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urlocalnctstan · 3 years

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𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚄𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 - 𝙹.𝚂𝙶

• Candy Hearts Collab - @127-mile

Prompt : “I came to say goodbye.”

Genre : Angst, Fluff, kinda Slow-burnish?, Slice of life, highschool + college AU

Pairing : Sungchan X Reader (Ft. Jeno)

Warning(s) : mentions of bullying and injury (like one scene only), unrequited love, mentions of slight anxiety, hormonal shifts, language, minor character death

Writing nets : @kdiarynet @k-dinernet @kpopscape @czennienet @neoturtles

Taglist : @eh-ovo-nctu

WC : 9.7k

Summary : What people hated the most is the very word ‘goodbye’. However, it’s the very word that becomes something that you yearn to hear from Sungchan for years.

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The sound of the rain was supposed to calm you down, not make you even more anxious and sweaty and you sat with your legs firmly pressed against each other, hoping to fill in the lack of company you were feeling amongst the swarm of people who perhaps shared the same dreams, same aim as yours. Public places as trains, trams, bus stops; you always thought they portrayed as the perfect definition for the word ‘sonder.’ Each individual having a life pretty much as complex as yours — sometimes a little less or sometimes a little more. It fascinated you.

“Do you think the trip is worth it?” Lee Jeno, your best friend of quite a few years puffs his cheeks as he stared dubiously at the red and white poster he held. You took a peek at it, the amount of times Jeno had been pestering you if he should really give up the money he had saved for PS5 as a sacrifice for this trip, it was safe enough for you to say that you had every words printed on it memorized. Well, maybe not every words but the main stuff at least.

“Lee Jeno,” You sharply gawked at the male sitting beside you, earning an ugly grimace from him. “Stop it already. I don’t know about you but I ain’t passing this chance.”

“Wah, what a nice friend I got.” You failed to notice the dramatic eye roll he makes before shoving the poster in his backpack, the one he had been using since the first day you had befriended him. Was it 5 years? 6 years?

“Are we five years or six years?” But I met him on that bookstore down my neighborhood, that was like spring of 2017 and now it’s 2021.

The male let out a snort. “If I am a five year-old then you are definitely still inside the womb.” Even though he was smiling with that ‘innocent eye smile’ the evil smirk sheathed beneath went unnoticed by you. No sooner had he opened his mouth, a fresh harsh smack landed on his arms that were clad in a filmsy material of cotton and thus a silent yelp of pain escaping from him as he grabbed the area which was starting to sting with each passing second. The smack, albeit meant for him, you were unable to ignore the similar stinging pain in your palm, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. But you made sure to show absolutely no signs of distress; it was somewhat a matter of childish pride for you.

“Change your career aim from a perfumist to an assassinator will you?” If it were the campus grounds, you two would have already been latched at one another throats; both metaphorically and literally.

“I will gladly not.” You huffed at the male whose eyes held a scornful gaze, now even more annoyed or perhaps, as you would think most of the times, he was just exaggerating. You found yourself mindlessly scrolling through your gallery in search of the recent notes from Mr. Kim’s classes. Until you stumble across something you had been long avoiding, a forlorn fragment from the former days of your high school.

“Here lies the proof of my utmost love and affection, always devoted to my only Y/N.”

It was a picture of you smiling way too bright, cheeks and nose flushed red while being squished by the only male in the frame as he pressed a peck against your cheek. His neck was craned to the side, ripe ears clearly visible in the small Polaroid film. As much as you hated to admit, your heart would still make flips and turns whenever you run into something that reminded you of him, your very first love and first heart break—Jung Sungchan.

Jeno was too busy in his dreamland as he dozed off with his head resting peacefully against your shoulder. It was no new news that the lad had been immensely in love with you ever since the first time you saved him from getting bullied back in 9th grade. However, you were always too busy with your academics and extra-curricular activities and thus clearly drawing a line of only being friends. Nothing else. It happened when Jeno had finally mustered up the courage after excelling in his Maths Olympiad, where he made a bet that if he indeed secures a place in the top 5, you have to abide by anything he wishes for. But he wished for your love, something you were not really capable of doing so; especially at that time. You did not have the heart to say no when Jeno jogged up to you, his eyes transforming into crescents as he smiled wide. “I did it!” His words came out rather breathy, possibly because of him running to you, and maybe because how hard he could feel his heart thump against his ribs when he noticed the proud grin on your face. Without wasting any moment further, Jeno lets go of the white banner of achievement he had been holding, his hands now focusing on yours. You could almost feel the slight tremble and the wetness of his sweaty palms, but before you could even say anything he beat to you by saying, “Go out on a date with me. Only one.”

There were numerous times when you felt guilty about turning down Jeno. At times it had you baffled that why a guy like him would ever bother liking you so much. Jeno was incredibly talented; gifted with unfair boon of genius traits in both academics and athletics. His little version of him always demeaned his abilities, often failing to notice that how much more he was rather than just a quiet kid who loved coding and maths. Maybe perhaps that was the very reason for him to face the bullying, at least that’s what you thought when you first noticed him getting cornered by some stupid idiot dipshits from your class during recess. Jeno’s ID card lay discarded on the ground, as Kihyun grabbed its owner by the collar. You could not understand his reason for not fighting back, and thus being a silent spectator was never your thing so you decided to butt in. As much as you equally hated and liked one thing, boys seemed to get kinda wary of your presence. Especially boys like these who were already in the blacklist of the teachers. It did not take them long to pick their asses and run from the site when you glared them with a threatening gaze, a single word from the class president and they would get suspended yet again for the umpteenth time in the year. You crouched down to Jeno’s level, carefully handing him his ID. You did not bother asking him if he was okay, of course he wasn’t. His face showed signs of previous injuries, the purple hues of bruises slightly fading beside his jaws. You still don’t know why but you felt the need to protect him from his solace, thus leading to this inseparable bond of yours.

But that was a version of him that was long forgotten. Jeno had become the star and face of the school in the last years of your highschool. Acing various quiz competitions, Olympiads, getting highest grades, being the captain of the soccer and basketball team; you were sure God really had His favorites.

You were not surprised when Jeno brought you to your usual favourite—candle shop. It was a hidden gem in your hometown, a small secluded shop located just a few miles away from the metropolitan. Not everyone was aware of its existence until that one day you decided to act rebellious for once in your school life. Of course dragging Jeno into this so called rebel act with you. The date was rather casual, just two friends messing around with wax and chemically named perfume essences. The shop was owned by a lady close to your grandma’s age, and it still makes you wonder how on earth was she able to keep up with the hollering you two were making. No matter how much you convinced yourself that maybe you could give the boy a chance, and perhaps feelings might grow on you later on; you could not make yourself cloud your rationality with the uncertain possibilities. You confessed every single thing that had been on your mind and Jeno just calmly listened to everything you uttered. You could clearly see the expression of hurt washing over his face, but he knew you. He knew that once you had made up your mind, there was no going back. The night did not cause any indifference in your friendship; it bloomed with each passing years of your middle school and then highschool. You two had become the infamous bestfriends, the once timid boy then all buff and handsome and the once spotlight lover girl then buried in her textbooks to pass the college entrance exams.

Throughout these years of teen, the candle shop had become a constant place for anything to you both; sadness, comfort or just enjoyable times. Until that one day when you met the grandson of the lady who owned the shop. Make a guess who it was.

When people spoke of their first heartbreak, you always cringed at how they exaggerated. Technically you never experienced one, so it seemed ridiculous to you that how was it possible to a simple break to cause others this much pain. You were shocked, no scratch that. Using fancy words, you were utterly bewildered when you saw the new transfer student—Jung Sungchan was the name, standing on the makeshift podium of your classroom. Thank God the architects decided to stick to keeping the height of the room above eight feet. You had changed drastically, contrasting your previous bubbly persona, you had become more reserved. It was just you being ambitious about something you had grown to like, and after some backstabs from your friends, you did not feel the need to have so many around you. Just Jeno being there for you was more than enough.

It would be a lie if Jeno did not sense the subtle looks you had been sending over to the new guy, but he was in no place to object you. It had only been a few moments of Sungchan’s arrival and Jeno already sensed his position in your life being threatened. He knew you were a saint who always looked out for others, and something about his presence made Jeno feel wary. Jeno did not need any of the privileges he had, all of it he owed to you after all. It was you who brought the best out of him, and in the end if he has them all but not you, it wasn’t clearly worth it to him. You preferred unpredictable things; it was what he learned about you in all your years of friendship. How you would always choose mystery thrillers over typical rom-coms, how you would always vouch for the new dish in the menu every time you both visited the local barbecue house. And he knew it was impossible to be one like that, it was just typical Taurus things (as he would like to blame) that made him too practical, too predictable for you. But, you never thought like that. It was just that even though you wanted to, you couldn’t make yourself grow romantic towards the boy you always shared your oreos and ramen with. He held a dear place in your heart and life.

Sungchan was immediately welcomed to the family, the girls already swooning over his good looks and amazing grades. Plus icing on the top, he was the half-brother of the infamous Jung Yoonoh, the heartthrob of the whole school, from juniors to seniors. While Jaehyun was the typical definition of being that one dude we always see in rom-coms who is loved and admired by all for his too humble personality and ethics, Sungchan on the other hand was more of a quiet one, often too shy properly open up his orginal self around new environment. Despite that, he was naturally amiable just like his brother, a trait that perhaps ran in the Jung household. Unlike Jaehyun who was presumably born with good brains, Sungchan was a hardworking one. Sungchan tried to settle down the queasy feeling he had been feeling ever since he moved back here, now that Jaehyun was always busy in Seoul with his medical degree someone had to look after their aging grandma. Sungchan was never really a part of any group, so leaving behind his school back in the city was not that painful for him. The atmosphere of the whole campus was pretty soothing; the bushes of neatly trimmed trees, big huge playground and the ochre shaded building. He liked all of it, and to top it all the uniform was really his style: solid crème and dark maroon combination.

When Sungchan stood awkwardly in the middle of the classroom, clearly clueless as to where he would be seating since all the seats were occupied, a soft voice called out his name rather eagerly. His eyes scanned for a while until he saw you; dark hair tied up neatly into a ponytail with a pencil in your hand as you waved him to notice the empty seat beside yours. Sungchan smiled at your sweet gesture, his out of place feeling now subsiding into the warmth of the possible blooming friendship.

“Hi there, I am Y/N.” You chirped, wiping your left hand before bringing it out for him to shake. Sungchan froze for a while before he realized what he was supposed to be doing. “Oh! And this is Jeno!” You turned slightly towards your best friend sitting just behind you with his famous eye smile.

“Hello, I am Jung Sungchan.” He returned the gesture shaking both your and Jeno’s hand. Whilst Jeno had the feeling of roughness and athleticism in his, your hands were warm and soft; it felt nice he thought. That was the first impression of yours to him: ball of sunshine. And your impression of him? Reserved and unpredictable; a combination that only meant chaos and imbalance.

Sungchan side-glanced at your fumbling state. Seating next to him you in the front row, you skimmed over your not so pleasant looking notes that you had scribbled anxiously in the prior night. Public speaking had never been a big deal for you once you get adjusted to the audience after going up on stage. However, it is the pre anxiety session that just always riles you up.

“You know,” Your head whipped a bit too fast to your liking at the voice belonging to the only male that sat beside you. “I’ll show you a trick. Here.” Sungchan proceeded to softly place your trembling hands on his, cautiousness apparent with every move he made. Even though you both had been seatmates for the last three months, you never found yourself involved in any sort of skinship with him; something that was really common for you and Jeno. The look of fluster was way too obvious when Sungchan softly rubbed various shapes on the back of your hand with his thumb, you were unsure if he was actually helping you ease from nervousness or just increasing it further. It had quite been a while since you had your hands caged in his, both of you completely unaware of the looks you had been getting from your senior teachers seated in the neighboring row. The moment was cut off when your name was announced from the stage by a senior, requesting your presence to commence your speech. Sungchan slowly lets go of your hands, mumbling a soft ‘best of luck!’ with his hands now fisted as an act of verbal encouragement. You eyes wandered around the crowd for a while before locating your best friend who sat miserably beside the homeroom teacher, really closing to dozing off before noticing your presence and copying Sungchan’s gestures.

The bus paused, Jeno still deep in his slumber despite the harsh jerk of the vehicle stopping in its tracks. You sighed, he must have probably been gaming the whole night with his roommate Donghyuck again. You nudged softly at first, the lack of response later than causing you to shake him vigorously by his toned arms that barely fit in your palms. Jeno instantly sprinted up with wide eyes before softly muttering a curse at your cruel way of waking him up.

“I was definitely right about you being a torturer in your previous life.”

“Sure you were. Get your ass off the bus now.”

You parted your ways with Jeno on the campus ground, him heading to his coding facult while you headed towards the chemistry club room. Apparently a newbie was supposed to come today from the US. It was odd you assumed since US had much better facilities for students majoring in chemistry. You glanced at your figure on your way to the room, wondering if the ripped jeans were a good choice as a first impression. You just disliked the idea of leaving off bad impressions, even if you are never going to meet the person again until your next life. Jaemin, another close friend of both you and Jeno smiled widely at your entrance, waving his hand as he pointed the seat next to him enthusiastically. Jaemin and you were basically clones of each other, the leos inside of you both shinig at its best whenever you two are together.

“I don’t understand why move back here from THE United States.” Jaemin dragged out the word, scoffing silently as he handed you a cup of iced Americano. You were about to sip before pausing. You could not have possibly risked your stomach again after that one fateful day when you tasted ‘his type’ of iced Americano. This dude legit gulped down eight espresso shots with a satisfied hum, horrified looks painted on your and Jeno’s features as you both just stared at him in utter shock.

“Please not the poisonous drink.” You eyed the male suspiciously, who scoffed at the nickname.

“Of couse not little baby.” Jaemin cooed with his lips puckered and an annoying high pitched voice, purposefully pinching your cheeks a bit harder than he usually does.

“You little moth-”

“Hello guys, I am Sungchan. Nice to meet you all.” Your heart dropped at the familiar tone of voice. He isn’t possibly back again after leaving without any traces, without a single goodbye, is he? You did not dare to look at his figure standing in front of the table, awkwardly shifting in your seat while Jaemin furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“Hello, Sungchan.” Sulli, your senior by 2 years and also the president of the club greeted him warmly. “I hope you like it here because adjusting to a new place might be hard at times. Oh, these are your classmates; Y/N and Jaemin.”

Sungchan immediately looked in your direction at the mention of your name, his eyes equally wide in surprise mirroring your previous reaction.

“Y/N?” He called out in a rather unsure tone, just like his movements the cautiousness was also present there. “It’s been……a while….”

“Yeah, indeed.” You had a visible change in demeanor, Jaemin finally grasping the tense situation before jogging up to the male.

“Hi there, I am Na Jaemin. You can call me Nana if you want.” Jaemin put his hand out as a formality, to which Sungchan politely complied. “There’s a seat there you can sit.” Jaemin was luckily wise enough to occupy the empty seat beside yours without knowing the turn of events. He motioned Sungchan towards the seat diagonal to you, sensing the discomfort in your posture he assumed it was best if Sungchan sat somewhat further.

Concentrating on the yearly planning for the club was harder with his presence; Sungchan unable to hide his obvious lingering gaze on you. Jaemin would cough every now and then, signaling the male to focus on the club president’s instructions instead of you. But as his usual self, Sungchan pretended to not notice the clear hints, continuing keep his eyes locked on yours. You were barely able to note down some important events, knowing that Jaemin certainly cannot be trusted with his short time memory. After that president bids her farewell to everyone present in the room, you take it as your cue to just flee as soon as possible from his reach.

“Y/N, wait!” Sungchan was quick to grab you just as you were about to exit by the door, the sudden halt in movement causing you to stumble back into his embrace awkwardly. You were definitely embarrassed, your back pressed against his chest in a weird manner as you straighten yourself again. You scrunched you nose to hide your embarrassment before asking him.

“What is it now Jung Sungchan?” You were not meaning to snap at him, but the bitter memories of the past seemed to get the best of you.

Sungchan slightly winced at your cold tone, but what else could have expected after all the pain he had caused you. “I…I do..I mean like I..”

“Sungchan, I have my classes. Gather up your thoughts and then talk.” With that you turned on your heels, not even bothering to take your bag that you left on the seat you were prior sitting. Jaemin observed the scene quietly, his minds finally connecting the dots. Jung Sungchan, the boy you would always cry about whenever you got drunk, the boy who left you with nothing but memories of him. Jaemin thought it was best to not let out his inner frustration towards the guy who was now standing motionless in his tracks, lost in his trance as he gaped towards the door you had just left. Jaemin passed by Sungchan without a word, instinctively grabbing your bag as he made his way to his next class.

Sungchan stood dumbfounded, numerous thoughts racing in his mind. Why did I have to be so foolish? He thought. How can I blame her when I was the one who broke the promise first?

Summer 2017

It was getting pretty boring for you at the library; usually some of the classmates bickering would give you some sort of silent company as you scribble down the notes. But for some unfound reason you seemed to be extremely distracted. You let out a long annoyed huffed, hands stretching in weird directions as you rested your head on the wooden table. It struck your mind there might be butts of nails pointed out and you didn’t want to get yourself a shot of tetanus, so you lazily glided your hands across the surface before returning back to your half laying position. It didn’t take long for you to zone out, mind running through various scenarios of university life, jobs and perhaps marriage? You blushed at the thought, just like any other teen you were also low-key always looking forward to your wedding.

“Are you asleep?” You shot up startled at the sudden voice, eyes immediately widening as you realized the owner. Sungchan had a smile with his lips pressed into a thin line, casually pulling out the empty seat beside yours as he made himself comfortable on it.

“Good to know you’re not. I need your help.” Sungchan wasted no time rummaging out a stack of sheets from his backpack, pressing them against the wood with a loud thump. You slightly winced at the loudness since the library was extra quiet today, the sound thus bouncing off more.

“You know if it’s literature, I suck at it.” Your mind took you back at that one time when you almost got yourself a C on the mentioned subject, chills running down at the memory.

“No, no.” Sungchan waved his hands softly chuckling. “It’s actually chemistry. Judging as a seatmate, I believe it’s your best sport.”

You happily nodded at the male, pleased that you get to help him with something that was under your specialty. Sungchan took a notice of your happy state, equally pleased that it was you that would be helping him.

“Tell me, what can I help you with.” You took the fat book from his hold, skimming over the contents page before highlighting the topics that were extremely important for the semester.

“I think hybridization? I just can’t seem to get how it works!” Sungchan’s voice levitated suddenly out of frustration, momentarily catching you off guard. Sungchan seemed to notice your amused look, shyly rubbing the nape of his neck with a little shrug.

“You know this is the first time I’ve seen you frustrated.” You commented, eyes fixated on the pages even though they were being extremely reluctant to rather focus on the fussy male. “It’s pretty easy you know. Look.” You explained him cautiously and slowly, how the overlapping of the orbitals occurred not realizing the proximity that seemed to lessen drastically. You whipped at his direction to see any signs of confusion, only to be met with a pair of dark orbs that stared at you intently. As embarrassing as it may sound, you gulped loudly. A bit too loud than you had intended to.

Sunghcan took notice of the situation you both blanketed in as a wave of déjà vu washed over him. He cleared his throat loud and awkward, half to lessen the embarrassment you were feeling and to poorly hide his own. You both were looking everywhere but each other, too dumb to maximize the close distance instead of acting like awkward cats.

“What are you both doing?” a deep male voice jerked you back to reality, upon turning you saw it belonged to Jeno. When did he come here?

“She was explaining the hybridization shits.” Sungchan huffed, slowly settling back to his orginal position. “I asked you so many times though…”

“You know chemistry is not my cup of tea.” Jeno shrugged at the male, a lazy smile playing on his face. “You wanna stay for b-ball practice today?”

“Not sure, I’ll see to it mate.” Sungchan did that fist-bump with Jeno, the two casually mingling like old friends as you stared idiotically at the scene unfolding in front of you.

“Since when did you both become Damon and Pythias?”

“Y/N, please not again your alien languages.” Jeno rolled his eyes before taking the seat beside, sandwiching you between both the males. “Since you happen to be tutoring a clown, an addition of another clown won’t do you any harm.” Jeno smiled at you, his doe eyes disappearing in the process.

Sungchan held back his snort, looking over both of you, he was happy. Though he was not as close to you as he had become to Jeno, he still considered you somewhat a close friend of his. Being seatmates with you and Jeno, it was inevitable that he soon became a constant in your life. Did I tell you that the candle shop was owned by his grandma? The shop if anything, had become this secret spot for you three. Study dates, random chills or just lazying around, the candle shop would be the first name that would pop up in your mind.

With a blink of an eye perhaps junior year passes. Maybe that was how last years of highschool were. At one moment you barely just got promoted to a new class, and at another, you’re yet again getting promoted to higher one. You sat under the dull moonlight, a thin cardigan that was gifted to you by your dearest friend’s grandma. When Sungchan invited you and Jeno at his, his grandma had knitted this cardigan for you and a beanie for Jeno. The gesture was so sweet that it completely melted your heart, she was the living definition of wholesome for you.

It was maybe that one day when you three decided to stroll the spring fair of your neighborhood, when you both finally came clean to your feelings. Jeno was always the one pointing you out that how you should just be a woman and confess. “It doesn’t always have to be the guy that says I LIKE YOU!” This what we he said before disappearing into the hives of crowds, leaving you waiting for Sungchan at the front of the public toilet he was finishing his business in. Pretty awkward right? Where else does anyone get to see a girl waiting for her crush in front of a public restroom. Sungchan came back outside, shuffling out his handphone before furrowing his brows at the text he just received. You immediately understood it was from Jeno. You had no idea what came over you, it felt like the adrenaline in your system decided to flood your nervous system, not even aware of yourself just launching at the dude with a chaste kiss on his lips. He was completely taken aback by the sudden feeling of your lips on his, it took him a while before responding you back with the same enthusiasm. You broke first from the kiss, not realising your fists crunching his prior perfectly ironed shirt. But he did not mind it all, a shy smile playing on both of your faces. The rest of the night was spent with your hands laced in his, just like another high school sweethearts of the time.

You smiled at the memory. Sungchan had a cigarette lit between the tips of his fingers, the tobacco smoke slowly poking your nose but not strong enough to bother you. With a deep sigh, he took a puff before blowing it own again in the air, a cloud of smog dancing around his figure.

“You should quit it, it’s not healthy.” It had already been a year since you became friends and six months since you became more than it, but there were times like this when you still found yourself nervous and wary whenever you are talking to him. You snuggled yourself into the cardigan, hugging yourself to minimize the tinges of frostbites. Sungchan was considerate of your discomfort, whenever he smoked, he made sure the cigarette was at least 2 feet away from you.

“Take this.” Sungchan handed you another thick layer of clothing from his bag, his initials “J.SG” written big and bold. Without much thought, you accepted his kindness, and Sungchan had high tolerance to cold anyways unlike you who would shiver to death in the most usual temperatures. You figured Sungchan decided to dodge the topic you brought it, and you figured it would be better to not bring it up for a while.

“Where do you plan on going for college.” Sungchan spoke while rubbing the shortened cigarette on the bricks of the roof, swallowing the remaining water from his bottle throwing a strawberry gum inside his mouth. You figured he was now free from the reek of tobacco as you scoot closer to his form, opening your arms within the jacket for his to snuggle in as well. Just like Jeno, skinship was no new news for you both too, however; it always had your heart racing like crazy. You both remained cozy under the warm embrace of the jacket, and you prayed Sungchan would never listen how your pulse was acting up.

“I don’t know. Perhaps SNU? I mean only if I get accepted...” You trailed off, propping your chin against your bent knees before glancing at the boy. Then it struck you, what made him ask this sudden question, what made him smoke three cigarettes straight despite having yearly break for a whole month. “Will you be going to the US as well?”

“I don’t know...” Sungchan deeply sighed, his lips forming a small pout as he indulged in deep thought. What if he actually happens to leave for America? Your heart clenched at the thought, mimicking his sighs you rested your head against his shoulder.

“You know,” You stared at the sky, it was dark and clear with no signs of stars. The feeling was unsettling. “Wherever you go, we’ll always be there for you.” Your eyes shifted to the illuminating lights from numerous buildings that replaced the absence of the twinkling stars in the sky. The ominous feeling soon dissipated into relief. It was as if the universe telling you, we just have to look out for the good sides instead of dwelling on the bad.

“I know.” Sungchan smiled, one that was both happy and sad. He rested his head on yours, joining your company of gazing at the scenery. “I know.”

“Just...” there was hesitation laced in your tone, Sungchan was quick to notice it as he looked at you, nodding for you to continue. “Please don’t leave...not without a goodbye. Promise me that.”

“I promise you.” Sungchan held your cold hands in his warmer ones, a firm assurance making your heart swell in both hurt and adoration as you kissed him again.

You both never really made it official, despite the kiss at the fair. It was perhaps the uncertainty that held you both back. Sungchan’s future was not in his hands but his family’s; just like his brother, he is supposed to make his family shine bright. It was one of the major reasons why his parents let both the brothers two years of freedom on their remaining bits of high school. ‘All parents want the best for their kids,’ that’s what you would always say to him whenever you meet him at his roof; him smoking while you offered his physical comfort.

The senior year passed within a whim, the fright of entering into adulthood descending upon all the students as they remained buried in their textbooks. Maybe it wasn’t the case for everyone, but it did apply to you and your friends. You remained occupied with you daily extra classes for chemistry while Sungchan had biology and Jeno had mathematics. You three would meet up in periodic breaks, catching up with small talks before returning back to your respective schedules. It was nothing but hectic, and soon, the candle shop returned back to being just another isolated shop in your hometown.

Graduation day was filled with smiles and congratulatory phrases from different individuals, throwing your grad caps in the air felt like as if you were throwing away a significant part of your life, ready to embrace a new version of you. All the parents stood their with proud grins, delighted at their children’s achievement to their dreams.

“Congratulations!” You chirped, receiving bone crushing hugs from both your males before an elderly voice called for you.

“Y/N! Jeno! Sungchan!” It was your mom, waving excitedly to grab you and the males’ attention. “Say cheese!”

“Cheese!” You all resonated together, happy and delighted.

A series of furious knocks jolted you awake from your sleep. You figured it might have been your younger brother, probably wanting your help in his homework.

“I swear to god Y/b/n!” You let out an ear piercing shout, groggily rubbing your eyes from deep slumber.

“It’s me. Jeno.” You heard how breathy his voice sounded, it was coated with urgency and hurt. You heart dropped but you prayed to the Heavens and God, you prayed that it should not be the very thing that you had been dreading so much. You shot up from your bed, not even bothering to make yourself look presentable before whipping the door open to meet with an equally dazed and riled Jeno.

“It’s Sungchan. He...” Jeno beathed out a deep sigh, before handing you a lilac envelope, the initials J.SG written in bold. You failed to feel the tears pooling up, threatening to fall anytime. Jeno glanced over you sympathetically, with shaky trembling hands, you took the the paper.

You don’t bother to closer the door, Jeno soon taking his leave as he thought it would be best to give you some space to absorb it all in. The tears had started to stream uncontrollably when you saw the picture that came with the letter. It was one of the many pictures that you took on the night of the fair; the day you had confessed, the you had your first kiss. It was a polaroid of you holding him lovingly in an embrace, him shyly placing a kiss on your cheeks with the words ‘Here lies the proof of my utmost love and affection, always devoted to my only Y/N’ scribbled on the white frame. Your hands fished for your cellphone, frantically dialing his number as you waited for him to pick up, hoping that he’ll soothe your anxiety by saying he did not leave, that he was still in town and you were just being delusional.

But every time you dialed his contact, you were being forwarded to the monotonous tone saying that the number was currently unreachable. Your chest squeezed in pain, he had promised you. He promised you that he will come for a goodbye at least. He had promised you that he would never leave you clueless and hurting. All you ever asked for him, was just a goodbye; perhaps a source assurance for you to wait for his return.

You wiped the tears with the edge of your sleeves, opening the the piece of folded paper.

‘Dear lovely Y/N,

You might resent me when you receive this letter, and I certainly don’t blame you for that. I am not the best with words, I am clumsy and unexpressive but I hope that this piece of scribblings makes you understand all my feelings, my thoughts and emotions that have been haunting me from the day I first saw you.

You know I that I am very much aware that I do....hold some handsome genes.’ You couldn’t help but snicker at this.

‘However, unlike all, as typical as it may sound, you stood out. You lazily laid sprawling across your desk in deep slumber, completely unaware of the chaos of classroom. I wish I was that carefree like you, indulged in her own world and comfort bubble. It attracted me a lot.’ You got up from the floor, eyes still glued to the piece of paper as you shut your door locked. Your hands still went to dial his contact, but only to be forwarded to that damned robotic voice.

‘I wanted to be like you, not bothered by the constant pressures of coming from a prestigious family. Did I ever tell you my dad is the Director of Myeongsu Hospital?’ You gasped at the sudden information. His dad was the director of the one of the most prestigious and renowned hospitals of South Korea. It was too overwhelming for you to process, but you still found yourself continuing.

‘It was inevitable for me to act like just another teenager, not for me but for my brother too. I always blamed him for being so selfish when he just left me alone when he came to grandma, I failed to realize that it was some sort of comfort gift from our parents so that we’ll devote ourselves to build the family’s name for the rest of our lives.

Even though I wanna blame them, I don’t think I can because they had the same fate. It comes with a price when you’re born with a silver spoon, and I guess I had to pay mine when I left your doorstep last night. I...I was a coward. I know I should have just come up, hug you and kiss you for the last time. But I just couldn’t. I was too scared.

I was scared that the moment I’ll see you, my guards will crash down. These two days were really hectic for me, I made up excuses when you invited me at yours because I was afraid of losing my balance. I knew that only a glance at you would be enough to make me change my mind and revolt against my parents, my fate. And you have no idea how much I wanted to do so, you have no idea how I’ve spent endless of sleepless night where it is the only thing that would run on my mind. But you tell me, would it be really worth it? I did not want you spending the rest of your lives with swarming paps and reporters, publishing reports and articles of how you managed to tarnish the heir-in-line of the prestigious hospital. No I could never do to that someone I love so dearly. I could never in a thousand years do that.

You know every time I picture you in your grown-up self, I can only see a strong and confident woman thriving in her career, a woman that is so powerful but still has a heart of gold. I know that you’ll be an amazing person, inside and out. I wasn’t really planning to express my love and admiration for you like this, I hoped to do it in person, but perhaps, maybe that’s how the stars planned it out for us. Fate is extra cruel in my case don’t you think?

It would be extremely selfish of me to ask you to wait; I am not even sure if I would ever return because my father would be opening another branch in US. And well, I am not sure what plans he has for me.

So please, if you ever find it in your heart, I hope you will forgive me. And even if you don’t, please don’t ever feel guilty about it. You have all the right to do so and I most certainly deserve your hatred. I love you so much, Y/N. You’re my first kiss, my first love, and you’ll always hold this irreplaceable place in my heart.

With Love,

Jung Sungchan.

You felt your world crashing down, a part of you wished that this letter never ended. The only remain from him had also come to an end, and you were not sure how you would be able to cope with his absence for the next years of your life.

Present

“Sungchan is back?” Jeno widened his eyes in shock, the information seemingly unbelievable to him. “He really is?”

“Yes.” You monotonously replied, numerous thoughts battling at the back of your head. Jaemin cleared his throat, a sign for Jeno to not bring up the topic for a while. Jeno eyed the male in confusion before finally getting the hint.

“You’re lucky you don’t get to have Mr.Suh’s classes, he’s just hot and it’s frustrating. And that’s coming from a straight dude like me.” Jeno slurped on his smoothie loud and sound, probably to annoy the other male as he was well aware his distaste to people making sounds while eating.

“Y/N.” a voiced called out from behind, and you instantly knew who it belonged to.

“Sungchan. Oh my god!” Jeno shot up from his seat, immediately embracing the old face from his past. “How have you been man? You just disappeared...”

“I am so sorry.” Sungchan looked at Jeno with pleading eyes. “I know I have absolutely no excuse for my act and I am just so sorry, Jeno and Y/N.” Sungchan looked at Jeno who silently urged him to talk to you.

“Y/N, please talk to me. I don’t expect your forgiveness but please. Atleast curse me, hit me just do anything. Please.”

You whipped your head to find Sungchan crouching down to match your seat level, a sigh escaping from you as you stood straight from your seat.

“Guys, I’ll be back.” You gripped his hands before dragging him alongside the canteen corridor.

Jaemin looked over his friend who stood staring at the way you just took. And expressionless look was painted on his features, causing Jaemin to shake his head and sigh. “You know man,” Jeno changed his attention to the male speaking, fixing his glasses. “If I were you, I would have just held her back. You’re extremely strong, I could have never done that.” With that Jaemin patted his friend’s back, a silent assurance that if he needed a shoulder to cry or to simply lean on for comfort, he’ll be there for him.

A mixture of feelings were erupting inside you, you were furious but happy. Sad but grateful. You scanned the halls for signs of any empty classroom and upon finding one you just shoved the male inside it.

“What’s so funny about messing with my feelings?” You already tears welling up, your vision blurry as you sharply glance at the male with a frown on his face.

“Y/N, I would nev-”

“You left me,” you utterly hated at how pathetic you sounded at the moment, harshly wiping the tears streaming down your cheeks. “You promised me that you won’t leave without showing up one last time, but you did. You fucking did.” You knew it was not something under his control, but you couldn’t help but pour your bottled feelings.

“Please...Y/N...listen..to me...Please..” Sungchan lost his composure, his voice breaking as he stepped closer to you. Seeing how you did not flinch at his approach, Sungchan captivated you in his embrace, something that he had been yearning for ever since he parted ways. You felt the wetness of his tears on your head, melting in his longing embrace you found yourself hugging him back. You missed him so much, his scent, warmth, presence. Everything about him drove you crazy, you were still dazed to believe if he was actually back for real or is it just one of your numerous daydreams.

The rest of the days went as usual, but only with the addition of Sungchan back again in your life. Although you had long forgiven him in his heart, you decided to not vocal it out. As heartless as it may sound, you wanted him to make up for the pain he caused you, and he indeed did. Jaemin was skeptical in the beginning at the idea of another person joining you small group, he had come to liking the idea of you guys as trio and was more comfortable like that. But he saw how your eyes lit up every time you about him when you were newly friends with Jaemin, how Jeno would always drunk talk about the times they passed as seatmates bothering the hell out of you. So Jaemin broke his exterior cold composure on the fourth day, finally accepting the banana milk from the new male as a form of bribe for his addition to the group.

Sungchan worked harder than deities; always making sure to get you Americanos before your classes, taking extra notes for you whenever you felt sick, tolerating your extremely drunk self and even dropping you back at your dorms safely. He had mentioned how he finally mustered up the courage to stand up against his fathers, that he wanted to do something else rather than working in the medical field. Even though he had still yet to decided his desired career, Sungchan decided to just follow his intuitions which ended up him taking chemistry as his major and thus landing in the same institution and same class as yours. And not to mention, he was beyond grateful for it.

A month had passed with his arrival, the awkwardness amongst everyone long gone and forgotten. It was as if he never left you. You were never over him, so his all time sweet gestures was making it harder for you to maintain your cold act.

“I happened to attempt making kimbap? But I am not sure if they are edible..” Sungchan trailed off as he hesitantly hands you the small metal box. You almost laughed at how cute but messy they looked, his failed attempt at giving the rolls eyes and lips with sesame seeds and ketchup was beyond adorable. You took the box from his grasp, a smile playing on your face as you looked at him. Sungchan upon noticing your grin, rubbed the nap of his neck shyly, his ears and cheeks mirror the shade the of the ketchup. You took a bite from one of the many rolls he made, a hum of satisfaction escaping your lips as you relished the tangy sweet taste. It was perfect, just how you preferred it.

“It’s pretty good.” You licked the stain of ketchup from your fingers, failing to notice how the male blushed harder at your subtle act. “We have Mr.Lee’s class, so I believe we should hurry up before it’s too late.”

On the night of the annual university carnival, Sungchan confessed to you. At least not in front of a public washroom this time. With the constant aid of Jeno and Jaemin, Sungchan was able to plan out a pretty dramatic confession for you. You were completely surprised when Jaemin called you out of nowhere, frantically asking for your presence to a specific classroom. You feared if the dork had committed some sort of treason explaining how dramatic he sounded, so you rushed without giving any second thoughts. However, when you saw the trail of roses with candles adorning the edges, you froze. It had the same scent both you and Sungchan had invented; the sweet scent of lily with tinges of tangerine to it.

A flustered looking Sungchan steps out from the dark, his hands rest behind his back as you cautiously scanned your face. When he saw no signs of discomfort, Sungchan slowly jogged to where you stood, his hands holding a bouquet of lilies with a small note on top of it.

