#anyway this is The Worst Filtering Experience and that’s not even including the steps to get here

[bzedan]

Just having an absolutely stellar experience on social media platforms.

#tumblr is micro blogging more than social media! #I know how to curate my experience and YET everywhere else feels like I wandered into a fight at a bus station #anyway this is The Worst Filtering Experience and that’s not even including the steps to get here #lol whatever #meche chatters

[bainhardt]

Pokemon SV thoughts: tumblr exclusive dlc version sorry this is so long but too bad lol

I got to the credits tonight and to be honest, I feel like I have way too much to say about SV, but that'd be kind of exhausting, so I'll try to keep it to broad strokes. It reminded me a lot of Legends Arceus: I had my share of fun, but I have numerous complaints as well.

First, if what people are tired and cynical about is Game Freak's supposed lack of "innovation," I feel this game is proof that they are finally coming around to trying new ideas. This and LA are the freshest the franchise has been in decades. But new ideas take a lot of refining.

The most fun aspect was exploration. It's legitimately awesome to simply wander, see Pokemon, and catch Pokemon, and you can go basically anywhere you want from the word “Go.” I remember wanting far more out of the exploration in Legends Arceus, and I was relieved to find when playing SV that it felt much closer to what I had envisioned for the concept. This is a big step forward in terms of freedom (and the region is pretty cool, which helps).

But the battling is the same as always (even with the new gimmick), the gyms are the same, the E4 is the same. If the core gameplay loop has grown old for you, there won't be much to win you over; you can do these battles in any order you like, but they're still just... battles.

Add on top of that this game has... a LOT of cutscenes, and it can really drag just trying to get things done so you can progress and become stronger. Story is always subjective, but if you're not invested in the plotlines, you are NOT going to enjoy the pacing (I didn't).

Despite that, the "endgame zone" so to speak is probably the single coolest thing I've seen in a Pokemon game to date. idk that I'd say it makes up for the first portions, but I did start to enjoy the story in the back half. imo the coolest villain/plan segment in the franchise.

Lastly, this game runs like shit. This is THE worst technical showcase of any game I've played on my Switch, bar none. I'm not talking your occasional slowdown or something - this is literally a game that spends more time chugging and breaking than not.

It really brings the entire experience down to know this was a game that was willing to put the work in with its ideas and ambition, only to be held back by hardware limitations and likely development problems (three Pokemon games in a year, all felt crunched and unpolished). I honestly feel like now that the fanbase at large has gotten their hands on gen 9, just about anyone would’ve been willing to give up BDSP and Arceus if it meant this game got the time and resources it really needed. But that problem rings true for any one of them; all three of these games needed more work than they got in the end. Not one of them has felt truly complete when compared to SWSH.

Anyway, all I really had left in terms of complaints are minor ones, but man, I had about a thousand. You can't turn move animations off, you can't L=A mode, there's no Battle Style Shift or Set option, the Pokedex and Bag don't remember where your cursor left off in between uses, the PC box takes forever to load each page, you can’t change to the All Boxes view while holding a Pokemon, the summary screens work differently between the PC and the Party screen, the Bag and Pokedex have no fast scroll buttons, the sandwich recipe menu has a favorite button but then no way to filter by favorites, each time you use an item on a Pokemon it deselects that item and makes you select it again... you get the idea. Many people don’t notice things like this, but for me they’re like pebbles in my shoe, and holy shit - this game was like walking on goddamn gravel.

If this game worked as intended, it would very probably rank the best in the franchise like, unanimously. For a lot of players, it likely still will be. But to me, it's hard to recommend a game that feels this broken, that feels this slapdash when I know they can make them better.

Also, I never tend to include this as part of my actual review’s parameters, but I liked a lot of new Pokemon (most since like gen 5 maybe) and thought a lot of new abilities/moves/battle stuff was really creative. This was the first game I can remember in years where I actually used a team of nothing but new guys, and a full team of six at that. But there's also some truly batshit insane powercreep stuff that's looking to make competitive a nightmare (getting my predictions in early). Continuing the post-3D trend, practically every new Pokemon has a signature move, signature ability, or both, and holy fuck some of the new moves are unbelievable. And the two box legendaries have some Calyrex-ass double down abilities that are sure to make the restricted format full of them. Ugh.

Another thing I felt even before the game came out and after playing still feel is: I really hate the approach to graphical presentation and how that factored into the designs and appearances of the human characters. It’s admirable that they’re trying to add more detail to the Pokemon with texture and lighting, but the people in this game look properly fucking weird to me. The clothes are textured to look more real, the hair is attempting a realistic texture with like visible strands (although it does look pretty shoddy)... but then the skin and faces are still giant plasticy anime-style deals. It reminded me a lot of fashion dolls. Just kind of uncanny, you know?

And personally, I don’t even want the graphics to be more realistic at the end of the day; Pokemon is supposed to be cartoony, and I think this bizarre middle ground only hurts the style in a lot of ways more than it improves it. The trainers and NPCs at large suffer from this lack of cartoonishness, and I feel like the entire world’s color and vitality gets brought down a level from generations past. Yes, the gym leaders still manage some good and a couple great designs; yes, the Star leaders are probably the best designs in the game. But virtually everyone else in the game look like “boring human in clothes.” Battling what few trainers I did, it felt hard to believe this is the same franchise that used to have unique Youngsters, Lasses, Beauties, Fishermen, Hikers, Ace Trainers, Battle Girls and Black Belts, where everyone from business people to scientists to janitors to students and their teachers had memorable and new appearances each generation. Looking at this game, the notion that we could see a repeat of what happened to XY’s Hex Maniac, for example, was laughable. They really put all their eggs into one basket with the main cast, which I think is a significant step backwards.

The actual, real, final thing I can remember to say at this time was that I felt the gym/E4′s use of Terastallization was poor and a huge missed opportunity. Each gym, the leader uses a random ace that they Tera into their gym’s type, which only serves to make the battles as much of a sweep as always if the player is sufficiently prepared. When wiping the Water gym leader with my Electric type, I actually paused for a second when seeing his final Pokemon was Crabominable. I thought “huh, now I don’t have a great move for this, do I switch out to-” before remembering he was, of course, going to change it to a Water type like everything else and I could finish the battle with no more trouble than before.

To me, the better way to handle this and introduce the depth and possibilities of the mechanic is to have each leader’s ace still be a Pokemon of their type, which they Tera into something different and unexpected, reflecting the way it will work in real battles with other players. This also serves to showcase a range of basic strategic choices for each type players could choose to use in their own teams. The only leader that felt close to this was Iono, Terastallizing a Mismagius into Electric so as to have no weaknesses with Levitate. Giving her something like a Volt Absorb Pokemon to Tera into Flying or Water and negate a weakness wouldn’t have been as “strong,” but I feel it would’ve been more thematically appropriate while requiring players to actually vary their approach a little more.

#Jeffu plays Pokemon

[hopeless-nostalgiac]

with all appliances and means to boot: ncis/tiva fic

for this challenge, @loudlooks​ requested Tiva + "I didn't know you could do that." thank you for the inspiration!! *hugs*

set summer between S3-4 w/ team dynamics & tiva (a LOT of tiva—they took over the fic, basically, and I’m not sorry about it) 

also, this turned out like eight times longer than I expected & was the most fun and freeing thing I’ve worked on in years, so

enjoy:) 

FFN

“I didn’t know you could do that!” 

McGee’s voice filtered over news-chattering televisions, incessantly ringing phones, and chicken-clacking keyboards to reach Tony at his desk. 

“There was no reason to mention it earlier. It is not exactly a useful skill, my friend.” Ziva’s full-throated chuckles were wind chimes amidst the office drudgery.

Tony shook off the eruption of gooseflesh on his arms. It was way too early for that. And McGee was babbling again.

“I’ve just never met someone in real life who could do it.”

“Really?!”

A boom of shared laughter enveloped them.

Glancing at the digital read-out on his monitor, Tony silently cheered. 9:07. Totally busted. Then he pretended to be busy with paperwork, so his attention was occupied ahead of time. 

The agents’ conversation lowered until it faded completely, coinciding with their entrance into the squadroom.

Tony had that effect on them now. The tables, as the saying went, had turned. They were the class troublemakers to his super-strict teacher. They, the unruly cadets, and he, the veteran drill sergeant. They were Agents; he was Boss. 

“Agent McGee. Officer David. You’re late.” 

McGee froze while swinging around his desk. Ziva froze after dropping her gear. Tony continued to stare yet not see the file in front of him, but he didn’t need visual confirmation to know the teammates were exchanging glances, coordinating their plan of counterattack. 

“Well, technically we were in the building on time.” The opening lob courtesy of McGee. 

“Technically, that’s not good enough, McTardy.”

“It was when you were wearing our shoes.” 

Tony fought an eye roll. “You can’t throw me off the scent with a well-timed idiom blunder, Officer David.” 

“Can’t I, Tony?” Ziva’s voice was louder, closer to him. 

Out of his peripheral vision, he spied her leaning on the divider between their workspaces. So close now, he caught a whiff of her lavender mint shampoo as she flicked at a cascade of curls that had fallen over her shoulder. If this was their strategy, well, it wasn’t the worst angle. 

But Tony DiNozzo was better. 

“No, you can’t,” he reiterated, finally gracing each of them in turn with his steady gaze. Calm, yet intense. Everything rumbling beneath the surface. “And it’s Agent DiNozzo. Or Boss.” 

Ziva stared back, golden-brown eyes matching his intensity, but not the calm. She rattled off a string of heated Hebrew, ending with a sharp snap of her teeth before spinning around on her heel and dropping heavily into her desk chair.  

Crazy chick.

“So, anyway. Just to be clear: If you’re here after me, you’re late. Period.” Tony slapped a case folder closed, causing his desk to tremble; he could emphasize his words, too. “For today, you can make amends by telling me whatever it is McGee didn’t know Ziva could do. I’m thinking it involves lots of stretching, but if there’s a video game reference, leave it out. Go!” 

And like that, authority forfeited for curiosity. 

McGee did roll his eyes and muttered something that suspiciously sounded like waste of time under his breath. Ziva scoffed, typing noisily at her computer and decidedly not looking in Tony’s direction. 

“That’s an order.” Even he didn’t buy the command. 

9:10. The day was shot. 

. . . 

If someone asked Tony how his first weeks as leader of MCRT were going, he’d say, “Good, considering the circumstances,” with a flash of white teeth. He didn’t like to lose face, sure, but he was pretty confident it was the truth, too.

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, leaving you in charge of a team that for years affectionately regarded you as The Class Clown, the circumstances weren’t on your side and ‘good’ was the most you could hope for.

. . . 

“What did you do?” 

Passing through the automatic doors, Tony came up short—as much due to the always assaulting antiseptic stench as the accusation. “Why do you assume I did something wrong? Can’t I come see my favorite Autopsy Gremlin with no ulterior motive?” 

“Sure you can,” Palmer called from the freezer section, where he was sliding a corpse home. “But I already talked to Abby, who talked to McGee.” 

Fantastic.

“So before, with the ‘what did you do?’...that was kind of redundant, huh?”

“Guess so.” A dorky chortle escaped the assistant. “I mean, seriously, they were only late by a couple minutes, Tony. Sorry, Agent DiNozzo.” Another hiccup of laughter. 

Great. Just great. 

“Gee, I was hoping I could escape some of the ridicule down here....” Tony pressed his palms against the cold steel of an autopsy table, shoulders hunched, depositing weight into the defeated stance. All his course-correcting tactics, including buying his team lunch, had done little to reverse the morning’s death blow. McGee and Ziva were ignoring him aside for a lone campfire, and then their interactions were clipped—aggressively so where the ex-assassin was concerned. Now the damage was spreading to the sub-basement, it seemed. 

“Look on the bright side, you’re the team leader. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?” Palmer mirrored Tony on the other end of the table, adjusting his glasses before adding, “This is a bump in the road, but no one ever achieved greatness without first overcoming resistance.” 

“That’s wise, Palmer. For a man who talks to the dead. You wouldn’t happen to know—”

“What McGee didn’t know Ziva could do?” 

Tony blinked. Maybe they’d been underestimating the Autopsy Gremlin all along. “Yeah. Know anything about it?” 

“It’s not a big deal. We were at the bar last night and first the waitress got Abby’s drink order mixed up, but it was super busy, so I suggested that—”

“Sometime today, Palmer.” 

“Well, it turns out Ziva can knot a cherry stem with her tongue, and then...” 

Oh, it was more wondrous than he’d guessed (and that list was long).

Palmer’s rambling dissolved to the background of Tony’s thoughts. He couldn’t get to the audacity of everyone going out for drinks without him because the dexterity of Ziva’s tongue was front and center. As he was recently familiarized with that very tongue and the talented mouth it resided in, it was all too easy to lose himself in a sexy daydream of the alleged feat.

Until he remembered how pissed she was at him. Bubble, burst. 

. . .

If someone asked Tony how his first weeks sleeping with Ziva, his former partner and current subordinate, were going, he’d say, “What? I’m not—we’re not—how dare—what?!” 

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, some of his rules haunted you. 

. . . 

“Rough day?”

Tony looked up right away. It was best not to play games with the director, who emerged stealthily in the dim, empty squadroom. He’d dismissed McGee and Ziva at regular quitting time, unable to make eye contact with either of them—for different reasons—but stayed behind to catch up on last week’s case reports. Him, voluntarily completing paperwork. 

Rough was an understatement.  

“I see my shortcomings are making the rounds.” 

Jenny’s smile was beautifitic, the one she wore during news interviews. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t seeking it out. I was speaking to Ducky on a separate matter, and he happened to mention talking with Mr. Palmer, who—”

“Got the scoop from Abby because McGee blabbed to her,” Tony finished, barely restrained. “Yeah, I’m well acquainted with the watercooler daisy chain.” 

It didn’t slip his notice that Ziva was the missing link. The text he’d started writing to her the second she disappeared through the elevator doors was unfinished and unsent on his phone. 

“Did you also hear they went for drinks after work without inviting me?” It came out as a whine.

Jenny didn’t mask her amusement. “Did you always invite Gibbs for drinks? No, because he was your boss and you were probably venting about him.”

Touché.

“I’m trying, ma’am.” This he intoned with every fiber of professionalism and sincerity he could summon in the moment. The problem was that this wasn’t his first mistake since taking over—wouldn’t be the last—but he was trying. He wanted that noted. Also, there was an insane learning curve, and yes, big shoes to fill. Could he be blamed for that?

The redhead stepped forward, switching her smile for an expression of...not quite pity. Understanding? “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, Agent DiNozzo.”

“Robin Hood: Men in Tights?” 

“Shakespeare.” Jenny chuckled, her fair eyes sparkling in the light of his desk lamp. Tony could see why Gibbs was once head-over-heels for her, back when they were partners. He knew something of those complicated emotions, of which the text draft on his phone contained damning evidence. 

“It’s the nature of being in charge,” she continued. “You’re going to have crappy days and plenty of nights when you can��t sleep. My advice, from experience? When you screw up, apologize and do better next time.”  

