friends/family personal loans. That definitely gets him into sticky situations sometimes, because he has a hard time saying no and can get taken advantage of, but ultimately I think it’s a pro because he’ll never forget where he came from and always prioritize helping other people. 

He has a really pretty, deep singing voice and this is a pro to me because fuck I meltttttt.

The shit he says to his partner or spouse? THE most romantic thing in the world. You think Mr. “you’re made of stardust” doesn’t shower his lover with the most meaningful lines at random times? You think he’s not quoting sappho and jane austen when he’s at a loss for words? You think he’s NOT going to turn over in bed on a lazy Saturday and say ‘this is the most perfect my life will ever be’? It’s not even prompted either, yes he’ll compliment Bobby or MC when they get all dressed up for date night, but more often he’ll profess his adoration in the middle of dinner, then take another forkful of food. 

Fantastic with kids, and this is a huge pro because people who can work with kids and be patient/positive with them make me so fuckim soft. But if/when (hopefully when because if MC didn’t want kids I don’t think it’d last) they had kids, Noah is happy to be on bottle duty, wake up early to the baby, and generally be a really involved parent. He’ll take a big chunk of paternity leave, and generally be there as much as humanly possible. Even when they have multiple little tyrants running around, he always makes time to be alone with MC and make sure she’s not taking on too much.

He’s basically a lesbian, which is definitely a reason I love him so much. Hear me out- loves milfs, loves 80s music, communicates affection through meaningful glances and playing with hair but will die before explicitly saying any of it, crushes on his best friend for the longest time but never makes the first move, puts way too much emotional meaning and personal metaphors into objects and then presents them as gifts, is into fandoms and actively collects pop figures, is attracted to assertive/powerful women, wears beige skinny jeans, wears VESTS….. That’s a lesbian. He’s a bisexual man, but he’s also an honorary lesbian.

A really good confidant. Noah’s an amazing listener and never judges people harshly- his life philosophy is as long as you’re not hurting anymore or yourself, everything else is details. So you can definitely tell him secrets and confess regrets to him and he’ll listen with those soft eyes and gentle nods. Talking to him about mistakes always feels like unburdening yourself. And he’d never tell your secret to anyone. Doesn’t matter if you cheat on him, lie to him, or die, he’s never going to tell anyone your secrets. 

#litg #litg noah #pros and cons

[malethirsty]

Loyalty - Klaus Mikaelson

Summary: When you help Klaus Mikaelson to turn hybrids, the rewards you reap from the original are perfection.

Warnings: M/M smut (21+), Bareback (Wrap Before You Tap!)

Inspired by: https://twitter.com/malethirst/status/1196817642251669505?s=21

You sat in a booth of the Mystic Grill, not ordering anything, just mulling over what had occurred in your life that had led you up to here. As a longtime friend of The Council, you knew of supernatural entities existing and the potential threat they exposed to Mystic Falls. You thought nothing of it until The Salvatore Brothers: Damon and Stefan let their infatuation with Elena Gilbert seep into the town & after that, things had been occurring left, right and centre. One of these things that had a profound affect you was Klaus Mikaelson. The feared Original took over Alaric Saltzman’s body to get to grips with the town, and in order to remain inconspicious, started a friendship with you. Whilst posing as Alaric, he made you think of Klaus’s actual motivations of activating his wolf side and being able to turn hybrids: He was lonely, sick and tired of being the only one of his kind. So when Klaus did return to his original body, you made sure to keep tabs on him, just in case he needed you, also because he looked hot in his real form, but that would be something for another time in your dreams, you had to be professional with Klaus.

After a long winded absence he popped up in Mystic Falls with Stefan & Rebekah, the latter being his sister and the night they returned you assisted Klaus in making the link between Elena’s blood and turning the hybrids, inadvertently saving Tyler Lockwood’s life at the same time. Elena and her pack of friends Caroline & Bonnie, were utterly furious and you were sure Alaric would make sure The Council would cut you off from anything further with them. Which led you to right here & now, trying to think of your next step. Would you be exiled from Mystic Falls? Where would you go? Would you ever see Klaus again? You were so wrapped up in thought that you didn’t notice the pair of feet stepping through the bar until you saw Klaus standing across from you “Well Hello Y/N, what are you doing at the Mystic Grill at this hour?” You wondered whether you should tell him or try and play it off in a humorous way, you decided with the former “Pondering over tomorrow, Elena and her friends hate me & The Council won’t want me around. I’m worried by helping ypu, I’ve ruined the perfect life I’ve made for myself, and while you become the hybrid, I become the outcast” You didn’t notice you had been silently crying until Klaus leant forwards, running his hand down your face, drying it “Love, I want you to listen to what I say next because it’s important. Fuck them, you made the right decision to help me, I have my new pack, I have my ripper & I’ll take you in with me, don’t worry. Don’t spend time on them, they won’t matter in a few hundred years but what you have helped me achieve tonight, will last forever.” You smiled up at Klaus, his promise made you feel better, like you were at home with someone you cared about. “We should really celebrate you and I this evening.” he snapped his fingers for a waiter, before compelling the poor soul to make a whole bunch of food that would be tricky to make at this time of night due to fatigue. Whilst he did this you sat across from the hybrid, transfixed at his beauty, his eyes, dimples, the feint outline of a tattoo on his upper chest, Klaus Mikaelson was just perfect. Having finished with the waiter, Klaus turned round to you “Mind if I sit here in the booth with you love?” you shook your head & you moved down, Klaus talong his seat next to you.

You spent the next few hours having an amazing conversation with Klaus, in admits the Chips, Pizza & Garlic Bread sent to the table, Klaus told you stories of old, about the creation of New Orleans, about times with Stefan, you found yourself entranced by his words, paying close attention to each story. As the night dragged on, you began to get sleepy and forgetting you weren’t in your bedroom instead of a restauraunt, you laid your head down on Klaus’s shoulder, “Well well love, thank goodness you finally made the first move.” Remembering where you were, you withdrew from Klaus “No Klaus, I’m a bit tired, I should head home” Klaus however held a finger to his lips and you obediently fell silent “Y/N, I know your sleepy, I can smell it, but there’s more than that coming from you. There’s a hint of lust there as well, it’s been there since we met. You want me, don’t you?” You gulped, whilst you were thinking this isn’t how you thought this would go down, a part of you cursed yourself because of course being part Vampire, Klaus could smell your scent, now you had to make a choice about how best to handle the situation you had gotten into. Deciding to rip the bandaid off, you cleared your throat and began “Well Klaus, I guess I’ve felt in love ever since you conversed with me as Alaric, something struck me about the conversation. I cared about your story, about what you had to go through, how strong it made you. And all of this, got me to realise that I love you Klaus Mikaelson.” you took a deep breath, weights finally thudding off your shoulders and looked to Klaus, whom had been transfixed on you ever since you started talking. “Niklaus” he said as he reached you, and you looked confused “What?” you inquired “You deserve to know and say my full name: Niklaus Mikaelson. Take my hand Y/N.” you did as he asked and felt a sudden whooshing combined with blurred vision, until you made it inside of a room. you had barely registered the bed at the end of the room when Klaus kissed you passionately, wrapping his hand around your head to deepen it. The heat and the passion was mind blowing, and you leaned into the kiss giving just as much back to Klaus, this had been something you’d waited for, he was going to get your full treatment.

Klaus broke the kiss after a while, panting, clearly riding the high of it “I love you Y/N. I’ve been in love ever since I saw you, I thought I’d rip through Mystic Falls, take what I wanted and leave, but when I saw you and I knew I had to have you eventually. You understood me, were prepared to protect me no matter what, because you cared about me. I’ve lived for a thousand years, seen many beautiful things, but Y/N, nothing compares to how incredible you are.” you felt like crying again, but this time out of happiness rather than distress, however this was soon forgotten as you were pushed into the bed at supernatural speed by Klaus. As you laid out on the soft bedding, Klaus began to remove his clothes and you, bit your lip, intending to enjoy the show. As soon as he removed his pants and you saw his dick, you let a soft cry come from your mouth and Klaus grinned “Many a lover has had a similar reaction to you. Do you want to become more aquainted with my cock? Do you want to taste it?” Deciding to go on the spur of the moment, you ran your tongue up his length, the hybrid gasping as your warm mouth connected with his cock. After some teasing, you began to suck him deep, and as expected, he tasted incredible. Klaus threw his head back and let breathy moans escape him “Oh Y/N, that’s right. Suck me off love.” With the added encouragement, You ran over his veins and the tip, tasting his delicious precum. All that could be heard was slurping as you took him deeper in your mouth, you now began to rub his balls causing him to moan into you ear, a sound you wanted to hear as many times as you could. Suddenly, Klaus pulled away and pushed you onto the bed, before mounting you “I want you Y/N, I want to be inside you. Open your legs, let me fuck you.” You didn’t wait to be asked twice and did as he asked, once your legs were opened with your asshole on display, Klaus immediately thrusted his cock into you.

You both let out a loud cry, you from being stretched open by Klaus’s big member, Klaus from how your walls clenched around him, so tight, yet so snug and perfect. He peppered your neck in kisses so as to calm you down “God! Your hole is pulsing love, keeps urging me to fuck it deeper, harder.” He emphasised his point with several thrusts which made you grip the bedsheets and whimper in pleasure. The sensation of being filled with Klaus’s cock was so intense, everything else was blinded to you but the beautiful hybrid above you, and inside you. It was like you were on cloud nine, trapped between the softness of the bed and Klaus’s body as his cock pulsated inside you as he made love to you so powerfully and passionately. You ran your hands down his chest and back, getting to grips with the man you had loved for so long, and relishing in being naked with him while he was buried inside you, fucking you to within an inch of your life. “Fuck Klaus, so good” you got out and he smiled “That’s what a thousand years of experience does to you love, God I’m glad I get to show you all I’ve learned.” You slowly began to get enough strength to push yourself up a bit and began to kiss Klaus again, him returning it with similar passion, you now riding the inmortal hybrid, drawing up and slamming back down on him, making you both moan. As Klaus began to lick down your neck, an idea crossed your thoughts “Drink from me Klaus”

He looked down at you “Love, are you sure you want me to?” You nodded and seductively responded “I want you to taste me Niklaus” this use of his first name so passionately did it, dark veins formed under Klaus’s eyes, which were now glowing a bright yellow colour as he roared out his monstorous pleasure and sunk his fangs deep into you. He buried into you deeper, colliding harder into your prostate than before as he began to feast on you, you whimpered out your cries of pleasure as you began to dig your nails into his back for leverage. You could feel the feintest traces of blood on your fingertips as Klaus drank your blood, snarling carnally as he gulped you down. Klaus eventually withdrew, blood running down his face, and out of instinct you moved closer to Klaus and licked his face clean, before kissing him, tipping your head back so that the blood tipped down his throat, continuing to sate his bloodlust. As dominant as Klaus could be, his thrusts were starting to become sloppier, a sign any human could recognise that he was close “Y/N” Klaus groaned and you looked deep into his beautiful blue eyes “Come with me.” He moaned softly, the amount of desire that coursed through you at this point was so high, vampires outside of Mystic Falls could probably smell it. You fell back onto the bed and wrapped your legs around Klaus, letting the hybrid sink deeper as he fucked into you helping you get closer to the edge until finally, you both tipped over. You formed an o with your mouth as your load splashed out onto your chest as Klaus cried out his orgasmic release as he released his seed inside of you. You stayed like this for a while before Klaus pulled out and fell next to you his hands snaking over you “Stay with me tonight”, you would have retorted that of course you would, but after orgasm, the waves of drowsiness in the Mystic Grill returned in full force, and all you could do before you went to sleep was curl into the hybrid, kiss him softly on the lips and say “I love you Niklaus Mikaelson”, as you feintly drifted off, you heard Klaus say “I love you too Y/N” which was the final stroke, and sent you to sleep.

#Klaus Mikaelson #Male Reader #Klaus Mikaelson x Male Reader #Klaus Mikaelson Smut #The Vampire Diaries #The Vampire Diaries Smut #Loyalty

[melyaliz]

Remember me pt 1

Fandom: My Hero Academia 

Summary: One moment Olive is just living her life in America the next it is 5 years in the future and this incredibly out of her league blonde is speaking to her in a langue she barely knows calling her his wife.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x OC 

Notes: This idea came to me last week while I was supposed to be prepping to edit my novel. I was like “I should just write the idea out.” A week later and over 30k words... I now bring it to you. 

ALSO! I have a newsletter you guys! It’s where I will keep you updated on on novel (and other) related things. My website and short story should be up next Friday to stay tuned for that :) 

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive​

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-0-0-0--- Olive ---0-0-0-

Black eyes, rimmed with a thin blue line. Glowing in a way that was almost predatory like. It reminded her of a shark moving toward her. She felt like she was in water, or using her querk. Slowly trying to escape from something that was much faster in a black abyss. 

 Nothing but those glowing blue eyes were visible. 

 Olive’s lungs filled with hot dry air making her cough. The taste of ash and smoke filling her lungs as she tried to pull her consciousness awake. Blinking she saw a car on fire in front of her along with small fires spread across the parking lot of a large mall. One she did not recognize.   

 Taking a step back she looked around trying to get her bearings. Her eyes slowly adjusting to the world around her. It felt like a dream as if someone had just thrown her into this situation. No memories of how she got here or what was going on. 

Maybe she was dreaming? 

Touching her face she blinked a few times as she saw people screaming and running from the building. They were saying things but she couldn’t quite make out what. As if they were just making noises.

  What was going on? What happened? Where was she? Panic slowly rising in her chest with the thought that she had no idea what to do or where to go. Her breaths become shallow as panic began to wash over her. 

 “Olive! Olive!” the sound of her name being called broke her out of her stupor as a tall red-haired man ran up to her grabbing her arms. A stream of Japanese came flowing out of his mouth and she was lost. Only knowing a few phrases she blinked up at this stranger.

 “I don’t know…?” she said slowly hoping he would understand, “English.” she said “No Japanese?” 

 He looked taken back for a moment “You go” he said in broken English, accent heavy, pointing at the street. “Police will help, wait there?” 

 Nodding she followed the crowd and stood with the others waiting for Red to come back. Not that it mattered since he wasn’t going to be able to talk to her. But also, as she was slowly realizing by overhearing people talking around her, that she wasn’t in America anymore and had NO idea where to go or what to do. So Red was her best option at this point. Maybe she could use a translator app? Her mind went into overdrive trying to think of what to do. And then, as it always did when she was panicking her thoughts turned to the only person who was her calm center. 

 Eliott.

 Where was he? Reaching around she realized she had a purse with her. One she didn’t recognize. It was way too nice. Was that a Chanel label? Holding up the bag she looked it over totally confused. Did she steal this? Ok, she was dreaming. There was no way this was real. 

 But it felt so real. 

 Frowning she rifled through the bag looking for her phone. She just wanted to call Eliott. Desperation filling her body, her heart pounding so hard in her chest it felt like it was going to burst out of her chest. She just wanted her husband. 

 There was a huge explosion and a few people cheered all of them speaking excitedly in Japanese to each other. The excitement getting louder and louder, people pointing. Turning Olive stood up with the crowd to see a blonde-haired man slowly walking toward the crowd dragging a horned man by the collar of his shirt. Behind him, the red-haired man from earlier held three others on his shoulders. 

 As he grew closer the blonde turned his eyes meeting Olive’s. His red eyes were so intense that something in her stomach dropped. A weird calm washing over her as he studied her. He felt like something from another life. Dejavu. A dream long forgotten. 

 “Olive,” his voice was gravely as he dropped the man he had been dragging walking toward her. Looking down at her he placed his arms on her shoulders “what the hell you baka?” he said leaning forward pulling the dazed woman into a strong hug. He smelled like smoke and something sweet, like sugar. It kind of reminded her of camping. However, why this man was hugging her she had NO idea. 

 And then he pulled back slightly, his eyes fluttering for a moment, leaning toward her face as if he was about to kiss her.  Olive, who was still trying to gain her bearings, felt her whole body tense in pure shock. 

 What.

 The.

 Actual. 

 Fuck? 

 “Dude I’m married,” she said swatting away his arms from her side before pushing him away. Her face flushed, eyes glassy as tears threatened to spill over from feeling so overwhelmed by it all.. 

 The blonde’s eyes grew wide studying her for a moment, then gently his hand moved from her shoulder to her forehead speaking in Japanese. The red-haired man had come up behind him and seemed to be responding to what he was saying back. A flush of anger spread over Olive, she had just told his guy she was married and he was still trying to come on to her. Her already very frayed emotions were so tight Olive couldn’t deal with this anymore. Jaw clenched she swatted away this way too friendly guy’s hand.

 “Look. No I’m...” she held up her hand and that’s when she saw it. 

 A ring, but it wasn’t hers.

 “What?” she looked down at her hand confused. Was she even in her own body? What was going on? Her hands looked like hers? Do people recognize their own hands? It felt like her body. But how could you tell? 

 It was too much for her. Her heart pounding in her ears and that campfire smell was all around her filling her lungs. Her breath became shallow as colored spots filled her vision. 

 And then everything went black. 

 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

 You get one true love in your life. One person, you are meant to be with. Olive had always believed that. Especially after meeting Eliott. He had a killer sense of humor and was always so calm. For a girl who always seemed to deal with anxiety and self-doubt the dirty blonde haired man who would rather be enjoying life than dealing with the drama was everything, Olive had wanted and needed in her life. 

 It wasn’t some epic romance, it was just… normal. From the first time he brought her out for burgers and to watch fireworks. 

 They ended up in the wrong location missing the entire show. But it didn’t matter, they were too busy talking about their lives. They had ended up staying on the side of that grassy hill just laughing and joking around until 2 am. 

 He fit so easily into her life Olive had a hard time remembering what it was like without him. She wasn’t as happy that was for sure. 

 And then one day he was gone. 

 Like a flash from the cameras, he would use.

 As an action photographer, he was hired by both sports and hero agencies for promotional work. Olive had worried about him when he had gotten the job  but with his quirk of being able to walk on walls, he normally could stay out of the way enough to keep himself safe. 

 Until a month ago when he wasn’t. 

 A month ago when he was dead. 

 And Olive’s life wasn’t the same. 

 A month after a loss is such a weird time. It’s like a limbo between everyone expecting her to be better and her inability to stop crying. 

 Olive still woke up reaching out for him in the middle of the night only to find an empty bed. Still felt like she could see him around every corner. Still waited for him to come through that door making some snarky joke about some idiot who walked into his shot. 

 His presence had left such a huge hole in her life and a bigger one in her heart. 

 That morning she woke up rubbing her swollen eyes looking at herself in the mirror. She was tired of this. Tired of being sad. Tired of missing him. Just tired. Selfishly she just wanted to skip this part of the morning process and go back to being happy again. After all, there was no way she could be sad forever... right? They say time heals all wounds. (Whoever they were.) But she wanted that healing now. 

 But no one could do that but her. 

 So sitting down she opened her laptop. Emails from her boss, editor, and an older client of hers littered her email. Scrolling through she tried to decide which one she wanted. She didn’t have the creative energy to talk to her editor and her boss could wait until Monday. 

 But maybe ghostwriting would help distract her? The client she used to work with had a new story and he was desperate. And in a way she was too. 

 So clicking the email she started to read what he had to say. 

 And then she was here. 

 In the parking lot of a burning mall in Japan. 

 The hospital she woke up in was sterile white reminding her of the inside of an apple store. Soft lights filled the room as her eyes fluttered open. She looked around slowly sitting up. Her head was pounding and part of her just wanted to lay back down. But she also wanted some water, her throat feeling ashy crying out for moisture. And maybe an answer to what the hell was going on? 

 Slowly Olive pulled herself into a sitting position, her body ached from tension but she didn’t really see any other major injuries. Looking around the room praying for a glass of water her eyes instead found a phone sitting on the table next to her. A text on top of the slue of notifications caught her attention.

 Lilly Pond: Are you ok? Call me when you get up.

 Her best friend. Oh thank god, someone she recognized. This meant she could rule out getting teleported to a different dimension off her list of what the fuck was going on. 

 Her heart pounded in her chest as she quickly unlocked the phone. Thank god for smart technology and face recognition. (She wouldn’t have known what to do without it). Looking down at the phone there was a brief moment where she forgot why she had opened her phone. Distracted by the image of three young children who she didn’t recognize looked back up at her from her phone background. 

 Dear god, please don’t tell her she had kids along with a strange wedding ring. Her heart couldn’t handle a full-on Overboard situation. She felt sick and desperate to hear a familiar voice. Something she recognized. 

 Clicking the name she fumbled for a bit until she figured out how to call. 