“I know I have made tons of mistakes, hurt you so many times. But I still want to test my luck.” Sungchan got down on his knees, holding the bouquet with his head hanging low. “Y/L/N, will you allow me to be your man? Will you be my girlfriend?”

A shit eating grin spread on your face, slightly giggling at how adorable he looked. “I thought you’d never ask.” You took the flowers, a soft smile adorning your lips as you lock eyes with an extremely surprised Sungchan. “Of course Sungchan.”

“Of course? For real?” Sungchan couldn’t believe what just happened, he was half expecting you to flat out reject him at how inconsiderate he had been. But you accepted his apology, accepted his love. Sungchan stood up, his heart squeezing in delight and adoration for you. He cupped your face gently, as if you were a porcelain doll that would just break if not handled carefully. You saw how his eyes shone with love, sparkling brightly on the soft light from the lighted candles and you swore you never felt so much before for anyone else as much as you felt for him. Sungchan closed the proximity, his nose slight touching yours as he rested his forehead against yours, the smiling never for once leaving his face.

The tension was building up with each passing second, the sounds of your heavy breathing being the only silence breaker. You got impatient, the feeling of his lush lips got you being greedy as you closed the distance standing on your tip-toes, momentarily catching him off the grid before receiving the same attention back. You gripped on his shirt, too unbothered to break the kiss despite losing your breath. He paused for a moment, panting before pulling you back under his spell. The bottled feelings and emotions of longing and pining for each other were poured into the this sweet shared moment of yours. You were grateful that the whole building had no signs of any lurking students and professors, what was supposed to be a innocent make-up kiss soon transformed into a heated one as he held you by your waist, pinning you against the wall with his lips still attached to yours.

You pulled back for the heavy make-out session, almost earning a whine from the male before you soothed him with you words that came next. “I love you.”

Sungchan felt his already beating heart pick up its pace, becoming hastier that he was low-key afraid if he might face a stroke anytime. With a loving grin, he looked back at you who was still caged in his arms. He tucked the stray of hair brushing across the sides of your face from the soft breeze entering the windows, the illuminating yellow hues from the candles making you look like a dream. A dream that seemed unattainable to him until this very moment.

“I love you so so much. Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself, to allow me to show you my feelings, Y/N.” He was breathless, he felt so many emotions at that moment when you glanced at him loving. He was afraid his pulse might stop any moment, so he kissed you back, but now filled with passion and desire. And let’s just say, one of your fantasies were fulfilled that night.

The news of his grandma passing away came after a few months when you both had officially started dating. Both the Jungs were extremely close to her, so when Jaehyun took her back to Myeongsu Hospital where he was currently the chief of neurology, her condition was inevitable. Jaehyun hoped that maybe she might get to spend more time on earth under his care, but he too was victim in the cruel hands of destiny. Sungchan rushed to your dorm, bloodshot eyes as he told you the news. You found yourself sobbing alongside him, tenderly keeping him embraced in your warmth as you shared his pain. You knew her personally as well, all the moments spent with her were a profound favorite part of teen years.

“I wanted to meet you before I leave for Seoul. I came to say a goodbye.” Sungchan sniffed, his hands wiping away the streams of water rolling down your face. You smiled at his concern, mimicking his actions you brushed his sweaty bangs away from his forehead before placing a soft peck against it.

“It’s okay. Don’t tell me goodbyes anymore...for I know you’ll always come back to me.”

Epilogue

Sungchan fumbled with his tie nervously, bile reaching up his throat as the worst scenarios flooded his brains. His eyes frantically looked around for help, making a bow-tie was just not his cup of his. A breath of relief escapes his lips when his eyes landed on his closest beloved friend Jeno. Jeno stood leaning against the door frame, an amused grin painting his sharp features as he walked to the struggling male.

“Bro...” Sungchan huffed pleadingly, a pout forming his eyes.

“Yes bro.” Jeno flashed him an eye roll, before having the same eye smile again as he fixed his friend’s tie. After all, it was a big event for him.

To say the least, you looked breathtaking in your white laced gown. The simplicity of the dress made you look more elegant, it enhanced your natural beauty and Sungchan couldn’t just tear his eyes away from your form. It was supposed to be the bride’s day, but to him you shone the brightest.

“You know it’s me getting married, but the new comers might assume it’s you considering how you are gaping at y/n shamelessly.” Jaehyun hissed to his best man, earning a scoff from Sungchan.

“Hyung, let me have my moment! Please.” Sungchan whined but was careful to tone it down, only to receive a slight nudge from the groom who chuckled at his antics.

The wedding was glamorous, elegant, anything that could be named as a dream wedding. Sungchan remained glued beside you the whole night, a proud grin on his face every time he was asked about the lady whose arms laid locked with his. With a smug look, he would rub on their faces that you were his girlfriend, especially exaggerating to the males who seemed to had their eyes on you. You both enjoyed the silent company of each other, the soothing sounds of the wind replacing the absence of music as Sungchan drove you back to your place, hands still intertwined. When he came in front of your shared apartment, he fidgeted in his seat nervously; fishing out something from his coat.

You figured it was another one of his endless gifts, so you just smiled with your back resting against the cushion seat of the car.

“Sungchan, you really need to-”

A throat seering stopped you in the midst of speaking, your eyes widening when you realized what the purple velvet box might contain. Sungchan let out breaths of nervousness, blowing out some air out of his lungs to lessen the feeling of anxiety as he looked at you, eyes as genuine as ever.

“Y/N, I don’t believe in fancy proposals as you know. It is an intimate moment for us so I want it to happen in the presence of only us.” Sungchan stuttered in the middle as he opened the box, revealing an extremely gorgeous but simple plated band with a small stone adorning the top perfectly.

“So will you marry me?”

You stared at the male dumbfounded. Your eyes refused to believe the scene in front of you, hearts doing numerous flips and turns and it was just hard to explain all the feelings you were feeling. Sungchan had always been the one for you, and even though not everyone gets to have a happy ending with their first love, you were beyond grateful that you had happened to fall in the rare probability.

“I...OF COURSE. OF COURSE I WILL.” You yelped in delight, shoving your hand in front of his face as he just laughed while placing the ring on your finger. It fit perfectly. You grabbed him by the collar and kissed him with your overpowering passion and love, not realizing how if continued any longer, you guys might have to pay a fine for parking on the wrong side. So without wasting any time further, you both hauled yourselves to your apartment, refusing to break the contact of your lips molded perfectly together on your way. In short, let’s just say ‘sweet innocent kiss transformed into a heated one’ yet again.

I went completely overboard with this. I am so sorry if it didn’t turn up as you had expected it to, and honestly I am not completely pleased with it either. I felt like it could’ve been better in terms of expressing emotions. However, improvement is a never ending proccess and im still learning. SO TO WHOEVER WHO HAPPENED TO MAKE THIS TILL HERE. I LOVE YOU SODIJMS YOU DONT KNOW HOW MUCH IT MEANS TO ME.

Feedbacks and criticisms are always appreciated! Please care to leave them as it may help me potentially grow as a writer. Thank you for sparing your time to read my piece of work.

with love,

Hana.

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saltwaterbells · 3 years

Photo

crown the ravens who paint the sky - a wip introcuction

Excerpt:

When the trees bleed mist, and the jagged branches on the trees silhouette jagged shapes into the sky, I get on my knees and pray, in a church made of concrete and glass, the graveyard watching through the shattered window, the world stained blue and green.

On the wall, white hot iron digging into their hands and the back of their mouth and through the exposed bone of their shins, all their skin peeled off until they’re only a mass of flesh that had once pretended to be a human, is a young fae. They fill the air with the smell of flowers and burning flesh and mountain air, descendant of the goddess that so many search, caught, like a broken butterfly on a corkboard.

They gasp for breath that isn’t theirs, rasp out words that don’t belong to them but that they’ve stolen, no name of their own to claim so they take and take and take, the never ending desperation that comes from the hunger their magic induces.

“Welcome, fellow daughter of these woods,” they rasp. “What wisdom do you seek.”

Genre: Forestpunk, low industrial fantasy, litfic? (It used to be so much more fantasy-ish and now it’s very much a character study but it still has fantasy elements and stuff, so take it as you will)

pinterest - tag

Summary:

One hundred years ago, Sithau refused to be conquered. Now it pays the price. Factories grow from soiled ground, iron statuettes drill for oil, mines defile what used to be sacred mountains. One hundred years ago, whatever hides in the woods drained the life and sanity from whoever dared lay hands on Sithau’s treasures. Soldiers were found, hundreds of years old when they were merely men just the day before. Other found wild eyed and feral, clawing at whatever dared come near, muttering about faeries and a desperate craving to be human. One hundred years ago, something protected Sithau.

When the bodies of two students at the local military academy are found, rumours begin to flourish, claiming the deaths resembled those that occurred all those years ago. Whatever protected Sithau one hundred years ago could be back, which means for some people in Sithau, it’s time to kill a goddess.

Themes: violation, humans as religion, what makes a monster, coming of age, rebellion, generational trauma, nature vs. nurture, humanity, the quest for power, how far will anyone go to achieve their dreams, exploitation, humanity

Aesthetic: whispered prayers to forgotten gods, winding mountain roads shrouded in mist, branches carving a jagged silhouette in the sky, a white blouse coloured red with blood that isn’t yours, fog, abandoned warehouses reclaimed by feral woods, flashes of white in the foliage that could be bones, but you don’t want to look, wrought iron gates leading nowhere, ancient bitter things lurking behind the eyes of the youth, cigarette smoke trailing against a cloudy sky, books left behind by someone who loved them, words pencilled into trees so long ago they’re no longer legible, gods hiding round the bend, drunks warning you of the things hiding in the woods and between the intentions of the townsfolk, water-stained splashes of ink on crumpled paper, dried flowers pressed between pages, the wind telling you secrets you’ll never hear, the birds going silent all at once, gaping mouths and rusted nails

Characters:

sofiya mikhailova hears the whispers of unholy gods and the power to craft reality to her will roils through her veins. flowers bloom under her feet and wither as soon as she steps away, the world is hers to command. left to die in the woods as an infant, the woods should have killed her, but whatever happened in those woods proves sofiya mikhailova isn’t human.

[eldest daughter complex - ripped apart with anger - exists in the limbo between past and present - tempest of emotion locked away - feels too much and has decided to thus feel nothing - hollow - painful - bitter - built from a wild sea and an even wilder sky]

ayse terzi is the only good thing that’s ever come out of sithau, her dresses coloured blue and red like the bruises she inflicts without meaning to, she doesn’t belong here, deserves some place better, but sithau is what she has and she’s good enough to want to influence her world: make sithau better, make sithau kinder, as if that’s something that can be achieved.

[convinced she’s always right and it destroys all the people she’s trying to protect - too young to be this old - so tired of being the mother but doesn’t know how to do anything else - less soft than she looks - less kind than she thinks she is - cares too much about your opinion - fabricated from silk and silver]

irene bishop was fire in human form. fury and gaunt eyes and bloody fists. she protected secrets she didn’t understand, wallowed in her need for revenge, and if she had her way, all those who ever dared think of harming anyone she loved would be dead. she smiled with broken teeth, hollow bones ready to take flight, autumn colours in a raging inferno.

[burn scars and hatred - blind devotion - petty squabbles - repression and refusal to be someone she’s not - could kill you but doesn’t - all sharp edges - dead inside and out - breaking apart - a walking catastrophe - six feet under - can’t be happy - wants to be happy - wants to make everyone happy]

halisi athiambo sees the world in a way she can show no other. machinery speaks to her in a way no human can, and in turn, she creates wonders, for the small price of a soul. colours bleed from her mind when she’s thinking, fireworks spark and ideas flow and what she wants to create now might just be what pushes her over the brink.

[inquisitive - yearning - mind soars through the air - nihilistic - warm and lovely and everything and nothing - bleeds machinery - sees terror and is not impressed - laughter and creation - has outgrown her own depression so she’s given it away - cobbled together from dreams and invention]

romeo beauregarde is bred from old money and older gods, the power behind his name the kind others can only dream of wielding. but he doesn’t know how to use it, coddled and loved to the point of incompetence, softened where everyone else has been hurt, but his heart is too warm and too big and too open and he’ll only hurt himself in the end.

[golden boy and golden heart - means well - should have grown up by now - passionate about what others love - formed by what others want - never good enough - bedroom eyes and soft lips - they call him whore behind his back - warm hugs and ruffled hair - shouldn’t be a part of this - where are his scars - money dripping from his fingers and mouth, pooling at his feet]

Taglist (send an ask to be added/removed): @semblanche @bulletgirl @crystallized-ink @theaestheticarmchair @erinnharper @lord-fallen @pen-for-sword @howdy-writes @reininginthefirewriting @surroundedbypearls

General Taglist (send an ask to be added or removed): @saintsjoan @andiwriteunderthemoon @fablemancy

#wip introduction #writeblr #writers of tumblr #writing #writer #wip: crown the ravens who paint the sky #ch: sofiya mikhailova #ch: halisi athiambo #ch: romeo beauregarde #ch: irene bishop #ch: ayse terzi #salem.writing #wip #writing wip

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Take Me to Church

Here it is: my religious!Hotch fic turned Bisexual!Hotch fic. I hope you enjoy my hard work, tears, and disaster bi-thoughts

Warning: language, sex, homosexuality **there’s no real need for a warning for that but I’d just like to market this to my fellow gays**, religious trauma, Catholic guilt, child abuse, smoking, mention of AIDS in passing but no one has it, character death(s) **not anyone major**, Aaron Hotchner’s mega big boy grande sized guilt complex, ooc bc Aaron Hotchner has the proper emotions, and just general all around intense feelings

The only Heaven I'll be sent to, Is when I'm alone with you, I was born sick, but I love it, Command me to be well

Word count: 5,794

Praying never made much sense to Aaron Hotchner.

As a child, he’d prayed with crimson teeth and a bleeding tongue for his mother to be spared in his father’s rampant beatings. The priest always said that prayer shouldn’t be selfish. As he sat on his bruised knees and whispered between sobs, he hadn’t been thinking about himself. He’d been thinking about the little brother in his mother’s womb. About the pregnancy that wouldn’t survive if his father didn’t stop hitting on her. About his poor mother who looked sicker each day.

He must have done something wrong because when God had answered his prayers...

“Come on now son. Don’t be difficult,” the priest’s heavy hands pull him away from his mother’s grave. His suit hadn’t fit well that morning but logged with the rain pouring overhead, it now hangs from his bones. They make their way back home. Back to his miserable son of a bitch father.

That night, the priest had tucked him into bed and Aaron rolls over in his bed to put his back to the man. As the old man turned to cut the lights, Aaron finally speaks for the first time all day. He’d found his voice deep within his chest and laced it with his father’s unhinged anger. “I killed her,” he whispers, hot tears running down his cheeks.

The priest shakes his head. “No.” And, the old man could never know this, but what he said next would stay with Aaron for the rest of his life. “It was her time, son.”

God had killed her.

That day was the first time Aaron had ever seen his father cry. He’d stood in the hallway and watched his father sob on his knees, cursing God and swearing up a storm. At seven-years-old, he wondered if God had a sense of humor. He must, after all, to leave Aaron all alone.

Ten-years later he stood in the same spot his father had kneeled in. He’d looked up at the ceiling and prayed again. He’d begged for his father’s life to be spared. “Just this once, okay, just this once---” but his father had never been a good man. A shitty excuse for a dad but Sean thinks he’s a good man. That’s what mattered: Sean. That’s the only thing that had ever mattered. “For Sean, please? He’s never done anything wrong.”

His father died two days later. A heart attack. The doctor’s called it mercy. For who? The man who beat him senseless for fifteen years before he just sold Aaron off to a boarding school. Calling Aaron’s inability to make friends and emotional outbursts the product of the devil and not his senseless beating. The same man who called Aaron writing with his left hand the simplest proof that his mother had been a whore. She had to have cheated to have created a bastard like Aaron.

Mercy? Is that really what he’d deserved?

He has bible scriptures carved into his back. Thin white lines left by his father’s heavy hand and the black belt he wore to court each Tuesday. The only mercy he’s ever known is the black surrounder right before he falls asleep. That twisted hope that maybe his dad hit him too hard. That he won’t wake up this time.

It felt like communion-- Eucharist, standing to receive his bread and wine.

The body of Christ.

“Daddy please-” he makes no sound as the belt comes down over his shoulder. Any noise is a symbol of greater guilt, a better reason to keep hitting. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t move.

Amen.

Remember, God is always watching. No bullshitting, he knows.

Aaron cums with a cry. A sob really.

Sam lifts his head from where he’s buried it in Aaron’s neck, leaving the hickey he’d been sucking to die on its own. He sits up, his arousal forgotten as his heart pounds in his chest with fear. “Are you alright,” he asks, pulling them apart with a quick jerk. His hands are traveling down but he stops when Aaron’s hand grabs his wrist. “Baby, if I hurt you---”

Aaron shakes his head but the tears streaming down his face says otherwise. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. He buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as he can’t stop the tears. Sam moves out of the way of his legs, giving Aaron the space necessary to curl into himself.

Sam still has no idea what’s wrong. It had been fine. Things were fine.

It occurs to him a moment too late.

“Fuck,” he curses, seething. Not at Aaron or the mood now officially lost--- but for the boy that Aaron never got to be. To the God that Aaron believes so feverishly and unwavering in. “It’s alright,” he soothes, moving along the bed to where Aaron is. He pulls his boyfriend into his lap, holding Aaron to his chest. “Nothing is going to happen, Aaron. It’s going to be okay.”

Sam has never been religious. It wasn’t something his parents had considered important. Standing at over 6’5 and two hundred pounds of just muscle, no one even suspects he’s anything but straight. People who do know… no one’s going to say anything to a guy like him. The same thing goes for Aaron. He may be a little on the scrawny side but he’s 6’2 and no one blinks an eye at the two of them spending so much time together.

It’s not people they have to worry about.

They can be cruel and unaccepting but AIDS is still rampant through-out not only the college’s campus but through-out the gay community.

But Aaron’s a little too preoccupied with God.

Sam’s not even sure if there’s such a thing.

“Aaron!” Picking him up by his shoulders, he pulls Aaron upright. They’ve passed sobbing and moved to a panic attack. “Alright,” Sam fails to soothe. He pulls Aaron off the bed, holding him close when his legs shake beneath him. “Easy,” he mumbles, his heartbreaking--- Aaron can’t walk. It takes a great bit of work on Sam’s part but with a grunt, he lifts Aaron off his feet.

Stumbling in the direction of the bathroom, he carries Aaron. “It’s gonna be alright,” Sam promises. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Sam would like to think he’s a good boyfriend (he is). He did as much research as he could. So that he would know how to help Aaron the next time one of these events started happening.

Into the freezing shower they go.

Clutched, naked body to naked body, they rock until Aaron’s broken sobs die down. Until Sam can feel Aaron’s breathing steady out, hot exhales washing over his goosebump riddled flesh.

Against the bare skin of Sam’s shoulder, Aaron whispers Hail Mary to himself. His long fingers tapping against his thumb like counting rosary beads, “---of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now---” It’s the only coping mechanism he’s ever learned.

Sam presses a kiss to his temple. Aaron hates that he turns his head for more. Turns his head until Sam’s hands are tangled in his hair and holding him tightly. Sam kisses him softly, full of love. He doesn’t deserve that.

“Sodomy is a sin,” he whispers, against Sam’s lips.

Sam smiles, shaking his head. He doesn’t care. “Did you like it,” Sam asks, voice husky. He wraps himself back around Aaron, shaking from the cold of the water still pouring down over them. Fingers moving up Aaron’s back, he tangles them in his hair.

Aaron… knows the answer. He also knows that sin is often appealing. Sam is the sin that Aaron can never walk away from. What he always comes back for. “Yes,” he answers, honestly. He had liked it. He’d liked it a lot. Sex with Sam is gentle and overwhelming and--- sin. It’s still sin.

“That’s all that matters,” Sam presses kisses back to Aaron’s neck. Smiling against his skin when Aaron arches into the touch.

Aaron can never make Sam understand that this principle isn’t that simple. It’s a black and white morality. Heaven or hell.

But, maybe…

Sam reaches around behind him and cuts the water off, Aaron shivers against his chest leaning closer to the touches that are trailing down his body. Sam pulls him closer so that Aaron’s in his lap. With a grunt, Aaron allows Sam to push into him and mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure he falls into Sam’s shoulder.

“Jesus,” Sam curses, pulling Aaron closer. “You---” he moans, tilting his head back. This time, Aaron’s sets the pace. Slow and steady. It hurts but it’s an ache he’s familiar with. The lube from earlier mostly washed away but he’s prepped and anything is better than thinking about Hell.

His doomed eternity.

“You’re so good, baby boy.” Sam holds him close, his fingers digging into Aaron’s hips. “Fu-Fuck---”

Why is it that the only thing that has ever made sense to him a sin?

Sam dies in the middle of first semester their Junior year. Though it’s never stated, it’s Aaron’s fault. Sam wouldn’t have been on the road that if Aaron just prayed harder or been a better man. Panic attacks are a product of a shaky relationship with God and Aaron wouldn’t have had one, he wouldn’t have called Sam freaking out, if he’d just… believed harder.

Aaron knows it’s his fault. He never gets over that guilt.

He marries Haley at the end of Senior year and they invite Sam’s parents to the wedding. No one knows the true extent of Aaron and Sam’s relationship but Haley knows something was going on between the two. They’d been high school sweethearts, separated by his years spent away at college. Separated by Aaron’s love for a man.

He comes home different but she loves him. She also knows that her mother approves of Aaron’s God-fearing ways. Religion is good in a man like him, her mother had warned, you can see the darkness in him. She bites her tongue and moves on.

Until she sees the darkness too.

The divorce breaks him.

He starts having panic attacks again, worse than the ones in college. No one notices. He knows they just write him off as a dick. He’s just a robot to them. Emotionless and he can work with that. So, he is a robot. Just marching through life and flying by the seat of his pants, hoping that it all goes well.

But he knows… each night as the panic bubbles in his chest and has him falling to his knees that hell is the only place he’s going. It’s going to take more than prayers to save a sinner like him.

“Hotch?” He jumps at the sudden intrusion. Looking to his left, none other than Emily Prentiss is standing on the balcony. She’s grinning from ear to ear and shaking her head. “What are you doing up so late?”

The cigarette trapped between his lips should answer that well enough.

The thing is, he’s not as slick as he thinks he is. She’s noticed him pulling away. Dave has noticed--- hell, everyone has noticed something is wrong. So, when Emily Prentiss had been tossing and turning in her own bed and smelled the wafting, faint scent of cigarette smoke she’d gotten curious. She certainly hadn’t expected to find him.

“Mind some company?”

And with those three simple words she’d pulled him from the edge.

That night they burned through four cigarettes. Sin, that night, had been just as he remembered it once being. For a moment, as he stood--- her leaning against him and him leaning against her--- he had managed a smile. With a cigarette between his teeth, he’d taken his first real breath in years.

Foyet attacks him in his apartment and as he lies bleeding he hopes this is it. That the world will flicker out, he’s just a candle drowning it’s wax. Will there be a light or…

He wakes up in the hospital and he’s never been this cold in his life.

It’s Emily’s voice that pulls him from the white walls and the pain. She’s saying something about cigarettes and the seasons changing. He smiles, drugged and submissive, when she proposes the team go to Dave’s and get drunk. He doesn't’ even think about God, about the sin and the eternity in hell waiting for him. He just thinks about his team and the only family he’s ever really been a part of.

He wakes up thrashing--- a broken sob on his lips. There’s so much pain and he can’t think about anything other than death. Death and Hell and sin and the pain, oh fuck the pain.

Thin fingers wrap around his, squeezing and he looks up and finds JJ softly soothing him. Her fingers are ghosting along his forearms, rubbing circles into his pale skin. “Just breathe,” she instructs and he’s reminded of Sam and that freezing shower and the---

“Aaron!” she calls and the fortitude, the conviction in her eyes sobers him. “You have to stop,” she tells him, her touch turning hard and that he can focus on. That pulls him back down. “Breathe,” and slowly he relaxes again. She’s softened and he watches the tears pool in her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she chides, softly.

He manages to squeeze her hand.

“We almost lost you,” she whispers and that hadn’t occurred to him. His death happens to other people. It’ll just be… nothing. He must be very high or maybe broken because he thinks of nothing. The nothingness that happens after death and not raging, flaming pits of hell.

JJ presses a kiss to his temple and he closes his eyes. It’s a tender love he… he’s forgotten. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she says, her thumb rubbing against his hand. “I don’t like job hunting.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that the team wouldn’t fall apart if Foyet had chosen to kill him.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that isn’t true.

Foyet does kill Haley and for a long time, it’s like he’s killed Hotch too.

“Hotch!”

The last he’d seen of Emily, she was displeased with his decision to decline his invitation to girl’s night. First, of all, he’s not that dumb. He knew damn well that they wanted him to tag along because Emily had told them about his date with the cute blonde at the coffee shop had gone tits up. Of course, she’d chosen to leave out that his date had failed because she’d entered the shop and wolf-whistled at the sight of him.

But, she has chosen to blame the entire thing on him because he should have told her.

Ah, silly him.

Now, he’s waiting on his front porch for Will to drop her off at his place. Does she have an apartment of her own? Yes. But she’s a clingy drunk and it’s custom for her to come to sleep in his bed. Besides, who else is going to hold her hair up while she pukes?

He smiles when he sees her. God… leave it to him to pick Emily Prentiss, of all people, to be his best friend. Well, he’s not really sure he chose or picked her so much as ended up within her mercy. “Emily,” he greets softly, smiling when she walks right up to him and headbutts his chest. She just falls straight into him.

He shuffles to accommodate her weight but they do this little dance frequently. With one hand on the back of her head, he raises the other to wave to Will that he’s free to go. The detective nods and pulls the car into reverse, JJ and Garcia in the back shouting their own goodbyes.

“Alright,” Hotch rubs her shoulders, shivering from the night’s chill. “Pigging back ride?”

She nods and it’s only with practiced ease that they manage this so easily.

As he stands, he gives her a second to adjust herself before he starts walking back towards his porch. This is the exact reason he does squats at the gym, so his thighs don’t shake as he carries her up the stairs.

“Oh,” Emily whines into his back, where her face is buried. “I hope I didn’t wake Jack.”

He’s overly careful to make sure he doesn’t hit her legs as he steps into the door. Stopping to shut the door behind them he tells her, “he’s not here.” He scowls with concentration as he moves down the hall. “He’s spending the weekend with his cousins.” He’d told her this earlier, too many times. It is one of the smaller reasons she’d invited him to girls night: so he wouldn’t have to be alone in his house.

They share many secrets. He’d been the first person on the team to know she’s gay. He still remains one of the few who know. JJ and Garcia know-- tequila always makes her lose her grip. He also knows that she wants to have a family and about her giant crush on JJ.

Just like she knows that sitting in his empty house stresses him out. He turns into the empty walls and all he can think about is being completely alone while Foyet was trying to hunt down his son and Haley. She knows this and… she’d left him here all by himself.

“Emily,” he whispers, feeling her hot tears soak into the back of his shirt. He’s not mad or even frustrated, he’s just sad. He can’t do anything about it just yet. So, he takes her back to his room. He helps her out of her blouse, replacing it with his George-town hoodie so she can curl her legs into.

Only once she’s situated, his back turned so she can hiccup and dry her tears while she slips into a pair of her own shorts he kneels down in front of her. “Emily.” He shakes his head, she’s still inconsolable, so he pulls her to his chest. “Emily, I’m a grown man.” He rubs her back, “I can handle being in my own home.”

She only cries harder and it hurts him because whatever it is that’s really bothering her he can’t fix.

“Would you love me more if I wasn’t a lesbian,” she asks, sobbing into his shoulder.

Well… he blanks. What is he even supposed to say to that? Now she’s really crying and he’s-- he can’t think of a single thing to say. “Emily…” he shakes his head. “I--I don’t care that you’re a lesbian.” And why would he? How many times have they had the ‘it would be like kissing my brother/sister’ conversation? Or the ‘even if I were straight…’? He doesn’t feel sexually attracted to her.

He just… he loves her because she’s his family.

“You don’t,” she asks, sniffling. She pushes his shoulders away from her so that she can see his eyes. So she can see if he’s lying. “You don’t hate me?” Because she’s certain that he does sometimes. Like he can stand the thought of her.

He shakes his head. “It would be very hypocritical of me to hate you for being gay,” he says, without really thinking about what that means. At what he’s admitting.

Though she doesn’t say anything, the admission sobers her. With tender care he tucks her into bed. Smiling softly when she pulls him down beside her.

They fall asleep on their sides, facing one another. He falls asleep first. Too exhausted to wait her out. Between them, she gently reaches over and brushes her thumb over his cheek bone. Trialing it along the facial hair he’s let grow over the course of their long weekend off.

He breaks her heart.

“So, are we just not going to talk about it?”

They’re watching a basketball game from earlier in the week because it’s Tuesday and she gets to pick what they watch on Tuesdays. Granted, it’s sports and he hates sports which means that he gets to pick whether or not they sit close. She knows something is wrong because he puts the entire couch between them. They’re not even sharing a blanket and he always lets her have some of his blankets.

She gets cold easily.

“Talk about what, Emily?” The way he says her name… it’s not right. He always says Emily kindly, loving. He says her name and it makes her proud to be Emily but this time it’s a reprimand and she sees it for exactly what it is—- an attempt to push her away. To make her feel afraid to push on.

But she’s been gay for so long, openly gay. It takes more than a little bit of attitude to scare her off. “You,” she says, softly. “You’re gay, Aaron, and—-“

He flinches at the word gay. Recoiling. “Emily,” his tone shifts to pleading.

“You—-“ she shifts too. She turns her body to face her, no longer relaxed. “Aaron, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

Sodomy, Aaron thinks. First and for most, there’s sodomy and it’s a sin to love a man. A sin to love men in a way he could never love Haley. Which Emily would understand if he told her about his sex life with Haley. Rather, his nonexistent sex life with Haley. He loved Haley so much but he could never love her the right way. The way God had intended.

By the time he manages to raise his eyes to hers, there are tears streaming down his face. He’s so helplessly broken and he can’t even hide it.

“Oh, Aaron.” Emily pulls him against her chest, rubbing up and down his back as he sobs. “I…” she doesn’t know what to say. She knows it’s the Catholisim here at play but her youth was so very different from his. Matthew had saved her from the fate Aaron had succumbed to. Matthew had shown her the churches many faults and…

Aaron had no one.

No one but the Bible and a God who never answered back.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” she whispers, rocking their bodies gently. “There’s nothing wrong with you Aaron.”

He sobs even harder. He wishes he could believe that. He does. He wishes he could but…

They agree to never talk about it. Meaning, Emily begrudgingly lets it go.

The universe isn’t ready for Hotch to shove it under the rug though.

There’s this barista at the coffee shop downtown--- more than a barista, he’s the owner, actually. He’s a giant. He almost makes Hotch feel small in comparison. In college, he’d been a football player but he’d messed his knee up pretty bad Junior year. He became dependent on the painkillers he’d received after surgery. He’d dropped out of college a few months later.

Hotch learns all of this only after two coffees.

One that he has Monday with the man’s phone-number and name scribbled onto the side of his cup. His cheeks had turned a furious shade of pink when Morgan had asked who Charlie is and if she was pretty. For some reason, despite coaching himself over and over in the mirror that he’d never go back--- Hotch goes back to the coffee shop Thursday.

This time as Hotch is handing the other man a five dollar bill he adds his own phone-number and name attached with a simple sticky-note.

He’s not even out the door yet when his phone vibrates.

“I thought I’d scared you off, mysterious FBI man.”

It makes him stop in his tracks. A smile tugs at his lips and there isn’t a single thought in his head about church or God or his father just this impossibly good feeling in his chest. It’s been so long since he’s done the flirting thing but he replies: “As good as mysterious FBI man sounds, I typically go by Aaron. Besides, it takes a little bit more than a phone-number to scare me off”

The texts keep coming and Hotch doesn’t mind.

Charlie tells him about college and Hotch tells him about the team. It’s out of character for him to be so open but it’s just coffee and flirting and a really hot barista.

The feeling is very mutual.

“Kiss me, g-man.”

Hotch shakes his head, chuckling when Charlie throws his hips over Hotch’s waist. “You’d better---” whatever threat he’s making half-heartedly turns into a groan when Charlie starts planting open mouth kisses along his collar. Sucking a hickey under his ear where it will be painfully obvious to the team.

When Hotch lets out a grunt, his hand grabbing at Charlie’s shirt and the other going to his hair Charlie laughs. He buries his face in Hotch’s neck, his hand traveling down to the front of his pants. “Is that your gun?” he pulls back with a smirk.

Lightly, he pushes Aaron back on the bed. Charlie’s nimble fingers wrap around his jeans, pulling the tight fabric off of his ass.

“I don’t remember asking for this,” Hotch grunts, fist clenched tightly in the bedsheets. It’s the only way he can assure that he won’t go bucking into Charlie’s palm the minute he starts touching again. He’s not going to cave like that.

To his credit, Charlie stops. He plants his hands on both sides of Hotch’s hips, his mouth sending a dangerous gust of warm air over Hotch’s straining cock. He lifts an eyebrow, “say the word, Aaron.” Say the word and it stops. They don’t dance along fancy lines like that. Charlie wouldn’t do that.

Sitting up, Aaron wraps his legs around Charlie’s hips. He runs his fingers up through Charlie’s hair, kissing him. With a smile he pulls away and whispers, “fuck me, Charlie.”

And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do just that.

Sodomy is way better than Aaron remembers.

They’re about three months into this when Charlie learns that Hotch hasn’t told a soul about him. At least, not really. Not past the point of passing in conversation. Hell, he hasn’t even told them that Charlie isn’t some bombshell blonde woman but a 6’4 black man who owns the coffee shop.

“Fine,” Hotch caves despite the anxiety leaving him so unnerved he’s shaking. “Do you want to come with me to Dave’s this weekend?” He’s got an edge to his tone. He’s hoping Charlie takes the bait and rolls his eyes. He almost hopes for a fight.

Charlie nods his head, “I would like to, actually.”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s far from it.

He sits on edge for the rest of the week. Begging for a case. None come.

If Charlie has anything to say about Hotch letting go of his hand when they step out of the car, he doesn’t say anything. He does offer him a supportive smile, reaching between them to squeeze Aaron’s bicep.

“Dave,” Hotch breathes the other man’s voice and Charlie can hear the panic seeping into his deep tone. But then he just blanks.

Charlie stretches his hand out, “I’m Charlie.”

Dave gets over his momentary shock very quickly. “Charlie,” Dave shakes his head with a smile. He avoids the hand being offered and pulls the younger man in for a hug. “I have heard so much about you! I was just a little shocked. I was expecting--”

Charlie laughs, “a woman.”

Dave claps him on the back. “Well, yes, I was.” He smiles at Hotch next, pulling him in for a hug too. Dave can feel just how unnerved Hotch is but he doesn’t comment. He just squeezes him a little tighter. “More so,” Dave says, “I was expecting a blonde. He really likes blondes.”

Charlie glances back at Aaron, keeping his smile in place even when Aaron can’t look up from his intense battle with the floor.

“Well, come on in! I’ve got enough bourbon and food in here to feed a small army!”

Charlie steps inside first, Aaron hot on his heels.

Charlie turns around, to look back at Aaron. Calling the other man’s name for attention. “Aaron,” he calls softly, grabbing his hand. “Show me to the bathroom.”

Hotch nods his head, eyes vacant as he moves on through the room. Ghosting. “It’s, ugh,” Hotch points lamely to the door.

Charlie pulls him into the small room. Aaron making a small grunt of protest. “Look at me,” says, stern but not overbearing. “Aaron, please.”

It takes a moment but Aaron pulls his eyes off the floor. He grimaces when a tear falls down his cheek, ashamed of this display of emotion. This vulnerability.

With a sad smile, Charlie wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. “They didn’t know did they?”

Leaning forward, Hotch buried his face in Charlie’s blue t-shirt. It’s old and soft and it does nothing to slow his tears. He shakes his head. “They didn’t.”

Fuck. Charlie wraps his arms around Hotch, pulling him close. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

What other options are there? If Charlie hadn’t forced his hand Hotch would have happily died in the blissful lie he’d created. He could have died alone. No need to come out. Hell, if he’d just found another blonde woman he could have married her and died “straight”.

Anything is better than this in-between.

“Aaron,” Charlie breathes his name sadly. He doesn’t know what to say. His family had disowned him. So, he can’t just reassure Aaron it’ll be okay but Dave took it so well. “Have you even given them a chance?”