“Isn’t that a sign of weakness?” It was a reflex, after so many years. 

Jenny caught his eye and held it. “No. It’s a sign of respect.” 

. . .

He was sober when he showed up on her doorstep. Stopping off for some liquid courage briefly flitted through his brain, but flitted out just as quickly. McGee, he could buy a NutterButter, eat some humble pie himself. All would be cool again. Ziva was a different story. 

Namely, a story with a lot of sex in it, and it’d barely been a month yet. That he spent a large portion of the day envisioning her tongue doing erotic dances with a red cherry stem wasn’t helping. It also further convinced him of a brutal truth: Things were changing. Things had already changed. 

Ziva, outlined by the glow from inside the apartment, crossed her arms over a baggy workout t-shirt. Curls piled in a messy bun. It was Tuesday, kickboxing night. “If you are here for a booty call, you will be sorely disappointed.” Each word was wrapped in her delicious Israeli accent, momentarily distracting him from their sum meaning.

He’d expected as much.

“See, when you want to get them right…” Tony’s attempted humor and roguish smile failed to earn him leniency. 

“Goodnight, Boss.”

The door hurtled toward him, closing on his chance to repent—and more than that, his chance with her. His left hand flew up, catching the wood with a few inches to spare. 

“Hey, whoa. Wait. I’m here to apologize, all right?” Breath whooshed in and out of him; sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.  

Okay, so it wasn’t just about the sex. He was enamored with her, and it hadn’t been a full month yet.

Ziva yanked the door back, though the arrangement of her features maintained dubious feelings. She raised her eyebrows in a way that said, Yes, and?

“I was an idiot, Ziva.”

A corner of her delicate mouth pulsed. “Good start.”

The heaviness in his chest released. He dared another smile, softer-gentler this time, and the door stayed open. “I was too hard on you and McGee.”

“You will apologize to him as well, yes?”

“Yes. McSweetTooth will wet himself with glee, I’m sure of it.” Tony shuffled his feet, bringing him onto her brown doormat, never dropping her gaze. “But seriously, Ziva, I know I messed up, especially, you know...I mean, you should be able to call the guy you’re sleeping with by his first name, even if he’s your boss. That is,” he sheepishly tagged on, “if I’m still the guy you’re sleeping with, after today.”

For a bloated handful of seconds, Ziva froze, as she had that morning in the squadroom. Eyes like lasers, drilling through him. It lasted long enough for doubts to creep in. Then—

“Are you?”

So simple, but coupled with her head tilted to expose honeyed neck, her popped knee, and the slight part of her plumped lips, the challenge was clearly set for him. 

This would be fun. 

Tony launched over the doorway, literally sweeping Ziva off her feet as he plowed into the apartment. An honest-to-goodness squeal filled his ears, then that wind-chime laugh took over and his knees wobbled in their sockets—nevermind her 100-something pounds hanging on his torso. 

It was the first time he’d carried her this way—any way—but her arms and legs wrapped around his body with an ease he would have analyzed if not for the supple give of her breasts against his chest, or her frizzy hair tickling his chin. Her mouth alternated between whispering the dirtiest promises in his ear and nibbling on his neck. Thoughts would have to wait. 

How they shut the front door, how they maneuvered the hallway to her bedroom, how they undressed and (eventually) found the bed was a haze of details that didn’t matter. The shudder that coursed through her at his every touch, mattered. The inverted bridge her back made when his lips and tongue met her center, mattered. His name on a gasp, woven into a sigh, lifted to a shout...

In this area, Tony DiNozzo excelled. He was damn well going to prove it. 

. . . 

It took two rounds to sate her. The first go was part of the apology; the second was because he had a young, hot lover who could run eight miles at the crack of dawn, kickbox for an hour after work, and still have energetic sex with him—twice. Who wouldn’t take advantage of that? 

“Guess I got that booty call after all.” He love-tapped her ass, which was bare to the air. He braced for retaliation. 

None came.

Hair mussed and cheeks flushed, Ziva glanced over, fixing him in her line of sight. A smirk hiked up the side of her mouth not buried in the pillow. “As did I, Agent DiNozzo.”

“Never going to live that down, am I?”

“Give it a few months.” Her smirk widened as her eyelids drooped, each blink taking longer and longer to pull back up. 

. . .

They dozed together in the dark of her bedroom. They weren’t cuddlers, per se. Their connections left them too sensitive, sticky and unspooled. They stayed close, though. Touching random pieces of her to him, him to her. His head resting on her bicep curled closest to the mattress. Her ankle molded to the arch of his foot. Sometimes as conventional as their hands laid one atop the other, fingers loose. 

. . . 

He began talking while they ate cereal in the kitchen at quarter to eleven. He was talking as she cleaned and put away their dishes and led him to the front room, his body going where she steered and nudged. What he voiced was nothing new to either of them. All the same issues that overwhelmed him on a cool May night, that propelled him to Ziva’s door in what would become a habit. He was drowning; she was refuge. 

For that, and so many other reasons, he trusted her without question. 

Ziva allowed him to talk now because that was how he worked out problems. They both knew that, too. 

“I think it comes down to the fact that...I don’t know how to be a team leader that isn’t Gibbs.” The admission floated and settled on the sofa cushion between them. It wasn’t often they said his name anymore. The memory was sore to the touch. 

“We have been over this, yes?” Ziva tossed a leg across his lap, the other tucked beneath her. He immediately claimed the tanned skin of her thigh, rolling it under his hands. “This is a chance to be your type of leader, make your own rules.” 

“Every time I do that, it blows up in my face.”

“Not every time,” she corrected, her eyes darting to his lips and lingering. 

His heart rate ticked up. Very true. They might not have happened if Gibbs hadn’t left. But… “We’re one thing, Ziva. The team is another.”   

She turned his chin with her hand, locking his gaze with her steady and fervent stare. An imposing combination. “Tony, you either keep trying or you quit, just like Gibbs. What will it be?” 

It was Tony’s turn to sneak a not-so-subtle glance at her lips. When she put it like that, the answer was undebatable. What he’d told Jenny wasn’t a lie. And giving up wasn’t an option. 

Didn’t mean he’d hand her the win that easily. 

“How about we make a deal?” While his eyebrows waggled, his hands roamed farther than her thigh. “I persevere with the team leader thing. In exchange, you show off your fancy cherry stem tying prowess for me.” 

Her mouth gaped, eyes narrowing. “Who told you?”

“Palmer. The guy’s actually not a bad sounding board.” He’d have to remember that for future thorny cases. 

Ziva deflected, “I do not have any cherries in the fridge.”

Tony returned, “That wouldn’t stop a true parlor trick magician like yourself.”

Her face reformed in an expression that always intrigued him. A cat devising the perfect trap for her prey. It didn’t surprise him when she stretched her leg out, straddling his lap properly. He circled her low back, drawing her hips over him and generating a spark of friction. There was extra verve in her fingers burrowing the short hairs at his nape, tipping his head upwards. 

“You must really want me to—”

Ziva covered his lips with hers, swallowing his words as they melted to moans. Instead of continuing hot and heavy, everything slowed. Each kiss long and needy, a continuous caress. Her heady spice invaded his senses. The tip of her tongue slipped by his teeth, running the roof of his mouth before pushing in further.

Tony’s spine straightened at the sensation of tongue against tongue, the rough texture, the strokes and flicks. He gripped whatever part of her was in his reach, would likely leave marks. She didn’t flinch. She was all around him, practically tying him in a knot. 

It was exactly how he imagined it, but also superior.

He was smiling when they broke apart, breath imperative for them both. “Your ingenuity is an inspiration, Ms. David.” 

Ziva winked, leaning forward to kiss him again, a casual closed-lipped peck in the wake of such an intimate encounter. And he knew, no matter what came of leading the team, he wanted this—them—to survive. 

“Now you must honor your part of the deal, Tony.” 

“Whatever you say,” he agreed, flipping her onto the cushion and following her down for round three.

. . .

The next day, Tony waited at his car in the parking lot for his team to arrive. He walked into the building with them, and didn’t check the clock in the mornings ever again. 

He apologized to McGee, which just freaked out the newly-appointed Senior Field Agent. As Tony predicted, the Nutter Butter made all the difference. 

By the end of the week, he brought Special Agent Lee onto the team because there was symmetry in four and they needed a probie to act as a buffer. Plus, she was good at meeting case report deadlines and Tony wasn’t.

He doubled-up on campfires and went to Jenny for advice more often. Palmer, too. 

The team went out for drinks, occasionally inviting him to join. Occasionally not. 

A month later, he and Ziva started keeping their love in each other’s hearts along with spare clothes in one another’s dressers. Soon, there would be no sense hiding them anymore. 

And when someone asked Tony how leading his own team was going, he said, “Our results speak for themselves,” and meant it. 

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, leaving you in charge, you wore the crown and made it your own. 

fin

#tiva fanfiction #ncis fanfiction #tat fic #and you don't have to catch up on eight chapters of WIP to read this one!! #tony dinozzo #ziva david

[labyrinth-runner]

sfdz;gdflkgfhgi I forgot to include my caveat. I wanted 4, Obidala, with Padme being the CEO for 50 days sorry sorry 💖

50 Days of Fics: Day 46

Hehe good byeeee dresses.

Prompt: I organize a petition to get you, the ceo, to live off of my wage for three months and since it’s getting media attention, your PR manager suggests you accept the challenge and you keep coming into my department to ask me how to do things

Obi-Wan was tired of watching the CEO walk in every morning in her flashy dresses with her personal assistants trailing after her. He was especially tired as he struggled to pay that month’s rent yet again.

He looked around at his fellow workers and thought up a terrible idea. What if she had to take a walk on the other side? He spoke up, getting his coworkers on board. They were all in the same position that he was. They needed to make them understand that they were not paying them a livable wage in Coruscant. The petition was leaked before Obi-Wan could bring it to the CEO, but he never expected to become a sensation overnight. 

He was giving speeches on the steps of the building about the petition as the CEO was hounded on her way in the next day. He was still out there as she made it to her office. She stood at the window, watching him.

“Versé, this is a nightmare,” Padmé sighed.

“I know they say any exposure is good exposure, but this is decidedly a PR nightmare,” her head of PR said.

Padmé rubbed her temples as she sighed. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Honestly, boss? I’d do it. I’ve skimmed the petition. It’s just three months and they’re allowing you to pay your rent ahead of time so you don’t lose your apartment. You just...” Versé trailed off as she tried to break it to her gently.

“I just what?” Padmé asked.

“You can’t live in your apartment. You have to swap homes with one of the workers for the three months to truly try and live on their salary,” Versé explained.

“So, paying their rent as well as mine? And then living in someone else’s home?” she sighed. This was all too much. However, she couldn’t let her image suffer. “Fine. Who should I swap places with?”

“Perhaps this Obi-Wan Kenobi. He has become the face of it all,” Versé offered. She handed Padmé his personnel file for her to look over. 

Padmé took the file and skimmed as she looked out at the man who was single-handedly ruining her life right now. “Alright,” she sighed. She chucked the file onto her desk and made her way back outside to the growing crowd.

“CEO Amidala! What do you have to say about this?” A reporter called out as Padmé came to a halt next to Kenobi.

“I say that I have never been one to back down from a challenge. I’m not about to stop now. I accept the terms of their proposal,” she held her hand out to Kenobi. “Starting tomorrow, we swap lives.”

Obi-Wan looked at her in interest. He could tell that her prize-winning smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to do this, he mused. He just backed her into a corner, and this was her biting back. Well, so be it. It would be interesting to say the least.  He took her hand and shook it, turning to smile at the cameras as they took the photo that would seal their fate. There was no turning back now.

Padmé spent the rest of the day getting her affairs in order, even talking to the accountants about what expenses she would have to forgo for the next quarter, like dry cleaning, maid services, and eating out. They helped her set up a budget. As they left, she sighed. She was hoping she hadn’t bit off more than she could chew.

She woke the next morning with her suitcases waiting by her front door to move into Kenobi’s apartment. She gave one last wistful look at her home before she left. Instead of taking a town car to work like she usually did, she had to take the subway. It took her forever to maneuver through the turnstile with her luggage. She ended up missing her train and groaned. She sat on her luggage as she waited. This was already off to a great start.

Kenobi kept an eye out for his boss. When she didn’t show up on time, he was worried that she’d decided to back out. He went upstairs to ask his assistant where she was and they told him she’d missed her train trying to get the luggage through the turnstiles. He groaned, rubbing his temples. Had no one ever told her that she could go through the gate? He sighed. Of course not. She had probably never taken the subway before in her life. 

Padmé finally walked into the building an hour later. She’d missed two conference calls and she desperately needed a coffee. 

“Cordé, can you get me a latte from down the street?” she asked as she breezed into her office.

“Miss, you know I can’t. That violates your budget,” her assistant replied.

Padmé sighed. “Of course. Well. What can I do instead?”

“There’s a coffee maker in the break room.”

She nodded, dropping her coat on the rack and parking her luggage next to it. She made her way down to the break room to find the coffee pot was empty. Padmé opened the lid, trying to analyze where everything went. 

“There’s coffee in the top, but why isn’t it in the bottom?” she asked.

Obi-Wan was walking by when he noticed her struggling. He was going to just continue on by, but sighed. It was his fault she was in this mess anyways. He felt responsible for her.

“Need a hand?” he asked as he entered the room.

“I can do this!” she shot back, fidgeting with the coffee maker to make it seem like she knew what she was doing. She fooled no one.

He shook his head at her and came over. “If the grounds are wet then you need to replace them because they’re old.”

Obi-Wan took the piece out and dumped the grinds, explaining everything he did as he went alone. “The coffee is kept up in this cabinet. You fill it to about this line in the filter. Then, you put it back in and make sure it has water. If it doesn't, just use some tap water to fill it. Next, you press this button and let it run. It takes about five minutes to brew a full pot.”

“Thank you,” Padmé said quietly.

“I know you missed the train. Next time, ask to use the gates when you have luggage,” he replied.

She sighed. “This isn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. I’ve been... out of touch with this side of things for a while.”

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“Whenever you find yourself stumpe or struggling, you can call me and I’ll help however I can,” he replied. 

“You’d do that for me?” she asked in awe.

He looked down at the coffee pot. “It’s done. Cream is in the fridge, sugar is in the cupboard above the sink.”

Padmé watched him leave before making her cup of coffee. It didn’t taste terrible.

At the end of the day, she and Obi-Wan swapped keys and addresses before parting ways.

“Call your house when you get to my apartment,” Obi-Wan told her before they left. “I want to make sure you get there safely.” She kept replaying his words in her head on the train ride to his house. He didn’t need to care about her like that, but he did. It was touching. She unlocked the door to his apartment. It was quaint and clean. Very monochromatic in design. She snooped through his things, opening various cabinets and closets. She smiled as she opened the fridge. With a shake of her head, she called him.

“You went shopping for me?” she asked with a smile.

