#I’m supposed to lecture on statistics I don’t understand statistics and also I can’t stop shaking

[specialagentsergio]

rationalizations

rationalizations: a defense mechanism in which one makes up a false but reassuring explanation to explain their behavior and/or feelings to both themselves and others, thus avoiding the reality of why they are really acting or feeling as they do.

summary: You’re the psych evaluation for Spencer. You think he’s full of shit, so you refuse to sign his clearance form until he actually tells the truth.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader

category: angst (happy ending)

content warnings: spencer’s canonical trauma, flashbacks, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, swearing

a/n: i wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins‘ enemies to lovers event. it’s not my favorite trope, but one of the prompts sparked inspiration for me. i also took a good amount of inspiration from meredith’s various therapy scenes in grey’s anatomy, so if some of it feels familiar, that’s why! i swear i intended to make this cute and funny, but, well… here we are lmao.

word count: 3.6k

masterlist

Spencer throws his bag onto his desk with a frustrated huff. It thumps loudly, startling JJ at her desk across from his. She gives him a sympathetic look regardless. “Still not cleared yet?”

“No!” Forgetting that it’s wheeled, he drops himself into his chair. It skids backwards and he has to scramble to grab something to keep from falling out of it.

“Careful there,” JJ says, trying valiantly to suppress a laugh. “That psychologist's got you really worked up, huh?”

“I don’t know what she wants from me!” he complains. “It’s been nearly a month! Hotch’s ex-wife was murdered by an unsub, but they cleared him. I was only shot in the neck.”

“I mean, that’s still kind of a big deal,” she says. “You could’ve died, from the gunshot, or from the nurse that tried to kill you afterwards.”

“Speaking of that nurse,” he starts, “Garcia is the one who shot him and she’s been a wreck over it. She insisted on going to the guy’s execution. But the therapist cleared her!”

“Penelope’s not in the field,” JJ points out.

He crosses his arms. “Still. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot. That possibility is part of the job. It’s not like it came out of nowhere and I was completely unprepared for it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Spence,” she says. “Just keep all of your appointments and I’m sure you’ll be cleared soon.”

He pulls a stack of papers on his desk towards him. Paperwork—one of the things he’s actually allowed to do. “I better be,” he mutters.

---

“And it was really scary, you know?” Spencer wipes at his eyes with a tissue. “Not knowing if I was going to live or die.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He takes a deep breath. “But… it’s over now. The preacher who shot me died in the same shootout. Owen McGregor, the leader of the corrupt deputies, died later that night, in another shootout. And Greg Baylor, the one who posed as a nurse and tried to kill me, was sentenced to death row and he’s gone now, too.”

His psychologist makes a note on the paper in front of her, but doesn’t say anything, so he continues.

“I… I feel better now, just letting that out.” He takes a new tissue and dries his nose. “I feel ready now. Ready to go back to work.”

She nods slowly, considering him. But she doesn’t even look towards her desk where the clearance form sits, frustrating him to no end. After five minutes of silence, he breaks.

“You can’t be serious.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’ve been coming to these sessions for over a month, and I’m still not cleared to be in the field. I…” He musters up more tears and makes sure his voice wavers during his next words. “I just don’t know what you want? I’ve tried everything.”

“No, you haven’t,” she says plainly.

He blinks in surprise, sending some of the crocodile tears down his cheeks. “What?”

She crosses her legs. “You’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not being honest with me, and I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself either,” she says. “You’re a great actor. I can see how you’ve gotten clearances easily before. But that stops with me.”

Spencer stares at her. “I don’t understand.”

She moves her notebook to the side. “What happened in Texas isn’t the first time your life’s been in danger. Why do you think that is?”

“Wh—that’s part of my job,” he argues, fake crying long since forgotten.

“Not to the extent that you take it. I’ve read your file,” she says. “You take unnecessary risks with regularity.”

The tissues crumple in his hand as he clenches it. “I do not.”

“Let’s go back to the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“Of your career.” Yet she doesn’t take out his file, or look at her notes. She speaks from memory. “2005. The BAU is assisting with a hostage situation. You go into the train, posing as someone who is there to remove a microchip from the unsub, but the first thing you do? You take off your bulletproof vest.”

“Okay, clearly you don’t understand what the situation was,” Spencer cuts in. “Ted Bryar was suffering from a psychotic break. He was somewhat unpredictable, and he told me to take off the vest.”

“And you just listened?”

“He—he had a gun, and was threatening both me and the other passengers with it!” he says. “What was I supposed to do, not listen?”

“Uh, yeah,” she replies. “You easily played into his delusions just a few minutes later to distract him. Why not do that to keep yourself safe?”

“I was twenty-four and was running on adrenaline,” he says defensively. “And it was my first time doing something like that. You can’t expect me to think of everything.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” she agrees. “So let’s jump forward a few years. How about the time you approached a teenager who was wielding an assault rifle with no protection, not even your own firearm?” she challenges.

“You mean Owen Savage? That was a unique situation,” he protests. “I knew I could talk him down.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought you had a good chance, but there’s no way to be one hundred percent sure of that. He was volatile, and on a killing spree,” she counters. “You didn’t know if you’d succeed--”

“I did!” He startles himself by unconsciously raising his voice, but he doesn’t apologize. “I did, because….”

“Because you related to him,” she fills in. “And that’s fine. Having empathy for an unsub doesn’t suggest something’s wrong in and of itself. But you still put yourself, and the rest of your team, in danger, didn’t you?”

He crosses his arms. “I got that lecture from Hotch when it happened, okay?”

“So then why’d you confront an unsub alone a few years later in Miami?” she asks. “You didn’t even tell anyone where you were going. You left your vest behind and just ran off.”

“I was having a head—wait, how do you even know that happened?” he questions. “It wasn’t in the report.”

“Well, first of all, you just confirmed it,” she points out, and he wants to kick himself. “Secondly, I can read between the lines.”

“I was having a headache,” he repeats. “I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. I just knew Julio’s life was in immediate danger, so I went to help him.”

“Uh-huh. More recently,” she says, brushing past his excuse, “You confronted your girlfriend’s stalker without your vest or gun.”

Spencer’s getting angry now. “I was trying to save Maeve. She asked me to leave them behind.”

“And you simply listened. Do you see the pattern I’m drawing here, Dr. Reid?” she asks. “These are just a few of the instances that stand out. Time and time again, you put yourself in unnecessary danger. So I’ll ask you again. Why do you think that is?”

Spencer looks over her—really looks over her, trying to understand what she’s getting at. “Are… are you suggesting that I’m suicidal?” he asks quietly.

She looks him straight in the eye. “You don’t act like someone who wants to be alive.”

It’s like she set off a bomb in his brain. Memories, and the feelings attached to them, emerge—Elle handcuffed to a seat, a teenager with a rifle, a blinding headache, Maeve and blood on the warehouse floor.

“Here’s what I see,” she says. “I see a man who’s been through so, so much. Your mother is mentally ill, your father left--”

His father is packing a suitcase. Spencer doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do or say, so he falls back on what he knows.

“Statistically, children who grow up in two-parent households attain three more years of higher education than children from single-parent households.”

It doesn’t help. “We’re not statistics, Spencer.”

“Your file says she’s staying at an institution, and with your father out of the picture, I can only assume you were the one who had her admitted--”

“Spencer, please don’t do this to me!” she cries as she’s escorted out of the house by Bennington Sanitarium’s transport staff.

“A few years into your work here at the FBI, you were kidnapped, tortured and drugged--”

He’s tired and cold and his whole body aches. Tobias—the real Tobias—looms over him with a syringe.

“Please. I don’t want it,” he pleads of his captor. “I don’t want it, please.”

The needle punctures his skin regardless.

“—you were held hostage by a cult leader--”

Emily sits across from him on the plane with a black eye. “What Cyrus did to me is not your fault.”

He pretends to agree.

“—you went through the death and reappearance of Agent Prentiss--”

He’s tried to make it clear to Jennifer that he wants to be left alone, but she won’t stop trying to talk about it with him, and he’s had enough.

“I came to your house for ten weeks in a row crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.”

“—and your girlfriend was shot in front of you.”

“Who’s Thomas Merton? Who is he?” Diane demands, gun pressed against Maeve’s head.

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us,” Maeve replies, and Spencer’s heart drops. Thomas Merton is Maeve’s way of saying goodbye—she’s giving up.

“Wait!” he cries out, but it’s too late.

“This is just some of the more traumatic stuff. And then there’s what happened last month, which is why you’re here. You present a face of not being bothered by all of this, because that’s what you’ve been doing all your life, but I think you are bothered. You really, really are. And you don’t want to admit to anyone just how much it all has affected you. Maybe you don’t even want yourself to know.” Her expression and tone of voice are certain.

Spencer can’t take it anymore. The whirlwind of emotions and memories is overwhelming.

“The number of times you’ve almost died is staggering--”

“Yeah, and sometimes I wish I had!” He glares at her, breathing heavily. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

But she doesn’t seem intimidated or alarmed at all. She leans back in her armchair. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The response only serves to make him angrier. She questioned him relentlessly and made him admit something he swore in the dark hours of sleepless nights that he’d never think again, never voice, let alone admit to anyone. She forced it out of him, forced. She made him say it against his will.

So why does he feel a sense of relief?

“I…” Tears well up in his eyes—real ones this time. “I’m done,” he chokes out.

He pushes himself off of the couch and out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

---

He storms in Hotch’s office and demands to see a different psychologist. But she was one step ahead of him—a few hours before the appointment, she had emailed Hotch and told him that under no circumstances should Spencer be allowed to get a clearance from someone else.

“And you’re going to believe her?” he cries.

“She’s doing her job, Reid.”

“You barely know her! You’ve known me for a decade!”

“Yes, I have,” Hotch agrees. “And you’ve told me yourself that you’ve fooled psychologists and therapists before. So if this one is saying you’re not ready yet, I’m inclined to believe her.”

Spencer just stares at him, but as usual, Hotch doesn’t blink.

“Unbelievable,” Spencer eventually mutters.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Hotch replies, glancing down at fists Spencer hadn’t realized he was clenching.

“Fine.”

Too agitated to stand in the elevator, he takes the stairs. As he stomps down them, he swears he’ll never go back to her office, even if it means never going into the field again.

A week passes, then two, and he hasn’t seen the psychologist since. But he doesn’t feel any better—he actually feels worse. It’s like her words broke a dam in his mind, in his gut, and feelings of unease and uncertainty won’t pass. It keeps him up at night. Her words echo in his head. “You don’t act like someone who wants to be alive.”

Spencer’s had yet another sleepless night and is struggling not to doze off at his desk despite the coffee he’s drinking. He stands up with the intention of splashing some water from the bathroom sink on his face, but his feet take him somewhere else.

He stares at the nameplate on the door. He swore he’d never go back, yet he feels compelled to knock.

It only takes her a few moments to answer. “Dr. Reid. Can I help you?” she asks.

“I…” He sighs. “Are you busy?”

“No. Come on in.” She steps to the side, opening the door wider to let him pass. He sits down on the couch.

She waits patiently. She doesn’t rush him. She lets him speak first.

He wrings his hands in his lap, staring down at them. “Something you said is bothering me.”

“What was it?”

“About… living,” he admits quietly. “I… I think you might have been right.”

When he gets the courage to glance up at her, he finds a soft smile on her face. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Spencer hadn’t realized he was expecting judgment and disdain until it didn’t happen. His shoulders slump down in relief. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I would.”

---

“You’re still thinking about her, aren’t you?”

Spencer looks up from his paperwork, slightly out of it, to find Derek watching him. His coworker had, indeed, caught him thinking about her again. His psychologist. Well, former psychologist. After his second session back with her, she’d handed over a clearance form and a referral to a therapist outside the bureau to see long-term.

“And you better follow up with that,” she’d told him, the corner of her mouth turning up despite her serious tone of voice. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

He’d promised that he would, and had followed through. But despite the progress he was making with the new therapist, he was feeling a little disappointed that he didn’t get to see her anymore. He only saw her in passing, sometimes in the elevator or walking down the hallways of the building. They would exchange hellos, she would ask how he was doing, then give him a little wave as she left. Each time his heart would skip a beat, and he’d feel an urge to follow her to wherever she was going.

Yet he hadn’t quite realized why he seemed to be preoccupied with her until a dream he had a few weeks ago—a dream in which he found himself kissing her. Despite being alone in his bedroom, he’d woken up feeling embarrassed. He promised himself that he would put her out of his mind. Having a crush on his psychologist? It was ridiculous.

But then he saw her in the elevator a few days later and he couldn’t help but analyze her body language. It was open, and she twirled her hair around a finger while she looked at him to ask him how he was. A few other people entered the elevator on the next floor, but her attention remained on him. They were subtle signs, but signs that he recognized nonetheless—signs of attraction. And once he started seeing them, he couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spencer tells Derek, picking back up the pen he hadn’t noticed he dropped.

“You can’t pull that on me, kid,” he replies. “It’s your psychologist. You can’t stop thinking about her, can you?”

Spencer sighs. “So what if I can’t?”

“So go ask her out already!” Derek says like it’s obvious.

“You don’t think that’s just a little inappropriate?”

“You’re not seeing her as a client anymore, are you?” he points out. “Go for it, kid. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Spencer takes the advice—as soon as Derek said it, he knew he was right. He would regret not taking a chance on her and the connection he felt. Sure, she’d helped him with therapy, but it went deeper than that. It feels like she knows him.

He leaves the bullpen ten minutes early that evening, hoping to catch her before she leaves for the day. On her doorstep, he feels just as nervous as he did on the day he admitted that she was right, but it’s a different kind of nervous. An excited nervous. He knocks on the door.

She’s surprised when she seems him. He watches as her pupils dilate, and it boosts his confidence. “Dr. Reid. Can I help you?”

“You can. I’d like to talk,” he says.

“Oh. Well, I guess I could do that,” she says. “I thought things were going well with the therapist I referred you to, though.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean I want an appointment.”

Her eyebrows come together in confusion. “Okay, then, what do you want?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “I want to take you out to dinner.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I really like you, and I think we’re meant to be together,” he replies, voice softening a bit.

She pauses before answering. When she does, her voice is gentle. “Dr. Reid, sometimes a medical professional’s care can start to feel like affection over a period of time, but--”

“No one has ever listened to me like you do,” he interrupts.

“That’s my job,” she points out.

“I’ve seen therapists before, but none of them have been like you,” he counters. “You understand me.”

She sighs. “Well, I’m glad I was a good fit and was able to help you. But that doesn’t mean that I see you as anything more than a client.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do feel something more for me,” he says firmly, but then backtracks a little. “Well, I know you’re attracted to me at least.”

She blinks and shakes her head slightly, take aback. “Dr. Reid, this is not appropriate--”

“Please call me Spencer,” he says, then jumps into his explanation. “See, when we’re attracted to someone, our bodies display involuntary signals, and I’ve seen you do some of them when you’re around me. Whenever we run into each other here, your body will turn a little towards me and you’ll play with your hair. Your attention is almost entirely focused on me. And, when you see me, your pupils dilate. They did it when you opened the door just a few minutes ago. Oh, and I’m attracted to you, by the way,” he adds as he realizes how one-sided he’s been. “I imagine my pupils probably dilate when I see you, too.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say. She looks flustered, and he wonders if maybe he’s pushed it too far or said too much, but he can’t turn back now. “So, please, let me take you out,” he says quietly. “Just… just give it a chance.”

She bites her lip and looks at the ground. There’s a crease between her eyebrows, which he’s come to learn means she’s thinking. She speaks seriously when she looks back up. “If I go out with you, I can’t treat you anymore. If you ever need another evaluation or session, you’d have to get it from someone else.”

“I know,” he says. “I get along well with the therapist you referred me to, though. And having to get clearance from a different psychologist at the bureau is something I’m willing to give up in favor of getting to know you better.”

She considers him. “You’re serious about this,” she states.

It’s not a question, but he answers it anyways. “I am.”

She tilts her head to the side, eyes unfocusing as she ponders the situation. Eventually, she says, “Let me think about it.”

It’s not exactly the answer he was hoping for, but he’ll take it.

---

It’s only six PM, but Spencer is already exhausted. He unlocks his apartment door, fully intending to collapse onto his bed, but instead receives a pleasant surprise in the form of his girlfriend waiting for him on the couch. He can’t help but smile.

“Sweetie, what are you doing here?” he asks, then adds, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Penelope told me it was a bit of a rough case,” she replies. “And I missed you.”

She holds out her arms and he takes the invitation, joining her on the couch and laying down between her legs, placing his head on her chest. “I missed you, too.”

Her next words are overly familiar. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hey, we agreed to no therapy,” he says. “Something about I can’t be your client anymore?”

She huffs. “This isn’t therapy. This is being a good partner.”

Spencer smiles into the fabric of her shirt, snuggling in closer. “I know, I’m just teasing you. I don’t need to talk about the case,” he says, finally answering her original question. “I feel fine now that I’m here with you.”

She lets out a pleased hum and starts running her fingers through his hair. “I ordered take-out for dinner, by the way.”

“Where from?”

“You know where.”

A wide grin spreads across his face. She must have ordered take-out from the restaurant he took her to on their first date. He lifts his head to look her in the eye. “Aren’t you glad you said yes to me all those months ago?”

“Oh, I suppose,” she says with pretend annoyance, rolling her eyes.

Then she kisses him.

Spencer’s never been so happy to be alive.

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

tell me what you thought here!

please note that i DO NOT ENDORSE asking out your therapist/former therapist. this is fanfiction. thank you.

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor​ , @spencerreid9​

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #i just cannot stop myself from writing about mental health issues and treatment can i

[downondilaudid]

High as a Kite

After a stressful case reader unwinds in her own unique way, unfortunately, the BAU is called in on another case. Spencer doesn’t seem too fond of the reader’s stress reliever.

A/N: This is very poorly edited. I just got into a massive fight with a few friends. So now I’m very sad, and just wanna sleep. But fuck them. Like that one vine says, I don’t need friends, they disappoint me. Seriously, FUCK THEM. I still love them doe, i have too, they’re the only friends i have.

Oh also, I wrote this in first person, instead of my usual second person. Let me know if you like it or not! <3

Requested: Yes

Prompts: None

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: (Unprotected)Penetrative Sex, a DASH of angst, drug use, let me know if I missed anything.

“He rarely smoked, but once in a while, like now, when his world had been shaken, his woman nearly killed in front of his eyes, and he’d watched a house consume a man and spit him out, he figured a drag or two were appropriate.”

― Christine Feehan, Safe Harbor

Relaxing after a case was one of my favorite things on the planet. Especially when it ended well, I had been able to watch as the little girl who had been stolen from her family, ran to her parents, her little arms wrapping around their legs. Seeing the love and adoration in the parent's eyes as the wept and held her made me want to have a child of my own.

Spencer and I had been together for a little over a year, but I doubt either of us are ready for children. Our job alone is stressful enough, in fact, it’s how we met. I worked as a technical analyst under Penelope Garcia. I will say my job wasn’t as strenuous as Spencer’s, but it’s not exactly ideal to look at dead bodies all day.

We all have our own peculiar ways of unwinding, Spencer loves to sit and read a few books, Hotch heads home to spend time with Jack, and Emily is always down for a drink. I, on the other hand, would much rather smoke a bowl than read a book. It was my own way of unwinding and allowing my brain to cleanse itself of the horrors of the world.

My pink pipe was packed with weed, a matte black lighter in my hand. The weed burned in the small bowl, crisping to a dark black. My finger released the carb of the pipe a couple of times, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs.

The haunting voice of Lana Del Rey filled the room. Her voice alone is smooth as honey, but listening to her while high is an ethereal experience. I could only imagine what Spencer would do if he could see me now, probably ramble off the statistics of marijuana addiction. But I could definitely say I wasn’t addicted, it was just an easy way to relax.

I took another hit, watching as the smoke tumbled from my lips. My stomach rumbled, causing me to giggle lightly, here come the munchies. Usually, I didn’t have the biggest sweet tooth, but when I’m high I can’t get enough sugar.

My hands pulled open the pantry, hips swaying lightly to the music.

Suddenly the music was gone, replaced by an annoying buzzing, “Ugh, you’re fucking kidding.” I groaned. I let the pantry fall shut, making my way over to where my phone sat. I had an inkling who was calling me, but every ounce of my body was praying I was wrong. Unfortunately, I was not, as I had one text from Hotch and a missed call from Spencer.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed in my hand, Spencer’s name illuminating the phone. Quickly I answered the call, pulling the phone up to my ear. “Hiya Spence.” 

“You get the call?” Spencer questioned, his voice cracking slightly, it was obvious he hadn’t used it in a while. He had probably been reading ever since he got home.

I giggled lightly at the sound of Spencer’s voice, taking a moment to admire the perfect way it croaked. “Mhm, can you pick me up?” 

There was no immediate response, it was obvious there was something off, Spencer could tell. I never asked him to drive me anywhere, I was always the one driving. Especially due to Spencer’s hatred of automobiles. 

“But don’t you usually pick me up?” he questioned. 

“Spencer, that last case… I’m literally the definition of exhaustion, can you please, just this once?” I was hoping that with the use of his full first name, he would understand the seriousness of my question. There was no way I was driving to work, with Spencer in the car, while high. 

Speaking of, I still had zero idea how I was going to act sober in a room of profilers, granted, I had a lot of practice of acting sober in front of people, just not at work. Unfortunately for me, the best two words to describe myself while high were, giggly and horny. Oh, and hungry, who doesn’t get the munchies?

Spencer sighed on the other end of the line, “Of course, Y/N.” He paused for a moment, a slight hesitation in his voice with his next words. “Is-is everything okay?” 

“Oh, totally, the case just got to me, that's all!” My reply was all but convincing, it didn’t help the awkward silence made me giggle, which I quickly stifled with my hand. But to Spencer, I’m sure it sounded like a muffled sob. At least he’d buy it, right?

… 

I hopped into the car, looking too giddy to be dealing with another case, “hey.” 

Spencer turned his head to look at me, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his tongue peeking out between his pink lips. “Y/N are you sure you’re okay?”

I rolled my eyes before playfully glaring at Spencer, “yes, now drive, baby.” I reached out, grabbing the gear shift, and shifting the car into drive. 

The car rolled slightly before a startled Spencer slammed his foot on the brake, “Y/N what the- my foot wasn’t even on the brake! Do you know how many accidents are caused a year due to pedal error? Sixteen thousand, and that’s just in the U.S.”

I know it was inappropriate, but during the whole lecture he was giving me I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands. They were so perfect, long and thick, the number of times that I’ve come undone on those hands is immeasurable. I shifted in my seat before meeting his eyes. Honestly, I hadn’t comprehended a word he said, something about cars?

Spencer shifted the car back into park, turning in his seat to lean towards me. His eyes scanned me up and down, and not in a good way. “You’re acting strange. You’re overly bubbly, especially considering we have another case. You aren’t thinking rationally-”

A gasp left my body once I realized what he was doing, “Spencer Walter Reid, are you profiling me? We agreed not to do that!”

Despite my yelling he kept speaking “and you were too focused on the movement of my hands to retain a single word I told you.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. 

“Spencer, what the fuck are you-ow!” A blinding light clouded my vision, causing me to recoil further into my seat. 

A scoff left Spencer’s mouth as he turned off the flashlight. “You’re high,” he stated, “what did you take?”  

“I’m not-” I quickly stopped my sentence once I saw the glare Spencer was sending me. “Okay, I just smoked a little weed. Seriously, it wasn’t a lot.”

Spencer unlocked his phone, pressing a few buttons before opening the “W-what are you doing?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. 

“Calling Hotch” Spencer replied, his voice even yet stern. It was somehow scarier than his occasional outburst.

“What? No, Spencer!” I reached over the console, latching my hands onto his phone, before pulling back. Sadly, the phone stayed rooted in his large hands, and with a swift tug, he had the phone back in his grasp. 

Spencer glared harsh daggers at me, before looking back down, and continuing to type on the phone. “Y/N, you’ve already pushed me far enough. Sit down and keep your mouth shut.” 

I fell back into my seat, pouting and crossing my arms childishly. The faint sound of ringing broke the silence, stopped by the barely audible voice of Hotch over the phone. 

“Hotch, Y/N can’t come in, she’s sick. I think she has a fever.” The lie tumbled easily out of his lips. 

My head whipped towards him, my eyebrows raised in amusement. “Thanks, I will.” Spencer ended the conversation, this time setting his phone in the cupholder in the console. 

I giggled lightly, “what would I do without you to save my ass?” 

He didn’t respond, instead putting the car in drive, this time with his foot on the brake. Silence filled the car, Spencer opting to focus on the road, and me fidgeting with the hem of my skirt. 

“Spencie, are you mad at me?” I asked, resting an elbow on the console between us. 

It was obvious he was frustrated, I would be too, but how was I supposed to know we’d get called in on a case? “Yes, Y/N” he answered, his words punctuated and his jaw clenching, accentuating his razor-sharp jawline. 

There was something about angry Spencer that sent shockwaves to my core, leaving me squirming against the leather of the car. Eh, what the hell, might as well go for it, I can just blame it on the cannabis. 

My arm reached across the console, my hand landing on the top of Spencer’s thigh. I watched him visibly jump at my touch, he obviously wasn’t expecting it. “Are you sure it’s just anger?” 

He sighed loudly, one of his hands leaving the steering wheel to remove my own from his leg.

…  

“Please Spencer, just really quick? It’d help you relieve some stress!” I cried as I walked through the door. 

Another angry sigh left Spencer’s mouth, he seemed to be doing that a lot. “Y/N, you’re under the influence, I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I almost laughed at his statement, it was perfectly logical of him to think that, and utterly sweet. But he was my boyfriend, my love, I would fuck him in whatever state I’m in. “Spence, I can promise you you’re not taking advantage of me. We’ve had sex countless times, I’d have sex with you even if I was sober, have you seen you?” I paused for a moment before adding onto my sentence, breaking the slight tension with humor, “yourself, not you, that doesn’t sound right.” 

Spencer chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes as he reached for his belt. “Hell yes!” I cried as I began to undo the buttons of my blouse, quickly shedding it. I could’ve just left the blouse on, but Spencer was a tits man through and through. 

As soon as I heard the clinking of his belt colliding with the floor, I ambushed him, immediately letting my lips find his. The kiss wasn’t rough, nor was it gentle, it was somewhere in between, a perfect balance. I pulled away, biting down lightly on Spencer’s bottom lip. 

My hand slipped into his unzipped pants, palming him lightly. It was the most heavenly sight on earth to watch his head fall back, and a low moan tumble from his lips. “Fuck, Y/N” 

Nodding my head I giggled, “yes, please fuck Y/N.”

Spencer tilted his head back up, laughing lightly at my comment.

I pulled away from him, grabbing the hem of my skirt and shimmying it up over my hips. Spencer’s eyebrows raised, a look of amusement on his face. “Please” I begged.

“Alright, turn around, over the table,” Spencer commanded, his voice low and demanding.

A giggle passed my lips as I turned around, making my way over to the table. My top half pressed against the table, my body resting against my forearms. I could hear Spencer’s footsteps as he crossed the room, stopping behind me. His large hands wrapped around my hips, pushing my skirt higher up my body. “Do you know how irresponsible it was of you to try and come into work while under the influence?” 

His hand left my hip coming back down onto my backside, the impact causing me to cry out. “Spencer!”

His hand raked up my side, grabbing a fist full of my hair. “I-I didn’t have a choice.” I stuttered out as one of his fingers hooked onto my underwear, pulling them to the side. 

“You did have a choice, you chose not to inform Hotch, leaving me to save your ass. Do you understand how detrimental the consequences could’ve been if something were to go wrong?” Spencer’s fingers ran through my folds, spreading around my arousal. 

“Fuck” I moaned out, using my forearms to push myself back against his hand. “Better hurry this up, Spence, we don’t have long.” Spencer shuffled behind me before I felt the head of his cock brush against my core. “Fine, if you’re so impatient.” He grunted, pulling back on my hair, and pushing his cock into my folds. 

He was quick to set a rough pace, pulling out and pushing back in, using the hand in my hair as leverage to pull me back in time with his thrusts. “Yes, Spencer, fuck,” I groaned out. 

“You know,” Spencer started, pausing to roughly thrust into me, sending my body forward against the table, the edge digging into my thighs. “If you wanted a stress reliever, you could’ve come to me. Sex releases endorphins and other hormones, the same way exercise does. Particularly, oxytocin, commonly referred to as the “love hormone.” 

I moaned against the table, my body beginning to falter as my orgasm approached. “Fuck, Spencer, mhmm, yes.” 

With every thrust, I could feel the strain of Spencer yanking my hair back, which would definitely leave a crick in my neck. But I was enjoying myself too much to tell him to stop. I could practically feel Spencer’s anger with every obscene smack of our sweaty skin. It was what I was hoping for, a good fuck, and for Spencer to be able to release his anger before heading back to the BAU. 

Surprisingly, Spencer released his vice grip on my hair, easing the tension on my neck, allowing my face to fall forward and my cheek to squish against the table. He planted his forearm beside my head, leaning over me so his chest was pressed against my back. “How good would you feel if I allowed you to come right now?” To add to the pleasure, Spencer’s hand resting on my hip wormed its way around my body, two of his long digits beginning to rub circles around my swollen bud. 

A sob racked my body at the added pleasure, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. I could feel my legs starting to tremble as I held back my release, almost as if my body knew I couldn’t let go until he gave me permission. “Please, please?” I begged.

“Say it. Promise me you’ll come to me next time you need to relieve stress.” Spencer growled, his voice cracking, signaling he was close too. 

The desperate sounds of our moans and the musty smell of sex filled the room, drowning out my senses. I was too lost in the euphoria to reply, instead, I deliriously rutted my hips back as an attempt to feel him deeper. 

Spencer let out a groan before burying his head deep in the crook of my neck, moaning out “promise me, Y/N.” 

“I promise, fuck, please, Spencer?” The words tumbled almost incoherently out of my lips, barely comprehensible. 

Nodding his head against my skin, he placed an open-mouthed kiss to my neck before moaning out “come, come with me Y/N.” 

And just like that, I was sent headfirst into a trembling, teeth-clenching orgasm. My back arched, uncomfortably pressing my breasts even further against the table. My vision went white, and my legs threatened to collapse. Spencer had stilled, burying his cock deep in my cunt, lewdly moaning out my name, and a series of various curses. An unfamiliar warmth coursed through my body as he filled me up with his seed. Leaving me to grin like a Cheshire cat, caked in sweat. 

The two of us laid against the table, deep pants leaving both our mouths. Spencer pulled out, tucking himself back in his pants. “Thank you” I giggled, pushing myself up from the table, and shuffling my skirt back down my legs. 

When I turned around I was met with the sight of a sweaty Spencer, running his hands through his tousled hair. “You look fine, Spence.”

I could tell Spencer was trying his hardest to contain his smile, probably wanting to stay mad at me. But as soon as his eyes met mine, his face broke into a soft smile, my own following suit. I took a step forward, wrapping my arms around his torso, and letting my head rest against his chest. “I love you” I murmured against his shirt. 

His arms wrapped around my back, pulling me closer to him, “I love you too” he replied, placing a kiss to the top of my head.

“Okay, I have to go,” Spencer said, letting his arms fall back to his side.

I pulled back, unwrapping my arms from his body. “Don’t forget your belt,” I nodded towards his belt that was left discarded on the floor in the midst of our frenzy. 

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N, remember?” Spencer joked, snatching his belt from the floor, and looping it back through his pants. 

Rolling my eyes with a laugh I replied, “that doesn’t mean things can’t slip your mind, Spence.” 

“Actually-” he started.

I cut him off by opening the front door, “bye, have fun, I love you!” 

Spencer laughed, pecking me on the lips before heading out the door, looking over his shoulder to call out, “we’ll talk more about this later, Y/N. Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

“Shit.” I groaned, letting the door fall shut.

Taglist: @pinkdiamond1016 @gubler-squad @garcias-batcave

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #mgg fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you

[agreatperhaps12]

There are a lot of misconceptions about Warren Peace. Five times Layla Williams saw through the bullshit, and one time Warren returned the favor.

happy holidays, @katiewont :) 

Misconception No. 1: Warren Peace loves a good fight.

Warren Peace does not go looking for fights. Fights find him.

See: Stronghold chucking a lunch tray at him the first week of class. Dumb and Dumber challenging them to Save the Citizen. Stronghold’s date going full supervillain at homecoming and nearly dropping a school-size anvil on an unsuspecting suburb.

That’s just the highlight reel for September.

When another villain interrupts Warren’s History of Heroism midterm with another school invasion, Warren’s first thought is: Could everyone around here chill for five fucking seconds.

No. Literally, not ever. See: three weeks later, when Warren is standing in line for lunch with the entourage of freshmen he’s long since given up trying to shake off. It has not even been five minutes since Warren and Stronghold defeated their latest challenger at Save the Citizen, and Zach is already doing a clumsy live-action replay.

To Stronghold, “Did you see his face when you were like?” Zach swings his arm with the spectacular confidence of someone not standing in a very crowded cafeteria. To Warren, “And then you were like—” Zach mimes shooting fireballs from his fists, complete with sound effects. “Totally brutal. You looked scary, bro.”

“He always looks scary,” Ethan says, smiling at Warren like that’s a compliment.

Warren glares down at his tray. He and Stronghold have been defending champions of Save the Citizen for over two months, Hero Team every time. He doesn’t get how people are still managing to make him feel like the bad guy about it.

“How was play-pretend battle?”

Layla has emerged from the crowd to stand beside Warren, with a smirk that makes a stupid something flutter behind his sternum. Layla stopped coming to their Save the Citizen matches after their dozenth victory, because “violence should be the last resort in any hostage situation” and “Save the Citizen completely undermines a valuable opportunity for Sky High students to learn strategic negotiation skills.” Warren doesn’t know what she does with the free period. 

Take me with you, he thinks.

“The match was epic,” Zach says. “Will got to throw a car.”

A bashful smile overtakes Stronghold’s dumb, Labrador face.

“And Warren almost barbequed Evans,” Ethan says.

Jesus, could they shut up about it already.

“Really,” Layla says, eyes on Warren while he pays for his food.

“Yeah,” Warren says, in a deadpan to rival Magenta. “It was epic.”

Layla frowns, but instead of launching into the pacifist manifesto that Warren is expecting, she holds up her bagged lunch says, “Want to eat outside?”

Before Warren can answer, Stronghold says, “Outside?” like he’s never heard of such a place. “It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s almost forty degrees,” Layla says, “and I had to come in early to finish a project, so it’s been over—” She checks the clock. “—five hours since I’ve felt roots under my feet. I’m eating outside.”

“Okay, but like.” Stronghold glances at Warren. “Do… you want me to come?”

“No, you’ll just be a baby about it,” Layla says gently. “Warren doesn’t get cold, do you?”

She looks to Warren for confirmation of a fact that Warren is one hundred percent sure he’s never told her. He shrugs to hide his wrong-footedness.