Well… Dave did take it very well and Emily already knows.

“No,” he answers honestly.

Charlie presses a kiss to his temple, asking, “maybe you should give them the benefit of the doubt?”

A knock at the door makes them both jump.

“Hotch,” Reid whines from the other side. “I really have to go.”

Hotch smiles and that makes Charlie smile. “Good?” he asks.

Hotch nods, “good.”

The pair step out of the bathroom.

Reid blushes and slides past.

“You don’t think he thinks we were…”

Hotch nods, “more than likely.”

Heading back down the hall, Charlie leans into Hotch’s side. “Which one was that?”

“Reid.”

Charlie hums his understanding. Cuter than he’d imagined. Aaron had said tall and thin but it really did the genius no justice. He’s an attractive young man. “You didn’t tell me he was cute.”

Wrapping his arm around Charlie’s waist he pulls the other man closer. His heart is beating hard in his chest but he kisses the other man, closing his eyes and enjoying this moment. Separating just enough to say, “I think he said he plays for your team. If you’re interested.”

“My team,” Charlie repeats. He runs a finger along Aaron’s brow, sweeping his hair back. “My team is you,” Charlie rolls his eyes. “Doofus.”

Hotch’s jaw drops. “Doofus?”

Charlie smiles, “my doofus.”

Emily stops at the mouth of the hall, having heard the dee rumbling sound of voices “That’s fucking adorable.”

Hotch groans, pushing his face into Charlie’s chest.

“Don’t groan at me,” she says. “You’re the bastard that came out to me. Ghosted me. Then went and got a boyfriend.”

Hotch grimaces, “Emily…”

She waves him, turning her attention to Charlie. “You,” she sticks her hand out and they share a handshake. “You got yourself a good one. He can be an ass though.”

Charlie chuckles at that, “he really can be. Also, insufferable.”

Emily opens her mouth in happy shock. “Right? What about him being a know-it-all?”

Charlie nods, “don’t forget being a tight ass.”

Hotch feels a comment about their sex lives attempting to roll of his tongue. Something along the lines of Charlie saying he’d liked his ass last night— instead he just grunts. “Enough about me,” he grumbles.

Emily smiles at both of them. She really is happy. Hotch deserves to be happy. With a smirk she motions for them to follow her. “Come on, drinks?”

Somehow, despite everything Hotch had convinced himself, everything is fine.

Charlie ends up wondering off with Morgan. The two deep into a conversation about a beam Morgan’s building around. Hotch had watched Charlie gag down Garcia’s awful shots and listen to Reid talk about thermodynamics.

And when Hotch’s anxiety started getting bad again, Charlie was right there. Hotch hadn’t said anything, he didn’t even close himself off. Emily had just excused herself to go yell about something with JJ, leaving him leaning against the bar in the kitchen. But Charlie had come up and squeezed his hand. Winking for good measure. Hotch’s anxiety, like his heart, melted into a puddle around his feet.

“Goodbye,” Emily wishes them a farewell. She kisses both their cheeks and holds on to Hotch a moment longer than she normally would. “So, does this mean we’re back on for movie nights?”

Hotch nods. He’s missed their movie nights. He’s missed hanging out with her.

In the end, it’s the two of them and Dave.

Hotch’s anxiety rears it’s ugly head. Another painful reminder of the childhood he’ll never escape. Of God and sin and hell. The Catholic Church is solid force in Dave’s life and he’s askin Dave to choose. And Aaron knows he’s not going to be chosen.

“You boys good to drive home?” Dave hands Charlie a Tupperware container of leftovers.

Charlie nods, “we’re okay.”

Well, Charlie is. Hotch is little tipsy and one wrong word away from throwing up on the porch.

“Be safe,” Dave says, pulling Charlie in for a hug first. He pats his back, lowering his head to whisper. “Take care of my boy, you here?”

It makes Charlie smile. They’d briefly discussed Aaron’s real father but Charlie can see exactly what Aaron had meant when he said Dave had been the man that raised him. He’s gentle and firm and Charlie is glad Aaron was able to find a father. “Of course,” Charlie responds. “Someone has to.”

That makes Dave chuckle. Damn right.

“Come here, son.” Aaron’s always been bigger than Dave, not that he minds. He pulls him down into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Lowering his voice he whispers, “I’m glad you brought Charlie. He’s a good man. I’m proud of you.”

Hotch feels the dam break. He wraps his arms tighter around Dave, all of his youth and sexuality and feelings finally making sense. He doesn’t have to chose. He can be himself and be happy, it’s allowed.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t kill his mother or his mother. He’s always done his best and that’s all he can do.

“You’re a good man,” Dave whispers, rubbing his back.

And… Aaron might just be starting to believe him.

#criminal minds #tw child abuse #out of character #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #sean hotchner #emily prentiss #david rossi #haley hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #tw cigarettes #lesbian emily prenitss #george foyet

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cassether · 3 years

Text

Casualties of War

Summary: Gaius uses Amy to turn the tide of war, knowing if he can break Adrian, the rest will all fall with him.

AN: I only started reading Bloodhound a few days ago and got completely addicted to the characters 😍 This is my first attempt at an Adrian/MC fic. It doesn't follow the plot of the game, but I've tried to keep the details as close as possible 🥰

...

Adrian kneels in front of Amy, his heart hammering like it may well beat out of his chest as he takes in her slumped and bruised features. She's been missing seventy-two hours, a taunt from Gaius, and he catches the regretful shake of Kamilah's head, pressing his hand gently against Amy's shoulder as he rises up, bearing the full weight of suffering the woman he loves has been forced to endure.

Her wrists are shackled tightly behind her back, clamped in some kind of torture device, metal spikes digging into her cracked and rotting skin. She's a vampire now, impervious to human pain, but whatever Gaius has imprisoned her with, it's poisoning her supernatural side, spreading black spider-web streaks outwards from the device's teeth and preventing her from healing.

His eyes boil red, his emotions overcome by a rage worse than ravenous hunger, and he can feel himself slipping, the monster inside threatening to break out in a fury, when her soft voice penetrates his anger, dusting it to ash.

"A… Adrian?"

His fangs retract as he falls back, the fire within him morphing in an echo of his hatred for Gaius. His former mentor spent eons trying to force the darkness out of him, but Amy draws out the light. Her voice, even strained with pain, is like a siren call, speaking to the depths of his heart, and he cups her cheek, his touch tender as he strokes her sweaty skin. "I'm here." Gaius will pay, but his foremost concern, the strongest of his desires, is comforting the woman who's been to hell and back since meeting him. Part of him wishes he'd had the strength to debrief her. If he had, she wouldn't have fallen victim to Gaius' hand, twice, but he's not going to lose her a second time.

Delirious, and not quite sure of herself, she tries to reach forward, biting back a cry as her wrists absorb the mistake.

He growls under his breath. Whatever the cuffs are tainted with, they're not just suppressing her physical powers, but her psychic abilities as well. Gaius' been keeping her mind trapped in a drug induced world of pain, and he snarls at Kamilah's hesitation. "Get them off her, now!"

She retaliates the demand with a frustrated and grim glare. She's witnessed Adrian kill for both reward and pleasure, watched as a flame of guilt sparked, turning into a wild-fire that was only tamed by his escaping and evolving compassion. But she's never seen the true scope of his emotions amplified by the power of love. Regret has changed him, age humbled him, but the Bloodkeeper has more influence over him than both. Amy has begun to heal his wounds, make him look to the future instead of always grappling with his past, and if he were to lose her now, she fears for his stability. Gaius obviously hopes the opposite—is delighting in Adrian’s torment—and this is either a warning of what's to come or they're already too late and this is the test; to have Amy die by either her or Adrian's hand, and she regards her brother with a forlorn frown. "We can't be sure of what will happen if I release her."

Adrian's lungs constrict, like they might snap under the weight of what to do. They breezed into the complex with little fight, and he knows Gaius wanted him to see Amy like this. The man is cruel and vindictive, but this is Rheya's war, and there's still a chance she would want to keep the Bloodkeeper's memories alive. He has to believe that, have faith in Amy's strength, because he can't leave her here suffering. He won't. "Amy." He strokes her soft skin beneath his thumb, selfishly looking to her for answers, for a sign he's making the right choice.

"It hurts… please."

She gasps, her voice filled with agony, and he's witnessed firsthand how much she can withstand. They're out of time, and he snaps his decision at Kamilah. "Do it."

She breathes out, clutching the metal, and with all her strength she pries the restraints open, its teeth dripping with black blood as it clatters to the floor.

Amy lets out a howl, her body collapsing and slumping forward into Adrian's arms, and Kamilah's expression stays grave when the spider-like tendrils wrapped around Amy's wrists don't retract. "She needs blood."

Adrian swings her limp body up into his firm hold, his face twisting with anger but his insides painfully hollow as he grips her tightly. "Lets go."

He stalks forward, and Kamilah can sense the desperation radiating off him, the same irrational carelessness that overcame him the night Gaius plunged a sword through Amy's chest. He wasn't thinking straight when he turned her, and he's not thinking any clearer now, her worry rising as she matches his speed, barreling her way out into the darkness.

Adrian feels the rush of life as they leave the complex behind, human blood pumping louder and fiercer than it ever has before in his ears. Blood that Amy needs. He doesn't know how much time she has, and his eyes lock with an elder gentleman, his feet stalling at the old man's hobble. He's killed for less. Torn out the throats of innocent people for sport, even fun, but Kamilah grabs his arm with a sharp hiss.

"No!"

He snarls back, barely able to hear Amy's weakened heartbeat over the cry of blood calling out to him. "She needs—"

"To live without the guilt of taking an innocent life." Kamilah digs her nails into his skin. "She isn't like us, Adrien."

She isn't tainted yet. That's what Kamilah means, and his fangs retract with a growl. She's right. He turned Amy, robbed her of freewill, and she forgave him, having spared her judgment over the mistakes of his past, but she wouldn't forgive him for this; forcing her to drink without consent. He swore to protect her, and he failed, but she's still bound to the choices he makes, and he moves fast into the shadows, leaving the old man behind.

…

The Shadow Den is where they planned to regroup, and he bursts through the doors of the compound, meeting Jax and Lily's fearful expressions, the air thick with silent tension as Jax leads him through to the feeding parlor. They all know the cost of losing Amy, have suffered through her death before—buried her in the ground along with their hope. They won't win the war against Rheya without her, and watching her suffer, clinging to life only to lose it for a second time will break them all. Gaius wanted this, but the man doesn't know Amy like does. If there's one thing left in this burning world he believes in, it's her, and he lays her down gently, kneeling before her and meeting the gaze of the young teenager giving his consent to help. He swallows thickly. She could turn ravenous or the poison could infect him too, and Adrian reluctantly speaks on her behalf, ignoring his instincts because it's what she would want. "I don't know what will happen."

The kid nods, accepting the risk, as he just his arm out, stirring only a faint murder from the woman he loves. He takes hold of the teenager's scrawny wrist, piercing the skin with his fangs, and placing the dripping blood close to her mouth. "Amy, you need to feed."

She groans, her eyes staying shut but screwing up tightly, and he swipes the crimson with his thumb, smearing it across her lips until she tentatively sucks, and the kid steps in, wincing as she weakly latches onto his vein instead.

"That's it." He smooths down her hair, moisture pricking his gaze as she whimpers, letting go. She didn't drink nearly enough to return her strength, and he knows they're in for a long night, his worried attention diverting to the others collected behind him. "She's going to need to feed every hour, real blood."

"I'm on it." Lily swipes her eyes, her usually resilient humor falling by the wayside.

After healing the kid, Jax steps forward, trying to brush off the fear that's been welled in his chest since they split up to find her. The past seventy-two hours have been grueling, but Adrian's wearing them the worst, and he places a firm but gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "I'll stay with her. You should—"

"I'm not leaving her."

Kamilah snorts at the surprise on the younger vampire's face. "Did you honestly think he would?"

Jax retracts his arm, heat flushing the back of his neck. There was time, when they all first met, he dared to read into Amy's kindness and comfort. He thought, maybe, she might return his affections, but harmless flirting aside, her heart has only ever belonged to Adrian, and from what he's witnessed, she put her faith in a good man. "I'll get some blood bags, then."

Kamilah waits for him to exit, folding her arms with a sigh. "I loathe to say it, but he is right, Adrian. You're no use to her in this weakening state."

He pushes up off his knees, feeling Kamilah's concealed concern bore into him as he slumps beside Amy on the couch, gently drawing her head into his lap. The bags will be enough to sustain him, and he'll sleep when Amy's awake again. "I'll rest when I know she's going to be okay."

"And if she doesn't recover?" Her expression darkens as her eyes fall over the black tendrils curling around Amy's arms. She doesn't want to be the bearer of bad fate, but they have to be realistic. Gaius went after Amy to weaken them all, but they still have a war to fight.

"She will." He grinds his jaw firmly, staring down at Amy's prone form. Even as a human, he never saw her as vulnerable or frail. She looked him right in the eyes the night she found out what he truly is and didn't run or back down. Her place has always been by his side, and his by hers. "She has to," he breathes, reaching for a blanket to cover her with.

She has to recover.

Because he can't fight this war without her.

TBC...

#adrian raines #bloodbound #bloodboundfanfic #adrainxMC #mcxadrian #choices #pixelberry #playchoices #bloodbound fanfiction #choices fanfiction #adrain x mc #mc x adrian #bb

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percywinchester27 · 4 years

Text

About a boy (Part-8)

Word count: 4.7K

Warning: Suspense, feels, physical abuse, child-trafficking and bullying

Characters: Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Benny, Michael, OCs and… Sam?

Summary: Dean Winchester has a secret. A secret that could really land him in trouble. He never expected to connect with anyone when he walked into the ‘Blue Stone Orphanage for Boys,’ but even then, the walls he has put up are slowly coming down. Now, a series of strange events are threatening to expose him. When everything starts falling apart around him, will he still be able to save the one person that matters the most?

A/N: I’m sorry this part is so delayed. Life got to me in a not so nice way. I will try my best to be better from now on <3

All my love to @thing-you-do-with-that-thing and @deanssweetheart23 for beta reading this story <3

About a boy masterlist

“Sometimes I think that some of these kids dye their hair,” Will muttered, kicking a stone out of the way. “There can’t possibly be that many brown haired boys.”

“You have brown hair,” Cas pointed out mildly, feeling sympathetic towards the boy.

“But my name isn’t Sam!” Will exhaled, attacking another stone.

The two of them were walking back from school. Dean had waited back for some extra class, and on the way out Cas had bumped into Will, who had been in a dark, brooding mood. Only now did he know that it was because of an abundance of dark haired boys.

“I feel like I’m disappointing Dean,” Will admitted. “But I swear there isn’t another Sam on the floor, unless some kid is hiding his real name for whatever reason. The only other thing Dean gave me to go by, was that Sam has brown hair. But that is most boys.” His voice was full of despair.

“You’re being harsh on yourself, Will,” Cas soothed, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder. “There isn’t much to go on here and Dean knows that. He isn’t going to be disappointed.”

“I had to do this one thing, and I’m wretched at it,” Will moaned, seemingly not having accepted a word of what Cas had said.

He is used to always having a solution, Cas thought. Will attempted math Olympiads for fun. He was smart enough to fuse out the fire alarm system. He was the sort of boy who was used to getting solutions for his problems, answers for mysteries, and now that he couldn’t figure this one out, it was bothering him. But there was also one other thing. Will was probably used to being self sufficient. He had always made his own bed and clapped his own back. Now, there was Dean.

Cas realised, Will looked upto Dean. The way he hung on to Dean’s every word like it was a gospel. How he glowed when Dean lightly made fun of him, teased him or even called him a dumb-ass. Behind Will’s disappointment was his inherent desire for praise, and not any praise, but Dean’s praise.

Cas felt a deep pang in his stomach, a swell of empathy. He had seen so many kids yearn for attention, for a drop of love in this place where everyone was lonely together. Will was no different. He’d never had anyone to appreciate his intellect. Lots of parents would have sold their souls for a prodigal child like Will. But here he was looking for acceptance from a boy who was looking for something else, someone else.

With a heavy heart, he said, “We’ll keep looking, Will. We’ll find Sam.”

The boy looked up, hazel eyes round, the question in them clear as the day. Who is Sam? But he didn’t ask. Maybe something about Cas’s expression made it clear that he wouldn’t answer. It wasn’t his secret to tell anyway. Besides, he had no business dragging a kid into this. Especially a kid residing on the 4th floor. Cas shuddered.

Will cast another look, but didn’t talk for the rest of the way back.

*****************************

“Damn it!” Dean cursed as he stumbled over a rough patch of land. It had been three days since the fire alarm incidence and he could only barely manage to walk by himself. Of course today had to be the day when the calculus teacher extended the class. Ordinarily, Dean would have ditched in favor of having a steady support in Cas to walk back, but he paid attention in calculus. After all, he had promised to help Will out with it. So much for that crazy kid’s expedition to champion math! Which was why Dean took meticulous notes and for that, he had to wait back.

Apart from having to stumble all the way back, Dean didn’t really mind walking alone. Cas had been hovering over protectively over Dean at all times, worrying that if he was left alone, Michael’s goons might ambush him and finish what they started that night. As it turned out, Cas needn’t have worried at all. All his fears had been put to rest when the Principal had called Dean and Cas and asked about their bruises. Apparently, the nurse had made a formal request to the principal to look into the matter. Dean hadn’t given names, but the word got out and the said gang of goons started skirting him. It had still taken a quarter hours reassurance to get Cas to leave without him.

Now his legs ached, his lungs screamed in protest. I’m experiencing old age at fifteen, Dean thought wryly as he pushed the gate of bell stone open. He heard the voices before the scene around the corner met his eyes.

A woman’s voice was echoing in the yard, high and poignant and authoritative. The familiarity and hope of just seeing someone he knew had Dean running despite the pain shooting up his foot. He wasn’t wrong.

There she was standing tall and thin, with short brown hair, and the sheriffs uniform crisply cutting a formidable figure before him. Even though her back was to him, Dean knew it was her.

Jody.

He started rushing towards her, then abruptly stopped, the realisation hitting him like a block of ice. No one knew that he knew Jody. He couldn’t just barge in like that and blow his cover and their plan. The sight of her induced such homesickness, Dean staggered to the tree next to him, falling back against it for support. He felt like his legs might give out anytime.

Even if he did meet her, what was he going to tell her? He’d made no progress when it came to the Stynes. Jody had put all her trust in him, risked arguments with authoritative people to get him in and he had nothing for her. He had no clue about where all the kids were disappearing off to. Shame and guilt flared up inside him and he lowered himself on the ground, disappearing completely from her line of vision.

He had disappointed her.

“Officer,” someone cleared his throat. Dean recognised Andy. He sounded uncomfortable and scared. “It wasn’t really my fault, you see.”

“Not your fault?” Jody thundered. “Locking up kids like that on floors? And don’t you lie to me, I saw the grills myself.”

“They’re old, rusted and just there, doesn’t mean we use them,” Andy stuttered. He was much taller than Jody, but right now she seemed to tower over him.

“Do you take me for an idiot? I rolled one of those down, and for iron so rusted, it sure slid down smoothly.”

Despite the reeling shame, Dean wanted to whoop out loud. Jody was one of the smartest people he knew, and badass. Andy was in for it.

“We searched the whole place thoroughly, and those kids live in horrible conditions,” she said. “This place is a living hazard. You call it a boys home?” And what of the left wing?” she pressed, disgusted.

Dean dared to raise his head above the shrubbery just a little bit to peer into the opening. Jody was standing along with two other police officers, all of them in uniform. Andy was just a few feet away, visibly displaced, and Garth was hovering in the background, for apparently no other reason than to provide staff support to Andy. Garth seemed disinterested in the exchange and was fiddling with the dials on his walkman.

“The left wing is not in my jurisdiction. It’s always locked up. It doesn’t belong to the orphanage.” Andy’s voice was reedy.

Jody put her hands on her hips. “Really?” There was a dangerous edge to her tone. “And you don’t have the keys.”

“No,” Andy lied through his teeth. That asshole.

If Dean had had any reservations about whether or not Andy knew what was up in this place, they were shattered right then and there. He was in this with the Stynes.

Jody turned to the police officer next to her. “Alright, Andrew, we’re breaking in.”

“Do you have a warrant to search the place?” Andy questioned. Dean swore under his breath. This man actually had the audacity to act superior. Dean tried to raise his head further to get a better view, to see the expression on Jody’s face. His foot slipped and fell back on the ground with a crash.

“Who’s there?” Andy said sharply.

“Shit!”

“Get up,” Jody ordered, and Dean, after muttering a few more choice words, staggered to his feet and raised his hands. “It’s me.”

Andy’s face turned red, the suppressed anger making its appearance. “Winchester!” he bellowed, “What the f-... hell are you doing there?”

“I-I fell down,” he said hurriedly. “Was coming back from school.”

“From behind the bush?” It was Jody. “Higgs, what’s this boy doing here?”

Dean noted with detachment that he’d actually never known what Andy’s last name was. He avoided meeting Jody’s gaze.

“Look up!” Jody ordered, and Dean did so; slowly.

It was there for a split second, but Dean saw it in her brown eyes as they widened. A complex emotion; a mixture of relief, tenderness, pain… and then horror… anger.

“Higgs.” Jody’s voice was low, but it was so full of anger, loathing, that Dean backpedalled. “What the hell,” she said, seething, “happened to his face?”

Andy looked at Dean properly for the first time and paled. The angry red patches on his cheeks disappeared quickly. “I-I don’t know,” he said, running a hand across his face nervously. “You know how they get sometimes. Boys will be boys.”

But Jody was having none of Andy’s shit. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face to her level. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t drag your ass back to the station for allowing child abuse.” She looked dangerous, and Dean truly understood why everyone with ill-intent back home ran in the opposite direction when they saw her car.

Dean knew she couldn’t actually haul Andy to the station. This wasn’t her area of jurisdiction. This was just part of her case. And even if she could get the local PD to do this, it threatened their whole operation. Sniffing police interference, the Stynes might completely move their base. Children would keep disappearing and Dean would lose his only chance of finding Sam.

Andy stammered a mumbled explanation as Jody pushed him roughly. Dean didn’t hear a word of what Andy was saying, for Jody had turned to look at him, and Dean braced himself for the disappointment in them. Not only had he failed her so far in the operation, he’d managed to get his ass kicked spectacularly, too. In fact, his bruises were better now, light purple to yellow in some parts and the swelling almost gone in others.

When Dean looked up, Jody had squared her shoulders to face only him. Her eyes were blazing, though not with dismay or any hint of let down. There was only regret and pain there and so much worry that Dean felt he would drown in it.

He was reeling. Suddenly he was standing in the front space of Bobby’s house, Jody looking down at him not with anger but worry when he’d first rigged a car. The day when he’d caught Bobby and her sitting on the porch steps and how hastily she had withdrawn her hand from Bobby’s when she’d seen Dean walk towards. He remembered the sun light squinting off the wooden table and how she had been nervously running her fingers along the edge of the table when Bobby told him they were seeing each other. Jody who was never nervous, only scary, had cared about what Dean, who wasn’t even Bobby’s son, had to say about their relationship.

Dean remembered all the times she had driven by early so she could drop Dean off at school when Bobby was out of town. he had hated being driven around in the sheriff’s car. It was like announcing ‘don’t be friends with me, I know the sheriff.’ He’d barely ever spoken a word to her then. Suddenly there had been casseroles on holidays and real food on the table on Sunday mornings, instead of whatever mix Bobby put on the table in his hungover state.

All the sneaking around, whispers that were quieted too quickly so it wouldn’t make Dean awkward. The hope in her eyes when he sipped the coffee that she had made on mornings that she’d stayed over. She would almost always get it wrong by adding sugar, when Dean liked his black. Only now, after he had lived in this hell hole, did he realise the sort of luxury he’d had. He was no different from all the boys living in the orphanage. His parents were as dead and cold in their graves as the others’. But unlike them, he’d always had a room of his own, no worry where his next meal came from. He’d had gruff ‘good mornings’ from Bobby and shenanigans in his garage. And unexpectedly, softness from a woman who made her living by being firm.

Tears burned at the back of Dean’s throat and he blinked rapidly, still unable to take his eyes off of hers. Of course there would be no disappointment in those eyes… only care and… love. Jody’s eyes shone with unshed tears of her own, and he could see her desperately trying to get a grip.

“I got punched at school,” Dean said through a thick throat. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” He fervently hoped that behind his words, she heard what he truly wanted to say. It wasn’t your fault, Jody. None of this is. Please don’t pull me out of here. For the both of us.

She had wanted this one win in that male dominated department where she was better by ten times than any idiot. And he wanted… no, he needed to find Sam. He stared intently back at her, willing her to understand. At long last, she nodded. A quick jerk of her chin.

“Alright,” she said hoarsely. Dean hoped that the others interpreted it as anger. “Get going then. Next time I hear of you breaking into fights, I’ll admit you to a juvie myself. You get that?”

Dean nodded.

“Off you go,” she ordered in what was supposed to be a stern voice. Then, she very deliberately raised her hand, as if to shoo him off, and pointed it to the side of the orphanage. Even though the main door was right in front. Something glinted off her finger as it caught the Sun, and Dean caught his breath. It was a thin gold band, plain but solid, resting on the second finger.

He had to bite his lips so as to not betray a reaction.

She widened her eyes. GO.

Dean turned on his heel and headed towards the side she had pointed towards, completely bypassing the main door. In the distance he could hear Jody ordering Andy and the others off towards the left wing, even if just for the heck of it. Leading them away, he realised, away from him.

He increased his pace and turned around the corner. Dean rarely visited this part of the ground. Mostly because there was an old barnhouse there that totally creeped him out. Once upon a time, when the orphanage hadn’t actually been an orphanage but a handsome, inhabited manor, the barhouse used to house actual animals- poultry, horses and pigs. Now it was just as dilapidated as the manor house if not more. The timber girders were sagging under the dead load of the disrupted roof. The planks that made up the walls had been eaten into by termites, and cobwebs adorned the facade extensively. Of course it gave Dean the creepers. Of course he’d never even been slightly tempted to go in. But as he inspected the barren building, he noticed, to his surprise, that the door was ajar.

Dean knew the barn-house was used as a storage for things so old that even the Orphanage didn’t want it inside, which was saying something. Dean and Cas often joked that the only use it would be would be if they used it as kindling and set it on fire. At least one night wouldn’t be so cold anymore. The trepidation he felt as he stepped inside the threshold now, was very real.

Inside, everything was at least five times dustier than what he thought it would be. And so much darker. Silhouetted against the broken furniture and wardrobes was a man. He was wearing plaid underneath a thick flannel jacket and a baseball cap. Scruffy beard covered his face. A face with all too many frown lines, but laugh lines around his eyes. A face that was more familiar to Dean than any other.

Before he knew it, Dean was bounding forwards till his face was pressed against the soft cotton of the man’s shirt.

“Bobby!” Dean let out a strangled dry sob.

It was too much. The weeks and weeks of living in this hell house, the constant fear for Sam, of not finding Sam, all came crashing down. Then there was that other feeling, one that almost made him feel ashamed. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say it was a feeling of… belonging. But how could he belong to this place? He hated every brick of the orphanage. A place that caged children. His Sam... Cas and Will. Maybe the belonging wasn’t with the place… but with the people.

“Hush,” Bobby said gruffly, patting Dean’s shoulder. Dean noticed that his voice was thicker than usual. Bobby cleared his throat. “It’s alright, my boy.”

Dean didn’t want to let go of Bobby. Not just because he had missed Bobby terribly, but because he’d never actually ever hugged Bobby like this. He didn’t know what to expect when he pulled back.

When he did, there was only fierceness in Bobby’s eyes. Fierceness and fear. Not unlike Dean’s own fear for his brother and friends. A disjointed part of his mind wondered if love and fear were always this connected. And how it had taken him a trip to this goddamn place to feel both of those emotions so viscerally.

Bobby was still looking down at him, his lashes were wet. Dean had to look away.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

Bobby shrugged. “I heard about the fire from Jody. I-I was worried.” he hesitated, then added. “I needed to know that you were fine. I know you’re… well, you’re scared of fire.”

Dean had never said it, but Bobby was there in the early days when Dean even flinched from the stove fire.

That still didn’t answer the question.

“I mean, what’re you doing here?” Dean gestured to the out house.

Bobby cleared his throat once more. “Sneaked in. Had to see you. I had to beg with Jody so I could tag along. Her only condition- no one could see me.”

“Jody!” Dean suddenly remembered, then threw a finger towards Bobby. “You’re getting married?”

Bobby shuffled from one foot to another, almost looking nervous. “Yeah. I had that ring made for a while now, since before you left. And I meant to ask you before asking her… but she found it in the back pocket of my pants and well, the damn cat was out of the bag.”

Dean stared.

Romantic proposal was one thing. He hadn’t really expected Bobby to put on fairy lights around the house and fill the front yard with rose petals, but the proposal could have been more than her accidentally stumbling upon the ring. Dean wanted to shake his head indulgently at Bobby’s complete and utter lack of romantic timing. Maybe Jody liked that sort of spontaneous thing. Who knew?

There was something in Bobby’s words that stopped Dean from acting upon his amusement.

“You said you wanted to ask me?” Dean asked flatly.

Bobby looked even more nervous if that was possible. “It is your home, Dean. I wanted to ask you if it was alright with you.” He looked at Dean with a worried expression.

This time Dean really did shake his head. “Bobby, you crazy old man,” Dean laughed. “Of course I’m happy for you. Jody is a badass.”

Bobby’s eyes softened, and his shoulders relaxed. “She wanted you to know, too. Said it didn’t count as engagement if you weren’t in on it.”

The tears had just subsided, but Dean’s throat burned with them again.

“Bobby,” he said, his voice rough. “You getting married to Jody would be the best damn thing to happen to our home.”

Bobby beamed. His whole face lit up, and for a second Dean could almost feel the homely warmth of Bobby’s kitchen in the cold, dusty barnhouse. Then Bobby’s smile slid.

“What’re you doing here, kid?” Bobby asked, his face screwing up in his classic frown. He always tried to look annoyed when he was feeling something, Dean remembered fondly. “Come home. The place feels just like an empty car dump without you annoying my gourd,” he said pointing to his head.

Dean wanted to smile at Bobby’s attempt to lighten the tone, though it didn’t take a keen eye to see the wetness of his lashes, hear the gruffness of his voice.

“Sam…” Dean started.

“Sam’s… Sam’s a ghost story, Dean!” Bobby almost gasped, as if he’d tried too hard to not say those words, but they had escaped him anyway. Dean’s heart seemed to crack just a bit. He could see that Bobby loved him. Like his own son. But for Bobby, Sam was still his friend’s son, who was lost. He had no connection to Sam whatsoever.

All these years, through hot grizzly afternoons and through cold shivery winter nights, that blood bond was what had kept Dean awake, picturing horrors that might have been happening to his brother who was still out there somewhere. Who knew? Maybe waiting for his older brother. Dean had held on to it, steadfast, never giving up. But somewhere through the years, Bobby had.

Dean didn’t begrudge Bobby the non-attachment, but if only he understood that finding Sam was the purpose of life for Dean, especially now that there was a ray of hope, now that he was so close to discovering the truth.

Perhaps Bobby understood too well, because he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t have said that,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you.” His eyes roved over Dean’s face. “Look at all of his,” he gestured vaguely at the bruises.

“It’s nothing, Bobby,”

“Exactly!” Bobby pointed out. “It could get so much worse.” But something about Dean’s look made Bobby’s shoulders slump. It was clear that Dean wasn’t going to give up on this.

With a resigned gesture of his arms, Bobby turned around and produced a wooden box from behind. The box wasn’t ornate but, the rosewood exterior had a pristine quality to it, as if the box had been in existence since a long, long time.

“Here.” Bobby’s voice was heavy, and his eyes had that look… the one that made him look older than he was. “Take it.”

“What is it?” Dean asked, running his fingers over the rough exterior of the dark wood.

Bobby didn’t answer, and Dean clicked the lock on it. The lid opened easily enough. Inside was a collection of mismatched things. There was a small knife, a little charm bracelet, a figurine of a peaceful looking baby angel and among other things a bundle of photos. Images after images of his family… of faces that he was afraid he was beginning to forget. Photographs from his parents' wedding, in front of their lawn, from his childhood, dad hugging mom in front of a sleek black car.

“Your dad loved that thing,” Bobby murmured, but Dean barely paid attention. He was hungrily flipping through the bundle, his hands shaking. At the very end, there were pictures of a small baby, clicked in a series. Small chubby hands held out, rosy cheeks, light brown hair and a laugh that seemed to reach out of the picture itself.

Dean didn’t know whether to simply keep looking at the picture- because at this point his eyes were simply devouring it- or shut the box, just so he could control his feelings, get a grip on his wildly failing heart.

“Where?” he stammered, shutting the box as the later instinct won. “Where did you find these?” Even to his own ears, Dean’s voice sounded strangled.

“I’ve always had them,” Bobby said, then gauging Dean’s outrage quickly added, “I wanted you to move on, Dean. When you first came to live with me, you didn’t talk for half a year. It was like living with a shadow. I didn’t want you to get lost in the past and never resurface from whatever goddamned dark depth you had fallen into. And then when you started talking, and it looked like you were finally going to get a childhood, I didn’t want you to lose yourself in a false hope.”

“So you never gave these to me?” Dean glared. He could feel the blood rising to his face, his fingers balling into fists.

Bobby squared his shoulders. “Damn right I never gave you those. And I won’t feel sorry for hoping that you’d give up on the crazy mission to find Sam. You were just a kid, Dean. You still are, and from what I knew, I truly believed Sam was lost.” His voice cracked.

Just like that Dean felt all the anger leave him, his body deflating. Suddenly he felt tired, bone weary. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed onto a dusty trunk. What was the point of being mad? It was not like Bobby had kept his childhood from him. Dean still had his mother’s picture by the side of his bed. His dad’s first sawed off and baseball glove on the wall. He’d always had mementos to remember his parents by. The only things new were Sam’s pictures. And what was even the point in blaming Bobby. All he wanted was to help Dean. Besides, Bobby had left no stone unturned in his time to find Sam.

“Why are you giving this to me now?” Dean asked, head bent low, all energy simply draining out of him.

Bobby lowered himself to Dean’s level, hand back on his shoulders, “Because now it might actually help you.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. He flung his arms around Bobby once more. This was more hugging than maybe all of their time together, but Dean simply didn’t care. “I can’t wait to be back,” he admitted, his voice muffled against Bobby’s shoulder.

Bobby chuckled dryly. “Can’t wait to have you back either, kid.”

After a moment he let go, patting Dean’s back in quick succession. “You still remember about the pager, right?”

Dean nodded, now slightly awkward. “I’ll send out a flare if there is ever an emergency.” Secretly Dean knew he wasn’t going to do it until he found Sam because that would mean an immediate rescue and permanent goodbye to this place.

Bobby gave him one more hard look, then nodded and walked out of the barnhouse. Goodbyes weren’t really his thing.

Dean knew that they couldn’t have left together, too much risk, so he waited for a few minutes, then slipped out, too, the box clutched tightly in his hands. He felt both lighthearted and also awfully homesick at the same time. So lost was he in his own feelings that he never noticed the shadow move from the side of the barnhouse where it had been lodged for a while now, and come face to face with him.

Dean ran headfirst into the wall of black, then staggered backwards.

“Benny!” he said, surprised as he looked into the shadowed face.

Benny’s face looked impassive, his eyes however were narrowed. “That police woman looked like she wanted to smother you in hugs.Your old man looks pretty solid and caring and alive. Care to tell me who is this Sam you’re looking for, Winchester?”

******************************

A/N 2: Please do tell me what you thought of the chapter? I live for comments!

If you wanna be tagged, please send me an ask

About a Boy taglist:

@sdavid09 @deanssweetheart23 @blacktithe7 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @cosicas-cuquis @chalicia @anathewierdo @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectteamfreewill @firefly124-writing @spnbaby-67 @hoboal87 @rizlow1 @donnaintx @starmission @gh0stgurl @tftumblin @emily-a-c11 @ericaprice2008 @jotink78 @charliebradbury1104 @ohgodwhybloggg @i-dont-get-cold @bobbie3939 @samsexualdeancurious @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @cookiechipdough @wildfirewinchester

#dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural au #dean winchester #weechesters #aab part 8 #anawrites #anawritesspn #Ana writes Dean #Ana writes aab #q

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ichigopanhpff · 5 years

Text

BNHA Fic: Blink! Ch. 1

My first BNHA fic! It’s a slow start, but we’ll get there. I’m gonna let the story take me to the ships organically. My writing style doesn’t like forcing anything. Also working on the OC profile sketch so you guys can get a better visual :D

I’ve also noticed the reader inserts are definitely more popular within the fandom. But me being me, I like to go against the grain and made an OC instead. Or you can just imagine yourself as my OC ^_^;

The world is your hero loving oyster.