 “Olive?” Lilly’s voice was desperate, “Olive are you ok? Katsuki told me…” 

 “What? Who?” Olive cut her friend off confused by this Katsuski, “Lilly I don’t know where I am… I… I think I’m in Japan.” 

 There was a long pause on the other end. “Yeah Olive… you…” Another long pause, Olive could tell her bestie was trying to remain calm for her sake, “What do you remember?” In the background, Olive heard a little voice say something. But Lilly didn’t have kids… right? 

 “I… Eliott’s funeral, uhhh going back to work. I think it’s been maybe a month since he died?” who was she kidding, she knew it was 4 weeks and 3 days. But she didn't want to sound like she was counting. 

 “Olive, it’s been over 5 years since Eliott died.” 

 Olive felt like she was going to throw up. Wait... what?

 “What?” she felt like there was a mound of sand in her throat. She wanted to gag at the feeling. Her heart raced so fast she couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating. “But, that’s not possible. Eliott.. I… Lilly why can’t I remember anything!?! Why the FUCK AM I IN JAPAN!?!” 

 “Olive you need to calm down...”

 Olive wanted Eliott, she wanted his stormy gray-blue eyes and calm voice to tell her to just breathe. ‘If you're breathing you're alive, just keep breathing.’ was what he would always say when she was working herself up over something that probably didn't matter. She missed him, she wanted him. 

 “No” Olive sobbed covering her mouth, “I...” 

 “Is Kasusuki there? Olive? Nate? call Kasushk she’s freaking out..” Lilly’s voice called off the phone to her fiance, well it would be husband at this point. Wait was that little voice? 

 The blonde from earlier came rushing in cutting off her millions of thoughts. He was holding his phone to his ear but quickly hung up as he saw her. Those red eyes wide as he walked up to her. “Olive…” he said softly as he approached. At the sound of her name, she shrunk back shaking her head slightly.

 “Lilly, I honestly don’t know what’s going on.” 

 “That’s your husband Olive.” Lilly’s voice said back, “You moved to Japan with him two and a half years ago.” 

 “I’m going to be sick.” she choked out. “This is a dream, I can't…” 

 “Oh Olive” Lilly’s voice sounded far away as Olive felt dizzy.

 “No, no no.” the blonde said -what did Lilly call him? Suki?- gently prying the phone out of her hand, “Calm down, focus. Don’t pass out.” 

 “I don’t know what’s going on,” Olive told him, trying to make him understand. Trying to make herself understand.

 “Yeah I can tell.” he said, “They don’t know why. They said you were fine.” 

 “They?” 

 “The Doctors.” 

 “Oh.” her voice trailed off for a moment as he picked up her phone Lilly still on the other end. 

 “I have her. She will call you back,” he said before hanging up. A flash of anger folded Olive. How dare he just hang up on her best friend.

 “Uhhh excuse me! I was talking to her.” 

 “You can call her back, I need you to talk to me,” he said brushing away her comment. A flicker of a smile flashed over his face for a moment and Olive had no idea why. This wasn’t funny. Why would he be laughing? 

 “Who are you?” Olive said studying him unsure about the man next to her. She trusted Lilly when she said she was married to him but also… she didn’t trust him. 

 She didn’t know him. 

 “I’m your husband,” his voice softened as his gaze roamed over her as if looking for injuries. Probably not believing the doctors. “What is the last thing you remember?” 

 “I… Eliott.” her voice was soft and she didn’t miss the way he flinched at the name. “He… He’s dead.” 

 “Yeah” he said nodded gently brushing away a strand of her dark hair away from her face.

 “And now I’m in Japan.” She was in shock, trying to make sense of it all. 

 “Yeah,” was his simple resonance.  

 “And I don’t know how,” she concluded unsure how to explain to this complete stranger that he was, in fact, a complete stranger to her.  

 He sighed looking down at her hands, his finger brushing over the large yellow diamond on her left hand. Olive looked down as well, it was much larger and impressive than her ring. But… it felt so wrong. Looking back up at him she felt like she was going to cry again.

 “Are you going to cry?” he asked, it sounded like a statement. She shook her head already feeling hot tears welling up in her eyes.

 “No” 

 He sighed, it sounded frustrated and made her heart pound with an anxiety she hadn’t felt in years. But he still hugged her, pulling her close enveloping her in that sweet warm scent she had smelled at the mall. However, this time in the calm of the hospital room it was confronting. Or as comforting as a stranger hugging you could be.  

 She felt his arms tightened around her as she let out a shaky sob. His grip was so strong as if he was scared she would run away.

 But where would she go if she tried?  

-GET TAGGED!-

Story Tag: @0hmydeku @inumorph @it-jinxed-us @myraticm

#my hero academia #bakugou katsuki x oc #bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki x reader #My hero academia fanfic #my hero academia oc #bakugou x oc #bakugou katsuki long fic #bakugou katsuki fluff #also smut later #because I'm that kind of gal

[murderluv23]

Piano Demon Headcanons (2)

He is incredibly loyal. He is extremely unlikely to betray any allies he makes unless given good reason to.

This mostly applies to Alastor, though. As he doesn't socialize much with anyone else.

A big part of the fear surrounding him is his partnership with Alastor and the undying loyalty attached to it. Meaning outside his music, his goals can change on a dime based on what Alastor has in mind.

He is truly neutral. He has no ego to satisfy, no people to harm for revenge, none to help for the sake of their reputation. He makes decisions based on fact and circumstance.

He will assist someone if he is needed, given they are on good terms and the request is reasonable.

He will pretty much do anything asked of him or watch things occur without a fuss, even if it is extreme. He does have a set of morals, so there are few things he will not partake in for anyone.

While he has morals, it is rare to see him actively go against someone who violates the morals he sets for himself.

If he comes across someone that does something he would never do concerning morals, he would find them disgusting and keep his distance. But he wouldn't lecture them or try to stop them.

You should see him, Alastor, and Rosie in the same room. The chaotic musical energy coming off of them can not be overstated. It's a blast.

While Alastor and Rosie set the mood and steal the show with their singing and choreography, without The Piano Demon there it wouldn't be nearly as fun. So they both claim.

He may not be as flamboyant as the other two but is equally as passionate and makes everything pop on stage.

So much so Alastor has a habit of getting flirty during song performances. Maybe will throw in an unwritten lyric as a call or if the song is purely improvised he'll throw in any compliments he can without sacrificing the songs quality. Or lean on his back or shoulder with his elbow from behind with a warm gaze.

Rosie is guilty of this as well. Though the intent is strictly platonic, she does like charming the tall reindeer and genuinely admires his work. Plus, it's really fun to tease him.

Help his poor soul, he has to refrain from shutting down completely or strangling these two when this happens.

But he really does have fun, even if he will remain his stoic self.

If Mimzy joins? Oh no, the chaotic energy would break all of hell.

He is rarely, rarely ever angry.

Many have joked he is either made of ice or has the patience of a saint. 

Especially considering who his lover is.

Odd considering where he ended up.

But when he is.....dear Lucifer. It is not a pretty sight.

It takes a lot to get him violent, so mostly he'll just be eerily silent and calm. Which is arguably worse because then you'll have to have a conversation with an enraged Piano Demon. Yikes.

If there is a reason for him to get violent....I don't know what to tell you other than someone done fucked up real bad. Getting someone as calm as him to this point is not an easy feat and they must have really hit a nerve.

Meanwhile, cut to Alastor in the background with heart eyes as the chaos unfolds.

If Alastor is on the recieving end of his rage, though, trust and believe he'll do everything to remedy the situation. Not only does he not like having his lover angry with him, he is also aware of how terrifying he can be and knows better than to test him when he's like that.

Alastor gives him lots of hand kisses.

Surprisingly, Angel and him get along well.

He is believed to be humorless based on the fact no one has heard him laugh. Ever.

But he actually has very sharp dry humor and sarcasm. He can be really sassy when he wants to, unitentional or not. 

He's a polite gentleman so this usually only happens in retaliation. Or if he just wants to tease Alastor.

"Ice cold, Ol' Sport." - Alastor, after a solid roast.

Angel Dust trolls his social media account. Change my mind.

This usually just ends up looking like spam considering The Piano Demon is rarely on it. Then ends with him checking in months later with a billion odd messages from the spider and he just genuinely asks Angel if he's okay or refutes every comment he's made while he was gone with a lecture or simple logic, ultimately giving Angel great comebacks. Then he pretty much goes dead silent on his account again because yeah, busy old man as always. Making Angel look like a fool because he's basically talking to no one. 

Everyone jokes about him being dead whenever he spares a moment online, once in a blue moon.

"Everyone, we are all dead. If you wish to have a running gag at least have it make sense."

He doesn't really like cuddling all that much but will sometimes lay on Alastor's lap with his mask off and allow him to stroke his hair. Alastor will sometimes sing or hum to him after a long day. (@thedrowsymoon helped me come up with this one.)

Do not sit on his piano. Do you want to get obliterated? Because that is how you get obliterated.

Stolas and him share tea time.

Stolas and him sometimes do what could be considered a "sleepover". Stolas is a cuddler, much to The Piano Demon's dismay and Alastor's annoyance when hearing about their hangouts. He doesn't mind Stolas's affection all that much though, so long as it remains appropriate.

But Lucifer help him if he wants to paint nails. He'll fight him every step of the way.

Alastor and him slow dance in their rooms to release tension whenever the other feels stressed out. They did this when they were alive as well.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin headcanons #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #the piano demon #piano demon headcanons #alastor x piano demon #alastor x oc #tw violence mention #helluva boss mention #stolas mention #I love this mysterious reindeer too much guys help-

[artificialqueens]

Just A Little Crush (Nicky/Crystal) - Mac

AN: If you know me at all you know I love this pairing and I think it needs to be talked about more. So I’m talking about it more. Thanks a million to Meggie for beta-ing and being an angel! Love u!

Summary: “Who would have thought beneath all this clown makeup was this such cute twink.” - Nicky Doll

Or: It starts off as a joke. Crystal thinks Nicky is hot. Who doesn’t? But when Nicky gets word of this little crush, she starts to have a bit of fun with a very easily flustered Crystal. But the teasing can only go on for so long until Crystal snaps. And she’s right on the edge…

It started off as a joke.

Nicky and Widow were assigning themselves roles while Crystal flipped through the packet they were given. Her brain was too preoccupied with the ‘holy fuck I made it’ thoughts to concentrate on what all was being said.

“We should play to our strengths, yeah.”

“So you would be the drunk, and I would be the sexy,” Nicky said jokingly to Widow, who threw her head back in a laugh.

Crystal nodded, mind elsewhere.

“I’m the sexy one,” Nicky said to herself.

“Obviously.” Crystal mumbled under her breath, absentmindedly.

Apparently, her mumbling wasn’t as quiet as she thought because, in a split second, Nicky was turning around, focusing her sharp gaze directly on the younger queen.“Oh, obviously, is it? Was that some flirting, Miss Crystal?”

Crystal was so thrown by the intimidating fact of being under Nicky’s scrutiny that she couldn’t even remember what she had said. “What? No, I-”

“Sounded like it to me,” Widow chimed in, an amused expression forming at the sight of her sister so flummoxed.

Crystal tried once more to defend herself, face heating up the longer Nicky kept her eyes on her. “I wasn’t-”

But Nicky cut her off again, “Don’t worry about it, mon chéri. I know I’m stunning.” Nicky tilted her head a bit to the side, and Crystal couldn’t help but notice the way her jawline was so perfectly sculpted. “I don’t blame you for noticing.” Nicky gave a particularly salacious wink, and Crystal scrambled for words.

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“Mhmm, sure you didn’t, Mary.” Widow laughed, then turned back to her paper.

But Nicky was still looking at Crystal with that same curious expression. She looked like she was almost… sizing her up. Crystal, who was still flushed from the sudden attention, wouldn’t meet her eye. Nicky looked her up and down once, twice, and then gave a knowing smirk before turning back to her character sheet in front of her.

Crystal’s brain took a minute to get back online.

Since she had met Nicky, Crystal had been… intrigued. Yes. Intrigued was the right word. She had been intrigued by the self-proclaimed fashion queen’s dry, biting humor and delicious accent.

Not delicious.

That sounded weird.

Her enchanting accent.

Yes.

That was better.

Nicky was… French. She was posh and quick-witted and incredibly talented. And there was so much more to her, Crystal just knew it. The quick chats they had in the Werq Room thus far had shown her as much. Nicky didn’t share a lot, whereas Crystal was about one hair short of telling you her entire life story at any given moment. Nicky was calm, cool, and collected, where Crystal often felt like a meteor tied to a string. They were very different people. So, of course, Crystal was intrigued. It had nothing to do with the French queen’s impeccable jawline and irresistible-

“-and Crystal can talk about the nut butter.”

“What?” Crystal shook her head to clear it and found two pairs of eyes looking at her expectantly.

Widow smiled, that maternal one that Crystal was used to seeing by now. It was both knowing and judging at once. “Earth to Crystal. We got a challenge to win.”

Crystal shook her head once more. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry, just spaced out a second.”

“Well, pull it together, sis. We Missouri queens gotta bring home the crown this season.”

Crystal gave an appreciative smile to Widow. Her kinship with the older queen was growing every day on set, and she felt grateful to have someone on her side.

Nicky was just staring at her with that same wicked glint in her eye. Crystal could feel her face flushing already and had to look away.

The rest of the rehearsal passed relatively uneventfully, with Crystal absorbed in studying her character. She only really noticed something was different when she glanced up halfway through her makeup to make eye contact through the mirror with a familiar face.

“Wh-What are you doing over here?”

“Is it okay if I get ready here?” Nicky asked.

“Yeah, course, I just thought you liked to get ready with Gigi.”

Nicky smirked.“Ooh, are you jealous already? There’s plenty of me to go around.” Nicky ran a hand over her bare chest dramatically, and Crystal couldn’t stop her eyes from traveling along the path she made.

“I’m not- I’m not jealous!”

Crystal cursed her voice for going up an octave.

“Don’t worry, mon amor.” Nicky winked. “It’s sexy.”

Crystal flushed impossibly redder and stared open-mouthed as Nicky went back to applying her makeup.

…

It started as an off-handed comment, but it soon grew to be much more when the rest of the girls overheard their flirting. Well, Nicky’s flirting.

The queens were all gathered around the table in the Werq Room, waiting for the cameras to finish setting up, and someone threw out the brilliant idea of playing fuck, marry, kill. Crystal put air quotes around the brilliant idea part.

They took turns going around the table, scream laughing at Heidi insisting she was a dom top, and how if there weren’t cameras around, she would bend Jan over the table. Only if she had her boy brows, though.

It finally came to be Crystal’s turn, and she smiled sheepishly as her sisters’ attention focused in on her.

After a beat of silence, Gigi just chuckled, “Honestly, I can’t think of anyone for you, cause you’d obviously do all three to Nicky.”

“What-”

Widow cut Crystal off with a laugh, “Girl, don’t get me started. That acting challenge, Miss Crystal couldn’t focus. She was so busy starin’ at Nicky’s ass.”

“I was not!” Crystal tried to defend herself.

It was no use.

The rest of the girls were having a fit. Of course, the quote-unquote weird girl of the season would fall for the fashion model.

Nicky only watched in amusement and shot Crystal a wink when they made eye contact.

Finally, Ru’s voice called to them through the television screen, and the girls made their way over. Crystal was saved for the moment.

But only for the moment.

Every chance they got, her fellow season 12 sisters would poke fun at her little crush on Nicky.

Not crush.

It wasn’t a crush.

It was just an attraction.

That’s all.

And who could really blame her? When Nicky looked like that and sounded like that and dressed like that and smiled like that and laughed like that and-

And maybe it was a crush.

A little one.

“-for your look?”

Crystal suddenly realized Nicky was standing in front of her and had apparently asked her a question.

“Umm, what?”

“Maybe if you stopped checkin’ out Nicky’s ass, you’d have heard her,” Widow hollered from across the room. The girls fell into another bout of laughter, and Crystal just ducked her head.

She looked back up to see Nicky waiting for her expectantly. Crystal pulled her notebook over and flipped through the first pages of her outline. Nicky leaned in close, so her chin was nearly resting on Crystal’s shoulder. The younger queen tried to ignore the appreciative hums Nicky was making so close to her ear.

“That looks stunning.” Nicky’s voice dropped, and she spoke in a whisper that brushed the shell of Crystal’s ear.

She knew what she was doing.

That thought struck a chord in Crystal.

Up until now, she had been playing right into Nicky’s hands. Acting like a damn teenager in lust. Nicky was winding her up. Teasing her to get a reaction.

If it were anybody else, Crystal would be pissed as hell. But something about the way Nicky’s eyes slid down her face made Crystal sure that the attraction wasn’t one-sided.

“Not as stunning as you though,” Crystal shot back before she could lose her nerve.

Nicky clearly was not expecting this answer, but she didn’t let it read on her face. She just gave Crystal that damn smirk again. “Oh, really?”

Crystal only nodded.

Nicky looked back at the sketchpad and reached out to trace along the headpiece, purposefully brushing her arm against Crystal’s. “I really like this bit here.”

Crystal couldn’t stop her eyes from sliding closed. Nicky being up in her personal space was making her head a bit fuzzy.

“Nicky?” Crystal nearly whispered.

“Yeah?”

Crystal opened her eyes, “What are you doing?”

Nicky shrugged. “You’ve been checking me out the whole time, thought I’d repay the favor.”

Crystal chuckled lightly. “Oh, and what’s the verdict?”

Nicky looked Crystal up and down, practically undressing her with her eyes. “Inconclusive.”

“Really?”

Nicky leaned in ever so slightly, so her breath would hit Crystal’s lips. “I need more data.”

Crystal flushed a deep red.

So much for not being a bumbling idiot.

…

It had started as a joke. But now Crystal couldn’t get her makeup done without Nicky by her side. The two of them had made a little corner for themselves, separated, as much as possible considering, from the rest of the girls. It almost felt like their own little refuge.

As time had gone on, their flirting, well, Nicky’s flirting had simmered down a bit. She still looked at Crystal like she would devour her if she got too close, but she also was giggling more, letting loose.

And there was this new thing. This tension. It cracked and fizzed in the air around them. Crystal couldn’t pinpoint when it started, only that when Nicky reached over to move a piece of hair away from her face, Crystal may have stopped breathing.

Nicky leaned back and smiled proudly to herself. “Better. Now we can see your hair in all its glory.”

“Now you’re messing with me.” Crystal blushed and ducked her head.

“No, I like it! It’s sexy,” Nicky insisted.

“You’re into mullets? Wouldn’t have pegged you the type.” Crystal chuckled lightly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you look like- like that,” Crystal gestured to the whole of Nicky. “I just thought you were into… I dunno. Something prettier.”

“You are pretty.”

Crystal looked up to meet Nicky’s eyes. It was a genuine compliment. The first words not laced with innuendo or with the sole purpose of getting under Crystal’s skin.

“Not as pretty as me though, obviously,” Nicky said, suddenly looking away and licking her lips nervously.

Nervously. Huh. Nicky was nervous. Maybe all this time that she had spent winding up Crystal was affecting her too.

When Crystal didn’t respond immediately with her usual wit, Nicky looked up at her again. Crystal knew she still looked a bit dumbfounded, maybe that’s why Nicky looked away and licked her lips again.

“Stop doing that.” Crystal blurted out.

“What?”

“Licking your lips.” Crystal couldn’t stop herself now, intent on seeing how far she could push the older queen now that she had her off-kilter.

Nicky smirked, a bit of her cockiness returned, and she met Crystal’s eyes again. In one graceful movement, she leaned over into Crystal’s personal space. “Why, is it tempting you?” Her voice was low and husky, and Crystal could feel the air on the ends of Nicky’s words brush against her face.

“Yes,” Crystal answered, honestly.

Nicky froze like she hadn’t expected that answer. Like she hadn’t expected that after all this time of teasing Crystal that she would have the balls to actually say something.

“W-well, why don’t you do something about it then?”

The hint of a tremble in Nicky’s voice, the first crack in her pristine facade, made Crystal press on.

“Maybe, I will.”

Crystal shocked herself with how brazen she was being, but she didn’t have time to second guess herself. Crystal inched even closer.

Suddenly, the space between them multiplied. Nicky had stepped back and was now holding out her hand. “Karl,” Nicky blurted.

“What?”

“My-my name. Karl Sanchez.”

After a moment of processing on Crystal’s part, and an impatient shaking of Nicky’s hand in the air, Crystal finally took the hint and Nicky’s hand.

“Cody.”

“Nice to meet you, Cody.”