“Great.” Layla claps a hand on Stronghold’s shoulder and uses it to steer him toward the others, who are already sitting at what used to be Warren’s personal lunch table, once upon a time. She shrugs on her jacket, flips her hair out, and looks to Warren. “Shall we?”

Warren follows her outside warily. Sitting down across from her at the picnic table closest to the edge of school grounds, he says, “So, what is this, exactly?”

Layla pauses in uncurling her lunch bag. “What do you mean?”

Warren shrugs. “We don’t really hang out. Alone.”

They did, a little. Back when Layla was using Warren to make Stronghold jealous. But that pretty much ended with the homecoming debacle—after which Layla and Stronghold spent a few weeks trying to get their romantic relationship off the ground, decided they worked better as friends, and went back to normal.

“What are you talking about?” Layla says. “We hang out at the Paper Lantern all the time.”

It’s true that Layla eats at Warren’s workplace a few nights a week, when her mom is too busy with day-saving to make family dinners at home. But Layla is always doing homework, and Warren is always doing Work work, so, “I don’t think that counts.”

“It does,” Layla says confidently. It’s the kind of confidence that only Layla can pull off, because rather than coming across as arrogant, she gives the air of a mysterious woodland nymph, whose secret knowledge mere mortals wouldn’t understand.

“Okay,” Warren says, because he has precious little personal experience to back up any assertions about how friendship is supposed to work. “But this isn’t the Lantern.”

Layla raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to go back inside?”

“No,” Warren says. He doesn’t want Layla to leave, either. There’s a sureness about her that Warren finds comforting. She’s never been afraid of him—probably because she could kick his ass. Warren likes that about her. But he also likes to know where he stands with people.

By way of explanation, Layla says, “Did you know that when you get stressed out, literal steam comes out of your ears?”

“What?”

“Mm-hmm.” Layla pulls an apple out of her lunch bag. “A little. It’s easier to see when your hair is pulled back.”

Warren brings a self-conscious hand to the rubber band he used to tie his hair up during Mad Science Lab.

“It happens a lot when Zach is doing his Save the Citizen play-by-plays,” Layla observes. “Thought I might spare you an entire lunch of that.”

“Oh.” Warren’s hand drops into his lap, blind-sided by the unexpected kindness. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Layla maintains eye contact while taking a bit of apple. Warren shifts in his seat and drops his eyes to his pizza. “You could tell Coach Boomer to assign Will a different partner,” she says after a moment. “Save the Citizen isn’t mandatory.”

Yeah, except it kind of is. No one’s ever voluntarily stepped back from a winning streak like Warren and Stronghold’s. Benching himself would never be worth all the extra side-eye in the halls. Not to mention the explanation he’d have to give Boomer. What kind of superhero-in-training refuses to fight?

Except for the one Warren is currently sitting across from, of course. Who’s looking at Warren with such doe-eyed earnestness that it almost squeezes a “Yeah, maybe” out of him. But Layla is a difficult person to lie to, so he says, “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Save the Citizen.”

Layla sits up a little straighter. “Right,” she says. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Thanks.”

Not that Warren doesn’t trust Layla, but she is the kind of person to press points she thinks are important. Before her mind can cycle back to Save the Citizen from some other angle, Warren says, “Sorry I dragged you outside in the middle of November.”

Layla tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t drag me. I dragged you.”

“Yeah, but for me,” Warren says, and there’s that stupid fluttering feeling again.

“And for me,” Layla says. “I wasn’t lying about needing to get out for a bit. Being inside all day, with the linoleum and cinderblock.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s creepy quiet, when you’re used to feeling everything alive around you.”

He’s never actually thought about it, before. How Layla has her finger on the pulse of something so vast and intricate, even when she’s not bending it to her will.

“Even in November?” Warren says. “Isn’t everything, like… dead?”

Layla laughs. “No. Just taking a long nap.”

“Huh.” Warren looks around the grey-brown landscape of the schoolyard, with its bare branches and faded grass, with new eyes. It’s a nice idea, that all these lifeless-looking things are just waiting to wake up.

Misconception No. 2: Warren Peace doesn’t give a damn about his bad reputation.

Anyone who dyes a single streak of hair, wears fingerless gloves, and walks around like he’s got nothing to prove has something big to prove.

For Warren Peace, that is: I do not give a fuck about my family legacy.

Before starting high school, Warren figured a couple kids might recognize him, by name or by strong family resemblance. But Warren’s dad had already been locked up for a long time. It wasn’t like he made the news anymore. Worse came to worst, Warren thought he might have to field a few awkward questions about it.

Homeschooling did not prepare Warren for how big a household name Barron Battle was.

The first week of school was all open seats around Warren in class and at lunch, cold and curious looks over shoulders on the bus, “Check it out, that’s Barron Battle’s devil spawn” and “I can’t believe they even let supervillain kids in.”

It was treat or be treated like dirt, and Warren chose the former.

Fast-forward to junior year, and Sky High students know Warren Peace for the asshole he is, rather than the asshole his father was. Warren is comfortably back to pretending like his dad doesn’t exist. It mostly works.

Except during a History of Heroism unit on the most notorious villains of the twentieth century, when Warren’s class is staring at a PowerPoint slide that depicts the leveled Brooklyn neighborhood where Barron Battle and the Commander had their final showdown.

Warren ignores his classmates’ not-so-covert glances as Mr. Magnificent rattles of statistics like ‘seven dead and dozens injured’ and ‘nearly one billion dollars in damages.’ Magnificent has to pause his lecture to silence the white noise of whispers that has swelled up, and Warren wants to sink through the floor.

It’s like the first week of freshman year all over again. Warren is projecting I don’t care vibes so hard, there’s a good chance he’ll spontaneously combust.

What feels like an eon later, the classroom lights come up. Warren shoves everything into his backpack and heads for the door before anyone can try to talk to him. As usual, Layla is out of Hero Support early and waiting in the hall to meet Warren for lunch. Her patent sun-bright smile slips as Warren escapes the classroom.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” she says.

“What?” Warren stops up short. “Nowhere. There’s no fire.”

“I was kidding,” Layla says, and winces at herself. “Poor choice of words. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Warren rakes his fingers through his hair. “I can’t come to lunch today. I have to—work on something.”

Normally, when Warren is feeling like shit, there’s nothing he’d rather do than sit with Layla in their little oasis of calm at the schoolyard picnic table. But right now, Warren needs at least thirty minutes to pace around the empty auto shop classroom, literally and figuratively cooling off, before he subjects himself to more human company.

“Okay,” Layla says, hugging her notebook to her chest and looking at him critically. “Are you—”

“Yeah. It’s—whatever. I’ll see you later.” Warren shoulders his way through the crowded hall toward the shop room, head down.

Smooth, he thinks at himself. Very smooth.

Shut up.

Warren assumes the first chance he’ll have to apologize to Layla is the next day at lunch. But when Warren shows up for his shift at the Paper Lantern at five, Layla is already sitting at her usual table. Weird, because Layla usually doesn’t come to the Lantern on Thursdays. Weirder, because when she does come, she typically arrives sometime after eight, when the dinner rush has mostly cleared out.

“What can I get you?” Warren says, drawing his pencil out from behind his ear as he approaches Layla’s table. They do try to maintain some appearances of an employee-customer relationship, to appease Mrs. Zhou.

“Hmm.” Layla examines the menu. “I’d like one kung pao tofu, one green tea, and—” She looks up at him. “—for you to explain why you fled your History of Heroism class today.”

“I didn’t flee,” Warren says. “I stormed out.”

“All right,” Layla agrees easily. “Why did you storm out of History of Heroism?”

Warren crosses his arms. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” Layla holds out her menu.

Warren blinks. “What?”

“You’re right, it’s not my business,” she says. “I just thought you might want to talk about whatever it was.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Warren squints. “Okay…”

“Okay,” Layla says again, and flaps the menu in her hand.

Warren takes it slowly, waiting for the catch. But Layla just pulls a binder and notebook out of her backpack. “Honey with the tea, please,” she says, and clicks open a pen.

“I know,” Warren says, and leaves Layla to her homework. He spends most of the next half-hour trying to untangle why he feels disappointed rather than relieved.

The thing is, Warren sometimes gets a “What was that about?” or “Dude, what the hell happened back there?” from classmates after he goes nuclear. Like after his cafeteria fight with Stronghold in September. Those questions always feel voyeuristic. Prickly and probing.

With Layla, though, the question feels less invasive and more inviting. For the first time, Warren wants to explain himself. He wants Layla to understand. He doesn’t want her to see him as some moody, unapproachable asshole. But he also doesn’t know how to approach her, or the subject, now that he’s already shut it down.

He’s been talking himself in and out of going back over to Layla’s table for ten minutes when Mrs. Zhou sidles up to the pass-through window where Warren is brooding.

“If you’re going to stand around making eyes at your girlfriend, take your fifteen and go over before the dinner crowd arrives,” she says.

Warren’s face heats, and he looks around to see whether anyone is in earshot, even though he’s pretty sure none of Mrs. Zhou’s whitebread suburban customers understand Mandarin. “She’s not my—never mind.”

Deciding he’d rather be having any other conversation besides this one with Mrs. Zhou, Warren forces himself to walk over to Layla’s table and sit down.

“We learned about the Barron in class today,” he says, abandoning any attempt at preamble, “for a lesson on notable supervillain takedowns.”

If Layla is surprised by Warren’s sudden attempt at conversation, she doesn’t show it. She hooks her pen through the spiral of her notebook, closes it, and waits for him to continue.

“Magnificent was showing pictures from the last time Dad and the Commander fought in New York,” Warren says, “and people were looking at me like I was involved somehow, even though all that shit went down when I was still in diapers, and those people have been in my classes for three years, like—I know, we all know Barron Battle is my dad, why can’t everyone fucking get over it already—”

Layla lays a hand on his forearm, cutting Warren off and drawing his attention to the fact that his clenched fist is smouldering like a hot coal. “Shit. Sorry.” Warren shakes out his hand, and Layla pulls back. He wishes she wouldn’t.

Layla waits for the red glow of Warren’s knuckles to dim and then says, “Mr. Magnificent is an idiot. It was totally inappropriate to include your dad in a presentation, especially without asking you first.”

Warren shrugs. “A lot of people’s parents end up in his presentations,” he says. “They’re just usually on the right side.”

“He still should have asked you,” Layla says. “Also, you helped save the entire school in September. If people still think you’re anything like your dad after that, they’re idiots and you shouldn’t care what they think.”

Warren wants to say “I don’t.” What comes out is, “This is high school. Everyone cares what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t,” Layla says.

Warren wants to contradict her, but from what he can tell, Layla genuinely doesn’t. “You have to care a little,” he says.

Layla raises her eyebrows like oh, yeah? and points to her characteristically Whoville-style twist of braids and glittery clips. “You think these hairdos made me a lot of friends in middle school?”

“I didn’t go to middle school.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Layla says.

“Then why do you wear your hair like that?”

“Because I like it.” Layla twirls a stray piece of hair around her forefinger. “And I don’t need to be one of the pretty girls to feel good about myself.”

“You are pretty,” Warren blurts, and immediately has to suppress the urge to set himself on fire.

Layla’s eyes go wide. The last time Warren saw her blush this deep, he’d just called her out for crushing on Stronghold. But instead of straight-up embarrassed, this time Layla’s blush is weirdly, shyly pleased. “You think so?” Her chin is tilted down so that she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, which is not fair.

“Me?” Warren points at himself, like an idiot. “I don’t—I mean, I do, but it’s not just—you are pretty. People know that. It’s an objective fact.”

“Really.” Layla’s cheeks are still pink, but her smile has a playful slant now.

“Yeah,” Warren says, more defensively than he intends. Christ, he was so much better at this when they were fake-dating, when none of Warren’s smirks or swagger could mean anything. Now, without the protection of pretense, everything feels altogether too personal. Warren is not good at personal.

“Thank you,” Layla says, and bites her lip in hesitation before tacking on, “you’re pretty, too.”

Whatever that comment is—reflex, or politeness, or something else—it is officially too much. “I have to get back to work,” Warren says, overloud in the quiet restaurant, and bangs his knee on the underside of the table in his haste to stand up.

“Okay,” Layla says, trying to hide a smile behind her hand. Before he can turn away, she adds, “Warren,” and points to either side of her head.

Warren stares at her blankly for a second before he catches her drift, yanks his hair down from his ponytail to hide his surely steaming ears, and practically runs back to the kitchen.

Misconception No. 3: Warren Peace thinks he’s got the best power.

“I feel like I should warn you,” Layla says as she turns the key in her front lock, “my house is kind of crowded.”

Warren frowns. “I thought you were an only child.”

“No siblings,” Layla says. “A lot of roommates. You’ll see.”

What Warren sees is a menagerie that would do Ace Ventura proud.

“Watch out for the—everything,” Layla says, leading him through a flock of peacocks, a few dogs and several cats that slink by too quickly to count.

“Why… is this?” is the only semi-coherent question that Warren can formulate as he shoos a parrot from his shoulder and shakes his pant leg free of a fox’s jaws.

“You’re not the only one who has to live with your parent’s superpower,” Layla says.

Layla’s mom, apparently, is a zoolinguist. The only place in the entire house not overrun by furry or feathered residents is Layla’s room.

“Wow,” Warren says as he crosses the threshold.

Layla’s bedroom is situated on the back corner of the house, and the two external walls and ceiling are all paneled glass. Presumably to usher in maximum sunlight for the greenery that crowds almost every inch of space besides Layla’s bed and desk. Warren has to shed his winter coat immediately to avoid overheating in the humidity.

“Yeah,” Layla says. “Sometimes I forget how weird it is. Will’s the only friend I’ve ever had up here.”

Layla is the only friend Warren has ever had in his room—which she immediately declared “entirely predictable,” on account of the punk rock posters plastered across his walls. Layla’s room is way more predictable, if you ask Warren. Or at least, Warren would have predicted this, if he’d known literal greenhouse was a legitimate option.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Peaceful.”

“Isn’t it?” Layla takes Warren’s coat and hangs it on a hook behind the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “Mom had the place renovated before we moved in. I think she figured, if she was going to let every animal in the neighborhood have the run of our house, it wasn’t fair to exile my plants to the backyard.”

“Do they all live here all the time?” Warren says, pointing at the floor to indicate the veritable petting zoo downstairs.

“Some of them,” Layla says. “Mom is good at finding homes for most. I think donations from her fans are single-handedly keeping every shelter in the city afloat.”

It’s rude to ask about superheroes’ secret identities, but context clues give Warren a pretty good idea who Ms. Williams might be. Charismatic Megafauna is basically a one-woman PETA operation, liberating animals from factory farms and delivering them to free-range pastures as often as she commands her elite squadron of apex predators to take down baddies. She’s a more controversial figure than the Commander and Jetstream, but she does have an extremely dedicated cult following.  

“Her power sounds amazing,” Warren says.

“Most of the time,” Layla says. She collects a watering can from beside her bed and begins to fill it with a knee-high spigot beside the door. “But there’s a lot of animal suffering in the world. It can get exhausting for her to be tapped into it all the time, you know?”

Warren pauses to consider. “Yeah, I guess that would be overwhelming.”

Layla turns off the tap and carries her watering can to the closest table laden with potted plants. “Everyone’s superpower looks spectacular on the news,” she says, with a very un-Layla-like smile. “No one’s around to see it when your power makes you so sad you can’t get out of bed.”

“Except you,” Warren guesses.

Layla drops her not-really-smile. “Except me.”

Warren shuffles along the row of plants beside Layla while she waters them. He waits until she finishes refilling the can and starts a new row before asking, “Does that ever happen to you? Your powers getting you down.”

Layla studiously waters a flower with orange starburst petals. “Plants have more…auras and vibes than thoughts and feelings,” she says, and tickles the flower under one leaf. The plant visibly perks up under her ministrations, and Layla smiles. For real, this time. “Their pain doesn’t feel as sharp to me as animals’ pain does to my mom.”

“But,” Warren prompts.

“But sometimes, yeah,” Layla says, and moves on to the next plant.

Warren casts around for something comforting to say, but comes up with nothing better than, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Layla says, “but it’s the exception to the rule. Most of the time, I wouldn’t give up feeling this—” She rubs her fingertips over a browning leaf to paint it green. “—for anything.”

Warren shouldn’t be jealous of Layla’s powers. Especially after she’s just admitted what a burden they can be. But Layla has also just confirmed what Warren has long suspected: Superabilities, even the ostensibly powerful ones, are not created equal. Warren’s pyrokinesis is, fundamentally, a weapon. A blunt tool to wield when the situation calls for violence. Layla’s power, on the other hand, seems more like a sixth sense. A trapdoor to another plane of reality.

How much of Layla Williams’s worldview draws on the alien insight of plants that no other human being, least of all Warren Peace, could ever possibly understand?

Layla interrupts Warren’s inferiority spiral with, “I’ve never talked about this with anyone but my mom.”

Warren watches Layla coax a stem into standing up straighter. “Not even Stronghold?”

He should not take as much pleasure as he does in Layla’s dismissive laugh. “Especially not Will.”

“Why not?”

“For a long time, he didn’t have any powers, and he was so jealous of mine, it seemed mean to complain about them to Will.”

“And now?”

“Now, he’s in the honeymoon phase with his new powers,” Layla says, “and it seems mean to bring him down.”

Not even Warren believes Stronghold can be that fragile. “I’m sure he’d get over it.”

“Maybe, but, you know. The things we do for our best friends,” Layla says, with a what can you do shrug, and returns to the faucet for another refill.

“So, why tell me?”

Layla chews the inside of her cheek. “I guess because you already have a complex about your own powers the size of Texas, thanks to your dad.”

“What?” Warren balks. “I do not.”

Layla squints. “Don’t you, though?”

“No. I—shut up.” Warren looks away, feeling hot all over.

Layla bends down to turn off the tap. A moment later, her hand on Warren’s shoulder startles him into looking back at her. Her big, brown eyes are wide with sympathy. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” Warren snaps.

“Okay.” Typical Layla, letting him feel whatever he’s going to feel and say whatever he’s going to say and refuse to throw hands about it.

Warren’s spark of anger sputters and dies. He huffs out an exhale. “It’s not only about my dad,” he admits, quietly, mostly to the floor.

Layla’s hand remains on his shoulder while she waits for an elaboration. Warren very carefully does not acknowledge it in any way, for fear it might stop.

“Fire is...useful,” he says. “But it can only destroy things. I can’t create. Not like…” He waves a hand around Layla’s room. “All I’m good for is fighting, and sometimes I wish—” Warren shoves a hand through his hair. “I dunno. It’s stupid.”

Layla’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “First of all, you are not your power,” she says. “No matter what Boomer or anyone else says. Second, fire is creative. It creates light and warmth.”

“If I’m ever transported back in time to an era before electricity, I’m sure that’ll be extremely handy,” Warren says, aiming for wry and not quite making it, because the tickly feeling that flitters to life in his chest whenever Layla says nice things about him is going wild.

Layla rolls her eyes. “Third of all, you do not need a superpower to create and nurture things.” Before Warren can stop her, Layla has pushed her watering can into his hand.

“What?” he says. “I don’t know anything about plants. I’d probably kill them all.” He holds the watering can out to Layla, who does not take it.

“Don’t act like you don’t have a book of Keats in your backpack right now,” she says. “If you know ‘To Autumn,’ you already know the most important things about plants. Everything else is technicalities.”

Warren gives her a doubtful look.

Layla sighs. “Trust me. Which you should, because I know literally everything about plants, and I’m a very good teacher, and I would not let you hurt any of my babies. Okay?”

Layla holds out her hand, and Warren has to channel all his concentration into keeping his cool enough that he doesn’t burn her when he takes it in his own. Layla grins, and Warren feels a little light-headed with the thrill of it.

“Come on,” she says, and pulls him toward the row of potted flowers where they left off. Warren follows, as helpless as any of the flora around them to resist the benevolent force of nature that is Layla Williams.

Misconception No. 4: Warren Peace doesn’t get scared.

This illusion is at least partly on purpose. Part of the do not fuck with me ethos Warren has been cultivating for the better part of three years.

In reality, plenty of things scare Warren. Like the idea that everyone is right about him after all, and he’ll end up on the Superheroes Guild’s Most Wanted List someday. Or that deep down, a kernel of grudge in his mother resents Warren for taking so closely after his father. But those are more midnight-existential-crisis concerns than acute fears.

Warren gets scared during battles, too. But the initial kick of adrenaline always seems to knock his consciousness clear of his body, such that he spends most of the fight controlling the firestorm of his fists from somewhere above the action. He usually doesn’t realize how freaked out he is until after the fact, when his brain plugs back into his body and he thinks, huh, my hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s rare that Warren feels, in real time, the bass-drum beat of his heart and a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. But that’s exactly what happens every time he gets close to asking Layla out on a date.

He’s come close so many times. He’s had the tickets in his jacket pocket for weeks. But the prospect of actually asking Layla invites the prospect of Layla saying no, and Warren—can’t.

Sometimes, he can almost convince himself that she would say yes, despite the fact that Layla is kind, beautiful, mystical Layla, and Warren is social-pariah, problem-child Warren. Like last Tuesday, when Layla said “you’re such a disaster” with such heart-stopping fondness, while she pulled a rubber band from Warren’s hair to replace it with one of her own, more comfortable fabric hair ties. Or last Friday, while they were watching a movie at Layla’s place, and she tucked her socked toes under Warren’s thigh on the couch. Or yesterday, when she held her hands out over the picnic table for Warren to warm her pink fingertips between his palms.

And always, in the back of Warren’s mind: “You’re pretty, too.”

But whenever Warren opens his mouth to ask, his tongue goes dry and his palms go damp. It’s such a stupid thing to be afraid of, it makes Warren want to close his head in a locker. Worst case scenario, Layla turns him down. They’d still be friends. She wouldn’t be cruel. She’s Layla. But Warren isn’t used to having so much of himself caught up in another person. The idea that Layla isn’t equally caught up in him provokes a strangled, withering feeling in the pit of Warren’s stomach that he can only imagine would intensify tenfold after the actual rejection.

So, Warren’s been procrastinating.

But time is running out.

It does not help that Stronghold’s flock of freshmen is currently obsessing over Winter Formal like a bunch of… well, freshmen.

“You guys asking anyone?” Zach says at lunch, one day when freezing rain is lashing Sky High too hard for even Layla to sit outside. Zach hooks an arm over Magenta’s shoulder, as if to underline the fact that she’s already spoken for. Magenta rolls her eyes but doesn’t shrug him off.

“I would ask Larry,” Ethan says, pushing steamed vegetables around on his plate with his fork. “If I could stop going full-puddle every time he looks at me.”

Layla and Magenta make sympathetic noises.

“I think I’m gonna ask Abby,” Stronghold says, eyes cast over at a table where Warren assumes this Abby must sit. He hasn’t bothered to keep up with Stronghold’s latest romantic fixation. They’re already two—three?—full crush cycles past Layla. Warren can’t believe he ever felt threatened by a kid with the attention span of a housefly.

“She’d totally say yes,” Magenta says. “I overheard her about how hot you are during the Shapeshifting Students Association meeting.”

“Really?” Will says, at the same time Layla goes, “Magenta!”

“What?”

“Gossip.”

“Okay, Mother Williams,” Magenta says. To Will, “We’ll talk later.”

Layla looks intent on pressing the matter, but Ethan says, “Do you have a date, Layla?”

Everyone turns to Layla, except for Stronghold, whose eyes inexplicably flick over to Warren—who glares him into dropping eye contact.

“No,” Layla says, unconcerned.  

“Not yet,” Zach says. “Just a question of who asks first.”

Warren’s heart stutters, and he swallows back a “What?”

Luckily, Stronghold has less restraint. “What?” he says, like he wasn’t ogling another girl 0.2 seconds ago.

Zach looks at Stronghold like, Are you kidding? “Layla’s hot,” he says slowly. Magenta nods in agreement. “Chen, Robinson, and Feinstein are all thinking about asking.”

“And those are just the ones we’ve heard about,” Magenta says.

“Where are you guys getting this intel?” Ethan says. “We’re your only friends.”

“You can hear a lot from the inside of a locker,” Zach says.

“Or from the vents,” Magenta adds.

“Who’s still shoving you in a locker?” Layla says, frowning at Zach.

“Don’t deflect,” Magenta says. “Who are you going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Layla says, very pink and very determinedly acting like she’s not. “I didn’t know I had options until right now.”

Warren didn’t know he had competition until right now. In his defense, he deliberately pays as little attention as possible to rest of the Sky High student body, except for the five freshmen who invaded his space last fall and refused to leave. But of course other guys want to ask Layla.

Fuck.

“What about you, Bucky Barnes?” Zach says, throwing Warren an upward nod. “Got your eye on any hot junior goths we don’t know about?”

Warren scowls. “No.”

“Warren’s too cool for school dances,” Magenta says.

Stronghold frowns. “He took Layla to homecoming.”

“Only to make you jealous,” Layla is quick to correct.

Warren’s eyes snap over to her, but Layla isn’t looking at him. Just stabbing at her salad with her fork and letting her hair partially obscure her still pink cheeks.

An uncomfortable, sour feeling settles in Warren’s stomach. He makes himself look back at Zach. “I don’t do school dances. I have a thing anyway.”

“What thing?” Magenta says.

“A thing,” Warren says, with enough finality that even Zach knows better than to push it.

That is, until Stronghold corners Warren at his locker after final period to ask, “What thing do you have to do instead of Winter Formal?”

Warren continues loading books into his backpack. “A thing.”

Stronghold, in a bid for Warren’s full attention, shuts his locker door. As soon as Warren turns a glare on him, the kid goes bug-eyed.

“I am so sorry!” he says, reaching out to open the locker, only to remember that, duh, it’s Warren’s and he can’t. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Warren must be spending too much time with Layla, because instead of picking Stronghold up by his shirt collar, he merely swats Stronghold’s hand away and unlocks his locker.

“It was only—I know someone who was hoping you’d ask them to Winter Formal,” Stronghold says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Warren fixes Stronghold with a flat expression. “You’re not my type.”

For an aspiring superhero, Stronghold flusters extremely easily. “Wh—not me!” he says, and then leans in and lowers his voice. “You know.”

Warren, who is not in the business of getting his hopes up—no matter how many summersaults his stomach is doing—raises his eyebrows.

“Layla,” Stronghold murmurs, so low that Warren has to read his lips.

Summersaults, cartwheels, handsprings. Warren’s stomach is performing a full-on gymnastics routine. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Stronghold admits, and Warren’s stomach immediately flops. “But I am something of an expert on Layla Williams.”

Warren, who has an entire September’s worth of evidence to the contrary, makes a psh noise.

Stronghold squares his shoulders and ticks off on his fingers: “She hangs out at the Lantern all the time. She eats lunch with you, alone, every other day. The way she talks about you—”

“She talks about me?”

“Dude.” Stronghold lays a hand on Warren’s shoulder, looking so delighted with the irony that it takes everything in Warren not to ignite. “You’re so stupid. She’s totally into you.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Right.” Stronghold’s hand immediately slides off. “Seriously, though. If you don’t ask Layla to the dance, someone else will.”

“Noted,” Warren says, like he isn’t already tying himself into knots over that exact possibility.

“You’re gonna ask her, then?”

Warren heaves a sigh. He can’t believe he’s about to confide in Will Stronghold, of all people, but at this juncture it seems like the path of least resistance. “I have tickets to something that night, and I want to ask Layla to go with me.”

Stronghold has the audacity to look innocently perplexed. “So, why haven’t you?”

“I’m, you know.” Warren pushes back his hair. “Waiting for the right time.”

Stronghold looks dubious. “It’s a date, not a prom-posal.”

“I know that,” Warren snaps.

Stronghold blinks, and something seems to click in his head. His expression goes slightly amused and, even worse, sympathetic. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” Warren says, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Okay, well.” Stronghold blows out a breath and puts his hands on his hips. “Any chance the right moment might be, like, today? Around now-ish?”

Warren narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Magenta texted me five minutes ago that Andrew Chen is standing next to our bus, waiting for Layla.”

Warren’s heart lurches. “You should have led with that, Christ.” Guess he’s doing this now. Is he really doing this now? He has to, so he is. Warren slams his locker and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Where is Layla?”

“Magenta said she stayed after class to talk to Mr. Boy about—oh, okay, then. Bye! Good luck!” Stronghold calls after Warren’s retreating figure as he strides off down the hall.

Warren is so preoccupied with figuring out what he’s going to say to Layla when he finds her that he nearly runs into her as she exits Mr. Boy’s classroom.

“Warren,” she says, blinking up at him in surprise. “Hi.”

Warren, who suddenly feels like he’s stepped on stage with no lines prepared, takes a second to remember how to breathe before he gets out a “Hi.”

Layla stares up at him expectantly. Right. He’s supposed to say more words.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

A pucker forms between Layla’s eyebrows. “Sure. I actually wanted to talk to you, too.”

Warren clenches the tickets between sweat-damp fingers in his pocket. “Okay. Do you want to…” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mostly empty hallway.

“Okay.”

Layla follows him out into the hall, and they stand in semi-awkward silence until Warren says, “You first.”

“All right.” Layla tucks her hair behind her ears. She already looks embarrassed. Not good. “So, I might be way off base here, but I get the feeling you’ve been working yourself up to asking me to Winter Formal?” Her voice lilts up like a question, but she must find all the confirmation she needs in Warren’s expression, because she immediately continues, “and I just wanted to make it clear that you don’t have to.”

When Warren opens his mouth, “Oh” is all that comes out.

“Yeah.” Layla hooks her thumbs through the straps of her backpack. “I know school dances aren’t really your thing—and they’re not exactly mine, either. So I didn’t want you to think homecoming set some sort of precedent, that you have to ask—”

“I wanted to ask you,” Warren says, finally unsticking his throat.

It’s Layla’s turn for surprised silence. It takes a full two seconds for her to get out, “You did?”

“Yeah, but—not to the dance. Here.” Warren pulls the tickets out of his pocket. His thumb has smudged the ink of the top ticket, so he hands the bottom one to Layla. “Town hall is holding a fundraiser gala next Saturday to raise money to build a park on an empty lot in my neighborhood.”  

Layla takes the ticket in both hands and stares down at it.

“There’s going to be food and music and dancing,” Warren says, heart rate accelerating. “I think they’re going to auction off dedications for benches and flower beds and stuff. There will probably be a couple boring speeches by some government officials, but.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I dunno. It sounded like it could be fun.”

Layla still hasn’t said anything, and Warren’s heart is throwing a fit in his ribcage, so he adds, “It’s the night of Winter Formal, though. So if you wanted to go to the dance with someone else and hang out with your friends, I totally—”

“No,” Layla says, looking up at him with bright eyes and a wide smile. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Warren says, too overcome by the cold flood of relief pooling in his gut to say anything more substantive than, “Cool.”

Layla carefully slots her gala ticket into the front pocket of her backpack. “Took you long enough,” she says, angling a teasing smile at Warren. “I couldn’t take another week of you opening your mouth like you were going to ask me something and then not saying anything.”

“Thank Stronghold,” Warren says, wondering what his life has come to, that those words just came out of his mouth. Must be the generosity of giddy relief.

Layla’s nose scrunches up in tickled confusion. “Why?”

“He warned me that Chen was gonna ask you to the dance this afternoon,” Warren says. “Sort of lit a fire under my ass.”

“But Andrew—” Layla breaks off with a laugh and shakes her head. “Will.”

“What?”

Layla takes Warren’s hand and starts walking them down the hall. “Andrew Chen’s been sick with the flu all week,” she says. “He’s not even here today.”

Warren’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds. “Stronghold.”

Layla laughs again and swipes her thumb across the back of Warren’s hand, and a great, soft warmth blooms in Warren’s chest.

Well. If he has to be indebted to Will Stronghold for something, this is as good a favor as Warren could have asked for.

Misconception No. 5: Warren Peace is not a touchy-feely person.

Warren himself would have sworn by this one, until a month ago. He has never, in all his life, considered himself a cuddly person. By any stretch.

It turns out that in order to identify as a cuddly person, you need someone to cuddle. Or, more specifically, someone you have permission to cuddle.

Dating Layla Williams finally gives Warren that permission.

He expected it to be harder, weirder, more awkward to transition from being someone who looks at Layla and thinks I want to put my arm around you, to being a person who can actually reach behind her back and curl his fingers over her hip bone.

It’s not hard at all. The first time Layla kisses Warren, up on her toes with her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, in the dark of her front porch after the fundraiser gala, there’s a shift. A gravitational kick that sends them into closer orbit around one another, so that now it’s routine for Warren to wrap Layla in his jacket and tuck her into his side as they walk. Steal her hand to press her knuckles to his lips. Knock his knee gently against hers under their picnic table.

“Who knew Warren Peace was such a cuddle bug,” Magenta says, tipped back in a papasan chair to peer at Warren upside-down.

Warren is sitting on the shag carpet of Stronghold’s basement with his back against the couch to let Layla play with his hair while they talk over a movie. She’s just tied off an elaborate braid, so now his cheek is resting against her knee while she twirls the fine hairs at the nape of his neck around her fingers.  

“Call me ‘cuddle bug’ ever again and I’ll roast you like a marshmallow,” Warren says, too sleepy and comfortable to put any real heat behind the threat.

Magenta, true to form, doesn’t so much as blink. “Hate to break it to you, but an elegant Dutch braid kind of undermines your whole tough-guy act.”

Warren simply shrugs. It’s an occupational hazard of dating Layla, spending a lot more time around her—their?—friends outside school. Warren resisted at first, but at this point, it’s more exhausting to continue holding them all at arm’s length than to let them have the run of his life.

“Layla, in general, kind of undermines his whole tough-guy act,” Zach says. “You know he wrote her a poem for Valentine’s day.”

“Read her a poem,” Warren says. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well get Layla clipped flowers.

“That’s still sappy as hell, dude,” Ethan says.

“It was very sweet,” Layla says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Warren’s forehead.

Warren unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile.

“He’s preening so hard right now, oh my god,” Magenta says.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tease him, or he won’t come back,” Layla says, but Warren hears the smile in her voice.

“Please. He’d go anywhere you go,” Magenta says, and as Layla’s fingertip traces the shell of Warren’s ear gently, always gently, Warren doesn’t even attempt to contradict her.

+1 Misconception: Layla Williams is a just happy, go-lucky hippy chick.

Outside Layla’s bedroom window, everything green is tucked under snow and the weight of waiting for spring. On the other side of the world, everything is burning.

Record-setting wildfires have raked Australia for weeks. Neither Layla nor her mom can directly feel what’s happening to the outback. But Layla knows her mom must sense it like she does, every time a singed koala or graveyard of splinterlike tree trunks appears on the news: a gnawing sensation that something on the far edges of her mind is vanishing into smoke.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing Layla can do. Even if she had the means to get to Australia, there’s no way to salvage the aftermath of a forest fire. Layla wields incredible power over living organisms. But it’s like conducting an orchestra. Not much to be done if the entire ensemble is already dead when she takes the stage.