This chapter will cover a little bit of the “Two Heroes” movie and takes place post All-Might’s retirement and the start of dorm life. It will also cover everything that will be in S4. So if you don’t read the manga, it’ll be major spoilers for you :X You’ve been warned, frens.

Enjoy!

---

Masterlist

With the U.A. dorms being implemented for the safety of students, Aizawa took a deep sigh, pinched his nose bridge and squeezed his eyes shut in hopes of lubricating his eyeballs and relieve some stress. With All-Might handling Midoriya’s enrollment at the moment, he had one extra business to attend to in regards to class 1-A.

“Mr. Aizawa, we’ve arrived,” the driver announced.

Thanking him upon exiting the car, the sulking sleep-deprived man looked up at the high scale apartment complex with a light breeze blowing past.

This was his fail-safe in case he can’t be there.

While there were others he’s considered for the role, Aizawa knew it had to be her; the way her mind worked set her apart from the other candidates; hell, she could even mentor someone like Yaoyorozu in expanding her battle stratagem methods.

Class 1-A’s homeroom teacher was greeted by the front desk in the lobby as he made his announcement to see someone in the Takahiro residence. Making his way to the elevators, Aizawa pressed the designated floor and rode it up in silence. Having been her homeroom teacher before, he wanted to see her progression and perhaps, push her a little bit more in becoming the hero he sees in her.

To push away the doubts and darkness from her past that constantly cloud her heart.

The moment his feet carried him to the apartment, the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman slightly shorter than him with tied up brownish pink hair and hazel green eyes.

“Ah, sensei! Welcome!”

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs. Takahiro,” the man greeted with a soft bow before entering to remove his shoes. “Especially with your busy schedule at the moment.”

“Oh it’s no trouble at all!” she happily responded. “And please: call me Victoria. My last name makes me sound like an old lady.”

Making idle small talk, Victoria led Aizawa into the living room from the foyer. A girl with short rose gold coloured wavy hair could be seen curled up on the couch, reading a book. A teapot with three cups of tea had already been prepared on the coffee table.

“Ren. Aiwawa-sensei’s here.”

She looked up to meet his tired obsidian eyes.

“Oh. Welcome sensei,” she softly greeted and closed the book. “What brings you here?”

“Lots of things.”

He softly huffed as he settled himself down on the couch opposite of her. Ren set her book down to give her full attention.

“Ah, is it about the dormitory format for the upcoming semester?” she asked. “That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you and your mother.” “But we already submitted the proper paperwork for it.” Victoria sat down next to her daughter. “Did we fill out something wrong?” “No not at all,” Aizawa responded and leaned forward with clasped hands, making eye contact with the two. “This is a bit sudden, but I’ll cut right to the chase: Ren, I’d like you to move to 1-A.”

His request was met with sudden confused silence.

“I’m sorry, what now?” Ren chirped out with a blank expression. “I’m rather confused too,” Victoria agreed. “She’s already a second year...” ”Am I being left behind?” “Allow me to elaborate: I’d like Ren to be the Resident Advisor for 1-A’s dorms,” he clarified. “I think you’d be a great asset to further develop the class’ bonds and abilities as heroes.”

“While it seems like a good idea and all...” Ren’s mother trailed off with a look of concern. “Do you think she’s ready for that big of responsibility? Given what’s been going on lately with villain attacks and some of your students being caught in the crossfire...”

“That’s exactly why I’d like your daughter to help them. Her first-hand experience and knowledge would know best in how to maximize survivability in those situations. And to talk some sense into them when their hero complexes get out of hand.”

Both mother and daughter let out an uncomfortable sigh the moment those words left Aizawa’s lips. Ren tightly gripped the hem of her long black t-shirt, physically trying to repress those memories as she stared down at her now white knuckles.

“Of course, it’s a big adjustment on your end and I’m not expecting an answer immediately,” he continued with a sympathetic tone. “But let me ask you this: what kind of a hero do you want to be?”

Her head immediately jolted up to meet Aizawa’s serious expression. It was a question he’s asked her time and time again during her first year, as if to remind her the reason for being at U.A.

“Would you rather be the character in a story where you’ll let your misfortunes dictate your life or overcome it and be the tragic hero?”

“Aizawa-sensei,” Victoria interjected, feeling rather defensive. “You of all people should know this is a very big ask. May I ask your reasoning behind it?”

He let out a heavy sigh before answering and looked down at his tea cup.

“Out of my years at U.A., this is the first time I’ve felt the real limitations of my role as a teacher and as a pro hero.”

“You’re talking about USJ and Kamino incidents...” Ren plainly said.

“Exactly. I need someone I can fully trust to support me and the students when something happens.”

“I see…” She looked down at a random spot on the floor, feeling unsure how to answer. “But there’s gotta be other students my year who are better suited for this.”

“I have considered your classmates, even some from the support course...” Aizawa began. “But they lack the one thing you have: the ability to have a clear mind when facing chaos.”

“You speak too highly of me, sensei...” The girl’s face expressed anxiety. “I can’t help but think you chose those words to appeal to my ego.”

“I’m just seeing the things you don’t see in yourself,” Aizawa bluntly stated. “So, if we agree to this...” Victoria chimed in. “What will Ren have to do?”

“She’ll still go to her classes as usual. But as I mentioned, she’ll be living in 1-A’s dorms to supervise the students in case anything happens, be it a fist fight or a break-in. She’ll also be a confidant for them to help with their mental and emotional growth in order to become better future heroes.”

Before the discussion could continue on, a mobile phone’s shrill ring filled the silence at the far end of the room. Victoria apologized for the intrusion and went to immediately grab it. She can be faintly heard speaking in Dutch as she made her way into the home office.

“Your mom… knows a lot of languages,” Aizawa praised.

“It’s because of her quirk, Polyglot,” Ren answered and picked up her cup of lukewarm tea and took a small sip. “It allows her to know every known speaking language without having to pick up a book on it. Pretty handy, given her job and all.”

A short silence filled the two.

“When… do you need an answer from me?” “Two days.” “That’s not a lot of time huh.” “It really isn’t. I’m sorry to impose this on you, but would you please give it some thought?” Ren gave a small nod, still feeling uneasy about the proposal.

“Ah my apologies,” Victoria said in Japanese while walking back to the living room. “Just a small work emergency.”

“No, no it’s fine. I think I’ve covered everything any way.”

Aizawa took a quick sip of tea before standing up from his seat, with the two following suit.

“We’ll need to hear your response in two days,” he reiterated. “If you have any questions, feel free to reach out.”

“Given what the teachers have to do at the moment, it can’t be helped. We’ll have a proper discussion about it. Thank you, Aizawa-sensei,” Ren’s mom said and bowed. “I’ll show you out.”

Watching the two adult’s backs shrink down the hallway, Ren took a shaky breath. Her, a leader of one of the most rambunctious hero classes that’s ever graced U.A.? They must be desperate, she thought.

–

After washing the dinner dishes, Ren showered up and entered her room. Letting out a long sigh, the day’s event replayed through her head. Her thoughts were interrupted with a soft melodic ring from her mobile phone; it was Melissa calling. She immediately sat down on the comfort of her bed before picking up.

“Ah, Mel!” she answered in English. “You finally got back to me.” “Yeah sorry! So much has happened!” “Are you okay? I saw on the news what happened.” “Just a few bruises and scratches. I’m fine.” “What about your dad? I mean...” “He’s cooperating with the authorities right now to get leniency on his sentence. Sam, however, didn’t make it… He lost too much blood from the gunshot wound.”

A quick beat of silence sat between the two girls.

“I’m… sorry to hear that… But you’re not gonna get kicked off of I-Island are you? You can always stay with us–” “Ren I’ll be fine,” Melissa reassured. “You’re always such a worrier.” “It’s because you’re not and always have your head in developing support items,” she huffed.

All she could do is agree and laugh. Ren and Melissa Shield were childhood friends from when she still lived in California. Despite her being a year older, she was practically a sister from another mister.

“I also heard some U.A. students were there to help All-Might when stuff went down.”

“Oh yeah! They were all so amazing! Their quirks were so powerful!” Melissa excitedly spoke and told her about everyone she met; it was mostly about someone named Midoriya Izuku though since he stuck by her from the get go and Uraraka Ochaco.

“Hm, they sound like an interesting bunch. What year are they?” “From what I can remember, Deku said they’re all first years.” “First year...” Ren mumbled and flopped down on her bed.

The dots connected and her shoulders jolted up.

“Ah. Could it be… class 1-A… by any chance?” her voice quivered out. “I think so… Why do you ask?”

She told Melissa everything that happened earlier in the day about Aizawa’s proposal in regards to her being an R.A.

“Well what do you think? Are you up for the challenge?” “I dunno,” Ren groaned out and face palmed. “It just makes me sound like a glorified babysitter. And I have to start thinking about where I’ll do my work-study soon. I don’t wanna rely on my mom for money forever.” “I get where you’re coming from...” Melissa began. “But you don’t have to decide on that until later on anyways. So I say go for it! You shouldn’t limit yourself to only the things you can do well.” “Yeah, I guess.”

Chatting for a bit longer, the two friends said their good nights and hung up.

The next day felt like it came too soon. Ren decided to wake up a little earlier to catch her mom before she left for work; she knew she’d be back late tonight. She also had to start packing up her stuff to be sent to the dorms. Shuffling out of her room in a sleepy daze, she managed to peek one eye open wide enough to see the back profile of her mom.

“Oh morning, sweetie. You’re up early,” her mom greeted while reaching for the house keys in the foyer. Ren started mumbling incoherently.

“Really now. I know my quirk can understand everything, but that’s just being disrespectful,” her mom teased.

Rubbing her face to wake herself up a bit more, she let out a long sigh before trying again.

“Mom, I’m gonna do it.” Victoria took a beat to process what her daughter just said. “I had a feeling you would...” her mom said with a small smile. “Your eyes looked restless yesterday.”

Victoria came up to her daughter and wrapped her in a tight embrace, with her returning it.

“Your dad and brother would agree too… They are the reason why you wanted to be a hero in the first place.”

All Ren could do was nod into her mother’s shoulder, increasing the strength of her hug. They survived their personal hell; being a glorified babysitter is just another item on the list.

“This doesn’t mean I’ll worry any less,” her mom sniffled. “You’re gonna give me more wrinkles.” “I’ll try my best not to and contact you on the weekends,” Ren reassured.

Releasing from the hug, Victoria sighed and softly cupped her daughter’s face to get a good look at her.

“Sometimes I feel like you’re growing up too fast and before I know it, you’ll be out there everyday saving people from danger… I can’t help but feel proud and scared at the same time.”

All she could respond with was a small smile and sad eyes; no matter what she could say, it’d offer her mother no comfort whatsoever. Ever since losing her dad and brother from when they lived in California, all they could do was rely on each other after moving to Japan. Even when they had strong disagreements, the two of them always manage to talk it out at the end of it all.

While Ren was busy packing up her life at home, Victoria handled the rest of the details regarding her daughter taking on the position with Aizawa. With everything close to finalization, the mid-summer heat in August slowly waned as the new lives for U.A. students began at the recently built dormitories.

The only thing she was looking forward to was not having to take trains during the morning rush hour anymore. Despite having first day jitters back at school, her schedule was packed to the brim: not only did she have to show up for dorm orientation with her class, she then has to run down to 1-A afterwards so Aizawa could introduce her. And then, she has to unpack and go over her duties with the class.

Thankfully, her orientation ended early and she had a bit of time to hang out with her friends before making her way over to 1-A. They found a good shaded spot outside the dorms to chill out.

“I think I bit off more than I can chew...” Ren tiredly blurted out to her friends and sighed heavily as she fanned herself with her hand. Cicadas could be heard chirping loudly around the tree-covered campus. “This damn heat’s not helping either. I just wanna sleep.”

“But man, for Aizawa-sensei to pick you to look after the problem children...” her friend Seri remarked, admiring her newly manicured nails. “That’s rough.”

“Y’think he’s doin’ this on purpose to torture ya?” her other friend Tomoe teased and took a sip from her juice box.

“No, no. He doesn’t have time for stuff like that,” Ren waved it off. “He seemed pretty serious ‘bout it.” “It does suck though. I was really lookin’ forward to being in dorms with you,” Seri pouted. “You’re only sad ‘cus you won’t be able to raid my room to copy my homework and eat my snacks,” Ren half-jokingly pointed out, only to be responded with a hearty giggle. “Ya know me too well, Ren-Ren.”

She quickly looked at her mobile phone and her watch for the time. Her eyeballs immediately bolted out of her sockets.

“Oh crap! I have to go. Like, right now.” “Ehh? I thought you had more time to hang!” Tomoe exclaimed. “I thought so too! Until I realized my watch is dead! Oh holy shit!” “And there it is: the Takahiro Special,” Seri deadpanned with a chuckle.

Ren hurriedly gathered her belongings and ran off shouting, “I’ll text you guys later!”

After mad dashing for 10 minutes in the oppressive humid heat, the rose colored haired girl barely made it to the entrance to 1-A. Huffing heavily at the door and dripping with sweat from her forehead, she pushed it open to see the backs of the entire class with Aizawa’s ebony black hair peeking up.

“Sorry...” she gasped out in between breaths with one hand on the door, the other on her knee for support. “Watch… dead… time...”

“It’s fine,” Aizawa quickly replied in his monotone voice. “Just get in here already.”

Slowly making her slumped form up to where 1-A’s homeroom teacher was, Ren could already feel their excited and curious eyes on her.

“Before I leave, I have one more announcement: This slumping bag of sweat here will be your new Resident Advisor,” he stated and looked to the side at her. Excited chatter started up among the class. “Hey, introduce yourself. You’ve caught your breath right?”

She took a deep breath before standing straight up to face the class, wiping some sweat from her face with her sleeve; she can only hope she looks presentable right now.

“I’m second year Takahiro Ren and will be living with you in this dorm for the duration of your first year,” she introduced with a small smile. “You can just call me ‘Ren.’ I’ll do my best to help you all.”

“Takahiro will be helping me keep an eye on you all,” Aizawa interjected. “If you wish to regain my trust given recent events, I assure you do not want to anger her. She’s tough enough to contend with the 3rd years and will make light work of you zygotes.”

Ren immediately flicked her head in his direction, eyes widened. “W-w-wait wait wait! Aizawa!” she stuttered out in a state of panic. “Don’t say somethin’ like–”

“Well, I’ll leave you all to it in unpacking your rooms,” the scruffy teacher ignored her pleas and continued on. “I’ll give you an explanation tomorrow of how things will operate from now on. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!” the rest of the class greeted as Aizawa left.

“Senseiii!!!!!!!” 1-A’s R.A. shouted at the disappearing figure and groaned dejectedly. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“There, there,” one of the girls came up to give a comforting pat on her shoulder. She looked up to see a bright smile from a girl with pink skin and hair. “Aizawa-sensei’s always been that kinda person.”

“No I’m sure this is karma...” Ren muttered out with a dark look in her hazel green eyes. “I gave him a hard time last year, even after he expelled almost the entire class.”

“Ehhh?! You mean that actually happened?!” some of the boys exclaimed. “We thought it was just an empty threat!” a boy with long spiky blond hair said.

“Hm? No.” She looked up to face the group of boys to her right. “He called them garbage heroes with no potential. Expelling first years has been his signature at U.A. . Quite Darwinistic, but understandable. You can’t have the hero market saturated with the ones who can’t do their job right. We’d have no jobs by the time we graduate.”

The entirety of 1-A could only stand there in shock.

“Honestly, I was surprised the class was so big when I walked in,” Ren sheepishly confessed with a side grin to match it. “So you must’ve done something to really impress him.”

As expected of Aizawa-sensei, class 1-A collectively thought in despair and huffed a sigh heavy enough for their souls to leave their physical bodies. Feeling the gloom exuding out, she had to quickly divert their thoughts.

“A-anyway!” She clapped her hands to gather everyone’s attention again. “Let’s unpack our stuff first and then we can talk some more.”

Everyone went about their own tasks in settling into their new home.

Finally finding her room on the 4th floor, she changed out of her school uniform and into an over-sized white tank top with a black sports bra peeking underneath and loose sport shorts that came down to her knees before getting down to business.

Before they knew it, the early late summer night crept into view. Exhausted from their efforts, those who finished made it down to the common room to relax.

Ren, however, had been staring at one specific box intensely for the past 15 minutes from her bed. While her room was in order, the presence of that one box irked her to no end. She tied her hair up into a messy bun, revealing her fresh undercut and getting lost in her thoughts. The verdana door was open to get some fresh air in.

Did she subconsciously pack it by accident?

No. She was sure she left it back home with her mom. Shaking her leg nervously and chewing on the tip of her right thumb, she decided to shove it into her closet for now and deal with it later.

Making her way to the elevators, the doors opened up to reveal a boy with spiky ash blond hair; he was wearing a scowl on his face with closed eyes.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He casually walked past her on his way back to his room.

“H-Hey, Bakugou-kun,” Ren greeted with a hint of nervousness, already aware of his infamous temper. “You’re all settled in?” “Yeah, I’m ‘bout to go sleep. Those idiots downstairs are sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a room contest. I don’t want them extras bargin’ in my space.” “Ah I see. Then I’ll–” “Takahiro-senpai.”

She turned to meet the explosive boy’s ruby red eyes currently glaring at her with intent, sizing her up.

“Aizawa-sensei... He said you were strong.” “W-well, not really. It’s just Aizawa doin’ his usual–” she stuttered out. “Don’t gimme that crap,” he growled out in annoyance. “If you weren’t, he would’ve expelled you.”

Bakugou then flashed her his signature cocky grin and pointed his thumb to himself.

“Fight me. Right now. I wanna see your strength with my own eyes.” “It’s against school rules for upperclassmen to fight underclassmen outside the designated fields without a teacher present,” she plainly stated, as if reading from the school manual and crossed her arms.

Clicking his tongue, he walked away from Ren. The door to Bakugou’s room could be heard opening and closing.

It’s just as his file says, he’s sharp, she thought. Definitely someone who you can’t let your guard down around.

A close-to-mid range fighter too. If they ever face off, he’ll prove to be troublesome.

“Wait a minute...” she muttered to herself and realized something. Running back into her room, she opened her top desk drawer and took out the roster file Aizawa gave her on 1-A. Separating out each student’s profile by their fighting range type, she slammed her hand onto the desk angrily.

“So that’s your game. I totally got baited,” she huffed out in defeat.

Screw the whole “I need someone trustworthy to have my back.”

Aizawa just wanted her to work on her weakness in confronting close-range fighters!

And half of them made up this class! As expected of Eraser Head, having eyes everywhere. Inwardly groaning at the realization, muffled footsteps and chatter could be heard going past her door outside.

“Whadaya think?! Isn’t it cute?!”

That’s Ashido’s voice. That means... Oh crap.

The room contest.

Chapter 2

#bnha #boku no hero fanfic #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #aizawa #bnha oc #todoroki shoto #midoriya izuku #deku #class 1-a #bnha fanfiction #aizawa shouta #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

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kpersonkwriter · 5 years

Text

Yes? (Slight M)

Author: kpersonkwriter

Pairing: You x Taehyung (Established relationship AU)

Rating: Mainly fluff, slight 18+

Warnings: Handjob (ish), mentions of public sex, mentions of men being dickass boyfriends

Word Count: 5005

Summary: Taehyung, your boyfriend of 3 years, pops the question.

A/N: Finally I hear! I know that I had said that I was writing this months ago and can only apologise for it taking so long. Being ill, swamped up on university work (urgh I hate group projects) and personal stuff really drained me. But it’s written now! And I’m starting my next fic. My WIPs is updated now and I’ll update it as I write. Have a good day you lovely people!

“Tae, what are you doing?” You had asked with your eyes still closed, your lips threatening to turn upwards at the silly man, your boyfriend of 3 years, next to you.

“Camera one.” He turned to look at you with one eye closed. “Camera two.” He opened that eye whilst opening the other, his boxy smile threatening to spill at the absurdity to what he was doing at 7 in the morning on a Sunday before repeating the process. “Camera one. Camera two.”

“Come on Y/N?! You haven’t seen Wayne’s World?” He asked in mock horror at your apparent poor taste in films, “You know! The scene where Mike Meyers looks down at the beautiful woman and looks at her with alternating eyes?” He chuckled, repeating his alternative winking as he took in the way that the morning light reflected off your features. He couldn’t help but marvel at your beauty every time he saw you – the way that your eyes sparkled, highlighting your glowing skin despite your hair being a mess from activities from the night before. “The air guitar in that film is stuff of legend Y/N!” He added with a soft chuckled as he leant over to press his lips before your ear before trailing soft peppers down your jaw line and neck, leaving you giggling at the way his breath tickled your skin.

“Mmm,” You smiled at the feeling of him moving closer towards your lips as you threaded your hand in his hair, pulling him in for a kiss. “This is a much better way of waking me up than your strange winks oppa.”

“Not strange winks jagiya. Camera one and two!” He alternated winking again with his boxy smile fully evident, making you laugh at the ludicrousness at the situation. “You’re so beautiful so I have to make sure that my eyes are in focus before looking at you properly.”

You smiled widely as you reached for his hand to hold them together, repositioning yourself so that you were now facing him. His hair was still out of place from last nights’ activities after getting home from Seok Jin’s engagement party. Taehyung had murmured that the reason as to why he had a hard time keeping control was due to your tight dress that you wore which hugged your curves as you went around to talk to your friends as he conversed with Yoongi, Jung Kook and Hoseok in the corner of the club that Jin had rented. Jin had still been playing the role of the host with his fiancé, telling dad jokes to friends of his which allowed his laugher to be heard across the room (Yoongi had even said that it was a wonder how she hadn’t gotten sick of them yet), Namjoon had not so subtly dragged his girlfriend towards the bathroom and Jimin was by the bar, chatting with some brunette whilst Jung Kook was making out with someone in the toilets.

In the midst of all the people, you had caught your boyfriend of 3 years staring every so often from across the room, lips held in between his lips, his almond eyes pooled with lust and his jaw heavily clenched as he watched you talk with Yoongi and Hoseok’s girlfriend animatedly. The three of you being similar in age meant that you had gotten on well, sharing worries over the boys’ differing jobs as well as the latest embarrassing stories that had occurred since you had last seen each other. You had cocked your eyebrow at your man, sending him a small wink, before returning back to the conversation at hand missing the way Taehyung’s eyes had darkened as he subtly, as subtly as he possibly could do as Hoseok ranted to Yoongi that he was left in charge of teaching Jimin’s dance class alone as Jimin was meeting a friend the next day, shifted in his seat to relieve the tightness he felt in his trousers.

It hadn’t even been an hour when you felt his hands at your waist, giving you a small peck on the cheek as he smiled sweetly at the girls in front of you. You scoffed at the duality of your man knowing that this sweet persona would cease to exist as soon as you got home. “Excuse me ladies, mind if I get my girl back?”

“Course Tae, myself and Ji Young had better be getting back to the boys anyway. Yoongi looks like he’s had enough of Hoseok’s drunk ramblings.” Hyesook chuckled as she nodded her head to the boys at the booth. You turned your head round and chuckled softly at the way Hoseok had moved his hands exaggeratedly as he was telling his story much to Yoongi’s eye roll as he took a sip of his drink, whiskey knowing him.

“See you later Y/N.” Soo Jin waved, giving you a wink that you wished had been much more subtle, leaving you with your boyfriend. The girls had barely left before Taehyung roughly attached his lips to the crook of your neck, hands lowering to your ass as he grabbed them roughly.

“Tae, we’re in public.” It was planned to come out as a warning, to stop your boyfriend from groping you in public, yet the moan that came out instead only made him smirk, fuelling his desire even further.

“They’re all either too drunk to care or hooking up themselves.” It was a fact. Approaching almost midnight, and thus the end of the engagement party, people were busy facing the reality that they had reached their alcohol limit, people were either drunkenly (and embarrassingly) stumbling or were in the midst of trying to multitask by getting an Uber and still maintaining the kiss.

“Oppa, let’s go home.” You whispered. As much as you two had already tried public sex before, your heels were killing you and you’d much rather be fucked relentlessly in the comfort of your boyfriend’s own bed rather than a stall in the toilet.

“Urgh fine but hurry up.” He relented and whined of course as he gave you a quick kiss before he helped to collect your things, throwing a half – hearted ‘bye’ to Yoongi, Soo Jin, Hoseok and Ji Young before you entered the taxi that you flagged down hurriedly.

You had to stifle a laugh however as luck was clearly not on Taehyung’s side. Your driver had been an elderly man, reminiscing tales of how him and his wife had met as he drove through the dark back streets to his shared apartment. You both had alcohol coursing through your body but were polite enough not to make the back of the car stained by your lust fuelled desires although it clearly didn’t stop your boyfriend from snaking his hands underneath your dress, smirking as he felt how wet you already were for him. It was undeniable – the man did something to your insides that’s for sure.

Quick rushed kisses had been stolen as you had tried to make your way up to the confines of your boyfriend’s apartment after thanking your driver. You hadn’t, in the midst of Taehyung leaving hickeys on your neck, missed the not so subtle wink your driver (named Ernie) had sent you as you let yourself get dragged into the building, both of you a giggling and breathy mess.

Stumbling into the elevator, you guessed it was the risk of getting caught by judging old women who lived in Taehyung’s apartment complex that made you slide your hands to undo the belt buckle that held his trousers in place.

“Fuck Y/N.” A small groan had left your boyfriends’ lips, taking a break from leaving multicoloured bruises on the channel of your neck, as his hips unconsciously bucked towards your hands trying to create friction. Your hands reaching to grab his hardening cock over his boxers made it impossible not to have images plague his mind of the time about a month ago that you had risked having public sex. It wasn’t in broad daylight – you had watched a late – night screening of Infinity War even though it had been months since its release and the only other people in the cinema were a couple of people who still hadn’t gotten over half the characters turning into dust. It was the idea of getting caught, or the fact that Taehyung had fucked you hard that night, that made you cum two times.

“Level 4.” The automated voice made Taehyung curse under his breath as you had been whispering sinful things into his ear as you had been stroking him over his boxers so that he was painfully hard. The doors hadn’t even fully opened when he lifted you up before taking the pair of you to the door of his flat. Keys fumbling in his hands, it took him a while to finally successfully open the door as you nipped on his collarbone, now reaching into his boxers to palm his hard cock.

The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut before Taehyung backed you up against the wall, fingers immediately finding its way to your wet folds whilst the other held both your hands up above your head.

“Do you know how hard it was for me to look at you from across the room tonight?” He growled dangerously close to your ear. “You parade around talking with the girls as I watched how your dress hugs you so tight.”

“I-“

“I would have taken you right there if you hadn’t insisted on leaving my love.”

“Better late than never.” You just about whispered, feeling a rush of excitement which left your core throbbing as delivered a small smack on your nether lips.

“Bed. Now. And you’d better be naked by the time I get there.” It was an order that you couldn’t dismiss as you began to discard the apparently sinful clothing before lying down on the bed, anticipation with a mixture of adrenaline coursing through your body. Taehyung had come back moments later with ice cubes in a bowl and a cup of water which he placed on the bedside table as he smirked. You had loved using ice previously, one of your favourite things to use during sex, and Taehyung had been quick to experiment with it, being quick to love the reactions that were elicited out of you. Because of that, your excitement had increased tenfold.

“You’re such a slut to be so ready for me my love.” He made his way to hover over you, placing your wrists in the restraints above your head as his breath tickled your ear. You couldn’t help but feel his hard length poking your stomach through his trousers, in which a small thought of you complained in your head at how unfair it was that he had put on his trousers again whilst you were naked and tied down to the bed, and knew that both of you would enjoy the next few hours as he moved to place the blindfold over your eyes. “You remember the safe word love?”

“Liquorice.” You affirmed. It had made sense – you both hated it.

“Good girl. Now let’s see what a slut you are for me huh?” You could imagine his devilish smile that he wore before you felt the ice – cold sensation hitting your skin, making you arch your back as you let out a small gasp. And it certainly wasn’t the first time that he had made you gasp. And scream his name out as he pounded into you relentlessly as you came.

“Tiara or veil?” A sudden question out of the blue had you question if you had heard right. You looked up to your boyfriend who had a nonchalant expression, almost as if the question held the same weight as, or lack of, “coffee or tea?”.

“What?”

“For your wedding what would you wear?”

“Are you asking me to marry you Kim Taehyung?”

“Depends… would you say yes?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination.” You winked as you only cuddled further into his embrace, his warm touch providing such comfort to you.

“Let me know… I want to make you my Mrs. Kim.” He kissed your hand, eyes lingering on your ring finger, imaging the sparkle of your ring which would reflect in the morning sunlight one day. And he was hoping that it would be sooner rather than later.

“You assume that I’m going to take your last name?” You raised your eyebrow, enjoying his perplexed expression too much as you goaded a reaction that you knew was there.

“Well I-“ You could almost hear Taehyung’s brain cogs working as quickly as they could so early on a Sunday morning to come up with an answer, fully stumped at having not about you not wanting to take his name.

“You know oppa, in today’s society it’s not totally uncommon for women to keep their maiden name.” You answered in a serious tone, biting back your smile at seeping through at the perplexed and fallen look at the masked his face.

“I know that, it’s just-“

“You thought that I’d be one of those women who’d give up my life at a young age to get married and wander round the house waiting for you to come home whilst I’m bare feet and pregnant?”

“Well I like that mental image but no if you-“ It was the furrowing of Taehyung’s eyebrows that was the final straw for you to burst out laughing, missing Taehyung’s more perplexed face before it turned into realisation. “Hey!” He tried, really tried, to be angry but how could he be when the sweet sound of your laughter filled the room. If Taehyung had to liken it to anything it would be honey.

“I’d at least like to move in with you before we get married oppa and you know I want to get into a stable job.” You smiled, mentally shaking your head. Taehyung was known to be a dreamer, often daydreaming and coming up with future romantic plans without thinking about the practicality of it. It was a trait that made you smile nonetheless, wondering if said romantic plans would come true. Such thoughts had been welcomed after a string of failed relationships which led to heartbreak.

——

Meeting Taehyung when you did had been picture perfect, like a scene from any romantic comedy. You had met him at a party that your roommate Hye Rin had dragged you to, repeating the philosophy that “the best way to get over a guy is to get under another” before hastily adding “except Jeremy from engineering. I heard he’s into some really weird shit”, leading you to roll your eyes at her. She had been your best friend since the start of uni, but you still didn’t understand her logic sometimes despite knowing her for 3 years.

You had been left by said friend about an hour later, who had gone off somewhere with her boyfriend Sung Min, whilst you had been trying to come up with a plausible excuse so you could ditch the guy you were currently holding a conversation with – albeit a one sided conversation with not much talking on your part. Was it Jake? Or Jack? You didn’t care as he droned on about quantum physics. Desperately, you scanned the room to see if your friend had come up for air with Sung Min at least but was disappointed when you saw she was still sucking faces with him, smiling and nodding at what you’d hoped had been the right times. The statement of disappointed but not surprised seemed too good to be true at that moment.

“Do you want to get out of here? I’d love to hear about you?” He leaned in, took close for comfort, as he rubbed his hand up and down your naked arm.

“Urm I really-“

“She can’t.” An unknown voice interrupted you as you turned around at the owner, silently gasping when you saw him. There stood a tall stranger, dressed in black from head to toe, imposing upon the space that you had previously shared with the guy who was not a stuttering mess. The varsity jacket that he wore defined his broad frame. As well as him being in the football team, whilst the jeans highlighted his thighs specifically, evidence of his football practice you had assumed. In your drunken mind, despite you promising and evidently failing to cut down on alcohol that academic year due to the hot mess of the previous year, you took a step closer to the stranger as he wrapped his arm around your waist, as if it was completely natural. And so you had hoped that your make – up that Hye Rin had insisted that you wear was enough to hide the sudden rush of blood that travelled to your cheeks.

“Who the fuc-“

“I’m her boyfriend and she’s coming home with me.” It was sternness of his voice that made Jake – you had remembered now – not to question it. In all fairness he didn’t even have a chance as the stranger grabbed your wrist gently as he dragged you through the sea of people until you got outside to the pavement, the cool Autumn breeze hitting your skin immediately.

“Thank you.” You had barely come out, now conscious of how close you were standing.

“You’re welcome although you should at least try to look like you’re not in hell.” He chuckled and god it was hot. A mixture of sexy and cute, complete with a boxy smile, you were surprised that your knees didn’t give way right there.

“Kind of hard when he drones on about quantum physic.”

“Really? To a pretty girl like you?”

You nodded – it was sad but true.

“Man if I had a pretty girl like you in front of me Id be so nervous let alone drone on about quantum physics, not that I know much about it any way.”

“Oh? What’s your degree?”

“Art. I'm planning to be an art curator if things go well.” If his smile wasn’t indication enough, the ways his eyes managed to camouflage with the stars in the night sky were enough of an indication to reflect his passion that he had.

“Would you ramble on about art then?”

“Let me take you out and you’ll find out.” He smirked.

“Cute but I don’t even know your name.”

“Taehyung.”

“Y/N.”

“So… about that date then?” ——

Since then three years with Taehyung had been nothing but a dream. He had been patient in you opening up to him, slowly but surely loosening the vice like grip your previous betrayals had on you, as he listened and tried his best to understand you. You had fought of course, some trivial over which Avengers character was the best (Groot by the way) to the more serious but arguments had always been sorted out fairly quickly with the guilty party showing up at the others’ house with tubs of ice cream and flowers along with a sheepish grin or some home – made red velvet cake along with a bottle of pinot noir depending on who was apologising.

Dates were stolen here and there dependent on your schedules, whether it was in between both of your lectures and part – time jobs when you were both students or your final year dissertation and his job as an art curator. His graduation had been a joy, despite ridiculously drawn out in your opinion, as you sat next to his proud parents at being the first person in his family to have attended university. After the celebration, you had met his younger siblings as his parents had treated you for a late lunch before heading back to his for a more intimate present.

It was just over 2 years into your relationship, 9 months ago, that you had unofficially moved into his shared apartment with the rest of the boys. At first it was the occasional week after a particularly long date night which then swiftly moved to you staying the night a couple of nights a week since his apartment was closer to your university placement that you were doing at the time at the local hospital. You had insisted that it would be fine going back to yours, especially since you weren’t paying anything towards your boyfriend’s part of the rent, but he had insisted a home – cooked meal would suffice especially for the boys who would often order take – out. Since then you cooked meals around three times a week, making sure to do extra for the boys, and also baking occasionally which they loved and for which they were grateful for, even gratitude had been said with stuffed mouths. It had still been just over 6 months since you had started cooking for them and you still couldn’t get over how much they ate.

Unofficially moving in had also presented its challenges. From living in a house full of 4 girls who were clean and hygienic to four boys who were dirty, loud and was content with barging in each other’s rooms without knocking, was a shock and took you time to get used to it. The four of you had come up with a system that suited all of you and they came to understand that a little privacy wouldn’t go unnoticed. You affectionately called Yoongi, Hoseok and Jung Kook the grumpy one, the loud one and the cheeky one respectively after their distinct personalities. Yoongi was the most reserved out of the boys, preferring his own company and solitude than be with other people, yet he held a soft spot for the boys and his other friends, Seok Jin, Namjoon and Jimin who came round occasionally. His job as a sound engineer took up a lot of his time and most of your conversations that you had shared were often at night, yours fuelled by insomnia whilst his was fuelled by caffeine. Hoseok had been overbearing at first since you were an introvert but you came to accept that his brightness was for the benefit of others as much as it was his natural personality. His affection for his friends was heart-warming at the very least. It was him that you often talked to after a fight with Taehyung (and unbeknown to you Taehyung had been speaking to him as well) as he opened your eyes to Taehyung’s perspective of things that, in the heat of the argument, had been unable to comprehend. And lastly, Jung Kook had tried of course to flirt with you, his play boy persona coming through, but when you immediately shut him down he had quickly given up to your amusement. Since then he often came for you for advice when his hyung’s advice had failed or were outright ridiculous (stating that he needed advice from “a women’s perspective”) or came to you to request a specific recipe for you to try out in his drunken state, his bunny smile irresistible.

Six months since you “moved in”, you were now lying next to your boyfriend, joking about the prospect of marriage despite it being an unspoken promise you had with each other.

“I have to go.” You groaned, remembering your meeting you had lined up with Min Ha, one of your old co – workers who had recently found out his boyfriend of a year had cheated on her. And then had the cheek to blame her. Dick.