Nicky smiled, and the twinkle was still there, albeit a bit dimmer this time.

“Likewise.”

…

It started off as a joke.

Somehow it ended up being a thing. And now here Crystal was. With this unbearable crush on this unbearable boy who was hell-bent on making her fall head over heels.

The whole tension thing has only ratcheted up more and more as time had gone on. Each brush of their hands or stolen glance made Crystal’s stomach flip. She wanted to beat herself up about it, but she couldn’t find the willpower. This thing. This tension. It wasn’t just her. She was sure of it.

She was sure of it because she followed Nicky out on one of her smoke breaks.

The French beauty smiled at the sight of her, blowing out a puff of smoke before walking closer.

Crystal didn’t know what she expected coming out here. Only that it had been weeks. Weeks of this tension and she was going mad. They had been dancing around each other. They both knew the tension existed. They both knew it had an end.

Crystal was more sure of herself now. But as Nicky approached, she scrambled for words.

“Karl,” Crystal said it like a warning. Maybe it was.

Nicky didn’t listen. “What? You’re going to tell me you don’t want me?” She sauntered even closer, flicking her cigarette away before wrapping her arms around Crystal’s shoulders. “That you don’t want to fuck me?”

“Karl,” Crystal said it like a warning. This time it was.

She could feel her control slipping. Every inch of her body alight and on fire.

Nicky pressed their foreheads together lightly, “I don’t believe you.”

Crystal snapped.

Her hands worked of their own accord and pulled Nicky in by the hips, pressing their bodies impossibly close.

Crystal’s mouth started moving before she could stop and overthink, “You’re right. I do want to fuck you. Because you’re fucking hot. You walk around like my goddamn wet dream with your fucking voice, and you make me crazy.” Crystal was breathing heavily and using every ounce of restraint to keep from biting Nicky’s lip her damn self.

Nicky, for her part, opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“But I know I do the same to you.” Crystal smirked.

Nicky’s nose scrunched up, and Crystal could see her about to argue, so she inched even that much closer. And Nicky’s eyes nearly glazed over.

Nicky fumbled her words, “W-Well I-”

Crystal cut her off. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

If it were anyone else, Crystal would have sworn she heard Nicky whimper.

“Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll go away. I’ll stop,” Crystal repeated.

Nicky opened and closed her mouth once, twice, and a third time before finally swallowing. “You’re not wrong,” she whispered, and Crystal could feel the exhale on her lips.

“Then kiss me.”

“You first.”

Crystal didn’t wait a second longer before leaning in to finally, finally close the distance between them. The kiss wasn’t as frantic as she expected. It was passionate while still being cautious. They were still testing the waters out. Of course, Nicky tried to shove her tongue down Crystal’s throat after about thirty seconds, but Crystal wouldn’t let her, content to make this one last.

When she finally pulled away, Nicky looked every bit the blushing idiot she had made Crystal into over the past few weeks. The younger queen tried to muster a smug smile, but all that came about was a contented one.

Nicky blushed even deeper at the lack of teasing and ducked her head in an attempt to break eye contact.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Nicky said.

Crystal grabbed her waist more firmly and pulled the older queen closer, the action nearly making Nicky fall into her arms and forcing their eyes to meet.

“You first.”

#rpdr fanfiction #nicky doll #crystal methyd #crystal x nicky #canon compliant #fluff #flirting #lots of flirting #just a little crush #mac #s12 #on set fic

[traumatized-motherfuckers]

Stress-based sickness, psychosomatic disorders, and the F word. Fibromyalgia.

Read up or listen up @t-mfrs.com (podcast available wherever you stream.)

Waking up, like I didn’t sleep for weeks. Falling asleep after five minutes on my feet. A pounding head. That sense of dread. Sticky sharp pains through in my shoulders and neck. Brain short on energy, missing a few cards from the deck. Waves of nausea and stomach cramps. Chills and sweats, depending on the body amps. Swollen lymph nodes. Muscle weakness poorly bodes. Insatiable hunger but nothing sounds edible - shit, now desire to throw up is incredible. Eyes shriveling, dry, back into my skull. The aches in my legs, pulsing and dull. Foggy thoughts. Racing heart. When will this end, why did this start?

Did I finally catch the ‘rona? Or am I just past my limit for being stressed out again? Well, I just moved, so this time I know that the answer is very likely… stressed.

So who wants to talk about getting sick? Yeah, among this group, the answer might be surprising. A lot of us do.

Why? Not because we love bitching and complaining when we feel less than ideal - spoilers, that’s every day, there’s really nothing left to say about the raging shit storms inside of us after a few years of it. We’re tired of hearing about it, too… just like we’re tired of living it, feeling it, and fearing it.

No, for us, it’s because it feels like there’s always a surprising ailment right around the corner when we least expect it. One that seemingly has no logical basis or reasonable solution. One that no one else understands. One that feels like it’s born of mental illness, somehow, while being very physically present. One that we don’t even bother bringing to doctors anymore, because no one needs to be shamed and shoved out the door again by their flippant disinterest in anything we say after the words, “Yes, I have anxiety.”

Yep. If you haven’t tried to mingle mental health with western medicine before, let me give you a quick disclaimer: unless you’re missing an arm, don’t bother. In my experience, the only thing you’ll get is an eye roll, possibly a prescription bandaid that somehow makes you feel worse, and a bored recommendation to see a psychiatrist - even if you already do.

All of this, of course, has the effect of only making you feel more upset. First, mentally, as you ruminate over the disrespect of essentially being called a liar just because the doctor doesn’t have enough training. Then, physically, as your increased stress and systemic arousal pushes your body into a new level of overdrive.

Oh, was it a mindfuck just to make the doctor appointment, get yourself there, and deal with the social anxiety of a waiting room for 30-120 minutes? I bet it felt great for someone to then invalidate your health concerns, recommend you calm down, and send you out the door without even looking you in the eye. Feeling more upset, now on a highly emotional basis? Enjoy the shame, hypertension, and lost sleep, as if you needed any more of that.

Today, I want to talk about the stress-central area of my health that hasn’t been completely figured out… and the label that I - embarrassingly - just recently learned is highly applicable to my physical condition.

But also, the outrage that I feel over said label, because, well, it explains nothing. In fact, if anything, it probably does all of us a huge disservice after we’re granted this diagnosis by pushing us into the express lane for being written off. It also separates two issues that are poorly explained, rather than combining them into one full picture that might actually yield answers. Oh, and should I mention that I think this is a larger problem of gender bias in the healthcare system? Yeah, why the fuck not. Might as well air all my grievances as a nice lead-in to another upcoming episode; is mental illness diagnosis skewed by gender?

I don’t want to let my pounding head and aching shoulders deter me too much, so let’s just get started.

History of ailments

I’ve talked about this before, but to briefly cover how fucked up this body is… let’s take a trip back to 2013 when my system failed me out of the blue. And by “out of the blue,” I mean that I had chronically overworked myself running on anxiety, obligation, and starvation for 2 years, leading to physiological revolt.

So, looking back, “duh.”

But at the time? This was all-new. It was crisis-inducing and beyond comprehension that I went from a perfectly healthy, physically resilient, surprisingly strong and low maintenance specimen to a chronically pained, systemically ill, digestively impaired, and constantly exhausted sack of wallowing self-hated.

After a lifetime of zero health concerns, I found myself bedridden and obsessed with every weird thing my body was doing to me. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, came hand in hand with the new weird things my brain was doing to me.

After a lifetime of zero health concerns, I found myself bedridden and obsessed with every weird thing my body was doing to me. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, came hand in hand with the new weird things my brain was doing to me.

You’ve probably heard the “What IS CPTSD?” episode by now, so I’m guessing you’re not a stranger to the details about the common emergence of complex trauma symptoms. Yes, that’s based on a lot of research, but it’s also a throwback to my own experience. I was a long time depression and anxiety lurker, first time complex trauma contributor around age 23, when my brain was suddenly uprooted by a series of new social and therapy-based traumas.

My depression became debilitating negative self-regard and stronger suicidal ideation. Suddenly, my social anxiety became agoraphobia. My new health issues became topics of obsessive and intrusive thoughts… you know, when I wasn’t ruminating about my role in every trauma, my worthlessness as a human, and my recently-unsettled childhood memories. My early twenties were a great time.

And with all the mental strain, came the unresolvable insomnia. Which fed right into the health problems. Which circled back to spark more mental duress. Health anxiety is not a fun way to live.

So, to call my illnesses psychosomatic is completely appropriate. But, also, completely insulting when a western medicine practitioner utters the phrase as if it was a turd slowly coming out the wrong end. And that’s exactly what happened every time I tried to seek help.

So, to call my illnesses psychosomatic is completely appropriate. But, also, completely insulting when a western medicine practitioner utters the phrase as if it was a turd slowly coming out the wrong end. And that’s exactly what happened every time I tried to seek help.

To be clear - back in the day I had some very easily detectable physical problems. I understand that doctors have a difficult job when it comes to interpreting the immeasurable inner experiences that their patients detail, but that wasn’t entirely the case here. When your body stops digesting food, well, there’s some evidence to prove that it’s a fact. When a 96oz medical grade laxative used for colonoscopy prep results in zero percent colon cleanse… uh… somebody isn’t doing their duty (pun intended). And boy, did my digestive system just decide that it was DONE doing its only job.

Everything I ate seemed to spark unpleasant physical responses, but moving materials through my guts and extracting nutrients wasn’t one of them. After months of garbage disposal failure, I was basically a walking sewer mixed with a compost pile. I found myself chronically starving, exhausted, puffy, distended, intestinally inflamed, and generally sickly. Your body doesn’t fare so well when it has no sustenance, it turns out.

At the same time, or maybe slightly predating my digestive protests, I started getting ill in weird ways. Things I had never experienced before started popping up, like chronic respiratory tract infections, sinus infections, and gum infections. I was having what seemed like allergic responses to something in my inner or outer environment. I was often covered in hives or my face and stomach were inflating like balloons for no apparent reason. I had near-constant pain in my continually-locked shoulders and neck. My actual skin, itself, hurt, as if I was being stretched to the brink of bursting. My lifelong migraines transformed into something new - disorienting tension migraines that came with horrifying loss-of-vision auras and feverish shakes.

Generally speaking, I was so tired all the time that I could barely get out of bed for more than a few moments before retreating back to my safe place to feel like garbage. My limbs felt like someone had tied weights to them and extracted several major muscle groups. I struggled even showering or washing my face, because both required holding my arms up higher than I was capable of enacting. I was so deliriously tired that I couldn’t see straight, think, or complete basic tasks.

Generally speaking, I was so tired all the time that I could barely get out of bed for more than a few moments before retreating back to my safe place to feel like garbage. My limbs felt like someone had tied weights to them and extracted several major muscle groups. I struggled even showering or washing my face, because both required holding my arms up higher than I was capable of enacting. I was so deliriously tired that I couldn’t see straight, think, or complete basic tasks.

On top of giving up my impressive life trajectory in the aftermath of the physical breakdown - because I was too fucking exhausted to consider the next steps I needed to take for grad school - this is also where I’ve previously mentioned my drive-aphobia coming into play. When you can’t count on your own faculties, you definitely don’t want to be behind the wheel. And suddenly, life gets very restricted.

I gave up my… anything life trajectory at that point. I went from a wildly social and focused student with a fantastic sense of humor about life and stronghold of self-determination to… Hiding indoors. Keeping isolated. Obsessing over my health. Googling the most embarrassing things late at night. Having no answers. Feeling like a crazy person. Hating myself. Fearing that this was the end. Assuming that my future was over. Guilting myself for fucking up my past. Replaying my tragic story of a rapid flight and a crash, after everything I had fought so hard to accomplish. Giving up.

This is riiiiight about where I pull most of my inspiration for talking about living in perpetual “trauma states” from. Being consistently triggered, out of control, and terrified. Having no answers and no one to even ask. Watching mental illness take over my world without the slightest clue of what was happening. And, oh, the perpetual torment of unpredictable physical breakdowns.

Everyday a new surprise. Every moment the opportunity for a shocking change in vitality. Every night a battle of my brain versus my chronic pains versus sleep.

And so it persisted, throughout 2013 and into several later years… despite the fact that I actually came up with an answer for myself that vastly improved a good part of the sickness struggle... but definitely didn’t fix it all.

Finding AN answer

I’m sure I’ve already mentioned this, too… but eventually I found some respite in my health struggles through no help from modern medicine. In fact, I helped myself thanks to familial clues when I decided to exclusion-diet my way into an answer. My grandpa had celiac’s disease long before it was trendy and I decided gluten was a logical place to start. And what do you know? That helped about 60% of my ailments.

So began years of obsessing over figuring out the gluten free life. Which, contrary to popular opinion, fucking sucks. I get that it became a trendy idea at exactly the wrong point in my life, but goddamnit, I hate the question, "Are you ACTUALLY gluten free, or is it by choice?" It is not a dietary walk in the park when essentially every item is contaminated with some form or another of secret sauce and your body is going to flip out at the slightest dusting.

I remember being so distraught over having these drastic dietary considerations to figure out on my own that I would spontaneously break down into tears in all sorts of places - the fridge, the grocery store, restaurants, social contexts when people kindly asked, “how about you choose where to eat this time.” I can’t choose! I can’t eat anything! I would privately bawl to myself. What a fun time that was.

But that was not nearly the end of it.

It turned out, yes, entirely cutting the glutens helped immensely. I also realized that sugar was not my friend. In fact, processed anything was not going to have a great outcome. But then… there was this other weird pattern that I started noticing in my life… sometimes I was pretty healthy and (relatively speaking) happy with the way things were going off-wheat. But sometimes I was just as sickly and digestively screwed when I definitely hadn’t consumed anything questionable. As if other tried and true components of my diet randomly became gluten analogs that upset me just as much.

Plus, there were some ailments that just never seemed to go away. The insomnia was a persistent problem that stretched back to being about 5 years old, but got more severe with time. The aches and pains in my neck and shoulders only worsened, no matter how many tennis balls I rolled on, yoga classes I attended, or muscle relaxers I popped. The exhaustion came and went with connections to my mental health and diet, but not directly related to bready food items. The brain fog didn’t clear up when I had a strictly regimented diet. The tension migraines never fully returned from where they came.

Plus, there were some ailments that just never seemed to go away. The insomnia was a persistent problem that stretched back to being about 5 years old, but got more severe with time. The aches and pains in my neck and shoulders only worsened, no matter how many tennis balls I rolled on, yoga classes I attended, or muscle relaxers I popped. The exhaustion came and went with connections to my mental health and diet, but not directly related to bready food items. The brain fog didn’t clear up when I had a strictly regimented diet. The tension migraines never fully returned from where they came.

I was still finding myself bedridden and ready to give up on the whole idea of living on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes it was every two weeks, sometimes once a month, sometimes a few months apart. But I never knew why, how long it would last, or how to control the system-wide failures.

And if you want to know how western medicine helped me with any of these continued challenges… it didn’t. I tried to get answers for years before I finally gave up. Every doctor turned me away. Every specialist was critically uninterested. Even the Mayo Clinic neglected to listen to what I said or utilize applicable resources, after I was so sure they could solve the medical mystery of my life.

So. I stopped trying at a certain point. I resolved myself to being health anxious and perpetually confused by myself. I realized that I would never know what any day was going to bring, because my discomforts and continued sicknesses seemed to come and go with the tides.

Eventually, after years of this bullshit, it got a bit better. I buckled down with - you guessed it - strict routines designed to circumvent some of the challenges.

Eventually, after years of this bullshit, it got a bit better. I buckled down with - you guessed it - strict routines designed to circumvent some of the challenges.

I realized that my diet needed to be incredibly tight, and by that, I mean “boring.” Beyond gluten, I cut out basically everything sugary, carby, and processed. I noticed that without a certain variety of physical exercise on a regimented basis, everything started slipping. I prioritized finding ways to get to sleep at night, even if it meant being rigid and assessed as “dramatic” by less slumber-impaired humans. I gave up any activities that caused neck and shoulder strain, and tried to be better about things like stretching. I also noticed that dealing with my emotions was a gateway to pain and discomfort relief, which was an uphill battle all it’s own. And, you know, eventually I learned about this Complex Trauma thing that explained a HUGE part of early to mid twenties, including a majority of the physical ailments.

But, although I began to live like an above-averagely healthy human again… I’ve still always had a few mysteries about my health.

Sure, over the course of many years I’ve figured out how to live with a semi-predictable body after long periods of never knowing what tomorrow would bring. But, unfortunately, there are still times when my system throws me a curveball. During those unanticipated spans of health failure, I’m left ruminating on a question or three that haven’t ever been answered consistently.

One of the most common inquiries is coming at you next.

Stress or sick?

So, even after all my life changes and careful modifications. All my sacrifices and seemingly over-the-top regimes. I’ve still had an ongoing health obsession that pops up from time to time when my shit starts to go downhill.

The incrementally-observed question that runs through my head on repeat… “Wait, am I communicably sick, or am I just fucking stressed out again?”

The incrementally-observed question that runs through my head on repeat… “Wait, am I communicably sick, or am I just fucking stressed out again?”

I realized a while back - maybe in my mid-late twenties - that holy hell, I sure felt like I was coming down with the flu more often than it was logical. The thing was, my symptoms only ever progressed to the point of feeling like I was still actively fighting off the sickness as it took hold. I would get the temperature dysregulation, the headache, the muscle pain, the foggy feeling, and oh boy, the exhaustion - that generally serve as your first signs of contagious trouble.

I would be too deliriously tired to get up and do anything. If I made myself go to work, it felt like wading through a dream. Half present, half falling asleep at my desk. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Even my head was too heavy for my neck to manage the task.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get incredibly weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

And I would respond in kind. I would retreat to bed, Nyquil and vitamin C showering over me on frequent intervals, gearing up for the systemic war of a lifetime. I would drift in and out of sleep for a day or two, fending off the weird muscle aches and sweat sessions that come with an emerging fever. Interestingly, many of my old food reactivities would rear up during this period. I would get my neti pot and vomit-bags ready for action.

And then… nothing else would happen. Assuming I chilled out and retreated to a state of forfeit when I actually treated myself with kindness and care, everything would work out. After 1-5 days of being back in my bedridden state, determined that significant contagious sickness was headed my way, it would seem to just disappear overnight. Or, clear up by about 70% overnight, to be more realistic.

It took several rounds of this pattern - I couldn’t tell you how many - before I finally realized… heyyo, my body shuts the fuck down when I’m stressed out. Every time I experienced one of these sudden falls from health, it followed (or ran in tandem with) a period of significant stress, anxiety, and/or depression. And if I let myself relax for a week, it would all be okay. If I tried to push through it because ObLiGaTiOnS, I was signing myself up for a prolonged and far more serious health failure. It happened too many times; I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Like I had postulated earlier in my adulthood - my health seemed to be drastically affected by my mental state. Particularly, my interpretations of stress, obligations, and fears.

And I can tell you, my health anxiety quieted down for a while in the aftermath of the acceptance. Call it immersion therapy. When you’ve experienced the same event over and over again, but A never leads to B, and C-alming your shit makes condition A disappear  back into the ethers... well, eventually you take it for what it is and just stop panicking so much. I think I got tired of preoccupying myself with the whole dumpster fire at some point and preferred to extinguish the flames by letting them run their course.

This is where I’ve lived for the past many years now. Realizing that if I push myself too hard mentally or physically, or if I let too many stress signals infiltrate my brain… I’m about to get fucked up. My health will slip quickly. I will be reactive to essentially every food on this planet. My body will be puffy, inflamed, and painful. Not to mention, so goddamn tired all the time. But that’s it. It won’t last forever. I’m not going to die. Telling myself the opposite makes it all last a lot longer. Don’t pile stress about your stress-induced sickness onto your existing stress, and you'll be better soon.

This is where I’ve lived for the past many years now. Realizing that if I push myself too hard mentally or physically, or if I let too many stress signals infiltrate my brain… I’m about to get fucked up. My health will slip quickly. I will be reactive to essentially every food on this planet. My body will be puffy, inflamed, and painful. Not to mention, so goddamn tired all the time. But that’s it. It won’t last forever. I’m not going to die. Telling myself the opposite makes it all last a lot longer. Don’t pile stress about your stress-induced sickness onto your existing stress, and you'll be better soon.

And yet, when it’s happening, I also never know for a fact that my stress-based illness is definitely what’s going on. The result is getting trapped in a “will I or won’t I” obsessive spiral of anticipating the worst while reassuring myself that it might be nothing at all. There’s a lot of internal and external conversation about it, as people want to know if you’re sick and you want to be able to warn them that you feel like death… but also have to throw in the caveat, “Iunno, you have to realize that this happens to me all the time and it’s usually nothing, though.”