Actually, the real worst part is knowing that the inferno currently eating up Australia isn’t an outlier. The warming world is parching landscapes and revving up hurricanes, and every weather-related threat to her beloved biosphere is only going to get much, much worse. It makes Layla feel horribly, inescapably small.

To avoid sitting around the house and chewing her nails down, Layla takes on more volunteer shifts at the animal shelter. Helps Magenta with outreach for the Shapeshifting Students Association. Spends a couple Saturdays with the local river cleanup volunteer crew. Cooks dinner on the nights her mom is actually home. Overstudies for an exam in Hero Support.

It’s all a good distraction, but at the price of exhaustion. Layla feels emotionally sore. Like she’s been doing the psychological equivalent of running springs.

Case in point: “Layla?”

Layla blinks herself out of her middle-space-stare at the picnic table. “Hmm?”

Warren frowns. “I said, are you coming to the Lantern tonight?”

“Oh, no,” Layla says, and winces her apology. “Will’s coming over to study for Hero Support.”

“Why? You’re gonna ace that thing.”

“I promised Will I’d help him review.”

Warren’s frown deepens.

“What?”

“You should take a break,” he says.

Layla hides a yawn behind one hand and waves the other dismissively. “I’m fine.”

Warren gives her a flat look. Most of his expressions are pretty flat, but Layla has gotten good at reading the subtleties. This one says, quit your bullshit.

“What?” she says.

“You—” Warren spends a couple seconds struggling to find the right words. “Your hair is in a ponytail.”

Layla replays that in her overtired mind, wondering whether she heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

“No sparkly clip things. No scrunchies. You didn’t even do the thing where you wrap a little piece of hair around the elastic to hide it,” Warren says, as though that clarifies anything. When Layla’s expression makes clear that it does not, Warren sighs. “Babe. You’re exhausted.”

“Am not,” Layla says, and feels totally betrayed by her own body when the words are stretched out by a yawn. “Coincidence,” she says, in response to Warren’s unimpressed eyebrow-raise.

“Layla.”

“It’s fine,” she insists.

“Take a break,” Warren says, more insistently. “Stronghold can survive cramming for one exam on his own. Let baby bird learn to fly.”

“He’ll drop like a rock,” Layla says mournfully.

“Probably,” Warren says. “But you don’t have to be there for everyone all the time.”

Layla studies her bitten nails. “It makes me feel better.”

Warren’s ever-warm hands take hold of Layla’s, making her look up. But whatever he has in mind to say is interrupted by the bell. Warren gives her fingers a brief squeeze before releasing them, so that they can collect their things.

“Tell Stronghold to find himself another tutor so you can have a night off,” Warren says, hooking an arm over Layla’s shoulders as they head for the front doors. “Please.”

Layla does not. Which is why, when she says “come in” to the soft knock on her bedroom door at eight o’clock, she expects Will. Instead, she gets Warren, hovering on the threshold with his usual carefully concealed uncertainty, like he’s a vampire who has to wait to be invited in.

“What are you doing here?” Layla says, sliding off her bed. “I thought you had work.”

“Got someone to cover my shift,” Warren says. He’s holding what looks like a magazine. “This was more important.”

“What is… this?” Layla says. “You know Will’s going to be here any minute.”

“No, he’s not,” Warren says. “He’s at Magenta’s”

Layla narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Told him to go find another study partner,” Warren says. “Since you’re already prepared.”

Layla crosses her arms and sinks her weight into one hip. “I told you, I want to help.”

Warren adjusts his grip on the magazine. Layla hears the paper stick to the sweat on his fingertips, but his determined expression doesn’t change. “Then help me.”

Layla blinks. “With what?”

Warren holds up what turns out to be a gardening catalog. “I want to get my mom a couple of indoor plants for her birthday,” he says. “Something pretty but doesn’t require a lot of attention, because she’s gone so much. I thought maybe you could help.”

Layla stares at him. “I love shopping for potted plants,” she says slowly.

Warren exhales a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I know. And you are a good teacher, so.”

He rolls the catalog up between his hands and looks at Layla with guarded hope that shoots a bolt of affection like heat lightning straight through her stomach. She needs to sit down.

“Come in, then,” she says, and ushers him through the door. While Warren is taking off his shoes, “Just so we’re clear, you are not going to make a habit of rearranging my schedule behind my back.”

Warren stands up straight, dead serious. “Got it.”

Layla indulges a smile and leans up to kiss him. “I’ll forgive you this time, though.”

They sit on Layla’s bed, flipping through Warren’s catalog, as well as a stack of magazines that Layla has pulled out from under her desk. Warren loops his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder, listening intently while she explains the care and keeping of flowers. It’s comfortable and easy and requires just enough idle attention to avoid falling into a slump. Layla could do this forever, she thinks.

Not an hour later, Layla is lying with her chin propped on her hands, which are folded over Warren’s chest, struggling to keep up conversation through yawns of increasing frequency.

“You can go to bed, you know,” Warren says, dryly amused, and tucks a strand of hair that has fallen out of Layla’s loose ponytail behind her ear.

“I might fall asleep right here on top of you, if you keep talking about it,” Layla says, closing her eyes and pillowing her cheek on her hands.

She feels, rather than hears Warren’s hitched inhale, and suddenly feels more acutely awake than she has all week.

Three seconds pass before Warren murmurs, “You can. If you want.”

Layla very carefully keeps her body relaxed and does not open her eyes to avoid breaking the fragile moment. “Mmm-kay,” she says, and adjusts to find a slightly more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Warren says, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, his other thumb smoothing the hair back at her temple.

Layla is so keenly aware of every point of contact that she thinks she might stay awake after all. But within minutes, the soft touch pulls her down into sleep.

#layla williams #warren peace #sky high #my 11-year-old self would be proud #first het fic ever #but i caught feelings writing this and guess now i ship ForestFire #i think it got angstier than your original adorable prompt intended but #what else is new #apologies for the climate change existential crisis that popped up at the end there #i might have been projecting

[starryeyedkoo]

Genre: badboy!au, gang!au, college!au, angst!!, fluff

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Warnings: mature language, alcohol use (including mention of underage drinking which i do not condone), violence, minor character death, brief mention of addiction, tsundere jungkook, (cheesy) angst around every. corner. (seriously it never stops i’m sorry)

Word Count: 22.9k (here we go again i’m so sorry)

“Do you regret it?” “What?” “Falling in love with me? It feels like I only weigh you down.” “I’ll let you pull me down to the depths of hell if that’s what it means to love you.”

a/n: this story is just cliche after cliche… because i’m a hoe for cliches, so hopefully it’s not too much hehe. this fic was really self-indulgent and dramatic so be warned !! also this fic was inspired by the dialogue i wrote above (which actually didn’t even make it into the story) and these songs: Harder by Oliver Riot and Someone to Stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic

You tapped the end of your pencil on the surface of the desk you sat at in an attempt to keep your eyes from drooping shut while you worked on the last few problems of your Statistics test. Your ears zeroed in on every sound present in the room, including the flipping of a page coming from behind you, the sniffling from the boy across the room that has been a persistent provocation for the last hour and a half, and also the boy sitting a seat away from you who huffed out a breath and sent you an irritated glance. You pursed your lips and quickly steadied the grasp of your pencil before it became an even bigger annoyance to him.

After what felt like an excruciatingly long hour and a half, you had finally made it to the end of your test with each problem filled out and just a few seconds to spare. Once time was called, you were quick to make your way to turn in your packet and then you turned straight towards the exit. Just as you were only a few meager steps in front of the professor’s desk, he called you over asking if he could speak with you. “Ms. _____, how was the test?” You stopped short, a little confused as to why he had stopped you from walking straight out of there. Before you could produce an easy answer to quickly end the conversation, he interrupted you, “Please feel free to let me know if you need some extra help. I know statistics isn’t easy, so I understand if you’re struggling a bit.”

Your brows drew together in confusion and you glanced around the room at the last lucky students making their way out before you could, each of them dropping their test packets on the corner of his desk and turning the other way. “What makes you think I need help?” You flashed a pleasant smile to maintain respect towards your teacher.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, the curriculum of our university is especially challenging, and I know it may be a bit of a strain for you,” he offered, gesturing towards you in what you were sure was of a demeaning nature.

The smile melted off your face and you found it difficult to keep your lips from turning down in disbelief. “It’s not too different from anything I’ve had to do before.”

“Is that so?” your professor inquired with a doubtful smirk creeping onto his face, and that had been the last straw.

“Actually,” you corrected, suddenly feeling brave and bold enough to defend yourself, “I believe my private high school’s rigor was much more difficult to tolerate than this, but thank you for your concern.” Your false thankfulness did not extend to your facial features, lips turned into a scowl. “Believe it or not, sir, I made it into this university through hard work, not just connections and thick stacks of cash.” You slammed your test paper down onto his desk, making daring eye contact with him for only a moment before turning to take your leave. “Have a nice day,” you bid him sarcastically, striding out the exit.

As soon as you were far enough to overcome the blinding frustration you had just unleashed, you quickly realized you would most likely regret giving your teacher that attitude, but honestly, he deserved it. Screw him.

After anger came the frustration that you had been facing since you enrolled in this university that had been beating down on you like heavy rain, slowly wearing you out the longer you had to withstand it. Nearly everyone you met would soon make the connection between you and your family name and make assumptions about you, several of them nasty. Your least favorite of the rumors however, and maybe it was because it was the most frequent, was that you paid your way into university. For some reason, people couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of you having a functioning brain, and you were getting sick of it.

During your walk, the sky creeped open and rain began to drizzle down, further dampening your mood. Then in the distance, quickly becoming louder, you heard the boom of the bass from the speakers of a car. Next thing you knew, you saw a convertible with its top down coming down the road, filled to more than its full capacity with young men, and just as you had expected it slowed as it was about to pass you. “Hey, little lady, why don’t you come for a ride with us?” one of the boys offered slyly.

You refused to even pretend to play along though, and instead you just put in your earphones and turned your music up to max volume to drown them out until they had enough fun and turned around. It definitely was not the first time that had happened. Frequently, actually, boys would cross over into this side of town and entertain themselves by messing with the snooty, rich folk. You couldn’t blame them, to be honest. Sometimes you felt the same way. Sometimes, you wished you could disassociate yourself with everything that had to do with this city and start something new where no one had any idea who you or your family were.

You were feeling bored, unfulfilled… You really weren’t sure what it was, but you were feeling just as gray and lifeless as the cloudy sky. The concrete streets and buildings of the city. Even the river’s flowing water displayed a dead, sooty color under the gloomy sky. You began to wonder if your eyes were one day going to reflect the same shade.

“No! Absolutely not! This is ridiculous!” Your mother barked, angrily pressing her finger harshly down onto the remote’s power button as the screen of the television went dark. The news anchor had just been reporting on today’s commencement of the new policy enacted by your city to allow ‘free entry of especially gifted students from less fortunate communities’ into the most prestigious university in your city. “I am paying way too much money to send you to this school to keep you away from these thugs, and now they get to waltz on in there for absolutely no charge?”

By ‘thugs’ she meant, of course, the people from the west side of the city. You barely suppressed the eye roll that crept up on you. “If you really wanted me away from them, you should have let me leave the city like I wanted.”

“Yeah, you far enough away where I can’t keep an eye on you? That won’t be happening.” She shook her head disapprovingly before returning her attention to her laptop, typing away at the keyboard. Suddenly, her phone began to ring, and she quickly scooped it up, composing herself before answering with a business-like greeting and excusing herself from the room.

You sighed, checking your phone for the time, the digital numbers indicating that you had thirty-five minutes until your morning lecture on photography, so you placed your plate in the sink, leaving it for the cleaning service to take care of when they came later in the day, as they did every other day. You scooped up your bag and slipped your shoes on, calling to your mother who was most likely already in her office, “Okay, Mom, I’m heading out!” No response. You gave a quick sigh before mumbling to yourself, “Bye.”

Because your house was conveniently located in the busy part of town, and the university stood just outside the business district, it was a relatively short walk, only about twenty minutes long. Your mother insisted she could have her driver take you to and from classes, but you denied. You would much rather walk than draw more attention to yourself and risk looking like a spoiled brat, even though your college was mostly comprised of students who came from wealthy families like you had.

You quickly decided that stopping for a coffee on the way to class was a poor decision on your part now that you were ever so casually speeding down the last block to get there in time. You were heading to the row just a few back from the front as you always did when you spotted an unfamiliar face in the very seat you had claimed since the beginning of the semester. The rest of the row was practically empty since this was a fairly small class. He seriously couldn’t have picked any other spot?

You slowly approached, careful to keep a friendly smile on your face, especially since he seemed to be a new student. You set your bag in the seat next to him before speaking quietly, “Excuse me, but would you mind moving down a few seats? This is usually where I sit.”

The boy looked up from under his black bangs that fell over his forehead. “Aren’t there plenty of other seats to choose from?” he deadpanned, looking up and down the nearly empty row of seats. The polite smile faltered for a moment before you exaggerated it even more.

“I suppose there are…” you reluctantly agreed through clenched teeth, picking up your bag and moving yourself down a few seats from the boy who was now fiddling with his camera he had brought to class. Just moments later, your professor came in, greeting the class and beginning the lecture. You quickly brought out your notebook and your own camera, and you noticed the eyes of the boy sitting next to you staring intently at your camera. Brows turning down in petty dislike for this new student, you brought your hand up to take the strap and pull it closer to you, not afraid to let him to see your scowl.

After another very long and confusing photography lecture, you were once again puzzled by the assignment you had been given and you reluctantly had to ask your professor for help before you left the classroom. You didn’t think this class would be so difficult. You only took it as an elective for an easy A, but instead it ended up being much more complicated than you had initially anticipated. No matter how much you played around, you couldn’t figure out how to get the perfect picture with the right details like everyone else could. “Professor Choi,” you called for her attention. She looked up from the stack of papers she was arranging at her desk while you slung your bag over your shoulder and approached her with hurried steps. “I just had a quick question about exactly how to use—”

“Ms. _____, I’m sorry, but I cannot keep answering your questions about the functions of your camera. This should be prior knowledge or something to study and experiment with in your own time. If you need help, you should consider getting advice from another student who is more well-versed with a camera.” She suddenly looked behind you and you followed her gaze, finding the same boy still lingering, finally leaving from where he sat. “Like Mr. Jeon, for example,” she gestured to him, and his head perked up at the sound of his name. “He’s one of our new students from the Prodigy Program, Jeon Jungkook, and he possesses extraordinary photography skills. He would be an excellent resource for help. Mr. Jeon, how do you feel about that?”

You were quick to wave your hands in protest, voicing, “No, that’s really not necessary.”

“According to your dropping grade, I believe it is necessary, Ms. _____,” she spoke over the rim of her glasses. You felt your cheeks burn red in humiliation, catching a glimpse of the boy fighting back a smug grin. “Mr. Jeon, please tutor her in the class. She would surely appreciate it. Ms. _____, perhaps you can show him around campus and get him accustomed to the new surroundings in return.”

You stayed silent, listening to the clicking of her heels as she left the both of you behind in the empty classroom. It was silent and stiff, and you were still chewing on your bottom lip in embarrassment, especially in front of the boy with whom you had just hit it off poorly an hour prior. Jungkook suddenly cleared his throat and began to speak, but you had no interest in what he was about to say, so you shoved past him and left without a word.

You almost considered not showing up to the next class, but you swallowed your pride and walked through those doors and quickly made your way to the back corner of the room. You were sure you felt Jungkook’s eyes follow you as you passed by your usual row, where he still sat in your seat. You barely even cared anymore, though. He could have it. You would much rather finish the semester hidden in the back of the classroom.

You took no time in leaving once class was over, heading out the door to quickly reach the fresh air of the outside where you didn’t feel like you had to hold your breath, not forgetting to shoot a glare to Professor Choi as you passed by her desk. You made sure you had enough time to get to class today by choosing to not get a coffee before class started, so you decided now would be the best time to do so. You crossed through the courtyard to get to your usual cafe just outside of the campus.

Once you sat down, you brought out your laptop and your camera in order to finally figure out how this thing worked. You should have done it earlier, but you were discouraged so you let the problem fester for a few more days before finally attacking it. You were fiddling around with a few of the functions that you were reading about on your computer, desperately trying to figure out how to make your pictures look professional. You were finally able to focus once your coffee was ready, but you were once again distracted when you felt eyes on you and you looked up to search around. That’s when you spotted familiar dark bangs under a black hoodie. You quickly looked back down, hoping he hadn’t noticed you, but you soon realized he was sauntering directly over to the table you sat at.

He dropped himself down onto the chair across from yours, but he only sat there, waiting for you to say something first. “Can I help you?” you offered grumpily.

“No, but I can help you.” He still stared with the nonchalant, blank expression, which for some reason made his presence even more irritating. You ignored his offer and instead became accusing.

“How did you even know I was here? Did you follow me or something?” You looked him over suspiciously.

An impassive smirk grew on one side of his lips. “I may have seen you come this way.” You scoffed, still wondering why he would have gone out of his way to come here. “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’m new around here. I’ve got no one to talk to.”

You raised a brow in disbelief. “So you came to talk to me?”

His lips suddenly turned down and his playful demeanor switched off. He leaned forward in his chair, his voice suddenly holding a deeper tone as he spoke lowly, “What, is the pretty little rich girl too good for me?” You were suddenly taken aback and your eyes went round. “Surprised?” he continued with an angry snort. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. People around campus seem to like to talk about you.”

Your shoulders drooped at the thought. “Yeah, they sure do,” you sighed, suddenly frustrated at your unavoidable reputation within your school. “I guess that’s what happens when your dad is the founder of one of the biggest tech supplier companies in Korea. Well… was. My mom took his place as CEO now, but technically it’s—” You noticed you began rambling and had already said way more than you needed to, so you quickly clamped your mouth shut, but you couldn’t stop yourself from opening it again to ramble nervously. “Sorry, I don’t know why I even brought that up,” you laughed lamely, leaning back into your seat.

Jungkook straightened himself up suddenly and his voice became strangely unnatural. “Tech supplier, huh?” You noticed something seemed rather insincere, as if his mind was preoccupied. “What about your dad? Where is he now?” He suddenly inquired casually.

Your brows shot up for only a moment before your form deflated when you answered his question. “He’s… He’s dead, actually.”

Jungkook’s eyes suddenly widened before he mumbled, “I’m sorry.” He looked remorseful, but his eyes were also unfocused and distracted, making you unsure if you should actually take his condolences seriously.

You squinted your eyes in confusion, but you ignored the weird feeling it gave you. You gave a quick smile, picking yourself up and moving on from the topic. “It’s alright. It happened a long time ago.”

Jungkook’s eyes focused back on you after he shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Anyways,” he began, steering away from the saddening subject, “I’ll help you if you need me to.”

You debated the decision for a moment, but with one look back at the indecipherable directions on the screen of your computer, you decided getting his help would be the best option. “You know what, I would actually love your help,” you sighed, taking the last sip of your coffee. You looked at the time and realized that it had been much later than you anticipated, and knowing your mother, you would soon be receiving frantic messages and phone calls wondering where you were. “But can I take a raincheck on that? I should really be going.” You gave an apologetic smile, quickly packing up your things into your backpack and waving goodbye before you hurried back home.

After the next class, you both walked to the cafe together where Jungkook would give his first lesson on how to use a camera properly and how to take the perfect picture. You smiled while sitting down after you both ordered a drink. “Again, I’m sorry that you have to spend your time teaching me how to use a camera. I can’t believe I have to get tutored in photography of all things.”

“There’s no shame in a bad grade,” he impassively remarked, hanging his leather jacket over the back of his chair before sitting across from you. “Also, not to call you out or anything, but if you want to learn more, it’s probably not the best idea to sit in the back corner during class,” he lazily raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged your shoulders, agreeing, “Yeah that’s probably true, but it’s not easy getting humiliated by your professor.”

Jungkook’s lips turned down in nonchalance. “Why do you even care what she says? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

You looked down and traced the lines in the wood that made the table with your finger. “Yeah. I guess I’m just tired of my professors thinking that I don’t belong in this school. Most of them seem to think I’m only here because I paid my way in, and that I don’t have any actual brains,” you scowled.

He sat there, face contorted in a mix of several different emotions, but he seemed apprehensive to express what he was thinking. Usually, you would feel like an idiot if someone reacted that way to anything you said, but there was something about Jungkook doing it that made it… not so bad? You had a feeling he wasn’t the type to be a fan of “deep conversations” like these, judging by the awkward hesitance as his face twitched in thought, seemingly unable to let any expression through his ever-calm-and-collected front.

Jungkook brushed it off and suddenly he reached across the table to bring your camera closer to him to examine. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He played around with a few of the buttons and twisted the lense this way and that, looking through the viewfinder, then he shook his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable! I knew I recognized the model. You’ve got the best fucking camera money can buy and you don’t even know how to use it.” You would have been offended, but then you saw the small smile that appeared on his lips, and it was the first time you had seen one that was genuine, so you stayed quiet and let him enjoy the moment. “God, I would kill for one of these…” He continued looking through the viewfinder and snapping a few pictures for what now seemed like his own amusement instead of figuring out how it worked.

“Yeah, you really seem to like it,” you smirked, waiting patiently for him to be satisfied. He froze at your remark and quickly set the camera down, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. You couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly he wiped that smile from his face when he was caught breaking his tough exterior.

He quickly wet his lips and straightened up in his seat as he began his lesson. “Okay then, let’s start with the basics.” You nodded eagerly, excited to finally gain some knowledge about a camera and hopefully be able to use it decently from now on. “The first thing you should know about is exposure. There’s three elements that make up exposure and those are aperture, shutter speed, and the ISO,” he slowly explained, pointing to each of the places on the camera that controlled each of these elements. You tried your best to follow along, but you found yourself getting distracted by the rings Jungkook wore on his fingers, and then your eyes traveled over his alarmingly good-looking hands and up the veins that ran up his forearm and suddenly you couldn’t hear a word he was saying. You shook your head lightly, trying to tune back in to Jungkook’s teaching, and this time you actually focused on his voice, but not necessarily the words it produced, but the velvety smooth sound of it.

No. This was not happening. You nervously downed the rest of your cooling coffee and looked at your phone in a panic, attempting to reel yourself back in. “You okay?” he asked in confusion, eyes flickering between you and your empty coffee cup when you unintentionally slammed it down onto the table.

Your eyes widened as you shook your head in dismissal. “N-no! I mean, yes! Everything’s fine.” He narrowed his gaze at you in doubt, but he didn’t bother to push it anyway. “Listen,” you began, eyes darting away from his gaze nervously, picking up your phone and looking for an excuse. “I actually am running short on time. I should be going.”

“I thought you had until—”

You gathered your things before standing up, chair screeching against the tiled floors. “I know,” you interrupted, wearing a guilty smile, “but my mom just texted me and she needs me.” You started toward the exit before skidding to a stop and turning back to him, still sitting there a little dumbfounded. “Can we meet after next class? No interruptions this time, I promise.” He answered with a simple nod, so you waved goodbye and pushed your way through the exit, taking a large sigh of relief once you had reached safety.

You felt bad that you had looked for an excuse to see him again, but you couldn’t help it. As much as you hated to admit it, he was undeniably attractive, and honestly, it was already driving you crazy. Besides, he still has to teach you about your camera, and you felt bad that you cut his lesson off, but you had to get out of there or else you may have lost it. You weren’t supposed to be getting distracted by a pretty face! No one had ever been able to so easily mess with your mind, but Jungkook wasn’t just anyone. He was mysterious and confusing and alluring and you were falling for it just like a cheesy romance novel protagonist. And that was terrifying because what would your mother think? You don’t know why you thought that really mattered, though. It’s just physical attraction and that can easily be ignored.

Turns out being physically attracted to someone is not so easily ignored. Here you were at the cafe sitting across from Jungkook, still completely and utterly blown away by the natural beauty of this man in front of you that you had never bothered to notice in anyone else. Not to mention, it only became more difficult to ignore that ticklish feeling in your stomach now that you’ve gotten to know him and the little quirks in his personality that he seems to suppress almost naturally, making you wonder how long he’s had to put up a front throughout his life.

“I’ve got you all figured out,” Jungkook insisted, pointing a finger in your direction, successfully snapping you out of your troubling internal monologue.

You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back with a challenging brow lifted. “Is that so?” You were much less timid than you had been the first time Jungkook had tried to teach you photography basics. You two had met several times now, and things had slowly become more natural between the two of you You came to enjoy his company, and you hoped it was safe to assume the same on his end. You still passed these meetings at the cafe off as “study sessions,” but you rarely got any tutoring done anymore, opting instead for conversation over a cup of coffee. Does that make you two friends? You weren’t exactly sure for yourself, and that was something you would never actually ask Jungkook, knowing he would probably find it awkward to actually talk about, even if he did consider you a friend.

“You’re just like the main character of all those cliche movies,” he explained, bringing you down from your cloudy thoughts yet again. “You’re the sheltered, well-behaved daughter who wants to rebel by doing something like getting a secret tattoo or falling for the bad boy. Tell me, am I irresistible?” He wore a cocky smirk that you were so tempted to wipe off with a slap to the face in your embarrassment, though you couldn’t help but laugh anyway. Your face burned crimson, which you hoped wouldn’t give you away, because right now, you were afraid he was dead on.

You searched desperately for a response to get him back, but as far as you knew, he was unbreakable, so you were forced to give up and retreat. “Yeah, right! I’m going to get my coffee,” you mumbled, standing up in attempt to escape and recuperate.

“Don’t worry. I already ordered it for you,” his voice came from behind. It was unusually soft compared to his normally gruff tone, and he looked out the window instead of at you. Was it just you or was he… shy?

“Oh!” you abruptly swiveled back, seeing a cup already placed on your side of the table. You picked it up to examine, looking for the markings to show its ingredients. “Is it—”

“It’s just the way you like it. I promise.”

You began digging through your purse in search of your wallet. “Let me pay you back, then,” you offered, pulling out a ten dollar bill when you were unable to find any smaller bills, not minding if he had to keep the change.

“No, don’t worry about it. My treat.” He shook his head, making no moves toward the cash held out in front of him.

“No, really take it,” you insisted, holding out the money, practically shoving it into his grip, but he only waved your hand away. “It’s the least I can do. You’re already helping me out for nothing in return.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got money—maybe not as much as you, princess—but it’s enough to keep me going.” You hated that his nickname had such an immediate effect on you, causing the same blush to reappear on your face. You didn’t want to draw more of his attention to you while your face was on fire, so you quickly gave up, retracting your hand and putting the money back into your wallet with a deep sigh. Jungkook perked up with an idea suddenly, leaning his forearms onto the table as he spoke. “Actually, I do have a way you could pay me back.” You nodded, waiting for his request. “I have a paper due for English 101 on Monday, and that class isn’t my strong suit. You’re good at English, right? Could you help me out with that?”

“Sure, I can look over that and help you revise it if you need me to. Have you finished so I can go ahead and look over it now?” you asked, already waiting for him to bring out his computer and show you his finished product.

You watched his tongue roll on the inside of his cheek and met his eyes that only held a blank stare. “I haven’t started.”

“What?” you shrieked. “Jungkook! That paper is due in two days, and you have none of it done? Those aren’t easy to rush, you know.” You scolded him, and he fluttered his eyes shut, exhaling slowly, as if he had expected that exact reaction from you. He only shrugged as a response, making you even more frustrated with the boy. “Okay, well I guess we need to meet up tomorrow to get that done, but the cafe’s closed on Sundays, so maybe we should meet in the courtyard.” You looked to him for any sort of confirmation or objection, but he only continued to listen uninterestedly, eliciting an exasperated huff from you. “Sure, we’ll do that. A little fresh air could do us some good anyway. Meet me at six.”

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t put just a little bit of effort into your appearance today. Definitely not because you were meeting Jungkook, though. You just didn’t have to wake up as early as usual, so you just happened to feel like putting on makeup and planning a nicer outfit as opposed to a hoodie and leggings like you wear for almost every single class.

You texted Jungkook to meet you at the right-most bench in the courtyard at six, but it was now almost a quarter after and there was still no sign of him. You slowly grew more impatient as each minute passed by and it took a considerable amount of effort to keep yourself from sending him a second text asking him where he was. Finally, you saw him jogging towards you from the path adjacent to where you sat, making you breathe in relief and you were about to berate him, but you quickly stopped yourself after one look at his dishevelled state and his slight limp that wasn’t hard to miss. Your eyes trailed him up and down in concern as you quickly stood up to meet him. “What the hell happened to you?” you asked, hands twitching by your sides as you fought the urge to brush away the hair hanging down in his face.

He beat you to it, luckily, as he swept his hair back and shook his head, dismissing the matter. “It’s nothing. I was just in a hurry. Sorry I’m late.” He plopped down onto the bench and you followed just after, still keeping your eyes trained on him in worry. When you put your hand down, you felt it land on top of his own, so you quickly picked it back and and instinctually looked down to wear his hand propped up his upper body and you didn’t miss the blot of scarlet on his knuckles.

You didn’t hesitate in taking his hand into your own now, bringing it up to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you. “You’re bleeding!” you pointed out to him, looking at the red that painted each of his knuckles.

He hummed, taking a careless glance before quickly wiping it off on his jeans, leaving a stain that your eyes focused on in disbelief before directing your rounded eyes back up to his face. He squinted at your reaction, clearly not nearly as interested as you were. “What? I was in a rush, and I fell. That’s all,” he insisted, opening his laptop to move on and get started on his paper.

Your eyes zeroed in on the skin just below his eye that was beginning to take on a dark hue. “I’d believe you if your eye weren’t turning blue right now.” His hand came up to touch his eye without thinking and you could see that he barely winced before he shook his head and continued to open up a document on his computer. You continued to stare patiently, but he made no move to relieve your concerns. “Are you gonna tell me what happened or not?”

He scoffed, clicking his tongue with eyes still focused on the screen in front of him. “I already did. The black eye is because my face hit the ground.” He turned to you to still find you scrutinizing him, but he chose to ignore it and get straight into writing the essay. He began to read the prompt aloud until he stopped when he felt a large drop of water fall onto his cheek, and at just about the same moment, you felt the same on your thigh. You both looked up and saw the dark clouds that had drifted in from a distance. Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch to go right on cue, the sky opened up and rain came crashing down on the city with a crack of thunder to top it all off.

After only a few moments, you were already much too wet for your own liking, so you dragged Jungkook behind you to the nearest awning of a building to stand under. “Great,” you murmured, already shivering from the chill of your damp clothes. “Now what are we gonna do?”

Jungkook sighed and looked out at the droplets that poured down just a few inches in front of him while drying off the screen of his laptop with his shirt. “You know, it’s okay. I’ll figure something out. You don’t have to help.”

“No. I want to help. I need to after how much you’ve helped me,” you insisted. You tapped your chin in thought of a place to seek refuge from the rain, and the only place that came to mind was home. Home, however, was a risk since there was the chance that your mother would be home, but she usually worked even on Sundays, and you didn’t think there was any reason she wouldn’t be working today, so you decided that would be your best option. “We can go to my place to write this.”

You heard Jungkook mutter behind you, but you couldn’t make out what he said as you built up enough courage and went back out into the cold rain. You glanced behind you to see Jungkook hastily stuffing his laptop back into his bag and reluctantly following behind. Your teeth began to chatter and you crossed your arms over your chest to maintain some body heat. You heard Jungkook’s quiet voice, not quite able to understand what he had said, but he pulled you closer to him and had taken his leather jacket off, now holding it over both of your heads to keep the heavy flow of rain from beating down on you any longer. You blushed at the thoughtful act and your whole body began to feel warmer within moments.

Suddenly what you were sure would be a long, miserable walk went by much faster than you had expected, except for the fact that a jacket could only do so much and you were both still soaking wet and cold. You unlocked the front door and kicked off your soggy shoes, and Jungkook followed, and you told him to wait where he was on the doormat. You came back with a towel for each of you to dry off with. You wrapped the plush cloth around you tightly after squeezing out your dripping hair. To be honest, you hadn’t really thought this far ahead, so now you both stood in the doorway wondering what to do with your still very wet bodies that could easily damage the expensive furniture in your house.

You heard the front door just behind Jungkook begin to open and he quickly stepped out of the way before getting hit with it. Your heart dropped. It was your mother. She took in the scene with a bewildered appearance, eyes drifting from you, soaking wet with eyes like those of a deer caught in headlights to the equally damp boy with the leather jacket, forming black eye, and blood stain on his jeans.

“_____, who’s this?” she inquired with a strained smile, eyes flickering between the two of you. You had a feeling Jungkook could easily sense the tension because you saw him shift awkwardly between his feet.

“Mom, I didn’t think you’d be home. This is Jungkook. I’m helping him with English. We’re in the same class.”

“Oh, you go to college with _____? Where are you from Jungkook?” You could see from the look in her eye that she was testing him. She already knew, but she never thought that you would actually be dumb enough to bring someone like him into her house.

There was a moment of silence where you could tell he was thinking carefully about what to say, and you tried to step in and answer for him with something safe that you hoped your mother would accept and maybe even make her think her assumption was wrong—although that was entirely unlikely—but he spoke over you. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with my part of town. It’s west of the river.” You shrunk when you saw the forced smile slide off your mother’s features. You glanced to Jungkook. You never would have guessed from the calmness of his voice, but there was a certain challenging glint in his eyes.

“I see. I never thought I’d see the day when my daughter brought someone like you into my home.” She gave you a once over and you fluttered your eyes shut in shame that you knew you had no reason to feel and shouldn’t be feeling, but that look on your mother’s face never failed to make you feel guilty for absolutely anything.

Jungkook’s tongue poked into his cheek and he laughed dryly. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll keep my grubby hands to myself.” Your mother’s eyes widened at his rebellious response, and you quickly ushered him up the stairs to prevent any other confrontation that might have occurred had you not intervened.

Once you reached the top of the stairs and achieved peace for the present moment, you led Jungkook to your bedroom and quickly shut the door behind you, dragging your hands down your face in embarrassment and guilt and frustration and... you weren’t even sure what you were feeling at the moment. Jungkook still wore a scowl on his face when you peeked through your fingers,  and he spoke, “No offense, but your mom’s kind of a bitch.”

You groaned and kept your hands where they covered your face, too afraid to meet his intense gaze. “I know. I’m so sorry.” You finally let your hands fall to your sides, defeatedly. “I didn’t think she would be home, so I didn't think we would have this problem.”

You were at a loss for words, disappointed and embarrassed, until you finally let out in a small voice, “She’s not really like that, or at least she wasn’t always. She’s just hurt.” Jungkook didn’t even have to make a move before you elaborated, hopeful to give him some sort of explanation he would accept. “My father was killed by a gang member from the other side of town, and she just hasn’t been the same since.”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook said equally as quietly as his eyes shifted to the ground. You saw his jaw clench and realized you were probably making him uncomfortable, so you dropped yourself onto your plush bed and patted the space beside you to beckon him to follow.