“I figured I’d give you an idea of what kind of things you could buy on your budget,” he replied. He was glad she couldn’t see him, because he was blushing. “Your apartment is quite nice. I’m sure mine is a horrific downgrade in comparison.” “Nonsense. It’s cozy. It’s perfect for our little experiment.”

“Is that all this is to you? An experiment to see if you could hack it?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do you even understand the reasons behind it?”

“Of course. You’re trying to prove a point that you need to be paid more,” she replied.

Obi-Wan sighed. She wasn’t wrong, but he hoped she would have more of a good sense to realize that it was more than just that. “Precisely. Well. Goodnight, Ms. Amidala.”

Padmé felt her heart thump at his tone. Had she offended him? “Good night, Mr. Kenobi. Enjoy my mattress.”

She hung up and turned back to the apartment. She was hungry, but she wasn’t quite sure how to use his stove, so she decided to make a sandwich instead. Padmé ate her sad meal before crawling off to sleep.

After a week of sandwiches, she finally got enough courage to ask him how to use the stove. He had laughed at her when she had asked at work, but came home with her nevertheless and taught her how to use it. She made pasta for the first time, and was surprised that it actually came out nicely. While he was there he also showed her how to use the oven.

“Well, there you go,” Obi-Wan replied, going to pick up his jacket.

“Wait. You don’t have to leave. I can’t eat all of this by myself,” she replied.

He hesitated for a moment and came back to share her meal with her. It wasn’t quite how he would have made it, but it was good for a first try.

After two weeks passed, she had run out of food. All she had left was a single egg. She had her budget, but as she walked around the supermarket, she was surprised by how expensive everything she had wanted to buy was. With a sigh, she called him and he came over to help her shop. 

The weeks passed by and they interacted more and more as she learned how to be self-sufficient again. The worst of it had been her experience washing her own clothes... they had shrunk and she needed him to bring over some more so that she had something to wear. She opened the door in a pair of his sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt.

“Oh, thank goodness! I don’t know what happened. I followed the instructions on the bottles,” she explained.

“But did you follow the instructions on the clothes?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “The clothes have instructions?”

“The clothes have instructions,” he chuckled.

She sighed. “Why is everything so hard?”

He smiled softly and hugged her. “You’ll get the hang of it. If you can run a multi-million dollar company, you can run your own life.”

She rested her forehead against his chest. “You’re right.”

As if she suddenly realized the position they were in, she pulled back and cleared her throat. “Well, thank you for bringing me clothes. I apologize for wearing yours.”

“Don’t. They look good on you,” he smirked before leaving. 

Padmé blushed as he left.

The rest of their happy experiment went well, to the point where by the end of it, she didn’t actually need him around. However, she’d make up excuses to ask him over. He caught on fairly quickly to her schemes, though. On the last night of the three months, they sat on the fire escape of Obi-Wan’s apartment, wrapping in one of his blankets.

“Well? What did you learn?” he asked, leaning his head against hers.

“I learned that this really isn’t a livable wage and that I need to increase it,” she replied. “I also learned how to become more self-sufficient. “

“Mhmmmm,” he murmured.

“And... I learned that I might have to fill out some human resource requests,” she murmured.

He looked at her in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“In order to date an employee, I have to report it to HR,” she replied with a small smile.

His eyes widened at her implication. “Me?”

“I mean, if you want to,” she said, recovering, “I know you probably just helped me out of obligation.”

“I mean, yes, at first, but I’d be lying if I said you hadn’t grown on me,” he smirked, pulling her closer to his side.

“I’m glad you challenged me to do this,” she replied, nuzzling into his side.

“You and me both,” he replied.

#50 days of fics #day 46 #obidala

[screamingatanemptyroom]

Restricted Magic Arc 3 Part 5

Hey guys, this past week has been one of the worst I’ve had in a while. I haven’t even had time to write, which is unfortunately one of my few outlets when I’m stressed out. Fortunately I got a few spare hours tonight and was able to write the next part, which I’ve really wanted to get out of my head for a while now. Anyways, enough of that stuff, here’s the next part. I enjoyed writing it, so I hope everyone else enjoys it as well.

Link to master post here. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

General Roderick smiled, the expression, although normal appearing, caused nothing but dread for Erin, who could see it was not reflected in his eyes. Every breath he took seemed to steal the oxygen from the room. Erin felt suffocated, desperate to escape but her only path to freedom was through him.

She forced her face to remain calm, carefully hiding all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her with just the sight of her father.

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time.” She responded politely, but still rejected his request. His eyes narrowed, and Erin felt herself break out in a cold sweat as the sense of being near death was present.

“You rejected my summons.”

“I didn’t think we had anything to talk about.” Erin was struggling to maintain her composure, but succeeded.

“Good.” His smile broadened, and he chuckled, the sound raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “You’ve grown a backbone.”

With that he pushed past her, the slightest brush of his hand on her arm making Erin want to jump out of her skin, and sat on a chair at one side of her room. His posture was relaxed, casual, but nothing could obscure the sharp sense of purpose that hung around him. He was not someone to idly visit.

“Unfortunately you are wrong, however, we have a great deal to discuss.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Erin stayed where she was, considering her options.

He had stopped blocking the door, she could run away. She could ignore him and remain standing, able to flee at a moment’s notice.

…

She could kill him.

Erin felt all the hatred and rage she felt towards him surge through her, screaming silently in her head to kill the man in front of her. The man who tortured her. The man who threatened her friends and loved ones.

The man who murdered her mother.

She had gained a great deal of power and experience lately, perhaps if she surprised him…

General Roderick stared at her silently as she struggled, before throwing his head back and laughing.

At the sound of genuine amusement, Erin was startled. When had she ever heard him make a sound like that before? As she puzzled over this, however, his next words terrified her to her core:

“Hasty.” He stopped laughing, his face disappointed.  “You have been many things over the years, child, but hasty is not one of them. You’ll never achieve your goal at this rate.”

He hadn’t moved, but it felt like he was holding a knife to her throat. Erin swallowed uncomfortably, wanting to back up but unable to.

“Goal?” She was proud of how unconcerned her voice sounded.

“What do you know of the origin of magic?” Changing the topic abruptly, he leaned forward, his gaze focused.

“The origin?” Erin shook her head. “Magic has always been here. As far as I know, it didn’t originate from anywhere.”

The corners of her father’s lips tipped up. “Right and wrong. Magic has always been here, but it has not always been in the form we are used to.”

Erin sat down, confused.

“Currently, magic is separated into different types, different levels. It makes it easy to determine the strong from the weak. Magic is filtered, allowing easy access and use, and the current world as we know it is kept safe.” General Roderick’s expression was mocking. “But it was not always that way. Pure magic not restricted by any  level or type once existed. A magic with the power to change the world.”

Erin’s mouth was dry, her palms sweating, she swallowed carefully. “Why are you telling me this?”

“…” He stared at her in silence once again, seemingly contemplating something. “Did you tell your aunt about our upcoming trip?”

“Wha…?” Erin felt the blood drain from her face.

“If you haven’t yet, make sure you do.” He grinned maliciously. “She won’t react well. She doesn’t want you finding out the truth.”

Nothing in this conversation was making sense. She shook her head and remained silent.

“Well, whether you tell her or not, you will go to Merion.” He stood up, causing Erin to quietly sigh with relief as his gaze left her own.

“As your father and as a representative of our military, I will be traveling with your team. Of course, this will include meeting with Christopher and his family while we are in the country. He is your fiancé after all.”

Despite the overwhelming fear she felt at his presence, a  small flame of anger bloomed. “I’m not marrying him.”

Her father frowned. “What did you say?”

At his intense stare, Erin felt enormous pressure and was having trouble breathing, but she still glared at him and responded loudly.

“I am not marrying that man.”

“…” There was a moment of silence, followed by laughter.

General Roderick held his sides, shaking his head slowly as his amused appearance slowly faded.

“Engagement is sufficient for my purposes at this time. I have no need for you to actually marry him in the end, but the engagement must continue for now.”

“I will not…”

“I have already compromised, child.” His eyes were cold. “Do not push me further. Otherwise, you will not be the only one to suffer consequences. What’s the name of that boy that follows you around?”

Erin’s blood ran cold.

“Don’t you dare…”

“Gerald, correct?”

A loud cracking sound resounded from the walls around them, but it was ignored.

“No…”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed at her obvious anger. “Perhaps I should pay him a visit next?” Tapping his chin gently, he continue with a cruel smile. “I wonder if he’ll remain as devoted to you once I start to tear him apart piece by piece.”

“… enough.” The tortured words escaped from her lips as a whisper.

The world around them tore apart as Erin snapped, her already tenuous control on her emotions slipping from her grasp. The walls and ceiling exploded outward, flames bursting from every pore of her skin. She could see nothing but flames, feel nothing but rage. She briefly noted the building falling apart around her, incinerating into ashes.

 “Foolish.” Her father walked forward, a sphere of wind protecting him from her magic, and reached out to grab her, lifting her in the air  by the neck.

Feeling her air supply cutting off, she struggled briefly, but it was like striking against a mountain. She couldn’t reach her amulet to tear it off, and restricted, she didn’t have a chance.

“For all those years I was so disappointed. I thought you were soft, weak, like your mother.” He looked at her still burning form. “But look at you now, bursting at the seams with power, although… artificially restricted? Is it that woman’s work?” His eyes gleamed with interest. “Just how powerful are you?”

Erin made a dagger out wind and tried to stab him but he simply avoided it by dropping her to the ground.

“I was wrong, which does not happen often.”

Erin stood up, preparing to attack, but his next words stopped her in her tracks.

“All this time I thought you took after your mother. But here you are. A killer.”

Erin reached out toward him again her face drawn back in a snarl. Roderick stepped backwards, avoiding her grasp.

“Who would have thought that in the end, you would end up being just like me.” He smiled and walked out of the room.

“We will talk again.”

With that he was gone, leaving Erin kneeling on ground amidst the ashes of what had been her room, her body still as a statue, her eyes staring blankly at nothing.

“Where is she?” Gerald muttered anxiously to himself, searching around the school grounds. After she hadn’t returned from leaving to contact her aunt, he had slowly become worried, going to her dorm to check on her.

Instead, he found a crater where her rooms used to be. The walls, the ceiling, her furniture, all of it was gone, burned to ashes which still coated the ground and floated in the air.

She wasn’t there.

Seeing signs of a fight but no clues to her location, Gerald began wandering, hoping to run into her. After some fruitless effort, he had an idea, and started making his way deeper into the forest, towards the lake.

Maybe she would go there.

The place he had taken her after her father had first told her he would force her to get married.

The place where they had played with water magic, forgetting about the unforgiving world around them.

The place where they had first kissed.

As he moved closer to his destination, Gerald began to sense a strong illusion barrier, similar to the type that Elsinore had used during their individual training.

“Erin.” He whispered her name to himself. She really was here. Filled with purpose, he started moving forward again.

“Where are you going?” A voice called out, stopping him in his tracks.

Gerald turned, a frown on his face. “Christopher.”

The other young man smiled, the sunlight reflecting in his eyes making the gold in his irises even more prominent.

“Can I come?”

“No.” Gerald sighed. “I’m a little busy right now. Please leave me alone.”

“Look, Gary.”

“It’s Gerald.”

“Whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You’re looking for Erin, right? I need to find her too. She and I haven’t spoken yet. She’s just avoiding me.”

“That’s her right to do so.” Gerald’s voice was cold.

Christopher rolled his eyes. “But we’re getting married. The LEAST she can do is talk to me before then.”

“Now’s not a good time…” Taking a deep breath, Gerald tried to hold in his anger.

“It’s not your business to tell me that.” His normally carefree face becoming serious, Christopher stepped forward. “I’m the one marrying her. Not you. Get used to it. Now where is that girl hiding? This way?” He started walking towards the barrier. Towards the place that held so much significance in Gerald’s heart. 

“No.”

“What…?” Christopher turned to ask, but had no time to react as Gerald punched him in the face.

The young man stumbled back, clutching his nose, blood pouring between his fingers.

“A man can only take so much.” Gerald face was expressionless. “Push too hard, go too far… hurt her… and I’ll kill you.”

Christopher tried to talk, but Gerald interrupted again. “I have level 5 insight.”

Christopher’s eyes were wide with shock.

“I know exactly what you are.”

“…” He seemed to stunned to speak.

Gerald sighed. “Go to sleep, before I change my mind about taking you out.” He snapped his fingers, and his opponent’s face grew pale as the blood in his neck slowed its flow and reversed back towards his heart. Christopher’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed to ground, unconscious.

Gerald released his magic and without looking back, stepped into the barrier.

It was Hell.

The trees around the lake had been scorched, many crushed into a pulp. The earth had large divets in it, the water raising up in enormous waves and crashing down onto the shore. It was a scene of chairs, of destruction.

And within this crumbling world, Erin fought her demons.

She flashed around the clearing, her form moving faster than the eye could see. A blade of wind in one hand, and a blade of fire in the other, she fought desperately, striking out with everything she had. Gerald could see her fighting style was different than normal. It disregarded all defense, only focusing on attacking, on dealing damage.

She fought like she wanted to die and take the world down with her.

As for opponent… Gerald looked at the familiar figure, and sighed.

It was a spitting image of General Roderick, matching her speed and power hit for hit, never losing his composure for an instant.

It was also an illusion.

“Erin!” He called out, trying to catch her attention.

“…” She ignored him, continuing to fight.

“ERIN!”

“…”

He walked within arm’s reach and tried to touch her shoulder.

“ERI…”

Erin spun around, placing both blades against his next with a animal like snarl. She held the pose for a moment, and recognizing him, slumped.

“Gerald?” Her eyes, filled with rage and bloodthirst, slowly drained until all that was left was pain. The swords in her hands dissolved, the burns and welts left on her hands evidence of how tightly she had been grasping them.

He reached forward, pulling her tightly into his arms. “I’m here.”

Slowly, shaking, her arms wrapped around him as well.

“…” Gerald wanted to ask, but knew she wasn’t ready, so he held her quietly. To his surprise, however, she volunteered the information herself.

“He was here.”

Gerald thought it over, surprised. “Your father? Why?”

“I… I’m not sure. He’s planning something. It has to do with Merion… and Christopher. But I don’t know what.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been screaming.

“Should we not go?” Gerald reasonably suggested.

“I don’t know, but he seemed to know that Aunt Elsinore didn’’t approve of me going there.” She shook her head. “I’m missing too much information.”

His arms tightened. “We’ll figure it out, together.”

Erin sighed. “Together.”

“Then we can focus on what’s TRULY important.” Gerald grinned. “Our wedding.”

“…” He expected Erin to grin back, but instead she only had a look of pain. “Gerald?”

“Yes?”

“Am I… Could I…” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Am I like my father?”

“A murdering psychopath?” Gerald didn’t hesitate. “No, why?”

“… You’re sure?”

“Are you insulting my taste in women?” Gerald laughed, gently kissing her forehead. “I don’t know what he said to you, but he doesn’t matter. You know who you are.”

Erin looked up at him, conflicted. “Do I?”

Gerald nodded. “And if you forget, I’ll remind you.