Of course, this creates the opportunity for my brain to 1) tell me I’m probably fine, quit complaining, pussy, and 2) compare myself to everyone else on the planet, who doesn’t crumble when their brain interprets times are hard. Because, of course, I have to make myself feel mentally ridiculous for feeling physically horrible. Other people are always happy to help in this regard, too. "You sure get sick a lot. I thought you had the flu last month. Wow, it always seems like something is wrong with you." Mhm, I feel the same on all accounts.

And, Fuckers, that’s why I stopped talking about it or looking for answers a long time ago. Instead, I've just relied on the most logical answer and quit worrying. I’ve done enough research on my own, not to mention all my Animal Science schooling, to know how stress responses work. They’re significant. They have the potential to disrupt your entire body through hormonal dysregulation. And they work differently - as far as we can tell - depending on the organism.

So that’s what I’ve leaned on. Acknowledgement that stress really screws with me. It zaps my energy. It fogs up my brain. It makes me overstimulated. It causes weird pains and immune system responses. It churns up my digestive problems. It also makes me feel like I’m starving but nauseous all at once. Over long periods of time, it can lead to infections. It, obviously, ruins my sleep, which reaaaaally doesn’t help with any of it.

So that’s what I’ve leaned on. Acknowledgement that stress really screws with me. It zaps my energy. It fogs up my brain. It makes me overstimulated. It causes weird pains and immune system responses. It churns up my digestive problems. It also makes me feel like I’m starving but nauseous all at once. Over long periods of time, it can lead to infections. It, obviously, ruins my sleep, which reaaaaally doesn’t help with any of it.

That’s that. Pretty complicated but simple. Try not to stress yourself out and god help you, if you do. Chill for a few days and you’ll be alright, probably. No one knows why it happens. Doctors don’t care. Just watch out for yourself, because no one else deals with this shit.

Unless… they totally do.

So, that’s fibromyalgia

I guess this is where I tell you something that a lot of folks have probably already figured out. Sorry if you’ve been yelling at me through your headphones this whole time - chill, I’m getting to it.

There definitely is a term for everything I’ve described. There are millions of other people who experience it. And, yeah, doctors often still don’t believe it’s real… but the numbers and anecdotal evidence don’t lie.

Ever heard of fibromyalgia?

Of course you have. But have you ever really looked into what it meant? Because… I hadn’t.

Annnnd then a listener and I were chatting on Instagram a few weeks ago. And she mentioned... everything I just mentioned. And her diagnosis had been? Fibromyalgia.

Annnnd then a listener and I were chatting on Instagram a few weeks ago. And she mentioned... everything I just mentioned. And her diagnosis had been? Fibromyalgia.

Via DM, your fellow Fucker started telling me about being tired all the time, mysterious aches and pains that worsen with stress, IBS symptoms, improper temperature regulation, and over-exertion that leads to required days of recovery. My jaw hit the floor.

You know I hopped online and started doing more research of my own. And all of the information was confirmed and expanded upon in a way that drove my mandible straight into the basement.

Hey, you know how fibromyalgia is synonymous with “widespread pain?” Oh shit, if you dig into it, there is a lot more to learn. Here’s a (maybe, complete?) list of the currently known associated symptoms. Keep in mind, I couldn’t find a single comprehensive resource for this information. This list is compiled of information from the the peer-reviewed article I'm going to read from later, the American College of Rheumatology, the CDC, Healthline, and Medical News Today. And if it sounds like a bit of a "catch all" pile, I think you're right.

Pain and stiffness all over the body

Fatigue and tiredness

Depression and anxiety

Sleep problems

Problems with thinking, memory, and concentration, known as “fibro-fog”

Headaches, including migraines

Tingling or numbness in hands and feet

Pain in the face or jaw

Digestive problems, such as abdominal pain, bloating, constipation, and irritable bowel syndrome

Tenderness to touch or pressure affecting muscles, sometimes joints or even the skin

Irritable or overactive bladder

Pelvic pain

Trouble focusing or paying attention

Pain or a dull ache in the lower belly

Dry eyes

Sleeping for long periods of time without feeling rested (nonrestorative sleep)

Acid reflux

Restless leg syndrome

Sensitivity to cold or heat

Problems with vision

Nausea

Weight gain

Dizziness

Cold or flu-like symptoms

Skin problems

Chest symptoms

Breathing problems

Insulin resistance

Wait, wait, wait. THAT’S what fibro is? Because, I’m sorry, I have literally never heard any of that detail before… and although it gets so ambiguous that I suspect these ailments are all the conditions that just haven't been explained before by medical science... this list just described my life. All the way down to the tiniest detail of dry eyes, as I now recall chronically dumping drops into mine for those same years in my 20s. What. The. Shit.

Prior to this research, my symptomatic knowledge of fibro was essentially - pain, of the unexplained and incurable variety. No one ever once has mentioned anything else about the condition to me, or allll the ways that it correlated with my years of health trauma. Not my peers, not my doctors, and not even my amazing, well-informed therapist.    

So, maybe I’m really late to the game here, but long story short, my mind was blown when I heard that there’s actually a term for this experience which I had forfeited to processing as a “unique way that my body individually destroys me” for all these years. I thought I was just uniquely uncomfortable all the time and stopped burdening others with my experiences.

So, maybe I’m really late to the game here, but long story short, my mind was blown when I heard that there’s actually a term for this experience which I had forfeited to processing as a “unique way that my body individually destroys me” for all these years. I thought I was just uniquely uncomfortable all the time and stopped burdening others with my experiences.

Maybe that’s why I never had anyone clue me in to the diagnosis - I honestly stopped talking about the cyclical sickness a while back, after recognizing that people didn’t respond favorably to the narrative, “I just get too stressed out to function.” Shutting my mouth and writing off my experiences may have halted my potential for hearing a realistic account of living with fibromyalgia. Oh, how the trauma shame shenanigans never stop royally fucking you.

Of course, based on my own recent education, now I’m wondering if fibromyalgia applies to far more of us in the trauma community. Because if I hadn’t found reliable information on it in all my trauma and inflammatory illness research over the years… how many other people are in the same boat?

And this brings me to my next point. I really hate the term fibromyalgia.

Why I hate the term

There’s actually another explanation for why I never heard about everything that fibromyalgia describes. Uh, you’re going to hate me for this, but I didn’t think it was a “real” diagnosis.

Yep. I’m telling you with moderate guilt that for the longest time, I appraised fibro in the same way that western medicine considers all psychosomatic illnesses - not valid. And I’m unhappy with myself, too. Believe me, I feel like my least favorite kind of person... a hypocrite. But this also points to the systemic issue that undermines so many of our attempts to get help, and that makes me far more unhappy.

Yep. I’m telling you with moderate guilt that for the longest time, I appraised fibro in the same way that western medicine considers all psychosomatic illnesses - not valid. And I’m unhappy with myself, too. Believe me, I feel like my least favorite kind of person... a hypocrite. But this also points to the systemic issue that undermines so many of our attempts to get help, and that makes me far more unhappy.

You see, a number of years ago, as a budding counselor with a few years of experience, my therapist friend mentioned something about fibro. Specifically, that it was a common label granted to more seriously mentally affected patients… and it wasn’t believed to be a real thing. I wish I could remember more detail on the context, but the basis of the story is, someone that I trusted - someone with many trauma patients - told me that in her experience, no one took fibromyalgia seriously. People with intense mental illnesses regularly presented with unfounded complaints of pain, and this is the term they were assigned as a result.

There was no proof of their physical discomfort. The patients tended to have myriad mental and physical health issues. They tended to be more difficult clients. Professionals had doubts about how serious the complaints were. No evidence, no respect. It was just about that simple.

To give more weight to the story, here’s one quick excerpt that is actually validating to read, from an article titled, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview.

“People with FM often reported dismissive attitudes from others, such as disbelief, stigmatization, lack of acceptance by their relatives, friends, coworkers, and the healthcare system, that consider them as ‘lazy’ or ‘attention seeking’ people, with their symptoms ‘all in their head’. Such dismissiveness can have a substantial negative impact on patients, who are already distressed, and also on the degree of their pain.”

So… similar to the asshole social associates described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

So… similar to the assholes described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

It took the real life account of someone with the diagnosis to show me all the ways that my previous perception was completely incorrect. I suddenly realized how reductive and insulting the false information had been. Annnd all the ways that I could have really helped myself and a few others a lot sooner if I had just investigated the term on my own, rather than lazily falling back on someone else’s casually-expressed opinion.

So, I’m saying… fuck me. 100%. That makes me really upset with myself. But it makes me even more frustrated with the medical field.

And this is why I hate the term fibromyalgia.

It doesn’t actually explain a fucking thing… and it doesn’t seem like anyone is actually trying to.

At this point, there is no known cause for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

At this point, there is no known cause or organic mechanism for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

Millions of humans have detailed the same experiences, but science hasn’t yet come up with a way to explain them, so let’s go ahead and give them a new diagnosis that boils down to “Not sure what’s going on, but they say it’s unpleasant and it sounds a little something like widespread pain. Cool, let’s call it a day. Nah, we don’t need to educate the medical community or the public - we don’t need a single list of all the known comorbidities - because we don’t get it, ourselves. Let’s make sure we put that disclaimer right in the definition, so everyone knows it’s a controversial topic."

And implicit in saying that doctors and scientists don’t understand the term, comes a negative connotation of assumed delusion or attention-seeking complaints.

Essentially, what I’m bitching about is the tendency of researchers and practitioners to shuttle things they can’t directly measure to the back of the relevancy line. Despite all of the anecdotal evidence from fibro sufferers that corroborate the same causes, symptoms, and outcomes… we can’t see what they’re talking about and we don’t have an easy explanation, so we put this in the “fake news” stack of information - AKA psychosomatic illness.

Now, it’s also worth mentioning that fibromyalgia is deeply intertwined with trauma. Something like 2/3rds of fibro patients also have confirmed PTSD symptoms, if not higher. Exact numbers depend on which study you trust. Just know, it is a prevalent, accepted, correlation between trauma and the development of fibromyalgia. And of course, no one has determined the causative or affective relationship between the two at this point in time.

Hell, we all know that a lot of mental and physical health professionals don’t even want to acknowledge trauma at this point - or, do so with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, at best. So tethering the two poorly-comprehended disorders together? Oh boy, it’s a sure-fire way to ensure that no one listens to a word you say after honestly answering their background information questions. Might as well throw down your wallet and walk yourself right out of the office at that point.

Hell, we all know that a lot of mental and physical health professionals don’t even want to acknowledge trauma at this point - or, do so with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, at best. So tethering the two poorly-comprehended disorders together? Oh boy, it’s a sure-fire way to ensure that no one listens to a word you say after honestly answering their background information questions. Might as well throw down your wallet and walk yourself right out of the office at that point.

The medical field’s lack of trauma education is a big problem. Making “psychosomatic” a dirty word isn’t helping millions of folks out there. Being invalidated by the people who could possibly help you is another mental health crisis waiting to happen. And all of this is infuriating to me, following my own experiences and thinking about other people’s.

Should we take this one outrage step further? Sure.

You know that a vast majority of fibromyalgia sufferers are… women. Sorry, about to get a tad feminist. Is anyone here surprised that primarily female voices tend to be written off by medical professionals? Ha, ha, ha. No, probably not.

For all of human history, the ladies have been getting the shit end of the stick when it comes to medical care. We all know that women were given amazing explanations for their ailments, such as having “hysterics” or "the vapors" not so long ago.

Furthermore, there is research showing that doctors do not take women’s accounts of pain severity seriously, in particular. Even fellow female doctors and nurses are given different treatment by staff when they go to the ER, versus male counterparts. And if you’re a minority or socioeconomically challenged woman? The data says you might as well take two aspirin and see what happens the next morning, because the medical attention research is even worse for those demographics. Huge surprise.

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups one way or another… how do you figure we’ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?  

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups… how do you figure we’ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?  

Yeah, we haven’t.

We’ve been given a term - complete with a wink and a nudge - that no one wants to meaningfully research or prioritize understanding. We’ve received a new phrase that doctors will “generously grant us” when we’re drowning in unexplained symptoms and pain. We’re then labeled with a word that essentially amounts to “disregard and humor” for all our future appointments. On top of it all, we’re carrying the burden of traumatic histories, which immediately qualify us for misunderstood diagnoses that more or less equate “ghosts in their blood” - because, hell, we can’t quantify mental illness, either.

The whole ordeal makes me really upset. The fact that I was inadvertently pulled into this biased disbelief makes me more upset. It also serves as quite a demonstration of how powerful or deleterious knowledge can be after it worms its way into your head involuntarily and becomes your only “go-to” piece of data, true or false.

One seemingly-trustworthy person mentioning a negative opinion of fibromyalgia one time in my past somehow infiltrated my thoughts to the extent that I didn’t have a second thought for 5 years? And we're talking about a goddamn trauma researcher - with, what I consider - an otherwise open and connection-happy mind?

The power of assumed authority and truth in opinion is significant. If I can be swayed in this way, how could less mental health informed medical professionals stand a chance in responding differently? That’s frightening and clarifying… though immensely upsetting.

So, since biomedicine hasn’t bothered to find any great information for us, despite the rapidly increasing rate of fibromyalgia diagnoses in the past two decades - how can we make sense of the information to actually help ourselves?

Let’s talk about that next.

What we can conclude

So it kindof blows finding out that you probably qualify for a new medical term… only to find out that we don’t actually know anything about said term. I say this, because if you’re waiting for me to pop off with some sweet research on fibromyalgia… uh… I haven’t found it yet. But not for lack of trying. So far every article I’ve seen has been pretty basic and uninspired.

Does fibromyalgia correspond with trauma? It does. Does stress mediate and moderate fibromyalgia, PTSD symptoms, GI problems, and depression? It does. Does it take a long time and numerous appointments to receive medical help for fibromyalgia complaints? It does. Does the comorbidity of post-traumatic symptoms make fibro more uncomfortable and challenging to overcome? What do you know - it fucking does.

(Wow. So enlightening. Having two debilitating disorders is less fun than having one. Who’s funding these research studies, anyways?)

The first thing I can conclude is, there’s not that much to conclude. This is to say, no one - that I’ve seen, so far - has revealed anything super shocking or thought-provoking about fibromyalgia.

The first thing I can conclude is, there’s not that much to conclude. This is to say, no one - that I’ve seen, so far - has revealed anything super shocking or thought-provoking about fibromyalgia.

Really, the  most interesting things I learned from my reading are that

1) insulin resistance is another associated disorder, which explains even more of my baffling life

2) sex hormones are leached from your system under stress, which, refer to point number one... explains another huge chunk of my existence, and

3) the recommendations for treating fibro long term are the same recommendations I’ve given for getting your trauma life re-ordered.

You know how I always push for people to find out what’s manageable on their own through trial and error, rather than approaching trauma recovery with preventable fires burning in every area? Hey - someone agrees.

Namely, it's recommended that in order to manage fibromyalgia you establish routines including strictly nutrition-based eating habits, non-threatening forms of consistent exercising, prioritizing tons of sleep, and controlling your environment as much as possible for stressful stimuli. Doctors can also supplement your rehab with antidepressants, because, again, fibromyalgia is related to the same underlying hormonal imbalances as depression - but the larger health issues are managed best by changing your behaviors. Just like I’ve said.

I suppose this is no surprise, since this entire time I’ve unknowingly been talking, in large part, about how I’ve controlled my own fibromyalgia symptoms. I just thought it was mandatory trauma pains I was dampening. But the word is out! There's a separate phrase for it. The doctors and I agree; stop treating yourself like a turd, and maybe you’ll stop feeling like one. Whatdoyouknow. Sometimes there are reasons for the things I notice experientially, even if they aren’t originally informed by medical lingo.

Secondly, looking at what we can conclude at this point about fibro… Well, it justifies my previous hypothesis that stress is the root of my body’s evil. There’s not much to definitively say about fibromyalgia at this point, but we know for a fact that it is agitated and potentially caused by stress.

Secondly, looking at what we can conclude at this point about fibro… Well, it justifies my previous hypothesis that stress is the root of my body’s evil. There’s not much to definitively say about fibromyalgia at this point, but we know for a fact that it is agitated and potentially caused by stress.

This perfectly aligns with my observations that a terrible work week mixed with a personally challenging month on top of a physically exhausting cleaning marathon will lead to a systemic breakdown every time. And, conversely, those times when life has actually been pretty chill correspond to periods of bodily health and limited upset - the times when I wonder “was I ever really sick at all?” and start to health gaslight my damn self.

Realizing the link between stress and sickness, of course, also begins to explain the correlation to trauma, and particularly, complex trauma.

Now, let me start by saying that there’s some debate over the downstream effects of PTSD - some researchers swear that it decreases system arousal in the face of later stress, others have collected data reflecting that a nervous system hyper-sensitization takes place. From my own trauma involvement, I’ve seen and heard more cases of the latter; we’re quick to upset and easily pushed into stressed territory. I don’t know many, if any, trauma folks who are non-responsive to disturbing life events... but that sounds more like a deep, dangerous, clinical depression symptom to me.

Personally, once I’ve been chronically stressed for a few weeks or months, then I notice the loss of stress response take over. My limbic system gives up, the HPA axis stops responding, and therefore nothing can rattle me. Perhaps you’ve also had the experience of laughing when your car breaks down, because it’s already been 3 months of disaster around every turn and there’s nothing else you can do for yourself. So, sure, people can reach a point where they legitimately don’t respond to the chaos anymore, but I’m not so sure that’s a consistent norm. I think it’s more likely that you turn off your stress reactions if you’ve been adequately prepped to dissociate for the sake of sanity or your chemical balance is so wack that your danger center has powered down.

I can tell you without a doubt that before the point when my stress threshold has been raised sky-high thanks to repeat exposures and wiring disconnections... I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for basically every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses.

I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses

This nervous system sensitization, as they call it, explains a lot of trauma symptoms. I’ve regularly discussed the hypersensitivity problem it creates, when your brain doesn’t adequately filter out or assess neutral stimuli because it considers basically everything to be a threat. This can also contribute to the ADD and ADHD diagnoses that we receive, when our heads are too busy trying to sort all that data streaming in to direct our thoughts in a steady way. Or, the ways that we’re uniquely thrown immediately into panic mode when we sense a risk. Plus, we’ve probably all had the experience of tiny, secret triggers sneakily upsetting our bodies when the stimulation wasn’t even significant enough to pass through our cognitive recognition centers. These are all caused by the same systemic over-sensitization problem.

In general: yes, we trauma folk are sensitive to our environments - inner and outer. We are easily pushed down survival pathways to fight/flight/freeze/fawn responses. We rapidly catastrophize ambiguous information, which can convince our brains and bodies that the worst has already happened. We’re hyperaware and easily overstimulated, often agitated, and regularly on edge.

I maintain, in the face of controversial evidence, that we get stressed out easily. And our bodies react dramatically.

I feel like I should also state that this is especially true, as most of us have read, when we have unresolved emotional strain floating around in our meat jackets. We can be overstimulated and aroused (in a bad way) from the inside, out. Since the majority of us are not skilled in emotional recognition or resolution, we’re often walking around with a lifetime of hard feelings stored in our guts. And there’s been roughly zero doubt in my head about emotional and environmental stress contributing to dissociation, contributing to a vagal nerve shutdown as a big part of the digestive failure that characterizes fibromyalgia, IBS, Crohns, and so many autoimmune disorders.

On top of the unresolved emotional root of stress, this pings another episode that I've previously released. The one about being overly restrictive in your diet and exercise for the sake of appearance perfectionism. If you physically exert yourself too strongly through caloric deprivation or extreme work outs, you can easily stress your body into a survival response. It can't tell the difference between starvation for bikini season and starvation for lack of food. Running your ass off for your upcoming wedding or running your ass off for your upcoming bear attack. Your danger sensing center is sensitive and it overreacts, much like myself.

Now, considering that all these examples of central nervous system sensitization and physiological survival states that go hand in hand with Complex Trauma and Fibromyalgia, so many weird health mysteries are potentially resolved. But, not exactly the pain component. Or, is it.

Now, considering that all these examples of central nervous system sensitization and physiological survival states that go hand in hand with Complex Trauma and Fibromyalgia, so many weird health mysteries are potentially resolved. But, not exactly the pain component. Or, is it.  