“Let’s get started on this paper, then,” you began jovially, although it was obvious to the both of you that the change of mood was at least partially forced.

Jungkook took slow steps to join you where you sat and released a quick sigh. “We’re not all like that.” Jungkook’s fingers were intertwined with each other while his elbows rested on his knees and his head was facing you, yet his eyes did not meet your own.

A soft, guilty smile grew on your lips. “It’s okay. I know.” You chewed on your bottom lip, lost in thought after your failure to divert from the subject. You were determined this time, however, as you motioned for him to bring out his laptop, asking, “Alright. What’s your topic?”

He laid his computer on his lap and handed you a paperback novel. “It’s a character analysis on a character of choice from this book.” You observed the illustrated cover and read the title. Luckily, you had read the novel before, so you could better help Jungkook write the essay. “I don’t know which character to write about though.”

You hummed in thought and flipped through the pages, briefly looking for names to jog your memory. “Well, the main character is the obvious choice, so if you want to impress your professor, that’s not the way to go. Were there any particular characters that interested you?”

Jungkook stared for a moment, but only shook his head in response, saying, “No. I didn’t even like the book.”

You frowned to yourself for a moment, remembering how much you had enjoyed reading the same book. You thought of the most memorable character and suggested to him, “What about Maxine? She was a major character and her story can be interpreted in several different ways, especially with how her relationship with Vernon developed.”

Jungkook scowled shaking his head. “She was the worst character. She couldn’t even take care of her own kid, let alone someone else’s. That’s why the whole plot seemed pointless to me.”

“Well, she was an addict, but throughout the story you could see her battling with her addiction for the sake of her son and everyone else who cared about her. She wasn’t able to succeed in keeping her son in the end, but her good characteristics shine through and that’s what you can write your paper about.”

“She was a shitty character and she didn’t care about her son, but if you want to insist I write the paper on her, then you can just write it for me.” Jungkook dropped the computer on the mattress in the space between you and pushed himself up off the bed, turning his back to you.

Your brows creased in concern as you stood up just a few steps behind him. You tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. You’re just being annoying.”

He pushed your hand off of his shoulder and turned around to look at you, face still hardened. Your expression imitated his own, and you questioned impatiently, “Do you want me to help you or not?” Jungkook’s nostrils flared before his tensed arms folded over his chest dropped to his sides and he went back to his seat at the bed. You only observed him for a moment before you gave in and joined him once again, handing his laptop back to him and deciding to ignore the matter for now.

After a few hours of focusing solely on the paper, you both had finished and the final result was definitely worthy of a good grade. The majority of the time had passed in silence, with you leading most of the conversation and helping him with writing rules and him adding his own ideas to the paper silently. His quietness did not go unnoticed by you, though.

Jungkook was adding the finishing touches, and finally he closed his computer to pack it away. Meanwhile, you were debating bringing up the issue that had been weighing on you throughout the writing process of his essay. “Jungkook,” you began nervously, “I don’t know exactly what it was that made you so upset, but I’m sorry.” You glanced up to Jungkook, and you were sure you saw his hardened gaze become neutral as he noticed your eyes on him. “You can talk to me about whatever it is that’s bothering you, though. Just so you know.” One end of your mouth quirked up in an attempt to be comforting without overstepping your boundaries.

Jungkook rolled his head from one shoulder to the other, propping himself up on his hands. His eyes stayed on the corner of the ceiling as he explained. “I guess I just see a lot of resemblance between my own mother and Maxine.” Jungkook shuffled his feet on the ground before continuing, “I guess now that you explain it though, Maxine was actually better than her when it comes down to it.”

You watched silently as his brows pulled together in concentration on the floor below him. You could tell he had been hurt, though you weren’t exactly sure how, but you didn’t expect him to elaborate any further. You sighed in thought and melted further into your bed. “Don’t go feeling sorry for me, now. It never actually mattered to me.” You almost pointed out the mirthless smile that spread across his lips, but kept your mouth shut tightly in a moment of hesitation. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was suppressing his emotions, and you knew he would eventually pay for having done that for probably a majority of his life, but you were afraid to push your thoughts onto him seeing how he had a habit of shutting down whenever he had to express something real.

Jungkook cleared his throat, suddenly ushering you out of your thoughts and you hadn’t even realized that you had been staring the whole time. Your eyes darted away, but you didn’t miss the silent chuckle that came forth from Jungkook’s lips. With your face burning red, you diverted your attention to the time on your phone screen, gasping, “I didn’t even realize it had gotten so late.” You stood up, pulling back your curtains and peeking outside to see the sun had already set. “You shouldn’t walk home at this time of night. Do you want me to get you an Uber?” you worried, already pulling up the app on your phone.

He placed his hand on the rim of your phone, pulling it down to get your attention, chuckling, “I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

You pressed your lips together, concerned, still hesitating to let him go when you could help. He already picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder, however, so you were forced to digress as he began to walk away. You followed him down the stairs toward the front door, requesting, “Fine, but text me when you get home safely.”

Jungkook couldn’t hold back his laughter, throwing a look over his shoulder at you. “Don’t smother me.”

“I’m not!” you countered with a grin. You crossed your arms over your chest at the breeze let in as Jungkook turned to face you one last time on the front porch.

Jungkook looked over your shoulder and the fraction of a smile that had been present on his lips faded away. “I’ll see you later, _____.”

You bid him farewell in return and in the next moment he was descending the front steps and on his way home. You closed the door and you were once again surrounded by the warmth of the inside, but your goosebumps did not go away when you saw your mother who had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as he left. The both of you made eye contact for a few moments before she wordlessly turned and walked back into the kitchen, and you did the same, slinking back into your room as if you hadn’t seen her.

You laid on your bed, finishing up studying for class the next day, when your eyes shifted down to the numbers displayed in the bottom right corner of the screen. It was almost midnight. Jungkook should have gotten home by now, but the multiple times you had checked, even in the moment, you still received no message. You took it upon yourself to make sure he made it back alright.

‘Did you get home safely?’ You sighed throwing your phone down next to you, not expecting him to respond anytime soon since he was always very flaky with texting.

Your screen lit up within a few minutes however with a new message from Jungkook. You quickly slid your thumb across the screen and unlocked your phone to read his reply. ‘yes.’ It was short and simple, like his messages always were. He was a man of few words on all levels. However, for some reason, you couldn’t help the giddy feeling you got, your lip caught between your smiling teeth at the thought that—though highly unlikely—his quick reply meant that he had been waiting for you to say something first. You felt silly, like you were a freshman in high school all over again, but the feeling was nonetheless welcomed.

Your fingers speedily typed back, ‘Good. You had me worried for a second there.’ You patiently watched the screen for a while until the read receipt popped up under your message. However, there was no indication of a reply coming your way, and you rolled your eyes at the far too familiar scenario. You lifted your head up for a moment, letting your eyes scan around your room for no particular reason until they landed on a black bag in the corner of your room. It resurfaced a thought that had been lingering in the back of your mind for a while now, and you decided now was as good a time as any to confront it. Typing once more on your phone, you sent one more message to Jungkook. ‘Can we meet at the cafe tomorrow? There’s something I want to give to you.’

Suspecting Jungkook’s record-time reply was a one-time-only kind of thing, you placed your phone on your nightstand and closed your computer up, laying back in your bed to finally get some sleep for class the next day.

You sat at your usual table in the far corner of the cafe, waiting with both of your drinks already ordered and paid for in return for last time. Luckily, today, you weren’t kept waiting for long as Jungkook came walking in relatively on time with a black baseball cap pulled down tightly. As soon as he sat, you ducked your head and discovered the reason for his not-so-subtle accessorization. His eye had become darker than it was the day before. You clicked your tongue reaching over and lifting the cap to get a better look at it, fighting against Jungkook’s grip to hold it in place.

“Must have been quite a fall, huh?” you observed with an incredulous glare. Jungkook only silently nodded. You both knew that you knew he was lying, but no one said a word. After a moment of thought, you inhaled sharply and bent down to where the black bag sat next to you, pulling out the object of interest. “Right. I have something for you.”

Jungkook observed with a raised brow and watched as you pulled out your camera that he had seen countless times before. You placed it on the table and grinned, waiting for any sort of response, but Jungkook’s eyes only flickered between you and the camera cluelessly. “What?” he finally gave in and questioned.

You rolled your eyes dramatically and pushed the camera across the little table closer to him. “I’m giving you the camera!”

Jungkook’s eyes were suddenly huge and his mouth hung open for a mere second in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. This camera costs a lot of money. Why would you just give it to me?”

Your eyes trailed down and you shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, you just got so excited when you saw it the first time that I’ve been thinking about how much more you deserved it since then. After this semester ends, I won’t even want to touch a camera again, but you love photography, so it’s much better in your hands.”

“Why don’t you just keep it until the end of the semester, then? There’s only a few more weeks.” His eyes were glued to the object in front of him like a child looks at a candy bar.

“I’ll get a different camera, a cheaper one, and that way you can use that one for the final project.” Jungkook still looked hesitant, looking to you one final time for some sort of approval. Your laugh bubbled up inside of you. “It’s yours! Take it.” His hands took hold of the camera in no time, a beaming smile on his face, as he began snapping pictures of anything and everything in sight. He took one of the tree just outside the window, then a picture of the two coffee mugs placed beside each other on the table, stopping to take a look at the results for just a moment before diving right back into it.

You weren’t even sure what made you want to give him the camera all of a sudden, but as you watched him, you realized it was probably because of that childlike smile on his face. Every once in a while, he was unable to uphold his strong exterior and instead he just let it down and showed a completely different side of himself, one that very few were ever lucky enough to see. It made you happy that you were one of the few.

Suddenly, you noticed that the camera lens had been pointed directly at you. You tried to bring your hands up to hide your face, but Jungkook was already looking at the result, signalling you had been too late. “Delete that!” you whined as Jungkook laughed obnoxiously, jerking the camera away from you as you tried to take it away from him. When he looked at the picture, his laughing grin turned into a softer smile. “Jungkook, please get rid of that. I probably looked so—”

“You look…” he cut you off, stopping mid sentence in thought. He looked up to you for a mere moment and then back down to the picture. “...beautiful.” At that moment you were completely floored, unable to say anything else. In the dead silence between the two of you, it was as if Jungkook had just registered what he said, and he quickly set down the camera, looking out the window because he had no idea where else to look.

You bit down on your lip to hold back the smile that wanted so desperately to spread across your face, pushing a few stray strands of hair back behind your ear. “Thank you,” you mumbled. Jungkook still looked out the window, but you heard a laugh get caught in his throat, which escalated to both of you giggling and blushing like idiots. Anyone walking by would look at the both of you and think you’re just a pair of awkward teenagers falling in love. Maybe that’s exactly what you were.

Your mother would kill you if she knew what you were doing right now. Jungkook wanted to kick off summer vacation with something new. You were hesitant at first, but Jungkook was able to coerce you into it, so now you found yourself in Jungkook’s side of the city, a place you had never ventured to before. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little scared, especially because of the way your mother described it, whether it was completely true or not, but it definitely didn’t help when Jungkook told you to stay close to him, which made your heart beat faster for two completely different reasons.

After passing through a dark alley that gave you goosebumps, Jungkook led you to a beaten up little building. You read the glowing sign at the top dubbing the building Roy’s Diner. “You brought me all the way here to eat?” you asked Jungkook doubtfully.

“Trust me. It’s worth it. The food here is amazing.” Jungkook walked a few steps ahead of you and looked back to see you examining the restaurant. You weren’t one to judge a book by its cover, but you weren’t even sure how this place was passing any kind of building inspections. “Come on, it’s one of my favorite places. It was in real bad shape a few years ago and on the brink of closing down.”

“Well, if you love this place so much, you should work to fix it up and save it. I’d be willing to help, too, if you want,” you offered.

Jungkook looked at you like you were crazy. “Save it? What are you talking about? It’s already been fixed up. The place is thriving now!” He gestured grandly to the building, causing you to give it a doubtful second examination. You weren’t exactly sure what his definition of ‘thriving’ was, but it must be vastly different from yours judging by the flickering neon sign and the walls that desperately needed painting and, quite frankly, looked like they could very well cave in on themselves soon. You gave him a tight smile, but he only rolled his eyes. “Look, it may not look like all those fancy restaurants you’re used to, but I promise, I’m about to introduce you to the best fries and milkshake you have ever tasted in your life. Nothing beats Roy’s cooking.”

After Jungkook had grabbed your hand and practically dragged you inside, you were met with a much different atmosphere than what you were expecting. It was unexpectedly warm and cozy inside, and the loud chatter and laughter coming from all around almost made it feel like you were at a rowdy Thanksgiving dinner. Suddenly almost everyone that had been engrossed in a conversation turned towards the door to see the two of you had arrived. There was a deafening chorus of greetings to Jungkook, mostly from the older folks at the bar and surrounding tables whom Jungkook dragged you over to. Only after Jungkook gave almost each and every one of them a hug, which was much to your surprise, did some of the older women notice you were there. “Oh, Jungkook! You finally got yourself a girl and brought her here to meet us!” one of the women practically shouted as another tried to pinch Jungkook’s cheek while he quickly tried to maneuver away.

Jungkook rubbed at the back of his neck, finally realizing he still held your hand in his own and quickly released his grip, much to your disappointment. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend from college, and I brought her here so she could try Roy’s famous food for the first time and change her life forever.”

Several of them chimed in, greeting you after you introduced yourself shyly. Jungkook went to grab a menu for you, and the ladies took it as an opportunity to chat some more with you. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“No, I’m not actually.” You could barely even hear their responses since they all talked over each other, and although you had expected at least some of them to draw conclusions and figure out you were from the other side of town and treat you differently, they all still gave you friendly smiles.

Jungkook came back just in time to save you from more of their questions, thankfully, and brought you up to the counter to order food from the restaurant owner he introduced you to, Roy. You ended up getting a burger with the infamous fries and milkshake Jungkook kept going on about. Over dinner, much of the topic of conversation stayed on you and mostly Jungkook since, as many of his friends implied, he hadn’t visited recently. You ended up loving the atmosphere and how close everyone seemed to be. Even Roy would talk with everyone in between orders, and though you had never met anyone before, everyone was welcoming and open to talk with you. In fact, they were eager to see you and to see that Jungkook “has some friends his own age” as they teased.

You were finally finishing up your milkshake as the sky was just becoming dark, and the restaurant, while still buzzing, had quieted down considerably enough to have a conversation at normal volume. Jungkook had left you sitting at the counter alone while he went to the bathroom, and you couldn’t hold back the smile to yourself thinking about the way he interacted with all these people he seemed to be so close to. You looked up as Roy stood on the other side of the counter from you, cleaning a glass with a towel. “You seem like a great girl. I’m glad Jungkook met someone like you.”

You blushed, expecting him to only make some simple small talk while Jungkook wasn’t around. “Oh… I wouldn’t say it like that.” You laughed nervously, pushing stray hair back out of your face. “We’re only friends. We just talk sometimes.” ‘Sometimes’ was a bit of an understatement you realized, but it seemed most of the people got the impression that you were Jungkook’s girlfriend, which unfortunately wasn’t the case.

“Let me let you in on a little secret. Don’t tell Jungkook I told you this, but he doesn’t bring just anyone here. These people are like his second family, and if he thinks you’re good enough to meet them, then you’re pretty darn special.”

You couldn’t help the butterflies from fluttering in your stomach at the thought. A sudden thought came to you and you bit your lip, wondering if it would be appropriate to ask. You decided it probably wouldn’t hurt, grabbing Roy’s attention once again. “Sorry, you said this is like his second family?” He nodded easily. “Well, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s the first?” You questioned carefully, hoping it wasn’t too forward or prying of you to wonder about such things. You knew that Jungkook’s parents were out of the picture, so you tried to imagine who else he would be close with besides the people in this room.

Roy stayed silent for only a moment before both of you saw in the corner the door to the restrooms swing open and Jungkook wiping his hands dampened from the sink on his shirt. As Jungkook made his way back to take the seat next to you, Roy gave a tight smile and a quick nod to hastily end the conversation. Your forehead creased in confusion, wondering why there had so suddenly been something secretive come up. You smiled as Jungkook came and took his seat next to you again, but you couldn’t quite wipe the puzzlement off your face. “What’s wrong?” Jungkook suddenly asked, throwing his arm over your shoulder, which you were sure was only a product of him being just a little bit tipsy.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

After Jungkook had walked you home that night, you were met with a very displeased mother. You did stay out a little late, you admit, but you should have that freedom. You’re a fully functioning adult, yet here you are, getting lectured by your mother. Though it wasn’t all bad, especially since you weren’t paying an ounce of attention. Instead you were thinking about Jungkook walking you home just minutes before. He had a few drinks at the diner, so he was a bit more carefree than he was on a usual basis, so the entire way home, you had the pleasure of feeling the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours and for a moment everything felt so real.

And that’s when you realized there was no turning back. Your hand felt empty now that his wasn’t there anymore and there were too many lingering butterflies to be ignored. Again, maybe this is the result of the tiniest bit of alcohol that you’re hoping desperately your mother doesn’t smell on you right now since you were still technically underage.

The thought of your mother ruined it all though. The warm fuzzy feeling became cold as you remember that as long as she had a say, being with Jungkook was out of the question. You could take one look at him and easily see he was the epitome of a boy your mother would never approve of, with his all black clothes and leather jackets, his pierced ears, his dark yet endearing—at least in your eyes—humor. Your mother would keel over if you ever revealed you had feelings for him.

And this was assuming that Jungkook even felt the same way about you. But there had to be something there, right? You felt like with how you easy it was to talk to each other, and how much Jungkook has opened up to you, not to mention those few tender moments that you two never spoke about, it seemed pretty obvious there was something between the two of you. It couldn’t all just be in your head. Though you were still terrified, you came to the conclusion that you would let Jungkook know exactly what you were thinking and see what happens from there.

Making a decision that you would confess to Jungkook did not make it any easier to actually do it. You had never been the one to make the first move in the past, and Jungkook being the person of interest made it even scarier. Jungkook was coming over to your house so you could help him study for English, and your heart was beating erratically while waiting for the doorbell to ring. You couldn’t sit still and eventually began pacing in the living room, and you weren’t even sure if you were going to tell him today. However, today would be a good day, since your mom isn’t home and home is the best place to do it. If he turns you down, there won’t be any public embarrassment. So basically today is the perfect day to do it. So basically you have to do it. You began to pull at your hair in distress when finally the doorbell rang, and you probably answered it way too fast. As Jungkook greeted you, he smirked as he looked at the top of your head, smoothing down the hair that you must have messed up in your panic, and unfortunately you very obviously flinched away from his hand, playing it off with a nervous chuckle.

You silently led him up to your room, and he could most definitely tell that something was going on, but he didn’t say anything to acknowledge it, much to your relief. You let him into your room and closed the door behind you, taking in a deep breath. Luckily, as soon as you start to talk with each other like any other day, you begin to feel comfortable again and you finally feel relaxed.

After about an hour of studying, you take a break and you begin to wonder if this would be the time to say something. You began to go over the small speech you had rehearsed all morning, but before you could get anything out, you watch as Jungkook pulls off his hoodie, and as he does so, the short sleeve of his shirt on his right arm comes up, revealing a black image displayed on his skin which immediately piques your interest. “Wait, what was that?” you asked, tentatively pushing his sleeve up his shoulder to examine the image you had spotted hidden beneath it.

“Nothing,” he replied uninterestedly, brushing your hand away.

You locked gazes with him, wide eyes on display in an attempt to make him cave in.  “Well, it’s obviously a tattoo,” you reasoned aloud. “Any special reason?” Had you not had the suspicion that came into your mind, you would have let it be.

He quickly shook his head, breaking away from your curious eyes. “It’s just a tattoo. Nothing special about it.”

Your voice was soft now, and your eyes dropped to examine the lines in the wooden floors of your bedroom. “It’s a gang tattoo, isn’t it?” He only stared back, still with no intention of giving any answers. You figured that would be the reason why he was so apprehensive. Had it been any other tattoo, he probably wouldn’t have had any problem. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

He briefly exhaled through his nose, and his eyes fluttered shut before he gave a hasty nod. “I’ve told you before. I got mixed up with some bad people when I was younger, but don’t worry, it’s all in the past now.” You were glad he had gotten past it and hoped he was safe and out of that business now as he said he was.

Your gazes were locked on each other’s for far too long and you suddenly remembered what your original goal was, and you now realized you ruined the mood for that to happen. “I’m sorry,” you shook your head. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jungkook reassured softly. “I would have told you before, but I just didn’t want to scare you off.”

Your mouth curved into a small smile, arms hugging your torso. “You couldn’t scare me away. Don’t you know you’re stuck with me?” you joked. You suddenly realized now was the time. You had everything you wanted to say planned out, but now that it came down to it, you panicked and forgot all of it, so you had to say exactly what was on your mind. “Jungkook, you know you mean a lot to me, right? When I say that, I don’t mean as a friend either. I mean it as more than that, I guess.” You stuttered and slipped over your words and began to trail off in your last statement in nervousness, which became full panic as you observed the smile slip from his face.

“_____...” That was all he said before an agonizing amount of silence and out of all the scenarios you had thought up, this was probably the worst of them all. “You don’t mean that.”

“What? Of course I do,” you insisted, reaching out to him, but he only coiled back out of your reach. “Jungkook…”

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” He tried to walk away from you, but you grabbed onto his arm. You’d accept it and let him go if he had just rejected you, but you could tell something was wrong.

He shook your grip off and picked up his books and stuffed them into his bag in a hurry. “What is wrong with you?” you questioned desperately at his sudden shutdown. Then it all made sense. “That’s it. You’re shutting down again. You can’t stand it when you have to deal with any sort of real emotion.”

He scoffed, “Don’t try reasoning me out of this. I don’t want anyone to depend on me like that, not even you.”

“So, that’s it? You’re just never going to feel anything?” He stopped and looked up to you from his bag, locking eyes, and you hated how they had suddenly become cold and unfamiliar.

“No, _____, I’m not, and that’s why you should just give up on me. I can’t give you what you want. Go find someone else that’s not gonna hurt you.” You didn’t want to watch him walk away. You had no way of knowing what his true feelings were, but you knew that this wasn’t what he needed. He said he didn’t want anyone to depend on him, but in reality, he was afraid to depend on someone else. He didn’t want to put himself in a position to get left behind again, scarred by memories of his mother who had abandoned him.

All you could do was let him figure things out on his own. If he really did love you, then he would find his way back. All you can hope is that you didn’t just lose one of the best things that had ever happened to you. “Okay, if this is how it is, then I’ll let you go. I can’t keep doing this, Jungkook.”

He was already taking large strides out the door to get away as fast as his feet would carry him. “I know,” was all he said. Then he was gone.

It had been a week since Jungkook walked out on you, and you were beginning to lose hope of seeing him again. You would usually give it a bit more time before you began feeling doubtful, but you hadn’t seen nor heard any sign of him.

You laid pathetically alone on your bed on a Saturday night that you should have used to spend time with friends, but you ended up turning down any plans that were offered. You opened your phone and looked through old messages between you and Jungkook, and you began to type a message to ask him how he was doing, but just before you hit send, you ended up erasing it all and throwing your phone back down. As much of a bummer as it was, you decided to take tonight to go to bed and get some extra sleep.

You had already shut off all your lights and tucked yourself into your warm bed when a sudden, echoing knock came from your window, almost scaring you out of your wits. You quickly stumbled out of bed and turned on the lamp that sat on your nightstand, opening the curtains without hesitation because you already knew exactly who would be waiting behind them.

There you saw Jungkook hugging his jacket closer around him in the chilling night winds. This wasn’t the first time he had come to you through your bedroom window. He had done it several times before when he came over and saw your mother’s car parked in the driveway to avoid having to get through her to see you. You unhooked the latch, hurrying him in as he struggled to climb over the window sill. “_____,” he breathed out through chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face into the hair on top of your head. “I always fuck things up just when they’re starting to go right.”

“It’s okay, Jungkook,” you spoke gently, rubbing his back up and down as he stood still and inhaled your scent for a few moments.

He chuckled breathily. “How can you always forgive me even when I’m such an ass?”

“Because I love you.”

You had pulled away enough so that you could look him in the eyes when you spoke, hopeful that this time it would go right. Jungkook pulled you back to him, mostly so that he could hide his face when he told you, “I love you, too.”

Your mother had dragged you out of the house way too early for a Saturday morning to go shopping with her at all of her favorite designer-brand stores, which was already a shock to you since she hadn’t found time to spend with you in almost four years since she was always so busy with work. Now, out of nowhere, she was having you try on at least a dozen gowns at each stop.

“Okay, mom,” you sighed walking out of the dressing room wearing the last of several dresses she had picked out. “This is the last one.”

She smiled, motioning for you to turn around. “That one looks beautiful, too! Which one did you like the best?”

You turned around, scrutinizing the way the material draped over you in the mirror. “I don’t know. They all look nice.” You turned back to her, finally deciding to question the motive behind her sudden eagerness, hoping it wouldn’t ruin her rarely bright mood. “Why exactly am I looking for a dress?”

She folded her hands in her lap, crossing her legs over each other, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “I wasn’t planning on telling you yet, but I’ll be hosting a gala, and I want you to come.” She looked for some kind of reaction from you, but you only continued to listen, smoothing the skirt of the dress you wore. She cleared her throat. “There will be a lot of young men there, soon to be owners of their parents’ companies. You should try to meet some of them.”

You finally looked back to her reflection in the mirror. “I’ve already met plenty of them,” you pointed out, brows creased in thought. “Is this your way of saying you want me to make connections?” you accused, stressing the word “connections” to imply it may have a different meaning. You heard rumors that big business owners would sometimes send their kids to high class social events hopefully form a relationship with another heir to merge the businesses and increase profit, but you didn’t think it was actually something that happened.

“I’m not saying I want you to do it, but you should be open minded to some of the boys you meet there.” She smiled to try to convince you, standing to speak with you at eye level.

“So, what, you want me to charm them with a pretty dress?” you asked. You scrunched your nose, looking down at the dress that you had once thought was pretty, but after staring for too long, you began to hate it.

“And your wonderful personality,” she joked with a playful pat on your cheek, but you couldn’t find it in you to laugh.

You’d met all these heirs to wealthy businesses before, and you knew that they weren’t interested in your personality. They weren’t looking for any sort of relationship, they were either looking for connections or a good time, and when it came to the unfortunate girls at these parties, they were usually stuck with the latter. And as spoiled rich kids, they didn’t like to be told no, which made you even more nervous than you already were.

You walked back into the dressing room, peeling off the itchy material of the dress you had to wear for far too long due to the unexpected news that had been broken to you. When you put back on the t-shirt dress and sneakers you had originally been wearing, you stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment. You began to think you liked yourself much better this way. You knew Jungkook liked you better this way. You bit back a smile at the thought of him, and it finally occurred to you that your mother didn’t even know that you and Jungkook were officially… whatever you were. You hadn’t really addressed it yet since that night. You did know, however, that you loved each other, but your mother wanted to send you into a room full of men you probably couldn’t trust. You began to wonder about what would happen if you brought Jungkook to the gala with you. Your mother would be furious, but you would feel so much safer. Though, you didn’t even know if Jungkook had any interest in going.

You heard a knock on the door, zoning you back into reality and making you realize you had been staring into the mirror in thought. “Are you ready?” you heard your mother’s voice calling from the other side.

“Coming,” you answered.

Jungkook had come over in the afternoon for what was supposed to be getting help from you for English, but when he actually arrived and you told him to get his books out, he didn’t even have his bookbag with them, so he claimed he “forgot” it. You knew he was lying, though. Jungkook had trouble with being direct. He always had to have some sort of excuse to see you rather than just wanting to spend time with you. You knew he actually cared behind all of this, though, but for now you would just have to learn how to interpret his roundabout methods.

Since he coincidentally didn’t bring his materials to study, he ended up laying down next to you in your place in bed, opting for just talking for a while. Jungkook had been looking around your room that he had practically memorized by now since he’d seen it so often, making it easy to spot any little change. He saw an extra framed picture on your nightstand of you and who he was positive was your father. He pointed it out, “That’s new.”

You looked over your shoulder to follow his line of sight and your eyes landed on the object of interest. “Yeah. I found that in a box a few days ago and decided to frame it and put it up.” You smiled at him, but it didn’t hold up for long as you engrossed yourself in thought.

“What?” Jungkook asked, looking down at you as a frown deepened on your face.

You shook your head. “Nothing.” You looked back at it one last time before turning back to him and grabbing his hand to fiddle with his fingers while admitting slowly, “I can’t even remember what his voice sounds like.”

“Don’t you have any videos where you can hear his voice?”

You nodded faintly. “I’m sure we have some somewhere, but I’d have to go looking for them myself. I don’t wanna bring my mom into it. She gets really upset when he’s brought up.”

“If it means getting to hear his voice, then you should just ask her. She can’t keep it from you, and you can’t let her pretend it never happened.” He was obviously letting his bias towards you affect his solution, but you remember clearly what happens to your mother whenever she hears about him, and although you two didn’t always get along, you would never purposefully do that to her.

Also, to be honest, you were shocked that Jungkook had even said what he had. You barely laughed, lacking humor, “Should I even take that advice from you?”

Jungkook’s lips turned down and his forehead creased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You had a feeling this was leading into an argument you really weren’t looking to have, especially judging by his already irritable tone of voice. “I mean that you’re a prime example of ignoring the past,” you said as you tried to keep your voice even to remain peaceful without making him upset.

Jungkook sat up in the bed and you sighed, immediately regretting even bringing this up. “How have I ever done that? I fully acknowledge everything that’s happened to me.”

“It’s not that you choose to ignore the past itself, Jungkook, but you ignore the…” you paused to look for the right words as he waited impatiently, “the emotions you should be feeling from it.”

He scoffed, pushing himself off the bed, and he unintentionally rose his voice. “Who are you to tell me how I’m supposed to feel?”

“I’m not saying anything like that, Jungkook!” You began to shout as well, but you stopped yourself to control the volume of your voice, finishing calmly, “I’m just saying it’s okay to be sad.”

Jungkook held your gaze for a moment before shaking his head violently and dropping his eyes to the floor. “I’m not sad,” he spat.

You watched as he evened his breathing, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Alright,” you gave in. “If you say you aren’t sad, then I’ll believe you.” You knew he was lying not only to you, but to himself, but you let it go, not wanting to argue with him anymore. You stood up, brushing his bangs away that hung down in his eyes, pulling him to sit back down next to you on the edge of the bed. You brought a hand to his cheek to lift his face to meet your eyes. “I want to ask you something, and I know it may be asking a lot from you, so feel free to turn me down.”

He waited patiently for what you had to say, and you thought for one moment, still nervous at the prospect of him actually agreeing. “My mom is hosting this gala,” you explained, “and I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

He squinted his eyes at you, finding it hard to believe you would even ask him about something like that. “You want me to go to a gala with you? That your mom is hosting?” You nod silently in return, though you can easily see where he’s coming from. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“I know it’s not exactly your scene, but, if I’m honest, I’m a little worried about it. My mom wants me to make connections with some of the young heirs there. They’re not the most trustworthy people, though. I just think I would feel a lot better if you were there.” You looked up to him nervously in hopes that he would understand what you were trying to say. With the way his jaw tightened, you were certain he had gotten the point.

He swallowed, placing a comforting hand on your thigh and agreeing softly, “Okay. I’ll be there for you.”

Later that night, you both decided you would go out to eat at Roy’s again because Jungkook was right, that was the best fries and milkshake you had ever tasted. It still made you nervous to go into the more dangerous side of the city, but nothing happened last time, and with Jungkook there, you had nothing to worry about. However, your fears suddenly returned to you when you heard someone from behind you shout, “Jeon!”

Jungkook quickly grabbed onto your hand as you both turned around. They didn’t look threatening when you turned around. In fact, they were around your age and you began to think they may have been friends of Jungkook. The same one who had called out to him spoke again, “Your dad called an emergency meeting. Another gang’s been looking to take some of our territory.”

You froze. You must not have heard that right. You felt Jungkook stiffen beside you, too. “What did he just say?” you mumbled.

Jungkook stared ahead wordlessly, his lips pressed into a thin line. That’s when you knew you heard exactly what you thought you did. Your lip curled up in anger and you shouted, “You lied to me! You’re in a gang!” Your eyes filled to the brim with tears, but you tried not to let them fall. You repeated, “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

Jungkook swallowed, knowing there was no way he could get himself out of this. He let the silence boil in an angry pot for a long while before he found his voice again. “Yeah, I did,” he breathed, nodding slowly.

You turned your face away from him, hesitant to ask what was on the tip of the tongue because you were terrified of what his answer may be. “What’s the name?” you barely choked out, but when he only stuttered as an answer, you screamed at him, “Was it your gang that killed my dad?”

“We’re not like that, _____. He was kicked out as soon as we found out.”

He confirmed exactly what you were afraid of. You knew the emblem you had seen on his shoulder seemed familiar for a reason. You felt sick. You felt betrayed. The tears you had been holding back were now free falling down your face. “You knew? You knew the whole time and you didn’t tell me?” You roughly pushed at his chest, but he barely moved an inch.

He reached out for you before retracting his hand right away. “I didn’t want this to happen.” You didn’t want to hear his excuses. You didn’t even want to see his face right now. You just needed to get away. When you turned on your heel, he called out your name, but you didn’t listen. When he tried to go after you, the men who came to get him held him back and hurried him away. He tried to fight to push past them, but he knew that if he chased after you, you would only hate him even more.

By the time you arrived home, you could barely even stand. You hadn’t even realized how much you were shaking, how violently your sobs had been wracking through you. When you reached the safety of solitude within your bedroom, you leaned on the post of your bed and sunk to the floor, burying your head in your hands. You weren’t sure how long you had stayed like that.

You heard a soft tap at your window and, knowing exactly who it came from, you pretended as if you didn’t hear it. Then Jungkook’s voice came quietly through the closed window, “Please let me in, _____.”

“Go away!” you shouted, not even moving to see his face. He didn’t leave though. Instead he kept tapping, which became impatient knocking, becoming louder and louder. You stood up and walked to the window and the sound finally ceased as he let out a sigh, but instead of unlocking the window like he had expected, you pulled the curtains closed and walked back to sit on your bed, staring emptily at the wall.

You could hear him growl in frustration. “Don’t make me break this goddamn window, _____!” you heard him scream from the other side of the curtains. You only shook your head and tried to ignore him until he left, but you jumped when you heard the crescendo of pounding on the glass, becoming more forceful by the second.