“…” She stared silently, until he awkwardly stepped back.

“Something on my face?” He rubbed his chin with an uncomfortable chuckle.

She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “I love you.”

He froze into place, shocked. After a few too long moments, Erin shook his shoulder with a confused expression. He shook himself, seeming to gather his thoughts.

“Sorry, I thought I might have died or was still asleep or something.”

Erin chuckled, shaking her head. “Idiot.”

He reached over, pulling her tight and kissing her deeply.

“Love you too.”

Now it was her turn to be shocked. He laughed loudly pulling her hand and leading her in the direction of the school.

“Come on, we have revenge to plan, an international trip to organize, an evil plot to foil, a wedding to arrange…”

“Don’t forget exams.” Erin interjected.

Gerald groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

#writing #Erin/Gerald #part 5 #drama #magic #fighting #romance #the story continues #real life sucks sometimes #it's been rough #but I'm making it through

[hayjeon]

So Sour (ft. Yoongi)

Genre: fluff, neighbor!au/e2l ft. a grumpy yoongi

w/n: omg an anon sent in such an adorable request I couldn’t help myself!!! Enjoy! :)

“What the fuck,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at the distinct splash of browns and yellows littering your newly fertilized soils. The unmistakable swirl of dried lemon leaves flutter around in the wind, getting caught everywhere and being pushed into a corner of your beautiful succulent backyard.

You’d worked absolutely so hard to make this backyard be exactly how you’d dreamed it. Beautifully pruned flowers to one side, and the rest of the yard decorated with low maintenance succulents and cacti, painstakingly placed and grown with care and love. You’d finally been able to afford your own place and had found this gem of a small house for yourself, and you were determined to make it a successful first home experience.

But your neighbors fucking lemons weren’t helping. The long branches of the ancient tree drooped over the brick wall separating your and his backyard, spilling right over your cactus corner, the dried leaves that inevitably fell off always getting caught in the spines of your precious babies and making you prick yourself when you took it upon yourself to actually take them out by hand.

You finish off your coffee with a groan, rolling your eyes. What a way to start your Saturday. It was finally the weekend and you’d always started your weekend mornings like this, sipping your homemade coffee, gazing out into your backyard and admiring your own hard work and thinking of other ways to improve it. But whenever your eyes settle on that damn pain in the ass lemon tree it sours your mood. Pun intended.

“Oh well,” you hum, stepping outside and padding over to water your flowers. “Today is the day!”

Today was the day that your Echonopsis cactus, the one that blooms a single flower once a year, was going to bloom it’s beautiful petals. The tiny little bud had been growing out of the side of the stem, and you’d watched it balloon out to be the size of your fist like a baby maturing into adulthood, and now you were finally ready to see it after months of waiting and painstakingly pruning.

You hum contentedly as you turn on a podcast and let the nice music filter through your screen door from inside and make sure to add a few more drops of nutrients into the water before grabbing gloves so you can remove those damn lemon tree leaves from your babies.

You’re eye level, trying not to prick yourself as you fish out crackly brown things from between spines, when it happens.

It’s almost like in slow motion, your entire face going numb as you watch the breeze blow particularly hard, knock a couple of branches together, and a ripe bright yellow lemon falls in a diagonal straight toward your precious cactus.

The fragile little bud has no strength against a monstrous fat lemon headed straight for it, and the two collide and the lemon drops unharmed to the ground while the precious bud hangs by a single green thread from its branch.

Your eyes widen and you yell out words that shouldn’t be said in front of plants, much less in public.

“Fucking mother of hell, you bitchass piece of absolute bullshit!” You hiss, scrambling forward and cradling the delicate dead bud in your hands. You can see in the inside that it’s a gorgeous bright blue, a color so outrageously rare in nature that makes you even more pissed off as you glare at the shitty fruit in the dirt. You stomp on it, heading straight for your shed. “That’s it,” you mutter, “in this state whatever crosses over is considered mine so I’m gonna fucking cut it the fuck off!”

Yoongi wakes up on a goddam Saturday morning at 9:36 AM. He takes a look at the red numbers on his clock and groans, rolling over and shutting his eyes. It was way too early for this.

But as he tries to go back to sleep, he realizes what’s wrong, and what woke him up. His bedroom is right next to the backyard, and he suddenly hears anguished grunts and mutters, and the distinct snapping sound of garden shears. He rolls his eyes, and just closes the window passive-aggressively, and goes back to sleep. 

But as he continues to try to sleep, there’s an odd feeling in the back of his mind, and so he bolts out of bed and makes a sprint for his backyard door. 

“There,” you sigh, dropping the shears and dusting off your hands. “All clean.”

All clean it was, there was a distinct invisible vertical line going straight up the center of the brick wall all the way up to the sky, in which one side was nothing and the other was thick lemon tree branches. You’d literally cut through leaves and even left a lemon half sliced and dripping in your effort to make a damn statement. Not a single leaf was gonna make its way over to your space. Ever.

You smile at the results, and put all the tools back, and stand there admiring the work you’d done when you’re disturbed by a horrible presence that literally crawls out of the backdoor of the adjacent house. 

“What the fuck?!” The thing snarls, stumbling out and wincing at the bright sunlight to where he sees his lemon tree mangled practically in half. “What the hell did you do to my tree you bitch!?” 

“Well, good morning to you too!” You snarl back, crossing your arms. “I’d been sending you notes to trim your damn lemon tree for weeks, and you kept ignoring me, and now your damn lemons keep dropping onto my precious garden and ruining all the hard work!” 

“I’m going to sue,” he threatens, and it’s kind of funny, because over the brick wall, all you can see is his neck and his chin sticking up from the red stone, and the horrible expression he glares at you with. So this was the neighbor. 

“You can’t,” you taunt, and you don’t really know why you’re being so difficult and rude, but he started it first didn’t he? He was the one who never took care of his damn lemon tree, and from the looks of it, his entire backyard and his bed head too, and had called you a bitch as soon as he’d stepped out of his damn home. “In the state, it’s law that any part of your tree that comes over into my property is now considered mine. So I can do whatever I want with it. Which includes chopping it all off and throwing all those shitty fruits away.” 

He glares at you. “I was saving those fruits for my nieces! They wanted to make a lemonade stand.” 

You soften a bit, but the situation had kind of bulldozed out of hand. “Well,” You jut out your chin, “They’re gonna have to make lemonade with the lemons on your side of the wall, because I already threw away all of the ones that you neglected to take care of.” 

Wrong, you’d collected them and made a nice pile in the fruit basket. But he didn’t need to know that.

You turn, and leave the steaming neighbor glowering at you as you step into your home and shut the glass sliding door with a little more force than necessary. 

You pull into your driveway, head swiveling as your chin drops. The bastard wasn’t lying. 

In front of his house is a tiny little stand, and two of the cutest little girls you’d ever seen in your life selling lemonade in the hot sun. Two of your other neighborhood elderly people had showed up and were currently taking some from the girls. You sigh, and put your car in park, turning off the engine and making your way over your lawn to the other side. 

Thankfully, the guy you saw wasn’t in sight, so you approach the two girls with a big smile, squatting down to their level. “Hi girls,” you smile sweetly, “What are you selling lemonade for?” 

One of them gives you a quick look over and whispers something to the other. They both frown at you, and one pipes up, “Are you the mean old lady who chopped down half of Yoongi uncle’s tree?” 

Yoongi, you seethe, internally rolling your eyes at the immaturity of your damn neighbor. 

“No,” you smile sweetly, “I’m not old, I’m young enough to be your aunty!” 

One of them frowns, holding the jug of lemonade away from you. “You can’t buy from us.” She says, sticking out her lower lip petulantly. “Uncle Yoongi said that you stole lemons from him and you’re a lonely grouch. No lemons for grouchy people.” 

You grit your teeth, standing up and smiling sweetly at them before you walk back towards your own place. Grumbling, you set your purse down and glare at the bowl of lemons sitting there on your table. 

It wasn’t like you were gonna use them anyway....and even if his neice’s were as bratty and immature as he was, it didn’t sit right with you to feel like you’d just stolen their breakfast and their money. You roll your eyes, sighing as you grab the bowl and march right back over to the front door, ignoring the stares you get from the girls. 

You bang on his door loudly, until you hear some thundering steps with a grumpy, “I’m coming, I’m coming, jeez!” and the door bangs open with a thud. 

Yoongi stands in the doorway with a bored expression, which falls into a grimace as soon as he sets his eyes on you. You return the gesture, giving him the worst smile you’d ever created in your life. 

“What do you want?” He sneers, leaning against his doorframe. 

Today, he looks a bit different. Instead of the bed head and grouchy appearance you saw crawling out yesterday morning, it was a much cleaner man you were standing in front of. He was dressed nicely in some ripped blue jeans, a black t-shirt and some slippers. His hair was better combed and styled nicely and his face clean and shaven. If you hadn’t met him in the worst way possible, you would have admitted that he was actually, quite attractive after all. 

You frown at his tone. “Here,” You thrust out your arms with the bowl of lemons.

He crinkles his nose at it. “What is this?” 

“Lemons, you moron,” you quip, shoving it into his arms. “I didn’t throw it away. I thought you were lying about the lemonade thing to just make me feel bad. Didn’t think you’d actually be telling the truth.”

He smirks at you, rolling his eyes. “Do I look like I would lie about children?” 

You curl your lip at him. “Well, our first meeting wasn’t that great, seeing how you crawled out of your back door like Gollum and proceeded to call me bitch.” 

He shrugs. “Well, you deserved it. You cut down my tree.” 

“Well you ignored all my notes.” 

“I don’t check the mail that often okay? Usually if I’m expecting packages I just have them drop it off at my door.” 

“Anyway, whatever. It’s done. As long as you keep trimming your tree, I won’t do anything. But tell your nieces not to hate me.” 

He grins, making you roll your eyes. “What’d they say?” 

“They çalled me the mean old lady who chopped down their tree. First of all, I am not old,” you seethe at the way he keeps smiling like an ass-eating idiot. “I’m probably even younger than you. Second of all, I am not mean! I am a kindergarten teacher, for god’s sake. And third!” Your voice rises a bit at the way his smile doesn’t fade. “I am not a lonely grouch, thank you very much!” You glare at him with a chilling stare as he busts out in giggles and stomp all the way back to your own home, slamming the door loud enough that he can hear. But you can still hear him laughing. 

The next morning, though, when you step out of the house to go to work, there’s a covered jug of lemonade sitting on your door step, with a note attached to it. You lean down and read the sticky note, which has a scrawl that you can distinctly match to the prickly personality of your neighbor. 

For the mean old lonely grouch lady next door

You roll your eyes at the note and chuck it in your trash as you take the jug and store it in your fridge for later. Maybe the neighbor wasn’t exactly totally an idiot. Just maybe. 

#lol sorry for this #i know it sucks but #its been sitting here forever #drabbles #yoongi fics #yoongi fluff #bts fics #bts fluff #fics #writing

[angryhausfrau-writes]

Something Old and Something New - Chapter 2: California Dreaming

“Letter for you dear – it's from Hawkeye.”

BJ rushes to collect the letter from the kitchen table.

He and Hawkeye have been writing back and forth since they got home – Hawkeye since literally the day after he landed stateside – and they average several letters a month. Simple letters about simple lives. But each letter is a precious connection to the man he'd been best friends with in Korea – and BJ still feels the same fluttering excitement at this letter as he did the first.

He kisses Peg on the cheek, pours himself a drink, and retreats to his office. This is something to be savored.

And of course he'll tell Peg everything in the letter – Hawkeye always includes plenty of amusing gossip – but BJ likes that first read through or five to be his alone. Likes to let the rest of the world fall away, let the sounds of his wife and children and the steady thrum of the washing machine be muffled by the closed door and the haze of memory and pretend it's just him and Hawkeye alone in the Swamp again.

BJ settles back in his chair and lets the sense of anticipation build as he slides the letter opener between the flaps of the envelope. He's taken to keeping all of Hawkeye's letters in a box in his office and he likes to keep everything intact, just the way Hawkeye sent it. Trying to hold as much of Hawkeye here with him as he can.

But it's difficult, what with hundreds of miles between them. With lives and jobs and responsibilities.

With families.

BJ had spent all of his time in Korea hoping and dreaming and aching to be back with his family. Back with Peg, the love of his life. Back with Erin, who he hardly knew – who he'd been torn away from. Kept from watching and helping through all those firsts – first word, first step, first tooth.

They've made up for it since then, BJ being there for a whole new slew of firsts – first day at preschool, first ride on the Ferris wheel, first time going swimming. And with another baby in the house, he'd more than made up for all the diapers he'd missed changing, all the waking in the middle of the night for episodes of colic, all the messy terrible wonder of it all.

He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

And that's saying nothing of Peg - his wife, his partner, the woman he loves to death. The woman who'd kept him afloat through the worst parts of his life. Been a buoy through the overwhelming deluge of residency. Been a tether to home through the turbulence of the Korean war.

BJ loves her so much it hurts.

But he finds himself missing Hawkeye, too. In the quiet of the evening, when Peg and the kids have gone up to bed and BJ's had a few drinks and he's just the right side of sloppily nostalgic, he lets himself ache for the breathless Korean summer nights when it was so hot you were glued to your cot but too warm to even think about sleeping. Nights when he'd lain awake with Hawkeye awake across the tent from him. Not talking, not even looking at each other. But BJ so, so aware of Hawkeye laying there – shirtless and gleaming in the moonlight that filtered in through the open sides of the tent.

He aches for those nights, and for Hawkeye's uncomplicated presence in his life.

Not much about Hawkeye can be considered uncomplicated. But in those moments, when there were no expectations of each other, nothing voiced aloud – when they could just be with one another. BJ misses that. Misses that sense of peace, of understanding.

So each letter from Hawkeye – each line of connection stretching out between them – is precious. A reminder that their friendship is special. Something to be kept locked in BJ's heart alongside his love for Peg and his kids.

Don't get him wrong, BJ has plenty of other friends – fellow professors at Stanford, old college buddies. His motorcycle club. And there's a few guys in the club who remind him of Hawkeye, actually. But it's not the same. And when BJ gets drunk enough to turn maudlin – the kind of drunk that sees him sleeping in the guest bedroom instead of with Peg – he can admit to himself that he wishes Hawkeye was here with him.

They'd been such a large part of each other's lives – practically joined at the hip twenty-four seven for over a year. And then Hawkeye had just been gone. On the opposite side of the country and living his own life.

His life without BJ. And with Trapper.

So many of Hawkeye's early letters talked incessantly about that smarmy bastard. And, BJ knows logically, it makes sense that Hawkeye would talk about him. After all, they live together.

 Trapper   gets to be in Hawkeye's life everyday.  Trapper   doesn't have to communicate solely through letters for over a year – with only one too short, too confusing visit to tide him over until the next time he can plausibly go see Hawkeye.  Trapper   gets to have some weird domestic little setup with Hawkeye – like they're fucking married or something. Cooking for each other and keeping house together and-.

BJ is jealous as hell.