Again, the authors out of Italy and Brazil who penned, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview, have a potential way to think about that. They state:

“Even if the causes and pathophysiology of FM are not completely known, widespread chronic pain could be explained by a vulnerability due to a perturbation in the central processing of sensory information, named ‘central sensitivity’ or ‘central sensitization’, that amplifies the response of the central nervous system to a peripheral input. Hence, people with FM and/or other central sensitivity syndromes have a lower threshold for interpreting sensory information as noxious. Several factors, such as genetic predisposition, deficiencies in neurotransmitter levels, biochemical changes in the body, endocrine dysfunction, mood states, anxiety, sociocultural environment, psychological trauma and past experiences in general, expectancy beliefs, and catastrophization have been proposed as explanatory mechanisms of patients’ subjective experience of central sensitivity. Current research indicates that abnormal sensory and pain processing is a key factor in the pathophysiology of FM. There is robust evidence that  abnormalities in central pain processing, rather than damage or inflammation of peripheral structures, play an important role in the development and maintenance of chronic pain in patients with FM.”

Interesting, huh? I still think inflammatory responses are a big part of the 1000 piece stress puzzle, but I don’t disagree with the idea that our finely-tuned danger detection systems amplify pain and discomfort signals to deafening levels. Putting all the system data together, you can deduce a fairly complete picture of how strain, physical degradation, and pain are all related.

Finally, I have confirmation that being overly stimulated causes everything from my energy drain to my dietary responses, migraines, and autoimmune attacks... all the way down to my temperature sensitivity, random presentation of allergic reactions, and even that occasional sharp pain in my jaw… not to mention all my life-altering functional problems, like being unable to sleep at night, existing with debilitating pain, and living while feeling sedated?

Finally, I have confirmation that being overly stimulated causes everything from my energy drain to my dietary responses, migraines, and autoimmune attacks... all the way down to my temperature sensitivity, random presentation of allergic reactions, and even that occasional sharp pain in my jaw… not to mention all my life-altering functional problems, like being unable to sleep at night, existing with debilitating pain, and living while feeling sedated?

All of my strange health complaints from the past decade have aligned with this new label. And that label corresponds perfectly with my inkling that running on cortisol and overzealous guardsmen have been the major source of my health anxiety sauce. Welp, it’s been validating research for all of my educated guesses, to say the least.

Long story short, there’s not a ton of helpful information about the reasons for developing fibromyalgia or what makes it get worse. But there’s one thing we do know for a fact; stress is the enemy. At least I think it’s comforting to conclude that stress is the root of many of our C-PTSD complaints, as well as depression, anxiety, insomnia, obsessive thoughts, and now… a whole list of common maladies, labeled fibromyalgia.

Whether or not it’s really understood, at least there is a connection between everything. At least there’s something that ties ALL the random, disjointed pieces of torture together. I’m guessing that for many of us, fibromyalgia is similar to complex trauma, again, in that regard.

And, lastly, I can conclude that… I have more questions

More questions than answers

Here’s one last excerpt from the aforementioned article, which is the only one I found that’s worth hearing from.

They state: “FM is labelled, often with a negative connotation, as a ‘functional somatic syndrome’, part of a ‘somatization disorder’, ‘fashionable diagnosis’, ‘idiopathic pain disorder’, ‘non-disease’, ‘psychosomatic syndrome’, dismissing the true suffering of the patients. In the absence of a univocal identified biological cause, subjective reports of symptoms by the patients are often viewed derogatorily and discredited as ‘psychogenic.’”

Like I said, there isn’t a lot of helpful information out there if you’re looking to learn more about this controversial condition. Unfortunately, it has been categorized as a “functional somatic disorder” which essentially means that we don’t have an explanation for the organic basis of the disorder.

Like I said, there isn’t a lot of helpful information out there if you’re looking to learn more about this controversial condition. Unfortunately, it has been categorized as a “functional somatic disorder” which essentially means that we don’t have an explanation for the organic basis of the disorder.

Uh, I don’t know what could be more organic than the endogenous hormones in our own bodies creating downstream health effects, but hey, I’m not a biologist anymore, what do I know?

The fact remains - there’s a lot more to understand about the assorted mechanisms that lead from trauma into depression, generalized stress disorder, and physical manifestations of a biochemical system that’s running off-balance. And this is where I have the biggest questions.

First, I have to get this out of the way. I’m wondering about the known gender split in fibro. The numbers are horrendously skewed towards women as the primary sufferers, and that’s not helping the medical legitimacy case. So, what are the chances that men just don’t have fibromyalgia at the same rate as women? Either they don’t get stressed to the same magnitude or their bodies respond completely differently? It’s possible. OR. Is it something else?

It seems to me like this follows another similar mystery - what are the chances that men just don’t suffer from Complex Trauma at the same rate as women? Pretty poor? Probably more of a diagnostic or seeking-help issue? Yeah, I think so, too. Yet, if you look strictly at the numbers, it sure seems like there are more women hearing about C-PTSD than men.

This analogous labeling issue between the genders makes me think of a few explanations…

1) Men don’t seek help for their physical ailments the way that women do, either because they’re less in tune with their bodies or because they’re shamed for not being tough enough if they complain. Just like C-PTSD.

2) Men don’t hear about fibromyalgia, because it is an engendered diagnosis reserved for dramatic women at this point. Just like C-PTSD. They receive other partial diagnoses, like IBS, that are less controversial. This leads me into a whole spiraling rant about several genital-dependent psychological diagnoses that I feel similarly about, but one of them is…

3) Men don’t receive the same level of fibromyalgia labels as women because men don’t often receive Complex-PTSD labels, which would serve as a hint to their doctors, since trauma is a well-known predisposing factor…

This brings me to the next set of questions.

It’s unpopular opinion time, but, frankly, I don’t know that any of these trauma and fibro issues are really that separate.

It seems to me like we’re talking a lot about one particular problem that splinters off into a thousand different outcomes, depending on the circumstances, the biology, and the human in question. Not separate conditions.

It seems to me like we’re talking a lot about one particular problem that splinters off into a thousand different outcomes, depending on the circumstances, the biology, and the human in question. Not separate conditions.

First comes the trauma, then comes the presentation of downstream physical and mental symptoms. Presentation, magnitude, and personal recognition of these symptoms varies, just like severity of Complex Trauma does. But under both conditions, our experiences are often so similar - the hard part is that we struggle to describe them and often lean on abstract language which can be used in such diverse ways. We focus on different problems, depending on our own life impacts.

So, maybe we notice and report internal events differently, but it’s hard for me to believe that the two disorders aren’t more than corresponding diagnoses - and are, in fact, one and the same.

I could be very wrong, but I’d sure like to find out.

So, to the small percentage of fibromyalgia sufferers who don’t have trauma… you sure? To the depressed and anxious folks who can’t seem to get a grip on their physical health, but never saw their life as traumatic… want to take another look? To all the traumatized folks with Raynauds, food allergies, hypertension, ADD, aches, and migraines… have you really looked into the full definition of fibromyalgia?

ARE these conditions of trauma and fibromyalgia different? Or is this another complication in identifying unseeable symptoms in a population of folks who never learned to name their mental and physical experiences? Is this an artifact from a group who tends to underestimate and under-report their own experiences in light of unhealthy others’ core beliefs? How prevalent is fibromyalgia, really? Especially in the context of Trauma?

ARE these conditions of trauma and fibromyalgia different? Or is this another complication in identifying unseeable symptoms in a population of folks who never learned to name their mental and physical experiences? Is this an artifact from a group who tends to underestimate and under-report their own experiences in light of unhealthy others’ core beliefs? How prevalent is fibromyalgia, really? Especially in the context of Trauma?

Is it possible that everything boils down to one underlying event - trauma - that produces a whole host of other biological adaptations down the line? Did we create a separate term for it, simply based on a lack of standardization?

Or is this an exclusionary problem?

Have all the various ways we’ve learned to categorize and describe our experiences actually separated one full disorder into two half-disorders; one that encompasses the brain and another that covers the body? Is it our societal misunderstanding of the connection between our perceptions and our meaty husks, forcing us to separate the issues of mental and physical health that would be better understood together, as one?

I’m not sure! But I’m definitely thinking a lot about it.

Partially, from personal bias. I always considered my physical issues to be part of my trauma life, not separate from it - and that explanation made perfect sense to me. Where do these disorders really split? Maybe it’s possible to have Complex PTSD without the physical symptoms, but that's really not what I hear from people. The most of us have at least some periods of physical ailments, even if they're not persistent. To me, it seems like a distinction that should be made within the trauma diagnosis - with or without physical wellness degradation - rather than piling a separate, largely-ineffective diagnosis on the vast majority of us who have some variety of said bodily ailments.

I feel like the real issue isn’t “what is fibromyalgia?” The actual problem is a lack of biological understanding in the Psychology field. And a mirrored failure to understand Psychology in the medical field. Then, throw in a reluctance to study the conglomerate of bio-physiology and mental health issues in the scientific research literature because both experiences are difficult to measure or confirm and the studies would be less elegant.

I feel like the real issue isn’t “what is fibromyalgia?” The actual problem is a lack of biological understanding in the Psychology field. And a mirrored failure to understand Psychology in the medical field. Then, throw in a reluctance to study the conglomerate of bio-physiology and mental health issues in the scientific research literature because both experiences are difficult to measure or confirm and the studies would be less elegant.

If more psychologists actually learned system biology and more medical practitioners actually studied abnormal psychology, maybe we wouldn’t have disparate diagnoses that each come with a half-recognition. Maybe we could have one term that encompassed the full experience of trauma. Maybe these professionals could confirm all the details that we don’t understand by working with a more comprehensive approach to how humans work as a whole, rather than organ by organ. Just a fucking thought.  

Because, I can tell you, if my therapist friend had the same biological education that I did at the time, I guarantee that she wouldn’t have told me fibromyalgia was a “pseudo diagnosis.” If she had knowledge of the connection between stress hormones and bodily breakdown, plus the trauma physiology that determines our sensitivity to stress - there’s no way she would have been so flippant or insensitive with her words. But under the influence of her counseling peers, the diagnosis became a fallacy.

I think this highlights the danger of the problem at hand. It only took one industry-determined void of knowledge to pass along an unfair opinion that skewed at least my perception for years down the line. And, think about it, how many times has one innocently-baseless comment in the psychology or medical fields probably created a lifetime of bias in an up-and-coming professional?

Maybe this is why we have the self-perpetuating negative connotation of psychosomatic illness in our society that seems to crawl its way towards improvement, while every other disorder makes significant strides. A lack of personal understanding of the biology-psychology connection is easily turned into a respected opinion, and readily transmitted to unknowing people who are eager to learn from their wise mentors. And so, the next generation inherits the same set of half-baked progress-stunting ideas. Over and over and over.

Maybe this is why we have the self-perpetuating negative connotation of psychosomatic illness in our society that seems to crawl its way towards improvement, while every other disorder makes significant strides. A lack of personal understanding of the biology-psychology connection is easily turned into a respected opinion, and readily transmitted to unknowing people who are eager to learn from their wise mentors. And so, the next generation inherits the same set of half-baked progress-stunting ideas. Over and over and over.

Depressing! And enlightening.

And that’s roughly where I stand today, after days of fibromyalgia research and very few satisfactory answers. Depressed and enlightened.

More or less, asking myself more questions about the legitimacy of our entire mental and physical healthcare system and all the lines we draw in the sand. Confident that trauma leads to increased stress leads to increased brain and body trauma. Somewhat happy to know that I’m actually not the only one who consistently apologizes for feeling like shit and questions if it’s “valid” or not because it seems connected to my brain. But also, pretty pissed off that we’ve been given a word that comes with no explanations and a hellofalot of medical field judgement, as if we needed more of that.

Oh, one more factoid to throw into the end of this conversation. There’s a link between low socioeconomic status and fibromyalgia.

Oh, one more factoid to throw into the end of this conversation. There’s a link between low socioeconomic status and fibromyalgia.

Hey, the same link exists between socioeconomic status and complex trauma. Hey, it’s another predisposing factor for post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms’ emergence. Hey, big surprise, if you have a stable and predictable physical and financial environment, you’re less likely to develop the terror-based conditions brought on by earlier trauma.

If you have financial resources, you’re also less likely to be chronically stressed by the demands of life. You’re probably also more likely to receive respectable medical care. Therefore, meaning that you’re both less likely to have enough perturbation to develop over-sensitive nervous system responses and less likely to be dismissed by doctors with a label they don’t believe exists. Plus, probably more likely to have access to mental health care that could prevent the onset of Complex Trauma presentation, and likely fibromyalgia, altogether.

Oh, look, logic explains so many things. Or, fuckit, let’s just choose to believe that poor people are lazy and always want to complain about something, whether it’s in their heads or their bodies. Whatever the rich white men say.

Big issues to think about.

Like I state way too often on this show, it’s the small things in this trauma life that bring you comfort. And monumental societal failures that make you scream. (Okay, I just added that last part today.)

Wrap it

Okay, let me get out of here before I question more beliefs that are way out of my paygrade. Sorry, medical and psychological practitioners. I know that I’m just a critical observer who, like that kid everyone hates in class, perpetually asks too many questions.

At the bottom of all my complaints, I just wish that we could come up with a way to characterize these disorders that actually helped people understand what was happening. If you know how your body is reacting to what stimuli and how the symptoms are all related, that's a lot more powerful than throwing assorted barely-defined titles at them.

If we can't definitively say that fibromyalgia and trauma symptoms are one and the same, fine. Let there be a distinction. But I think it would be preferable to call fibro something more telling and true to the accepted cause. Call it semantics, but something like Stress Affective Syndrome would be more useful than the made-up word of fibromyalgia. Please, anyone feel free to come up with a better phrase, because I just made "Stress Affective Syndrome" up so I could say "I've got SAS." It already fits the bill.

I guess I’m just up in arms that I’ve tried to find answers for my brain and body health all these years, and turned up completely empty handed until random connections have eventually given me the information I’ve needed after a decade of effort. Maybe if I had my complex trauma diagnosis before I had my health complaints, someone would have mentioned fibromyalgia. Maybe, they would have knowingly smirked and sent me to a psychiatrist. Hard to say.

I guess I’m just up in arms that I’ve tried to find answers for my brain and body health all these years, and turned up completely empty handed until random connections have eventually given me the information I’ve needed after a decade of effort. Maybe if I had my complex trauma diagnosis before I had my health complaints, someone would have mentioned fibromyalgia. Maybe, they would have knowingly smirked and sent me to a psychiatrist. Hard to say.

Even if I had gotten that information about fibro, would it have helped separate from the C-PTSD diagnosis? Honestly, probably not. I would have just been harder on myself for suddenly being too weak in the face of stress. And after reading that medical professionals doubt the validity of fibromyalgia, in the first place? Well that would have been a whole other source of disbelief, anger, and negative self-regard. Maybe a whole new crisis, once my inner critic got a chance to hammer away at my head.

I suppose that figuring out the patterns of my strange bodily conditions actually needed to happen organically for this Fucker, because any semi-questioned diagnosis would have just been more fuel for my trauma fire at that point when I so thoroughly despised myself. Confirming to myself, for a fact, that stress fucks me up may have been a prerequisite for accepting that I might be “one of those fibro people.” You know, the ones who lie about their symptoms. Ha.

And, again, this says a lot about the potential damage that poorly-described labels can do to people… just as much as it says about my own reluctance to be considered a weak-minded over-reactor by outsiders.

All of this being said, I’m so grateful for finally finding out exactly what all fibromyalgia actually entails. It took too long, but honestly, the information came at the perfect time. Two days after I got it, I was stress-sick. Ahhh, it's fibro time. How’s that for irony?

As always, I do think there is some empowerment in the basic root understanding that you aren’t the only one who’s dealt with any of this. The mysterious illnesses, the pain, or the lack of care from modern medicine aren’t individual experiences. Hey, you might even be relieved to know that someone else on this planet routinely asks herself, “Do I have cancer for real this time, or am I just overworked again?”

As always, I do think there is some empowerment in the basic root understanding that you aren’t the only one who’s dealt with any of this. The mysterious illnesses, the pain, or the lack of care from modern medicine aren’t individual experiences. Hey, you might even be relieved to know that someone else on this planet routinely asks herself, “Do I have cancer for real this time, or am I just overworked again?”

After years of nobody I spoke to having a tale that even mildly resembled my autoimmune breakdown, finding anybody who related to my issues was extremely relieving. Not only was it a common experience, but it meant that I hadn’t somehow brought the discomfort on myself - through mental illness, physical shenanigans, or plain old weakness - the ways that I feared.

Furthermore, it proved that I hadn’t imagined it all. Because believe it or not, you’re surprisingly willing to throw yourself under the bus after all the pain has passed. I’ve spent the past decade telling people, “I think I have the glutens, as I call it... but I don’t really know though, it’s never been explained, sometimes other things bother me, and sometimes it’s really not a big deal, I don't know what it is” as an almost-apology. A disclaimer that I, too, doubt my own memories and conclusions because they weren’t properly validated by who I considered authority figures.

Hearing that other people had digestive disorders and autoimmune disasters in the wake of Complex Trauma, via the book The Body Keeps The Score, shocked me into self-acceptance of my prior experiences. Hearing that all of it can be encapsulated by this term fibromyalgia a few days ago - well, shit. This is a more mainstream occurrence than I ever previously thought.

And you know what? It does matter to me that I’m not the only one who falls apart when my brain gets overwhelmed. Even if it doesn’t fix anything. Even if my own postulations for how fibromyalgia is born from trauma feel more applicable than the scientifically proven ones. Even if I don’t believe the term deserves to stand alone as a medical label without further delineation - especially of the connection to and overlap with trauma. Even if I think… it might be inseparable.

And you know what? It does matter to me that I’m not the only one who falls apart when my brain gets overwhelmed. Even if it doesn’t fix anything. Even if my own postulations for how fibromyalgia is born from trauma are more enlightening than the scientifically proven ones. Even if I don’t believe the term deserves to stand alone as a medical label without further delineation - especially of the connection to and overlap with trauma. Even if I think… it might be inseparable.

Now I know. When I feel a physical breakdown coming on, with the suspected cause being stress… I don’t have to apologize for it. I don’t need to tell people that I just can’t handle the pressure with unfettered shame for my own biochemistry. I can rest assured that what I’m going through is common - far more common than we know - and completely valid. Even if there are people ready to tell you that it's not.

But, to be honest, I still probably won’t tell anyone that it’s called fibromyalgia. I’m not proud to say, I wouldn’t want them to think I’m just being dramatic.

UGH.

#cptsd #healcptsd #actually CPTSD #just cptsd things #traumabrain #Complex Trauma #trauma recovery #complextrauma #complexptsd

[kyberled]

@cosmicnexus​ said:

// i don't even know the whole story but i know based on the red x's on the picture those kids ain't alright and i am S A D but holy fuck jay this picture is amazing!!! the shading and the rendering!!!!

// AaaaaAAAA thank you Kato ;w; You’re always far too good to me and I love you <3<3<3

The basic story is this is Braig’s little ‘inner circle’ group of best friends. He met Hano (the Cathar) when he was three, and they’ve been best friends ever since; he met Naweh (the Tarasin) not long after, and she fit in with them perfectly; He met Booda (the Gungan) when he was four, Lohata (the Rodian) when he was five, and he sort of knew the Affgor twins, Garak and Shah-Ki (the Weequay) in passing, but he didn’t actually know them until their Gathering, when the seven of them - at age seven - went to find their kyber crystals. Ever since the Gathering, they’ve sort of been their own little clique, so they refer to their collective selves as ‘the Gathering group’. Not very creative, but it suits their purposes. 

(Little fun fact: Braig’s the oldest of all of them! Technically they’re all born in the same year, but he was born first. The actual age order is Braig -> Lohata -> Hano -> Naweh -> Booda -> the Twins. The Twins don’t know which one of them was born first, and change their answer depending on their moods.) 

(more details under a cut because I rambled)

Tarasins, such as Naweh, have skin that changes colour based on their emotions. They can learn to control the changes, and even use them to communicate when they get older. Normally, Naweh keeps herself a calm, neutral blue-purple-green, but she knows her friends don’t care, so right now, she’s a happy/excited pink-yellow-orange. Anyone who knows Tarasin skin colours would take one look at her and go ‘wow, she’s stoked to be there’. 

One of Naweh’s favourite places to be was the nurseries. She always said if she hadn’t been chosen to pursue knighthood, she would’ve been happy working with the younglings (to the point where if she ever had the Group’s braincell and advised against something, they’d usually chorus a light-hearted ‘Yes, Crechemaster’). She loved kids. That’s why, aside from encouraging Hano to embrace his bastard status, she’s braiding Braig’s hair. She doesn’t have hair of her own, but some of the little ones do, and having it braided makes it easier for them to do their training. She’s practicing braids so she can help the kids better on her next shift. (That’s also why she has a bunch of hair ties around her wrist, in part. She also just wore them because most of her close friends - Braig, Hano, the twins - have long hair, so she comes prepared in case they lose one of their own ties.) 