You hurriedly rushed to your feet again to open the curtains, only to be met with Jungkook repeatedly driving his fist into the glass. “You’re insane!” you cried out. You quickly unhooked the latch that kept him locked outside in fear that he would really form a crack in the glass. He immediately pushed through and took your face into his hands, pulling you close. “Get away from me!” You frantically fought, pulling his hands away from you and trying to put distance between you.

He placed his forehead against yours, whispering, “_____, please listen to me. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” You suddenly ran out of energy to continue fighting him, but you still kept a grip on his wrists as his hands still rested on each side of your face. Your sobs didn’t cease, however, and he slowly slid his hands down to wrap around your waist and bring you into his chest, pressing his lips to the top of your head as you reluctantly melted into him in exhaustion. “Please forgive me.”

“Jungkook,” you breathed weakly.

He stopped you quickly, reminding you of a conversation the two of you had in the past. “You’ve said it yourself before. You know that I’m nothing like that man.”

“Of course I know that.” You shook your head before you pulled away from him, but he wouldn’t let you go far enough to where he had to let you go. “I’m angry because you kept this from me. You knew it was something I needed to know, but you kept it to yourself anyway.”

He sighed and he was about to plead for you to forgive him once more, but the vibration of his phone is his pocket brought his words to a halt. You saw that he immediately became worried when he read the caller ID and answered the call without hesitation. You couldn’t make out the words on the other end, but the way his face contorted in worry let you know that it was bad news. He ended the call with a quick affirmative and when he hung up, he looked frantic. “Shit,” he hissed. “There’s an emergency back at home. I’ll come back later tonight, though. We aren’t finished here,” he promised, already making his way back outside.

You woke up the next morning surprised that you had ever been able to fall asleep. You hadn’t even bothered trying to fall asleep the night before since you knew that if Jungkook said he was coming back, then he was coming back. But he never did return, which worried you. You didn’t want to care, but no matter how hard you tried to hate him, the fact that he never actually came back made you think something bad happened, and that scared you. You tried texting him early in the morning, several hours after he had left, but now even after you had slept and woke up again, you still received no response, which was extreme even for him.

Knowing all that you knew about him now, you could only assume the worst, especially since you had heard about the apparent emergency that he had gone to take care of. You rushed to get yourself ready to go out and look for him only to be stopped when you realized you had no idea where you should be looking. Of course your first instinct was his home, but you didn’t actually know where that was. You found it hard to believe you hadn’t realized until now how much you still didn’t know about Jungkook. So, you went to the only place you knew of where you could find any sort of hint of where to find him.

You pushed through the heavy door that led into Roy’s diner, immediately met with several heads whipping your way to get a look at the visitor. Since it was the morning, there were far fewer people than there had been the first time you came, but you saw several familiar faces, including Roy himself. You walked in nervously, feeling a little out of place now that Jungkook wasn’t by your side, which everyone was quick to notice. “Do you know where Jungkook is?” asked one of the older men that he had been talking to during your previous visit.

“That’s the problem,” you sighed. “He left last night saying it was an emergency and I haven’t seen him since. He isn’t answering his phone either.” You shook your head, looking down at your phone one more time, hoping to be proven wrong. The news even made Roy stop what he was doing behind the counter to listen, worrying just like the rest of them. They all shared concerned, knowing glances.

Roy approached you slowly, setting his towel down, explaining, “We heard news early this morning that there was a dispute between gangs.” You waited impatiently for him to continue. You figured that much already. “Jungkook’s father was killed.”

The breath left your lungs and you now understood why he didn’t return. You knew him well enough to know that he must be out there somewhere trying to deal with what he’s feeling, and from what you knew about him, he probably wasn’t coping well. Now you had to make sure he was okay. “Tell me where I might be able to find him.”

They tried to convince you to let someone else look for him and find him knowing he might not be in a good state, but you insisted that you would find him yourself. They gave in finally and mentioned several places he visited frequently, one of them being his home address, which you were thankful they trusted you enough to give to you, and you decided you would start there. You entered the address into your phone for directions since you had no idea how to navigate in this area of the city. Finally, you came to the house that the map had led you to, and it was a house just like any other that you had been passing for the past few minutes. You weren’t sure why you were expecting anything different.

When you carefully knocked on the front door, it creaked open ever so slightly from the little bit of force you gave. You pushed it open just a slight bit more, calling Jungkook’s name, hoping to find him inside. You received no answer though, which prompted you to take a tentative step inside as you pray that you got the right house and you weren’t accidentally walking into a stranger’s home.

Only a few steps in and you heard the crunch of glass underneath your shoe, and you looked down to find a picture that had fallen of the wall and smashed onto the floor. When you took a closer look, you saw a boy with familiar round eyes and you knew you were in the right house. As soon as you rounded the corner, however, you see that the living room and the kitchen had been trashed and torn to shreds, displaying a mess of broken glass and papers and trash scattered across the floors. Suddenly you suspected that the picture by the front door hadn’t fallen by accident.

After you had called out for Jungkook several more times, you concluded he wasn’t in the house. You began to look through your small list of other possible locations while leaving the house and carefully pulling the door shut behind you. You stopped in your tracks just as you reached the bottom stair when you heard a familiar voice, and after you searched, you found just who you had been looking for. Only, you weren’t expecting him to be threateningly pinning someone up against a wall.

You approached quietly, listening for what you hoped would be an explanation. You saw Jungkook had pinned a man by the collar of his shirt to the outside wall of a building in an alleyway just on the other side of the road from his house. “Are you one of them?” he screamed, interrogating the terrified man.

“One of who?” the poor man questioned, fighting Jungkook’s grip, though you were surprised he couldn’t escape given Jungkook only used a single hand.

Jungkook bared his teeth in rage. “The bastards that killed my father!” You approached slowly, calculating the best way to deal with Jungkook while he was in such a fragile state. Though your knowledge about this was limited, you knew for sure that this man had no gang affiliations just by looking at him and how he seemed as if he hadn’t fought once in his entire life. Throwing a beer bottle down, smashing it to pieces that violently scattered causing both you and the man to flinch away, Jungkook cried out, “I promise I’ll obliterate every single one of them!”

You took the chance to lurch forward and firmly take hold of his arm, hoping to bring him down from his rampage. Jungkook’s head snapped to you and the man used this distraction to escape his grip and make a run for it. Jungkook noticed and wanted to push past you and chase after him, but you blocked his path, though he kept fighting to pass you, blinded by rage and, from what you could smell in his breath, intoxication. “Please, Jungkook, calm down! I know your pain, trust me, but this isn’t the right way to handle it! Let me help you!” you tried reasoning with him.

He pushed your hands off of him, backing away. “Who said I wanted your help? Who said I wanted you to force yourself into my life and try to fix everything?” he spat. You shook your head in disbelief. “I’m perfectly fine! What makes you think I need to be saved?”

“Jungkook, I know you don’t mean that.”

“I do!” he shouted. His shoulders heaved and then the tension in his face began to melt. “I…” He spoke more unsurely now. Then he had dropped himself onto his knees, hands pounding into the ground. Worried he was hurt, you slid down beside him only for his arms to wrap tightly around your waist. His face buried into the crook of your neck and he began to sob. You were worried and you hurt for him, yet somehow you were also relieved knowing that he was finally able to let go of the idea that he had to always be strong. You soothingly ran your fingers through his hair as you let him stay there for however long he needed. “He’s gone,” he choked out weakly.

Jungkook never told you much about his father. In fact, he said that he didn’t see him much and that they weren’t close. You couldn’t tell if that had been another lie to keep you from knowing the truth or if that had been true and he felt this way purely from the fact that he had lost both of his parents now. Either way, you could tell he was broken. “It’s okay,” you whispered.

“Promise me that you’ll stay with me, _____.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you assured him. There you both sat, in the middle of an alley, where Jungkook finally shed what very well could have been his first tear, and you knew that he needed you.

After seeing the state his house was in, you figured it wasn’t the best idea to let him return there alone for fear he might go off the rails again, so you let him come with you. You weren’t sure whether your mother would be home or if she would ever even notice if you kept him up in your room, but you were willing to face whatever she had to say if she were to find out, knowing this was about your only option. You had to support him on the way as he drunkenly stumbled through the streets at midday.

When you finally arrived home with him and led him up to your room, he collapsed in exhaustion on your bed. You looked over him in concern for a moment before sighing as you combed your fingers through his hair. You figured you would get him some water for when he woke up since he had consumed so much alcohol, but when you tried to leave his hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back to him. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled. You glanced back at the door, but you ultimately decided to follow his request and stay with him.

You sat down beside where he laid, pulling your wrist out of his grip and sliding your hand into his to hold it comfortingly. You saw a hint of red on his face and squinted to get a better look, but you had to gently nudge his face to get him to turn to you from where he had it buried in the sheets to block out the light. You saw his lip was letting out a fair amount of blood and you began to get up to clean it up, ignoring his groan of protest as you left his side.

You came back with a cold, wet rag to press to his lip to stop the bleeding. You sighed, giving his body a once-over, seeing clearly he was in bad shape, both physically and emotionally. You set the rag aside again after a moment and went back to softly stroking his head. You whispered to him, though you were sure he was too far gone in sleep to listen to you by now, “Please don’t do this to yourself again. Please don’t do something reckless and get hurt.”

To your surprise his eyes barely fluttered open at your words before they closed once again, but he exhaled heavily, assuring you, “I won’t. I promise.”

When you woke up the next morning, the bed had been significantly colder than it had when you went to sleep. As you blinked the sleep out of your eyes, you realized it was because Jungkook was no longer there, sleeping beside you with you wrapped in his arms like he had been when you fell asleep. He must have left sometime in the middle of the night. You couldn’t help but feel a little worried. You weren’t sure of he had completely sobered up yet, so you worried if he had gotten home safely or not. You called him, but he didn’t pick up. Then you texted him to ask where he was, thinking he probably wouldn’t answer that either, but to your surprise, he did. Although, all he said was ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m gonna be busy today.’ You knew something was going on, already, but you were immediately afraid for him when he followed with, ‘I love you.’

That was unlike him. He was possibly the least straightforward person you knew, so he only said that when he felt like he absolutely had to. And you were afraid of why he thought he had to tell you so suddenly.

Before you could barrage him with questions, you heard the bell ring at your front door, so you went to answer, hoping for some reason that it would be him. When you opened the door, it wasn’t Jungkook, but instead it was the man who had called Jungkook for the meeting and ultimately revealed the truth about him. He cleared his throat. “May I come in for a moment?” You hesitantly stepped back, opening the way fully for him to enter. “I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Namjoon. I’m a member of Jungkook’s gang.” He said quickly, lowering his voice at the last phrase. He seemed to be rushing through the formalities to get to the real reason he had come. “Have you seen Jungkook?”

The question took you by surprise. You had been hoping to ask him the same question, but since he didn’t know either, your nerves were anything but calmed. “No. When I asked him where he was, he texted me saying he was busy and not to worry about it.” You thought for a moment, licking your dried lips. “He sounded off, though.”

Namjoon nodded attentively. “I see. There’s a good chance my suspicions are correct, then,” he speculated, pacing noticeably.

“What suspicions?” You were almost afraid to ask. It was easy to see that Namjoon was tense, so you knew that it couldn’t be good news.

“I think he’s going to try to get revenge for his father.” Your jaw went slack in shock. “I think he wants to kill that gang’s leader.”

“What? What if he gets hurt?”

Namjoon exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin as he spoke, “If that’s the case, he’ll be going up against several members before getting to the leader, so the likelihood is high.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. What was he thinking going up against so many people all on his own? You began to panic. “Well, what are you doing here? Someone needs to go help him or stop him or something!”

Namjoon said with the tap on the screen on his phone, “I’m already on it. I’m sending backup for him right now. I’ll be going too.” He was already taking large strides to the door when he quickly turned back around to you. “Keep the doors locked and don’t answer the door unless either me or Jungkook have told you to,” he warned before shutting the door behind him.

Somehow his warning made you even more nervous. You were sure you had nothing to worry about for yourself since you were far away from where all the action would take place, but it clearly meant that he thought these people were dangerous. And Jungkook was going to face them all alone. You just hoped that his backup got there fast enough.

You had been trying to shake the thoughts out of your head for far too long until you began to feel cramped within the walls of your own home. Though you were aware of Namjoon’s advice, you decided to walk for a bit to clear your head and to get some fresh air. Surely no one wanting to hurt you would be brave enough to cross the river to the highly-secured side of the city. You had been wandering for a while, not paying much attention to where exactly you were going and instead following wherever your feet carried you as you watched the petals fall from the cherry blossoms in order to distract yourself.

Eventually you found yourself stopping just before the bridge. Just a few more steps and you could be crossing over to get Jungkook out of his mess once again, but he said it himself. It wasn’t up to you to save him. He’s going to be okay, you assured yourself. With eyes still glued to the opposite end of the bridge, you turned around to walk back home.

As you began the walk back home, you thought you saw a shadow of someone behind you, but when you turned no one had been there. You were sure it was only your imagination, but now you were starting to wish you had stayed at home as your nerves began to act up. You took up a quicker pace, finally deciding you were safe after you were walking with no interruption for a few minutes. Just as you were calming down, you jumped as the ringer of your phone blared in the thick silence of the streets. You breathed in relief as you brought it out of your pocket and read your mother’s name displayed on the screen.

“Hello?” you answered. She was asking where you were since you had told her you would be home for dinner with her. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m coming home right n—” Your words were smothered by the gloved hand that latched itself over your mouth. You tried to tug yourself free and cry out for help, but your arms were only swatted away and your phone tumbled to the ground still on call with your mother. You frantically swung your feet in attempts to escape, but they were swept out from under you and you fell to the ground, your head hitting the pavement and darkening your vision until you lost consciousness.

Your head was pounding when you finally gained some awareness again. You could tell there were voices around you, but they were difficult to discern since your groggy state made everything sound muffled as if you were underwater, with the way it was muddled in your brain. It took a while to finally come to, but when you did, you could finally make out one of the voices as the very one you had been waiting for. When your eyes came into focus, you could make out Jungkook standing across a large room from you, pointing his gun at something to your right. You tried to turn your head to look despite the shooting pain in your neck from how you head hung down unnaturally. Your eyes met an unfamiliar man, also holding his own gun, but instead of pointing it back at Jungkook, it was directed at you. You tried to moved, but your limbs were bound to the chair you sat in.

You gulped, realizing the situation, most of your mind’s fogginess disappearing. “Look who’s finally decided to join us,” he observed, smiling sinisterly in your direction.

Jungkook briefly met your panicked eyes, but he diverted back to the man keeping a stone cold expression. “How did you find her?”

“You’re very reckless. How do you expect to take your father’s place?” At that remark, Jungkook’s grip tightened on his pistol and bared his teeth in anger. His finger twitched on the trigger and he was going to give in, but when the gun in the man’s hand was pushed closer to your temple, he brought the gun back down slightly in order to stop him from hurting you. The older man only chuckled. “You had such great potential to become a cold-blooded killer, an unstoppable machine, but instead you hold yourself back with these distractions.” The man tilted his head in indication of you as said “distraction.”

“The only person I’m looking to kill is you.”

“Are you sure you want to say that to me right now?” he asked, teeth bared and all easiness void from his tone. The mouth of the gun was now pushed harshly into your temple and you squeezed your eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath. Only a moment later, though, you no longer felt its the cold metal on your skin and you saw he had lowered it out of the corner of your eye. His face took on another chilling smirk. “You know, I could go ahead and kill her now… but then again, she would make an awfully pretty prize.”

Jungkook was fuming and, raising the gun once more and taking a risky step forward, he growled, “Don’t fucking touch her!” The man only stared back at him daringly, analyzing his every movement, the way his feet faltered in their placement on the ground, his hand just barely shook as he held out his gun. There was no way he would risk anything as long as you were in danger.

Suddenly there was a faint shuffle somewhere within the walls of the large warehouse you were held in and everything went silent as everyone went on alert, listening carefully. Suddenly, you flinched and your heart beat erratically as a gunshot ran through your ears, and it took a moment of panic to realize it hadn’t been directed at you. You turned to the side, seeing the man had dropped his gun and grabbed onto his arm in pain. His groan of pain was cut short by yet another bullet lodging into his thigh, causing his leg to give out on him and he fell to the ground.

Then a crowd of men came from the direction of the bullets, led by Namjoon who had been placing a handgun back into his waistband. Jungkook ran over to you to free you from the ropes that held you down, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and cutting you free. When all of the ropes around you fell loosely to the floor you wrapped your arms around him, feeling his heart beating rapidly. He pulled away and his eyes travelled to your forehead. He carefully reached out to touch it and when his fingers barely brushed your skin, a pain shot through your skull. You brought your own hand up and felt what must have been dried blood. You hadn't even realized that had been there, but you deduced it must have been from when you fell to the ground during your kidnapping.

Jungkook lifted you out of the chair hastily with Namjoon by his side when commotion broke out in the back of the building. More men poured in from where Namjoon and the others had come, but they had their guns pointed at Jungkook’s men. Your feet slowed in their movements as you realized they were going to fight the men who had come to save you. Jungkook tugged you ahead and consoled you, telling you they would be fine, gesturing to the reinforcements coming in once Namjoon opened the front doors. As they passed by Jungkook, you figured they must be on his side. Taking once more glance back, you saw the other men retreating and dropping their guns as the soon realized they were far outnumbered and you briefly glanced at the leader who was still shuffling on the ground with his wounded leg. Jungkook had seen this, too, as he picked up his speed with you right beside him. You heard a gunshot go off and Jungkook roughly pushed you out the door. When you looked back inside as the three of you had finally reached safety outside, you saw no one else who had been injured, so you assumed everyone was safe.

You breathed heavily as the adrenaline began to wear off and your head began pounding because of your injury. You breathed a sigh of relief when you finally caught your breath, believing  the three of you had successfully reached safety, but you were quickly brought back to panic as Jungkook roughly leaned into the wall and let himself slide down to the ground, clutching his side. He hissed, lifting his hand and finding it stained crimson. You gasped and slid down next to him, Namjoon crouching beside you and examining the wound. You had been wrong when you thought that the gunshot had missed its target. No, it had hit exactly who it was aimed at, and that was Jungkook. A few men who had been in one of the many black vans parked outside the building came running over, carefully lifting Jungkook up from the ground and placing him in the back of the the van they had come from with a man with medical supplies waiting inside.

You followed behind them and stepped into the van when they set Jungkook down, not bothering to stop and wonder if they would even let you, but they did. The man grabbed scissors out of the case and cut open Jungkook’s shirt, blood seeping through the white material at an alarming rate. HIs shirt was pulled back to reveal the ragged gash in his side, and you had to look away. You found his hand in yours, however, and he squeezed it tight which felt like reassurance to you, but it was most likely because of the pain.

After a while of you silently staring out the window and Jungkook every so often hissing in pain, the bullet was removed and his torso was wrapped in a bandage. You finally looked back at him, relieved to see the job looked to be well done. Jungkook tried to readjust himself into a sitting position but immediately regretted it, groaning lowly and letting himself back down to lay where he had been before. You brushed your fingertips over the back of his hand and sighed as you watched his brows twitch.

Your head whipped towards the doors as Namjoon swung them open and climbed inside the back, sitting on the opposite side of Jungkook’s legs. He looked down at him with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes hardened as they were suddenly directed at you, and the unpleasant frown took full form when he met your eyes. “I told you to stay inside!” Namjoon scolded. “That was all you had to do, but then you just had to get yourself caught.”

Jungkook, who still looked fairly worn out, did not miss Namjoon’s comment. “What?” he questioned, looking at you, and under his stare you couldn’t keep guilt from bubbling up to the surface. “You knew what going on and you still put yourself in danger?” Your lips pressed together in a tight line. His voice that was still weak, but you could tell he was trying to raise it.

You huffed, retorting, “What was I supposed to do? You had me so worried! Jungkook, you told me just last night that you wouldn’t do something reckless and get yourself killed! Then I found out you were going on some crazy revenge mission. You lied to me! Again! How long are you going to keep this up, Jungkook?”

“I’ll keep it up however long it takes! Be honest, _____. If I had told you what you wanted to know, would that have changed anything? No! You still would have done something stupid!” His fists had tightened and the veins in his arms protruded.

“Why are you getting mad at me?”

“Because you almost got yourself killed, that’s why!” His hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, not enough to be painful, but it held you securely. His hands shook and you just now realized how fearful his face appeared. His voice lost its momentum and lowered to just above a whisper, “I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you today. I can’t let anything happen to you.” You could only swallow at his words, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand that was still clasped onto your own. He sighed, defeated and resigning, “I know I shouldn’t have lied. I’m sorry.”

“But that’s the thing. You keep doing it. You keep lying because you think you have to, but you don’t! Please don’t lie to me anymore. There’s nothing you have to hide from me anymore.” He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

That was the last of what you said to him. He couldn’t promise you that the lies would stop. You weren’t sure if that meant he still didn’t trust you or that you couldn’t trust him. You were in too deep for that, though. It’s not easy to give your heart away to someone without trusting them with your life. You tried to relieve your thoughts plaguing your mind through a deep heave of a sigh as you quietly closed the front door behind you. Your mother came running to the door at the sound. You thought she’d be at work.

She pulled you into a crushing hug before pulling away and inspecting the bandage that had been put on your head and interrogating, “Why did you disappear all of a sudden? And what happened to your head?”

You pulled her hands away. “Mom, I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“No, _____, you have to tell me what happened. I heard that over the phone! You can’t tell me nothing happened!” she rambled frantically, cutting you off once again before you could even anwer her. “I was so worried, you know that! I even sent the police out to look for you! Can you imagine how scared I was when they brought back your cell phone they found lying in the street, but they said there was no sign of you anywhere around it?” She slammed your phone down on the kitchen table without breaking eye contact with you. You could see her eyes become shiny.

You looked away and hesitated to give her an answer. “There were some problems… But I swear I’m alright. Jungkook—”

“I knew it!” she burst out. “I knew this had something to do with him! I’ve always known being around him would put you in danger!” You tried to speak up in his defense but she stopped you with a motion of her hand. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked since your father’s been gone to keep us at the top? I only want to give you the life you want, but you’re ready to throw your life away for some low life boy off the streets!”

You screamed back in retaliation, “Don’t say that about him!” She gave you that look that she always does when you raise your voice at her, but this time instead of cowering away, you used her stunned silence to say what you’d wanted to say for far too long. “Do you really think I care about the money? I couldn’t care less if I didn’t have this big house or these expensive clothes! I just want my mom back.” She was still silent to your surprise and the tension between her angry eyebrow faltered only slightly.

Her voice was much more level now as she turned away and pinched the bridge of her nose, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him.” She made her way out of the kitchen, only stopping once more in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. “Please. I can’t lose you, too.”

Your shoulders slumped with your labored sigh as you watched her retreating back. You didn’t miss her trembling lip. You supposed you never thought too hard on the emotional toll that encumbered your mother throughout this situation. In no way was she innocent, but you, too,  were far from being in the right. Maybe you had been the selfish one all along, you thought, making your way up the stairs to your bedroom with guilt weighing heavily on your shoulders. You found the dress you had finally decided on for the gala laid out on your bed. You rubbed the soft fabric between the pads of your fingers in thought. What were you thinking, asking Jungkook to come to the gala with you? Neither him nor your mother wanted that. It was only what you wanted.

You picked up your phone and quickly called his number without another thought. After several rings too many, the line on the other end connected. “_____?” he answered, his voice sounded gruff and exhausted.

“You weren’t asleep were you?” you worried. He made a small grunt which you were sure was supposed to mean no, but you knew it wasn’t true. He needed to rest to heal, after all. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m doing alright... Better.”

“That’s good,” you said, trying to make your way into the subject you had called about. “Listen, you probably forgot about it by now...”

“The gala’s on Saturday. I know. I promise I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

“Actually, I was going to say that you probably shouldn’t go.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, waiting, as it was suddenly silent on his end.

“Why?” he finally asked, sounding more aware and perturbed than you would have expected.

“Well, you need to heal. It would just be better if you didn’t go.”

“I’ve healed in less than a week before. I’ll be fine.” You didn’t say anything. He was suddenly so determined to go with you after you practically had to beg him when you first told him about it. “Why don’t you want me to go?” You could hear the frown on his face. You couldn’t understand why he was getting so upset.

You gave a weak chuckle in hopes to lighten the mood. “Why do you want to go so badly all of a sudden?”

He ignored your question. “Did your mom say something?” You clicked your tongue in response, but he knew you well enough to know that meant that you didn’t want to answer the question. He chuckled dryly. “Are you serious? I thought you weren’t gonna let your mom stop you from doing what you want from now on.”

“I know, but this is… different,” you found yourself whispering into the phone. It suddenly felt like you were talking behind your mother’s back.

“Oh, then what is it? Is it because you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me by all the rich heirs?” He now carried an accusatory tone. He always had a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.

“Of course not! You’re being ridiculous!”

“Then why don’t you want me to go?”

“I’ve just... been insensitive to my mom. I just don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“Insensitive to her? Have you forgotten how wonderfully she treated me?”

You’d had it then, groaning as you hung up the call. You threw your phone down on the bed and went to get changed in the bathroom. You heard your phone vibrate from its place on the bed and you could just barely make out Jungkook’s name across the top of the screen, but you didn’t make a move to answer it. It took three more missed calls until he finally gave up.

It was a petty, stupid fight, and yet it was Saturday and you hadn’t heard from him since your last phone call. You tried to tell yourself you were just giving him time to rest and recover, but in reality, you just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything to him. You wondered if he regretted it as much as you did.

The nerves fluttering in your stomach as you thought about the gala you were getting ready for made you begin to regret telling Jungkook not to go with you. You lightly brushed your fingers through your styled hair and took one last look in the mirror, scrutinizing the way the dress hung on your body. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as it had seemed before. It looked duller and you wished the skirt wasn’t so plain and lifeless. You weren’t sure what you had seen in it in the first place. You heard your mother call for you from the first floor, and on your way down you checked your phone one last time, but you still saw no notifications with Jungkook’s name on them.

You followed your mother into the limousine that drove you to the venue the gala would take place in, watching as you drove by the entrance to the bridge, wondering what Jungkook was doing on the other side. The rushing waters of the river seemed wider than ever.

You arrived at the gala much faster than you had hoped and found that many guests had already arrived. You walked in beside your mother, receiving several greetings and warm smiles, some looking more genuine than others. You made your rounds for a while, chatting with some of the other heiresses your age that you had known for years because of events just like these.

Eventually the crowd started to loosen up and the gala became more of a social gathering than a business meeting as most of the guests had already gone through a few glasses of wine. You chose to opt out of having any alcohol, though part of you wanted nothing more than to get drunk so the night would go by faster. After you finally got a break from conversation, you excused yourself and went down the hallway to the bathroom where it was much quieter and less crowded. You tried to pass by a man that you barely paid any mind to, but he reached out for your arm to grab your attention. “_____?” You turned and found that the face of the man that said your name was one that you were sure you had seen before, yet you couldn’t put a name to the face. “I’ve been looking around for you all night!”

You returned his charming grin with a polite nod of your head. “Oh yeah! I was wondering if I would see you tonight.” You were lying through your teeth and you were hoping it wasn’t painfully obvious.

“You’ve grown up quite a bit since I saw you last,” he said, looking you up and down. You chuckled nervously as his eyes lingered just a hair too long, especially now that you could smell the strong scent of alcohol on his breath after he had taken a step closer to you. “You know, we’re both set up to take over pretty powerful companies. I think we should try to get to know each other more—”

You frowned stepping back to regain your preferred personal space. “I’m sorry. That’s not something I’m looking for.”

You began to walk away, but his loud, gruff voice followed you, “You really shouldn’t cut someone off when they’re speaking! I think you should show me a little bit more respect!” He glared at you, clearly waiting for something, though you weren’t sure if what he wanted was an apology or just for you to say yes to him.

“And I think you’ve had too much to drink and that you’re a self-entitled prick,” you retorted. “I think you should get back to the party and leave me alone.”

He growled as you brushed past him, and he started to pursue you, but he was stopped short by a voice coming from behind both of you. “Hey. You heard her, man. Get out of here,” the voice ordered. You turned around to find Jungkook dressed in a suit and tie and with a flower in hand. The man only observed him incredulously until Jungkook sneered at him, making him finally give up and leaving only the two of you in the hallway. Jungkook’s glare finally softened once his eyes that had been watching intently as the man left found their way to your own. You hurried over to him, wrapping him in a hug and releasing a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “This is exactly why I wanted to come and I still let this happen. I didn’t want you to have to deal with guys like that.”

You stopped him, shaking your head to assure him you were fine. “No, no. I don’t even care about that. I’m just glad to see you again.” Your eyes trailed down to observe the black suit he wore, admiring how good he looked, but also chuckling at how out of character he looked. You weren’t complaining, though. Your gaze travelled to the flower he held in his hand and a grin spread across your face. “What’s this?”

You could see his cheeks slightly tint while he tried to explain himself. “It’s just an… apology, I guess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, holding the flower out for your to take. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad about something so stupid. I promised I’d be here and I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry, too.” You twirled the stem between your fingers. You grabbed his hand again and pulled him along with you. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this party.” You rounded the corner only to be met with your mother, skidding to a stop to prevent from colliding into her. “Mom.”

She sighed, and you were afraid you were going to have to face another lecture, but she surprised you by pulling you into her arms. “I heard someone raise their voice, and then I heard you… I got so worried.” She let you go and turned her eyes to Jungkook, looking upon him for the first time without contempt. “I’ve been thinking a lot recently after hearing how _____ talks about you. So I want to say thank you, Jungkook, for being there for her. I know there’s nothing i can say or do to make up for what I’ve said about you in the past, but I can tell that you love my daughter, and that’s all I want for her. I’m sorry for how horrible I’ve been to you.”

You looked between him and your mother. Jungkook’s words faltered for a moment, but eventually he just said simply, “Of course. I’ll always be here for her.”

Your mother gave a soft smile. She shook her head. “Don’t let me stop you. Go ahead and go. You’ve been here long enough,” she insisted, directing the last part to you. You smiled brightly and thanked her and the two of you headed out.

You two ended up sitting back in your usual seats at the counter at Roy’s. It didn’t exactly get you away from a rowdy, loud scene, but it was comfortable. You two were still in your clothes for the gala, so the old diners were teasing the both of you, saying you looked like you could get married right then and there. You were embarrassed, but you were also proud of how far the two of you had come. You were still by no means perfect. You two were a mess. A beautiful mess. The kind of mess that isn’t burdensome, that you don’t want to clean up because in it are beautiful memories of a time when all is perfect, like old family picnics with cream covered pies and messy little children who impatiently dig right in. “We’re kind of like a pie,” you looked up at Jungkook from where your head laid on his shoulder.

“What are you saying?” he broke out into laughter. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners and his nose scrunched up, it was beautiful.

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking.” You looked around. The neon lights that shone on the jukebox. The perfectly shaped swirl of whipped cream atop your shared milkshake topped off with a bright red cherry. The old couple sitting in a booth on the other side of the diner. It was all so beautiful. You’d never seen so clearly in your life up until this moment.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts #bts jungkook #jeongguk x reader #bts scenario #bts imagine #bts reactions #jungkook scenario #jungkook fic #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #badboy!au jungkook #pull me down #starryeyedgukk

[blakegopnik]

DEACCESSIONING BY THE BALTIMORE MUSEUM OF ART THREATENS THE  KERRY JAMES MARSHALLS OF THE FUTURE

THE DAILY PIC shows the radical “proposal” that I got the Washington Post to commission from Kerry James Marshall in 2009, pitching the idea that a monument to Nat Turner should be grafted onto the Washington Monument. I’m posting the image once again because, a) it’s so great, and so little known, and b) because that’s precisely the kind of mind-bending work Black artists—any artists—might not end up making if all museums followed the lead of the Baltimore Museum of Art, getting rid of great works from their collections to raise money for more immediate and pressing needs, as the BMA has just announced it is doing.

“Leonardo, Michelangelo and Raphael—they represent the core of the historical pantheon of great artists, recognized worldwide. And a big part of my objective is to be listed in the history among those artists”—those are Marshall’s words, spoken to me back when he was coming up with his monument to Turner. As a Black artist, he explained, you have a special longing “to be fully a part of the story of some system you are deeply in love with”—even if, or maybe because, that system has for so long refused to make room for people like you.

So I’d like to ask Christopher Bedford, the director of the museum in Baltimore, how the artists of color in his community are supposed to be “part of the story” of Western art when he’s making it harder for them to know it?

Bedford’s decision to fund important diversity initiatives, in HR, by selling off major works by Clifford Still, Andy Warhol and Brice Marden is not only going to deprive his own institution, and its future curators, of precious, irreplaceable objects; it will also permanently deplete his entire community’s store of artistic knowledge. 

How can the budding Marshalls of Baltimore compete with the great works of the past, and even outdo them—or maybe needle them, as Marshall has done with his Turner monument—if they aren’t given a chance to know what those works are? A young Baltimorean who wants to make art about religion needs to see Warhol’s monumental “Last Supper,” from 1986, to truly understand how complex and ambitious such work can be, and how it can teeter on the edge between worship and critique. An emerging abstractionist in the city needs to study the 1950s zig-zags of Still, and the 1980s loops of Marden, to decide what moves are left for her to make in 2020. Art is a language no one is born knowing; an artist needs years of immersion to speak it well, let alone to say something new and vital in it. Forget wall texts or educational programs or grand public exhibitions or lectures or all the other things that today’s museums are busy with: A museum’s one vital—I’d say sacred—duty is to allow citizens, all citizens, to come face to face with the art it holds. That can’t happen when it stops holding it.

For the BMA to get rid of major works by major artists is like the local library purging books by Shakespeare, Darwin and Tolstoy, and hoping that Baltimore’s readers will manage fine without the knowledge they contain. I mention Tolstoy, in particular, because of the Black writer Ralph Wiley’s response to Saul Bellow’s racist question, “Who’s the Tolstoy of the Zulus?” Answered Wiley, “Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.” He was saying that Black people have as good a claim on the entire culture as any white, and that it is a claim they could and should work. The essayist Ta-Nehisi Coates has said that Wiley’s answer had a big impact on his own thinking about race and cultural treasures; we could all learn from it.

For centuries, white elites—the elites who founded and funded our museums—made it clear that they owned the culture’s heights, and that people of color were not welcome on them. As the BMA’s own studies and statistics have shown, for a long time the city’s Black majority felt unwelcome in its halls; already a decade and more ago, when I was a critic in nearby Washington, the museum was taking big steps to change that feeling. The welcome it has extended to Black viewers, and to Black art and artists, has been getting warmer ever since.  But when you invite guests into your house, you don’t normally get rid of its treasures first. 

For a full survey of past Pics visit blakegopnik.com/archive.

[savrenim]

I’ve seen a lot of really good takes on “so coronavirus has shown that suddenly when abled people are threatened that universities are able to make accommodations” and those are good takes and I don’t want to shift the discussion away from that on those posts but as someone who is inside a department which is currently scrambling to figure out how the rest of our semester is going to work, like, it’s kind of....not.