“I’m going to miss you.” Taehyung had sobered, realising that you weren’t going to see each other for two weeks due to winter exams, which would be spent cooped up in the library you were sure.

“I’ll miss you too.” You had answered just as quietly, your heart already starting to pound at the thought of not being with each other, something you had grown accustomed to. You’d fallen into the comfortable and familiar pattern of getting up late, making brunch (and keeping Taehyung away from the pancake batter), studying for a bit before going on a shopping trip which lead to late night walks along the river before coming home. Of course this had only happened for about a couple of days before you two got too lazy and broke to go out on your student budget (and you being insistent that you didn’t want him to pay for everything) but also you two having high sex drives, leading to sex almost every day and always falling asleep in each other’s arms to wake up with smiles on your faces at the view of another sleeping beside you. “I don’t want this to end.” You added softly, tracing absentminded patterns on the small of his back.

“What if it doesn’t?” Taehyung blurted out. His own eyes widened in shock as well before he smiled.

“What are you implying mister?” Your heart had been beating in trepidation, wondering where the conversation would go to.

“I want you us to move in together Y/N.” It was a small whisper, as if Taehyung was unsure. But he wanted you to. He wanted that perfect image of you bare feet and pregnant one day and moving in was the first step. In truth he had wanted this since the beginning, since he had saved you from the boring guy, but knew it was absurd to suggest anything too quickly, knowing that you had to face your own insecurities as well. But now? Now he was ready and he was sure that you were as well. He was in a stable job as an art curator whilst you were now studying for your masters. He was also ready – that he was certain that he didn’t want to wake up to any other person next to him.

You looked at him, trying to discern whether this was a joke or not but Taehyung’s expressions were serious as your eyes widened whilst a slow smile spread across your face. “You want me to move in with you?” Your voice broke slightly near the end, you imagining the fact that your boyfriend wanted you to move in with him. You also knew how much he valued his space with the boys, saying that they were the much needed escape from the adult life of bills to pay despite complaining about the moans of women that he heard often. (You had debated whether it was coming from Yoongi’s or Hoseok’s room; you had betted on Hoseok, Taehyung on Yoongi. Both had been wrong when you woke up to Jung Kook’s girl coming out to the kitchen the next morning to grab some whipped cream with a wink. Yoongi made a disgusted look, Hoseok had complained about how the youngest could get some whilst he couldn’t and Taehyung complained that the youngest was no longer innocent.)

“Positive. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life Y/N.” He kissed your nose. “With one exception maybe.”

“Which is?” You asked, coking your head.

“To make the bare foot and pregnant thing come true, it makes me feel all warm on the inside.” The grin practically radiated to his honey like voice and it was impossible not to smile.

“Warm and tingly… that’s how that all starts no?”

“What things?” Taehyung gulped, feeling warm as you moved to sit on top of him, moving your hips to create friction.

“Making a baby starts with something warm.” You smiled devilishly as you placed a trail of kisses down his neck and down his chest as you inched to the hem of his shorts. Taehyung couldn’t do much except gasp softly when he felt your teeth hook the band of his shorts before pulling them down. It was when he felt your lips on his semi – hard flesh that he smiled, biting his lips as he thought that he’d never been so happy in his life to wake up so early on a Sunday morning. You figured that being late by half an hour wouldn’t kill.

“So, is it a yes?” Taehyung asked, leaning against the doorway as he watched you put on your jacket and boots.

“Huh?”

“You never actually answered my question about moving in.”

“But you never actually asked.” You chuckled, wrapping your scarf around your neck to hide some of the hickeys Taehyung had left last night. Or that morning. You couldn’t remember and they were both equally as red at that moment.

“I did!” He retorted, his voice going up an octave at the unfairness of your accusation before he furrowed his eyebrows thinking, “Didn’t I?” Honestly, the events of the morning had clouded his memory.

“You just implied it Tae.” You chuckled, placing your bag on your shoulder as you snaked your arms around his waist as your arms ran up and down his arms. It was automatic that Taehyung put his harms around your waist, kissing your forehead before holding you closer.

“Oh,” He agreed. He didn’t even know if it was right but he agreed nonetheless. He had learned the hard way that you were always right. “Okay, well then… Y/N will you do me the honour of moving in together?”

“I’d love to Tae.” You grinned, sharing a secret gaze that both of you used, both full of warmth and love as you tip – toed up to kiss him.

Taehyung couldn’t help but puff his chest out a little and smile more widely himself, “Well ok then.”

“Okay then.” You repeated, smiling. “I’d better go before Min Ha kills me for being late but I’ll text you when I get home.”

“It’s not too early to look online for places right?” He grinned, knowing what he would spend his Sunday doing.

“Never. I’ll text you later. I love you.” You grinned, hugging him one last time before calling the elevator.

“I love you too.” He smiled as he shut the door as you left.

“So can I get hyung’s room? It’s a double and mine is a single which is uncom-“

“Hey, I haven’t even moved out yet!”

#bts fic #taehyung fic #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #bts writing #bts fanfic #taehyung writing #established relationship au

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justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog · 5 years

Text

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

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catalystcrisis · 6 years

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Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Spirit Healer, City Elf | Elves/Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford/Mage(s) Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Original Female Character(s), Eve Surana, Female Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus Additional Tags: Healer, Spirit Healer, Slow Burn, Rivalmance, blood and guts and revivals oh my, Medicine, Medieval Medicine, Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, like the slowest of burns probably Summary:

"Some call the Circle a prison - that can only breed resentment. Perhaps opportunities to work outside the Circle? A mixed military service, or healers' clinics with templar support." - Cullen

This fic is his idea brought to life. Skyhold is crammed with refugees, pilgrims, an army, and a sunny Inquisitor who flings herself at Venatori and dragons with her reckless companions at her side. There is no way the Inquisition can mend itself and defeat Corypheus without a resident spirit healer.

Cullen just wishes that she were grandmotherly and doting. Not ridiculously young, mouthy, and unrepentant whenever he catches her stealing military scarves to use as bandages. And she'd better stop saying "Maker's gilded spank paddle!" or he'll shut her mouth for her.

(A big thank-you to my Discord DA fanfiction writing groups! You're all amazing and I'm so thankful for your help!)

Notes:

Hello readers! Thanks for popping in. I know you want to get to the fic, so here is a quick rundown:

This fic is mainly told from a spirit healer's perspective, which means that there will be descriptions of injuries, diseases, and bodily fluids throughout the fic. It will include 'medieval medicine' which is prevalent in Thedas (ie. humorism, leeches, amputations, bloodletting, trepanning, etc.) but it will also incorporate some modern aspects of medicine, so while it may get a little jumbled, I hope it will make sense eventually. This fic isn't meant to be the most accurate history of medicine (I mean, it's Dragon Age), so please bear with my creative license. Feel free to write a comment or DM me if something is unclear!

This is a slow-burn rivalmance. Feed the flames with comments! Please?

Chapter 1: The Alienage and the Ex-Templar District

(You can read chapter 1 if you click below!)

"See here, Eve? How you can feel a rounded firmness - no, use the pads of your fingers, not the tips - there, feel it now?"

Eve held her breath against the sweet smell of rot, knowing that if Nessa spotted a shudder that she would get an earful later. Gently, she edged around the work table and obediently used her fingers to locate the lump under the patient's grimy, whiskered jaw. Just to the side of a muscle was a pea-sized spongey node.

The man hissed in pain and jerked away, cupping the side of his face so just the tip of a pointed ear stuck up above his hand. "I'm so sorry," Eve sputtered, hiding her flushing face behind her long black hair and twisting her hands behind her.

"S'alright da'len," the man muttered, trying to smile but grimacing around his swollen jaw instead. "I just need to grit and bear it."

"Hmm, well, gritting will only make the tooth rot feel worse," Nessa mused. She deftly coaxed the man's mouth open and lifted a candle to illuminate the inside of his mouth. "Eve, how can we tell that it's tooth rot and not an ear infection?"

"Umm," Eve said, trying to ignore the sounds of a spirited foot race outside. It sounded like her friends from the thieves' guild were out there racing the all the alienage children. "His tonsils and ear drums aren't swollen or red, no change in his hearing, and no pus found, thank the Maker."

"And what are the cardinal signs of a localized infection, Eve?"

Eve, who was edging to the clinic door, stopped in her tracks. "I can't remember," she muttered to the dirt floor, tamping down on the guilty twinge at the lie. She curled her bare toes, hoping Nessa would just dismiss her in exasperation.

"Tsk. I taught you better than this and Maker knows I've dragged you to see more than enough infections since you showed up at my door," Nessa said imperiously. There was an undercurrent of steel beneath the wry amusement in her crisp tone.

Even surrounded by mismatched furniture and tools cobbled together from odds and ends, Nessa was regal in the daylight streaming in from a nearby window. She sat on her patched clinic stool like a shem noblewoman - no, as if she sat on the Ferelden throne, a sharp light glinting from brown eyes stamped with crow’s feet. The man dutifully held still in her hand as she surveyed her apprentice with an expectant look.

Eve straightened and crossed her arms. "And they have all been disgusting," she declared. A prickle of pride glowed in her chest - her voice hadn't wavered that time.

The man winced and Nessa pursed her lips in a disapproval. "While that was true for some - most - of them, that is not a cardinal sign and your rudeness will cost you latrine duty for the week," Nessa said coolly, boring her eyes into Eve'. "What did I tell you about treating patients, yourpeople , with respect?"

"Oh, it's alright, she's just a child-"

"A child old enough to know better," Nessa said firmly over the man's protests, fixing Eve with a look that made her feel like a flea-infested nug.

"It'd be easier if infections and the pus weren't so gross!" Eve protested, knowing that she should shut her mouth like Nessa was always after her for, but she was right - infections were horrifying, and the smell ... she was just telling the truth.

"Well, don't get any high hopes for the future," Nessa said, "you are the child of an alienage surgeon. Your future won't be full of gold and candy. More of the pus and guts variety, I suspect."

Eve curled her little hands into fists. She was frustrated . She'd just learned that word that week and that was what she was. Frustrated of being cooped up in the same shabby clinic day after day with its never-ending line of sweating, coughing, puking patients that looped around the Vhenadal all the way to the outskirt fence penning the alienage in the city. Frustrated of standing on aching feet, as hour after hour she would hand over a tool Nessa needed to fix the patients or look at a particularly stomach-turning piece of anatomy that Nessa would present for inspection. Frustrated of having to trot at Nessa's heels as they paid house calls to particularly sick elves who would inevitably be stewing in their waste by the time they got there while the other alienage kids ran and played past them, or ran messages for extra coin from the thieves' guild. Not that she was mistreated by Nessa, not like some of the others or those who served in shem houses, but it was hard to live with the formidable woman.

Heat boiled into her cheeks and she glared as sharply as the costly scalpels Nessa used in her surgeries. Then I wish I'd been left on someone else's doorstep! Eve thought fiercely, wishing she could say it all out loud and hating how calm and expectant Nessa looked, as if she knew and it didn't matter .

A beat of silence stretched, then two. Only the somewhat muffled sounds of a crowded alienage pressed in through the thin walls as Eve glared then dropped her gaze. "Swellingheatrednesspainlimitedmovement," Eve spat out quickly. She sent a small pair of tongs skittering across the table to Nessa then bolted out the door.

Then, because she had what Nessa called ‘an unrepentant need for noseyness’, she hid around the corner. A low whistle drifted through the swinging door. "Thought for sure that she'd do something stupid and curse you til she was blue in the face," the man’s voice said. "What a fiery little troublemaker. And what spooky eyes. Must've rained and stormed the night she was born."

A short sigh followed. "Well, she was left at my door nine years ago, so I couldn't tell you," she heard Nessa say dryly, "but let it never be said that I raised a dumb bunny. Now, close your eyes, open your mouth, lay back and think of Andraste."

Evening settled down into the alienage, the dust quieting as families retreated from the deep blue shadows into the warmth of their shabby but cheerful kitchens. Eve loitered under a ratty awning, tugging the hem of her threadbare shirt higher to cover the colorful bruise she'd earned in her latest roughhousing match from her messenger friends. If only Nessa would let her out more; she'd be able to keep up with them and learn how to do more than just slip out of an attacker's grasp. She could learn to return the blows, learn how to wield a dagger with her eyes closed, slip by Nessa's watchful gaze with the stealth of a black cat. Then maybe she'd be able to join the thieves' guild one day and become one of its infamous Fangs.

She jumped when the door to the clinic opened and shielded her eyes as a bright light pierced the gloom. "Is that my loving and respectful aid?" a familiar voice drawled. "Will the Maker never cease his miracles?"

"I'm sorry," Eve blurted to the dirt without preamble. Even as she’d raced and scuffled with the other alienage kids, she’d felt guilt for leaving Nessa and the patient behind in the clinic. Nessa was the best surgeon of the alienage and deftly cared for patients too complex for apprentices, but what if she needed Eve for something? What if a kid came in with tooth rot and needed Eve’ smaller hands? She hadn’t been able to shake the guilt, even when her friends were teaching her how to dodge a flying kick. "I shouldn't've been rude to the carpenter. I didn't mean to make him feel bad. I know it's worse from a surgeon."

A thoughtful pause. "Why?"

A crimson flush flooding from the collar to the tips of his pointed ears of the bedbound patient flashed through her mind's eye, red in his chagrin and mortification. It'd been the first time Eve had felt such strong waves of nausea and pity at the same time, warring with each other until she could school her face into the semblance of calmness that Nessa wore all the time when she pretended to not notice these things. "Because," she said slowly, looking up, "we're there when people feel their worst. And they need us to help. It'd be worse to ask honestly for help when you feel weaker than nug piss and the surgeon told you to nob off because you stink."

Nessa's dark eyebrows had steadily climbed her forehead, the corners of her lips twitching. "That's- Maker's furry nut- I mean, for Maker's sake, where did you learn-" Nessa heaved in a breath then seemed to count silently to ten like she was after Eve to do. "Next time the guild kids start that talk, I want you to stuff your fingers in your ears or I will clean your mouth out with soap," Nessa threatened firmly.

Eve nodded, biting her lower lip to keep from grinning. She was about to offer to make dinner when Nessa hoisted her traveling satchel higher on her shoulder and instead blurted, "Where are you going?"

"Hmm? You know where I'm going," Nessa said absently, now adjusting her cloak and checking the oil supply in her lamp. "I go there every other week, for Maker's sake."

Eve didn't want to say anything that broke the bridge they'd just repaired, but a cold tendril of fear snaked around her insides. "You shouldn't," Eve said, "not alone. I can go with you-"

"Da'len, you are shaking in your boots - well, if you ever actually wore boots," Nessa said dryly, swinging her lamp to light the cramped alley. "Eat the stew and make sure the fire is put out by the time I am back."

"Nessi, no, I'm fine - I can do it!" Eve insisted, feeling like a baby, using her nickname for Nessa while clutching her fists against her sides and trying to stop the quivering. She knew that she was glistening with sweat in the amber lamplight and didn't care because Nessa could not go alone. "You can't go - not with those, those things . They're crazy!"

Nessa's face vanished in shadow as the lamplight swung in the breeze, obscuring her expression. But her voice sounded thoughtful when she spoke again. " That ," she murmured, "is precisely why I need to go. They may be crazy, but they gave their lives to the Chantry and that blasted dwarf dust they keep begging for. The People are not the only ones who suffer, and we have not forgotten - just as we will not forget others who suffer."

"But, but they're shems," Eve protested, rooting around her frazzled mind for a good enough reason to keep Nessa home and safe, away from the walled-off district full of emaciated wandering humans out of their mind with madness. She sometimes glimpsed their shivering, rail-thin figures hunched beyond the fence separating the grungiest streets of Denerim from the alienage, bloodshot eyes roving; their enraged shrieks and wails for lyrium scared her more than anything. "The Chantry have sisters, don't they? Can't they help? Or pay healers to?"

Tapping came from under Nessa's oiled leather work cloak, a sign of impatience. "You know as well as I that the sisters only know basic remedies," Nessa said tartly, then muttered under her breath, "wouldn't know the difference between an umbilical hernia and a pregnancy without checking the genitals, but I'm not the Revered Mother, thank the Maker." She continued in a somewhat more dignified voice, "And you know as well as I that nothing can be done for lyrium withdrawals, not even with the magic of a healer. And who has the gold to waste for a lost cause? No, better to be eased a little with some headache draughts and focusing solutions than die alone in complete agony."

She wasn't going to stop trying until Nessa stopped using that adult voice and listened to her. "But they don't care about us so why-"

"Who came and put down the abomination in the Banal'ras district last month?" Nessa interrupted.

Eve bit her lip. "Templars," she muttered, hanging her head.

"That's right. We were able to help the injured People thanks to those 'shem' templars whether or not they wanted to kiss every single elf in the alienage. Now, get back inside and not another word out of your smart mouth or I will put you to work with Cyrion."

Help Cyrion fuss over every single human, elf and dwarf that entered his house and listen to him haggle with them over things like 'trade agreements' and 'taxes'? Eve squirmed on the spot, watched Nessa take a few brisk steps down the alley, then ran to catch up before her courage ran out. "I'm coming with you," she declared, hopefully with as much conviction as her hands were shaking, "you can't talk me out of it even if I have to work for Cyrion for days."

"Is that so?" Nessa mused, lamp swinging away to reveal dark glittering eyes and a small furrow between her brows. "Even if the 'crazy' ex-templars start raving?"

"Yes," Eve said stoutly, hiding her hands behind her and summoning every ounce of determination in her nine-year-old body.

She waited on a knife's edge, trembling between wanting to go with Nessa and wanting to run inside the steamy warmth of their home until Nessa finally gave a curt nod. "Get your boots and your bag," she ordered in a tone that brooked no arguments. As Eve scurried inside to obey, she heard Nessa mutter, "and I hope your sticky-fingered friends in the guild teach you how to lie better."

Eve clopped along behind Nessa’s trailing cloak, trying not to trip on the patched leather boots that she was still growing into. The further they walked from their clinic by the vhenadal, the more cramped the dirt roads became with piles of filth and the buildings teetered higher and higher to accommodate the poorest of the alienage. Jagged bricks and hungry eyes gleamed in Nessa’s lamplight as they neared the gap-toothed fence on the outskirts of the alienage. Two tall silhouettes loitered by the posts, their armor glinting in the lamplight set behind them.

“Hello there,” Nessa called in a carefully neutral tone. Eve was suddenly struck with the need to drag Nessa home by the cloak as a distant moan carried through the blackness beyond the light. Was it too late to turn back?

“I am Nessa Surana, and this is my daughter,” Nessa continued, “we are here to help the ex-templars.”

The human closest to them peered down at them from under his helm with eyes rounder than any elf’s. “Help? Riiight… You know that the crazies don’t have anything worth stealing even for you rabbit-ears, eh?” he asked suspiciously. “They’ll have lost it or traded it for dust by now, and they’re howling at the moon tonight. Best to stick to your side of the fence-”

“Trenton, that’s the elf surgeon from two weeks ago.” Another armored human walked up and peered down at them, the lamplight throwing his acne scars in sharp relief. “You here to try and get them to shut up again? We won’t say no to that.”

“They aren’t supposed to,” a new voice interjected from behind Eve. She almost jumped into Nessa as a redheaded elf dressed in battered leathers suddenly stepped out of the shadows with a scowl. “They’re supposed to be home letting the shems take care of themselves.”

“As are you , Shianni,” Nessa said, looking unperturbed. “You’re going to worry Cyrion being out so late and I don’t need him on my doorstep first thing in the morning.”

“And who’s this?” the guard with the scars asked with his hand on his sword hilt.

“No one you need to know, shem,” Shianni sneered with a hand on her hip. At thirteen, she was four years older than Eve and starting to blossom into womanhood. The new swell of her hip emphasized the wickedly curved dagger hanging from her belt. Despite herself, Eve felt a stab of admiration at her courage against the large, towering humans.

“This is my niece,” Nessa said as she swept the youth under an arm. Eve could see Nessa’s fingertips pressing into Shianni’s shoulder tightly. “She is a demure flower who likes to keep her opinions to herself and is always polite to strangers,” Nessa continued, “because otherwise, her aunt will tell the nice guards about that time she ran through the alienage stark naked-”

“I don’t care if you do,” Shianni sputtered, flushing as red as her hair and trying to squirm out of Nessa’s grip. “And anyway, I’m only here because you shouldn’t be out alone and uncle Cyrion agrees with me-”

“Look,” the other guard interrupted, “I don’t care who you lot are or who your aunt or uncle or fourth-removed humpback is. What do you want with the crazies?”

“We want to help heal them,” Eve said when Nessa and Shianni started to argue again.

The two guards instantly took a step back and raised their shields. “What, like magically?” the scarred guard asked.

“No, thank the Maker,” Nessa answered swiftly. “None of us are apostates. We are just surgeons, seeking to help ease the old templars.”

“Well, she’s the surgeon,” Shianni said, pointing at Nessa’s bulging work bag full of draughts and surgical tools, “best one in the alienage and the brat’s her apprentice. I’m their messenger.”

The taller guard glanced at her dagger and the hard look in her eyes. “Messenger. Right. And I’m King Cailan,” he said.

“Just let them through,” the scarred guard said, elbowing his peer. “The Chantry doesn’t look out for them enough after they leave,” he muttered to the elves, “five gold bits and a thank-you doesn’t pay the bills for long or buy enough lyrium for the rest of their blighted lives. It’d be more than what the Chantry does if you could make them feel better with your potions and whatnot.”

The other guard snorted. “Softie.”

“Thank you,” Nessa said gracefully as they passed, leaving the guards to bicker with each other.

Past the fence, the dirt road occasionally winked with shards of broken glass. The muddy puddle Eve stepped in crunched oddly, and she was suddenly grateful to Nessa for insisting on her wearing boots. She didn’t fancy walking around on bleeding feet, forcing glass shards deeper and deeper into her flesh with every step. Then she’d get an infection - probably the nasty kind that turned the skin green, then black and foul until the toes shriveled and fell off… she shuddered and tried to peer beyond the small circle of light the lamp threw off instead.

Skeletal remains of burnt buildings loomed out of the darkness as they passed, broken walls yawning with shadows. Cloaks and jackets propped up on sticks lined the dirt roads as well, sometimes with feet or a hand poking out from underneath. Eve stifled a yelp when the makeshift tent they were passing emitted a high-pitched scream and immediately glued herself to Nessa’s side.

Shianni scoffed, her hand on her dagger as they passed another tent with a pair of bare feet covered in sores sticking out. “You should tuck tail and run home, bunny,” she said, “don’t know why you’re even here, not being a full surgeon or a healer to help at all…”

“Eve’s been really helpful around the clinic,” Nessa said with a warm hand on Eve’s shoulder, “and she’s mostly been good with her studies. Not so much with infections, however.”

Eve flushed a little even as her eyes jumped from tent to tent. “I wish I could heal magically,” she said, giving voice to a persistent thought she’d been having, “so I can fix everything and people won’t hurt anymore-”

“No,” Nessa interrupted. Eve flinched as her fingers turned into claws on her shoulder. “No, da’len. Be glad that you aren’t mage-touched,” Nessa continued in strained voice, “they can turn into abominations in a moment, then tear apart a building and its people in a blink.”

“I wouldn’t become an abomination if I were a mage,” Eve said indignantly. “Or use blood magic. I know better.”

“Well, thank the Maker that you aren’t touched with magic,” Shianni said, “or you’d be shipped off to a Circle, like Neria. Then you’ll vanish when the templars take you in the night, never to see the alienage again.”

“That’s enough,” Nessa said sharply. “Eve hasn’t shown a single sign of magic and that’s how it’ll stay. How else am I going to retire as an old lady? As if your uncle hasn’t enough grief with his only child gone. And enough talk of blood magic, we’re getting up to the right tent-”

A roar made all three of them jump and the lamp clattered into the mud. Shianni scrambled in front of Nessa and Eve with her rusty dagger thrust out as something erupted from the tent right next to them and roared, “BLOOD MAGIC?”

At first, Eve thought a scarecrow had been possessed and brought to life. What froze the scream in her throat was realizing that the black pits carved into the scarecrow’s haggard face were in fact sunken sockets with only a pinpricks to hint at burning, roving eyes in their depths. Greasy, matted grey locks hung around hollow cheeks and dirty skin hung in wrinkled drapes off the bones. What Eve realized to be a painfully emaciated old human staggered to his feet, waving a roughly sharpened tent pole in Shianni’s snarling face while clutching a fist to his breastbone.

“You looking… sacrifices?” he shouted, waving the stick and they all leapt back another pace. “ABOMINATIONS?”

“Hugh, no!” Nessa shouted, raising a beseeching hand toward him and holding Shianni back with the other. “My name is Nessa, do you remember me? I gave you the headache draught two weeks ago when you were feeling bad.”

Hugh jumped at his name, then swayed on his feet as he peered at them with a bloodshot eye. “Nessa?” he mumbled to himself, his fetid breath and quick, jerky movements making Eve mince a step back. “Feel bad… all th’time. All the time. Not abomination? No… not Nessa. Circle prayers start in an hour. Must ready… things. Headache… yesterday?”

“It was two weeks ago, Hugh,” Nessa said soothingly, trying to shake off Shianni and Eve as they tried to pull her back to the gate. “I brought more for you-”

Shianni and Eve cried out as Hugh suddenly dropped the stick and hauled Nessa to him by the arm. “You have it?” he asked fervently, the tip of an open sore on his nose almost touching hers, “you have the lyrium? I need my next dose, knight-captain, I’m burning on low and I found a little yesterday - day before yesterday? Monday? But it wore off fast and I got a wildfire in my head and I need it -”

“Hugh, listen to me,” Nessa coaxed and Eve could hear a note of desperation in it. Nessa threw a warning look at Shianni and continued softly, “Hugh, my name is Nessa. I’m here to help your headache. It’s in my bag - would you like some?”

Hugh swayed and blinked slowly at her as Eve discreetly scrambled to find the right potion in Nessa’s satchel. “Nessa…? Surgeon?”

“That’s right, Hugh,” Nessa said. “I have this headache draught for you. Best to drink it now.”

Hugh stared emptily at her, then relaxed his skeletal hands. He grabbed the bottle Eve offered without really looking at her and swigged down the red concoction as Shianni tugged Nessa back behind her.

“My thanks, Mother Christine,” Hugh said brightly, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet and trying to tuck his stick at his waist like a sword, seemingly unaware that he was wearing nothing but a long, holey tunic. “Best thing for a growing boy like me, need all the food I can get. All this trekking up and down the tower in full armor tires me out like nothing else. Well, maybe not as bad as drill. These mages better appreciate the view, eh?”

“I hope they did, Hugh,” Nessa murmured sadly. “You should get some rest.”

“Not a bad idea, Mother Nessa,” Hugh croaked, turning to peer up the line of makeshift tents. “My room… over here. I’ll see you at morning service. Good night, Mother.”

He bent to wrap a ratty blanket and the lamp threw a ridge of shadows down the knobs of his spine. As Hugh laid down on the dirt and made himself comfortable under the blanket, Shianni and Eve stared at each other, then at Nessa who was rapidly blinking wet eyes.

“We aren’t done yet. Come, he’s usually just along here,” Nessa said briskly, scooping up the lamp and heading past a few more tents towards a burned-down lean-to. Eve lingered, staring at Hugh’s shiny balding pate and at the small glass vial cradled in the hand laying by his whiskered chin before hurrying to catch up to Nessa and Shianni.

Nessa was crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall with Shianni standing guard at her back. In the corner of the lean-to lay a shriveled husk on its side, even more painfully thin than Hugh. This man - who was probably an ex-templar - had sparse hair, neck and limbs stiffly bent inwards, and if it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of his ribs Eve would have thought Nessa was paying her respects to a dead man. His crusted eyes didn’t even flutter when Nessa murmured soothingly to him, trying to coax him to swallow the drops of a draught that she’d poured into his mouth.

“Nessa,” Shianni hesitated, for once looking like a young teenager as she watched her aunt work, “I don’t think… will that even help? He looks like he’s going to…”

A muscle jumped in Nessa’s jaw as she abandoned the draught and instead tucked the patched cloak the man was curled under more firmly around him. Eve quietly kneeled beside her and helped. “Yes, he is on his way to the Maker,” Nessa agreed.

“Then why bother?”

“Because no one should die alone like this,” Nessa said. “The Chantry uses up their youth and dedication, then kicks them out when they can’t keep the delirium at bay. You saw Hugh - and you’ll see more, here. They all end up here eventually, without a copper to their name and begging for the demon dust even if it’s what got them to this stage in the first place.”

“Don’t the sisters come here?” Shianni persisted. “They should help-”

“But they don’t,” Nessa said, her voice laced with contempt. She laid a soothing hand on the man’s shriveled fist, the skin covered in old scars. “The withdrawal leeches at their sanity. They forget the most recent events first… how they got here, where they are, where they pawned their sword. Then they forget people - family, if they ever had one. Then their name. Then they forget how to walk, talk… how to eat or drink. Sometimes they remember certain things, but once they forget how to do bodily things… it isn’t long, after that.”

Eve’s eyes burned and she choked down a shuddering breath, patting the man’s cool skin unseeingly. She swiped at her eyes and was surprised to see Nessa watching her, a warm light in her own. “Do you see, da’len?” Nessa asked. “This is… we can’t leave others to a fate like this. Even if they don’t have pointed ears. It’s never a competition to see who has it worse… we must help, if we can.”

Watching the man gasp shallowly through chapped lips, Eve couldn’t help but agree.

#first aid worst aid #chapter 1 #tw: dementia symptoms #eve surana #nonquisitor #spirit healer

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 6 years

Text

Bend You, Break Me

Summary: Recovery had never seemed like a longer road. You’re more than happy to help Neal, but as his injuries sink in, it’s hard to watch him start to bend under the pressure of reality.

Warning: This story is about the aftermath and healing process of a character after being attacked and seriously injured. There are no graphic descriptions of injury, however the physical and mental ramifications of such an event are explored. If this may upset you, please be cautious and read at your own discretion.

Words: 6,302

When you got the call, you had been looking for your phone. You only just found it before the call was sent to voicemail. At first, you were happy to see Peter’s name flashing on the caller ID screen. Then you saw the text you’d gotten from him, the notification still up at the top of the screen, declaring a 9-1-1.

You rushed to the hospital, running down busy New York sidewalks and nearly getting hit by a car once when you rushed out into the crosswalk before they’d completely stopped at the light. All you could think about was getting to your boyfriend. Without all the details, you weren’t sure what had happened, but anything that put him in Mount Sinai couldn’t be good, and you were terrified that his ridiculously good luck had come to an end.

“Where is he?!” You burst into the reception, treading snow from your boots onto the floor. The Latina woman behind the counter was wearing pink scrubs and talking to another, curly-haired ginger woman sitting at the computer.

The woman in pink raised a hand to motion for you to calm down. “Miss, you’re going to have to lower your voice,” she said, politely but sternly. “Who are you here for?”

“I’m family of Neal Caffrey!” You exclaimed urgently, barely able to keep your voice below a shout. You pleaded silently that they wouldn’t make you prove kinship before they let you in. Neal didn’t have any verifiable family. His best friend didn’t exist on the grid, and because you weren’t married, you had no legal claim to him.

“Neal Caffrey is-“ The redheaded receptionist started to tell you.

The nurse cut her off. “Y/N Y/L/N?” She asked, startling you with your whole name. You swallowed and nodded rapidly. She gestured for you to come towards the side of the reception desk, which she walked out from behind. “I’ll need to see some ID, but Agent Burke said to let you in.”

You fumbled to take out your wallet and handed her your driver’s license. After she compared your harried appearance to your photo, she gave it back to you and indicated that you should follow, leading you past the triage station and deeper into the hospital.

It felt like you were moving way too slowly. You kept trying to look for signs, figuring out where she was taking you, so maybe you could glean what had happened. When you saw a sign for the trauma ward, your heart nearly stopped, until she took you down that hallway and to the left instead of the right, and the nearest sign said you were actually headed towards the orthopedics part of the hospital. Your heart stopped skipping beats, but still pounded anxiously.

The nurse stopped outside an open room. You looked in quickly, saw the pacing, brooding FBI agent, and didn’t even give the pink-clad worker another glance before rushing inside.

Peter turned around when he heard your footsteps. Worry lines were clear on his face and his mouth seemed set in a deep frown. “Y/N,” he said in relief, yet the visible concern didn’t let up.

“How is he? What happened?” You didn’t stop to say hello, just went towards Neal’s bed. As soon as you saw his face, you felt like a crushing weight had been removed from your chest. He had a bruise on his jaw, but it wasn’t a very bad one, and he wasn’t even intubated. He was able to breathe on his own. You leaned down and pressed a very gentle kiss onto his forehead. “I’m here, sweetheart,” you whispered.

The next thing you did was move to take his hand. You loved holding his hand. Neal loved holding yours. You’d spend hours watching TV or lying in bed, holding hands, his long, graceful fingers entwined around yours. You stopped when you saw the very thick bandages around his hand in a stiff cast. A slow look to his other side showed that his other hand was hurt, too.

You shakily touched his upper arm instead. A part of you was sickened and glad that you hadn’t gotten here before they’d wrapped up his injuries. You were scared of how bad it was and weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.

Peter had watched you come to these conclusions and see for yourself the results of the latest case gone awry. He looked so damn guilty and concerned for Neal. It would’ve been so easy to blame him. He was Neal’s agent, he was supposed to protect Neal from things like this… but you also knew that Peter did his best, and he would never let anything happen to Neal on purpose, and no matter how angry you were, you needed to direct it at the person who deserved it, not the person who was easiest to use as a target.

“They made him as a forger,” Peter explained, quietly. “So they thought they’d…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but you didn’t need him to.

They made it so he can’t forge.

You stroked Neal’s arm and bent down again to kiss his forehead, checking his temperature and squeezing your eyes shut. It helped to keep back the tears you could feel trying to well up. Neal wasn’t just a forger. He was an artist. And having his hands wrecked might actually be more hurtful than if they’d just shot him like Collins had.

There was good news and bad news.

The good news? The suspects hadn’t gone nuts and gotten hammers or knives involved. They’d just done some good, old-fashioned slamming and pushing. Neal’s injuries were all fully treatable and the doctor expected him to make a full recovery.

The bad news was that Neal asked about the level of dexterity he’d have once his hands were healed to the extent of medical ability. The doctor was a bit less certain about that. It turned out that when doctors say “full recovery” about things like broken bones, they mean full functionality, not that it’s necessarily entirely reversible.

And then came the news that one of the breaks in Neal’s dominant hand was more complex than the others, and extra stress put on it could make the damage worse before it had the chance to heal. The doctor very highly recommended that Neal consent to a minor surgery to have a couple of corrective pins inserted. Neal balked at the idea of having pieces of metal stuck in him without a clear extraction date. Peter wanted him to get the surgery, but because it wasn’t strictly necessary, he didn’t have the ethical or legal right to demand that Neal go through with it.

“Please, Neal.” You said softly, giving him your input for the first time. The doctor had just left the room after being paged for another case, and Peter had stepped outside to call Elizabeth and update her on the situation.

Neal glared at you. His eyes were red and his face was a bit pale. “I’m not letting them do it, Y/N.”

“Why not?” You asked, exasperated. You wanted to be understanding and sympathetic. And you definitely were both of those things, but only to an extent. “Love, what’s the worst that can happen if you do? Even Christie’s told you, you should have it done. It’ll keep the damage to a minimum.”

Neal pursed his lips and darted his tongue out to wet them, looking down at his lap, furious and bitter. Since he’d woken up, he had been struggling with the indignity of needing help to do just about anything, not to mention the mental torment you were sure he’d been in over possibly losing his abilities to make perfect recreations of various artworks.

“What’s the worst that can happen if I let them put pieces of metal in my hand, Y/N?” He looked up again to lock eyes with you. His were burning with anger. You kept your gaze steady and soft, sad but not backing down. You genuinely believed this was the best thing for him to do. “What if I never heal back to normal? What if I can’t move my fingers like I’m supposed to? What if I can’t be as precise? That’s basically my entire career!”

“Hey,” you said sharply, just to make him listen, and when his angry façade broke down into one of insecure fear and pain, you reached out to his thigh and gently rubbed his leg. “Neal, I know those are all possibilities and I know they’re scary. Believe me, I know.” You had to pause and swallow before you started to let yourself cry for him. “But beautiful… it’s more dangerous not to. The damage could triple if something happens. And I know we say we’ll be careful, but how can you be sure you won’t accidentally put too much strain on yourself?

“Are you really going to spend the next four to six months, lying down in bed, not doing anything? You have to at least get up to use the bathroom and change clothes. What if you trip? What if you tense up and that’s enough to do it? What if you bump your hand on the furniture? Love. Please. I know it’s awful and I’m so sorry you have to handle this, but please hear what I’m saying. The worst-case scenario of having pins is much better than the worst-case scenario of refusing the surgery.”