She gets a red X because she was in her beloved nurseries when Order 66 was declared. She died shielding the younglings, helping the staff smuggle them out. One of the last things she ever did was use the Force to shove some of the smaller ones into a ventilation duct in the hopes they might escape. She knew she wouldn’t. If you were to  find her body after the Purge, you’d find her still covering some little ones who weren’t so lucky, a guardian to the last. 

Of course we all know and love Braig. I don’t have too much to say about him here, since, again, we know him already. He’s napping because he’s warm and safe, the Force in the gardens and with his friends feels amazing, and he’s been getting his hair played with for the past five minutes. He’s also, as the group’s healer, on standby in case Booda’s prosthetics hurt her, but they all trust the Twins’ work enough that he feels safe dozing.

He survives Order 66, so no X - but his connection to the Living Force, combined with so many deaths all at once, leaves him with near-permanent metaphysical chronic pain. Sometimes, the literal air around him just feels painful to him. It sucks.

Hano is the tallest and strongest of the group. He evens out at 7′5, over 300 lbs. The Force gave him a bronze crystal when he was young and he did not disappoint. The necklace he wears is actually a trophy from the first hunt he went on, a rite of passage among Cathar. The trophy just lets other Cathar know he completed the hunt and can be welcomed as an adult into their society. Given that he was training as a tracker (Braig always called him ‘the greatest/most skilled tracker I’ve ever met’), his success was inevitable. As intimidating as he can be, he’s a gentle giant and a goofball at heart. He’ll tear it up on the battlefield, sure, but he’ll also use the fact he’s strong enough to lift a clone trooper in one arm to carry wounded men back to safety, to carry his friends around for fun, or to help the men, other Jedi, and the Temple staff with more strenuous physical labor. He also enjoys play-fighting, especially with Braig and Naweh, and the control he learned through the rigorous training of a Jedi means he can easily do so without hurting them. He’s always had a penchant for mischief, which is why he’s been telling dumb jokes and awful puns for the past little while. 

(Bonus fun fact: I joked, years ago, that he’s large enough that when he goes out with his friends - especially Small Friend Braig - he gets mistaken as their master. When I posted a WIP of this in my discord server, my friend Reece assumed he was their dad, so. It looks like that’s not a joke and actually happens, and Braig was quietly sulking that he’s three months older for a while after. Hano continues to think it’s funny.) 

He survived Order 66, barely. He was blinded and lost a leg in an explosion (hence the red scribbles). His master, Yokar Eedai, hid him among rubble, commed some of his non-Jedi friends to find the location, and then lead the clones away at the cost of his own life. Hano spent many years hiding in the Outer Rim in self-imposed exile. (He does eventually reunite with Braig, though. If you swing by Braig’s weapons shop, you can usually see him there, bandages tied over his eyes and metallic claws peeking out from under his left pantleg.) 

Garak and Shah-Ki aren’t very talkative or physically affectionate. They show their love for their friends through inclusion and acts of service. When they were young, still forming their group, Braig always thought that they were ‘each others’ best friend, and could live without the rest of us’. While that may have once been true, they’ve bonded with the rest of the Group quite thoroughly. So Garak is brushing Hano’s hair for him (Hano usually wears it in braids) and Shah-Ki is fixing Booda’s prosthetics, though they’re both debating the best way to enhance the water-proofing without sacrificing mobility. The twins were training as Shadows, a rare variant of Jedi that specializes in stealth missions. They were also brilliant slicers and engineers, making them incredible secret agents. By the time they were senior padawans, they could make not only themselves invisible through the Force, but one or two others, as well. They would often use this talent to bring one of the others of their group to see what they had most recently found or made. The rest of the Group always joked that you never knew what it was going to be. It could be a store room in the Temple that had fallen out of use, it could be a Battle Droid they repurposed, or it could be the complete dossier of someone who wasn’t legally supposed to exist. Just whatever they thought was cool. 

Their penchant for going unnoticed also meant that they heard, intentionally or otherwise, all sorts of gossip throughout the Temple. They’d usually share interesting tidbits at mealtimes with their friends, a practice Naweh had affectionately dubbed ‘Holocast T’. 

While Weequay can grow hair, braids are significant to them culturally, representing how many times they’ve visited their home planet of Sriluur. Because of this, the twins opted to have silka bead padawan ‘braids’ instead. 

They were finishing up a mission when Order 66 hit. While they were never as outwardly friendly as some others, they did trust their men, and as such didn’t think to hide themselves from those that became their executioners until it was too late. They died only moments apart, still reaching out to each other, but weren’t quite able to touch. 

Lohata and Booda are dating! They like to pretend nobody knows. The entire Group knows, of course, but they pretend they don’t, for their sake. 

Lohata is as close to a ‘mom friend’ as you can get when you don’t have a mom and haven’t been raised to know what having a mom is like. She usually has the braincell, and does her best to make sure the others can get out of any trouble they get into. That’s not to say that she doesn’t get into trouble a lot, too, she’s just usually the one who can bail them out when ‘blame it on Braig’ isn’t feasible. She’s also a bookworm, and usually has a datapad in her hand (she always appreciated that her friends would just let her read when they all hang out, jumping into and out of the conversation whenever she wanted without judgement. It was nice). She and Braig often exchange ‘pads from the archives (with Mistress Jocasta’s permission) if they found one they thought the other would like. She has a fairly dry sense of humor, which is why she’s in the middle of telling Hano that if he tells the one about the Womprat and the Quacta again, she’s defecting to the Separatists so she can hit him with a tree branch without getting in trouble. (Hano, being Assigned Disaster At Birth, is now figuring out how to reroute the conversation into a good segue for the one about the Womprat and the Quacta.) 

Aside from reading, she loved flying and singing, and was quite good at both - though she wouldn’t admit to the second. When Booda was recovering from getting her prosthetics for the first time, Lohata used to sing to her to help her relax. She wasn’t quite as good at dancing ad Booda was, but, if they had a moment alone, she’d make the effort for her girlfriend. 

Booda is much sunnier and more open than Lohata, but not as outgoing as Braig (hence why he’s usually their mastermind). She has a joy and genuine love for life, and, in the moment, is just happy to be home with all her friends, all safe and together and able to relax for once. 

As a Gungan, she knows all too well how her species is regarded by the rest of the Galaxy. She’s trained herself to not speak Gungan Basic in an effort to appear more ‘civilized’ and ‘respectable’ as a Jedi, and to hopefully avoid the negative stereotypes. (She only ever speaks it to other Gungans, now, and tries to avoid doing so in public.) Like Naweh, she figured if she ever got tired of field work, she’d be happy in the Temple - though she wanted to work in the Archives, not the nursery. She was a cultures nerd, like Braig, and the two of them often edited each others’ cultural papers and assignments before handing them in. 

Booda got her prosthetics after a mission went wrong, damaging both her arms beyond repair for the current Jedi on the scene. Her master, a Nautolan named Nid Arto, blamed himself for it, and had to speak to his own (former) master at length and meditate for a while to come to terms with it. He visited her for hours on end every day in the Temple’s medbay until she was cleared. She hadn’t yet turned 16, so she was still growing - this, as well as the frequent wear and tear of missions, meant that she had to get them replaced quite often. Oddly enough, this helped her come to terms with it more. At Nid’s suggestion, she started getting coloured casings for them, and that made it a bit more fun.  The Group would often visit her after these procedures with washable markers and draw or write little notes and designs on, which made it even better. By the time of this little meeting of theirs, she’s grown used to them, and is quite pleased with these new pink casings (they’re her favourite colour). 

She’s also the best dancer of the group, and usually teaches the others different dancing styles to help with diplomatic missions. Naweh, Braig, and Lohata are her usual students, as they’re the ones who do diplomacy more often (and she likes being able to dance with her girlfriend). Hano doesn’t do high society - it’s hard enough to get him to put on a shirt, he hates how it feels with fur - and the twins are shadows, not consulars or guardians. The three of them still show up for support and shenanigans, though. The twins are quite good at a Corellian waltz. Booda and Braig had a long-running joke about how he insisted dancing was just like sparring without hitting each other, dips were take-downs you stopped half way, et cetera, and she, through increasing giggles, would try to convince him to stop trying to punch foreign dignitaries to music. 

When Order 66 happened, Booda, Nid, and Lohata had just finished up a mission to Naboo (Lohata’s master had been sick, so Nid invited her along for the ride). They’d finished up early, so Nid, who knows Lohata likes to fly and Booda likes being on Naboo, decided to let the girls get a bit of flight practice in (with Queen Jamilla’s permission) in friendly skies. The men turned on them, and Lohata’s ship crashed, knocking her out. It was the fire and injuries that eventually took her life. Booda tried to pull her out, but only succeeded in damaging her prosthetics before Nid pulled her away to get her running. The two of them hid in a lake. When the men dropped depth charges, Nid shielded Booda and died in the process. She hid under water and in under-water caverns with air pockets for days, peeking out to still see her master’s corpse floating there before someone eventually removed it. She would never really be able to leave the lakeshore again, barely being able to venture into town for food weeks later, and to get her arms fixed over a year after the Purge. She, too, eventually reconnects with Hano and Braig - while she never feels safe leaving her lake, they make sure to comm her fairly regularly, and visit in person when they can, and it’s the closest to feeling truly safe she’s been in decades. 

#cosmicnexus #&& give the sun a head start; ooc #&& temple archives; headcanons #&& from creche to grave; the gathering group #&& brave new worlds; padawan #&& end of days; order 66 #tl;dr jay loves their kids #and as such makes them suffer

[thekatthatbarks]

Shikasaku

Did you mean this for the headcanon game? I’m going to take it as you did, if not let me know.

Shikamaru

Headcanon A:  realistic

Shikamaru gets anxious at night on missions. He’s always looking at the moon, at the light of the campfire. If it’s a new moon, he’s antsy the entire time. Sure, he’s a great strategist and could figure something out. But there’s something terrifying to him about not being able to use his shadows.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Shikamaru has the worst sense of humor. He laughs at the stupidest things, puns, dad jokes. And he has one of those contagious laughs, where you just hear him laugh and you can’t help but laugh with him. 

You could tell him this super intelligent joke, a long joke with a riddle, and he’ll offer a smile. But no, Sakura tells him a pun and he loses his shit.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Shikamaru is clearly depressed and no one ever talks about it. Like mental illness doesn’t matter in Naruto world, yeah I get it, whatever. But like! He is pointedly incredibly intelligent and just doesn’t ever have the drive for anything until he’s older - which is about things that he has to do, just daily life in shinobi land. He has clear markers for a depressed child and it makes me so sad. He was labelled as lazy, he slept in class, he didn’t see the point in even picking up his pen to take an exam even when he knew all the answers. And Asuma knew he was smart, his father knew he was smart. Iruka probably knew also, but no one ever cared further than calling him lazy. Like I could go on for hours about mentally ill children getting labelled as “lazy” - any age really - and expected to act just as the other children do.

Everything is a drag to him, all he has the energy for is to lay around and watch clouds. And yes, he gets up, he becomes a chunin, he shows effort in doing missions and living his life. But that doesn’t mean he’s not depressed. 

To me, Shikamaru has high-functioning depression by his teens. 

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Shikamaru goes to the Yamanaka shop to help out a lot. He’ll make some random comment about having not seen Ino in a while but she knows the truth. Shikamaru loves working with the flowers, he likes planting them and watching them grow, tending to the gardens. He finds it so calming, something about it that just makes him feel good. 

Ino never tells anyone about it nor how she likes to make flower crowns and drop them on his head when he’s working at the shop. Even in their twenties.

Sakura

Headcanon A:  realistic

While Sakura has a confident air to her and doesn’t back down from her fears, she is still incredibly anxious about marrying into a clan because she has no idea how they work. She’s worried she’ll do something wrong. That fear of being accepted so much larger with how many people there are.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Ino bought Sakura a radio for her birthday and Sakura turns it on while she cooks. She’s developed a love for cheesy pop songs and sings them without shame. She’s always off key and her hips don’t move to the rhythm as she dances in the kitchen.

She likes to point  at Shikamaru when love ballads come on and sing to him until his smile is wide and he’s shaking his head in amusement.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Sakura will always be resentful of being born into a civilian family if only because her chakra pool isn’t very large. She has amazing chakra control and it more than makes up for it. But she can’t help but envy someone like Naruto or even Sasuke. 

She thinks about it, bitterness on her teeth, as she uses up almost all of her chakra to heal her dying team. Two out of the three make it and Sakura is looking helplessly at her fallen teammate, still wishing she was stronger, that she was enough. Two of her ribs are fractured but Sakura can’t heal herself until her team’s okay. Tsunade is screaming at her inside her head that if she dies then she failed her team as a medic anyway. But it’s too much guilt for her, too selfish, and Sakura makes it a bad habit. 

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Sakura has a bit of a power kink. She loves moving up the ladder in the hospital. She loves getting promoted to jounin. She loves it when she’s captain of a squad. People looking up to her, following whatever she says. That trust and faith. After so many times of being pushed back with someone jumping in front of her, Sakura loves being in charge. Of being someone to count on.

Shikasaku

Headcanon A:  realistic

They’re that couple. It seems like they can get anything they want when they’re together. Both of them are frustrating to argue with separably, but together, you might as well give up the fight. They’re too quick on their feet, manipulating their friends into agreeing to whatever they want with a few choice words and a smile.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Shikamaru sleeptalks and Sakura is amused when she finds out. At first, he just says random words, sentences that don’t really make any sense. But some nights, she catches him just mumbling about how much he loves her.

Other nights, stupid confessions fall from his lips to land on the sheets between them - about how he made up a headache so they didn’t have to go to that clan dinner, how he hated the pattern she picked out for their dishes. 

Sakura still finds it adorable, though, and finds it hard to be mad.

Sometimes.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Sakura has to be the one get their relationship off the ground. Shikamaru has more insecurities than he lets on and doesn’t think they’ll make it. He likes her for a long time before Sakura catches feelings. He can’t see why she’d ever want to be with him, having stood beside Naruto and Sasuke all her life. He’s not all powerful, he doesn’t share important memories with her, he doesn’t have a lot of energy. He thinks he doesn’t have anything to offer. He doesn’t want to be a substitute either, inevitably waiting for her to leave him. So, he just doesn’t do anything about it. Sakura hints that she likes him and when he doesn’t do anything, she hints harder, until she’d demanding they go out on a date. He still thinks it’s a bad idea but can’t say no. They go out on more dates and it takes Sakura months to convince him that she wants to be with him. Then, it takes even more months for Shikamaru to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Sakura doesn’t want kids and Shikamaru lets go of the daydream, he hadn’t felt too strongly about it anyway. They don’t tell anyone about it, though, and get married. Years pass and the Nara clan elders start getting more impatient about it, waiting for a clan heir. Sakura snaps in a meeting and tells them there will be no heir coming from her. It tenses the relationships she’d built with the elders but she can’t regret it, not going to be forced to have children she doesn’t want. Not wanting to do that to a child. Shikamaru defends her until his tongue runs dry, showing the most emotion he ever has in those later clan meetings. Yoshino backs them up and is the one to offer the idea that Shikamaru can pick the next clan head from another Nara family.

Sakura’s stubbornness and fuck you I’ll do what I want attitude has rubbed off on him and Shikamaru goes and gets a vasectomy so it can be a mute point.

The clan elders have pulled their hair out by then and agree to let Shikamaru pick the next clan head.

So I realized too late that you meant shikasaku headcanons but I had already written the character ones, so more treats for you! Thank you for the ask!

Send me a character for a headcanon!

#ask game #depression #Anonymous #hc #kat writes

[metalchick19-blog]

The Bowers Gang: Ship #9 - Victor Criss

Request: Alrighty I’ll have you ship me with whoever you think personally~ my hair is blonde and I’m short asl, but I also have a tattoo of a black rose on the side of my wrist. A lot of my friends tell me that I can always make them laugh with what I say or do and a lot of them will often come to me for advice or if they need to rant about something, which honestly just makes me feel even better as a person. I’m someone who will always stand by you if you’ve never done me dirty and need help. I do have a goofy side that only my closest friends see everyday, which is honestly sometimes just me as person. I think of myself as a fairly outgoing person and I’m never one to just stand in the corner of a party. Some things I need to work on are opening up to other people when talking about feelings and problems I have instead of just bottling them up. If there’s someone that I don’t like, I make it very clear and can be totally heartless towards them. I can also stress myself out easily and get overwhelmed by everything that’s going on. I’ve been through some shit, so I have a better understanding of other people’s hardships than most people. Being friends with me means that you always have someone to go to for laughs, but also someone who won’t sugar coat anything for you. Being in a relationship with me means you’ll actually have someone devoted to you and fun times, but you also gotta break down any walls built up. To put it into simpler terms, I’m a pretty chill person who goes with the flow but can get serious when it comes to something that’s important to me and I need to do. A couple of facts about me is that I want to be an elementary school teacher (I love kids so much, more than people my age tbh), I smoke the devils lettuce damn near hourly on a daily (fuck getting drunk, getting high is better), I love going to the beach, driving around downtown with friends, or just taking time to myself in my room to listen to music!

Always traces your rose tattoo absentmindedly when you cuddle/sit next to each other

Finds your transparency hot as hell, because he sees it as an indication of how honest you are 

So appreciates the shit out of it, even when you’re being a total icy bitch to someone he doesn’t even know (and learns to assume you have your reasons when he doesn’t understand why)

The guys gave you a designated seat in the Trans-Am because you drive around with them after school so often (like the trooper you are) 

You’re on the far left, behind Belch, with Victor in the middle between you and Patrick (very much on purpose)

Victor sometimes comes over to people’s houses to keep you company while you babysit (the ol’ “sneak in the boyfriend routine”)...

... and actually helps with the sitting of the baby, rather than expecting to fuck and/or sit and watch movies like some other teen delinquents we know 

But seriously - Victor is straight-up the daddy to your mommy whenever you guys watch kids together, and it’s truly one of the loveliest things ever

Tends to start off awkward at first (he’s very friendly with kids, but has a hard time talking to them in ways they understand since he can’t “dumb down” his language), but always ends up being their literal favorite person by the time the night is over (apart from you, of course)

Entirely because Criss makes funny faces like a pro, keeps the small ones entertained while you warm up dinner, and ties shoes singing the bunny ears song and everything 

I.e. He’s “the fun guy”

Also demonstrates an inside voice like nobody’s business, and slides a coaster under every drink (house rules = respected) 

Also steps up to do some of the disciplinary things when you can’t get a specific smol one to listen to you 

... and is low-key a toddler whisperer about it too

When he has to be the disciplinarian, Victor always just kneels down to the tiny kid’s eye-level (regardless of whether they’re screaming, crying, or otherwise), and casually starts talking to them as if they understand every adult word that’s coming out of his mouth

Which most of them couldn’t possibly do, because toddlers 

... But, from the moment they make eye contact with him, the majority of kids go completely serene and just stare at Victor like they do understand what he’s saying, and clean up their act right after he “discusses it” with them

The guy seriously somehow stops all tears/whining/unacceptable behavior just by being like “hey, that’s not cool dude, and here’s why”

It’s legitimately random to the point of being annoying, because there’s no reason getting children in line should be that easy for him (considering it’s insanely difficult for some people that actually have kids)

You insist that the lil’ buns are just reflecting Victor’s calm nature, but his smug smile will always indicate he low-key thinks he’s better at child-care than you

... Which you know isn’t true, but we’ll let him think what he wants to think

He finds it really endearing how well you get along with kids though, and thinks it’s adorable that you’re able to connect with them so easily

You’re the first person he’s ever been with who’s made him think, “She’ll be a really great Mom someday,” and that’s beautiful 

You make Victor smile in the moments when he truly gets down on himself

This is a pretty big deal, because he tends to feel the fuck out of things regardless of the emotion

It’s impossible for the majority of people to sway Victor’s mood at all when he’s upset, because it always settles over him so heavily...

... but you somehow do the trick.