And it had bled into his letters to Hawkeye. All BJ's jealousy and resentment and longing had been too much to hide. And it had come out in angry, snide little jabs at Trapper - at Trapper's character and opinions and abilities as a surgeon.

 Eventually, Hawkeye must have gotten sick of it because he'd stopped writing about Trapper at all. There's holes now in all his letters where Trapper used to live. It's not exactly better – BJ knows Trapper is still in Hawkeye's life. But the childish, jealous,  mean   part of him is glad he doesn't have it shoved in his face anymore.

Until now, anyway. Because Trapper's all over Hawkeye's latest letter.

--

Trapper gets all the way through his letters to Max and Radar and Father Mulcahy by the time Hawkeye finishes his letter to BJ.

And part of it is that Hawkeye's just more verbose than Trapper – both out loud and in writing. Trapper's letters during the war were always pretty short and not overly flowery. Whereas Hawkeye can spin a yarn to rival the Homeric epics – and enjoys doing so when he's got an appreciative audience. Trapper's girls, for instance.

But part of it is that writing to BJ takes careful thought. Strategy. An intimate knowledge of all of BJ's sore spots – and how to avoid them.

And BJ's biggest sore spot is Trapper. Which is unfortunate, because Trapper features pretty prominently in Hawkeye's life, for some reason. Like, oh, they're living together.

Sure, Hawkeye has other friends. And Trapper does too. But at the end of the day, they're in each other's lives nearly constantly. Trapper's family is Hawkeye's family and Hawkeye's is Trapper's. They spend an awful lot of time together, even without their relationship coming into things. And it gets pretty difficult writing about his life without mentioning Trapper at all.

But if Hawkeye mentions Trapper, then BJ gets huffy. And it's no fun writing a guy who makes the rude kind of sarcastic comments about your lover best friend partner. So Hawkeye's taken to editing him out. Explicit mentions, anyway – cuz there's no real way to completely remove Trapper from his life, they're just too intertwined for that to be possible.

And it's not like Hawkeye really wants to try that hard, anyway. It's BJ's problem that he can't handle Hawkeye having another “best friend.” But still, tact is required – so he starts the letter kind of easing into things.

 Dear BJ,

 I hope you and Peg and the kids are well.

 From you last letter, it sounds like Peg's keeping you plenty busy getting ready for Christmas – including getting you to buy a flocking gun. BJ, I thought you were a pacifist! All those months in Korea and you never touched a gun. And you get back home and what do you do? Open fire on a bunch of defenseless palm trees. (I'm joking, I know you're too far north for that. You live in the land of towering pines, as you keep reminding me with photos of your new house. It sure looks nice – maybe someday I'll even get to see it in person. It'd be nice to get a look at it without your thumb covering half the view.) At any rate, you made a great Father Christmas for all the orphanage kids, so you shouldn't disappoint at the Church pageant. Even if you are handicapped by your lack of mustache.

There, that ought to put BJ in a good mood. He loves talking about his family.

Unfortunately for BJ's equanimity, most of what Hawkeye's been up to this past week has involved Trapper and the girls. Still, a little careful editing of events (and pronouns) and Trapper's name doesn't need to be mentioned. After all, Hawkeye's trying to butter BJ up here, get him to go along with Trapper's gift idea, not put him in a snit.

Speaking of flocking - get your mind out of the gutter Beej, I know what jokes you're making to yourself - it's strange for this New England lad to imagine having to make fake snow. We've got enough of the real stuff around here to last until July. We were planning to go up to visit Dad around Thanksgiving like we did last year, since the kids enjoyed it so much, but a storm blew in and they closed the Boston to Maine line and we had to stay home. Still, the girls had a good time making snow forts in the back yard. And all of Kathy's experience as a softball champ really helped her whup our butts in a snowball fight – I don't think I've ever faced such a resounding defeat sportswise.

And then we made cookies to send to my dad to make up for not visiting. I've sent along a few for you and the family.  Because a little bribery never hurt anyone. Becky made one special for Peg on account of the new baby – it's the sort of oval one that's meant to be a baby in a manger. I hope you enjoy them. I had absolutely nothing to do with their creation – other than drinking hot chocolate and kibitzing while they were getting made – so they turned out pretty edible. The girls have really improved on their cookies since those first ones they shipped me in Korea. I think most of those ended up in the rock-skipping competition.

BJ must think Hawkeye's awfully full of himself, using the royal we so frequently. That or he realizes that Hawkeye actually means him and Trapper when he uses it but has decided it's not worth getting angry about that as long as Trapper's name goes unmentioned. BJ's drawn stranger lines in the sand.

So has Hawkeye, come to think of it. But it's frustrating to have to edit his life so much. He's already lying by omission to so many people about the truth of his relationship with Trapper. And it's not like Hawkeye doesn't understand the necessity of discretion – he doesn't actually want to get arrested – but to have to hide the truth of himself from his own best friend is hard.

But Hawkeye doesn't know how to broach the subject. Particularly when BJ's so touchy about everything Trapper. Maybe he'll have a chance to talk things through if he sees BJ in person – or at least ask why he's got his shirt in a knot ever since his visit last spring. Because he wasn't nearly so weird about things before then – content to ignore Hawkeye's mentions of Trapper rather than make snide comments about him. But Hawkeye can't interrogate him unless he actually shows up, so he'd better get to that part of the letter.

Speaking of terrible things from Korea, Charles's wedding is coming up in just six short months. Why we need that long of a heads up about it I'm sure I don't know – but then again, I'm not a beacon of class and taste. Or ridiculously loaded – whatever the impetus is there. Regardless, I heard through the grapevine that you've been invited to the wedding. Since I miraculously made the cut - along with several other members of the 4077 – I wanted to see if you'd planned on attending. I think the whole deal will be much more fun with as many of us miscreants as possible in attendance to balance out the stuffed shirts.

Anyway, if you're planning on going, we've got a little scheme you might be interested in. Charles is richer than rich and a snob to boot so we can't all get him something that he'd want individually – not without breaking the bank. But we – all us MASH guys - could all pitch in on something and get him a present he actually likes. And I had the idea of doing something sentimental, to really make sure he appreciates the gift and doesn't just open it right into the garbage can. And the idea of doing a quilt got suggested - and Margaret and Sidney and Steve are all for it - so I'm asking around to see if anyone else wants in. We're petitioning Max to take charge of the project – so expect a letter from Toledo. I don't know if you've already got a gift idea – or if you're planning on attending the wedding at all - but if you want in, the offer's open.

This next part, Hawkeye isn't one-hundred percent sure about. But when he'd asked Trapper what he thought of the idea, he'd just shrugged and said he's fine with whatever. Sometimes Hawkeye gets a little aggravated by how easy-going Trapper can be.

It's not that Hawkeye wants him to be jealous. Or for him to start a fight with BJ – the fight that BJ himself is clearly gunning for. But when he asks for Trapper's opinion, he honestly wants to hear it.

“C'mon, Trapper. I honestly want to hear your opinion.”

Trapper sighs. “Ok, fine. I just – I know BJ's your friend and I don't wanna badmouth him, you know? But I'm getting kinda tired of him getting all up-in-arms every time you so much as mention me. I tried to get along with him when he visited - and I thought I did a pretty good job of it - so I got no idea what I did to make him hate me so much. But I think it's pretty damn petty of him to make you kinda tip toe around him when you write.”

Trapper pauses. He could say more here – more about his impression of BJ's character and his friendship with Hawkeye - but he ain't trying to start a fight. Just avoid one with BJ.

“So anyway. I don't mind if you invite him to stay an extra day – he's your friend and you don't get a lot of chances to see him. But I don't know that I'll want to stick around for it.”

Having said his piece, Trapper heads off to make dinner while Hawkeye mulls all that over. He knows Trapper's right about the way BJ's been acting – it's petty and silly and Hawkeye's been getting kind of tired of it himself, to be honest. But Hawkeye's always been one to try and keep the peace, the one to try to keep everyone together and afloat through tough times.

And it's difficult – painful – the idea of losing BJ's friendship. He means so much to Hawkeye. They'd been through so much together. When he'd told BJ he'd never be able to shake him, Hawkeye had meant it. There's a big old BJ shaped place in Hawkeye's life that he doesn't want to have to try and fill over.

But BJ could be making a little bit more of an effort here, too. Profess an interest in Hawkeye's life – all the parts of Hawkeye's life – the way Hawkeye had listened to BJ's endless chatter about his wife and daughter and all the minutia of their lives. Even though Hawkeye had no frame of reference for raising a kid or having a wife, no real interest in the topic outside of BJ wanting to talk about it.

And Hawkeye's maybe feeling a little petty himself. A little annoyed at BJ's insistence that Hawkeye bend over backwards for him without really reciprocating. So he goes back and rewrites the letter to explicitly mention Trapper where before there had just been euphemism. Even if it means BJ won't go along with the gift idea.

But Hawkeye does value BJ's friendship. Does want to see him. So he adds on the extra part inviting him and Peg to visit.

Speaking of offers, I was wondering if you and Peg wanted to stay over an extra couple of days in Boston after the wedding (assuming you're going.) I've never met Peg, but I'd really like a chance to get to know her. And I don't see you nearly often enough. We have a bunch of time before anything needs to be settled, but I'd love to see you for more than just a wedding reception – particularly one that's being run by Charles Winchester. I hope to hear from you soon (and maybe see you in half a year.) Your friend, Hawkeye

There, that ought to do it.

--

Peg looks up from her book as BJ emerges from his office. His face is a thundercloud and Hawkeye's letter is crumpled in his fist.

Peg sighs.

Letters from Hawkeye usually leave BJ floating on air – his face alight with joy and his gestures expansive as he recounts the latest news from Boston. But when things swing the other way – when the letters contain something that reminds BJ of the bad parts of the war, of all the things he's lost – he gets angry like Peg's never seen.

It's like something came back with him from Korea – something deep and angry and wild riding her husband. Peg doesn't know where it came from, or what causes it to come out, most of the time. She doesn't know how to make it go away.

But when BJ gets the bottle of bottom-shelf gin out of the liquor cabinet – the one he says almost tastes like the homemade hooch that came out of Hawkeye's still in Korea – Peg knows she's in for a long night.

So she calls up her mother-in-law, asks if she can keep the kids overnight. Puts away anything she doesn't want to see broken – all the nick-knacks and souvenirs of her and BJ's life together tucked safely away in the cabinets experience has taught her he won't try to open. Peg battens down the hatches and waits for the storm to blow over.

Eventually, BJ reaches the stage of drunk where he's wrecked his office and yelled himself out and he's just sitting drunkenly at the kitchen table, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. Peg sits down across from him. Watches him pour another measure from a new bottle and drink that too. Waits for him to tell her what's wrong.

“Hawkeye's asking if we're planning to be at Charles's wedding,” BJ starts with a vehemence the statement really doesn't warrant, as far as Peg can tell. “Wants to know if he'll see us there.”

“He's going, then?” Peg asks delicately. Trying to figure out what's bothering her husband without getting him any more upset than he already is.

“Yep.” BJ bits out. “He and Trapper will both be there.”

Ah. There it is. If anything is guaranteed to put BJ in a less than charitable mood, it's mentions of Trapper John McIntyre.

“That doesn't mean you need to interact with Trapper, dear. It's not like you'll be forced to spend time with him.”

BJ snorts derisively. “Trapper hangs off Hawkeye like they're joined together surgically. There's no way I'll get to see one without the other.”

And that's to say nothing of Hawkeye's regard for Trapper. Trapper, Trapper, Trapper. The whole fucking letter was full of Trapper. Trapper did this, Trapper thinks that, Trapper had this idea. Hawkeye couldn't go a sentence without mentioning Trapper. It makes BJ sick to his stomach, so he drinks another glass of gin.

“And apparently, Trapper had some big idea about us MASH docs all making Charles a wedding present together. Like we're all some big, happy family. And Hawkeye wants to do it, so that means I have to too.”

Never mind that Max is the one actually running things. And that BJ probably won't have to have anything to do with Trapper or his dumb stupid self. It's the principle of the matter.

“And if that wasn't enough, we got invited to stay over at Hawkeye's house an extra couple of days.”

“That sounds nice,” Peg says encouragingly. BJ's calmed down enough to have a coherent conversation at this point and she'd like to keep as positive a spin on things as she can. “I'd sure like to spend some time getting to know Hawkeye after hearing so much about him from you.”

“You don't understand,” BJ interrupts sharply. “If we visit for longer, then we'll stay overnight at Hawkeye's house. And that means that Hawkeye will give up his room. And that means he and Trapper will sleep together.”

“I know you think Hawkeye and Trapper are... together,” Peg says gently, placatingly. “But you can't think they'd do anything untoward with us right next door.”

BJ does think that, though. He thinks about it a lot.

About that night he'd stayed over at Hawkeye's house, in Hawkeye's bedroom – leaving Hawkeye to sleep with Trapper. About Hawkeye – beautiful, unreal, gorgeous Hawkeye – and Trapper – with his stupid muscles and his stupid smirk and his stupid everything – laying together in the dark. About them kissing each other. Cuz BJ may hate the guy, but he has to admit that Trapper's attractive – just objectively speaking. Anyone would be attracted to him. And Hawkeye's beautiful and so passionate and-. There's no way they wouldn't kiss one another. And BJ can imagine it so clearly – their mouths slick and panting, tongues sliding against each other.

Hips grinding.

And that leads BJ to thinking about Hawkeye and Trapper having sex. Trapper taking Hawkeye while BJ's right next door – rough and hard and loud enough there's no mistaking what's happening. All the little sounds he's heard Hawkeye make from across the Swamp in the middle of the night – all those little sighs and moans of pleasure – being caused by Trapper while BJ's forced to just lay there and listen to it through the wall. Forced to imagine what Hawkeye looks like when he's being taken by another man, forced to imagine what Hawkeye looks like when he orgasms. Forced to imagine Hawkeye and Trapper look like all cuddled up together in the afterglow.

 Anger – it's anger, it  has   to be anger – squirms in BJ's guts. He drinks another glass of gin.

“I'm not putting up with that shit,” BJ mumbles. “Not again.”

 Because however bad imagining it is,  knowing   would be worse.

 BJ lapses back into silence. And he's clearly still angry, but he seems to have moved past the more explosive sort of anger and into something a little less disruptive. And if he's just going to stare at the bottom of a glass all night, she's going to bed.

“Maybe just sleep on it, dear, before you make any decisions,” Peg says gently. “I'm going to bed now. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

 BJ looks blearily up at her, almost like he'd forgotten she was there. Definitely time for her to go to bed. She pours BJ a glass of water and kisses him gently on the forehead before she heads upstairs - and through it all, he just sits there, staring down at his empty glass.

 Peg vows that she's going to get to the bottom of all of this, even if she has to use a team of wild horses to drag the truth out of BJ.