1. We did not already have the infrastructure. There’s been a huge scramble of ordering materials, trying to figure out how to share laptops and webcams and tablets etc etc etc, and teaching is going to be a MESS because professors do not have the proper tools and have been trying to cobble together the proper tools over the course of a week. Classes are going to lag and be difficult and are not going to be of uniform quality because we don’t have what we need to do this, and it’s pretty much going to be by a professor-by-professor basis what this quality will be like. Which is really unfair to the students.

2. Even with a tablet showing notes, it’s way harder to read than a blackboard. The prof teaching the course I’m TAing for and I did a test run, and we can make it work with writing on a tablet and it appearing on the screen like it’s a blackboard! Except, ya know, handwriting on tablets is Hard until you get used to it and oops it was pretty hard to decode. I’ve taken my notes on tablets for years and have very careful handwriting so recitations will be fine, but lectures might be unreadable for some folks. so, um, here’s to hoping the students are used to the prof’s handwriting because otherwise it’s going to be rough staring at a screen of half-gibberish.  

3. Interacting with the students is way harder, as is trying to keep them engaged. We’ve been told to mute them and look at typed notifications in the chat, and, like, sometimes unmute people for questions, but there’s no eye contact. If we miss a notification, we’ve missed a student’s question. And the pressure of typing something into the chat is a lot different than raising their hand in class. We’ve been shown so many statistics of, like, “someone watching a video for more than ten minutes without engagement starts their attention wandering” and yet besides trying to get them to type things into a chat we don’t really have a fix for that.

4. Web lecture presentations take longer than classroom presentations exactly because there need to be more attempts to engage students, writing things takes longer, the lag in getting the technology set up or the moments when wifi goes down/slow on any end, etc and also because it’s expected that it will be harder/slower for the students to parse through (ie bits and pieces harder to hear or understand). We’ve been staring at our syllabus and kind of wondering if we’re even going to get through half of what we’re supposed to get through. And we’re not allowed to meet more or assign the students more videos to watch because that’s unfair to them to ask that of them timing-wise, so what we don’t get to they don’t get to learn.

5. Grading and final exams are all up in the air. Homework, which was a fair part of the grade, can no longer be collected and graded because it’s policy in some classes that undergraduates can’t see final exam solutions, and lots of the graders are undergraduate graders, but if they access assignments they get access to all assignments. So homework is going to just....stop mattering? Finals being scanned and turned in is super suboptimal for everyone. We have no way of stopping cheating other than keeping them incredibly carefully timed and maybe trying to force kids to have webcams on? but that’ll work for our class because we have twenty students, not 100+. As well as some students might not have access to scanners and we don’t have fixes for that what with trying to keep time limits. And this is all even worse for Calc classes whose whole purpose is kind of to teach basic skills that they really really don’t want to be open-note finals. I’m not sure if ours is open note or if just the kids who want to cheat will succeed at cheating and we have nothing to stop them.

which mostly just leads to.....

6. This is probably going to partially work, and will be a stopgap measure for just ending the semester now especially for seniors who need to graduate, but we actively don’t have the resources to finish the semester that these kids paid for. They will be getting less material, delivered in a far shittier manner, with very slapdash assignments and grading, from people who have not been trained to deliver the material in this manner and who will be figuring it out as they go along, who have a huge range in quality of technological tools to transmit the info. Abled people are not getting massive perfectly placed accommodations that were previously said to be impossible. They are getting served a far, far shittier version of the education that we promised them because it’s kind of the only thing we can do, with the hopes that this just screws them over as little as possible.

Which isn’t to say that correct, full accommodations aren’t possible and shouldn’t be possible, but just, like.... my little brother goes to UC Berkeley and classes are usually big enough (1000+ students) that the lectures are just streamed anyways. He spent most of last year and this year not attending a single class, although going to the smaller group recitations. His semester is getting changed almost nothing by this, because the infrastructure was already there. But for colleges and universities that do not have things set up, the rest of the semester is going to be a shitshow. This is definitely an example of “oops when the abled people are affected too, an effort is made”, I am not arguing that whatsoever. But we were not prepared for this, we were not trained for this, and it seems to not be acknowledged in any of the conversations around this all so far but this effort is going to be a shitshow for everyone because schools were not concentrating on having robust accessibility features, not “and now things are perfectly accessible because the abled people need it too.”

#long post #coronavirus #universities #I don't even know how to tag this? discourse? #not joking about the apocalypse? #serious about the apocalypse? #just there's been a lot of hot takes going around and some of the points from the inside have been a bit frustrating #please don't drag me into the discourse I just wanted folks to know what this has looked like from the inside

[autumnpleaves]

My friend is homophobic and Im not out to her yet. Other than that, she’s really awesome. What do I do? Am I supposed to stop being her friend??? -C

*stunned silence* 

*sudden release of air* 

Aight, C. You’re in some deep, deep, deep snow right now- 

Let’s see.

First step, do you know where this belief comes from?

Is it like from her parents, religious beliefs, the internet, social media, something? At all? Like coz as humans that socialize and interact, we are constantly being influenced without us knowing, and maybe through understanding the root of your friend’s homophobia. 

This is important, because well, assuming because you say that she’s *really* awesome, that means this friend means *kinda* a lot to you. So in trying to *salvage* this relationship, let’s say you try to reason with your friend. 

Second step, so- you know where the idea came from, what now? 

Well if it’s a religious thing, then that might be a little complicated. As a religious person myself, I kind of understand where people like this might come from. But as we all should remember that the main core and center of say like Christianity, or something (sorry, I can also speak for the Christianity peeps) should be Love and Caring. 

If it’s a family thing, that would be also- complicated. (Realizing this, is really down-heartening honestly, homophobia in general is just... complicated). Usually, people who’s views are affected by like family beliefs would hold on to that belief really tight, like... especially if they are influenced from a really young age. But I do believe that if your friend is willing to keep an open mind, anything is possible. 

Do keep in mind though, that if you want to confront this friend, remain calm. 

Usually, homophobia is caused by lack of information/knowledge on the topic, and so it’s usually surrounded by stereotypes from like media or family. You could try educating yourself on some FAQs and what not. It’s easy to find them online. 

There is a possibility that your friend simply has not have a friend that is part of the LGBTQIAP+ community, and just simply doesn’t understand how a relationship between the same sex or gender might work. That is valid, and remember, that if you do try to challenge this view, it’s not going to change overnight. 

They might be suppressing their own identity, and is simply oppressed and hides in the closet of internal homophobia (not always true, but likely most of the time). 

Maybe try educating them, gently and with compassion. 

No one likes a lecture, just ~maybe~ casually say something like... “Hey, have you ever noticed like children with two moms/dads are as happy as we are-” OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT- Okay, I’m not an expert at imaginary conversations. I do think that maybe if y’all are in like a conservative area, not enough *exposure* to these things may induce beliefs like “They’re disgusting, sinful, etc. etc.”.  

There are like many really interesting and helpful facts out there, such as like- 

Did you know that by normalizing same sex marriages, it can actually save taxpayers money and could boost the economy? Coz like weddings, and this is not a secret, can be like really expensive and by normalizing it or at the very least, like legalizing it would boost the economy and tax and stuff, and would support more jobs for the people out there! So in like a round about way kind of route, it helps :D 

(Lemme know if this is like wrong or whatever, I tried to do my proper research- I’ll cite my sources if you wanna read more) 

Another fact, is that most homosexual relationships are *obviously* not that different from heterosexual ones. Both of those relationships seek long lasting and happy relationships, and well if homosexuals find happiness, joy, and love in another homosexual, then shouldn’t that be a good thing and a celebrated thing? 

Why is marriage a really important thing, you ask? Well from the resources I have collected and my own opinions and thoughts... 

Marriage is essentially kind of like having like a ‘privelage card’ I guess you can say that? I wouldn’t phrase it that way, but from what I read it allows like economic and social support to the couples (from the government?). 

*MOST* married people experience better physical and mental health. Marriage in most places allow couples the tools and the security to build a life together, protect their families, and (according to source) state and federal marriage laws provide a safety net of over 1200 *LEGAL and ECONOMIC PROTECTION* for married couples and their children. 

This is important when visiting the spouse in the hospital, transferring property, and a whole lotta legal stuff that you can read more about online :)  

“Why is this going all the way to marriage? Literally all I asked is about whether or not I should stay friends with this person. :|”

You’re right, but I can’t resist ;) 

XDDD

I’m just giving resources and maybe facts and statistics to back it up, if your friend is that type of person. (Unless it’s a more religious thing, then that’s going to be hard, and you might want to like... I wouldn’t say blackmail? But like read up on your friend’s religion (if she has one) online and how or what the religion says about such topics. (Yes, I am well aware there are *LOADS* online going the opposite way [I am disappointed to see it, but *shrugs*] find the ones where they *DO* support LGBTQIAP+ folks :)) ) 

I’m sorry that this is kinda long, and all. I just hope everything goes well. 

Just a quick side note-

If you feel unsafe or like doubtful on whether or not you should come out to someone (your friend in this context-) I think it’s best you Don’t. 

I’m not saying you should never, but your friend could out you and blackmail or bully you, and that is not fun. 

Especially since you know that she is has homophobic ideas, I advise you not to touch that coming out closet yet. Feels annoying and sad, I get it. But it’s unsafe and I don’t think it’ll end well. 

If after all this, your friend still doesn’t understand or can’t change her ideas (give it a few days, really. Nothing, especially personalities, ideas, nor beliefs, could change overnight) 

Then the best way to do it, is end that friendship over there. She’s a great friend, but being a homophobe, which clearly and obviously concerns your identity as well, is not a nice thing. You’ll constantly feel pressured and I think eventually, in a friendship where you can’t be honest or anything with your friend, it’s not going to work out for long and you’re going to ruin your mental health :) 

I hope this helps, canon. I really hope it does. And best of luck and wishes to you. Feel free to reach out for more info/advice or anything at all. I’ll do my best to help ^-^

Sources

https://metro.co.uk/2019/11/28/how-to-deal-with-a-homophobic-friend-11233282/

https://family.lovetoknow.com/how-deal-being-homophobic-family

http://www.whymarriagematters.org/pages/just-the-facts-q-and-a

https://www.plannedparenthood.org/learn/sexual-orientation/sexual-orientation/what-homophobia

https://medium.com/james-finn/how-to-help-a-friend-recover-from-homophobic-self-loathing-79b653925e6

https://www.apa.org/topics/divorce/same-sex-marriage

https://www.aljazeera.com/ajimpact/economic-impact-sex-marriage-190625232031095.html

#To be very honest with you #I had to ask a few people to reach this conclusion #shout out to them honestly #amazing peeps #hope this could help clear things up and what not #c-anon #canon #anon stuff #anon #answered stuff #homophobia tw #religious talk tw #religion tw #what else... #that it? #someone teach me to tag

[mattygraygubler]

our campus: chapter 4 (tom holland fanfic)

summary: frat!tom and reader go to the same college and y/n is tasked with being his tutor, they don’t really get along at first (because i love reader and tom hating each other trope)

warnings: none ?????

word count: 2.1k

a/n: so many texts and so much dialogue fuckin kill me also texts are bold

for a list of characters click here

to be added to the tag list send me an ask !

masterlist

✰✰✰✰✰

“I don’t know what you did to get her to give you a second chance, but I need to warn you.” Ally said. Tom turned to look at her, they had only ever spoken when necessary for theater stuff. 

“Warn me?” He asked. 

“Y/N can make your life either very, very good or very, very bad. She has most of the professors in this school wrapped around her pinky. And she doesn’t make it obvious, but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. She can really help you if you let her.”

“Well, thanks.” He said awkwardly and turned back to his stuff. 

“One more thing.” Ally said. Tom turned again and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you dare catch feelings.” “Seriously? No need to worry about that.” Ally scoffed. 

“I’m serious, Tom. Don’t. She doesn’t need that right now.” 

“Yeah, fine, I get it.” He said. 

“Alright guys let’s get started.” Gigi said, signaling rehearsal was about to start. 

* * * 

It was finally Friday, and your phone was blowing up as you walked to the library. Class had gotten out late, so you were walking as fast as possible so you wouldn’t be late to your meeting with Tom. 

Al

if Y/N is ok with it its fine with me

Iz

i still dont know how i feel about this

Em 

pretty pretty please guys i really like this guy and he really wants me to go

You

what are we talking about i was in class

Al

harrison invited em and all of us to the delt party tonight

Iz

and i said we shouldnt go bc of what happened

plus isnt tom a delt? wouldnt that be a bit awk?

You

honestly i couldnt care less. after the week ive had im gonna too blacked to even realize where we are

Em

lets take it to a vote

aye

Al

aye 

Iz

nay

You

im abstaining

Em

the ayes have it! delt BABEEEYYYY

ill have harrison put us all on the list

You 

glad we got that sorted ill see u guys at mine at 8

You walked into the library, checking your watch and seeing it was 4:02. You bit your lip. Hopefully he didn’t give you any crap for being late. 

You walked quickly into hlab, and you knew you looked like a crazy person. Your bag was falling off your shoulder, you had a coffee in your hand and your water bottle tucked under your arm, and your phone in your other hand. 

You scanned the room and saw Tom sitting across from Max, both of them had books out. 

“Hi,” you said breathlessly. Max slid over a seat so you could sit across from Tom. “So sorry I’m late, crazy day.” 

“No worries dar-” You heard him start to say darling, but stopped himself. “No worries. It’s only 2 minutes after.” 

“How long have you been waiting?” You asked.

“Max and I have been hanging out for a while, not a big deal.” 

“Speaking of, I’m on alc duty for tonight so I better go.” Max said, did his stupid handshake with Tom, and walked out. 

Hlab was almost empty except for some freshman. Most people don’t like studying on a Friday, who could blame them?

“So I got a copy of your lectures from this week. What do you want to start with?”

“I don’t care.” 

“Ok, what is currently confusing you the most?” He thought for a second before saying “Astronomy.” You nodded. 

“Great, grab your notes and your textbook.” He pulled out a notebook and his laptop, opening the online textbook. You pulled out your laptop and a pen and highlighter. 

“May I?” You asked and pulled his notebook to your side. You went through his notes, circling certain things with the pen and highlighting others. 

“These are really good, Tom. I like how you put question marks next to things that confused you.” He laughed. 

“Do I get a gold star?” He joked. You rolled your eyes. 

“So phases of the moon.” You started. 

“Wait a second,” he said after you had been talking for a while. “You’re telling me that the moon doesn’t actually, like, change?” 

“It’s all shadows.” You replied. He nodded and seemed to finally be getting it. 

“The phases will most definitely be on your next lab, which isn’t open note, so make sure you memorize them.” You said. “Let’s move onto stats.” He groaned. “What?” You asked. 

“Statistics is so stupid. Letters and numbers shouldn’t go together.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Stats is easy, I promise you. This is the first unit, all we’re doing is descriptive statistics and graphing. Let’s start with some vocab.” You said, highlighting certain words in his notes. 

Once you could see his brain was about to explode, you moved onto writing. 

“There’s not much to talk about, just email me your most recent paper so I can go through it and look for themes we need to discuss.” 

‘“Themes?” He asked. 

“You know, on going issues that need to be addressed.” He nodded and emailed you his paper, which you would read tomorrow. You heard your phone buzz and took a quick glance. 

Em

al dont be upset

Al

then dont give me a reason to get upset

what is it

Em

……….. It’s themed

Al

are you kidding? were not freshmen, i dont wanna go to a stupid themed frat party

Em

its blackout !!!! itll be fun i promise

You turned your phone back down and didn’t realize you had an upset look on your face. 

“Everything ok?” He asked. 

“Just arguing in the group chat.” 

“Do you need to go?” He asked. 

“No, no, just arguing about tonight.” 

“What’s tonight?” 

“Tonight is not related to political conflict, which is what we should be talking about.” He laughed. 

“Do you ever have fun?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m serious, do you ever have fun, or do you just go to sleep surrounded by planners and textbooks.” 

“That’s not funny. There’s a lot more about me that you don’t know.” 

“Clearly.” 

“So we’re starting off with socioeconomic issues over time and the class strugle. Did you read the Marx chapters?” 

“Yup. Didn’t understand a word of it.” 

“Ok, let’s get into it.” You said and began rambling about the bourgeoisie and the communist manifesto. Politics was your favorite subject, you could talk about it for hours. 

You were having a really good discussion with Tom. It was global political conflict, and he was able to connect the themes to both America and England, which made you really pleased. 

You were pulled out of your discussion when your phone vibrated. 

Iz

pickin up panera anyone want anything 

“Jeez it’s already past 6:30, I gotta go.” You said. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He said. 

“No it’s not your fault, I get so into politics I lose track of time.” “I can tell.” He said as you both packed up your stuff. 

“Wanna grab some food?” He asked. 

“Sorry, can’t,” you said. 

“Why, got a hot date?” He joked. 

“Maybe,” you said. 

“At least let me walk you to wherever you’re going.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Well where are you going?” 

“Congression Hall?” You replied. 

“Wait, you live there?” 

“Uhm, yes? Me along with practically every other junior.” 

“What floor?” 

“8.” You said. 

“Should’ve guessed.” He replied as you started walking across the quad. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Honors 8. I forgot you were in hc.” He was referring to the eighth and top floor of Congression Hall, which was reserved for the honors college juniors. 

“Yeah.” You said simply. 

“I’m on six, by the way.” He said. “That’s why I was curious. I’ve never seen you around there.” 

“I’m not usually, I only really use it for sleep.” 

“Of course,” he replied. 

“I assumed you lived in a frat house.” You commented. 

“Nah, next year.” He said with a wink. “Speaking of frat houses, there’s kind of this party going on at Delt tonight-” 

“I’m aware.” You said, cutting him off. 

“Ah, well, if you want I can get you on the list.” You smiled to yourself. 

“No need, I’m already on the list.” You said. 

“Oh?” He said, clearly embarrassed. “Because of delta nu?” 

“Nope.” You said, not offering any other information. 

“Well maybe I’ll see you there then.” 

“Even if you do see me there, I will be pretending I don’t know you.” 

“Why?” He asked, clearly offended. “I run that house.” He joked, trying to play off the embarrassment. 

“No offense, but your reputation would not be good for mine.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Well I have a certain reputation in the greek community, and if people see me with you they’ll get the wrong idea.” 

“The wrong idea?” He asked as you walked in the lobby of your building. 

“Well, see, the thing is,” you said, stepping into the elevator. He pressed the button for six and eight. “I have certain standards. If people see me with you, they’ll think I’ve…” 

“Wow, you are really uptight, aren’t you?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Certain standards? Jesus christ, you’re not the queen, Y/N. And I don’t have a bad reputation. But god forbid I don’t live up to your ‘standards.’” He said, storming off the elevator without another word, clearly upset. You sighed. Good job, Y/N. 

Tom got to his room and threw his stuff on the floor, collapsing on his bed. His head hurt from all the tutoring, and trying to focus on not staring at your lips. 

delt juniors

Tom

aight important question guys

Cal

whats up tommy

Tom

do you guys know a girl called Y/N Y/L/N? shes a delta nu

Joey

dan knows her ;)

Cal

fuck, Y/N? what are you doing with her? 

Tom

shes tutoring me stop buggin 

Max

i know her which u know shes in hc with me 

Liam

oh danny DEFINITLY knows her 

Will

who doesnt know Y/N? shes a hot commodity

Tom

what do you mean? 

Cal

shes like the perfect girl next door, totally hot and so smart which just makes her hotter

Will

doesnt help that shes a huge fuckin flirt AND can hold her alc

Joey

dan is being suspiciously quiet……..

Dan

shut up joe

Liam

care to share with tommy your story with Y/N, daniel? 

Dan

i hate u all 

fine

i was like in love with her freshman year

and i thought she was into me too

and we made out a couple of times but nothing else

the second she found out i was in delt she stopped talking to me

like complete radio silence 

Tom

wtf? Why? 

Cal

she doesnt fuck with delts

thats like common greek knowledge

Will

maybe its because shes gonna be dchi sweetheart? 

Joey

nah theres gotta be something else

Harrison

well i just put her on the list for tonite

Tom

wait YOU put her on the list?! 

Harrison

yeah i invited her friend Emily Gold and she doesnt go anywhere without Y/N and these two other girls

Cal

Ally Park and Isabelle Miller

Harrison

yeah howd u know? 

Cal

theyre like those cool girls from high school everyones obsessed with that are just out of everyones league

Tom

wow american high schools are so weird

Dan

tom if u wanna get with her i wont be pissed

Tom

nah like you said she hates delts, and after three tutoring sessions with me i guarentee i am her least favorite delt ever

Liam

theres no fuckin way she shows up tonight

she wouldnt be caught dead at a delt party

Noah

wait you said Y/N Y/L/N may come tonight????

DIBS

DIBS DIBS DIBS

I CALL DIBS

Cal

noah u seriously show up just to call dibs?

Noah

yeah bro have u seen her? if she comes tonight and any of you try to cockblock me i stg ill deck you

Dan

pretty sure tommy has rightful dibs to this one

Tom

nah fam she hates me so fuckin much

let noah try his luck

i doubt she’ll even show

Max

she’ll show. 

Tom

what makes u say that? 

Liam

max does know her best

Max

she and ally and emily and isabelle are ride or die. they circulate who picks what party they go to and if its emilys turn and harrison somehow conviced her to go, Y/N wont miss it

Dan

she hasnt set foot in a delt house since freshman year, you seriously think she’ll show? 

Max

five bucks says she does

Dan

youre on 

Noah

i just wanna make it clear

that if she does show

D I B S

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #frat!tom

[wavesmp3]

before you jump; hansol x fem!reader dystopian au  wc. 1.9k

a/n: same world as ‘to infinity (and beyond) but this piece was meant to take place many years earlier and mainly unrelated to jihoon’s fic. this piece is just really not the best of my writing, tbh not even sure why i’m posting it but yolo ig a/n 2: the first part is the beginning of the fic but the second part is supposed to be towards the end of the piece like around the climax or maybe it is the climax

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

The chords of an old song echo from the depths of his car. It's an older model, a classic, they called these kind of cars Teslas. The first of its kind. Self driving, revolutionary. You had learned all about in classes you took. But now self driving cars were only used by those determined to hang on to the past and those who felt that they belonged in it. And of course those in the lesser districts. You were none. But he was one. 

You assume his fascination with the past (despite his future being right in front of him) began when he found his grandfather's tesla in his family's old house out in the brown district. They rarely visited. But it just so happened that the one time they did, it completely changed him. 

When he picked you up for primary class the next day in the outdated car, you almost puked out of embarrassment. You only agreed to step foot in the car once he confirmed that the car had gotten a cleaning. And a deep one at that.

(You realize now that the car had to be completely clean to pass the border wall screenings. You also know now the diseases from brown that you had been so afraid of weren't deadly at all. They weren't even real)

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

“It's so nice that you two could join us for dinner today,” your grandmother gushes her voice laced with a sense of formality you imagine isn't commonly held when speaking with one's own family, yet here you are, sitting across from your mother at the long cyprus table in the common dining room of the minister's quarters otherwise known as your grandparents’ home. “It's a shame your husband couldn't join us Corinthia.” 

Your mother sets down her fork and knife, wiping her mouth with a napkin before taking a slow sip of her wine. “Yes,” she answers, “it is, isn't it?” And with the look your mother gives you, you have to bite back a chuckle at her so blatant defiance of her parents, yet your grandparents continue on with their meal indifferent or blind to your mother's almost teasing smile you couldn't tell. 

The four of you continue in silence the only ambiance being the clinking of silverware and the crackling of fire. You don't mind of course. It had been so long since you were forced to join your mother to her weekly friday night dinners with her parents. And now especially, after what you saw in the yellow faction, after your fight with hansol, you don't mind the silent treatment your grandfather gives you and your mother. You'd take the almost hostile silence to his lectures and preaching any day. You have to hear your grandfather preach his bullshit about the grandeur of Callademe every morning, you could go without it tonight. You catch your mother's gaze as she makes a face at you swiftly replacing your surfacing anger with a lift to the corners of your lips. 

“So child, how are your studies?” 

And as quickly as your smile had appeared, it disappears as well. You wait a couple beats too long before responding to your grandfather that your studies have been well. And when the last syllable leaves your lips your mother seems to let go of a breath you hadn't realized she was holding. 

He hums taking a calculated sip of his wine before setting the goblet back down on the velvet table cloth. You don't have to look at him to know exactly how he stares at you. You do anyways. His grey eyes have methodical glint to them resembling the sparkle of black ice. Deadly in its own twisted way. The two of you end up engaging in a staring match of sorts. You don't dare look away first. So he does, acquiring his goblet of merlot and finishing it in one long gulp. He snaps his fingers, and a butler fills it anew. “Have they now?” 

You don't respond scared the shaking in your hands might reach the tones of your voice. 

“Dad you should see her progress statistics and teacher evaluations,” your mother begins, and you can nearly feel the laugh boiling in the back of your grandfather's throat, “she has been doing exceptionally well this term.” 

You can't help but choke on your water when your grandmother says, “Isn't that wonderful, Corin?” 

He laughs. A loud bellowing sound. That fills the entire room like it's meant to be heard. Like it's meant to entertain. But it only fills your throat with bile and your mother and grandmother with bewilderment. You can't help but start choking more when he laughs at you. 

“Oh Corinthia, I don't remember raising you to be such a fool,” he spits and you can feel the hurt that paints itself onto your mother's face, “you've become so pathetic my dear Corinthia,” he taunts again venom seeping from the cracks in his teeth, “so pathetic that your own daughter can disobey you right under your nose.” Your mother's eyes turn to you. The same cold grey eyes as your grandfather but different, glassy and glazed with betrayal. You see the knife you've impaled in her back. She bleeds and bleeds, and with the pain that takes hold in you, you assume that somehow you've impaled your own back as well. 

“Corin! What are you-” 

“Thea can't you see?” your grandfather snaps cutting your grandmother off. He harshly stands making his chair fall to the floor with a dull thud and takes a hold of his cane moving behind your mother so that you can't avoid his gaze any longer. “We have a traitor sitting right next to us.” 

He points his cane at you. 

Three pairs of eyes watch your every breath, but you aren't sure if you're still taking any. 

“Tell them child,” he howls at you, “tell them how your studies are really going.” 

You feel tears threaten to fall, you don't want to answer but with the way your grandfather fumes you fear what'll happen if you don't. 

Your voice comes out smaller than its meant to be, more feeble than you'd hoped: “I haven't be-” 

Your grandfather throws his goblet, shattering it on the space next to your head. Your shriek is drowned by him screaming, “LOUDER!” Your grandmother doesn't even flinch. 

“I haven't been going to school,” you manage to cry over your grandfather's screams. The satisfied turn of his lips makes you want to vomit. Not only for the way your grandfather treats his family, but also for how he treats his so called people. You remember your fight with hansol, and it becomes apparent how right he was. Minister Callademe is no minister, he never was; he's a monster. And only you knew just how much. He had to be stopped, and because of who you are and the power your name alone holds, it had to be you to take him down. So you wipe the wine from your cheeks, and you continue. 

“No, grandpa, I haven't been going to school,” this time your voice has purpose dare say your voice has power, “but I've been learning more about Callademe then I've ever been taught in school.” 

Your grandfather scoffs, “Corinthia, I told you to keep her from that chwe boy. Look at the treason that spills from her mouth.” 

“Not treason, grandpa; it's the truth. Because I wasn't in school, I was in the yellow faction during the fires, and I watched as people burned and died and suffered. And I watched you do nothing. I am not the one committing treason, you are” 

“I'm afraid you don't understand-” 

“No, you're afraid I do.” 

He doesn't say anything. But he breathes as if each exhale contains fire. Although with the anger traveling through your nerves, you think it might. 

You wait for a response that doesn't come. 

“What were you planning to do grandpa? Let them die in the fires? Keep the other factions from knowing? And what'll that do for you? For Callademe? You aren't a minister. You aren't leading anyone. The only thing you are is a symbol. A symbol of why people should fight, should rebel. Your own people know that you're a monster.” The heat in your face only grows. The shaking in your hands is no longer due to fear, replaced with a bitter mix of anger and hate for the man who taught you everything, for the man you once idolized and loved, for the man you want to destroy. And it's because you've spent the last couple years avoiding your grandfather's rage, you're surprised to find him quiet but with a scathing scowl imprinted on his face. You're even more surprised to find that you aren't afraid. But you know your grandfather is like a grenade, eventually, with the right hit, he'll explode. 

“Dad,” your mother mumbles, “is this true? The fires in yellow? The-” 

“LISTEN TO ME CORINTHIA!” 

(boom) 

“YOU TELL YOUR CHILD TO BEHAVE PROPERLY-” 

“Corin,” your grandmother stands up, unaffected by the commotion, shutting up your grandfather with one word, “you should learn to keep your temper. The house keepers might hear.” 

You've known your grandmother to be the ideal picture of what a woman should be. You never knew if that was because she believed it or because she was taught to be so. But now, as she walks toward you with a manner perhaps more frightening than your grandfather himself, you think she's had you fooled all these years. Her face remains indifferent, but her eyes, which you knew to be kind and comforting, hold the brightest shade of venom. 

“Child,” she begins taking hold of your shoulder, digging her nails beyond the fabric of your blouse, “have you no sense? The fires were but a mere inconvenience. The yellow faction itself is no more than an inconvenience to our agenda. There will be no uprising. There will be no rebellion. The other factions will never be capable of such feats; they lack the means to do so. Do you think that because you and the chwe boy have seen the other factions, you understand Callademe? Do you think because you saw the yellow fires, you understand their oppression when you grew up in privilege? You don't know anything about Callademe, you are only a child. What makes you think that you and that chwe boy could lead a rebellion when you are the very thing they're rebelling against, when you carry the name they resent the most?” She pauses with a pitiful shake to her head, “You won't be doing anything in opposition to Callademe because you are one. You carry this name. It's time you acted like it.” 

“I'd rather live in brown, then be a Callademe.” You spit back at your grandmother. She doesn't move, keeping her painful grip on your shoulder as if waiting for you to take it back, as if waiting for you to repent. 

You don't.

“Well then,” she turns towards your grandfather, “Corin, you know what to do.” 

He nods, and you can see the panic settle into your mother's brows. She starts to beg and plead for them to stop; they ignore her. 

Your grandfather calls in two CouncilMen, and your mother's begging grows. 

He tells them to take you away. They ask where. 

Your grandfather gives you one last glare. “The chambers.” 

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

#unfinished wip #mine #wip.svt

[ineffable-snowman]

Day 15: Laughter

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They laughed. It was neither laughter of joy nor laughter of companionship. They laughed at him.

Aziraphale laughed, too. Not because their laughter was infectious or because he wanted to. He laughed dutifully although he did not understand why they thought him so ridiculous. What was so laughable about his idea? He did not know how to phrase the question because he did not want to give them even more reason to laugh at him.

Gabriel was quick to lecture him anyway. “Aziraphale, I’m sure this idea comes from a pure heart but, forgive me for saying so, it really proves a stupefying lack of insight into the greater good.”

“These things are bound to happen when you are out of touch with everyday divinity,” Michael said with a pitying look. “With only humans as company for centuries, it’s no wonder your perspective is a little skewed.”

“I suppose it is.” Aziraphale tried to chuckle to show that he was in on the joke. “So I take it you won’t consider my suggestion?”

Gabriel snorted and shook his head in amusement. “You certainly haven’t forgotten that Heaven does not attach value to material objects?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed in relief. Just a misunderstanding then? “It wouldn’t necessarily have to be material objects for everyone. I thought about blessings, about healings for the sick and hurting, giving the hungry something to eat… Or just little miracles like snow on Christmas. A white Christmas really makes humans so happy.”

“Good Lord,” said Michael, “you are slobbering over this.”

Aziraphale flinched. He threw Gabriel a nervous look, hoping for validation from him.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Haven’t 6000 years on Earth taught you anything? Happy humans are not necessarily devotional humans.”

“As we have highlighted in our final reports every century,” Michael added. “Statistics show that miserable humans in hopeless situations are more likely to turn to Heaven. How is that news to you?”

“I-I-I know that, of course. I-I just thought it would be nice to give them at least one good day a year. So they could be happy on Christmas even if their lives are otherwise miserable. They would be so thankful, I’m sure. Wouldn’t that secure souls for us, too?”

Gabriel sighed in exaggeration. “Enough of that. You should pay more attention to your routine business instead of this wool-gathering. I hear the demon Crowley has trapped you in London in an infernal ring of fire.”

That was wild. “Er…” Aziraphale did not know how to react to that because he did not want to get Crowley into trouble. That idea must have come from one of Crowley’s embellished reports to Hell (because Aziraphale was fairly certain that he was not trapped in an infernal ring of fire…although he had not left London for quite some time). He should have warned me about that, Aziraphale thought, mildly put off because it presented him as an incompetent angel once more.

“Do you need assistance?” Gabriel asked. He sounded almost worried.

Well, better make the best of it. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have already breached the ring of hellfire. You see, over the millennia I have become quite experienced in thwarting the demon’s wiles.” See? He was not completely useless.

“That’s good to hear.”

Then Aziraphale had a sudden flash of insight: It would not be so horrible if Crowley had really trapped him in a ring of hellfire in London. In fact, it would be very convenient this weekend because Heaven had ordered him to go to Manchester of all places to bless the launch ceremony of a little church, and the weather forecast looked grim and he really would have preferred to go to the Royal Opera House to see Hansel and Gretel. It was one of his favourite operas and the new production had gotten favourable reviews. He cleared his throat. “However, I’m still busy with extinguishing fires around London. So… I might not be able to make it to Manchester this weekend.”

“Oh, no worries there. I myself will deal with the Manchester business,” Gabriel promised. “You stay in London and focus on that hellfire.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very gracious of you.”

“Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it?”

***

Now Aziraphale had the weekend off but he was still not over the archangels’ patronising behaviour.

“And then I suggested we – that is, all the angels – could make a collective miracle on Christmas,” he told Crowley when they had lunch in a new Korean restaurant. He needed to get a few things off his chest before he could fully enjoy his delicious starter. “How does the saying go? Peace on earth for everyone et cetera. You know how the humans have invented so many lovely Christmas traditions to spread joy but there are still so many people who are ill or hungry or poor or homeless or just don’t get any presents and feel lonely. So I thought if all the angels put in an effort we could make Christmas a happy event for everyone. A bit like those human fund-raising galas.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You – you suggested that to the archangels?”

“Yes, and can you imagine how they reacted?”

Crowley snorted. “So you – you practically proposed they should dress up as Santa and come to earth to, ha, spread festive joy?” He snorted again and then – he laughed. “Ooooh, I wish I could’ve seen their faces! Bet they loved it!”

Aziraphale huffed and put down his napkin, trying very hard not to let it show how Crowley’s reaction hurt him. “Excuse me,” he said primly, “I need to go to the restrooms.”