Your goofy nature usually bounces off of him at first (he stays in his head, and doesn’t give much response to most of your humor for a while), but you always eventually say something that strikes a cord with him, and elicits a small smirk

... which eventually leads to a smile, which leads to a laugh, which ultimately leads to you talking out his issues with him and lifting his spirits

You’re seriously one of Criss’ main emotional outlets, and I wish I could shake your hand, cause’ that’s an honor 

This isn’t a one-way street, though - Victor does the same for you

He noticed early on (before you were even together) that you only tended to talk about positive things/ “surface level” information even after you had been hanging out with the guys for a long time

And to him (i.e. the group psychologist), that made it clear you were trying to keep your distance by not sharing your problems or talking about things that were really important to you

So he made a point of being there for you x1,000,000 when you officially got together 

Example: He knows you won’t bring up any of your issues unprompted, so Victor asks how your day is going at every given opportunity

Aka: he provides a chance for you to tell him something’s bugging you

He also jumps on it whenever you show any visible signs of being sad, and straight-up asks you to tell him what you’re feeling because real men aren’t afraid to talk about that jazz 

Even though it took time for you to get used to it (i.e. sharing your emotions), it’s now something that’s become a reflex for you

You’ve cried on Victor’s shoulder, shared your previous traumas, let him see you at the peak of rage, and he’s done the same with you; there’s nothing left to hide 

The two of you have seriously reached a point where you could tell one another anything on the spot

You’re each other’s permanent comfort and support - simple as that.

When one of you is feeling especially down though, or when you both just feel you’ve earned a break from life (i.e. after exams, or during spring/winter break), you and Victor have “intensive care” smoke sessions at his house

...Tastefully named “intensive care” smoke sessions by the both of you

This basically means hot-boxing Victor’s room all day long (fucking glorious), watching movies in his bed, and playing whatever tapes you want on full blast at random intervals throughout the day

The two of you cycle between just sitting and listening to the music (typically at the peak of your high, when you’re both brain-dead), to talking about incredibly philosophical/incredibly stupid things (”who closes the bus door after the bus driver gets off?”), to raiding Victor’s fridge for munchies until you eventually empty it and have to walk into town for more 

Side-note: Victor is smooth as fuck when it comes to being high and acting normal in public

Whenever you guys order food anywhere after you’ve already smoked, he’s always the one who speaks because he never stutters, breaks eye contact, or forgets what he’s saying in the middle

You’ve even seen him get into full, logically sound conversations with people just minutes after taking a bong rip in the Trans-Am (group smoke sessions are a thing too)

The guy legit held it together even when his parents came home in the middle of your smoke session once, and introduced you normally even though you were having a level 10 panic attack, and were not subtle about it (those darting high person eyes were all over the place) 

In short, he can basically just revert back to being sober again whenever he wants to, and it’s a major turn-on for stoners everywhere. 

*Pointless side-note ended*

You try to get Victor to socialize at the 2-3 house parties Henry forces you all to each month, but he won’t do it

Just stands next to you, quietly sipping his beer and letting his attention drift around the room

Fields small-talk when he has to (he’s not shy or unapproachable - just introverted), but usually just prefers to be the handsome guy standing next to you while you own the spotlight

You’ll forever be the majestic, sociable party dom with a dry-humored wallflower for a boyfriend - enjoy

... he looks at you a lot while you talk to people though, and it’s so obvious he’s thinking about how beautiful you are, because his eyes make it clear he’s focusing on your face rather than your words 

So many girls in Derry High hate you because of adorable crap like this - there’s a lot of salt over Victor Criss being so thoroughly taken by someone

Patrick often tries to break you away from Victor at parties, because, like you, he talks easily and likes to try to get into shit (and because he thinks you’re hot/would love to take a girl away from Victor using only the power of his penis)

He’ll randomly show up next you when you’re getting another drink, going to the bathroom... or, really, doing anything other than talking to Victor

...At which point he propositions the shit out of you, and tries to convince you to come upstairs

This has never worked out well for him.

You did play a legitimately sick game of beer-pong together once after you got him to stop coming onto you (for a second), but that was just because you were already buzzed, and felt unusually tolerant towards him

So even though you usually reject him wholeheartedly (and somewhat loudly/angrily), you two will always be remembered as the life of post-homecoming blowout, 1987 (where you made every single shot, and didn’t have to take even one drink between the two of you)

... Still doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to do you though, and that you’re too loyal to Victor to be feeling it 

Even though he won’t participate in other ways when it comes to parties, Victor always dances with you, because he has a specific thing for watching you move to house music

You asked him about it once, and he just said he thinks it’s beautiful because it “accentuates your purity”

If you don’t get what he means, you’re in good company - the guy has an artsy soul.

Interesting side-note: Like Patrick, Henry has low-key wanted to sleep with you from the moment he first saw you, but keeps it heavily under wraps in the interest of not screwing up you and Victor’s relationship 

He doesn’t talk to you much, and has a hard time maintaining eye contact even when he does (because guilt and attraction)

Essentially decided that abstinence is key where you’re concerned, and tries not to form much of a connection with you so it’s easier to control himself

Avoids being left alone with you at all costs, and doesn’t acknowledge you much in general

... He eyes you a lot when he gets drunk though (most often, at the parties you go to)

No words, but enough wasted leering to make it clear where his head is at

 It’s never escalated into anything, but it’s something you notice.

... And you’ve never told Victor in the interest of preserving their friendship. 

* Interesting side-note ended *

Victor tried to take you on a private date to the quarry once (because you’d always told him about how badly you wished there was a beach in Derry), but the guys found out and showed up unexpectedly as soon as the two of you hit the water

... And it was actually your first date.

Meaning Criss was not at all entertained by that bandwagony bullshit.

They literally just came to see you in a bathing suit (hence why they came out of hiding only after you’d gotten in the water), and you’re such a bad bitch that you called them out on it rather than let it be 

... But that just earned a predictably creepy affirmation from Patrick (”What, you thought we were gonna’ let Criss keep a body like that all to himself?” *Disgusting Hockstetter cackle as Victor death-stares him into oblivion*), and didn’t amount to anything more than obnoxious laughter on Henry and Belch’s part 

Long story short, the guys all stampeded into the water with you, and swimming for 2 became swimming for 5

So, yeah. First date was a group date, and no one was thrilled.

Because of what you’ve been through in life, you understand some of the fucked up situations Victor has experienced better than most other people; as a result of that, you have a unique understanding of his hot/cold feelings about the gang

I.e. You get why it isn’t just black and white for him - other people may see the guys as straight-up evil, but it’s different for Victor, and you get that

Essentially you understand that he’s a ride or die (because genuine loyalty), but that he’s also ready to jump ship in the interest of not becoming something he isn’t; he’s never been able to express that to anyone else 

Because you get why Victor feels moved to leave the gang sometimes (and partly because of your own experiences with them), you support him in that direction whenever he mentions it

Being that you don’t sugarcoat things, you confirm for him that the guys aren’t people that would be good for his adult life - he’s always thought that in his head, but has never had another person around who knew the guys personally to corroborate the opinion

Meaning, now that the opinion has been corroborated, it’s kind of huge for him

You may ultimately be the thing that gives Victor the strength he needed to leave the guys, because you help cement his view that it would be the right thing to do

Plus, his relationship with you would fulfill him to an extent where he wouldn’t feel as attached to the gang as before, and he would see himself as being much happier in a future with you than in a future with them

In short, you might change the course of Victor Criss’s entire life - have fun being the best thing that’s ever happened to him

#henry bowers #patrick hockstetter #belch huggins #victor criss #The Bowers Gang #the bowers gang headcanons #it

[ain-t-bovvered]

Epiphany 14

read first ACT 1

EDIT:  @waywardbaby​

Summary: Less than two years later, you finally passed the men of letters’ initiation and, finally, you now set foot in America eager to be reunited with the Winchesters. But if Dean thought that you spent your days only with your nose in books and hands in monster’s guts, he was dead wrong. Your mission? Something that the British branch tried and failed miserably,  or at least that’s what they told you anyway.

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel and Jack

Warnings: slow burn guys…slow burn. Also, some fluff, humor, feels and angst.

The smell of freshly washed linen filled your nose. You rubbed your face in the cool fabric, turning your head to the side and sighing contently.

A light chuckle reached your ears and opening one eye you spotted lovely freckles scattered under a pair of laughing, green eyes.

You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned.

“What time is it?”

“Not late enough. Go back to sleep.”

Soft lips kissed your forehead as you drifted into your slumber once again.

“Cass why is she not waking up?” Dean said, backhand slapping lightly on your cheek.

“…I don’t know…she should be up by now.” Castiel’s worried voice filled Dean’s room. Jack and Sam also looking down at you, worried.

“…Come on Y/N…don’t do this to me!” Dean’s pained voice failed to reach you.

Little distant noises woke you up again. You grumbled, head sliding from under the pillow, hair tangled in front of your eyes like a curtain.

“Dean…?” you called, swatting away the last strands. You saw him, already dressed, his back to you as he bounced slightly up and down.

“Shhhh, your daughter woke up…again!”

“My…my what?” you stammered, eyes opening wide.

He turned around, a funny smile on his face, “Yeah…you know...your daughter?” he repeated lifting the baby. “You must have been really tired if you didn’t hear her scream murder.”

You propped yourself on your elbow, looking at the scene in front of you. Mouth hanging open, scrambling to your feet, almost falling as your foot got tangled in the sheets, you walked to him, mouth feeling dry and you licked your lips.

With a croaky voice, you asked for a glass of water.

“Sure babe. I need to prepare the formula, anyway. Here,” he said, handing you the bundle, kissing your head. He walked out of the room.

Stunned you were frozen in place. You didn’t dare to look down until some complaining noises reached your ears, and you felt squirming in your arms. You almost dropped her when your eyes fell on her face.

Your hand gripped the curb in front of you, for balance, and your gaze searched, finding your son peacefully asleep, his tiny fist in his mouth.

“What the fuck? ”

“Whoa…language!! Want our kids to have our mouth?” he chuckled handing you the glass of water as he motioned to pick up the girl. You squeezed her to your chest, turning slightly.

“I…I’ll do it,” you said, your trembling hand taking the bottle from him.

“Babe, you okay?…”

You didn’t answer and sat on the bed to feed her. He frowned and walked to sit down beside you. 

“Don’t!” you said, “You’re not real.” Raising your eyes to him, “Get out of my head!” 

His image froze and vanished.

“It’s been hours Cass…”

“…I think she’s dreaming.” The angel said after having touched your head with his fingers “..she’s…they must have put some sort of blocking in case she found out about the brainwashing or something”

“Son of a bitch!” Dean whispered, passing a hand over his face.

“… Maybe we could do the same thing you did with Mum.”Sam walked in with some book open in his hands. 

“When the Men of Letters brainwashed her, you …convinced her to come back, remember?”

Dean’s eyes sparkled with new life and he turned to the angel, “Cass…can…can we try?”

“I believe so.”

“Ok, let’s do it!” Dean’s hand brushed your cheek. “I’m coming to get you this time.”

You were finally able to get something to eat now that they were both asleep. Walking around the empty bunker, you checked that it was indeed empty, after having sent away fake Dean. 

Not that you felt hungry, this was a dream after all.

You were balancing yourself on the counter, to check what was in the cupboard, set too high for you to reach when your knee slipped on the edge and in the fall your hand flailed to grab whatever was there to grab, which were pans and pots.

Dean opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows as he took in the ambiance he came to.

“The bunker?… Y/N ?!” he called out, walking down the stairs, silently now, as his ears perked to catch the littlest sound. This looked like the same old bunker, nothing’s different.

“MOTHERFUC-” her voice was cut by the clang of pots and pans hitting the floor.

“Fucking hell!! Goddammit!!” you swore under your breath as you rubbed your shin that had hit the counter edge. Hearing some rushing footsteps, you sighed.

“Y/N!” a known voice hit your ears and heart.

“I told you to go away, you’re fake!” you said, without turning.

“I don’t know about you but I feel pretty real here sweetheart.”

You almost let one of the pots fall down again as you turned quickly around. There, leaning against the kitchen entrance, stood Dean. 

Your Dean or that was what you thought for a moment. Sighing deeply you turned around again.

“I’m not falling for that again. This is my head, he can’t be in here.”

“Oh ...so you know this is all fake,” you heard him coming closer to you, “…the question is…” he put his hands on your shoulders, forcing you to turn around “... what the hell are you still doing here?”

You stood back, surprised. “…I’m….” you blabbered and then it hit you. “How long I’ve been out?” you asked laying your hand on his chest gently. He looked down at it and covered it with his own.

“Almost an entire day. Scared the shit out of me!”

You hummed and hugged him, nuzzling your face in his shirt. He squeezed you closer, his hand tangling in your hair.

“I’m sorry…” you sniffled, rubbing your nose as you broke the hug. “I guess I …I got caught up in this.”

“I’m just glad you seem aware of it. Let’s go. Everyone is waiting.” He grabbed your hand and turned around, dragging you. “Hell, the kid is freaking out!”

You giggled as you let him tug you toward the exit, but as you passed through the door, instead of the war room, you found yourself in the sleeping quarters.

 Dean looked around confused and then at you “…Are you doing this or…?”

“…I…I really don’t know…” 

As you walked and walked, the corridor seemed to never end and you soon noticed that the same door number kept repeating.

“What..? What is it ?” he said as you stopped in front of the door.

“I think my mind doesn’t want me to leave until I show you…”

“Show me what?” he asked confused as you silently stepped aside, motioning him to open the door.

Dean looked at you funny as he threw open the door and stomped in. 

“Not like that! You’ll…” the door hit the wall and a series of wails filled the room,“...wake them!”

You saw him freeze, his head turned slightly to the side. You couldn’t make his expression but his voice let you picture it.

“….Are ...are those...?” 

“…Yep…” you stood still, as Dean slowly walked to the crib. Your heartbeat quickened as he gripped the rail and looked down.

Seconds that felt more like minutes passed in total silence as he looked transfixed by them and you asked yourself how much he was hating this.

“Can I ...?” your mental babbling stopped as his hoarse voice broke the silence. Taking a few steps, you walked into the room too, keeping your distance to give him some space.

“…Well yeah sure, technically they’re yours too.” you tried to keep your nervousness out of your voice, failing miserably as it broke. You crossed your arms around you to keep them from trembling.

You watched as he bent down to lift one of the twins. He didn’t need help since he used to take care of Sam and you knew it, so you just stood where you were.

Dean’s grip on the crib’s rail tightened as his eyes set on the tiny squirming bundles that were still screaming. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears as his hand reached down, touching the frail tiny chest of the loudest one. He retreated it quickly, feeling them warm and very real. Squeezing his fist he asked you if he could pick them up.

“..Technically they are yours too.”

That scared him and settled bittersweet and heavy in his heart.

Very slowly and very carefully, he picked up the crying one, staring at it as if his hands could shatter it. Cupping the baby’s head, the other hand supported the tiny body and he gazed at it like it was the most incredible thing. Sensing the loving touch, the baby stopped crying, making a series of little distressed noises then a big yawn, smacking lips and finally going back to sleep. He was still gaping at it that he almost didn’t hear you coming closer. You bend down to pick up the other crying one.

Dean followed your movements as you placed the baby’s head on your shoulder, your other hand on its back, slowly rubbing. It wasn’t working and you glanced at Dean. 

Biting your lips nervously, you blushed and looked away as you started rocking and humming. You heard the soft noise that Dean made and ignored it, too embarrassed to look back as you continued with the song.

“Hey Jude?” he managed to whisper, shocked.

You stopped rocking but continued your hum as it calmed the girl, “...yes I’m -” you turned around and your words died in your throat. He had tears in his eyes, actual tears and your eyes welled up too so you looked down.

“You told me once, your mother used to sing it to you and Sam and I…I thought to use it too. I - it was a way to remind me of you when I was…you know…” swallowing hard, “I’m sorry…it’s stupid I - I didn’t mean to use your mother’s memory...” your voice turned into a breathy whisper and faltered as you felt Dean walking closer to you, “... like that…”

“No..Y/N. It’s fine…it’s perfect. I-” he shifted the boy against his chest and cupped your cheek with his now free hand, forcing you to look up.

You saw his face getting blurry and you tried to blink away some of the wetness. “Sorry…I …I know this is all fake and it’s probably freaking you out or something. But I guess you were entitled to meet them. This is all…probably way too creepy.”  You giggled nervously, not daring to look into his eyes.

“I love you” he blurted out.

Your eyes widened. He was dead serious, not a trace of smugness, nor humor, not even his usual smirk. Just plain Dean.

“…Dean…I swear to God, if rig-”

He kissed you.

His mouth soft as always, the light stubble he kept on just because you liked it so much, slightly grazing. It felt all so real, nostalgic and you just knew it was him.

Breaking the kiss he bumped his forehead to yours.  

“Real enough?” he asked with his good old, annoying side grin.

You hummed as you nuzzled his nose, your eyelashes wet against your cheek.

“Yeah…yeah…it was.” Stepping back, you grinned at him, “Definitely less tongue than the other you.”

He smirked back and pulled you to him. “Oh… I can fix that…”  but the sudden movements were not agreeable with everyone.

You went to take the other one too but Dean was faster and took the girl from you. He walked to the bed, bouncing slightly, and the motion was as ridiculous as it was sweet. Stifling a chuckle, you sat beside him, kissing the little head of the boy.

You both lost track of time as you reconciled with them and Dean got to know them. He pointed out all the similarities between what you had told him and what was now sleeping in his arms. Suddenly, the lights in the room began to flicker and the vinyl record started to spin blank.

You looked around and then at yourself.

“I think my mind is telling me to get a move on.” you smiled bitterly. “I knew this was coming, I’ve been here enough.” You got up and dropped on your knees in front of Dean, hands-on the twins’ heads, “ I need to say goodbye”. You kissed them both, burning their smell and faces in your memory. “No more running this time”.

You opened your eyes and the first face you saw was-

“Jack …” you whispered and smiled “Hello!”

Jack’s face beamed with relief and was soon shoved away gently by Castiel who helped you up to a sitting position.

“How do you feel Y/N?”

“…I’m great. Sorry if I worried you.” you smiled as Jack gripped your hand. “Dean?”

“Yep…I’m here!” you heard him groan from the chair, as Sam helped him up.

“Sooo…are you good now?” Sam asked, handing you a glass of water you didn’t even know you wanted.

You and Dean looked at each other, you hiding a smile behind the glass.

“Yes…yes I am “

Now the not so fun part of this whole ordeal.

After everything that had happened, you weren’t very keen on hearing from your branch but if there were still good people there you needed to know and, especially they needed to know. Calling the family who had taken you in the first place, you explained what happened. 

Even better, Cass zapped you there real quick.

Their faces after you had told them everything made it useless to ask Cass if they knew about the plan or not. Having done enough, you made it very clear that you didn’t want to take any part in whatever was going on there and honestly –

“I think y’all need to get your house in order…” you had said as Cass dropped Toni in front of the head of the family, “... because you have some naughty children playing in it.”

“I’m sure we will restore the order and do some cleaning up!” she winked at you as her foot stepped on Tony’s hand. “But tell me, Y/N dear…how can we …make up for the discomfort ?”

“I get to do what I was doing. American hunters are not all assholes. I’ve met lots of them eager to make their life easier.” 

“You…you want to stay there?”

“Yeah, I have my contacts and...” you looked at Cass who smiled at you, “…a new family.” you smiled back. “ I’ll be your employee from there. It’s a win-win. Of course, I want a raise.”

“…Done!” she extended her hand and you shook it.

“…And another thing...!” you added loudly, looking toward the marble column that framed the pool where you could easily spot a mass of curly locks, “... please tell Thalia that I know it wasn’t her fault. And if she would be so kind as to send me my notes and some of her books. I’ll email the list. I’m behind on my spell studies.”

“Anything else?”

She asked as you turned around to grab Castiel’s hand. You looked over your shoulder.

“Yeah…remember what happened to the British-American’s branch and don’t be that stupid!”

“Ah…Dean !” you breathed out, one hand gripping the sheets and the other tugging at his hair. You looked down to meet his eyes. He flicked his tongue one more time and you whined biting your lips. Kissing your inner thigh he rested his head there, looking at you, expectantly, “…what?” you asked.

He raised his eyebrows and looked down, his mouth curving into a pout, the hand that was drawing circles on your other thigh, slid up.

“Dean?” 

He looked like he had something on his mind.

“You know….” the hand touching you was now replaced by his two fingers. Your breath hitched when they traced your folds, slowly, torturing and denying you the release that he had built up so carefully, “... you actually never said it back…” he whispered as his thumb started to delicately stroke your bud. Your hips buckled, his free hand keeping you steady.

“W-what?” you asked once again breathless, mewling.

He raised an eyebrow and sank two fingers inside you in one quick thrust. Your head rolled back as you moaned.

“Look at me Y/N!” he growled as he pumped in and out of you deliberately slow, building you up again until the only thing you could feel was him. You hummed, feeling drunk, sight hazy and unfocused as you looked at him through eyelashes.