#mash #piercintyre #something old and something new #chapter 2

[reactivebangtan]

REQUEST: bts reacting to there gf/crush being dark-skinned? And them moving to Korea ( if gf ) and then getting insecure about it? For crush maybe their an exchange student they see on the street or at a coffee shop? thank you and sorry if this was vague!! 💞 REQUESTED BY: anonymous WARNINGS: body image? also slight references to discrimination.  NOTES: this request made me a smile a lot and i think it’s bc u were so sweet about asking so thank u for that, nonnie. i hope u had/are having/will have a good day today

he could tell as soon as you stepped off the plane — something was bothering you, something that you tried so desperately to simply swallow before he catches on, but he always does, anyway. at first, he says nothing about it and simply lets you be, hoping whatever it was would die down with time. you had just moved to a new place, afterall, and were surrounded with new people, new things, new experiences, and it was only fair that you’d be nervous about something. eventually, though, he can tell such a thing isn’t going to happen — whatever it was always seemed to be at the back of your mind, nagging you like a bitter aftertaste that lingers on your tongue, and just as you think it begins to fade it only becomes more prominent all over again. it was all he could do to simply ask, a gentle ‘ what’s bothering you, love? ’ coaxing the answer out of you with ease. a simple explanation is all it takes, though such a thing is never simple — the stigma that comes with having dark skin is something that exists in every place, all over the world, inevitably following you wherever you go and effecting you in ways you don’t even realize — and while there is no solution he can offer it seems a little bit of the weight has been lifted from your shoulders simply from saying it ( nothing is ever easy to carry on your own ). despite not having a way to strip you of your insecurities, jin is quick to talk it out with you and do everything he can to reassure you that’s it okay, it’s understandable, and that he’s here to support you when reality becomes a little too much to bear. for every negative thought or comment, he’s there to provide five compliments and ten times more love and reassurance. ❝ it just means you’re closer to the sun — that must be why you’re the light of my life! ❞

❝ you’re beautiful — looks people give you and the things they say can’t change that, so don’t bother believing them. believe me, instead. ❞ not once has yoongi ever wished to change anything about you, skin tone included, and he doesn’t hesitate in telling you this every chance he gets. you’d confided in him before you’d even fully decided to make the move, but living closer to him seemed to outweigh everything else — at least, until you actually got there, and your anxiety made you feel as if you stuck out more than ever. it seemed to you that every time someone looked at you they were judging you, forming negative opinions of you, saying nasty things to their friends, even if the logical part of your brain knew that wasn’t truly the case. yoongi is always quick to catch on, often distracting you before your brain got up and ran with every nasty thought you could conjure up, finding this to be the most effective way to not allow you to think about it. of course, the thoughts always remained, and they’d find you at the worst of times — he knows the feeling, knows what it’s like to be unhappy with certain parts of yourself, things you can’t change no matter how much you might like to, and he uses that to level with you when things get particularly rough. it’s a weight that never leaves, always presents itself when you look at your reflection in the mirror, but one that he gladly helps you carry. 

it’s not easy shifting into a new society, especially when it treats you as if you can’t — still, hoseok is adamant that it can. he always takes the chance to compliment you, tell you that you’re perfect, because to him you absolutely are; he treats it as more than a simple opinion, more than convinced that it’s fact. of course, he isn’t blind to discrimination and he knows that nothing he says can change the stigma surrounding dark skin, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to convince you that you’re still beautiful despite all of that. every day he’s telling you how wonderful that color looks on you, how right the sun is washing over you, how beautiful the entirety of you is. besides insecurity of your own appearance, he knows how easy it is for everything to stack up against you simply for the pigment in your skin, and he’s always the first in line to start pushing those barriers down with his bare hands, one-by-one. ❝ nothing changes the way i see you, even if others don’t see you the same way. ❞

❝ i know what they say and i know how you feel, but i also know that you’re stronger than all of that. ❞ while namjoon does compliment you when he has the chance, he works to do more than simply convince you of your own beauty — he’s so incredibly adamant about convincing others, too. he’s always been an activist for one thing or another, and this sort of thing is inked onto the list in bold, capital letters. it isn’t as if he’s light skinned himself, and he’s experienced the indirect shame of it through some of his own fans, but he never gives up on the fact that there are plenty of minds out there that think the way he does — enough, he hopes, to one day change the way everyone thinks. in the end, he’s always there to shut down negative comments thrown your way, and does what he can in the only way he knows how to shut down their opinions, too; educating himself comes first, but educating those around him is deemed just as important. he might be softspoken and far too gentle for his own good, but he’s never been as iron-willed as he is about anything and everything that involves you. and, while standing up for you in any situation, he always takes great care to make sure you come away from it with something positive gained, even if it’s something as minuscule and seemingly meaningless as never having to see that person again. every little thing, every little step, counts.

there are always going to be things that, throughout the generations, carry endlessly from one person to the next, whether it be views, beliefs, traits or biases. opinions grow like weeds, no matter how beautiful the garden may be, and most try to suck the life out the most wonderful flowers, causing their beauty to fade from the inside out — they never stop being that wonderful flower, but even the strongest stem wilts when enough damage is done. jimin understands what it’s like to be that flower, even if the weed has little to do with skin color and everything to do with other beauty standards; it rots at your brain, at your thoughts, until you can’t make out the positives anymore. in his own way, he waters you with compliments and tries his best to reinforce the fact that he sees you as nothing less than absolutely gorgeous, while also using his voice and position to reinforce the fact that these issues need to be addressed; it’s so much more than just you, or just him, or just anyone, and he can’t kill your insecurities until he ends the things that created them. ❝ i wish you could see yourself through my eyes — there’s nothing brighter than you. ❞

❝ you’re so beautiful, you know that? i don’t see anything but you. ❞ you don’t exactly tell him, but he knows what you’re so anxious about right away. it’s easy to spot from the way you look towards the ground and try to cover up as much as possible, doing what you can to not meet other’s eyes and staying out of the spotlight. taehyung gets it — the comments he’s personally gotten still stick with him, the edits people make always stand out, and knowing that even fans think that way makes it all the worse — and while he never explicitly says anything directly about it, he’s obvious about making you feel better about it. he’s always been the one to pull you out of your comfort zone and introduce you to new things, so it’s no wonder that he gets to step you out of the shell you’d buried yourself in and gets you to face the chill of reality with his warmth to guide you. on top of that, he’s always been nothing but supportive of every little thing you do, so even the smallest compliments are made when you least expect it and he reaches out when you stumble on your path to self-acceptance. with his support he hopes that one day you can brush the discrimination and stigma like water off a duck’s back.

jungkook doesn’t always know the right way to say things or how, exactly, to express what he means at the right time, but he tries to do what he can in the ways he knows how. after you move to south korea, he’s constantly taking pictures and videos of you, always saying that the light is hitting you just right or ‘ i want to remember this! ‘ and saving them all in a special file labeled for you on his phone. he loves the way the sun glows on your skin and the way solid colors look against you and how naturally you contrast against the bright emeralds and warm hues of the leaves outside. photos of the smooth expanse of your stomach exposed by the top you decided to wear that day, or the length of your legs in your favorite dress, or even how the light filters through the windows against the structure of your hands are among the ones that reveal your smiles and bright eyes. when he can’t quite say what he means or he stumbles over his words, he just lets you sift through the folder while commenting on exactly why he took each one ( ‘ i understand why they call it the golden hour now that i’ve seen the afternoon sun on you like that ‘ and ‘ you reminded me of a painting in that one — i think it’s one of my favorites ’ ). ❝ you’re beautiful like this, just the way you are. ❞

#reactions. #requests. #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts reacts to #bts reader insert #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #kim namjoon #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

[imsoamajing]

02.02.2018

I think I’m going to add a photo of myself, raw and unedited, or a significant photo of the day to include with every single ‘diary’ post. 

Today, is a photo of myself. No makeup, no filter, no fancy lighting. Just me, myself, and I, plus this awkward light, which by the way, is the light emitting from the computer screen. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today was a great day. I had a job interview and got hired during, or should I say after the interview, that same day. 

It was a group interview, pretty standard. The questions were easy, just requires some thinking. The scenario questions weren’t too bad either. There was an activity though that required us to think of a product (any product we can create within the span of 5 minutes) and sell it to the managers and get them to ‘buy it’. It was a hypothetical and fun activity. We grouped into 3 different groups, two groups of 2 people, one group of 3. 

There weren’t many of us either. If you did the math, you would have found out that there were only seven of us present. 

Anyway, for my partner and I’s product, we thought about a feature for their online shopping website that could be added to help enhance customer experience whilst shopping online. And they liked it. 

When it was all finished, they asked us to step out for 5 minutes and they would call us back in. After 5 minutes of waiting in 50 degree weather, one of the senior directors came out and told us that there were 3 applications that were missing some information and would therefore require “some questions” asked to the candidates. The rest were dismissed and told that they should be hearing from them the next day. 

Guess what? I happened to be one of those 3 candidates. I instantly began to freak out. After making the 3 of us wait another, albeit extremely long, 5 minutes, I got called to the back. They asked me 5 questions to get to know me, and before I knew it, they offered me a position! I was shocked to say the least, I wasn’t expecting it, to be honest. I was super happy and excited, I’m sure they could tell.

When I got back out to the waiting area in the front, I motioned to my husband to let him know I was finished, I then told the other two candidates good luck. Big kudos to my hubby for coming along with me and providing emotional support. Anyways, I tried to keep it inside me, but as soon as we stepped out, I exploded with happiness and told him I got the job before the door even finished closing. I was hoping the ones waiting would realize that there was a HUGE possibility they were going to get hired, however my husband thought I was a bit reckless. It doesn’t matter though! I got the job!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skip to about an hour later, we had just finished having a celebratory lunch at La Vaquita (a Latin supermarket with a little ‘carniceria’ that had delicious food) and I received a call from my mom, wait I mean I missed a call. I called her back at work, but had to call her at a different number. So, before I got to call her back, I got an email from the company telling me that I WASN’T SELECTED FOR THE POSITION. 

I was crushed.

I mean. How could that be? I signed papers! I wanted to cry, I wanted to get angry, but I didn’t. My husband told me it could have been because I got excited about being hired and wasn’t supposed to make it known? 

Psh! No way! That couldn’t be it!

I drove home as fast as I could, but contemplated with my husband throughout the drive whether I should call them or not. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I shouldn’t call. Maybe the position I applied for was different than the one I wasn’t selected for.

How will you know though? Just call them.

But, what if they really did decide not to hire me last minute? 

Well, if that’s the case, ask for another open position.

I got hired for the lowest position possible. 

Who knows, maybe they can open a spot up for you?

Why would they do that?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a while, I decided not to call them. But my husband insisted that I do. I wanted to trust that it was a complete mistake, with the possibility of it not being a mistake. 

Upon returning home, I finally mustered up the courage to call. 

AND THEY MADE A MISTAKE. 

A tsunami wave of relief rushed through my body. 

I just really need to stop assuming the worst in everything, or just face everything head on, no matter the outcome. 

And that is my advice for y’all today. 

With love,

Jing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A HUGE THANK YOU to the One Who never stops blessing me, and constantly shows Himself to me through His work in my life. My Creator, my Saviour, my God, the Lord Jesus Christ. 

#thoughts #every day #diary #advice #life #personal #adulting #jobs #thankful #blessed #grateful #God is good

[pheuthe]

Mick + Ray, 26?

(Thank you for this lovely prompt, I really enjoyed writing this one even though it got away from me a bit :D so here you go, atomwave + “I didn’t intend to kiss you.” :))

eighteenth time is the charm

(AO3)

“Are yousure this is the only way, Haircut?”

“Yes,” Raysighs, for what feels like the tenth time. Mick grumbles somethingunintelligible, but still follows Ray down what used to be Santa MonicaBoulevard, through the heaps of rubble and pterodactyl droppings. That’s whatRay has come to value about Mick, actually: the way he will complain, oftenwith his fists, but when shit hits the fan – or when there’s a bomb that needsto be disabled – he’s always right there.

And maybeMick having his back in all the worst situations is messing with Ray’s head,but this is neither the time nor the place to think about it. In fact, Ray hasyet to find the right time and place: not that he’s trying too hard. It’s justso much easier to ignore the warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomachwhenever Mick unexpectedly does something selfless while still frowning aboutit, grumbling like he’s not one of the kindest, bravest people Ray has ever-

“Guys, it’snot the one in Pacific Park, you’ve already tried that one,” Sara says throughthe comm, tearing Ray out of thoughts. He’s secretly grateful for thedistraction; he’s getting steadily worse at ignoring those intrusive thoughts.

Ray bringsup the map of Los Angeles onto the suit’s visor: it’s only moderately accurate,considering that it doesn’t account for several timelines overlapping with eachother, but for their purpose, it will have to do.

“What aboutthe UCLA?”

There arevoices in the background, probably another of their teammates consulting theplans Ray prepared for this mission. A distant roar echoes somewhere nearby, nomore than a few blocks away, just as Sara’s voice returns. “Yeah, that’s stillin the running. You’re about two miles out.”

“Can wefly?” Ray asks, and ignores the way Mick growls in the back of his throat. Therumbling sound sends shivers down Ray’s spine, and there’s definitely no timefor that. In moments like these, Ray really misses the times when he wasn’t soincredibly aware of everything Mick says or does. Ignorance really is bliss.

“You’regood to go up until Westwood, there seems to be a nest of… something unfriendly on the Oppenheimer Tower.”

“Got it,”Ray nods and turns to Mick – who is looking at him like a very angry cat. Ray’sgot experience with angry cats. For some reason, the animals react to him inthe same way his body does to their fur: with violent refusal. But he’s alsogot experience with Mick, and heknows that he won’t actually bepunched in the face when he steps towards the other man and smiles.

“Hold on.And be careful around the jets, okay?”

“I know,”Mick scowls but wraps his arms around Ray’s shoulders, looking pissed. Ray restshis palm against the small of Mick’s back to stabilize the suit’s flight withthe extra weight (at least that’s what Ray tells himself, rather feebly).

It turnsout that rerouting around the National Cemetery is not as much of a good ideaas Ray believed, but they don’t realize that until they see the twenty-feettripods shooting lasers at each other among the graves.

“Very Warof the Worlds,” Mick grunts, close to Ray’s ear. Ray shivers, and wishes theyhad the time to address Mick’s knowledge of that particular work.

Then theyget shot down, or rather, some kind of a charge goes off when one of thetripods explodes, and there’s an emergency landing that Ray thinks could’vegone smoother. Twenty minutes later they’ve managed to shake the machinesrunning after them on spindly, creaky legs, and Ray’s breathing hard as heleans against the dusty wall of a half-collapsed palace that most definitely doesn’t belong in WestwoodVillage.

“If that’s the future, then I’m suddenly alot less excited about time travel,” he groans, pushing his visor up to swipeat the sweat dripping down his brow.

Mick, rightnext to him, leans out of their hiding spot and fires his gun, then grins atRay with that manic light in his eyes that Ray has (unfortunately) come toappreciate.

“I don’tknow, they burn pretty fucking well.”

And ofcourse Mick would be okay with anything that can be torched. Ray lets out aweak laugh and grabs the man’s arm.

“Let’s go.”