Crowley raised his brows because there really was no reason for a supernatural being to go to the toilet. And Aziraphale did not know what to do once he was there. He adjusted his bowtie, washed his hands and miracled away a rude doodle from a tile. He felt stupid and a little betrayed because he had thought Crowley was the only supernatural being to understand. But he had laughed at him, too. Why was it so ridiculous to want to give a bit of kindness once a year? It made Aziraphale angry and so he reached a vicious decision: He would spread joy on Christmas, no matter what the archangels or Crowley thought. Let them laugh!

When he returned to their table, their main dishes had been served but he was not hungry anymore.

“You alright?” Crowley asked without looking at him.

“I’m perfect, thank you,” Aziraphale said icily.

“Is your food not good? You can have mine, I’m not really hungry anyway.” Crowley pushed his dish towards Aziraphale.

“I’m not hungry either.” Aziraphale pushed the dish back.

“Right. How about a digestif?”

“No, thank you. I have work to do, seeing as I will have to do the seasonal blessings all on my own and with the job in Manchester… oh, and apparently I’m trapped in an infernal ring of fire, so I’ll have to sort that out, too.”

Crowley stared at him. “What? How – who?”

“Oh? Isn’t that what you told Hell you’d achieved?”

“Of course it wasn’t me, what do you take me for?”

“But you told them.”

“No! Aziraphale, whoever did this – I had no idea. This is – shit. They must’ve… fuck.” Crowley put a black credit card on the table and stood up abruptly. “I’ll deal with this. You stay away. Okay? You just go back to the – no, you better stay here or…” He frantically looked around, visibly shaken.

“Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s arm to make him calm down. All his anger had evaporated. “There is no ring of hellfire. Well, at least I’m fairly certain there isn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I can’t be entirely sure but to me it just sounded like the archangels had, as usually, no idea what was going on.”

Crowley took a calming breath. “I hope you’re right. But I’m going to check anyway.”

“Be careful, please.”

“You know me, angel, I’m always careful,” said the demon who had once walked into a church and directed bombs onto it.

***

There was no ring of hellfire. A misunderstanding, as Crowley found out once he contacted Hell to make an enquiry. Apparently, the demons had not fully grasped yet how the M25 worked.

“I have no idea how that bit of information got to Heaven,” Crowley said, “but luckily you can rely on angels being daft idiots.”

Ah, yes. There it was again. Crowley had always made it clear that he thought angels spineless, empty-headed creatures. And he had laughed at Aziraphale’s plan like the archangels had done, too. A plan even too stupid for the daft idiot archangels.

“Don’t look like that,” Crowley said. “I obviously didn’t mean you.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well. You obviously thought my… Christmas plan was stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You laughed.”

“Oh, come on. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just that it was so funny to imagine the reaction of the other angels.”

“They thought it funny, too.”

“You can’t have seriously thought they would ever…” Crowley grimaced. “You did.”

“Why is it so ridiculous to expect angels to do good?” Aziraphale said in a huff.

“Because they aren’t…they aren’t good, not like you. Come on, Aziraphale, you said it yourself: They have no idea what’s going on on Earth. Why do you listen to them?”

“Just so you know, I will spread as much joy on Christmas as is in my power. And don’t even try to thwart me.”

Crowley grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You defying the archangels – that’s pretty badass.”

“They didn’t exactly forbid it.” Aziraphale considered. He was not stupid. He knew Crowley was making fun of him – not in a condescending way now, more in their usual needling each other. He also knew that Crowley still felt at least slightly remorseful. If he played his cards right… “Anyway, you could help me. Seeing as it’s something the archangels don’t exactly approve, it’s only proper for a demon to participate. Who knows, it could get you another commendation from Hell. Maybe this time even for something you actually did do.”

Crowley muttered something to himself and rolled his eyes and grimaced and then said: “Just for the record, I know what you’re trying to do here, angel – tempting me to do good deeds.”

Aziraphale tried to suppress his grin. He almost had him. It always thrilled him to tempt Crowley to be nice. “I’m sure we could work some more demonic elements in. Let’s say, I take care of getting some presents for humans who can’t afford it, and then you can wrap the presents with tons of sticky tape and tie the bows very firmly and with several knots so they will be so annoyed when they try to unwrap the presents.”

Crowley grinned toothily back. “Let’s make a deal. We do your evil Christmas plan on Friday and on Saturday we go to the cinema to watch the new James Bond film.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale could not really see what Crowley liked so much about that James Bond fellow but he would endure it for the sake of, well – the greater good or evil or whatever. For a happy human Christmas. “We can go to the cinema on Sunday. I wanted to see Hansel and Gretel at the Royal Opera House on Saturday.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine with me. But weren’t you meant to be in Manchester on Sunday?”

“Gabriel will do that one.”

“Really? Gabriel wants to go to Manchester?”

“He, er, might be under the impression that I am busy extinguishing infernal fires in London.”

“You – what! You didn’t – you can’t – holy shit. You just sent Gabriel to do your tedious work so you could, what, enjoy a weekend off in London?”

“He offered. And I really wanted to see the premiere.”

“You are such a bastard,” Crowley said in delight.

Aziraphale knew he meant it as a compliment, but still, an angel should not strive to be called a bastard. “There’s really no need to insult me.”

Crowley snickered. “I can’t believe you did that! Ha, can you imagine Gabriel doing the shitty work in Manchester while…”

Just for the record, Aziraphale really tried to suppress his giggles but Crowley’s laughter was just too infectious.

#31 days of ineffables #ineffable advent calendar #Ineffable Husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens #fanfic

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 10

AO3 link here

Drea is the only one of his kids who Steve successfully gets into baseball. Rosie at age six tells him seriously that she has other, more important things to do than watch grownup men get excited about a ball, Em sits patiently through a couple of games that she clearly has no interest in, and Nate, when offered a chance to visit the ballpark for the first time at five years old says, "If you would be happy about it," in such a sweet, guileless way that Steve chokes up and tells him right away to forget about it. (Peggy is only too happy to have him look for someone else to bring - while she knows the rules by now and has watched a few games herself, he thinks that she'd have happily abdicated her seat to any passerby who wanted it. It's fine: she once tried to explain the rules of cricket, and he thinks he might still be comatose.)

But Drea loves it enough for all the rest of them, collecting cards, scanning the sports section each morning as the season approaches, and talking statistics like they're her second language. Nothing much has changed for her since they moved to Maryland: she has a group of boys to trade cards with, her best friends even as she enters junior high, and she's still a solid early choice in a schoolyard or street pickup game.

Steve's too cheap to shell out for Orioles season tickets - they live closer to DC, so getting to Baltimore is less convenient especially for weeknight games, but he's pretty sure that Washington loses their team sometime soon and he doesn't want his daughter getting attached and going through the same heartbreak he did - but he makes sure to take her to a few games a season, just the two of them.

It's a beautiful May Sunday, and the Orioles have just absolutely trounced Kansas City. Steve tosses their hot dog wrappers in the trash on the way out - four of his, one of Drea's - and wraps his arm around her, kissing the top of her baseball cap-covered head as they join the chattering crowd on the way back to their car.

"That was a great game," he says. "I think the O's have a good chance of making the series this year, huh?"

"I'm not very much like other girls, am I?"

It's more momentum than anything that keeps Steve walking. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, looking down at her. The brim of her cap blocks him from seeing her face, but her shoulders hunch a little under his hand.

"I'm not like Mom," she says. "Or like Emma."

"Well that’s good, because I don't know if I could handle two Emmas. We'd never be able to finish all the desserts." Steve jokes. "And it would be a pretty big coincidence if you were like Mom." Everyone in town is used to the Carters by now, but when they had moved down from New Jersey five years ago, the variation in looks between the children and their lack of similarity to either parent had brought reactions ranging from pity to outright disdain.

"That's not what I mean." Drea starts to walk a little faster, even knowing that her dad can keep up. Her words come out in small, breathless bursts, and Steve aches a little at the bravery it is taking her just to keep speaking them. "It’s just...they know about girl stuff. Mom knows when to wear fancy gloves and pearls and it never looks weird, and Emmy just knows how to talk with other girls. They understand everything without even trying. They like this stuff. The only stuff I like is boy stuff."

"Hey," he says, pulling her to the side of the crowd so he can stop and bend to face her. He peers into the shadow beneath her ball cap, finding her jewel-dark blue eyes. "You're a girl. Anything you like is girl stuff."

She turns away from him. "Yeah, okay."

"I know that Em is a certain kind of girl—" Emma has already requested her own set of mixing bowls for Christmas. Practically the only time she wears pants is in the garden. She used to spend entire afternoons pouring “tea” for a dozen dolls and stuffed animals, signing politely to them as she sipped with an extended pinky. "But your mom put up with a lot during the war, and even now there are plenty of people who say that she isn't doing the things a woman should do. And what about Rosie? She doesn’t exactly fit into a box."

"It's different for me than it is for Rosie." That she says it simply, without a sigh or a teenage eyeroll, makes him sad. Even sadder than that: she's right. As much as he doesn't want it to be, it is different for her than it is for Rose, or Emma, or even Peggy.

"Okay," he says. "You're different than some girls. But that doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong. And I would hate for you to change the way you are or the things you love just because you felt that you had to fit in.” He tries to smile. “Besides, Bucky and the family are coming to visit over the summer and I promised them a good time, which means a trip to the ballpark with the two of us."

This time she does sigh, a tiny hiccup of not being entirely understood or at least of realizing that her father can't fix everything for her. "Yeah," she says again. "Okay."

Steve stands to his full height once again and hugs her against his side for a moment. He and Peggy have changed a lot, but there are some things even more stubborn than they are.

Tonight was supposed to be a date night with Steve, but there’s been a new FBI head for three, nearly four years now, and Peggy is only just getting around to inviting him and his wife for a collegial dinner engagement. Steve very sweetly said that he doesn't mind any of the time that he gets to spend with her, but she knows that this isn't exactly his idea of an enjoyable evening out. She'll have to remember to make it up to him.

"Which one?" she asks Drea, holding three dress options in front of herself. There's a deep, vivid scarlet number, a classic flared black, and a black and aubergine paneled silk with the tags still on.

Drea considers. "The red. Daddy likes it when you wear red."

"So he does." She strips off her robe and leaves it on the back of the chair as she slides the dress over her head, moving to the mirror to do up the last of the zip and smooth it over her hips. Peggy keeps herself fairly trim, but it's been a while since she wore this particular dress, and one never knows how things might have changed.

In the glass, she glimpses Drea, her black hair tangled and wild around her shoulders as always, her knees tented as she tucks nearly her whole narrow body into the white T-shirt she's wearing: one of Steve's undershirts, no doubt. Drea practically lives in them as it gets warmer. If it were prior to Lula-Cat's escape of the previous summer, the beast would surely be purring on the bed beside her favorite Carter, allowing herself to be petted as she got fur all over Peggy's clean pillowcases.

She is almost fourteen, Peggy realizes with a pang, and not only because her children are growing up even more quickly than she had expected. They will have another year of people plausibly believing her to be a late bloomer, perhaps not even that. She, Steve, Drea and her doctor have an appointment soon for a discussion, and Peggy makes a note to sit down Howard with as well. The little tools he's made for Emma - the vibrating clip for her swimsuit for when they go to the beach, the egg timer with its flashing lights - have been helpful, but the things he could make for Drea might be lifesaving.

As she moves to the vanity and fixes her face, traces on her vividly red lipstick with a practiced hand, thinks for a moment and adds pearl earrings and a simple crystal necklace which Steve gave her for their fifteenth anniversary, she fights to keep both the fear and calculation from her face. Drea already looks melancholy enough.

Peggy sits at the edge of the bed to put on her hose and her pumps. She is just about to get up and take in the final product when Drea says from beside her, "Mom, can you teach me how to put on makeup?"

Peggy pauses for just a moment, then asks, "What brought this on?" She allows only a tiny amount of surprise into her voice. It would be unbelievable otherwise, but the true amount of shock she feels at the question would be insulting, would drive her daughter away.

"Some girls at school are starting to use it. And I—" Her voice falters a bit, then comes back stronger, perhaps too strong, as if she's given herself a stern lecture. "I think I should also know how."

"I think you're a bit young for it, and I'm not sure that 'because everyone else is doing it' is a particularly good reason," says Peggy, continuing over the beginning of Drea's protestations. "But if that's what you truly want, I can certainly give you a lesson or two." She sighs, perhaps a bit theatrically. "Goodness knows I'd have liked for Rosie to ask before she made her first attempts."

It works. Drea laughs a little, remembering Rose's early experiments with cheap drugstore eye makeup and vending machine lip color in a particularly revolting shade of tangerine that gave her a rash.

Peggy stands, smoothing her dress one final time and going over to the closet. She takes out a handbag, and riffles through Steve's tie hanger, selecting a red one which will match her dress and coordinate well with the gray suit she had watched him put on earlier.

"Are you ready?" Drea asks, her voice a bit less dispirited than it had been a few moments earlier, and Peggy nods and moves toward her. Drea spritzes the perfume precisely, two sprays that float in the air for Peggy to walk through. She had always touched on her own scent, a bit at each wrist and at her throat, and just a drop or two on a sachet in her brassiere, but then the children had come along, and now this was a particular tradition whenever one of them helped her get ready.

"Be good for Rose," Peggy says as she leaves the room, and Drea calls back, "If she's good to me."

Rose herself is sitting sprawled out in the doorway of her bedroom, scribbling into a notebook. She is in the midst of a hard-fought campaign for presidency of the upcoming senior class, and lately seems to have decided to plop herself down whenever an idea might catch her. Her legs aren’t long, even at the end of her growth spurt, but she’s positioned herself so they stretch out into the hallway and Peggy steps over them as she passes.

"Don't forget about bedtime," she reminds her eldest, and Rose makes a vague affirmative sound before she places a firm full stop at the end of whatever sentence she is writing and, stretching, looks up at her mother.

"What did you say?"

"Bedtime," Peggy repeats firmly. "Your siblings must adhere to it. As should you. I know that school is coming to an end, but it isn’t here yet."

"Fine," Rosie says with a wave of her hand, and Peggy knows that she'll see the bedroom light snap off just as they turn up the driveway. She starts on her way again (if Rose wants to develop poor sleeping habits, that is her responsibility) but then turns back.

"And be kind to your sister," she tells Rose, dropping her voice a bit. "I think she's having a hard time."

"I can make her a Surprise," Rose suggests, and Peggy shudders, and not just because of Rosie's notoriously poor cooking skills. Drea is the only one of the children with clear memories of her birth parents - she was five when they were killed in a fire while out for their anniversary dinner. One of the things she remembers most clearly is the multitude of casseroles her birth mother made: Hamburger Surprise, Tuna Surprise, Potato Surprise... Peggy has no doubt that they were as ordinary, or perhaps as lackluster, as any example of such a dish, but Drea had built them up in her mind, built them up for Nate, who had no memories of their parents, such that she had spent her childhood requesting various types of Surprises for birthday meals or following an especially good report card.

Steve has turned into a good cook and with Emma at his side they can turn out almost anything, but a Surprise has never been Peggy’s idea of fine cuisine.

"Supper is already being taken care of," Peggy says, adding the thankfully for you only mentally. She can smell Sam's Cornbread in the oven now, can hear the airy silence downstairs, punctuated with little sounds that signify Steve refereeing a fight between Emma and Nate, likely about how much spice to add to the chili. "Just be nice to Drea."

"If she's nice to me," Rosie says, and Peggy refrains from lifting her eyes upward and asking why she had been given two daughters who were so similar and yet refused to realize it.

"Everyone's finished their schoolwork, but make sure that Nate’s book report ends up in his bag. And Emma is trying a new recipe for creamed Brussels sprouts - please tell everyone that they must at least taste it. Don’t simply take the whole pot and bury it in the garbage pail, and certainly don’t try to throw it in the woods the way you did the spinach," Peggy tells her shrewdly, but a new idea seemed to have struck and Rosie is back to her notebook again.

Peggy moves on. Rose has minded her siblings before, and Peggy doesn't want to be late to the dinner and cause an inter-agency incident; Howard would never let her hear the end of it. Besides, she and Steve will have an opportunity to discuss Drea in the car over - there comes a point where even a night away from the children is never truly away from the children.

Rosie lets Nate and Emma stay up for an extra half hour to cement herself as a Cool Older Sister. Once they're asleep, she knocks on Drea's door, barely waiting to be invited before she enters.

Drea is lying on her back on her bed, tossing a ball up and catching it.

"Be careful it doesn't hit your face," Rose says, hoping that it doesn't come out mean or bossy the way her words sometimes do when she's talking to Drea.

"It’s never happened to me before.” Drea doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. “Just because you’re still scarred from the Wiffle Ball Incident—”

“You said you wouldn’t ever mention that!” Rose comes in and closes the door all the way. “Ugh, just move over.” Drea groans as she sits up against the headboard, but she tucks her legs up to make room and Rosie takes a seat. “Look, I heard you asking Mom about makeup and stuff. Are people giving you trouble at school? Because I’ll give them a talking to if they are.”

“You’re not queen of the high school yet. No one has to just listen to you when you go blab in their face,” says Drea, jutting out her chin, although they both know that when Rosie gives someone a talking to, it not infrequently involves violence. (There had been a question about whether or not she was even allowed to run for the student council based on the number of detentions and suspensions on her record.)

“You’re my sister,” says Rose, setting her own chin. “And if someone’s making problems for you, I’ll take care of it.”

Despite herself, Drea laughs. “You sound like Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Maybe, but Mom would make sure that I covered my tracks better than he did.” Rose lies back across the bed, legs just long enough for her feet to still touch the floor. She turns her face, her hair fanned around her as she looks at Drea, curled up at the head of the bed. “You know I’m serious, right?”

“I know. But it’s not really someone in particular, it’s just...life.”

Rosie sighs. “Yeah.” She puts out her hand, and Drea scooches down to grasp it. “Life’s hard.”

Sarcasm is on the tip of Drea’s tongue - “Tell me more, oh wise one!” - but instead she stays quiet and holds her sister’s hand until their parents return.

Drea and Steve go with Bucky, Layla, and their kids to watch a blowout Orioles win during their vacation at the end of July - Drea cheers louder than anyone. In August, after they've returned from their own vacation, Peggy sits Drea down at the vanity and walks her a half dozen different beauty products, while Rose comments loudly from the bed. Just before school starts in September, Drea uses her allowance to get a flat iron and gives herself three burns learning how to use it.

The Orioles lose the Series to the Mets, and Drea starts wearing dresses for the first time since she was a child.

It won’t be any help, Steve realizes as she sits down across from him at the breakfast table, settling her skirt self-consciously, sitting up straight and crossing her ankles with awkward politeness, to remind her once more that she doesn’t need to do this. She has a good head on her shoulders, and she’s using it to process everything in the world that tells her otherwise. He remembers what Peggy has said about it, that she’ll come back to herself, she’ll come back to them, when she’s ready. So instead he says, “Hey, kid,” and when she looks up at him, he smiles and tells her, “there’s always next year, you know? Always another shot if we need it.”

And to his relief, she smiles back, the expression familiar, wild-edged and lovely, the same as it’s always been. Hello in there, he thinks.

“Yeah, Dad,” she says. “There’s always next year.”

More chapters here

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #things left behind fic #probably nothing new next week while I do other fic prep

[santisimar]

may i feel, said he (15)

 ao3 | ffn

Warnings: Cursing Words: ~4k || Rated: M - Royai

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

i’ll continue to go down kicking / rebecca morgan frank, the moon’s magnetic field once came from an asteroid

As far as friendships go, Maes Hughes is easily Roy Mustang’s oldest to date. He’s had acquaintances and colleagues - some that left and some that went, but none stuck by Roy harder than a tick on a toe than Maes Hughes. Inseparable through college, closely associated in the military, Maes was Roy’s right hand man during it all. In turn, Roy was his best man for his wedding, was a no-brainer for being chosen as Elicia’s godfather.

Even though their work in the military had led them in different ways - Maes in intelligence, and Roy in research and development - it hadn’t stopped them from being closely involved in the other’s work. And it was because of that close involvement, that Roy found himself even in a position to be grateful for being alive. After the Incident, it took a lot to deal with the deaths of those who working with him because of his research and where Greta was absent, Maes was there, quietly supporting, with no passing judgments.

He trusted Maes to see a more human perspective to things, that not everything was black or white. He’d say sage things like ‘look at the forest for the trees’ or something like that. That ‘the path of doing good isn’t always clean, and now you know the difference’.

Even with all that, Roy isn’t sure if he could trust him with this, because this was a bit more delicate. This was a bit more than just black and white or grey. This fell in the territory of ‘what the fuck do you think you are doing’ and the look Maes gives him when he emerges from the study cannot be construed as anything but.

His eyes take in the full picture before him: his best friend has made himself mightily at home. Roy quickly blurts out, “Maes what are you doing here?” He chokes a little on his words and he’d find it incredibly amusing and uncanny about this being another time they’ve been caught. But there’s no humour in this moment, only increasingly awkward silence. It’s uniquely alarming because, even with all of the years knowing Maes, Roy simply doesn’t know how he’ll react to this. He swallows down the smile that threatens to appear - right now, he can’t rely on what he knows. Best friend or not, Maes Hughes has his limits and Roy is careful to be mindful of them.

Maes’ eyes flick over to Riza, standing next to Roy, and she hasn’t said a word. She’s expressionless, but her eyes are a bit wider than usual and it’s glaringly obvious how tensely she holds herself. “Well,” Maes starts, grinning as he slowly shifts his eyes back to Roy, just as he cleans a piece of food off his fork. “Someone rudely hung up on me...”

“Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime. But breaking and entering is…” His eyes fall to the fork hanging limply in his friend’s hand. “Are you eating my quiche?”

Hughes snorts, setting down his mug. “You eat out your girlfriend, I eat my wife’s quiche. It’s all about preference and mood.”

“Hijo de tu madre... Gracia made that for me.”

Maes nearly chokes on his bite. “You kiss a pretty girl like that with that mouth of yours?.” He points to Riza with the end of his fork and continues munching on Roy’s leftovers. “What would Chris say?”

Roy deflates, sighing deeply. Insofar as he can deduce from the scene in front of him, his best friend is more curious than anything else, and he’ll take all the good signs he can get right now. “Riza, this is Maes Hughes.”

“I’m his ex-husband-”

“Hughes is an old friend,” Roy interjects strongly, glaring daggers at the uninvited guest. Maes merely winks and puts down his cutlery.  

“Ri-za,” he says, elongating the vowels in a singsong way like he’s tasting the name in his mouth or the savouring the remnants of the quiche. Maes wipes his mouth and hands on a paper towel and rounds the corner with an extended hand. He stops, before looking back at Roy, and pivots back slowly towards Riza. “The ...student?”

Her eyes narrow and she gives him something close to a glare, but much too benign to be considered one. It’s a subtle change in her expression, the slight tightening to her jaw and the smile that doesn’t grow to her eyes. She takes his hand regardless. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Ho ho, she’s a sharp one.” He lets go and saunters back behind the island. “Undergrad? Masters? PhD?”

“Maes-” Roy says sternly and asks again. “Why are you in my house?”

Maes stares at him incredulously. “I feel like there are other matters worth talking about. Elephants in the room, perhaps?”

Riza finally moves more than he has seen her manage in the last couple of minutes, looking away and firmly announcing, “I think I should go.”

“Riza, wait - no-” Roy tries to catch her arm, but she’s quick and halfway to the study already. He shoots a look at Maes that says ‘don’t move’ and the returned shrug at least distracts him somewhat from the mounting fear in his heart. It was far too foolish of him to think that his absences would not be noted.

In hindsight, it was straight up stupidity to think that his friends and family would just patiently wait, rather than take matters into their own hands when he pulled himself back from their lives - partially because his actual workload had increased, but also because of this new part of his life. Roy doesn’t want to imagine the shitshow that could’ve happened if it was his mother waiting, patiently waiting with eyes as sharp as knives, but he can’t cast off the feeling Maes can be just as deadly if given enough motive.

Like before, she’s stuffing her belongs in her bag; it’s not a far leap to guess that she’s scared - and justly so. She doesn’t respond to her name as he urges her to stop. He stalls her hand to stop it from shoving in yet another poetry collection. “Riza - he isn’t like Olivier.”

She stops, and grips the fabric of her duffle bag tightly. Her hands are trembling, knuckles blanched white with how tightly she holds herself. “This is too much,” Riza manages. “I don’t know who this man is, if he can be trusted -”

“He’s my friend.”

“And I thought Olivier was my friend and look how that turned out,” she counters sourly, leaning back against the side of the armchair. “The more people who know about this, the more likely we’ll get found out and then it’s downhill from there.”

He cuts her off before she can speak truths that hit a little too close for comfort. “You’re just realizing this now? And please, Riza - the blame for this will always fall more harshly on me than you for this, and it absolutely should.”

Riza scoffs, putting fingers on her temples and closing her eyes. “Like that even matters-”

“It does,” he tells her firmly, cupping her jaw and coaxing her to look at him properly.

“I meant... it won’t matter who gets the brunt of the consequences, we’ll both still have to pay in one way or another. We aren’t thinking clearly and…” she trails off in thought. She’s scared - impossibly, impossibly scared; he sees it clear as day in her eyes, hears it in the way her voice hitches in her throat. Roy realises that she has to know that he is too, but not because of the man waiting in his kitchen. This whole situation that they’ve found themselves in - none of it is ideal but the bed has been made and now they must lie in it.

She deserves that much, at least.

“We didn’t get through the entire semester just to end up here. I took off and left you to handle her... and in a way I trusted you to handle that, so let me handle this, please.” His thumbs rub over her cheekbones slowly. “Maes is my oldest friend. He’s been with me through damn near everything. He will want to understand.”

After a moment, she concedes and lets her shoulders drop. She turns her head and kisses his palm softly. “I still don’t think I should be here,” she murmurs.

“No one is asking you to leave, but I understand if you feel the need to.”

“Thank you.” She draws near, slipping her arms around his neck. He pulls her closer, arms settling around her waist. He feels her inhale and exhale slowly, nails dragging absentmindedly along his shoulders. “Do you mind if I shower before I go?” she asks, voice small and muffled against his skin.

Roy smiles, shakes his head, and kisses her hair. “No, take as long as you need.” He presses another kiss close to her temple, drawing back. “I’ll be outside.”

Maes perks up as Roy re-enters the kitchen, grabbing his own mug and placing it under the nozzle of the coffee maker. Coyly he offers, “Trouble in paradise?”

Roy takes five seconds to exhale in an attempt to control his temper. He changes tact. “How did you get in?”

Maes points again with his fork to the spare key glinting against the island top. “You really need to find a better place to hide that. If I can find it in three minutes, burglars will find it in five.”

Roy takes a sip of coffee, mindful of the temperature. “You’re not the first person to point that out. There’s nothing worth nicking here, unless there’s a black market for organic chemistry books.”

“People are an entirely different matter.”

“I’m sure I could fend off a would-be burglar.”

Maes grimaces, shaking his head. “I know you can. But could she?” His head jerks towards the hallway. “You’d be facing a whole set of questions yourself if it was reported to the authorities. Student discovered in lecturer’s apartment after a botched B&E.” His voice takes on that high-pitched, nasally cadence that Roy hates; he hates the unsettling truth that lingers in his words.

Yet. He had relied too much on the supposed safety of houses - and been proven wrong two times too many. At this rate the library or even his office was a statistically safer place to rendezvous.

“You have no proof that she’s my student,” he replies loftily. This time, Maes laughs loudly, openly.

“And I know you well enough to know you will never be a homewrecker, no matter how pretty a girl might be. You’re too honourable.” He takes another bite of quiche. “Besides, you won me a month without cow tongue tacos, so it’s all worked out.”

Roy chokes on his coffee. “You bet on me?”

Maes nods, stabbing at the quiche some more. “Gracia didn’t think you’d become that depraved. She was convinced it was just someone who we weren’t familiar with-” he pauses, frowning in concentration, “-no, me being right trumps hers because I was more specific. You can back me up on this tonight.”

Roy knows he’s walking into a trap, but he asks anyway. “Tonight?”

“Hah! Good one. What present did you get her anyway - I promised her a pony and a Mustang is technically better, so-” Maes’ head turns and Roy isn’t quick enough to wipe the confused expression off his face.

“Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Oh shit. He scrambles to come up with an excuse but nothing is coming to the forefront of his mind - between his deadlines, his work and the messy landscape that was his and Riza’s relationship...it had completely slipped his mind that this weekend was his goddaughter’s third birthday. He had agreed he’d adjust his schedule to make an appearance… which had been buried in a hundred other emails in his personal inbox about his sister’s pregnancy.

The fork is pointed at him, jabbing forward accusingly. “You did! You did forget!”

“Maes...”

“She’s your goddaughter for fucks sake!”

“Sorry.” Roy glares at his friend and then eases back while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been busy, okay? End of trimester is always shit.”

“But you have enough time to fuck your student still, I see how it is.” Maes stops himself, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no. Not the main reason I was so insistent on driving you back home. You gotta help me understand, or I’m not gonna be any better than some old Tom, Dick or Harry off the street when it comes to you two. Believe me when I say I want to be on your team, Roy.”

There’s silence as Roy fiddles with the handle of his mug.

“I’m waiting.” Maes sets down his fork, pushing the plate of quiche away.

“It’s...hard to explain. And it doesn’t exactly help that you arrived like this.”

“How was I meant to? I fucking called you man, that should’ve been more than enough warning to put it in your pants. Should have expected less.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” The truth of Maes’ words sting a little too sharply. “One of her flatmates discovered us in a similar position…” he sighs, moving around the kitchen island and takes the other seat. “It didn’t end so well.”

Maes frowns. “They sound like a pleasant person.”

Roy laughs bitterly. “She had her reasons. I can’t say I blame her, but that doesn’t exactly endear me to her either. Apparently Riza’s explanations fell on deaf ears.”

“And what explanation is that? From where I’m standing it just looks like cradle-robbing.”

Roy bites his tongue and counts to five before responding. “She’s legal, Maes, before you get any ideas.”

“How legal?”

“Twenty.”

Maes whistles lowly. “And she’s your student.”

“Give it another month and then she won’t be.” It’s hard not to let the petulant tone slip through - but this isn’t the time nor the space to be dramatic, not with the uncharacteristically somber attitude of his best friend.

As if on cue, a door shuts and Riza darts from the hallway towards the door.

Roy starts to say her name but Maes uses a voice specifically reserved for when he’s parenting Elicia. “For his sake, I need to know something.” It’s in a timbre that isn’t at the volume for yelling but it still reverberates throughout the apartment, dripping in assumed authority. “If you walk out of this apartment, then this secret will walk out there with you - I can promise you that.”

She stills and Roy’s jaw drops. “Hughes-!”

Riza pivots on her feet, displeasure more than evident across her face. There are still wet tendrils of hair making wet spots on her shirt.

“Good, I got your attention.” Maes nods his head expectantly over towards the couch. “Now, sit.”

“What?” Roy manages, quickly rounding the kitchen island, coffee long forgotten. “What’re you-”

“Both of you.” He emphasises, prodding Roy’s side none-too-kindly. “I need to talk to you both.”

Riza’s eyes flick to him, and he’s quick to realise what she’s asking. He nods shortly, pushing away his friend’s incessant fingers, all but collapsing back into the couch. Riza arranges herself neatly against him, legs curled up under her. The hand that had stretched out along the top of the couch drifts to her damp hair, and he pulls it back over her shoulder, carefully working through the knots.

Maes watches the two of them with a knowing smirk, before dragging the armchair to face them properly over the coffee table. “Much obliged sweetheart,” he begins, shrugging off his jacket. “The sooner we deal with this, the sooner I can be out of your hair.” He pauses here, a wry smile exposing his teeth. “I guess Roy is another matter entirely-”

“I swear to god if you’re only gonna joke about-”

He laughs loudly, hands raised in surrender. “Okay, okay, message received. Only serious talk from here on out.” In a matter of seconds the smile has been wiped from his face and Roy finds himself face-to-face with the Maes Hughes of yesteryears, all analytical guile and shrewd cunning. It’s been years since he’s had to deal with a line of questioning that will be as thorough as what his best friend is capable of - hell, even his viva voce didn’t intimidate him in the way that Maes’ talent for interrogation could.

“First things first. What are you assholes doing?” His face shows no hint of jokes or jests, brow flat and eyes hard, cold.

His fingers still in her hair.

“Let me rephrase.” He continues, leaning  back in the armchair and folding his hands over his knee. “Why are you-” and he gestures at Riza “-risking your academic career to fool around with this piece of work?” He raises his eyebrows at Riza expectantly.

“Some friend you are,” she shoots back acidly.

“Sometimes you need friends to tell you the hard truths. When you grow up, you’ll learn the value in that.”

“Maes, that’s enough.”

“When I need to talk to you, I will.” He slowly turns his head to Roy. The jovial, fatherly face Roy has come to accept as normal has completely fallen away, replaced with an expressionless facade that offers absolutely no insight into what his best friend is thinking. “So, Miss Riza. Did he coerce you? Did he bribe you? Is this a serious commitment? Did he promise you as much?”

Steadily, she replies, “Are you asking if we’ve exchanged promise rings?”

“Very mature. I’m sure that’ll go down like a cup of cold sick in front of the disciplinary board when they revoke your qualifications… assuming you have any? I doubt any tertiary institution in the country will want to have anything to do with you after this gets out.”

Riza breathes in. “It won’t,” she replies.

“I admire the confidence, but already, I know you’re in an illicit relationship with your professor. So does your flatmate.”

Roy recoils within himself, not expecting Maes to be so forthcoming with what he knows. He can feel her eyes on him.

“After all, there’s no guarantee either of us will keep quiet.” Maes continues. If he noticed the exchange between them, he’s made no show of it. “There must be an immense amount of trust between you two, or you’re both painfully reckless. So which is it?”

Riza glares at Maes, stony-faced. No longer lying against him, her spine is taut and she brushes away his hands, still tangled in her hair.

This… thing Maes does, it’s always been unnerving. It’s just as condemning to stay silent as it was to speak. It was his specialty, reading people like this - it’s why he was so damn good at it.

“You don’t know,” Maes says after the brief pause. The air around them is still tense, and then he sighs, standing out of his chair suddenly. He snaps his fingers as he dwells on the thought, pacing behind his the chair while the two of them can only watch. “Or it’s a mixture of both. It’s muddled, isn’t it?”

Her lips purse, and Roy bites his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Maes isn’t interested in what he has to say - not when the reason for his distance and sporadic attention is sitting right in front of him. He picks at the skin around his fingernails, and watches her out of the corner of his eye. She’s mulling over what to say - he’s seen that expression on her face too many times to count - a chewed lip, furrowed brow.

“It was… a fling, in the beginning,” she starts, unsure but somehow sincere. “It was a mutual attraction that went beyond what either of us expected it to be. It was difficult to be in the same room as him and then we made the mistake of deciding to be around each other more. We weren’t terribly concerned with the rules regarding proper conduct either. We kissed…” she turns to look at him properly, a small smile playing with the edges of her mouth, “...a month into the semester.”