After a moment, Neal sniffed. Your shoulders fell and you picked yourself out of your guest’s chair and resettled on the edge of his hospital bed. The blue-eyed man’s breath caught and he made a small, gasping exhale.

You reached out for him and Neal leaned forward, putting his head down on your shoulder. “I’m scared,” Neal admitted, letting himself start to cry and hiding his face against your shirt. “I’m so scared, Y/N. I never even thought this could happen. I didn’t think I deserved this. I’m so scared.”

You stroked his back, reassuring him as best as you could, as was your privilege and honor as his partner. “You don’t deserve it,” you promised him, nuzzling your cheek against his hair and holding him tenderly. “I’m so sorry, love. I know you’re scared. I know it hurts. You’re not alone, Neal. I’m not leaving you alone. You’re going to be okay.”

Neal took everyone’s advice and got the surgery. You know you helped persuade him to make that choice, but you’re also infinitely grateful that Mozzie weighed in his agreement. Neal was kept in the hospital for another night, and released the next afternoon. Before leaving the premises, you first went with Neal and Peter to see a physical therapist, who very carefully fitted Neal with better, firmer casts and slings. He was kept in soft but stiff wrappings so that they could make sure x-rays showed improvement before putting him in plaster.

For the first few days, you managed to trick yourself into thinking Neal just had a really bad case of the flu. You called in a few medical days at work and stayed with Neal to take care of him. The post-op meds ran out after a couple of days, and you switched him to the painkillers prescribed by the first doctor. Neal slept a lot. When he did wake up, it wasn’t for long, and he wasn’t very lucid. You made sure he drank water and orange juice and fed him small meals, alternating between low-salt crackers and El’s homemade soup. Trying to change his clothes without jostling his arms was way too difficult, especially when he was so fatigued and uncoordinated, so you gave up on making him wear a shirt. Neal was too out of it to care.

The worst part was definitely keeping up with his hygiene. You didn’t mind helping because you loved him and knew he needed aid, whether he’d ask for it or not. Yet the indignity of the situation wouldn’t stop rolling through Neal’s head whenever he was thinking clearly. He protested fiercely against having his hair washed in the sink and having sponge baths on a chair in the bathtub, but he couldn’t wash himself and he wasn’t allowed to get the casts wet. He hated having a shadow on his jaw, but he couldn’t hold anything steady enough to draw a straight line, much less run a blade over his face, so you had to do that for him, too. You found that no matter how compassionate you were, any attention to it made his cheeks burn in humiliation, so you stopped talking about it and it just became a routine.

After he started getting weaned off the strong painkillers, things got harder for both of you. He was in more pain on a regular basis, and although he was more lucid, you weren’t sure that wasn’t actually a curse. With more time spent awake, he had more time for it to sink in that there were a lot of things he couldn’t do without assistance, and many that he couldn’t do, period. Once two weeks had passed, Neal was cranky and sullen, but what bothered you most was that he was quiet. Your boyfriend was grateful for the company and would never take out his frustrations on you, but you would’ve preferred for him to be snappy and snide than so quiet. You knew when he got like that, he was locking himself in his head, going around and around in circles about how he should’ve fought back harder and protected himself, or about how he might never be able to use his hands like he used to again.

“Hey, honey?” You said softly, sitting down next to him in the bed. His hair was fluffy from being towel dried and smelled faintly like his shampoo, and little drops of water were still fading from the pillow where you hadn’t quite gotten all the dampness out before putting him back to bed.

Neal recognized your tone and tried to curl in a little. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He muttered defiantly.

You bit back another sigh. “Promise me we will soon,” you pleaded. This was hard on you, too. The uncertainty was making the future look bleak, and although you knew that Neal would be able to heal and regain full ability to care for himself, you were getting frightened that he would be a lot different from the man you’d fallen so deeply in love with.

His artistry was super important to him and although you didn’t want it ripped away, you had to admit that there was a degree of inevitability that his talents would be slightly hampered. And even a slight hamper would cause imperfections. And an imperfect forgery would never pass. Part of his own self-identity was in the balance, slowly but almost inevitably being taken away.

Neal must’ve heard the upset in your voice because he swallowed but nodded his head down on the pillow. “We will,” he replied, again quiet and again desolate. “I promise.”

You slid into the bed behind him and curled up against his back. Carefully, you wrapped your arm around him and let him use the other as a cushion for his head. “I love you,” you reminded him, kissing the back of his head reassuringly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I love you, too.” He didn’t hesitate to respond. “Everything you’ve done… Y/N, thank you. I’m so sorry.” The embarrassment was getting to him again.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m here for you.”

A month passed since his spirit had been cracked in the hospital, and you took him right back to the orthopedics ward. June was very kind and went with you to help manage transport and moral encouragement. Neal went in for x-rays on his own and came out looking a little pale, probably from the weight of the heavy protective apron over his hands. The doctor came to see you a little over ten minutes later with copies of his results. He then sent you both along to the physical therapist, who was cheerful that Neal was healing as well as could be hoped, and cut off the temporary casts. You massaged Neal’s shoulders softly while he had plaster casts put on, but you didn’t know what you could possibly say to distract him from the sight of his hands. The swelling had long since gone down, but there remained some light bruising around his knuckles and fingers.

When you took him back home, Neal was beside himself.

“You only have to wear them for a couple months,” you said, trying to look on the bright side. “Then you can start to just wear braces. And work on regaining dexterity.” That was the point you knew Neal was focusing on: flexibility, dexterity, and strength.

“That’s just wonderful, Y/N, thank you,” he shot back at you sarcastically. “I only have to wear molded casts for two months.”

You sighed. “I don’t know what else to say, Neal,” you admitted, frustrated. It seemed like you were less and less helpful to him, and that bothered you. A lot. Sure, you were still an invaluable physical support, but he was turning from emotional vulnerability to a shield. You felt like you were being left on the wrong side of that shield. “Yeah, life sucks. This is awful. But it happened, and the best we can do is work with what we have, okay? And this is what we have.”

The loss of your patience triggered the loss of his, and you flinched back when Neal swiped his left arm over the kitchen counter. A glass of water, a flower vase, and a bottle of his prescription all went flying to the floor. The glass and ceramic shattered. Luckily, the pill bottle stayed locked closed.

“Ah-!” Before you could shout at him for his hostility, Neal was doubled over by the counter, holding his arm close to his chest protectively, his face screwed up in pain. You sighed. He’d hit something, probably one of the heavy breakables, with his cast.

You picked your way over the glass, thankful to still have your shoes on, and walked to him. You wrapped your arms around him softly in a dainty hug, letting him keep his arms cradled close to his body while surrounding him with as much warmth and comfort as you could. The sharp, cruel reminder from the pain was probably ten times more effective than anything you could’ve said, anyway.

“I don’t want to have this,” Neal shuddered and spat through gritted teeth.

“I know.” The fight, the stubbornness, and the spirit drained out of you and you just rubbed his back, your other hand across his chest and on his shoulder, keeping him close to you. Neal lowered his head to place his forehead on top of your hair, breathing raggedly. “I don’t, either,” you murmured.

Neal stood in your arms without moving or saying anything for almost a full minute before you felt something light and warm hit the top of your head. His tears fell into your hair and you felt your heart breaking a bit. You refused to believe he was broken, but you could see the bends and the dents and the scratches adding up.

You ended up feeling like Neal’s personal maid and sometimes that made you feel sour. You did everything. You changed the sheets, you washed clothes – you helped him dress. You did the cooking, you did the dishes, you did the cleaning. You even sat with him and did the writing and typing parts of his job. Now that he wasn’t on hospital-strength painkillers, the bureau was back to demanding that he be useful or else go back to prison. Peter was pissed about it, but there was nothing he could do.

You never felt too bad for yourself for very long, though. You may have been doubly busy and juggling an unfair load, but while you were inconvenienced, Neal was in hell. Unable to do even the simplest things on his own was a nightmare. You had broken your arm once, in high school, and although the first couple of weeks had been hard, you had still been able to brush your teeth and pick up a bottle of water on your own.

He could move his fingers just a little bit, but doing so hurt for the next several weeks. Later on, he was able to wiggle them, but couldn’t move against the cast over his hand or he’d go pale from pain. More and more, he was able to move, albeit without coordination, and although that made you feel better, it only seemed to egg on his frustration. Sure, he could move, but he was clumsy and weak. In his mind, that was even worse than when he’d been too injured to move his fingers at all. “It was better to just be injured than to be handicapped,” he’d muttered at you angrily once, and although you wanted him to stop thinking that way, you didn’t know how.

Biweekly trips to the physical therapist were added to your planner. Each time you went, the therapist seemed happy to see you and she always offered chocolate. First, she’d send Neal to be x-rayed. Then she’d assure you that he was healing correctly and at a good pace. You took the x-rays when she offered them because it was better than her setting them on the table where Neal could see the outlines of the pins in his hand. Next, she’d have him do various motions, or rate his pain and discomfort on scales while she touched him. Then she’d renew a prescription for a synthetic, safe narcotic, the dosage of which was going down with every trip to CVS, and send you on your way.

In truth, the appointments were the best days for you. They were humiliating and emotionally agonizing for Neal, but you got to go be told by an expert that your boyfriend was healing, that he was going to be okay.

They were the worst for Neal. After you dried his hair and helped him put on pajama pants, you tucked him in bed and kissed his forehead. He kissed your lips quickly but didn’t seem very interested. You made sure that your shower was quick and within twenty minutes, you were in warm fleece, joining him in bed and scooting close enough for your thighs to touch.

“Honey,” you said, haltingly. “I think it’s time that we talked.”

Neal lifted his shoulders defensively. “What would you like to talk about? How I’m going to have to find a new career? How I’m not as useful? How I can’t be an artist?” His voice rang with loathing and self-deprecation.

“Hey,” you tried to soothe and rubbed his leg. Gently, you wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and to your relief, Neal leaned into you instead of shrugging you off. “Baby, listen to me, because you need to hear it. Maybe you can’t forge. Maybe you can’t make replicas. That doesn’t make you useless, and it doesn’t wreck your life. I don’t know as you’ve forgotten, but you’re a lot more than just a forger.” It certainly added to his portfolio, but he was still a world-renowned thief and conman, not to mention that he had a wide range of varied skills both physical and intellectual that didn’t require minute accuracy of motor skills. “And you’re still an artist. As long as you make art, you’re an artist, and sweetheart, I’d hate to see you give up something you love just because you can’t apply it to crime anymore.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then Neal murmured, looking down at his hands and flexing his fingers in a little bit. He winced. “They took something away from me. Something important.”

With your heart crying for him, you kissed his temple. “I know, love, and I’m so sorry. But you are a lot more than just your abilities, however impressive they are, and it hurts me to hear you talk like you’ve lost everything.”

“I haven’t lost everything,” he acknowledged, bowing his head and re-extending his fingers slowly. “I still have you.”

You nodded. “That you do.” You punctuated it with a short kiss. “You have every right to be upset. In fact, I encourage it. But be upset for the right reasons. Be upset that it hurts. Be upset that they harmed you. Be upset about everything you can’t do that you need help with, and how the indignity must feel. Be upset about having to wear itchy casts, or about it taking a long time to heal, or yeah, how you can’t forge things like you used to.”

Sounding miffed and indignant, Neal lifted his head and looked at you skeptically. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?!”

You laid your hands very gently over both of his and continued, looking into his eyes meaningfully. “For everything you have to be upset about, you have things to be happy about, too. You’re alive. You’re healing. You can’t forge, but you can do just about anything else. I know it seems bad, but it could’ve been so much worse. You’re alive, and you’re safe, and you’re going to be okay.”

The artist sighed and looked down. He tossed his head a bit, drawing up his shoulders and making an uncomfortable face. Recognizing the gesture, you lifted one hand up and rubbed at an itch on the back of his neck for him. He relaxed and let his shoulders fall before leaning his head back onto your hand trustingly.

“Y/N,” Neal slowly started to say. You knew this couldn’t be easy, but you hoped you had struck a chord. “I owe you so much. I couldn’t do this without you, and you didn’t have to stay, but you did, and I – thank you.” His voice seemed terse, strained, and you knew that on paper it may not have seemed like an impressive show of gratitude, but you could hear all the sincere love and thankfulness in his voice alongside the chastened pain and unease. It was hard for him to talk about it, but you appreciated that he had.

Intimately, to go along with the vulnerability that he was offering, he tilted his head down to rest his cheek on your hair. You cupped his head to hold him there for a second, promising it was okay, and then rubbed his back while cozily snuggling up at his side, putting your head on his shoulder so you could both rest.

“You don’t owe me anything. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The words fell from his lips without hesitation, and they were layered with the same gentle adoration and honesty that they’d always had.

Your worries about your relationship faded that night. It was only one of many talks that you had to have with Neal to keep his spirits up and keep him from making both of you miserable, but for the first time, you were reassured that even if he was a little more jaded, he was still the same man you’d committed to.

Three months after the incident, Neal had his plaster casts cut off. Everyone was very excited for him, and you, Peter, El, Diana, Jones, Mozzie, and even Hughes and June treated Neal to lunch at his favorite restaurant. Then you drove him to his appointment, where you watched as Neal’s tensions eased in his shoulders when he saw his hands again.

The bruising from when the casts had been put on had gone away. You couldn’t even see proof that there had been serious damage to begin with, which seemed to pleasantly surprise him. You supposed that the pins probably helped keep things in place in his right hand, and since he’d been rushed to the hospital almost as soon as it happened, they had been able to set and hold everything as well as possible.

“I almost look normal,” Neal mused. It was one of only a handful of times he’d spoken with his old tone of confidence and flippancy, so you smiled and teased.

“Almost. There’s still a little something on you that’s a dead giveaway.”

“And what’s that?” Neal asked, raising his eyebrows. There was a mirror over the sink at the rinsing station, so he could see there wasn’t anything on him.

You just made a general gesture to his head and playfully replied, “Your entire face.”

Neal feigned offense and the physical therapist laughed and smiled. This was the best mood she’d ever seen Neal in. He picked up his right hand and grimaced when he fully extended his fingers, quickly lowering it and curling them back in.

“Oh, stop that,” the therapist scolded. She had on glasses and her bun looked messy and left loose strands falling around her neck. “Muscles are attached to bones, and you have to be careful how much you exercise them. Not only did you get a number of fractures on your metacarpals, capitate, trapezium, and hamate in that hand, you’ve hardly moved it for three months. It’s not just your bones that need to get used to moving again.”

Neal seemed like he hadn’t considered this, but when he was told that there was nothing actually wrong with the muscles and he’d regain full use of those, he settled. You rubbed his shoulder supportively as you were given a brief run-down of the fractures in both of his hands and how they were doing. They were all either in the beginning stages of ossification or were already healed, though still fragile.

After that, she gave Neal a pair of braces to wear. They fit his hands snugly and went up to his fingers. She warned him to be careful with his fingers exposed, but said that the fractures on his proximal phalanges had been mild and that as long as he used common sense, he would be okay. She also mentioned that anything that was bad for his fingers would definitely be worse for the rest of his hands, just to make sure that he behaved.

Then she offered you a tool for physical therapy. After showing it to you, she talked you through putting it on Neal so that you could help him at home. It was very simple. He opened his hand and you attached the Velcro around his brace so that the small, lightweight box sealed to the strap rested in his palm. From the box came a retractable string with four rings on the end, one for each of his fingers. There was a small dial on part of the box that adjusted how hard it was to pull the string. Neal would use it to retrain his muscles in handling the stress of motion. He went through a few repetitions and although he winced, he did them without a hassle.

By the time you were sent home, you felt like you could’ve skipped your way back to the car. Even Neal seemed like he was in higher spirits, which made you feel even that much lighter. He was allowed to lift and move things as long as he was careful, wore his braces, and watched how strenuous he was. If it didn’t hurt, he could lift anything about the weight of a full bottle of water.

Things at home changed drastically in just a few hours. Neal didn’t help cook dinner, but he used his own silverware and carried his dishes to the sink on his own. His braces could come off for short periods of time, so he took them off to shower. You showered with him just in case, but he took care of himself. After drying off, you helped him put them back on, and he combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and got his own clothes on without trouble. (He reluctantly agreed not to shave himself though, at least until he had more motor control.) He was even on his phone before you went to sleep. It was like Neal had regained all of his confidence and energy. You supposed it must’ve made a huge difference to get the casts off. Just the other day, he couldn’t hold anything much larger or heavier but a pencil, and he couldn’t do anything with said pencil while he held it. Today he could do a lot to take care of himself.

The next day, Neal was awake first. For a second when you woke up alone, you panicked before you heard music playing. When you sat up, you saw Neal sitting in his favorite chair, holding a pencil with a sketchbook on his knee. Sleepily, you smiled. He looked incredibly frustrated, but twice as determined.

He saw you looking and gave you a small smile. “What you said, about being an artist?” You nodded briefly to confirm you remembered. “They took something away, but I won’t let them take this.”

You beamed at him and pushed your messy bedhead hair out of the way. You stretched, got out of bed, and padded over to his chair, where you planted a proud, loving kiss right on his lips.

A year after the undercover op from hell, as you’d secretly dubbed it, Neal was deemed as healed as he was going to get. Even the worst of his fractures showed more-than-decent remodeling, and he no longer felt pain when he flexed and stretched, or held his hand flat and tried to push his fingers into his palm.

True to his word, he didn’t give up on art. He practiced for hours and hours every day on simple things at first: pencils, pens, first just drawing basic shapes but then moving on to create pictures of every day objects, and people, and places. He had talent and muscle memory helping him out, but after three months of not doing anything, there was a learning curve that was evident in his sketchbooks. After he felt his new works compared to his old capabilities, he graduated to using other mediums.

When he was given the all clear to stop wearing his braces, he started sculpting. Although he preferred painting, he said that in some ways, sculpting required more depth perception and spatial recognition, which was good practice for him, as well as exercised his hands and helped him improve on dexterity.

He also started to try forging things. You rolled your eyes and gave him permission to try forging your signature. He managed it after a few times. When it came to painting… that was different. There was more detail in painting than there was in writing. They seemed beautiful and flawless in your eyes, especially the more recent recreations he’d produced, but Neal was quick to point out the things about them that wouldn’t pass upon an inspection by someone who knew what to look for.

He was downcast, but he took your words to heart about being an artist. He signed his recreations with his real name and sold them online, listing them as recreations instead of originals so everything was legal, and used the profits to buy you a lovely jewelry set and take you out on a date. It was subtle, but you noticed little things about his attitude that showed you Neal had refocused his priorities. Maybe it was the only way he could handle what had happened, but he said he was alive, he still had his passions, and he still had everyone he cared about. You could tell he’d been forced to mature quite a bit.

In regards to the bureau, Neal continued to pull his weight and then some. It took a bit of nudging, but he realized he had plenty of extremely marketable skills. As an expert on art history and authentication, Neal didn’t lose much of his credit where work was concerned. (It’s not like the bureau was ever going to commission him to make a forgery, anyway.) He took on a few cases where he translated between languages. Peter also started passing him cases that reminded him he was just as useful as any actual agent, and perhaps more so. Mathematics, literature, music, history, and philosophy were all fields Neal was well-versed in. And, of course, he continued to work his marks undercover and on the streets.

At home, you couldn’t have asked for better. Neal kept a couple of his x-rays and you didn’t know why, but you didn’t think it was too important. What mattered was that he was healthy, and he was happy, and he was safe. He asked you to officially move in with him once you’d grudgingly admitted to yourself he no longer needed you living with him for caretaking purposes, so you officially shared an address and you loved it. You enjoyed cooking together, having extra time with each other, and, of course, getting to continue sharing a bed every night. The end of his time on the anklet was approaching, and you’d even started to tentatively outline plans for a romantic, whirlwind getaway in Europe to celebrate his upcoming freedom.

In the hospital, you had been terrified for him. After he was discharged, you’d started to fear that his hands weren’t the only things damaged. To your absolute delight, you hadn’t lost him. You’d led him back to himself again.

Oh, and the jewelry he’d bought you? The necklace was a heart-shaped locket with a photograph of the two of you inside, and the front was engraved.

To My Darling

You were my guiding light in the darkest time of my life.

I love you, now and forever, with everything I am.

A/N: This was hard for me to write, because I've never done anything like this before, but I loved the prompt so I had fun! I did take a slightly different writing approach and focused more on narrative than on dialogue in many instances.

I am still accepting requests!

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voulezvous-rpg · 6 years

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Congratulations, Rhine! You’ve been accepted as your original character, The Kingpin — Lysander Seo, with a face claim of Lee Jong Suk!

A man of god, with a god complex, who’s actually the devil himself. I’m in absolute awe of Lysander — his ruthlessness, his insatiability. He’s exactly the kind of villain I love seeing around, and I’m thrilled to have another antagonistic character joining us on the dash. This club is already breeding ground to a handful of dangerous players, so I’m very excited to watch how Lysander interacts with those who might be gunning for similar thrones. Whether he does end up building that network of his, or if you veer him straight off the deep end, I can’t wait to watch what happens. Welcome, both of you!

OOC name: rhine pronouns: she/her age: 20 timezone/activity: est & pretty active! I can usually do all my replies once or twice a week if I’m not too busy that week and I’m generally always lurking to plot and whatnot :)

IC character group: patrons character title: the kingpin name: lysander seo fcs: lee jong suk pronouns: he/him age: 29 occupation: drug lord how long has your character been at the moulin rouge? – as a patron, probably for about 1-2 years? though he might’ve passed by or dealt to people in the moulin rouge since he was about 18. how did the fire impact your character? – he mostly uses the moulin rouge as half-business, half-leisure – it’s a place where he doesn’t necessarily actively work, but where he builds connections with other patrons and gathers information on what’s happening throughout the city that could impact him. the fire would’ve deprived him of such networking and intel for a short period of time, but it likely isn’t his only source for such things – it would’ve been a nuisance at most, though its re-emergence has him both curious and weary of how its aftermath could help or hinder him.

biography – tw mention of drugs, killing, death, blood perhaps it is not fitting for the boy to wear a cross around his neck.

(for all the bodies fallen to the ground, for all the widowed women and fatherless children, all the life sunken out of cheeks and tears from eyes, how he barely bats an eye on bad days and smiles on worse; son of god, he’ll say, cold metal hanging around necks, returning angels to heaven dusted with powder like snow)

(for all the prayers he has kneeled in respect towards, for all the sunday masses and weekly liturgies, all the remnants of holy water on fingertips from a childhood of repentance for things that have not yet been done, how he bows his head in confession but does so in silence. forgive me father, he’ll say, communion still under his tongue, for I will sin again tonight)

(and priests can say nothing about the packages hidden in donation boxes, about guns between the pews and boy-devils who wear silver crosses around necks, as if mocking, eyes unblinking and smile as sharp as a knife when he genuflects towards the cross behind the altar, when he leaves with a promise to be back again next sunday)

he never misses a mass. somewhere there is a priest still behind the grates of the confessional, trembling.

when we are unsure of where the boy hails from, it is easy to give the answer of hell.

perhaps he was born from the underworld itself, he likes to joke. says that’s why he came back to rule it. to take it as his own.

but that comes later, of course. in the beginning, there was just a baby in the snow, cheeks red and silent despite the cold, features built from cities far, far away from paris – another land he does not know, no one has to say, for the boy has never fit in with the other blue-eyed blonde-haired little boys at the orphanage. skin like snow and hair like ink and far-travelling merchants would say the boy was carried from the silk road itself. doting nuns will say god has carried him over seas for reasons not yet known. one day, the spirit, the light, will show you a purpose for being here with us, mon lis. god will help you understand.

shaking priests will say the devil carried their demons here, for another city already lies in ruins. god save our souls.

but you must know that if we trace history to the only origins we know, the boy is perhaps not born, but raised in a church. it is as close as we can get when his blood does not hail from the parisian soil.

a quiet, bright thing, nuns and caretakers would say. a handful of trouble with his skinned knees and crooked smile, twigs in hair and dirt on cheeks at the age of eight, smoke on tongue and smile that even god could forgive by eighteen.

devious, they have said since the beginning. how could we not see this coming?

he is a quick-fingered, straight-spine thing that never misses mass, that always comes in with his best sunday wear perfectly ironed, never a minute late. the boy carries trouble like a middle name, fond nuns tut after morning prayers. but he is a good son, still.

(here is where people will say only one of those things is true. here is where we must emphasize that both statements still hold, near eighteen years later)

(for all his sins, the boy is still devout, even if it is mocking)

the lines between good son and troubled thing are blurred still, and we won’t know exactly how it began, only that it did.

that there is a boy whose long fingers and easy grin make it easy to pass small packages between quick brushes of gloved hands in dark alleyways, that there is a boy who grows into a tall man whose calloused palms makes it easy to press skulls up to brick walls when payments aren’t made. that there is a boy who has no problem dipping his fingers into holy water as he leaves the church before coating them in blood when uncooperative customers hiss filthy orphan on blood-cut lips.

(we are not sure, we are not sure. perhaps they saw him in the corner of the streets one midnight, boy of fifteen and beat for merely being a tossed-out thing from countries away, eyes red and knees knocking. perhaps they pitied him, or perhaps they saw how he fights back, all teeth and elbow, all howled rage on bruised mouths, taking hits to break bones afterwards)

(likely the latter, one can guess. either way, there are men who offer him ice and teach him how to pull thread and needle through skin, who tell him that they’re looking for boys who can take hits but throw punches better, boys who know back-alley shadows and daylight-patrols equally well. boys like him, street things the closest we’ll get to the wild in the city. street things with nothing to lose)

they offer him a job. he takes it.

(it is a mistake, it’s too late to say. the boy will end up killing these men in a few year’s time, rip them open so that their needles and threads can’t hold spilling guts in – )

(but that comes later. for now, they clap him on the back and cheer as he nods in agreement, not knowing they let the devil in)

we will skip past this for your sake.

we do not remember the days of when the boy was nothing but a runner, a dealer, a guard, growing lean and scarred from fists thrown and bloodstained money collected. we do not remember the day he left the church and had a place of his own in the heart of the underworld, where he could feel the city bleed itself dry every night only to revive itself again in the morning.

(we do not remember the day he returned to the church and claimed it as his own, some five years later, guns and sealed bags in tow, asking for a place of mercy, looking into horrified eyes and saying how he remembers the house of god is not to deny anyone of shelter should they come seeking it)

(you monster, holy men half-sob, half-scream. you dare defile a place of worship like this?)

(you foolish man, devil-born boys smile back. you dare go against the word of a god like this?)

we do not speak of how there are multiple hells in this city, that there is not only one king, that he is not the only man who plays judge, jury, and executioner with a single word.

but there is only one who controls no nightclubs, no bars, no back alleys. there is only one who has ownership of the docks the day he gutted a man like a fish and left him hanging after a late shipment from the lands and the seas that the boy supposedly came from. there is only one who has claimed churches as his holy ground, as his base, threading packages through a system of donation boxes and confessional grates.

(mon lis, nuns weep. what happened to you?)

(I understand now, boy-turned-king whispers behind stained glass windows. god’s call for me. is that not what you wanted?)

we skip past the days where the boy learns the power of addiction and turns it into worship. how ports start to turn their favour from old bosses when new bosses appear with an allegiance that is forged from days of running; how he runs no more. how blood is just as adequate as handshakes when signing contract deals.

(boy rises, dethrones old kings with their severed heads in his hands. they had called him a traitor, a bastard boy for betraying a system that has took him in, taught him all he knew since he was a scrawny teen. do you forget that we own this city, own you just because a boat or two has turned to your favour?)

(boy dressed in red from the men he called fathers and brothers, exhales smoke and smiles to terrified new runners, tells them to spread the news that old kings have fallen, that a bastard boy now sits on the throne. tell them to get used to it)

and so, we skip to this:

orphan boy turned troubled thing turned street-wild runner turned suit-wearing monster in between pews.

boy turned king. turned god, even.

(there is enough of a blood sacrifice on his hands to consider it so)

we wait for gods to fall, cheer when they stumble three times with their crosses.

we forget that some are born below the ground. that in such cases, there is only space for them to rise.

potential plot points – !!! I would love to see him actually have some character regression?? he’s cautious but ruthless but if there was a chance for him to somehow keep on pushing himself & get stuck in his god complex and just end up destroying everything for himself by trying to be/do too much, and lose sight of the carefulness and completely veer off into the deep end – I’m here for it??

+ alternatively, him growing more refined & expanding his business and working with a lot more different people would be interesting? he’s not good with working under orders but has never played with partnership or comradery and I think that’d be something interesting to explore for him too!

#accepted #accepted: the kingpin

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, C! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE DEVIL with the faceclaim of MAHESH JADU. Getting to read your application was truly -- genuinely -- a gift. A treat! A joy! You touched on everything I could have wanted in an app for The Devil, from the way their body is in need of constant repair to how at its core, their loyalty is selfish, but selfish for a reason that is so incredibly human it makes you want to weep. Wraith (what a fitting name) embodied a terror, I think, befitting a spymaster, and I fully believe that they are good at what they do. I both empathize with and fear their power. I think your exploration of the void as a concept was also fascinating, and I was so happy to see you take it into your own hands and make it yours! You’ve done me a great service by letting me get to have you and them on the dashboard.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC NAME: C PRONOUNS: they/them AGE: 27 TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST; my activity is pretty consistent—I’m around on Discord most of the time, and I will generally do all of my replies 3 times a week or so ANYTHING ELSE?: this group looks so wonderful! I’ve been longing for a good fantasy rp and this is so well done, so thank you!

IN CHARACTER SKELETON: the Devil NAME: Wraith ( among a half-dozen others. It’s not so much a name as a quick referent, a summons. they don’t need a name to answer when called. they had a real name, once, years ago; they don’t remember it anymore. a name their mother gave them, a name their mother spat into the ground. not the name of a child, but the name of a well-honed, well-balanced blade. they gave it up, when they went to court. it was a split-second decision, when the king asked them their name, and instead of giving the one that someone else had branded them with, they answered: my Lord, I am nothing but a wraith ) FACECLAIM: Mahesh Jadu (backups: Sacha Dhawan or Mena Massoud - though I would age the character down to 28 in Mena’s case) AGE: 35 -- ( it’s old, for an inferni; there’s no reason they should be alive anymore by all accounts, but Wraith’s magic isn’t quite as actively destructive as that of many inferni. still, it would be a lie to say the magic isn’t taking its toll. it has called in its dark favor from them time and again: first, three fingers of their left hand, now empty space; then, a part of their jaw, reconstructed for them by a court necromancer out of someone else’s bone; these days, it isn’t so much that parts of their body are going missing as their very material form seems to take longer and longer to take shape each time they move, and sometimes it is as if they aren’t anything more substantial than dark smoke unfurling, as if they themself are slowly being consumed by the void they fall through again and again. ) DETAILS: The thing that fascinates me most about The Devil is the way they seem to have traded one cage for another, one wielder from another, doing the same thing at the hands of a different master. “You are not an animal . . . You’ll show her just how beast like you can be.” There’s a layer, there, of absolute self-denial, a kind of self-obliteration in the pursuit of their vengeance. There’s something very pragmatic about them, very focused: the position is a tool, too, not something they delight in except in what it gets them. I feel like “spymaster” characters are always written as characters who delight in gossip and the abuse of information, but the Devil is such a refreshing change from that trope, in that way. I also love the complexity of their feelings about Septimus: an acknowledgement, that he is a fool, an understanding that he is a bad leader, perhaps even an understanding that he deserves to be overthrown, and yet a deliberate allegiance to him in the moment because it serves them, because it grants them power in a way they crave that power. I think there’s a sense, in that loyalty, that it is better to be an animal caged by the kind of fool who forgets to latch the gate at night; there’s a sense that if it came down to it, they could outsmart Septimus and escape him, a deliberate choice to serve a master they could overpower if they needed to. That’s what makes the difference, between their mother and Septimus, between serving one over the other: they feel that with Septimus, they are really the one in control. BACKGROUND: ( trigger warnings: sexist slurs, abuse, injury, body horror ) The first time they fall, it is an accident. Schoolyard bullies have them cornered—they’re scrawny, for their ages, and their mother is alone and poor, the kind of woman to whom vicious gossip clings. What about you? one of the kids asks, bigger than them by nearly threefold, and reeking. Are you a whore like your mother, too? Let’s see what you— One moment, the kid is in front of them and the next there is nothing but black, a void around them, empty of everything, utterly. Of light, of beings, of sensation. Of time. It feels like they are falling for an hour, but when they hit the ground, ten feet behind the boys who were cornering them, smoldering slightly with thick black smoke, it has been less than a second. Time accelerates, then, as if to make up for it: there are screams of fear, looks of terror, and the next thing they know they are choking on the ground, their mother’s hand gripped around their throat. What did you do? What did you do and how did you do it? They can’t answer her, they don’t know. They’ve never known magic before, never done anything but fear it before. Time accelerates again, between each jump, each fall. The moments between the void blur. In the void, they feel grounded in their body. When they land, they feel detached. They press into small corners, fold their body small, overhear what they can. They report back. Some days their mother cradles their hair, rakes sharp-nailed fingers through it until she draws blood. Some days she locks their door and leaves, an understanding between them both that if they fall, to get out, the punishment will be much, much worse. Some days they go without food, some days they are left so aching and bruised they can barely hang onto the rafters to listen. There are only two constants: one, that each day ends with information, shared to their mother, measured, weighted, judged; two, that the time they spend in the void, brief and silent and perfect, makes the rest somehow bearable. The crack, the split, the seam, the breaking point. It comes one day, as they are coughing blood onto the floor. Someone knows, she shouts. Someone knows about you, you filth, you rat, you traitor. Who did you tell? Who have you told? They haven’t told anyone; someone planted information, leaked deliberately within earshot, somewhere they shouldn’t have been. Someone had grown suspicious at how much their mother knew, how much power it afforded her, and someone conspired to use them to take her down. She beats them bloody, leaves scars they’ll bare for the rest of their life, but she forgets one thing, in her attempt to reign them in. She forgets, because they have never used it against her, that they can fall. They let themself spend hours, in the void, before deciding where to go. The cuts in their skin, the breaks in their bones fill, with the black smoke of it, as they float there, falling. Like a new womb, it wraps its cold smoke around them and births them anew. They don’t think they’re going to appear inside the castle walls. They don’t have to think. It decides for them. ( this is the part of the story that precedes them, the part that has already been told: a young inferni, barely sixteen, appears before the King, begs for entrance three times, one week upon the next upon the next. disappears in a cloud of smoke and returns with a blade of grass from Wyvern-Wing plains. returns with a hand full of the pink sands of the Eastern coast. returns with a midnight-blue flower from deep within the Volkan forest. though they only needed one, to convince him. when asked their name, they say my Lord, I am nothing but a wraith ) Nicknames come easily, when they forsake a true name of their own. Not just wraith, but others: raven, ghost, wolf, snake. It doesn’t mean anything to them; they are accustomed to being a beast. Their reputation for lurking in corners, unseen, leads at first to rapid mistrust, suspicion, extra precaution. Royals are no more secretive than ordinary folk, except that they have more resources, hold their secrets more precious even when they are as banal as all the rest. So the charm is something they have to learn, something they have to socialize themself to. Talented or not, no one can survive in court without learning how to talk the right way. They may not need charm, or gold, or anything but magic to get the information they need to please the King, but that does not mean that the rest of the court is as easily content. There are patterns to learn, rivalries to steer clear of, delicate spots not to aggravate; they are a quick study. It is the same survival instinct that saw them bend like a reed to their mother’s hand. Cross the wrong person, and you are as good as dead. And so they don’t. They make few friends, and make the illusion of many: trust no one, but give them all reason to believe they trust you. They learn, they work, they excel. Secrets no one should know. Priceless ones no bribe is enough to uncover. They spend their days shuttling back and forth between the court and wherever they need to do, compiling reports by day, hiding in dark corners by night. As constant as the cool embrace of the void. And then, one day, their magic has its first cost: they appear before the king and look to find three fingers missing from their left hand, only the thumb and index finger left. No scarring left in their wake, as if they were never there to begin with. Months later, it is half their jaw they leave behind, and though a court necromancer shapes shards of someone else’s bone into a replacement and seals it under their skin, it is then that they begin to wear the mask they grow infamous for—the new jaw may sit fine and prettily in their face, but it will not be the last piece of themself they lose to the void. That it means they rarely see their own face, inhuman to them and unfamiliar, with its new bone structure, is a consideration as well, but one they will not admit to. That it means they never glimpse the lingering furl of black smoke in their own eyes is not something they will say aloud. PLOT IDEAS: 1. What is the void, they think, but a manifestation of the Undying’s embrace? Some might think it heresy, but their quiet, private reverence, their silent faith is a comfort to them. The void was a womb, to them, reborn and cloaked in black. They do not adhere to the tenets of organized worship of the Undying, but they think of her as a second mother of sorts, a relationship far more personal than by all accounts they should. They think she holds them close, every time they fall. But this private zealotry, this silent dedication, might raise the hackles of those who find the organized worship of temples and priests the only true way to understand faith. It might cast suspicion on them, or make them enemies in high places they have no interest in placating. 2. Sometimes it takes several seconds, for their body to fully materialize after they leave the void. Sometimes, it takes days. Sometimes, lately, they walk around more ghost than body, black cloaks and masks the only thing giving them form at all. They are close, they feel, so close, to getting what they want, but there is a risk, razor-sharp, that they will disappear entirely when it is just at their fingertips. Inferni aren’t meant to live so long, after all, are supposed to burn out in chaotic destruction, their own bodies traded for the magic they wield. But other inferni have lived as long, other magic users have found ways to circumvent the cost of their gifts. And if anyone can find the ones who have, can learn how they have done it, it is the wraith who knows all secrets. 3. They have heard so much talk of coups, in the intel they collect, the gossip they confirm. It seems everybody wants to be a part of a coup, at some point or another. Revolutionary aspirations have never been their cup of tea. Their work shelters them; the King provides everything they need. But they stand as a valuable resource, to either side, and while they are loyal to their king now, it is not out of any love for man nor nation. It is out of a loyalty to power, a loyalty to access, a loyalty to usefulness. If they were to receive a better offer, if the tides were to shift, just so, if there was a way to assure that someone else could keep them alive… they could find themself falling to the other side, or at least playing the field for both. Their dedication to the King is dedication to a fool whose power serves their needs; that doesn’t mean the Hierophant doesn’t have a point about the way magic could be used. Hungry dogs are never loyal, after all, and though the King has kept them well-fed, some masters offer crumbs and others steaks. CHARACTER DEATH: I’m absolutely fine with the possibility of them dying, and I look forward to the idea of playing/plotting a new character to replace them if that’s the case!