UCLA is awhole another can of worms – literally,seeing as there are a few hundred rotting bison corpses lining the streets allaround the campus. Ray gags and covers his nose with his hand, but it doesn’treally help. Mick fires at the nearest corpse and scowls:

“If this isart, I don’t get it.”

Ray wantsto laugh, but that would make him inhale more of the rot, so he just drags Mickinto the School of Engineering, which has somehow acquired a very golden, verystrange clock tower.

And a bomb.That’s the worst part, really.

It doesn’ttake that long to locate the gadget. The timer is counting down, three minutesand fifteen seconds, fourteen, thirteen, and Ray bites the inside of his cheek,stomach squeezing with anxiety at how tight their schedule is. The tripods werereally an unexpected detour… and while technically, they can travel back intime and try again, Gideon has warned them against doing it, their plan alreadyincluding way too much time-travel for the AI’s peace of mind.

Two minutesand fifty-nine seconds, and Mick’s gloved hand closes around Ray’s wrist. Hecan barely feel the touch through his gauntlet, no more than a ghost of afeeling where Mick’s thumb presses into the soft spot against Ray’s wrist, butit’s enough to tear him out of his reverie. He glances at the other man, andsomething in Mick’s eyes flips Ray’s stomach, in the best (and worst,considering their situation) way possible.

“You can doit, Haircut.”

Adrenalinefloods Ray’s system and he nods back, stepping towards the bomb and hoping forthe best. There are two more like it in the city – well, one, considering whatSara said about them having tried the Pacific Park. Fifteen more across thecountry, and only disabling the right one will actually prevent the explosionfrom happening.

Ray has noidea how many they’ve tried before. How many Rays and Micks have been blown uptogether with the rest of the continent while their team blinked out of thatparticular timeline only to retrieve them from an earlier time, so that theycould try again, with a different bomb. Ray tries not to think about hisfeelings on the matter of dying so many times, but… it’s not like he’llremember it, right? And maybe, just maybe, this time they’ll hit the jackpot andthis will be the correct one.

He fusseswith the wires while Mick, unsurprisingly, produces a chocolate bar from somewhere and starts chewing loudly. Itmakes Ray chuckle, which in turn makes him relax a little and focus on his taskbetter. Mick has that effect on him: which should be strange, because mostpeople get really nervous around Mick, not the opposite. Ray’s used to it now,to the unique way they just fit, liketwo pieces of a puzzle. Or like pieces of two different puzzles which were cutout by the same machine, the pictures looking different at first sight but theshapes still matching…? Ray gets lost in his metaphor halfway through, butthen, the build of the bomb suddenly clicks in his brain and he cuts the rightcord, giving Mick a triumphant grin.

The bombstops the countdown at one minute, ten seconds, and Ray lets out a loud breath.

Mick tossesthe candy wrapper to the floor and pushes himself off the table where he’s beensitting, within Ray’s reach.

“Guys?”Sara’s voice sounds worried. “It didn’t work. We’ve got eyes on the PacificPark bomb and it’s still ticking.”

Ray’sinsides turn to lead. He knows what this means – that the team has less than aminute to get out of this particular timeline, return a couple of hours back,and collect the Mick and Ray who have not yet fought off weird futuristictripods or waded through a field of dead animals.

Raysincerely hopes that the past Mick and Ray will have more luck next time.

Heswallows, throat dry to the point of pain and hands shaking, and it filtersthrough his suddenly foggy brain that there’s going to be a Raymond Palmer safeand sound in the future, but it’s not going to be him.

He’s gotjust a few seconds to live, a little more than half a minute, tops. They’reboth going to die, and Ray remembers devising the plan with this exact momentin mind. He’s willing to do it, just as he was willing with the Oculus… but it’shard to fool the survival instinct screaming at him to grab Mick and run, as ifit would do any good with a bomb of this magnitude.

“You reallyshouldn’t have gone with me,” he says quietly, voice thick with the fear hetries not to feel.

Mick’sfingers, bare and scarred, twine with Ray’s own.

“Not like Icoulda let you take all the credit, Haircut.”

And Mick’sgrumbling again, but he’s right there with Ray, about to die who knows how manytimes, but he’s there and Ray’s heartis suddenly filled to the brim and he can’t, can’t die regretting that he never told Mick just how much he meansto Ray.

“Fifteenseconds, guys, we’re out,” Sara’s voice drifts like a distant echo through theearpiece, but Ray doesn’t have time for words, hers or his own. He tosses hishelmet off – it’s not going to protect him now, anyway – and steps right intoMick’s personal space, ignoring the look of dawning apprehension or worry orconfusion, whatever it is, they’ve got no time for that.

Ten secondsnow, or less, and Ray leans into Mick, into that solid warmth that he neverwould’ve expected the first time he laid eyes on the pyro. But Mick is so muchmore than that, so much more than just a goon or a thief or a criminal, morethan Chronos and more than a friend, darn, so much more.

Sevenseconds, and Mick’s sharp inhale cuts through the ominous silence in the room

Six, andhis eyes drift closed, like he trusts Ray, like maybe, he wants this to happen, and Ray’s heart nearly bursts at the thoughtthat he could’ve done this sooner, could’ve felt this terrified and excited andhappy for days, maybe weeks.

Five, andRay closes the distance; four, and their lips meet, Mick’s hands slipping into thesweaty strands of hair at the nape of Ray’s neck. It’s painfully perfect andRay wants to cry, but he can hold it back for the few seconds they still have.

He doesn’tbother coming up for air before the blinding light and the heat of theexplosion swallow them up.

……

“Mick,wait!” Ray calls, stumbling over the debris on the road as he does his best torun after the other man.

Who’smoving surprisingly fast, considering there’s still a broken arrow shaft stuckin his thigh. Ray might be reevaluating his opinion on the dream-come-true ofmeeting – and fighting – actual Cossacks.

“Wait!” heyells again, but Mick isn’t listening, doing his very best to get away from Rayas quickly as possible. Or at least it seems that way, and Ray’s heart is aheap of misery at this point. He didn’t want things to turn out this way, butin his defense…

“I didn’t intend to kiss you, okay?! I’m sorry! Itwas a spur of the moment thing, you know, the moment I thought we had like, tenseconds to live? Mick, talk to-“

He roundsthe corner behind which Mick disappeared and stops short, eyes widening as hespots the whole Waverider crew, allof them, not ten feet away and grinning like a bunch of cats who got a poolfull of cream all to themselves.

“Oh,” Raysighs and rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks heat up. Mick isscowling, but it’s hard to tell whether he hates Ray or the rest of them moreat the moment.

“You know,”Jax smirks, “it would be much easier to believe that you didn’t intend to do it if you haven’t done it…what, eight times?”

“Ten,” Saracorrects, with an expression that reminds Ray of Leonard Snart.

“What,”Mick snarls, and it’s not even a question, just a demand for explanation. Heshoots Ray a suspicious glare, and Ray’s insides wither like a flower in amicrowave. He wants to ask whether it was really that awful – because for the coupleof seconds they were kissing, Mick actually seemed… not wholly against theidea. Until Sara’s voice came to them through their comms, amusement tintingher words as she announced that she had just been messing with them and theyhave, in fact, disabled the bomb this time and wouldn’t really die.

It’s acruel joke if Ray ever saw one, but he has to admit that he would maybe laugh, out of sheer relief ifnothing else, if only Mick didn’t hightail it out of that room like his buttwas on fire.

No, wait,scratch that, the man might actually enjoythat.

“What?” Rayechoes, albeit weaker. Sara steps forward and wraps her arm around hisshoulders – even the easy, friendly gesture feels like teasing.

“Yeah. Tentimes out of eighteen, you kissed him right before the bomb went off.”

Ray gapes,unable to make a single sound. A part of his brain not completely caught up inthe horror of half-molesting his teammate registers the number eighteen andthinks ‘of course it had to be the verylast one that worked’, but a much bigger part of his mind is trapped in thedawning realization that he won’t get off the hook that easily.

If you dosomething ten times, even if technically, it’s always a different instance of you, it’s much harder to play it off asa ‘spur of the moment’, huh.

Mick growlsunder his breath; Ray really admires Amaya’s bravery for stepping close totheir resident pyro.

“You’ve gotno grounds for that grimace you’re making,” she says, pointing a finger rightin Mick’s face. “The other eight times it was you.”

The changethat washes over Mick’s features is breathtaking: rage transforms intoconfusion and gives way to an expression that Ray would dub ‘deer in theheadlights’. Mick looks a little trapped, and a part of Ray wants to step upand help… but he can’t bring himself to sweep this off the table when he’slearning that maybe Mick could- no, Mick definitely does-

That’s whenMick’s knee goes out from under him and Ray lurches forward to catch him beforehe hits the pavement. Mick’s not looking at him at all, but he does allow Ray to wrap a steadying arm around hiswaist, holding on to Ray’s shoulder in turn.

“Let’s getthat arrow out,” Ray sighs; there’s nothing he can do if Mick doesn’t want totalk about it. Yes, feelings are definitely involved, for both of them… but Raycan’t force Mick to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. And Ray’s learned inthe thirty-seven years of his life that feelings don’t always equal a happyending… perhaps he was naïve to hope that with Mick, things could turn out wellfor once.

The rest ofthe team trail into the Waverider after them, but Ray hardly registers theirpresence. The way to the medbay is one huge awkward moment, the tense silenceinterspersed with Mick’s pained grunts. He still refuses to meet Ray’s eyes andit feels a bit like he’s withdrawing into himself, leaving Ray on the outside… butthat’s okay for the time being, since Ray is doing his best to collect histhoughts anyway.

He sticksaround while Gideon heals Mick’s thigh, and tries not to cast odd looks at Mick’snaked skin. Come to think of it, he can’t remember seeing Mick without pantsbefore, and he flushes when his eyes wander up the surprisingly smooth thigh tothe simple (red) boxer briefs. Ray averts his eyes as quickly as humanlypossible: Mick didn’t react too well to the kiss, whether or not he might’veinstigated a few himself, so Ray’s pretty sure he wouldn’t like to be ogled,either.

Finally,Gideon declares Mick ‘good as new’ and Ray hears the shuffling noises of theother man sliding off the seat and reaching for his bloodied pants. The sightof him, standing in the cold medbay in a long-sleeved shirt, boxers and socks,scowling at the torn jeans in his hand and looking lost, breaks Ray’s heart alittle and he pushes himself away from the wall:

“I’ll getyou new ones, just wait here, okay?”

He’shalfway out the door when Mick’s quiet voice stops him.

“Wait.”

Ray turns,and Mick isn’t hypnotizing the floor anymore: he’s looking right back, andthere’s a kind of vulnerability in his eyes that Ray’s afraid to analyze toohard, for fear of it slipping away.

Andsuddenly, he’s chuckling and walking closer, the feeling of being forced outbehind Mick’s personal barriers gone.

“Who would’vethought we’d have to die eighteen times to get to this point, huh?” he jokes,and a shadow flickers over Mick’s expression. Before Ray can apologize –because what an awful joke to make to someone who lost his best friend twice injust a couple of months – Mick is reaching out and tangling his fingers intothe belt of Ray’s suit, pulling him closer.

“Justseventeen,” he huffs, his face suddenly awfully close. Ray swallows, his brain shuttingdown as Mick crosses the distance, lips almost brushing Ray’s. “And I’ve got ascore to even out, Haircut.”

It’s notthe most romantic declaration of intent that Ray could imagine, but when Mickbites at his bottom lip, he can’t find it in himself to complain.

#atomwave #fanfiction #prompt fill #temporary character death #but everyone lives in the end i promise lol #Anonymous #pheuthe answers

[mishamoonberry]

Metathesiophobia

ERASING IMPOSSIBILITY CH. 18 - FFN

You asked for shorter chapters, here comes shorter chapter. Bc it's shorter, it may not seem like anything is going on in the fic, but things are happening, if not then there wouldn't be anything for me to write, geez. There is always plot development in each chapter. The last chapter's focus is Kishimoto, okay. I'm tired of writing long chapters with perfectly placed climax in each chapter so bear with it okay? Also I'm curious as to why you keep on saying Oro-tan-san… when it's Oro-chan-san lmao.

Anyway, here. Enough about me being salty as fuck.

Here, a new chapter.

Warnings: Oro-chan-san feels, a possible start of slash pairing

It takes me quite awhile to manage to find time and guts to face Orochimaru again. With more and more D-ranks and training and sparring sessions piling upon one another especially with the impending C-rank that shall befall upon us (soon, Minato-sensei said. It is after all, better to experience C-rank at least once before trying out the Chuunin Exams, no matter if it’s an isolated one because of the war), it’s hard to find a leisure time with people other than my teammates and their immediate family or close relatives.

And such, to find a perfect time (and courage) to face the ever so evasive Orochimaru is a bit of a challenge.

Plus, I keep on getting new things to learn from Kishimoto-sensei—he insists I need to learn to make chakra scalpels on my body than only using my hands for combat purposes—and I’ve started on basic sealing with Kushina.

Sealing is fun to learn, even though the calligraphy sometimes hurt my eyes and my brain, but perhaps because Kushina is such an energetic but gentle person—really, she doesn’t babble like Naruto unless she gets too excited—I find it immensely enjoyable to learn from her.

The Uzumaki has promised me to teach me more about stasis seals, which would be immensely useful to keep either corpses or important body parts or even fresh blood for transfusion. That, and also many other stuff. She does tell me I need to be creative; because that’s the bane of fuuinjutsu. Other than the obvious calligraphy and knowledge of sealing as well as its properties, of course.

Minato-sensei has taken to teaching fuuinjutsu to Kakashi, now that Kushina has ‘claimed’ me as hers to teach. He doesn’t seem to dare taking me under his wings for fear of Kushina’s possessive streak that is very sexy, in my humble opinion. Kakashi does lend me the books Minato gave him after he’s done with it though. I am forever baffled on how quick Kakashi can learn about something. Sealing is complicated for me, way more than genjutsu, so to see Kakashi going through books after books is a bit dazzling.

(Perhaps I’m a bit jealous on how he progresses so easily, but then again, he is a genius, isn’t he?)

(I just smile at him; because jealousy is unbecoming and largely unnecessary).

Obito, although curious, ends up not learning fuuinjutsu sans the very basics like storage and exploding seals. Not that he can’t learn it; he just seems to not have the interest for it. However, he does have lessons with Mikoto-sensei who is probably bored beyond belief now that she is no longer in active duty. Despite his dead last moniker, Mikoto-sensei’s gentle but sometimes passive aggressive way of teaching seems to work on him quite well, considering he has managed to produce some more variants of Katon jutsu.

Let it be known that he is no longer allowed to be near the Yamanaka’s flower garden ever again.

(He still pouts over that, the cutie).

(It’s not his fault that he accidentally set almost half of the garden on fire during a spar, he said).

Right now though, I am not with Obito, or Kakashi, or Minato-sensei or even anyone else. I am in front of Orochimaru’s lab, eyes glancing hesitantly to the glass window on the door, which shows me that the lights inside are on, which indicates that Orochimaru is inside.