“Probably the only way I was going to shut you up about making up for the participation grade.” He realizes how easily he said that without a second thought and chances a careful glance in her direction.

Smiling, she turns back to Maes, and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Believe me when I say I tried to put that incident behind me. I know you did.” Her voice becomes softer with that last sentence directed towards him, almost uttered as forgival.

Roy can see the cogs aligning and pieces falling together in his friend’s expression as he nods slowly. “When you last came to Central,” Maes deduces. “I told you to screw your head on straight. Clearly that advice went in one ear and straight out the other. Typical.” By now, he’s leaning on the back of the chair looking at them both with his hands clasped together. “So, what now kids?”

“What do you mean?”

“Down the road, what’s your plan? I’m surprised you’ve been able to have a relationship for this long without reaching some kind of internal hurdle. I assume you aren’t out and about too often with dates, knowing how stupid that would be in such a small town. But eventually, hiding will be too much for one of you. And my bet’s on this useless clown.”

Roy groans, running a hand down his face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime, bud.” Maes quips back as he sits back down. “I guess my question is, do you want to deal with that, just to be with him? You’re an attractive young lady who could charm the pants off any young stud in the district.”

“The ‘young studs’ around here are uncouth stock horses at best. Roy is a pleasant change of pace.” She glances at him fondly, her brown eyes bright and teasing. “I can’t say I haven’t considered what happens beyond this trimester… but we have to get through it first. It seems stupid to put the cart before the horse in this situation.”

Roy can see Maes mouth to him none too discreet: I like her, and he can’t help but smile, even if the horse jokes are at his expense.

“Then it’s settled. You’ll both attend Elicia’s birthday party.”

“Come again?”

“Give it another few hours, you animal. C’mon - it makes sense! Elicia gets her godfather actually turning up for once and not being an altogether disappointment, and you can show Riza how to paint the town red. It’s not like we don’t have the room for both of you.”

“No. You’re talking about going to Central today.”

“And?”

“We should,” Riza speaks up suddenly.

“What?” Roy balks.

Her eyebrows crease slightly at his reaction. “Academically, there aren’t any pressing matters - for either of us - and ‘Becca is going to be busy cramming. I’d hate to be in her way.”

Just like that, Roy is officially out of excuses.

“Then it’s settled,” Maes announces triumphantly. “You can see the city if you’ve never been, but more importantly you can see Elicia!” He whips out his wallet and the string of photos cascade down to the floor; Roy notices he’s added more. Riza peers at them, somewhat perplexed at the sheer volume.

The offer is tantalising. The likelihood of either of them being recognised was close to nil, and he could actually show her some of the city - the real city too, not the crappy tourist version that cost an arm and a leg to explore. It’s been a long time since he’s had any real free time and the possibility that he could simply spend it with her is all too tempting.

He cuts Maes off before he launches into passionate explanation about how flawless his daughter is. “Do we need to drop by yours on the way?” he asks, stretching out his legs. While the ride to Central wasn’t terrible, it was long, and he’s not sure if he can withstand Maes’ questioning for another three hours.

“No, I should I have enough here,” she responds absent-mindedly as she scrutinizes a particular photo. She doesn’t realize the clues she’s given Maes from that statement.

Despite her belongings being strewn all over his apartment, she still packs faster than him, and Roy finds himself wary of leaving her alone with Maes for any length of time. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his best friend - but Maes has an unfortunate tendency to poke and prod without a care for propriety or boundaries. He remembers the gift he bought for Elicia at the last moment - a collection of books, tied up in countless pink ribbons. Maes merely smiles at him in a bland fashion, and Riza lingers near the doorway like she’s debating whether this was a good choice or not.

They’re out of his house before the afternoon traffic starts to pick up again. Even as the doors close to Maes’ car, he can’t help but be surprised, and appreciative, at how she’s taking all of this in stride, knowing the last time with her roommate didn’t result in an impromptu weekend trip. It speaks volumes of how much she trusts him.

Really, he should be thanking Maes because it wasn’t painfully evident until this afternoon just how much he meant to her.

Maes, a true testament to his hasilty whispered promise as he loaded their luggage in the boot, keeps the conversation light and free from any prying questions. Roy knows that the illusion won’t last - not certainly when Gracia realises who her husband had managed to coerce into coming back to Central.

The playful regret of introducing the two comes back with the nostalgia of seeing Central again.

next

#royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #fma #fma fanfiction #fullmetal alchemist #fma au

[ficdirectory]

The Fosters: Our Thoughts on Episode 5x02 “Exterminate Her”

We’re back for more of our thoughts on this week’s Fosters.  As usual, check out @tarajean621‘s thoughts on Jesus and brain injury representation in italics below:

You Know What Could Have Happened, Callie?/Honey, She Was Terrified:  I can totally understand Callie wanting to focus on the good side of things.  I’m sure she is keenly aware of just how badly things could have gone.  And Stef being short with her and Lena taking the time to explain how scared Stef was rings so true to Real Stuff Parents Do.

This Is Nothing to Celebrate!/Surprise!  And, naturally, all the charges are dropped.  But how awkward is this surprise party led by Robert?  Especially Mariana leading her brothers in a rousing chant of “hip hip hooray” because “our sister’s a hero!”  So cute, though.

How Long Are You Gonna Stop Speaking to Your Brother?/How Long Are You Gonna Stop Speaking to Mariana?  I missed this part somehow when it first aired.  

How’s The Treehouse Going?  Has She Taken Over Yet?/No, She Just Found Us a Tree:  Wow, everyone’s crabby today, aren’t they?  Settle down, Emma.  Only a few more days and you can be really far away from Mariana.  (And Jesus.  I wonder how that will go?)

Hey, Can I Talk to You for a Second?/Uh, Yeah, Sure:  I hate that everyone is now actively fearing Jesus.  It’s especially disheartening seeing Mariana react out of fear here.  And the camera stays with Brandon as he jumps and then leaves the table. I’d love for the assumption that Jesus now resides at Intimidation Station to not be a thing.

I have been looking for statistics on how likely it is that people with TBIs assault their caregivers, since this seems to be the slant the writers are taking with 5A.  I could not come up with one link.  

I did, however, find pages of links (over 3 million results) about disabled abuse and victimization.  

One source says that disabled people are 4-10 times more likely to be victims of violence, abuse or neglect than nondisabled people.  It goes on to share why people living with TBIs are likely to encounter victimization - the list includes the use of undue force (which I covered last week when Gabe restrained Jesus), caregivers misperceptions about TBI leading to abuse or not believing us when we report abuse, or having to endure abuse “in return for” help with tasks of daily living.

Definitely.  In just existing as a disabled person and talking to others who are, I can say that everybody I know who is disabled, has, at some point, been abused.  (Usually, this is by a caregiver.)  Another source I found on the maltreatment of children with disabilities states that:

“Children with disabilities may have increased vulnerability to abuse because...[they] may be perceived as less valuable than other children. Their reports may not be considered trustworthy. Discipline may be more punitive and accompanied by a lack of respect.”

So, I’ve Been Thinking and I Wanna Do My Senior Project By Myself/Well, You Can’t:  Um.  Wow, Mariana.  Maybe you should have been honest with Jesus from the start about this.

Yes, this might have been a more timely conversation weeks ago.  Although, it was really up to Moms and Drew to deliver this news to Jesus, so Mariana is not the only one to blame here.

I’m Gonna Talk to Drew Myself and See What He Says:  You pretty much have to, Jesus.  It’s the only way you’re guaranteed the truth.  

But wait, if Jesus speaks to Drew all on his own, who will Drew look to if there is not a suitable nondisabled person present? <-- Sarcasm

Was This Emma’s Idea?/No.  I Just Need to Prove That I Can Do Something on My Own:  Of course, Jesus would feel strongly about this.  His family doesn’t respect him as he is.  It makes sense for him to feel like he has to prove his capability to get them to take him seriously.  Nothing else is working.

Our society views productivity as the be-all and end-all.  You go to school to produce meaningful work so that you can graduate and get a job, thus becoming a contributing member of society.  You are useful and worthy then.  Jesus feels like he needs to produce a meaningful senior project without help to be seen as useful and worthy again.  And it doesn’t hurt that it might earn him points with Emma to distance himself from Mariana.

I Just Wanna Help/I Don’t Need Your Help/Well, We Do/So You Want Me To Go Live with Robert?  Honestly, though, what else is Callie supposed to think?  Moms are pretty much saying she is too much for them and they need backup to handle her.  

Callie, We Love You But There is Only So Much That We Can Do For You:   I guarantee you the only part of Lena’s sentence that Callie heard was “We love you, but...” which feels exactly like, “We don’t love you,” or “We used to love you, but don’t anymore.”  (Please think about what you’re saying Moms, these words will stick.)  

You Need to Decide Who You Want to Be Going Forward, Because This Girl is Not Acceptable:  OMG talk about a back-to-back gut-punch!  Jeez...  What is Callie supposed to do with a statement like this?  She is who she is.  She can’t change who she is.  She has had a ton of stuff happen to her before she ever came to Stef and Lena.  That all impacts who she is and her decision making process.   

This morning I read an article called 3 Reasons Traditional Parenting Doesn’t Work With Kids From Trauma.  Callie has lived months as an adopted child, as opposed to 7 years in foster care.  She is in survival mode all the time, and completely shut down during Moms’ and Robert’s lecture.

I’ve heard similar remarks as an adoptee myself and that is exactly how they resonate.  Moms’ words must feel like such a rejection.

After This Last Thing With Callie, I Just Don’t Know What To Do/I Know That Was So Awful For You.  I’m So Sorry.  How Can I Help?  What Can I Do?  This is probably a bit of a raw wound for me personally, because Stef absolutely needs and deserves comfort.  But it feels so jarring to see this scene after the previous two with Moms and Callie.

Lena excused Stef’s anger at Callie in the car when Stef talked about how Callie could have been beaten or raped (she has experienced both in foster care, Stef.)  Then the lecture.  But we just don’t see that level of love and support for Callie herself.  Nobody is asking Callie “How can I help?”  or “What can I do?”

I Need You to Say You Can’t Help Unless It’s Both Our Projects, Because You Can’t Choose Sides: Mariana, I get that you are always at least 25 billion steps ahead, seeing every possible bad eventuality but you need to try to reign in this impulse to manipulate the adults in your world.  Maybe talk about that in therapy?  (But speaking of Kids Who Came From Trauma...pretty textbook behavior.)

(On the positive side, give Brandon Quinn all the points for the physical comedy of trying to put those jeans on!  So funny!)

He’s Lucky I Didn’t Suspend Him/And You’re Lucky I Don’t Sue You.  And The School:  Yes, Lena!  (Also how gross is that pro-privatization piece in the ABCC school paper?)

Portfolio?/Your Body of Work:  I find it hard to believe that Callie would have zero idea of what a portfolio is, but maybe she doesn’t hang around a lot of art students?

Mariana Just Told Me That This Treehouse Project is Approved for Her and Not Jesus Because He Might Not Be a Senior Next Year?  It was news to me, too, Gabe!  I’ve literally been thinking (for months) that Mariana went in to support Jesus for his senior project.  That it was his meeting.  And that when it was not approved for him that was the end of it, but Mariana couldn’t let it go, so she lied and said it had to be both of their projects.

But Jesus Has No Idea, Right?/We Don’t Want to Frighten Him with All the What-Ifs/Keeping Things From Him Blew Up in a Pretty Big Way:  I mean, Gabe’s not wrong...

Dean Bayfield:  Well, hello, new neighbor.  Looks like Stef’s a little tongue-tied around you...

When Do They Send the Paper to the Printer?/They Already Did/What If It Caught an Error and Sent a New File?  Mariana Adams Foster...put that big, beautiful brain of yours to good use and be careful.  (I’m so proud!  But I’m so conflicted about being proud!)

Pick Up Your Senior Project/Toss It:  This Girl Is Not Acceptable.

The Art Professor...is Gonna Let Me Audit Her Class and Help Me Put Together My Portfolio/That’s Amazing:  This Mama Sandwich for Callie is so bittersweet because she looks so relieved that they still love her.  

Do Think I’d Be Better at Scooping Ice Cream or Flipping Burgers?/That Depends.  You’d Be So Bad at Both:  OMG Callie!  Hahahaha!

Maybe This Could Be My Still Life.  I’m Salty, Right?  Why would she want to find an object that defines her if the girl she is is not acceptable?  No wonder she is struggling so hard with this.

I Used to Blow Dry My Hair Straight, Too, Mariana.  It’s Called Time-Management:  These are the moments that I love.  Because Mariana’s hair is not a lost issue, and Lena remains supportive about it, giving Mariana advice from her own experience.

We Have 5 Teenagers/Oh God Bless You!  We Just Have the One:  Hahaha!  I love Theresa!

A Good Basic Case With All the Essentials:  Can’t go to art school without supplies!  

The Article Doesn’t Appear to Quote You or Anyone on the Administration.  It’s Just One Kid’s Opinion, Right?  OMG Lena, I love you!  Also, check out the screencap Tara got of the article in the Sea Breeze!  Love that it cites IDEA and points out what this article says, in part, which is “ If the private...school does not accept any federal funding, then the school is not required to provide accommodations” to students with disabilities.

What Did You Bring to Sketch?/I Think I’m Just Gonna Sketch My New Art Set:  Because nothing says Callie like an art set you got 10 minutes ago... :(

Grace!  Are You Okay?  Are You Hurt?  Why Are You Handcuffed to the Bed?!  Brandon, your reaction to Grace here was, hands down, my favorite part of the episode.  You give me hope for humanity in this moment.

Otherwise, Why Would You Be Here?  I also love Ximena!  There is such a shortage of positive female friendships depicted on TV that I would love to see Callie and Ximena develop one.  But it looks like Ximena’s complimentary question to Callie isn’t sitting quite right...

It’s For This Foster Family That Has, Like 12 Kids.  Some of Them Are Special Needs:  First of all, it seems illegal that one family would have 12 foster kids at once?  And secondly?  Pretty much no one in the disability community likes the term ‘special needs.’  

Since I Got This TBI, People Treat Me Like I’M Special Needs:  So revealing there, Jesus.  I always say, the hardest part about being disabled isn’t the disability, it’s the way we’re treated as inferior.  I imagine that dealing with a sudden disability as Jesus is, that feeling is even stronger.  (And I can’t shake the feeling that the ‘people’ Jesus is referring to is his family.  And honestly, nobody should be treated like they’re less when they’re disabled, especially by family.  It’s bad enough to experience it in general society.)

Having a brain injury is not a bad thing, but it does take some adjustment.  The way Jesus says, “People treat me like I am special needs” is revealing, as Tonia pointed out.  People treat him like a pile of unreasonable demands - like a list of symptoms - instead of as a human being who has a brain injury.

Talk to Your Moms/All They Do is Lie to Me and Keep Secrets.  They Aren’t Going to Tell Me.  So, What Is It? I can’t say I wouldn’t be making the same call Gabe ends up making here...and so far, Gabe is one person whose ableism is at a minimum, and Jesus feels that.  He feels respected by Gabe.  His experience with Moms post-TBI has been that they treat him as less now.  They have lied to him and he doesn’t need anymore of that.  He’s out of the woods, healthwise, he doesn’t need to be ‘protected’ in this manner.

No Longer Funding Any Junior Student’s Senior Projects: Of course you aren’t, Drew...

Did You Talk to My Father?  Robert Quinn?  Oh Lordy, this isn’t gonna end well, is it?  How humiliating for Callie.  Like she needs Robert calling in favors for her to get to audit art school class...

I’m Not Gonna Be a Senior Next Year?/We Don’t Know That, Jesus:  Now Jesus knows, and Stef still won’t give him a straight answer?  Really?  At least tell him what you DO know...

Also, inquiring minds would like to know what IS happening with regard to Jesus and school?  Stef and Lena are both back at work and Jesus is home all day, talking to Gabe as he builds the treehouse.  Lena’s an educator.  School is always on this family’s radar.  Even if Jesus isn’t ready for full days, I’d think a teacher coming to the house for a bit wouldn’t be out of the question.  But school hasn’t even been mentioned by Moms except to say that Jesus is missing a lot, and taking Drew of all people as the expert on post-brain-injury reentry to school.

Jesus, I Need You To Calm Down/No, I Am Not Going To Calm Down/Then You Can Go To Your Room Until You Are Willing To Listen To Me. Now:  

In my opinion, Jesus is not out of bounds or out of control here.  He has a right to be upset, but Stef sends him away.  (Instead of sending Gabe and/or Mariana away so she can have a private conversation with Jesus.)  She tells him to leave until he is willing to listen to her - but Stef is in no way willing to be around his feelings in this moment.

Too often, disabled people are expected to “be nice” in the face of ableism.  And let’s be clear, not telling Jesus about what is going on with his schooling is ableism.  Dismissing Jesus’s current upset?  Also ableism.  

If any of the other kids found out Moms withheld information for weeks about them possibly not being promoted a grade, upset would be an expected reaction.  In Jesus’s case, it is not justified in Mom’s eyes.

I’m Not Going Up There With Him!  Did You See What He Did to Brandon’s Room?  What If He Takes a Baseball Bat to My Head?  Kids learn ableism from their parents...and Stef doesn’t refute Mariana here...  So harmful.  (And also - if Mariana isn’t comfortable going upstairs, the least Stef could do is tell her to go to the living room or something.  Anything so she is not right there when Stef tells Gabe that if he can’t respect Stef and Lena’s authority as the twins’ parents, he’ll have to leave.  Awkward.  And not a conversation for one of the kids to overhear.)

Is This a Bad Time?/Jesus is Up in His Room and I’m Sure He Would Love to See You Right About Now:  Um...  If Jesus is supposed to be being punished or taking a break or whatever, why would you send Emma up there?  (But I have a pretty good idea why.  Disability as a Plot Device, anyone?  Because up until now, Emma was the only person who wasn’t fearful of Jesus.  The choice to send her up there just to witness Jesus throwing things is a conscious choice to continue his ostracization and isolation.  To make sure he has no one to turn to or lean on.  

Notice how this “outburst” comes immediately after being dismissed.  

Also, here is another example of how traditional parenting does not work on kids with traumatic backgrounds.  And a Traumatic Brain Injury is yet another trauma for Jesus to juggle, in addition to his unstable infancy and childhood (until age 8).  Sending Jesus to his room just drives home the fact that he, like Callie, is seen as unacceptable now.   

I Wish I Had Somewhere to Unleash My Beast/You Do.  Your Art:  Jesus, do you hear this?  You and Callie could totally channel all your feelings into art.  That’s what it’s there for, and you’re both good at it.  (I’d actually really like to see this!)

How Did Your Job Interview Go?/I Was Late So I Probably Didn’t Make a Great First Impression:  Yeah, like when your girlfriend calls you with fake emergencies when she KNOWS you have a job interview soon...

Pretty Sure She Was Trying to Have Sex With You/Oh, My God:  I loved this!  Rang so true to me that the adopted kid would totally get what Grace was trying to do with Brandon while Brandon remained innocently oblivious...

I Wanna Try to Be a Senior Next Year, Even If That Means I Have to Go to Summer School/Honey, That’s Really Great to Hear, But Your Senior Project Will Have to Wait Until Then:  Okay but Jesus literally did not say anything about his senior project.  He’s talking about his education right now.  Why does no one take him seriously?  (Oh wait, I know...)

“That’s really great to hear.” What does that even mean?  “That’s really great to hear that you still desire and value an education even though you have a brain injury?” 

It sounds as if that was Lena’s way of possibly skirting the education conversation.   

Because I Got Mad?  Are You Punishing Me?  Of course, it feels like a punishment.

Drew’s Not Funding Any Senior Projects by Juniors/You’re Lying:  Moms, remember Stef’s brilliant take on ‘trust has to be earned?’  I feel like it’s time to work on starting to earn Jesus’s.  Because right now, he can’t trust anything you say, and why should he? 

Also, I’m pretty sure Monte said last episode that Drew isn’t the principal because she hasn’t yet resigned.  So...why is the vote invalid but his word about Jesus’s senior project like signed, sealed and notarized by a judge?)

I Could Probably Get Jesus’s Uncle to Donate/Birth Uncle: This is interesting, because we watched this episode with a friend who adopted her daughter.  And she specifically commented on this scene.  Said she never corrects her daughter when she wonders about her birth mother.  And she felt it was out of place for Moms to correct Gabe here.

I Do Wanna Keep My Senior Project/We Took It to the Dumpster Already:  Ouch, Callie :(

I Didn’t Give Her Any Money, I Just Asked Her to Give You a Chance, But Only If She Believes in You, Which, Obviously, She Does/You Don’t:  Bam.  It’s truth time, by Callie.  And that really is what Robert’s actions communicated.  Instead of helping with her or giving her advice on what to do next, he went behind her back and appealed to the teacher’s pity, and that never feels good.

I Know You All Think That I’m Unacceptable/That’s Not What We Meant/It’s What You Said:  Right, Callie?  And no matter how many other times she is affirmed, those words will be inside her, challenging the love she’s shown.  It’s this thing: anger resonates as the “truest” feeling, while love feels forced.  It’s hard to explain...

When You First Met Me You Told Me I Wasn’t Disposable and I’m Really Trying to Believe That:  We keep track of every single word.

We Don’t Want You to Throw Away Your Past, We Just Want You to Stop Repeating It:  But that might not be entirely in Callie’s control.  How often do we rehash or recreate an aspect of our past in an effort to work through it, or because it feels familiar and that feels safe?  Moms want Callie to feel safe, but safe is new.  And it’s going to take some getting used to.  (Also I’m really glad Lena rescued Callie’s senior project from gettting thrown away.)

So, I’m Not Going to See You Before You Go?/I’m Sorry/I Love--:  Emma’s pulling away so hard and fast.  This sucks.

I really hope that this whole Aggression Is A Symptom storyline does not end up Teaching Jesus A Lesson.

Did Mamas Talk to You About The Treehouse?/I’m Gonna Ask Emma to Do It With Me...If That’s Okay:  Ugh, and the twins aren’t getting along still.  And at this point it seems like working with Emma on the treehouse this year or next is gonna be a bust...

Not being able to connect after an injury is a thing, and I appreciate that it is being depicted.  To add to Tonia’s comment about Emma, we don’t know what is going to happen with them.  He is trying to make things work with his girlfriend while putting Mariana in her place.  We will have to see what happens...

I Guess I Shouldn’t Have Read Fifty Shades of Grey:  Oh, Grace, what a terrible book!

I Don’t Know Where The Keys Are.  I Think They’re Over Here/Okay, I’m Coming:  Hahaha!  Don’t play with handcuffs, Brandon and Grace...or Stef will have to come unlock you...and wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

Fearless:  I love Callie showing Ximena her necklace from her mom as her object for her Still Life and I love Ximena’s reaction to it!

Tess/Oh, My God!  Stef!  So, I was in the shower, the morning after this aired, and it occurred to me.  The thing that everybody already knows about who Tess is.  But in case someone hasn’t made the connection.  I realized Tess was Stef’s high school friend who she was cuddling and got caught by Stef’s dad.  Also the reason Stef was sent by her dad to see a priest, who told her being gay was a sin (episode 1x06, I believe.)

For more: Fosters Recaps

#the fosters #exterminate her #5x02 #jesus adams foster #brain injury #traumatic brain injury #tbi #aphasia #ableism #representation matters #stef adams foster #lena adams foster #brandon foster #mariana adams foster #jude adams foster #ximena sinfuego #gabe duncroft #dean bayfield #tess bayfield #logan bayfield

[scrambledthoughtz]

fed up w/ quarantine & other thoughts

been feeling really fucking fed up with myself recently. every time i feel like complaining about this quarantine or shelter-in-place, i feel like a stuck-up asshole and i just remember that TikTok that's like "Kim, there are literally people dying." i understand that i'm in a huge position of privilege given the circumstances because my family and i can afford to stock up on food, toilet paper, and cleaning agents. i know that we are lucky to even have the chance to complain about the fact that we are stuck at home -- reading, sleeping, catching up on lectures, painting, or whatever other activites people have picked up during this quarantine. i know that there are people out there (like doctors, nurses, mail men, grocery store workers, Uber drivers and more) who are working their asses off to make sure that we are able to maintain at least some degree of normalcy despite the chaos that we have all been thrown into. and massive props to them -- i really can't even begin to express my gratitude for those who are still working hard at their jobs while the rest of us get to stay at home. so trust me when i say i know. i know i shouldn't really even be complaining because in the grand scheme of things, i am lucky. my family is lucky. many of us are lucky. but with all that being said, i'm not going to deny the fact that these extended periods of time spent cooped up inside has taken a bit of a toll. i've been so fed up with myself recently for a number of reasons. first, it has been SO hard to focus at home. i'm not used to being inside for so long, or not having the option to go somewhere else to study when my room proves itself to be a massive distraction. it's not like i don't have anything to do. i do. i had midterms last week, and finals this week. but despite this, i've found it so difficult to focus and to commit to sitting down and actually put effort into my schoolwork. i'm the type of person who hates turning something in when i know i haven't put my best effort into. sometimes it is what it is, but especially with my bigger assignments (like this 10-page research paper i have due at the end of this week), i would absolutely hate to turn in something that i'm not at least decently proud of. and i've always been this way. i always tell people the story of when i fell asleep the night before my country report was due, and i woke up to it being finished, thanks for my mom to took over and finished up my project while i had temporarily passed out on the floor next to the computer. in the end, i got an A, but i was still upset because i felt like i didn't deserve the grade that i had gotten. it was my mom's A, not my own. since then, i've mellowed down a little. i've grown to understand that i can't put my 100% into everything, but i still hate turning in something that i'm not proud of. but i just can't find the willpower to sit down and freaking type out this paper. i don't even know why. actually, maybe i do. a few weeks ago, i went to an academic coaching appointment at Foothill, and i told the coach that i may have an perfectionist instict where i drag out assignments because i know that they're going to take a lot of effort and brainpower and i don't want to churn out anything sub-par. it's a worthy revelation, but it doesn't do me any good if i don't work on it. now, i'm not a perfect (or even a stellar) student by any stretch of the imagination, but i don't think i really realized how much of my identity is tied with school and my education. without that structure and constant push, i feel genuinely lost. it's like, "what now?" what am i working towards? if i have too much time on my hands, i'm almost always itching for that empty space to be filled with schoolwork, or any type of productive activity. it's not like i LOVE school or anything, but i also don't hate it. and actually, nowadays, i really miss it. i miss my instructors. i miss my classmates. i miss sitting in a classroom and participating in-person. i'm honestly kind of sick of talking with people over the phone, text, email, or FaceTime. i miss the physical face-to-face connection. i miss my workplace. i miss it a lot. i miss my supervisors, my co-workers, and the ridiculous conversations we'd have during the night shifts. i miss laughing so hard that my stomach hurts and tears are streaming out of my eyes. i've been spending an obscene amount of time on social media, and it's been more toxic, time-consuming, and draining than anything. i've uninstalled and reinstalled Snapchat, Instagram, and TikTok countless times over the past week. i honestly lost count of the number of times that i uninstalled one of those apps in a brief moment of determination and productivity, and then reinstalled in a prolonged period of boredom. my sister has been so productive these past few days, and i envy her focus. i'm starting to develop an irrational resentment towards her. she is able to focus for long periods of time, she has the willpower to not snack out of boredom, and she has somehow developed impressive upper body-strength. she goes on daily runs, and she is able to manufacture structure for herself in an otherwise long, uneventful day. the days are beginning to blend together, and i've told myself that i wouldn't let myself succumb to boredom. i try to keep myself busy. i downloaded an audiobook that i listen to in the morning and while i'm walking my dog. it's a charming book, something that i wouldn't be able to get through if i was physically reading it myself. it's called "The Rosie Project." i see so many people rediscovered hobbies and talents, learning how to cook, finally getting to that "stack of books that they've been meaning to get to", creating their own home workouts, and i feel so much guilt. i feel so much guilt that i've been sitting on my ass all day, complaining. not doing much except for refreshing each of my social media apps, hoping for new posts to scroll through. i know that there are things that i should be doing, but i just can't. i know that i should learn to cook because i am going to be moving out soon. i know that i should take this opportunity to work out more often. i know that i've been looking for more time to read, and this extra time has cropped up. i know, i know, i know. i'm beginning to develop familiar resentment towards my friend, who keeps on sending me frightening statistics. stop getting your anxiety all over me. i know that the amount of coronavirus cases in the Santa Clara county has tripled in the past week. i know that the president is shutting down borders and banning international (and even domestic) travel. i know that we are basically trapped. i know that a "shelter-in-place" directive is one of the most serious directives out there, and that it should not be taken lightly. i know that we need to work on flattening the curve, and that we are barely even there. i know that school is probably cancelled for the rest of the semester and that it'll take place virtually, even though the shelter-in-place is only supposed to last until April 7. i know that it'll be extended because the spread of this virus has shown no signs of slowing down. i know that, despite what the media tells us, the elderly are not the only ones who are susceptible. wash your hands, wear a face-mask when you go out, wear gloves, don't touch your face or your mouth. social distancing is the legal mandate. stay 6 feet away. no social gatherings. stay at home, stay at home, stay at home. don't go to the beach and party it up like a fucking idiot. all non-essential businesses shut down. no one knows how long this is going to last. the death toll keeps increasing. our governor may even shut down beaches because ppl aren't taking the shelter-in-place mandate seriously enough. it's crazy, it's uncertain. thankfully my professors have been so understanding, so kind, and so generous. my Ethics professor made our final option (although i'm still going to take it because i have a fucking B in the class right now -- another story for another time). my research methods professor has extended our paper deadline three times, and she sends out announcements reminding us to take care of ourselves. i know that it's a difficult time, but i can't help but feel guilty. yes, it's a difficult time for everyone involved, but surely more so for others? i'm just sitting at home complaining and eating chips. this doesn't apply to me? i don't deserve an extension on anything because i'm not doing anything anyways. it's not like i have anything else to do except my assignments, and i'm still not doing them. i feel like a lazy piece of shit who is just going to take advantage of these extensions to procrastinate even more than i already am. sure, it's lonely at times and i've only really talked in-person with my family for more than a week. but i didn't do anything to deserve this. the real support and recognition should go to those on the frontlines -- the doctors, nurses, infectious disease experts, and so on. props even to my dad, who is a dentist. i'm just sitting at home, having the luxury of doing nothing, having my meals made for me, while my professors are frantically working behind the scenes to make sure we still get our education. i don't deserve this. it always boils down to this, and i'm not sure why. a lingering feeling of guilt or "un-deserved-ness".

#personal #coronavirus

[anthonybialy]

Broken News

How dare you sit there smiling. There's a bad thing happening in the world that you have some nerve not letting affect demeanor. Don't you pay attention to the news? Updates about certain events are brought to you by professionals who know what should be frightening, namely occurrences misunderstood by smug liberals who didn't even think of majoring in engineering.

Nothing has changed since the days of newspaper vendors, so it's nice knowing old values persevere. At the same time, people are getting stupider faster if you feared there hasn't also been progress. The headlines telling the impressionable what should prompt panic arrive quicker. Presuming those limited enough to pursue journalism are capable of setting agendas is the only thing more foolish than the content.

You're going to be a victim in a mass shooting by the time this sentence concludes. I'm sorry about the late warning, for which I blame the NRA. Pointing out such incidents are statistically rare means you don't care about victims, according to the quite tolerant. You should be bathing in blood to righteously make your point about how a magazine limit would halt evil. Indignant shrieking is the only shield against bullets.

Let's hear more about banning guns the lecturers don't know how to work. More importantly, they don't understand how humans work. Those afflicted with gun phobia freak out as they parrot fantasies that would be amusing were they not trying to take rights. Tell them an AR-15 fires 73,000 rounds per minute from automatic clips that dissolve flesh and eat souls as they travel through time and they'll repeat it like a memorized multiplication table.

More importantly, those irked by rights don't get that people are allowed to own the devices of their choosing. You don't have to provide a reason, although being told you shouldn't is the best one. Besides, the lawbreakers don't listen. Bad people will particularly keep doing so if they know the virtuous are stopped by obeying laws if you're really looking for victims to use for campaigning.

The environment is melting or maybe freezing today. Either way, weather things are happening and it's your fault for using the thermostat. Your own personal conditions ruin what's outside. My life within climate control is approved because I am fighting on the Earth's behalf. Chilling at 65 degrees allows me to think of new things to ban. Metal utensils might get thrown out someday, so get rid of them now.

Climate goons are safe thanks to using children as shields from harmful rays. It's always a sure sign an opinion is valid if cultists parade out brats to use as mouthpieces. You wouldn't dare criticize a seventh-grader with a tenuous grasp on facts even for the age group, would you? Calling the bluff is mean to kids who are the intellectual firepower behind cases wholly based on reason.

Sure, you claim you're criticizing using children and not children themselves. But the stunted technical adults are still indignant about the cruelty. Pointing out the lack of evidence and statistics is almost as bad as using little plastic tubes to consume liquids. Panicking about straws would be hilarious as a parody of irrational fear. Sip what you're supposed to fear and destroy.

Changing isn't always for the best. It's not that your most obnoxious Facebook friends learned something important and evolved accordingly: they saw something preposterous they decided made them experts. The ensuing freakout is wholly in the manner of utterly rational adults.

The government must be able to help: it's in charge, which means it's qualified. Why have one if it's not going to remove problems from existence? It better do something, as fixing reality is why we have a Constitution.

It's going to be expensive. Daring to slow the rate of growth is the meanest form of mass murder. Hating the poor is the only reason to avoid draining cash from the economy. Sure, the programs designed to help burn through money like oil rig workers at a strip club with the same fulfillment. But the lectures from the sorts who proclaim David Koch got rich raping the Earth are weightier than math.

Our intellectual superiors express seriousness with reactionary shrieking after glancing at a headline. A story that wasn’t important yesterday is the only thing on their minds today. Doubling as moral titans, the ironically intolerant just know that Chick-fil-A hates gays somehow even if they can't cite anything technical like a reason. Their emotions are all they need.

All the information ever accessible instantly was supposed to make people smarter. But technology has merely allowed the gullible to be frightened more quickly. Liberals use amazing pocket computers enabled by free markets to assure themselves they're informed, not to check if government has ever made anything affordable. Radiating smugness accompanies glowing screens.

Being correct and moral explains why those who think gun control keeps Chicago safe feel the duty to despise those who disagree. People who think campaigns would be run the same way without the Electoral College have surely pondered consequences. A gun ban must stop criminals from acquiring them: nobody would commit a crime, you cementheads. What sort of supervillain would dodge a law? This isn't a comic book movie.

Letting human ghouls set the limits for rights is surely the best part about instant news. There must be a response to something bad happening, ideally involving a new federal agency. The only thing worse than governing by headline is letting the New York Times decide what issue's up next.