WRITING SAMPLE It was dark, at the docks, sun long gone, and darker beneath the wooden piers, by the struts that held them up above the water. The waves were glassy and smooth, like tourmaline, the tide low, lapping below their feet where they hung, half-suspended, beneath the docks, mask pulled low across their face. Dark clothes, dark mask, dark gloves, tendrils of the void around them and still fading from the fall from the castle to here. There was a meeting. Supposed to be a secret, but they had heard tell of the time and place, the collaborators involved. They would have been there even if revealing themself had not been an option, but this time… there was a question, furiously turning in their mind: would they pull themselves out of their perch, step out into the light, let those involved see the mask on their face and know they were there? Or would they do as they were told, as they usually did, deliver the message back and be done with it? They had spent plenty of time spying in the docks before, tracking black market deals, watching bargains and trades, keeping an eye of the coming and going of not only goods but people. Who spoke to whom, who wanted what. It was easy to hide, here, plenty of small, dark places to slip into, not to mention that no one ever seemed to look down. But the docks were the place of commonfolk and petty nobles. Of those getting rich off illegal goods, or bribing others into silence. It wasn’t ordinarily the place one came to talk of a coup. And yet… They pressed their ear closer to the wooden planks, closing their eyes to block out every sense but sound, a practiced trick to hear even the lowest of whispers from their hiding place. That was what the conversation was about—or, no, it wasn’t quite. That was the problem, perhaps. Careful language, as if cautiously avoiding saying the kind of forbidden words that could foment a rebellion. But the voices were talking about Koldam, and if they’d noticed anything of late, it was that Koldam had become something of a code word. A signal, from one rebellious upstart to the next. They’d even heard it within the walls of the castle, in places they weren’t meant to be. There was a different tone to it, now, one that gave them pause: before, talks of revolution had been full of determination, boldness, grandeur. Yes, people whispered about it in shadowed corners, but they did so too loudly, and with alcohol on their breaths. This… This was different. Cold steel and careful rationality. Best-laid plans. And coming, not from disgruntled laborers or upstart nobles, but from people it shouldn’t be. They could have easily hoisted themself up, from where they were, onto the pier in one swift motion, but instead, they let go of the strut, plummeting to the water, and disappeared an instant before slicing through the surface, a measured dive into the void that left them landing on the pier above in a crouch. Mostly material. Close enough that no one would see, behind their mask, if they weren’t. Black smoke rising off of them like fog. “You might want to be careful what you say, talking like that,” they said, voice quiet but sharp and clear even through the mask. “You never know you might be listening.”

EXTRAS x. playlist x. pinterest board x. mockblog

#accepted #accepted: the devil

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rokurookajima · 7 years

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green gloves, oneshot

fandom: black lagoon summary: She misses having a drinking partner, which really, really sucks. / RockRevy, the melancholy nostalgia of humid night air that makes you think too much. Post-series. notes: i've literally put so much thought into revy's character throughout the series i love her so much. this is set several years after the end of the series (more than five years at least), so i tried to write the characters like they were a little older. or at least, how i assume they'd be? title is a song by the national, the atmosphere of that song encompasses that whole bittersweet nostalgic weird kind of feeling 10/10 vibes would recommend. but who knows maybe i'm the only one that gets that kind of feeling from humid summer nights. (disclaimed.)

green gloves

;;

falling out of touch with all

my friends are somewhere getting wasted

hope they’re staying glued together

i have arms for them

;;

She hears it every now and then, on the occasion that she actually goes out for a drink alone. It's the attempted whispers and not-so hushed tones of the Yellow Flag's usual types from behind their glasses.

Is that her?

The woman from Lagoon?

Revy flexes her fingers idly, rolls an unlit cigarette across the bar top. If she keeps her back to the voices, maybe she'll be less inclined to shoot them.

Not that she really would. Not now. At least not over so little; it would take a hell of a lot more than the drunken musing of retired mafia goons and hookers to make her waste the bullets.

But still. The commentary gets old.

"It is her—Revy Two Hands."

"You can see her guns."

"Whatever happened to her?"

She snorts audibly and knocks back a shot of Bacardi. "Good fucking question."

"That can't be her," one of the voices chimes in, and Revy can hear the cheap red lipstick in her shrill tone. "She doesn't have that guy with her."

The comment makes her bristle instantly. Her fingers twitch instinctively for the trigger. Even if the years have mellowed her temper enough to know better than to shoot up the Yellow Flag for less—which she has—, there can always be room for exceptions.

"Right, that businessman—."

"The Japanese guy—,"

"The cute one."

That's the it, the point where her glass clinks back on the bar top and Bao gives her a warning glare, his mouth loaded with the threats of violence he'll impose on her if she shoots anymore holes in the joint.

Only she doesn't reach for her Berettas. She laughs mirthlessly, for the spectators to hear, then slaps a couple of dollar bills on the counter and takes the rest of the bottle with her. It's not like Bao can do anything besides bitch at her for it, but then what else would be new?

She strides past the group, who all silence hastily and cower and stare at her with gaping eyes. One hand, the one that's not holding the bottle, rests imposingly on the grip of a gun, a silent warning just in case any of them have any more pointless words to throw in her direction while she leaves alone.

She misses having a drinking partner.

Which really, really sucks.

;;

Outside the bar is less appealing than inside. The night air is thick and humid; the kind that wraps around her bones and is somehow as chilled as it is suffocating. It envelops her entire body and makes her feel too heavy to move. She lights a cigarette and trudges through it anyhow.

It's late and she's tired, which she thinks is fucking hilarious.

She remembers a few years back, the night would've barely begun. Right now, she'd probably be getting hammered and playing cards at the church with Eda until one would pull a gun on the other, and in the morning they'd wake up on the altar, the sanctuary smelling of spilled rum and gunpowder, laugh it off, and plan to do it all again next week.

Or, she thinks bitterly, she would've been somewhere else, with someone else.

The cute one.

The girl's words echo in her mind, swirling around with the alcohol. She can just picture Rock's face if he'd been there—a blush blooming on his cheeks as he tries to play it off and on a good night, she berates him for it or on a bad night, she draws a gun on the poor girl.

On second thought, she doesn't want to think about it.

Instead, she wanders the streets of Roanapur, drinking Bacardi straight from the bottle, daring anyone who crosses her path to say anything.

It's been like this a lot lately.

The Lagoon crew's been out of the game for a while. First it was no new jobs, then it was new players who came along with new skills, and suddenly the four of them were obsolete. Or she was, at least.

Because Dutch had been working in Roanapur for years before Lagoon, and Benny has his computers, they're both valuable assets to anyone looking for skill.

Revy was only ever a gun (and there's no excuse for a fool with a gun).

Dutch still checks on her every few days, mostly out of habit. He makes sure she's not drinking more than eating. Which she is, of course, but one day she'll appreciate him for trying, maybe.

Secretly, Revy would kind of like to get old. Dutch reminds her of that sometimes, just being there with his wise words and taciturn demeanor. Not that Dutch is old. Just old-er. Just, probably, older than she'll ever be.

And yeah, it's kind of sad because Lagoon was the closest thing she's ever had to a family. A good one, at least. Marginally good.

The roaring drone of water falling pulls her out of her goddamn head for a second. She finds herself beside the fountain at the plaza, the one with the statue of a half-clothed woman posing valiantly at the top. Or she would be valiant if she weren't smeared with seagull shit, dripping down the sides of her head in white tracks.

Next to the noose out front, it's a damn good metaphor for the city.

Mostly, Dutch asks about Rock.

Good, she thinks. Great; she's thinking about Rock again.

And she thinks, why should she care how he's doing? Rock took his puppet master hero complex straight to the top and is pulling so many strings she's lost track. She's done her time worrying over him, keeping his evident death wish from ever actually claiming his life, never expecting anything in return for years only for him to forget that he would've died a hundred times already if it weren't for her.

Rock doesn't need her anymore.

Fuck Rock, she spits at Dutch through a mouthful of bitterness.

She could've left him in Japan—she should've. Let him life a nice quiet life in the suburbs with a pretty white-collar rich wife named Sakura and have white-collar rich kids that complain and cry all the time. Then maybe one day in fifty years, he can come back to hell and leave a marigold on her grave and see if she cares—

And then her bare knee is crashing into the stone edge of the fountain and, fuck, that hurts.

She glares down at it. The skin is scraped raw, already turning purple at the edges and red in the middle. A teardrop bead of blood oozes down over the white scar on her shin, from the sword, from Japan, from a lifetime ago.

Good, she thinks. Great.

She wishes he were here.

;;

Revy doesn't know what it is—the humid air, the Bacardi, or the stinging ache in her knee—that puts her on autopilot, the lights of the city blurring in a haze until she's shoving open the door of Rock's permanent motel room and stumbling over the threshold.

Why is she doing this why is she bothering what's the fucking point—

"When are you gonna lock your fucking door, Rock?" she sighs. There is no bite to her words.

Light from the hallway cuts across the floor between her heavy boots. The thin beam traces a line across the floor and the paper and empty beer cans. It climbs up the side of the bed. And it ends, slicing Rock's face in two.

One brown eye, the one in the light, opens sluggishly.

The door closes and the beam is gone.

"Revy?"

Rock is sprawled out on his stomach on the bed in the middle of the room.

She gives no response because he doesn't deserve one and also because she wouldn't have one anyway. Instead, the sound that fills the room is her heavy boots clunking on the floor where she drops them by the door. Her holster is next, shrugged off of her tired shoulders. Her berettas scrape along the floor before coming to rest by the edge of the bed.

Rock's eyes are on her, she can tell, level with her thighs and the bruise on her knee.

The now empty bottle hits the floor and then she is flopping down on top of him.

The bed creaks.

Rock gives a soft grunt on impact but doesn't complain. Good. She wouldn't care. Instead, he mumbles, "hi", voice muffled in between the pillow and his partner. Ex-partner? Ex-parter-ex-best-friend-ex-something.

There's another lag before a response, the sound of their mismatched breathing filling the room instead. And then-"Fuck you, Rock."

Then: "Hi."

She thinks it's funny, vaguely, how little the room has changed. The Hawaiian shirt she bought him all those years ago hanging on the wall still (why would he keep it, why is it still fucking here), in the midst of his hastily scribbled notes in his cramped business man writing.

Her cheek is sweating where it's pressed into the crook of his neck and Rock probably can't breathe and somehow it's all more comfortable this way.

The things she wants to say sting the back of her throat worse than rum ever could, but she can't even get the words right in her head, and god, it's late, and finally all that comes out is-

"You should've left."

Rock sighs. "Revy..."

Because she's said it so many times. It's something safe, something easy, something that comes spilling out of her mouth with no effort every time she has a feeling she doesn't want to have, doesn't know how to deal with.

"You never shoulda come here, Rock."

The words are weighted down with exhaustion.

How many years has it been?

Rock gives a kind of quiet laugh and replies, "You keep saying that, but I'm still here."

(I'm right here where I'm sitting, Revy-).

Rock says, "I'm not anywhere else."

He squirms under her, and she gets the message, and shifts her weight onto her forearms and knees enough to let him roll onto his back before collapsing back down again. His chin rests on the top of her head and she can feel his pulse on her cheek and it's familiar.

It's an unwelcome thought that goes involuntarily through her mind, of all the times the two of them have been in this same position, which isn't that many, but enough to make the feeling of his hand on her back a comforting one. The time she wants to think of the least, the last night in Japan, in a shitty motel, her skewered leg bleeding on the sheets.

"You wouldn't fucking need a gun there," she thinks, out loud, without realizing.

"Maybe not," Rock sighs again in that tired, tired voice. "But I need one here."

Her gloved hand tightens in the fabric at the collar of his shirt.

Maybe she's kind of bitter, maybe he should act like he still needs her if apparently they both know he does, maybe he should come back down from the top, maybe she should tell him this.

Rock says, "I'm still a bullet, aren't I?"

The things she's wanted to say die in her throat.

#black lagoon #rock x revy #fanfiction #revy x rock #yes guys i'm still writing fan fiction i know i know i know #but im actually so happy with this #and i have so man feeeeelings about black lagoon STILL #and this is a good compilation of a lot of them #and finally getting some of my head canons about revy's inner thoughts out there #otp: the one that let me in #my writing

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ulyssessklein · 5 years

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How a songwriter in his 60s broke back into the music industry

Independent musician Daniel Antopolsky started building a music career in his 60s.

I’ve written before about age in the music industry.

In many respects, age isn’t an asset: the big and little music machines are obsessed with youth and newness.

And yet regardless of your age, your genre, your location, there are more opportunities today, more tools, more connection points, meaning you’re never too old to find success — provided you have the right mix of talent, smarts, persistence, and luck.

A music manager named Jason Ressler reached out to me a while ago with a story about his client Daniel Antopolsky, a singer-songwriter who long ago missed his chance to “make it,” or more accurately, walked away from a business and life he couldn’t stomach, only to return to it many decades later with a catalog of hundreds of unreleased songs.

There’s a lot to explore in Daniel’s story…

In his twenties, he was affiliated with Townes Van Zandt, and he actually saved Townes’ life once.

He then lived most of his adult life farming, and keeping his songwriting passion to himself.

In his sixties he shifted gears, started recording, gigging, and building a fanbase.

And in the face of an industry that is biased against older musicians, Jason Ressler has been helping Daniel share that trove of songs and the story behind the music.

I interviewed Jason about all this stuff: the years, the obstacles, the insecurities, the PR tricks that helped get traction for Daniel’s music in the press, the ins-and-outs of managing an older independent artist, a few scandalous secrets from the music biz of yesteryear, and more. Jason gave honest, interesting, and thorough answers. Thanks to him for his time.

An interview with Jason Ressler — about how Daniel Antopolsky is building an audience in his 60s and 70s

Tell me about the unique challenges managing an older musician who was largely unknown?

Let me start with my motto: fuck everyone.

But I don’t mean this in the exact way it sounds. I mean it like the monk on the mountain who tells the world to fuck off and focuses on his little place that’s beautiful and important to him. I think everyone who’s coming from the outside of the center of this business, or anyone trying to do something new while in the center of it, has similar challenges. It’s all hard, even if you’re trying to be a new pop princess (and I’d like Daniel to be a new pop princess but he refuses to dress like one). So you have to focus on what’s important to you and try to ignore the noise. But that’s easy to say and hard to do, because you don’t always know whether or not the noise is important to your aspirations.

Almost everyone told me I was crazy to try and promote an unknown old guy’s music; but I didn’t care and kept going… Because for me Daniel’s as beautiful a songwriter and storyteller as there is, as great as playing with the English language in his own way as Eminem is in his. So I went for it and didn’t listen to the naysayers. I think it helped that I had no experience in music management and didn’t know how hard it would be, and I certainly know why every manager I practically begged in the beginning to take Daniel on said no. Yet now, as far as I can see, Daniel is the first American artist to ever be breaking out in his 70s and I wouldn’t give my job to anyone.

But that doesn’t mean it was or is an easy process or fun for me most of the time, though I try to make it so for Daniel. For if you go down the road of getting music out, you’ve got to decide what it’s worth to you – whether you are the musician or a representative – in terms of your effort and energy, but just as important as to how much ugliness you’re willing to deal with to get something beautiful into the world. And when we do something great, as has been happening more and more lately, it’s heaven.

I’ve known U2’s former manager, Paul McGuinness, for a while and still when he was managing the band. I love U2 and though we haven’t met, Bono always seems like a sweet angelic kind of guy to me. When I first met Paul it was because he had heard some of my ideas on the issue of music piracy and I showed up at our lunch meeting expecting him to be like Bono somehow. Instead, what I met with was a cold and charming shark, like one of those characters in a Disney movie that laughs with his pals before they try to eat you. At first I was surprised, but what should I have expected? The guy took a bunch of Irish teenagers to the top of the world and has had to fight with every bastard out there who didn’t believe in them – probably just because they were Irish at that time – and to get through it he hired similar hard asses (like lawyer Allen Grubman) to build them up and protect them. Bono and the rest of the band gets to behave like angels because they’ve got others making sure they’re not getting screwed. On reflection, I bet Mahatma Gandhi had some tough guys on staff. (Let me just add that I like Paul, though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care about me one way or the other).

If Daniel knew about half the things I do to get him out there he’d cringe; I know this because he even cringes at the little I tell him and I only tell him the good stuff. Machiavelli’s The Prince and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War are good books for music managers and public relations teams who are trying to do the right thing: a key lesson is you can’t win a battle by fighting in a weaker way than those you are battling; but another key lesson that has taken me longer to learn is to avoid battles you can’t win immediately and plan strategically for the long term. The problem is that you can’t always tell whether you can win a battle, but the nice thing is that in this business no one’s actually going to kill you and we all get to fight another day after our ego bruising.

I fight age bias on a daily basis for Daniel and only rarely has his age been a positive thing. I can’t tell you how many people in the US industry have admitted to me that Daniel’s too old for them to take a shot on or do a piece on, from Billboard Magazine, to labels, etc., and those are the ones being nice to me, telling me the truth so I don’t waste my time. But it’s changing, partially because I’ve realized it’s a unique problem to the American industry and so instead of focusing on battling in the USA I focus on places where they don’t have the same biases in their industries. There’s also the knowledge that the US industry isn’t biased enough to ignore Daniel as he becomes more successful, and it just means he’s not going to get the breaks a 25-year old with even one album’s worth of great songs would get, let alone all the music Daniel has. But I didn’t know all of this when I started and it was hard to constantly fail because you don’t know if you’ll ever succeed.

So I feel like among the most important advice I can give to artist teams out there is to go with whatever strengths you have (which for me personally was a film background and a big mouth), make friends and allies, and get people to help with anything you’re weak on if you can, and be patient if you can’t. Low hanging fruit is what you should be looking for as it will give you the strength to climb the tree later for the more difficult fruit. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make great aspirational efforts often, but if you truly can’t solve a problem at a given moment after trying your best, forget it until your position has changed. As I told Daniel the other day: inside the music business the world is small, but from outside the world is big… You need to figure out where your inside is and how to get there, and it may not be the same as everyone else’s.

Why did Daniel leave the “music industry” in the 1970s?

Well, Daniel was never in the industry. He was a young songwriter hanging out with great young songwriters, the most prominent of which was his friend Townes Van Zandt. They both are described now as part of the “Outlaw Country” era, but that’s a historian’s view and historians like to generalize, so there are a lot of misconceptions about them. I didn’t know Townes, though I do know some of his friends and have read accounts of others, yet I know Daniel well. And what I see aren’t two guys who were trying to rebel against the system, but two people who couldn’t deal with the music industry in the depths of their souls and just wanted to write and perform great songs.

None of this means that Daniel and Townes didn’t want acceptance from the same music industry that rejected them or that they felt they had to reject. He and Townes desired an audience and, like everyone, would have liked industry support for their music, but they weren’t willing to compromise their music and maybe more importantly their way of being for that support. But trying to buck the industry and succeed in an artistically pure way is a hard gig. Those who seem to have done it were lucky enough to have inside support; or there are those like Willie Nelson, who was able to toe the line long enough to gain the experience and power he needed to reject the confines of Nashville and set himself up in an entirely different way in Austin.

Townes has a well-documented history of complexity in terms of the decisions he made in the music business, yet he stayed on the road, performing and recording, reaching his audience. He has gotten popular in recent years, but until fairly recently Townes was only admired by a small group of fans and prominent musicians like Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson, Steve Earle and others, many of whom recorded his songs and got more famous off them than he did.

In Daniel’s case, you’re dealing with an incredibly sweet person who has no cunning in him and shies away from conflict and darkness. Bill Hedgepeth, a journalist who’s an incredible archivist and last month helped release an album of 11 lost songs of Townes called “Sky Blue” is in the film we’re making on Daniel called The Sheriff of Mars.

In it, Bill describes how Daniel went to see producers in Nashville when he was paling around with Townes, but was too far out there for them with his crazy ways and wild music. Daniel told me that later in the 1980s and 1990s he continued to try and get recorded, sending out tapes of his music to labels and never hearing back.

After Daniel saved Townes’s life from an overdose in 1972, I think it was a final realization for Daniel that he couldn’t be a part of that world anymore and, as he says, he wanted to “find something more spiritual.” And so he went on this infamous road trip in the 1970s with his friend “Crazy” Albert Low throughout America, Asia, and Europe that lasted many years and inspired him to write a lot of great music that wasn’t recorded until we released the first album of it at the end of 2017. There’s a wonderful article in B-sides & Badlands that describes it and that time.

I think the amazing thing is that Daniel has never stopped writing songs. He just wrote them and put them away, hoping and dreaming one day somehow they’d be recorded and shared. It was a hope that must have slipped a lot by the time I first heard his music in 2012 on his Bordeaux farm when he was 64-years old, but he was still prolific, writing and playing his music mostly to himself late at night, occasionally to his family, and certainly to his pet chickens and cat named Bingo.

What’s changed — either about the industry, or in Daniel — that made it a healthy decision to try to get these songs out now?

As Daniel was never in the industry, had never recorded his music, the decision to finally get into it was based on his dreams and my foolish optimism (which I still hold to). And who was I? A broke fuck-up somehow travelling around the world with no experience in managing anything. Pretty much who I am now except I’ve learned a few things in music during the past few years.

But the key to why all this is working now is simple: modern technology.

Daniel was 64 and wasn’t famous when we started and therefore the industry’s response almost in its entire collective sigh was to tell us to fuck off; I’d like to say that’s okay, but I’m not trite: it sucks. But then you have to realize that it’s the case for almost everyone. Now the music industry – especially the American one – is as shallow and illusory as it gets, so they see Ariana Grande doing well and are looking for the next version of her. But then think of how many talented young girls similar to Ariana are out there struggling, because there’s only so much room available for the small group that controls the most powerful side of the industry. So Daniel’s not the only artist with challenges, though his have some unique aspects.

I’ll break a story here, not only because it’s illustrative, but also because it’s sensationalistic enough to get wider attention to this article, and therefore also illustrative of what I want to tell the reader in terms of being opportunistic: The Beatles success in America was financed by the mob. I’m not sure if even they know that. But all the facts I’ll put below are well-documented and can be found online; it’s just that no one has realized what they added up to.

I grew up as a kind of adopted son of legendary music promoter Sid Bernstein, who brought the Beatles to America along with the rest of the British invasion. His son was my best friend and I often lived in their apartments. I directed a documentary on him called Sid Bernstein Presents… which didn’t get released but did expose me to many of the top people in the music industry.

Sid was as kind a man as there ever was, a dreamer, irresponsible, a guy who loved to take long shots on talent and believed in people and was also grandiose and thought he could succeed where others failed. And he often did. My film has the last interview with James Brown who described how Sid was as important to race relations in America as Martin Luther King and the Kennedys… And there was plenty more. Sid never cared about money, and when he had some he’d blow it quickly, and certainly his family suffered from the poverty of many of his aspirations. But anyone who knew Sid, including some of those who’ve criticized his choices, ever thought Sid was anything but one of the kindest human beings they’d ever met.

And yet Sid’s best friend since childhood was Abe Margolies, who was part of the who’s who of New York, best known for being in the jewelry and restaurant businesses, but was quietly a feared mobster and top advisor to the most important mafia family in New York at the time, doing all the things you can imagine a guy in his position does. In that sense, he couldn’t have been more opposite from his friend Sid. But Abe was complex and generous and always helped Sid with anything he needed.

When Sid wanted to bring the Beatles over he was working at the talent agency GAC, who thought it was a crazy idea to bring a British band to the USA as they thought Americans wouldn’t like British accents. (Idiocy in this business is nothing new.) But Sid was stubborn and decided to do it anyway, yet he wasn’t allowed to officially promote the show as a working agent. So while you will see that his later posters all say “Sid Bernstein Presents” when he presented a concert, if you look at the Beatles at Carnegie Hall poster from their arrival in 1964 it is promoted by “Theater Three Productions” so Sid could remain anonymous. The “Three” were Sid, Abe (who gave Sid the money for the concert) and Billy Fields, who Sid also used as a frontman to bring the Rolling Stones to America a short time later.

Abe funded Sid for many of his concerts and plays as you can see online, and he never wanted the money back from his dreamer friend. And since the mob was all over the music business, Abe also saved Sid once when some mobsters tried to muscle in on one of his concerts (I believe at the Brooklyn Paramount). So what’s my point? Sid was the kindest man in the world, a pacifist, and I think he couldn’t even acknowledge to himself who his friend was. But Sid made his compromises to get things done. Would we have been better off without the racial revolution he helped create in music? Without the British invasion? Without so much more?

That story seems like an aberration, but the music business has always been controlled and always had corruption, whether from the mob or the corporations who still run so much of it now. When I was prepping for my documentary on Sid, my co-director Evan Strome and I went to meet a well-known music lawyer named Freddie Gershon, who was a friend of Sid’s and giving us some background on him. This was around 2000, when music piracy was a big new thing. Freddie told us that actually music piracy was nothing new and described how a gangster in the business named Morris Levy (on whom there’s plenty written about) used to make pirate copies of records and force the record stores to take them; Freddie said that he thought roughly 10% of all records sold were pirate copies and this was well before the digital era. I haven’t told this story until now as Freddie asked us to keep it to ourselves at the time, even though Levy had died almost a decade earlier, since many of those mob tied guys were still around and involved with things.

So while the mob world started dying and was less in the business by the 2000s, the corporations were able to keep the same leverage and systems in place while cleaning up their acts by staying just on the right side of the law, having the money to lobby politicians to write laws in their favor, or when they decide to violate the laws they can’t write (which still happens all the time) the fines they receive are already factored in as the cost of doing business.

But the new world of music and film distribution isn’t coming entirely from the corporate music world, but from the technology world that makes their money by giving individual artists platforms and freedom; so it’s a new world, though not as beautiful as it should be yet. But we can see the incredible improvement in the availability of music, and another example is the revolutionary improvement in television programming in many quarters.

Without these vast changes in the industry, from something as simple as email to file sharing, YouTube, Spotify, etc., Daniel’s music would have been forever lost. No label would ever take a crack at an unknown old guy’s music, and our ability to collaborate online and distribute our own music has been a Godsend as it has been for so many people, whether they are “succeeding” or not. We haven’t made money yet, but we will.

Yet I also think we’re revolutionizing the model for what older people can do, showing that you can still get out there and reinvent yourself at a late age. This is based on how younger independent musicians are doing it, but also on Daniel’s eclectic nature, where he really has little interest in leaving his farm in France too often. But no one in Daniel’s age group had done this before, in no small part because those in Daniel’s age group mostly don’t discover music the way younger people do. We’ve had a lot of trial and error to figure out what can work, and what has come to pass is that we have found that Daniel’s pretty much equally popular among young and old, but they find his music in different ways.

In terms of breaking the mold, Daniel’s first album Sweet Lovin’ Music was produced by Grammy veterans Gary Gold and John Capek in Nashville and it wasn’t easy for Daniel, being away from what inspires him in nature and animals, having to commit to structure and time frames. He’s not a guy who can fit in a box in any way, and that’s not easy on his producers either, as the metronome doesn’t exist for him. So we’re talking about someone you just have to follow. There are some wonderful songs on that album, but some of it didn’t come out how Daniel would have liked, largely because of his own discomfort, and much of which had to do with his lack of conventionality.

Gary and I picked up on that and after Daniel played SXSW in 2016, Gary decided to come out to Daniel’s farm in France to produce Daniel’s Acoustic Outlaw albums where he just let Daniel play the way he wanted to, recording it all in Daniel’s dining room. In a way, we were just trying to get as many songs as we could recorded as we were afraid to lose them and Gary was under a lot of pressure. But it worked for Daniel and we’ve done it that way since then. Daniel gets to relax and check his chickens or go farm, all around his recording, and then he can just flow. Sometimes one of those damned roosters will come to the window and start singing and you’d think it would ruin the take but Daniel wants to leave it in the background of the song – he’s so crazy and funny, it makes me laugh just writing this! Everyone should be able to come to a recording session with Daniel.

Anyway, we’ve tried to do as much as we can that way so he can be happy and creative and now we record songs, film Daniel’s music videos, and try to have most of his interviews on his farm. Then the rest of the team handles whatever they have to from wherever we are. Here’s his crazy first ever music video “Fish Bait Blues.”

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It was his idea and his wife, Sylvia, and I are in it. But his wife is one of the top gynecologists in Bordeaux… Thank God she’s got a fetish for odd American singers! And importantly to prove the technology part: I shot that video on an iPhone 6 and Daniel’s daughter Hannah did some of the filming and French filmmaker Herve Morin (who also directs longer pieces on Daniel) edited it at home and it was up on YouTube finding an audience as quickly as we could… We never could have afforded even one video for Daniel 15 years ago and no one would have funded or distributed it either.

What was it like, emotionally, for Daniel to have been so productive for so long as a songwriter, but without a public outlet for those songs?

I can only speak to my observations, and Daniel may disagree with me in part, but from everything I saw it was terrible for him, despite being happy in the rest of his life. The author Maya Angelou once said “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” and that played out in Daniel.

When you make documentaries you start to see patterns in different ways, and as we went on I noticed that every single friend that he had lost touch with had something to do with his music days. I think he was carrying a great shame of being someone who didn’t live up to his potential in what he saw as his life’s purpose, and that came out in his relationships and even the way he played his music most of the time: quietly, alone at night in a little room away from everyone as they slept. I’m sure this feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that his wife is the main breadwinner, despite the enormous amount of work he puts in on his farm. When you’re ashamed of things it poisons the greater well. Notably, in the only performances he gave once a year at the July 4th celebrations at the US Consulate in Bordeaux, France, he only played covers of other musicians’ popular songs, not his own.

When we first went to Nashville for a kind of tryout in 2012 with his future album producers, he was naturally excited but nervous: his whole dream about to be put on the line. I’d like to say I had to drag him kicking and screaming, but that’s not the case: Daniel is sweet, but he isn’t a person you can tell what to do if he doesn’t want to.

So we went, but when we got there, picked up by our two Grammy-nominated producers driving us to the house where the studio was, Daniel and I were in the backseat and he looked at me and said in all seriousness “I don’t belong here” and I think he would have gone home then if it seemed at all reasonable. But then he played, did great, and we came back to make his first album in early 2013. During that process he realized he was really making an album and looked at me with tears in his eyes and said “you’ve really done a mitzvah.” “Mitzvah” is a Jewish word for good deed, but it has more weight than that. Hearing that has been one of my proudest moments in all of this.

So it’s funny to see him now – great of course – because he has become a professional in every way without realizing it and without compromising, proud of his achievements even if they haven’t monetized yet, great on film and radio and in concert and the studio. Each of these things took time. Fortunately, I have the documentary where we can see him before, nervous, ashamed, but more fortunately that’s all behind him and maybe the best part of all this is that all of his old music friends are back in his life after a 30-40 year absence. And Daniel’s still as modest as he’s always been.

Has there been a grand strategy here, or are you just figuring it out step-by-step?

There was a grand strategy and none of it worked!

Really, I started this as a new family friend to the Antopolskys with the simplest idea of getting one album recorded for Daniel’s family to have, and just wanted to get a song on the local Charleston radio where the family has a nearby summer home in order to make his daughters proud. I never had the idea that this would be anything bigger than some CDs on his shelf for his future grandkids, and I certainly never had any intention of becoming a music manager.

Then about a month before we’re going to make that first album in Nashville, we were at his farmhouse and he comes in the kitchen, looks at me, and says with no prompting “I can’t just make one album, I gotta make SEVEN!”

I looked at him like “What the fuck? I mean you’ve never made one album so what the hell are you talking about?” But I understood. He’s sitting on hundreds of songs he’s poured his soul into and he doesn’t see this album the way I saw it. He sees it at 64-years old as his elusive life’s dream to share his music coming true. He couldn’t choose between his songs and he wanted people to hear them all.

I told Gary Gold, the producer of his first album, what Daniel said and Gary understood too. Gary told me if we want to get his music out into the world, I would have to make a film on Daniel, as no one would care about an old guy unless we had a vehicle to show people why his music was worth it. Searching for Sugarman had just come out and Gary explained that it was getting Rodriguez’ music an audience. I hadn’t made a film in years, hadn’t seen “Sugarman,” but I said fuck it, I’ll see what I can do… Yet we’re weeks away and I’m broke.

So I called my old friend, Matthew Woolf, a British cameraman living in New York who was the only person I knew as crazy and impulsive as me (or at least that wasn’t in jail) and he agreed to jump on a plane on a few days’ notice and shoot the film, dragging along his producer wife, Kylie, to do sound. I believe neither of us got to watch “Sugarman” until the first part of the shoot was over, and I took Daniel’s family to see it in Bordeaux so they’d understand what we were aspiring to.

And I knew this whole thing was going to be much bigger.

But man was I wrong about how! I thought it was so logical, thought Daniel’s story and incredible music and place as a lost historical figure would be welcomed throughout the industry, the doors would open so wide they’d fly off the hinges, his songs would be all over, and all the rest you can imagine, none of which happened… I get as arrogant as they come, but enough humiliation quickly leads to humility!

So I spent a lot of time figuring it out – thinking I wasn’t figuring it out – miserable, failing, disappointed in myself and clearly disappointing others, including Daniel’s family. And I’ve been reacting to my own misestimations constantly, yet the worst part of all of this is that you’re not necessarily wrong just because you fail in this business at a given time. Anything can have caused that failure, even if your strategy is totally sound, as people and business constantly change. So you have to have multiple strategies, and just keep pushing along until you figure out how to make some things work. And be opportunistic.

The best example I can give for this is how embraced Daniel has become in the UK. I’d have imagined that the USA was our natural audience, the American South for sure, and instead we’ve barely made a dent there. Why? Country music has become more like pop with a Southern twang, and radio is almost entirely controlled by the major labels who put that music out. So even some major artists don’t have an outlet. But that doesn’t mean the American South isn’t our major audience, it’s just that I don’t have an easy way to get in front of them without support.

Last year I noticed that almost every milestone in Daniel’s new career has been reached in the UK, from his first major press, first radio plays, first paid concert, and coming up his first paid major music festival at the Black Deer Festival this June. So I started focusing more there… Come to think of it, it was even a young British guy who compared Daniel to Mississippi John Hurt which seems apt, but maybe Josephine Baker is a good comparison too.

As I thought about why, it became clear to me that the UK just doesn’t have the same age and physical biases that are inherent in the American music industry (though not Americans themselves, fortunately); they care more about the music and the industry puts its money where its mouth is there. For example, I truly believe there’s no way Adele could have come out of the USA, for the simple reason that she doesn’t fit the stereotypical body-type of a pop star, though once she was popular in the UK, the US industry jumped onboard. I also think it’s no accident that Searching for Sugarman was a film largely funded in the UK. I can give countless examples of this and can only find few exceptions in the USA.