“You…” he sucked on the tender inner thigh skin, eyes locked on yours, “... never said it…” his lips hovering where his fingers were working you undone, “…back.” 

You clenched needily around him as a frustrated cry escaped our lips. You were so close, so close, but he clearly wanted something and he would not release you until he got it.

Trying to clear your lust-filled mind, you concentrated as hard as possible.

“You know…it would be ...easier if you ...didn't distract me like ...ah- like that!” you said, arching your back when he curled his fingers.

He chuckled and without losing his torturing rhythm, he let his lips travel up your abdomen, between your breasts, gently nibbling your neck and kissing that sensitive spot right under your ear. “I’ll help you then…”

Shifting his eyes on yours, he kissed you as his life depended on it, pouring all of himself into it. Your heart throbbed painfully as you understood, and you smiled into the kiss. He smiled back, you teeth gently bumping together as a chuckle bubbled up to your throat only to be killed when he flicked his thumb, reminding you that he was indeed keeping you under his command.

You grabbed his face and looked him in the eyes.

“I love you too,” you whispered on his lips. He sighed as his eyes fluttered closed. His hand left you and before you could protest, he had you straddling him, his arm around your waist, giving you the lead. Raking your hands in his hair, you locked eyes with him again as you sank down, connecting your bodies.

You moved together leisurely, savoring every sensation. 

Both feeling the weight of your confessions and the shift that they would cause in both your lives. 

A moment of sudden and great realization. 

An epiphany.

Fin Act 2.

oh jeez finally I finished the long due edit for this after it got all deleted. 

don’t know when act 3 will be written honestly, it will on the template os season 13-14 and probably whatever will go on in 15.

#Epiphany 14 #Epiphany #reader insert #reader fanfiction #dean winchester #dean x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n

[the-girl-from-number-4-blog]

Honesty (Part II)

Roger Taylor x Reader

In which both are very much confused

Word Count: 4,372

(i finally finished part two! thank you to all those who read the last part; i hope this one doesn’t disappoint!)

part one

“Because it’s you.” In the air hangs a static pause as Roger stares blankly at you for a few moments, but the length of time doesn’t register with you because you’re too preoccupied by the litany of thoughts and fears rushing through your overactive brain. His incredible lack of expression scares you; the man you see isn't the one you know with the infectious grin and emotive manner. You’re don’t think you’re prepared to deal with whatever may be going on in his mind behind those apathetic eyes.  You watch his face carefully for any sign, any reaction. You hate fighting with him - especially when you know you’re at fault, as you certainly are now - and each time, you worry that it may be the last; that this was the final straw. Maybe, this time, it is. But you know, when he doesn't respond for several moments, that this has turned into more than a fight. You’ve fought before; Roger would typically launch back with a sometimes witty, sometimes idiotic quip - he was never caught off-guard. This must have really shaken him. His brows furrow slightly, in both anger and confusion. “Are you joking, Y/N? ‘Cause I fucking swear that this is not funny.” You shake your head, and your voice is weak. “I’m not joking.” Tentatively, you look up at him. His eyes are steel; narrowed, guarded, they hold yours steadily, and though your resolve crumbles like the walls of Jericho, you can’t look away.  “Roger?” You ask, because you fear that the silence hurts more than his inevitable rejection. “Please say something.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I - well, okay,” he says it like a question, and you can tell that the words are just placeholders while he finds the right phrase to express his true reaction.  “I’m sorry,” you look away, at last, finding the counter top suddenly very interesting. What are you apologizing for? Loving him? Would that really be your fault? He’s uncomfortable, now, you think, because he doesn’t feel the same way. He’s just trying to find a way to tell you. Didn’t he never used to watch his words around you? Why is it so hard now? He nods numbly, taking a step back and jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got - I’m going to - I’m gonna go, now.” You close your eyes and turn away from him. He leaves without another word.

Roger Taylor never advertises himself as an emotional man.  On stage, he's the energetic drummer who never tires. In the studio, he whines, but he really does want to make better music, and does his best to give multiple perspectives of each track; to him, that's logical. And in bed, he's a fervent lover; all parties walk away satisfied. But he's never emotional.  Once, Freddie asked him how he felt about a particular piano riff. Does it feel like it fits? Roger only told him how their typical audience might react to such a dramatic shift in musical tone, and Freddie dismissed him, saying his opinion (or lack thereof) wasn't worth shit. He supposes he does feel something about the music they produce - he’s got his favorites and his regrets, of course - but not nearly to the level of the others.  He doesn't really mind. Fred and Bri are emotional enough for the four of them; Deacy usually handles the reasoning and Roger handles the blind contradiction, just to keep them all in check, get them really thinking about it. He feels that they all provide just the right balance.  And whenever he bids a hasty goodbye to whoever shared his bed the previous night, there's a little part of him that fears an attempt at conversation. For some women, 'Last night was fun' simply wasn't enough. And that just wasn't what he was looking for; if he wanted pillow talk, he'd get himself an actual girlfriend.  Oh, wait, I did that, didn't I? he asks himself silently as he storms down the brightly lit streets that night. Dom. She's a proper girlfriend, right? But even with her, he doesn't share what anyone could call an emotional connection. The truth is, he never bothers getting to know a girl before taking her to bed; he never saw the use in doing so, since he was always moving around with the band, touring and doing gigs at odd places here and there. No woman wants a man who's only there maybe once a month, does she? Even Roger knows that it's a sad excuse. He lives life easy, taking advantage of his looks to have a good time. He's not proud of it, but not ashamed, either. It's just the way it is.  And he was fine with that - he was so perfectly fine with that.  Until Y/N came around, that is.  Of course, you'd always been there. He fondly remembered meeting you at a Smile gig; he felt an instant connection unlike any he'd ever had before, especially not with women. You were probably the first girl he could see as being more than just another example of her sex, aside from, perhaps, his mother. You became fast friends, and the rest was history - or so he thought.  When this whole 'Ben' business came up, Roger didn't believe you for a second. Your eyes would shoot down, and your speech became slurred - it was a barely perceptible change, but he heard it, sure signs that you were lying. He really did assume you liked John. He really thought you'd be a perfect match for each other; you're both more on the introverted side with the same dry sense of humor, both so calm and composed.  It still didn't sit well with him, the thought of you and John. He told himself that it was because John had a serious girlfriend, and that Roger had at least some moral compass to recognize the wrong in disrupting such a relationship. Even when he entertained the possibility that 'Ben' was real, however, the uncomfortable feeling lingered. He didn't want to think it was jealousy.  He's mad at you now. You lied to him, you played him for a fool for an entire year. But more than the lie - he could handle the lie, really, because he always knew it to be so - he was angry at your feelings. That was the real surprise. You had a nice thing going. It was pretty cool to be actual friends with a girl, you know, without having to remember this or that about how she was in bed, or what she really looked like underneath her clothes, every time he saw her. Y/N was just one of the guys, until feelings got in the way. Roger stops at a hole-in-the-wall pub and eyes its sketchy sign, flickering dully, on its last legs. It looked to him like a place no respectable man would find himself at midnight, and he was right; upon entering, he could tell that nobody there was clean of drugs or (judging by the putrid smell) in easy access to a shower.  He orders their strongest, cheapest stuff and downs it, leaning his arms against the bar. Perhaps the barkeep tries to make conversation; he doesn't listen. His gaze is straight ahead, but far off, and he feels a bit like Freddie when he had the sudden inspiration for a song, and can't be bothered until he's plucked it out on the piano.  His first, almost instinctive thought is, How do I reject a girl without hurting her feelings? As he tries to come up with an answer, he wonders why he wants to reject her in the first place. Knowing you, you'd want a reason. He can't find one.  He thinks about your smile when you see him for the first time every day. How it's even wider when he's been out of town for a tour, and how your eyes are so bright on his. Perhaps your affection shouldn't have caught him so off-guard.  He thinks of your hair, which you wear so modestly. He likes to make it messy, because it's so soft between his fingers, and it pleases him to know that you like it, too. He likes that he could make you relax with such a simple touch.  He thinks about the most bizarre things: the curve of your shoulders when you wear a particular blouse; the charming asymmetry of your grin when you're up to mischief; the particular way you cross your legs when you lean against the sofa.  Perhaps he's thought of you too much. This was quite a revelation, wasn't it, your not-so-hidden feelings? He really should have a clear mind, unobstructed by thoughts and images of you.  Like the wise man he is, he replaces thoughts of your silhouette against a bright streetlight on a late night with the buzz of alcohol, and that's the last he can recall of that night. 

You had hoped that telling Roger about your long-running lie would get the guilt off of your shoulders, but just as you cast aside that albatross, you take on Atlas’ weight of the world when he doesn’t speak to you again for days.  He was wrong, nearly a year ago, when he said that a true friend wouldn’t let something like this ruin a relationship. You ruined things with the two of you, didn't you? If only you had kept your mouth shut about everything. If only you hadn't told him about your silly crush like he would have cared - and if only you hadn't let that crush blossom into love. Had you now lost Roger forever? You don’t want to think of Roger as a hypocrite. The soft side of you wants to see good in everybody, so you blame yourself. Perhaps it was largely the lying that made him react so . . . adversely? You really couldn’t tell, because it’s how he didn’t react that makes the situation so confusing. He’s also never had to reject someone so close to him. The women he goes with are mostly fans, or they're just walking sex appeal - not unlike Roger himself, of course. It’s easy to make excuses to girls in bars or groupies at gigs. He doesn’t know their names, their character; he doesn’t care for them in any capacity. You hope that he cares for you as a friend, at least, and that’s what makes it difficult for him.  These thoughts send you into a downward spiral with no end. You convince yourself, contrary to your prior wishful thinking, that you made up the intimacy of your friendship - all of your bonds and connections were just fabrications of a lonely, desperate mind. Roger Taylor wouldn’t want you, as a friend or as a lover. This spiral has no end; it tightens and tightens until you feel faint. Then, it tightens some more.  You sit in front of your television, watching some program with a blank stare. For the life of you, you can’t remember what it is, though you’ve stared at it for a few hours now. You’re on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, because it feels right like this. You try not to think about when Roger sat on the sofa behind you. A bent paper clip between your fingers gives you a mechanical distraction from such mental spirals; idle fingers means your mind wanders, inevitably to the worst of places.  It’s one in the afternoon, and you really shouldn’t be in your flat on such a perfectly nice day as this. The few clouds in the sky, you can tell from your window, are wispy and fleeting. Today would be an opportune time to run some errands and visit the guys.  Ah, there’s the rub. The guys: specifically, Roger. You can’t face him. The thought of your ruined friendship hurts you enough; actually seeing the wreckage can only be worse. He lives right next door to you, and you’ve avoided him like the plague. Every time you go down to check the post, it’s a rush, early in the morning when you’re sure he isn’t awake. When you run down to the laundry, you check both ways to make sure he can't run into you. Each time, you feel so pathetic that, now, you haven't left your flat all day, and have no intention to do so. If you were in your right mind, you’d probably notice how quiet his flat was, as though he weren’t home at all, but you are far to preoccupied with not thinking about him.  You are a mess. You wear your dressing gown, even though you woke up hours ago, and haven’t properly brushed your hair in a couple of days. You ate cereal out of a measuring cup because it was in the wash and you hadn’t put away the clean dishes yet. You didn't even bother going to bed last night; you just curled up on the couch into a dreamless but restless sleep. A knock sounds at your door. You don’t even entertain the possibility that it’s Roger, because there’s no way he would show up now. He’s the sort who puts things off and puts things off until he just doesn’t do them. You'd probably end up the same way to him.  You don't immediately get up to answer until you hear a call. “Y/N! Open your door, darling, before I call John in to break it down.” Freddie. You push aside your blanket and tie your gown about your waist, running a hand through your hair. As you approach your door, you catch a glimpse of your disheveled frame in the mirror, with your baggy eyes and melancholy expression. You're a peach.  The door opens. "Y/N!" Freddie rushes in to envelope you in one of his familiarly warm hugs. You're so used to this greeting that it doesn't strike you as odd, but you must wonder.  "What's gotten you here, Fred?" He pulls away, hands on your shoulders, examining you. "I refuse to believe you're that dim. You haven't stopped by the studio in days, or even returned our calls; we're all right worried about you, of course." "All of you?"  He blanches, knowing exactly who you meant. "I do wish you'd told me about your little crush." It didn't escape your notice how he avoided answering, but it's all you need to know the truth. Roger doesn't care.  You turn away and beckon him inside, ignoring that last remark. "Apologies for the mess," you say, kicking your dirty jumper out of his path to the couch. "I wasn't expecting company." "Evidently," he sneers in distaste at your displayed wardrobe. He never did approve of your taste in clothes.  He sits beside you on the couch. At first, you're a good distance away, as though this is just a friendly chat over tea, but without the tea. Or the friendly chat. Apparently, neither of you are sure what this is, because you both sit for a moment of frankly awkward silence, before Freddie sighs. "Oh, come here, you goose." He pulls you into another embrace. "I'm guessing you heard about Roger and me?" you ask, nuzzled into his shoulder. Your voice is muffled but he understands well enough.  "Did I ever," he chuckles dryly. "We all saw it, you know. Something was never quite right with you two. If you didn't both have such glass faces, I'd have thought you were having a secret affair." You laugh humorlessly, as if to say, I wish. "And here I thought I hid it well." "Only from him. But for what it's worth, he only gets the message if a girl flashes him." He pets your hair, and you suspect another grimace comes from how tangled it is, but he doesn't mention it. "You shouldn't be too hard on yourself, you know. Love happens to the best of us." You look up at him. "But I've lost him, haven't I?" "Well, I wouldn't assume -" "Things were fine the way they were. I don't care that I loved him; he was better as a friend, however I could have him, than he is now that he's gone." You shake your head. "I was ridiculous to think that he would feel the same way. We're not fucking atoms; opposites don't attract." He silences you with a finger to your lips. "Y/N, listen to me. Nobody's wrong to express their feelings. Where you've gone wrong is to assume Roger's. Did he tell you that he didn't love you?" "Well, no." "Did he tell you that the friendship was over?" "No! Who just announces, 'Well, we're done here. Our friendship has expired!'?" Freddie slows his words down, as if addressing a petulant child. "You must understand that Roger gets all the girls because he's a pretty face and a loose tongue. He doesn't get them because he understands how they think. If he can't wake up the morning after and have a real conversation with the girl he's laid, what makes you think he'll know how to respond to a profession of love? He's just a man, after all. He needed time." You pretend to check the watch on your wrist, not minding that you aren't actually wearing one. "Well, he's had a few days. Isn't that time enough?" "God, you're just as hopeless as he is." Freddie withdraws his arms from around you to cross them in front of his chest. "We were set to record Monday, you know? But Roger comes in, two hours late, and he can't keep a beat to save his life, and all it takes is one question from Brian to get him to give us the whole sob story." Your breath catches. "How did he seem?" "Just as torn up as you are, dear. We could all see it from miles away, the two of you. If my intuition's worth anything, he loves you, too. He's just afraid to say it." You look away. "You're only saying that." He scoffs. "Because it's true! Look. I want you out of this flat - after you tidy up a bit - and out to find Roger, instead of wallowing in this depressing mess. Don't you waste this." You find it hard to believe him. Freddie's always there to pick you up; he's charismatic and charming, but that doesn't mean that he's entirely right. He has the bad habit of telling you what you want to hear, instead of the truth. Sometimes, he can make that the reality, but even he can't fix the impossible.  "Trust me." You want to. You really do. But can you handle it if he's wrong?

You look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Freddie's helped you do your hair. You washed it and scrubbed your face, so that you don't look as rough as you had before. You must admit, though your appearance is hardly the most of your concerns, that it is a marked improvement. You aren't wearing makeup today, because makeup isn't an every day thing for you, and you don't want to give the impression that today is a special occasion.  Just for insurance purposes, you must present yourself as a friend, making a supplication to continue a friendship; to assume or hope for anything more would just be uncouth. If Roger doesn't feel as Freddie suspects he may, you must take his rejection with grace; the excuse that you were prepared to remain friends is just perfect for such a scenario. Not that you didn't hope for more, that is. Just that you didn't expect it. Fred left about an hour ago; since then, you've tidied up your flat, put in a load of laundry, and any other domestic task you could think of. Since he left, you've tried to muster the courage to follow his order, but so far, you've come up with nothing, preferring to busy yourself with chores. Now, you can think of nothing more to do that wouldn't break a sweat. Of course, you could always sort through your records - you've been meaning to do that - but it would take several hours to do thoroughly, and you actually do plan to find Roger eventually.  As you stare at your reflection, you convince yourself that, whatever Roger says once you find him, you won't betray any sadness in your eyes. You won't tear up or cry; the best you can do is resigned humility, because that would prove to him that you can handle rejection. Above all, when you see him, you want to walk away with the same level of friendship that you had before this fiasco. His friendship matters more to you than any romantic inclinations ever could.  This thought gives you comfort. You can handle rejection because, even if he rejects your love, he wouldn't have to reject your friendship. You hope. He's a bigger man than that, isn't he? He wouldn't let a crush get in the way of such a strong friendship.  Again, you hope.  You take several deep breaths and head to your door. As your heart beats faster than it probably ever has before, you fiddle with your keys for a second, and you notice that your fingers are unsteady.  Okay, Y/N, you just have to do this, you tell yourself. Rip off the band-aid.  Much easier said than done.  Closing your eyes, you open your door, and mechanically turn to lock it. You use slow, deliberate movements, partly because your hands shake so badly, and partly because you want to have as long as possible to compose your thoughts.  Fate isn't on your side, it seems.  "I guess I caught you as you were leaving." Spinning around to meet the familiar voice, your eyes fly open.  Roger stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket. It's the same one he wore that night. It looks like he hasn't been home in days; his eyes are even baggier than yours, and his clothes are old.  You swallow. "I was going to find you, actually." The corner of his lip quirks up so slightly that it must be involuntary. "Yeah?" "I haven't seen you in days." He shrugs. "I've been at John's," he excuses. His eyes avoid yours.  You lean against your door as he walks forward. Unsure of what to say, you can only ask, "How have you been?" He looks at you, then, in the eye, and he looks so tired. You hate to think that your confession had done that to him. "Well," he says lowly, "these past few days haven't exactly been an easy ride." "I'm so sorry." Roger releases a sharp exhale and shakes his head. "You need to stop apologizing like it’s your fault." By his voice, you can tell his temper is short. "I really don't get you, Y/N. You've kept this secret for a whole year, but I can't understand why. We tell each other everything, you know? Why not this?" You look down to compose your answer. You don't speak your mind as he does; he hardly has a filter, while yours is made of lead. "It isn't as easy as that," you say. "You don't know how it feels to love someone who doesn't love you back. It's not fun, Roger, it hurts. But I knew that if you told me, if I actually had to hear you say it, it would hurt even more." Your voice breaks.  His eyes soften. "No, no, Y/N," his hands find your shoulders. He doesn't just rest them there, he holds them, and it feels so warm, so comforting. He's not just holding you; he's holding you together. You know that you won't cry in front of him. "Maybe I'm not the best with this type of thing." He tilts his head. "All right, maybe I'm one of the worst. But it hurts me to know that you didn't even let me decide for myself how I felt about you." Through your slightly cloudy eyes, you give him an exasperated look. "You can't say that you would have done anything different." You cross your arms, but a part of you stops you from moving too much, because you're afraid to jostle his hands off of your shoulders. "I know you, Roger, and I know the type of girls you go with. I'm not like them." "No, you're not," he says. "Look, when you first mentioned your feelings, way back at Freddie's Christmas party, I think I hoped, just for a second, that you'd say it was me. Just for a second. Then, when I thought it was John, I was jealous. Fucking jealous!" He shakes his head, as if in disbelief at himself. "I don't get jealous. Not unless it's over you." Your brain isn't working. "I don't understand." "Here, I'll spell it out. When you said that you felt for me, I freaked. Nobody'd ever done that before, so it caught me off guard. And I panicked; wouldn't you?" His hand rises to cup your cheek. "But it got me thinking. If you hadn't said anything, that hope and that jealousy would have just been pushed somewhere out of mind, because that's what I do with things I can't understand. So when you said that it was me. . ." He closes his eyes and leans forward. Not close enough to kiss - though more than part of you wishes it was - but close enough that you feel his breath against your skin, and it sends shivers down your spine.  "When you said it was me, I - I put it all together. I'm an idiot, Y/N, and it took me a while, but I see it now." He opened his eyes and looked at you. "I think I love you.” You open your mouth to reply, but the words don't even leave your brain before your heart stops beating. You honestly think you may be dreaming when he closes the space between you and presses his lips to yours. 

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