He doesn’t come outside nor does he invite me to come inside, however.

(“What are you doing, standing there all day,” Orochimaru says, staring down at me as I give him a sheepish grin.

“I haven’t been here all day, Oro-chan-san!” I say, because I just have to counter him on that one, like the suicidal fool that I am. The man does love his dramatics sometimes, and it includes hyperboles, it seems. “It’s probably been three minutes. How do you know I’m outside?”

“There’s something called chakra sensing, child, perhaps you should look it up,” he drawls, looking impatient. I grin at him, a bit awkward now that I realized I should keep on practicing on my stupid chakra sensing skills. “Now what do you want?”

“Oh, well,” I pause, “I heard it’s your birthday!” I say then, breaking out into a smile. I take out a bracelet the shape of a small green-grey colored snake from my back pocket, presenting it to him with both of my palms. “It can work as a small blade too!” It’s hard to get hold of it, in all honesty. I had to ask Mikoto-sensei for pointers of where people sell nice blades—because I couldn’t think of anything else Orochimaru might appreciate; he’ll probably complain if I try to give him books, books that he probably already has read or worse, has zero interest in—and she, quite predictably, sent me to an Uchiha blacksmith near the corner of the clan grounds.

I had to request a specific design that is largely inspired by something I found on the internet Back Then, and it kinda cost me more than it would’ve if I just had given him a pack of kunai, but the result is really good and I’d like to think Orochimaru will appreciate it somehow.

When I look at him, his face is unreadable. Totally blank, and for a moment, I fear for the worst.

“Oro-chan-san?”

His hand reaches out to touch the bracelet, taking it out of my grasp. He looks over the thing for a little while, before his eyes soften a little bit. If I haven’t been looking for it, I wouldn’t have seen it. But I do, and I allow myself to relax.

“Do you like it?” I say quite eagerly, seeing a flash of reluctant amusement in his yellow eyes as he scoffs, turning around to enter the lab without much word, obviously not wanting to answer my question.

The door is left ajar, however.

I grin. It’s an invitation to get inside as much as any.)

My fingers twitch beside me, and I find myself licking my own lips in anticipation. Last time, it took Orochimaru three minutes to get out of the room and inquire me about my presence. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but surely it must’ve been longer than three minutes somehow.

Is he ignoring me? I feel something heavy sink in my stomach, and I have to bite the bottom of my lip to prevent a frustrated sigh to go out.

I… Kishimoto-sensei did warn me to stay away from Orochimaru. But he had been the normal hissing older man I’ve grown accustomed to the last time I met him and—and—

And I’m just a little bit attached. A little bit. It’s perhaps a huge mistake on my part, to let myself be attached to the grumpy (lonely and hurting and lost) Snake Sannin, but now, when threatened by a possibility of losing him to his insanity and power hungry tendencies, I finally find it very hard to imagine a world where I don’t annoy Orochimaru at least once a week.

I… really have to make sure, to really see it for myself, to determine and to judge. Rinny will be there to help me to be as objective as I can, and if Kishimoto-sensei is really only influenced by the rumors (but why now? Why now, when the rumors must have been circulating around for years?) and not because he finds something odd with Orochimaru, then I can be relieved.

Steeling my resolve, I nod decisively to myself and firmly knocks on the door before twisting the knob open, peeking inside.

“Oro-chan-san?”

Orochimaru is there, his body facing away from me while his head is turned toward me. For a moment, I think that his posture looks a little bit defensive, and when I look at his face, I very nearly falter.

His expression is near flat, eyes guarded and mouth pressed into a thin line. No other expression like the usual exasperation or reluctant amusement that he usually shows around me; just a pure, blank canvas.

It’s a face he shows when he’s facing scared, gossiping civilians.

My eyebrows furrow, and ignoring the hurt at his sudden change in attitude towards me, I step forward. “Oro-chan-san, are you busy?”

He is silent for a moment.

“I am,” he says, then, voice a bit raspy.

My shoulders sag, “Oh.”

Silence.

Is he really avoiding me? I peer up at him, a little bit hesitant, and he looks back steadily, not saying anything, not showing anything.

…Perhaps he’s waiting for something? But what is he waiting for? For me to walk out? To talk to him about something? To start singing a random song?

I do not know what to say, in all honesty, but I have never been one with much filter anyways, not with the people I care about at the very least. Therefore, when I open my mouth next, what comes out from me is pure, blatant truth.

“You know, Kishimoto-sensei told me to stay away from you.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I see.”

“But I won’t!” I add hastily, “Really.” I bit my lip, perhaps having unconsciously stepped closer to the man while I was too focused in my anxiety. “Did you have a fight with Kishimoto-sensei, Oro-chan-san?”

He looks at me, and perhaps I’m imagining it, but his gaze looks kinder.

Rinny, somehow, through all this, doesn’t say a thing.

“Your sensei told me to stay away from me, and you’re going to keep on meeting me, anyway?”

My eyebrows furrow, and I say, “Who I interact with outside of training hours is none of his business, actually.” Seeing surprise flash in his eyes, I continue on talking, “and he’s just my teacher for iryo-ninjutsu; my official sensei is Minato-sensei, you know? And Minato-sensei never seems to mind when I say that I hang out with you sometimes, Oro-chan-san, and you’re my friend!” I tack on in the end, “Friends hang out with each other, right? So”.

I look up at Orochimaru, hopeful, and to my immense relief, the man finally sighs after a few moments of silence, a twitch of his lips and the usual reluctant amusement (relief, Rinny says to me, he’s relieved, too) apparent in his eyes.

“What an annoying, stubborn brat,” he mutters.

I take the kind insult as it is. That doesn’t stop me from pouting though. “Oro-chan-san, that’s mean!”

He rolls his eyes, giving me a gentle tap on top of my head. “What do you want,” he seems to still have the ability to ask a question while sounding like he’s making a statement instead of a question. He and Kakashi are both similar in that way.

I brighten, though, at the thought of Orochimaru indulging me and my whims once again. “Can we eat dinner together?” I ask, making sure to put my best puppy eyes ever.

Orochimaru’s eyebrow twitch in irritation at that pathetic attempt to suck him up, looks at the clock, pulls a face at the 6.30 pm that stares back at him, and finally sighs in defeat.

“Fine.”

“Yay!”

XXX

“Rin?” Kakashi’s voice manages to make me jolt in surprise as I walk side by side with Orochimaru, who is standing to my left, the both of us walking in the food district to find an appealing place for us to eat in. I have been too focused on telling Orochimaru about the D-rank missions I have gone through (he seems to be particularly amused by the Cat Catching Mission) that I failed to register Kakashi’s and Sakumo’s presence a few meters away from the both of us.

Kakashi looks surprised himself, though perhaps by seeing Orochimaru’s presence near me than anything. Sakumo looks a bit surprised (though I myself am surprised; Sakumo has been going outside for a few minutes once a day now to familiarize himself once again with something other than the Hatake Compound walls, but this district is far from the compound. Has he gotten comfortable enough with himself?) But he looks more weary and tired and guilty more than anything.

I can’t help but narrow my eyes at that. Did something happen?

“What’s up, Kakashi?” I say, waving, before literally gets in front of Sakumo to chirp, “and hi, Sakumo-san!”

Sakumo chuckles good naturedly, some of his weariness seeping off of him, “Hello, Rin-chan,” he ruffles my hair, his grey eyes finding Orochimaru’s and he inclines his head. “Orochimaru.”

“Hatake,” Orochimaru replies evenly. “It is good to see you out of the Compound.”

“Ah…. Yes,” Sakumo trails off, looking a bit hesitant thanks to the unsubtle jab Orochimaru just threw at him. I am tempted to stomp on Orochimaru’s feet a little bit, because that was rude, Oro-chan-san! “I’m afraid we’ve run out of groceries, so Kakashi and I thought of eating take outs, you see.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, smiling, “Same! Oro-chan-san and I,” Sakumo raises an eyebrow at the nickname, flicking an amused glance toward Orochimaru who looks a little bit longsuffering, “are gonna eat in a restaurant too! How about if we go eat together?”

Kakashi mumbles something.

“Huh?”

He huffs, letting out a bitter, “We can’t. Nobody allows dad to eat inside.”

Silence. Sakumo looks to the side, avoiding my startled gaze.

(Behind me, Orochimaru stares at Sakumo, at his hunched shoulders, the darkness in his eyes, the downward pull of his lips and thinks—

Ah.

He knows how this feels, doesn’t he?)

I feel a surge of rage inside of me, and looking at Kakashi’s eyes, I’m sure he must have the same opinion as I.

Those fucking, self absorbed, gossiping bastards.

I hate them.

Forcefully calming myself down, because blowing up here won’t do anyone any good other than embarrassing myself, I settle with sighing. “Well, we’re going to the Akimichi’s BBQ place,” I say, staring at Sakumo’s eyes. “I’m sure they’re not that stupid to turn you away, Sakumo-san.”

Sakumo’s smile seems a bit strained. “It’s okay, Rin-chan, we can just—“

“Sure,” Kakashi cuts him off, hands in his pockets. He blinks at Sakumo’s startled look, cocking his head. “…What? I want some BBQ. And… It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Sakumo hesitates. “I… guess.”

“C’mon,” I grab Kakashi’s hand, leading him forward. I cackle, ignoring his startled shout. “The last one there pays for all of us!”

“No way in hell.”

XXX

“Hatake,” Orochimaru calls again, inclining his head. Beside him, Sakumo tears his amused gaze away from the bickering children and inclines his head in return.

“Orochimaru. I did not know you’re that close to Rin-chan.”

Orochimaru hums. He won’t say that they’re particularly close. Despite meeting rather frequently than most—than even his old teammates and his own teacher—they don’t really know each other inside out like how he knows (knew) his teammates.

But Rin is kind, fierce and loyal, determinedly so, if how she stubbornly decides that Orochimaru is still worth hanging out with is any indication.

Orochimaru won’t say it, but he’s relieved, perhaps, that this bright young girl who tackles him and calls him with a cutesy nickname not fit with his reputation thinks he’s worth hanging out with, that he’s worth spending time with, with no strings attached, with no other ulterior motives behind it.

That Rin, who reminds him of Tsunade and Jiraiya in equal measures (don’t compare her to them, his mind hisses, if she’s the same as them, she’ll leave. She’s not the same as them, she’s not she’s not she’snotshesnot—), who cares and cares and cares is still bright and there, smiling up at him and trusting him and—

Even after Kishimoto, after him telling her to stay away—

(“I see a monster,” he said, and it rings inside of his head for days and days to come. Sometimes it will be Kishimoto, and civilians, and fellow shinobi.)

(Other times, he thinks he hears her).

(“Monster,” he’ll hear her say. “Monster, monster, monstermonstermonster—“)

She chooses to stay.

She chooses him.

(“You’re my friend”).

Orochimaru’s gaze softens, his hand reaching toward his left wrist decorated with a snake-shaped bracelet. “She’s more like a nuisance than anything, honestly,” he says, expertly ignoring how Sakumo’s lips curves into a knowing smile, walking alongside the former legend as they watch the children, in which Kakashi has somehow find it necessary to smack Rin’s head, the latter letting out an exaggerated whine. “You don’t seem to mind her, yourself.”

“Ah?” Sakumo blinks, “Well, she is my son’s best friend.”

“I see.”

Orochimaru glances at him, the person who is almost as popular as Orochimaru when it comes to nasty gossips, with whispers and talks about how he’s a traitor, a shameful man, a failure of a shinobi and so on and so forth. With one failure, they easily forgets the White Fang’s contribution to the village, forgets his sacrifices and his many triumphs, his many successful missions that brought forth many good things for the village.

Just one failure, and now he’s nothing but a village trash.

Perhaps he can say that it will get better, only that it’s a lie and it’s not like he cares about it, really.

(Perhaps he should feel guilty for the satisfaction rushing in his veins at the thought of someone else bearing the same treatment as him. Perhaps he should feel guilty for feeling glad that he’s not the only one in this god damned village to bear that sort of hate and scrutiny.

Perhaps.

But Orochimaru isn’t really one for guilt, is he?)

“She saved me,” Sakumo’s voice brings him back to reality, and Orochimaru blinks slowly. The White Fang murmurs, “I thought I would have no one left. My own son turned against me and it was only thanks to her that he forgave me for my mistakes.” He shifts his gaze toward the Snake Sannin, his eyes knowing, “She’s a very special girl, isn’t she?”

Orochimaru thinks of her eyes. Her knowing and patient eyes, how she assesses him and perhaps finding something in him that allows her to smile at him, her eyes that sometimes look too kind, too understanding, too old, too old for her age—

“An old soul,” he says. And then, as if in an attempt to amend for something, continues with a mutter, “Still a huge brat”.

Sakumo stares at him for a moment longer, slightly wide eyes blinking a few times before a chuckle breaks out from his lips, his eyes crinkling and  dimples appearing as he smiles wide and—

Oh.

Oh.

That smile reminds him of Rin, too.

(Did she learn it from him?)

“I’d say Rin-chan is very talented and smart for her own age,” Sakumo chuckles, “but an old soul works too.”

Orochimaru rolls his eyes.

“I think Rin-chan said once that you’re apparently very dramatic,” the tone is teasing, and Orochimaru wonders for a moment since when has the man beside him decide he’s good enough to be this familiar with him.

(But Rin did this too, didn’t she?)

(This overly familiar approach, this easy smiles and teases).

(Isn’t that why he likes her?)

“Watch your mouth, Hatake,” Orochimaru drawls out, “I will not hesitate to show you just how dramatic I can be.”

The Hatake raises his arms, “I apologize,” he smiles softly, and Orochimaru once again wonders how many gestures the girl has unconsciously learned from her best friend’s father. “I did not mean to offend you.”

Orochimaru doesn’t grace him with a reply, and at that moment Rin chooses to shout.

“Oro-chan-saaaaaaaan! Sakumo-san! Hurry! I’m hungry!”

He exhales sharply, striding forward to flick the girl sharply with his finger.

“Ow! What was that for, Oro-chan-san?!”

“For yelling in the middle of the street.”

“But—“ He steps into the restaurant, ignoring her.

The sound of Sakumo’s snickers and Rin’s whines are like bells to his ears.

XXX

So.

The Orochimaru angst fest is done. Sort of. He has found an established foundation in Rin’s circle of friends now—he mostlikely won’t doubt her loyalty to him until much later on when things get messy (coughspoilerscough)—and his trust in her is immense. He knows she won’t betray him unless he gives her a reason to. (In which, I’m sure we all know what the reason could be).

Also, I’m thinking of doing SakuOro, but it’s still a plan; it might end up as this close friendship between two shunned legendary shinobi, or it might end up with kisses, idk. Tell me what you think about it.

Also, did you notice Rin internally calls Obito cute a lot of times nowadays? ;)

If you don’t, it’s okay because she doesn’t notice it either.

Next chapter, we’re going to have more genin children bickering and having fun with each other!

We’re getting closer to their first C-rank, so wait for it!

#erasing impossibility #self insert #misha writes #naruto #nohara rin