My point here is that you need to look elsewhere if things aren’t working. The world is a big place with a lot of differing attitudes and we’re lucky to be able to find an audience directly these days, even if that isn’t as easy as people make it sound sometimes. I was spending too much of my time being pissed off at the US industry and instead I’ve understood that I must find my spots and build up from there and eventually the US industry will pay attention.

And as it turns out I still haven’t gotten Daniel on the radio in the US, and I still haven’t gotten distribution on the film yet, but everything is going incredibly well and he’s out there on his own!

How have you managed PR for the recent independent release?

The press has been a strong part of our success to date, and I hope this is where I can advise musicians and managers most as it’s the area I understand best.

I’ve been lucky because I’ve been friends for a long time with one of the top people in American public relations, a woman named Lisa Dallos who heads High 10 Media and she always generously helps and advises me on my projects (and also kindly pays for most of our meals when we meet!). So I had some public relations knowledge going into this, and had some limited work doing PR in the past. Lisa’s the one who really taught me how to think of things reasonably, understand the interests of who I’m pitching, that reporters and editors are people who are busy, and that you have to build up things brick by brick. We sometimes disagree, because she’s dealing with the biggest people in the world and I’m dealing with guerilla PR for Daniel and I also have a horrible combination of liking the underdog and being grandiose at the same time. Plus, I have a temper. A sort of typical conversation between me and Lisa is, me: “Hey Lisa, I found this old new singer named Daniel who has great songs and it’s such a great story… he should be on the cover of Vanity Fair, how do I get him on there?” Lisa, shocked at what an idiot I am: “Uh, dude…” (not that Lisa would ever say “dude”) “he doesn’t even have a Facebook page and you haven’t even recorded one song and Vanity Fair would never cover this kind of story let alone put anyone but a young pop star on the cover…”. Me only hearing the “no” and being angry: “those corporate bastards!”.

But later when I actually calm down and listen to the logic, it’s a lesson on how to get things done. You need to analyze and build and deal with personalities. Press is a sales job and it’s always easiest to sell when you’re giving someone something they actually want, like having a local reporter cover your local concert. That doesn’t mean I’m not occasionally pulling off something Lisa didn’t think I could, yet I also often fail where Lisa and I agree I should succeed.

But the first thing I’d say is you need to know who you are. Now that sounds simple, but it’s not. It is usually reasonably simple to figure out what kind of artist you want to be regardless of your sound, even if you are happy to compromise that sound for commercial success. With Daniel it’s easy: I have this incredible musical story teller who’s as optimistic and pure-hearted in his songs as it gets. Daniel has never wanted to compromise or play the game, and all these things are the reasons I wanted to get his music into the world.

But while the question of who you are (or represent) as an artist may be solved, the question of “who you are” from a public relations and marketing perspective is a whole different ballgame. You need to think that through in tiny pieces and be both logical, thorough and often shameless in your approach (like I did with this interview, Chris, emailing you that I wanted you to interview me for CD Baby because I had something to share with people, but also because I’m promoting to our crowd here). Perseverance is also key, but that’s a word that’s bandied around a lot and makes you more depressed when you’re failing and so you have to deal with it in a realistic way.

You have to know that many things may not work, even if they’ve worked in the past, and you need to figure out why they’re not working and what lines you’re willing to cross to do better. Because marketing an artist is often a thoroughly degrading, disgusting, and compromised business (even more so for someone like me who comes from an artistic background and wasn’t used to it). You’re broke and desperate and need a quick… anything? Too bad; no one cares except maybe some of your friends and family, and they can’t really help you.

So you also need to learn to take care of yourself, make a plan to see if it works but also know when to stop working. I don’t always take my own advice, but these days I try to treat marketing and PR like I would a gym workout: I plan, do my sets and then I stop; as doing more just exhausts you and will ruin your next days just like overtraining would ruin your workout the next day. This is a long game. because anything you do will take at least weeks and more likely longer to come to fruition, and that’s with a lot of follow up. Nothing is worse than the exhaustion that comes from failure. And you will fail all day long.

But I’ve learned the hard way, and now Daniel has press all over the world.

Public relations and marketing require one of two things: (a) existing relationships and leverage if you need something fast or (b) a slow, kind seduction if you don’t have those things (and no matter where you start, you will never have leverage in all the areas you’ll need to cover, so you need to learn (b) regardless). And always you have to be calculating, but calculating isn’t a bad word, in PR the best scenario is where everyone gets what they want, which often happens when something happens because the equation is simple: a journalist wants to write an article on you and you want one written.

It’s getting to that point that’s the problem.

I’ve used any hook I could to get press for Daniel: whether it’s Daniel’s album being produced by “Grammy nominees”, the film The Sheriff of Mars being shot, Daniel’s association with the Outlaw Country era and Townes Van Zandt, the fact that Daniel is likely the inspiration for “Lefty” in Townes’ song “Pancho & Lefty,” his age, location or past locations, whatever I can think of that will interest a reporter…

Our first media coverage came during our Kickstarter campaign for Daniel’s documentary “The Sheriff of Mars” in 2014. I knew it was a great opportunity to build up press while we raised money and I made a plan to do so on launch, both to help the campaign and have a base for later. It’s a great lesson in logic and the failure of logic. And it’s important to note that I am coming from outside the music PR world and didn’t have relationships with most reporters. It’s also key to realize that I sent at least 1000 emails out in those 30 days and probably spent 100 hours on research and finding reporters’ emails before I did.

To start, I looked at it all the pieces I thought I had to target media and came up with a rough list that made sense to me:

Country Music (a huge and obvious market for us)

Indie Music

Film/Indie Film

Nashville (as Daniel is part of the local music history)

France (as that’s where Daniel lives)

Georgia (as Daniel is from Augusta, Georgia)

South Carolina (as Daniel’s American base is near Charleston)

Jewish (as Daniel is a Jewish guy, which is a rarity in Country Music)

Texas (as Daniel has a noted history there with Townes)

AARP (for older people)

I won’t break down everything we did here, but let me just say that after five years of consistent media, to my shock I’ve never had one article on Daniel in any mainstream Country Music outlet or out of Nashville or Texas. My guess as to why is that these are popular markets for Country Music where reporters are getting pitched a lot and they will either cover a more commercial sound, someone popular, or you need to be on a label or hire a music PR company that has the relationships to break through to them. Believe me, I wish we could have afforded to hire a pro.

It also turned out that “Indie” for musicians means nothing; there are many magazines with different niches I had to learn, so that came later, and most of them naturally skew young. With film, one Indie film blog picked up the story though I hadn’t pitched them – but great. In Georgia’s press, we made some headway, including at Daniel’s college newspaper, but I was so mad that that Daniel’s hometown paper, the Augusta Chronicle, wasn’t answering me that I copied the whole upper journalistic/editor staff to complain; the legendary writer there, Don Rhodes, wrote back calmly saying they don’t cover Kickstarters and he’d cover down the road. Which he later did and is a friend now. We also ended up with a big article that was put on the front page in the main Charleston paper, The Post & Courier; both the editor and the journalist were into our vibe. Yet the small Charleston papers have still never covered Daniel, and others from Georgia haven’t either, no matter how many times I’ve pitched. The lessons here were all great, some writers were interested, others weren’t, and to get an answer you had to keep asking.

But in the Jewish focused media, we were covered all over the world because it’s a very focused niche and the Jewish Community has many small newspapers, so there are many opportunities (though we still got turned down plenty). Daniel was a rare Jewish Country musician and a great story for them.

Also, to show you about relationships, one of the best pieces we’ve ever had came out then in the Jewish magazine Tablet. Although I hadn’t seen the writer, Danny Krieger, since high school, I was able to call him and talk to him as the old friends we were, so my “inside” relationship gave me the leverage to be listened to and have him meet Daniel. Having said that, there is no way Krieger would have done the piece if it hadn’t interested him, because I had no business leverage over him (and to explain what I mean simply, if a PR company represents major artists everyone wants to interview, then the journalists know they often must interview that company’s smaller artists when asked if they want the bigger interviews. Though it’s a bit more complex and layered than my simple description).

As for French press, I didn’t speak French well so it was a hard pitch to make and I got off it fairly quickly, though a friend got us a short article through a friend of his. And as I’ve learned about AARP, they were a hard get as they aren’t the niche media I’d thought, but major media that controls a permanently supplied niche as people keep getting old – including Bob Dylan and the Beatles – so we needed to be a bigger story, not an unknown Kickstarter project.

Overall it was a successful first round and I had some things to build off of.

But now let me fast forward 4 years to 2018 to give you an example of my attempts at press before Daniel’s first ever UK concert at London’s Bush Hall last year, which happened after a year of international press that included major papers around the world like the BBC and Rolling Stone and many others. Despite months of attempts in reaching out to UK media, I couldn’t get the “easiest” press I could think of – the UK Jewish press – to answer me. I’d pitched them early, but was getting no response. I found a connection to one paper, sent emails and left phone messages numerous times for the cultural editor of the paper, as well as had a colleague of the editor email on my behalf, but nothing. In the meantime, the top music columnist from the huge international paper The Guardian had agreed to write a major piece, so I tried that as leverage with the Jewish paper. Still nothing. And how many Jewish Country musicians come to London?! After giving up on the Jewish paper a week before the concert, I got so angry thinking about it that I called the cultural editor one last time. By luck, she picked up and I held my temper and calmly told her who I was and she asked me about the story for two sentences, said it sounded amazing and had a reporter write an article within a few days. It was clear that she’d known nothing about it, had likely never read the emails or realized what my messages were about.

I cannot tell you how many times this has happened or how many reporters have told me they can sometimes get 1000 emails a day. I will tell everyone: do not think you are being turned down until you actually are turned down. Keep calling unless you feel like you’ve exhausted your efforts. Nevertheless, manage your expectations, your own emotions, give reporters plenty of lead time, and find those who are writing about subjects similar to your artist.

This also goes to some great advice about deal-making I got once from Barbra Streisand’s manager, Marty Erlichman. He told me always be glad for a “no” rather than a “definite maybe.” I was too stupid to understand that at the time, but it’s the best advice out there. Get your NOs, because nothing fucks your head up more than hoping something will happen because someone says they’ll get back to you and you’re afraid of tipping the cart. Tip it, see what happens, and move on.

And you must know that even after you do everything right, even if you actually score your artist a major interview, it still may not work out. After Daniel’s SXSW appearance in 2016, CBS Sunday Morning had a reporter come and film a piece on Daniel which would have been a major coup for us, getting us in front of an audience of 6 million, attention from other media, all when we really needed it… It never aired. After two years of waiting I tried reaching the Executive Producer, Rand Morrison, to find out what was going on and he’s never answered. Maybe it will air down the road. But it’s not the only time it’s happened.

It’s incredibly disappointing, but you must realize it has nothing to do with you and it doesn’t make anyone a bad person, they just have their interests. It’s not only media; for instance no one at the Americana Music Association, a body theoretically set up for musicians like Daniel, has ever responded to an email or call in six years until their PR guy answered a question for me a month ago when no one else there would respond (this is again the opposite of a similar body in the UK called the AMAUK who have been super helpful). While I easily start hating people controlling organizations who don’t answer or help me, I always have to check myself and realize that doesn’t make them enemies; they’re potential allies who haven’t paid attention or just don’t think we’re important enough yet.

But very importantly, if you keep at it you will discover some incredible allies out there who help you beyond your imagination. There’s an online Country Music blog called “Saving Country Music” run by Kyle “Trigger” Coroneos, who loves what Daniel is doing and has written great pieces on him. Kyle is writing against a lot of the mainstream country industry and interested in authentic voices and sounds. I had no idea Daniel wasn’t mainstream Country Music when we started, as I was more apt to listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers or the Smiths or Hole or the Killers than any Country music except for Johnny Cash. But I learned and now I know there’s a whole world of Country Music out there that I like and also a lot I don’t. Another great ally has been a guy named Jeremy “Tep” Tepper, who heads 3 stations over at SiriusXM, including Willie Nelson’s. Tep has been one of the leaders in revitalizing Outlaw Country and gave Daniel his first national radio interview and helps us all the time behind the scenes. Agent Richard Arlook advises me, film editors Wataru Kitano and Herve Morin constantly work for free, and even prominent artist Romeo Alaeff has helped build and maintain Daniel’s website (he’s an old friend but undoubtedly has better things to do)… We’re lucky to say there are many others.

Finally, you need to respect the press and realize they are just people with all kinds of distractions and problems. Many PR people have cynically told me that press is lazy and will just print your release; but it’s never happened to me – well once, but it was a small journal, who told us they would do that as they wanted to help us but didn’t have time to write something up – so it was a kind gesture, not a lazy one. But every journalist I’ve gotten to cover us has been interested, thorough, clever… They occasionally get some facts wrong, but if you’ve ever heard Daniel talk, he’s nearly impossible to follow. Yet whenever I’ve called with a fact change, they’ve always done so happily.

To conclude, logic is nice, but experience is key as it will help you control your emotions when logic fails you and even causes you failure if you follow your best plans for too long. I think the most important lesson I can tell anyone is this: you have to understand what the needs of the people who are inclined to support you are and make it easy for them to help you in the ways they can and not the ways you think you need. And your positioning matters too. In a terrible metaphor: your cat can catch mice, but not type your emails; ask a music reporter for an article, not funding for your album.

Clearly Daniel’s backstory and connection to Townes is a huge advantage for press, but what are the dangers in too closely associating with that backstory?

This is a good follow up to what I was just describing, as I think the most important thing for anybody trying to make anything happen in this business is to take advantage of any advantage you can because you never know what’s going to stick or for how long. I think we’re led to believe there’s a kind of standard, because we read an interview or article causally, they often say similar things, and we really don’t look at it from the perspective of the journalist or magazine when we’re not experienced in the business.

So I don’t really care what I have to do for press, as long as I don’t blatantly violate any of Daniel’s morals with the result. I told Daniel the other day I wish that someone would discover that Taylor Swift is Daniel’s love child as that would be major press! He looked at me like I was an idiot…

But there are two perspectives here: Daniel’s as an authentic artist and a pure soul and me as someone promoting him and knowing to get his music out requires dealing with many people, companies, and systems who often have far less pure souls than Daniel does. That’s not a criticism in itself though, because marketing requires engaging with diverse business interests that need to be catered to in different ways, for as hard a time I have in getting the attention of reporters or music executives, they have an even harder time competing against each other to get the attention of their audiences.

Townes has gotten much more popular in the last few years, but the truth is seven years ago I didn’t even know who Townes was when I started down the road with Daniel’s music, and none of my friends in New York did either. But fortunately my producer friend in Nashville was wowed by it and it didn’t take me too long to realize what a great musician Townes was and what an asset it could be because everyone down South knows Townes. It was also incredibly interesting that every young British person I met did too, which further cements why a lot of the people who have helped us have been from the UK. So having that backstory has been a key for me getting Daniel out into the world and I’m not sure how I would have done so without it (though I would have found a way).

It was also necessary because Daniel’s personal music history is tied up with Townes, and it’s impossible to explain Daniel’s story without talking about the famous photo at Guy & Susanna Clark’s house, their infamous road trip, the hotel near Dallas where Daniel wrote “Sweet Lovin’ Music” and Townes wrote “Pancho & Lefty” during the same afternoon, and certainly Daniel saving Townes’ life because that last event led Daniel to flee even the small part of the music industry he was enjoying.

So I was incredibly happy to have had Daniel’s relationship to Townes as a hook to get attention to Daniel’s music for the first years, but I’m also incredibly happy that Daniel doesn’t read his own press because he has a pure love for Townes and wouldn’t want me exploiting him (not that I’ve ever misrepresented their relationship in any way). Nevertheless, last year someone wrote about Daniel and described the story of Daniel saving Townes’ life as an “oft-cited story,” and I was proud because no one knew that story when we started, just like no one knew it was Daniel in that iconic photo and he was always nameless in it, referred to as “unknown friend” or something similar, and now Daniel is named every time that picture is shown.

Yet I’m also very happy that we are now getting past the media hook with Townes, and with Daniel’s 5th album about to be released he’s getting press on his own merits. A couple of weeks back we had an article in a blog called SupaJam that I was pleased with for many reasons: it catered to the younger music crowd, only mentioned Townes in passing, referred to Daniel as a growing legend, and focused on his music and upcoming festival appearance. It’s short, perfect, and about Daniel.

But I didn’t show the article to Daniel; he’s simply too modest to know how to read about himself without being embarrassed.

You mentioned to me that you figured out a way to get around “how the music industry really works.” What’s the secret?

The industry is a bunch of liars, snakes, and cheats, who will crush you with their complacency and the worst part is that most of them are nice and decent people!

We are at as low a point in terms of art in the mainstream of the American music industry as there has been in 20 years… because the majority of the music and media industries are as corrupt, biased, and formulaic bunch of fucks as there gets. While these things go in cycles, and while modern technology has allowed artists more opportunity to find audiences, you still have to realize that major parts of the industry are entirely closed off to you unless you can partner with the major labels or figure out a way around them. And you need to do one or the other or both, because they control most of the money that at the very least will allow you to continue to create and promote your music for the long term.

So while this is the best time in history to be an independent musician in terms of the ability to create, distribute, and promote music, and keep your rights to it, this doesn’t mean that you have a fair chance and that we’re past the era of corporate music control. It just means you have some alternatives to grow and take a better shot. I think many people get disappointed in how hard it still is – and I’ll put myself at the top of that list – because we think all of these tools should lead aspiring musicians to success, and what musicians need to realize is that they’re fighting a guerilla war against a complacent, corruptible, and sheepish music and media industry, but they’ve just been given some better weapons to do battle now.

I thought that breaking Daniel out would be easy because of his talent; but man was I wrong. You have to deal with power issues, bullshit, laziness, indifference, corruption and creeps, even in places you think should be your natural allies. And this isn’t the only problem, because you also have to deal with the fact that there are a lot of great people, companies, outlets, etc., that must adhere to their economic interests and standards and yet are overwhelmed, so you need to not only get their attention, but also get them to believe in you despite incredible callouses and biases that even the best have. I’ve had to come up with every angle I can to break Daniel through and I’m always looking for more.

So It’s important to know who your friends and enemies are (your enemies in this case don’t hate you, they just don’t care about you at all). And that your “enemies” in this business are not necessarily bad people, but they’re like bankers who dress cooler (sometimes). When those bankers are ripping you off for fees on your overdraft and are telling you “Sir, there’s nothing we can do” you want to fucking murder them with their formal smiles and manners, but when they tell you your loan is approved you’d be happy to buy them a beer. The big guys at the bank look at their numbers, the workers need their jobs: the music is incidental for most of those working in big radio and at the labels, even if they enjoy the music and the lifestyle.

Plus, the fix is in.

You only need to look at American radio which is still unofficially controlled by the music labels to see the problems.

Before he died, I used to be very friendly with Sy Kravitz, singer Lenny Kravitz’s dad, as I interviewed them for my documentary on Sid. Sy told me once about how for one of Lenny’s album releases, he didn’t go out to do all the free radio marketing junkets around the country and in response they didn’t play his album and sales tanked. It’s that simple and concentrated. And, by the way, I don’t blame them, because everyone has to make a living and be treated respectfully, if you can do so, and the radio stations and DJs and local press need the support. Where it bothers me is that with the consolidation that’s taken place there is little outlet for the up and coming musician in the local radio markets, and they don’t have the opportunities Lenny and others do with the big labels behind them. This wasn’t always the case, as there were plenty of smaller stations when I grew up that locals had access to; for example without WRKS (aka 98.7 Kiss FM in New York), Hip-Hop may not have become what it did.

You’d think this wouldn’t matter with all the tools we now have to compete and all the outlets playing music, but money is still the most important tool and the labels have most of it. Radio still has huge audiences, physical distribution is becoming important again and so you need investment and distribution dollars, PR and marketing to distinguish yourself, access to those who decide on playlists for the streaming services, and so on. So basically most of the industry is still an inside system, with the caveat that now new technological tools allow you to build yourself from the outside enough to appeal to that system.

I’ve tried to get Daniel on American radio and it’s been an impossible task to date because the labels control radio through (mostly) legalized bribery and we’re not on a major label and we don’t have the money to play the same game. Now it used to be direct bribery to the DJs and the stations until they got caught, and though that still happens occasionally, bribes largely take place through advertising, marketing events, sponsorships, paid “business” trips, outside consultants, etc., and it’s all out there for you to see. When radio gets caught going too far they pay the fine, as the fine is factored in and low enough to be considered as a cost of doing business.

I tried to start a public fight last year with a particular radio conglomerate (they’re all the same though) for issues that included what I saw as a de facto institutional bias given Daniel’s age. I wrote an email that was filled with all the drama I thought it would require to get some attention (I’m a promoter here after all! But I was telling the truth…). But no one cared about the issue easily and I’m not going to intimidate the lawyers at major corporations without digging into the wider public politics. Once I understood what it would take to make an issue of it, I knew it would be a distraction to our goals so I let it go. You have to pick your fights. And let me say, the lawyer who I was mostly trying to do battle with was an absolutely lovely guy who I’ll send this article to to tell him he won (though he knows that) and that I still want to buy him a drink when he visits Bordeaux.

But some of the worst part of this is that the biases at the top, which are theoretically based solely on profits, are almost entirely built on false pretenses and fly in the face of the very statistics the industry collects. You need only to look at the money the films Wonder Woman and Black Panther made last year to know that the industry is consistently biased, unless you believe that suddenly in 2018 people had an awakening for the first time and were willing to watch superhero films with female and black lead characters, and the industry in all its benevolence realized this in 2017 by analyzing statistics just before they shot those films.

The same is true towards older people; the industry won’t consider them in the ways they should. Statistically, older people are listening to radio more than younger ones and are also purchasing more music. And yet if you ask industry execs why they’re not being catered to except by playing and rereleasing the same old music, they say older people don’t like new music… And if you think about it, it’s like wait, what?

Have they tried to support new artists that have a similar sound to what the older market supposedly likes rather than EDM? You’re putting 90% of your marketing and promotional dollars towards a young pop sound even though that music is actually catered towards a likely more active but less financially sound audience and you’re surprised that music purchases are skewed? And is there any evidence that younger people don’t like older musicians? There are over 13 million spins on Spotify right now for the Rolling Stones; do they think that’s because of the grandmothers of America? If they do, then the industry should cater to them with new artists and if they don’t they should realize that they have a large young audience that doesn’t care about the age of the musicians they listen to. The reaction to Sixto Rodriguez in terms of sales and continued airplay after the release of Searching for Sugarman should be evidence enough, but the industry looks for every reason to treat it as an aberration because it doesn’t fit the narrative they’ve been taught, and musicians of all ages and stripes are suffering for it.

Also, by the way, the numbers of stats/views/spins are manipulated and faked far more often than people realize, and the industry knows it, participates in it and games it, because everyone is making money off it.

I have a friend, an old legend in the film and television business, whose office I went into a few years back and he said to me “There’s no way that Duck Dynasty is the #1 show on television…” when it was rated #1 at the time. He then explains to me how the Nielsen numbers are skewed and corrupted. He told me about 20 years earlier, Nielsen had been rating something of his that he knew had to be incorrect and so he had them investigated and found out the details, which I won’t get into here, and he also told me if you paid for their services they would skew their numbers in your favor.

But do you think he sued them? No… Instead he threatened to expose them and so they agreed on a multi-million dollar settlement: for free Nielsen services for many years in exchange for signing an NDA to keep quiet about all he knew! Why did he want that when he knew the numbers were lies? Because Nielsen stats were so important to his business and no one cares about the truth. With positive Nielsen numbers he was able to secure advertising dollars for his shows and without them he couldn’t… pure and simple and no way around it. But don’t the advertisers care? No, because the advertising firms are the ones placing ads and they’re charging companies based on the sale of the ad and a percentage of its cost, so what do they care if the stats are accurate, as long as it let’s them get paid. The companies paying for the ads have no other outlets and no true way to detect whether their ads are working, and anyway their ad executives’ jobs are based on the system staying in place, so the people who know best are certainly not going to protest. (And it’s best if the Nielsen team just ignores this interview or gives some form of “no comment” if asked about it, because if they challenge what I say here I’ll release the details of who/what/when.)

I tell the above story because it is exactly what you’re dealing with today as a musician in terms of YouTube and Facebook and other views/spins. If you don’t have numbers, you will have a hard time getting press, festivals, labels, etc., take you seriously. But the fix is in there too, for everyone knows the numbers are easily corrupted and no one cares because they have no other way of judging the game. The actual online platforms themselves are so safe in their corruption that they sell you it directly: you want more views on YouTube/Facebook? Pay for advertising. And guess what happens when you do get more views/spins that you’ve paid for? The algorithms take over, push your video even more to users, and your numbers get even better. Sound familiar? The record companies don’t mind paying the dollars to market into this system regardless of whether it’s true, because every spin makes them money, because the advertisers pay for advertising, those selling ads to their clients make money on the placing of ads, etc….

But let’s not forget going beyond paying the platforms and actually faking these numbers directly through automated services, which the major labels have been caught at and which almost no one really cares about for all the same reasons as above. Though this does screw some of the tech companies a bit, as certainly Spotify and similar companies don’t want to pay musicians/labels for fake spins, they can’t protest too much because their business relies on music licensing from the major music companies, so they combat it in the technical ways they can, but are certainly not going to go after the big dogs too loudly. Also, they are making money from the ads too…

[Editor’s note: Streaming services like Spotify have been known to remove music from their platforms if they detect fake streams from click farms.]

I’m in France often these days and I have a close friend who is very involved inside the French Hip-Hop scene, which is great and which I’d like to make a film about. There’s a long history there and many excellent rappers from MC Solaar to Booba, Lacrim, Sofiane, Aya Nakamura, OrelSan, etc. But if you look at some of the top singers/rappers they have numbers at the level of Beyonce, which of course is impossible despite having an audience in all French-speaking countries including those in Africa where they are very popular.

He’s told me how they fix the numbers all the time, from the street rapper to the major labels. Before it was paying cash to services in China where they had 10,000 phones set up on a wall, now it’s likely seamless online. I remember a couple of years ago he had a conversation with a popular rapper named Maître Gims about it, and Gims went online that night, speaking out against the practice. But even if Gims isn’t gaming the system himself, many are and actually need to just to compete.

I think you get the idea. And, despite all my ranting, I’d happily sign Daniel with a label if they shared our vision though I’ll happily not sign if they don’t. For no matter what I say, labels do get music to their audiences and most of the people there are trying to do their best and can’t do much against the system.

The game is the game.

Since Daniel now has experience in two very different music eras, what does he miss about “the old days?” Or what frustrates him the most about NOW?

I don’t think he misses the old days in the music industry as he experienced them. Daniel’s never fit in, was never embraced, and all his success has taken place in the last few years. He’s got a bunch of musicians in his life suddenly, some older but mostly young, and he’s having a grand ol’ time. While Daniel may not listen to a lot of new music except with his daughters and wife in the car, and he probably doesn’t know who Katy Perry is even though he’d recognize her hits, he’s not waxing nostalgic about the past either, except when introducing me to music I’ve never heard of. He loves many musicians I already appreciated like Mozart and Otis Redding and Lynyrd Skynyrd, but then he’ll lead me to groups like Goose Creek Symphony or songs like “Big Bad John” by Jimmy Dean or “Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back” by Billy Edd Wheeler… So many funny storytellers!

One of Daniel’s most important songs (to him) is “Sweet Lovin’ Music” which is about how there should be no competition in music. If he thought about it, I think he’d appreciate the fact that you don’t have to compete in the same way as the old days to get your music out. We had a poignant moment when we uploaded his first ever song and I told him people from Japan and Australia could listen to it immediately. How can the old days compete with that?

Of course like everyone he wishes he was younger and he certainly wishes he’d done some of this earlier. And though he did write a song against cell phones, he looks at his phone all day long…

What’s had the most impact for Daniel? A particular press piece, concert appearance, or song?

That’s a complex question, because this has been a process and has been built in pieces by so many people who have helped openly and even anonymously (like whoever chose Daniel to play at SXSW in 2016) and everything great led to the next great thing.

There are so many tricks – mostly tricks I didn’t mean to be tricks – that have helped. For instance, the film being made was a key to getting much of our press in the beginning as it added weight to the idea of who Daniel was by simply putting forth the idea that Daniel deserved a film on him. But it wasn’t a trick, because I thought the movie would be distributed years ago! (At least I get to update it).

Yet if I had to pick anything I’d say it was Daniel getting minor heart surgery during the summer of 2017 (a milder form of what Mick Jagger will have this month). It was such a low point: here I am loving this guy and his family and his music and I thought he could die and I would have failed him. It brought up so many issues for me, as I knew I had all the pieces to succeed despite Daniel’s age, because whenever people heard his music, story, or talked to him personally, they were almost always into him no matter what age they were. So it was clear to me that it was my failure; a failure that was part of a clear pattern of failures of mine and I was just angry – at myself and certainly at those in the media, film and music worlds.

So I made a decision: No one gets to ignore me anymore. You can say no to me, but I will fucking harass you bastards until you answer. And that’s what I did immediately; Daniel in the hospital and me not knowing if he’ll make it and hoping for another shot to make it all work. I had been surfing consistently for the first time in my life that year, enjoying it on the Atlantic Coast near Bordeaux. But since I started in on my new mission I unfortunately haven’t been back.

And what I discovered is that while there are certainly many bastards out there, there are so many people who want to help.

Yet the other night (March 27th, 2019) in Bordeaux was another huge turning point for us, where Daniel played his first ever French concert of his original music. It was an “underground” concert – outlaw if you will – at the apartment of young concert promoters Pierrick Falmon and Clementine Moncla and it was incredible. Mark Daumail and Paul Magne of the famous French band Cocoon joined Daniel, as did French troubadour Baptiste W. Hamon, as did Emilie Moutet, the lead singer of Willows. Go figure that Daniel’s first ever band was an all-star team of young French musicians. So many people showed up that they were stuck outside, on the stairs, in the rafters. Two things Daniel had always told me: young people won’t like his music and neither will French people. I’ve been seeing the opposite for years, as I’m younger than Daniel and have a lot of French friends who are younger than me and they always love Daniel’s music. He and his family were so happy to see and feel the reaction, and our Instagram – which I always neglect – was messaged with all kinds of wonderful videos people took, while so many people have reached out to me with praise and opportunities.

Fortunately, we filmed the concert and will also release a live album from it, because it was damned cool.

What’s next? What are you building towards?

That depends on if you ask me or Daniel. Daniel just wants to quietly write his music and play some smaller venues; I want my 71-year old friend to have world domination, action figures, portraits and golden statues in every city and town, all radio stations required to play his songs every 12 minutes, a float in the Macy’s Day Parade of his drawing of “The Sheriff of Mars”…

Okay, being serious (though that float of “The Sheriff of Mars” would be nice) there’s still so much to be done; we’re still not profitable and so we have to keep digging in and making choices. Daniel has 500 incredible songs and keeps writing more and I want it all out there, produced and recorded richly, widely distributed and supported by professionals so that people can conveniently listen, buy, and hear about Daniel’s new work. And that professionalization is important to me, as I miss so much, from radio distribution to simple stuff like getting Daniel’s lyrics up on lyric sites. Aside from this, I’d like to see “The Sheriff of Mars” doc and concert films we’ve shot released. Daniel certainly needs to tour more, and wants to play The Grand Ol’ Opry and Carnegie Hall (he says he’s joking about Carnegie, but I don’t think he is. Let’s see where we are when his film comes out and if he’s as popular as I think he will be).

But things are so going great right now, it’s hard for me to believe last week happened at all…

For I just heard an almost finished version of Daniel’s upcoming album that Paul Magne produced, “Ballad of the Stable Boy,” which will be something extraordinary for us; the name comes from a song about a heroic stable boy who makes a moral decision to save a girl and lose a race. It’s a concept album that will be musically rich as it follows the stable boy throughout his life using eleven of Daniel’s songs; all stories that clearly are parallels of Daniel’s life though he would deny this if I asked him. One of the most amazing songs on the album will be “Old Friend, Charlie,” which is Daniel’s English-language, Americana Music song that is a metaphor for the Charlie Hebdo attacks in Paris in 2015 (Daniel’s daughter was in Paris for the later ones in November 2015, so it’s personal). I had no idea he’d even written “Old Friend, Charlie” until we started going over his pile of music.

I also want Daniel to work with other great artists of all ages, though that’s beginning to happen already. When we started this, no one I knew had heard of Outlaw Country music, and it certainly wasn’t getting any mainstream attention. Now you see all these great musicians like Jason Isbell, Nikki Lane, Whitey Morgan, Colter Wall, Kacey Musgraves, and others take things in different directions (not all of them are Outlaw musicians exactly, but neither is Daniel despite being a product of that era). I heard a folk singer last week named Michaela Anne who seems to share Daniel’s optimism and I’d enjoy getting on her radar. A young musician in France turned me onto Shakey Graves a few weeks back and he and Daniel would play great together. Charlie Paxton, The Rolling Stones, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Adele… There are so many amazing people out there and I hope they find us. And of course I’d love to see all those great folks like Willie Nelson and Emmylou Harris who gave “Pancho & Lefty” fame, sing its sister song “Sweet Lovin’ Music.”

Daniel has never been on television, but now French TV has scheduled three appearances including a 14-minute piece on the making of his new album; plus two top young French artists told me they separately wish to record songs of Daniel’s. But too few in the USA know about Daniel right now, though I’m sure talk shows like Conan O’Brien, Jimmy Kimmel, Steven Colbert, and Jimmy Fallon will all love him if they hear about him, as he is not only a talented musician but all personality. Or I should say many Americans will love Daniel if they get to see him, just like the Brits do. In the UK, I hope Daniel gets on the Jools Holland and Graham Norton shows soon.

It’s shocking to me we don’t get invited to any American music festivals or gigs and I hope that changes. But fortunately there’s Daniel’s first European festival appearance at the Black Deer Festival this summer with great musicians ranging from The Staves to Roxanne de Bastion to Kris Kristofferson to Justin Townes Earle to Jerron “Blind Boy” Paxton and so many more.

And I’d really like to have Daniel tour Australia and New Zealand as he’s written a song about Australia and had press down under and I know he’d be a hit in both countries.

Separately, Daniel should make a children’s album as his songs about animals are ripe for an amazing one and we have enough for three albums already. Not too far down the road I’d like to develop both a theatrical musical based on his songs, and a feature film on his life. There has also been some interest in a written biography on Daniel, which I would like to have happen as there is so much there beyond what I was able to capture in my documentary on him.

I’m ambitious obviously, but not too much about the money by itself.

But people’s help is the most important. Those who are reading this article may think they can’t help, but a follow on Spotify, a Tweet – really anything positive small or large – deeply matters, because it also helps us to know we’ve touched someone. It’s why the Instagram photos and videos that people posted of last week’s concert meant so much to me. While it’s hard now to get Daniel on playlists and get television appearances in the USA, along with all the rest I’ve already mentioned, it just takes someone noticing or hearing or having a friend who works at Deezer or Spotify or Netflix that this gets passed to. Just like all our press was impossibly hard and then sometimes easy.

For some final advice, I think the most important inspiration since we started was when Daniel was nervous, about to play for the first time with his producers before he recorded his first album in 2013, and producer Gary Gold just looked at Daniel and said “don’t worry, it’s just music.” I’ve kept that in mind when I find myself taking things too seriously… Which doesn’t mean sometimes when it’s going bad I don’t want to shoot everyone, especially myself.

And a few weeks ago, before things got so great, Daniel was being a bit cynical about our prospects. He loves this Rabbi called Rebbe Nachman who wrote this book full of optimism Daniel likes to read called The Empty Chair and I joked with him that he should go read it. But the truth was I was feeling the same about everything too. A couple of hours later he felt better and texted me this about baseball player Roberto Clemente and Rebbe Nachman:

“…Pittsburg Pirates were out of contention; but the great Roberto Clemente made a crashing leap into the wall going after a deep drive. He couldn’t quite make the catch but came down all bruised. They asked him why he tried so hard, since they were out of contention anyway. He said he was not paid to win the pennant; but to catch the ball—that’s why he had tried so hard.” – Nachman Baseball

I thought that was about the greatest thing I could read and recovered immediately. My job – and yours too if you’re reading this – is to catch the ball. You have to be optimistic and cynical at the same time, but drive forward no matter what and try to get things out even if you fail 100 times a day to succeed once a month. Daniel has come out of nowhere and continues to grow from a small farm in France that he barely leaves.

But big trees come from small seeds. I think anyway, as I’m from New York and really know so little about agriculture and must go ask Daniel…

Keep up with Daniel Antopolsky at his website.

The post How a songwriter in his 60s broke back into the music industry appeared first on DIY Musician Blog.

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