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jakesimfromstatefarm · 3 years

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notoriously yours | jay park

✰ summary: jay park is a rich kid. it’s safe to say he has everything every broke college student on his campus could dream of and more. but the one thing he doesn’t have, which money definitely can’t buy, is a girlfriend. and his friends won’t see of it. literally.

so what happens when his friends bet him to date someone for more than three months? what happens when jay decides that fake-dating someone would be easier than actual dating (because god forbid Jay–the campus’ notoriously known fuckboy–decides to commit to something once in his life)?

and what happens when that someone is you, his childhood best friend he hasn’t spoken to in years..who has absolutely no interest in being in his life anymore?

✰ pairing: jay park x y/n [ft. members of enha]

✰ genre: fluff, comedy, angst | fakedating!au, college!au, childhoodbestfriends!au, (kinda) e2l!au

✰ warnings: cursing, nothing suggestive but jay's a fuckboy so slightly suggestive themes, mentions of parental neglect/leaving, it's hella long (and i thought my last fic was long)

✰ wc: 14.7k (how did i get it this long oh lord)

✰ author's note: picture creds go to original owners/editors! peep that edit of jay that lowkey inspired this entire fic 👀also this took me so, so long bc i lost motivation half way thru and bc college is a thing,,,so i honestly don't know how to feel abt it so pls bare with me :')))) ALSO the dividers are weird bc idk how to add more than 10 pics for the dividers so pls excuse those ٩(× ×)۶i hope u guys enjoy!! <333

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Jay Park is a rich kid.

Jay Park has enough to buy every textbook he needs for his courses without having to look up the free versions online. Jay Park has enough to bribe his professors to let him pass every class with a perfect 4.0 GPA (but because the boy has morals, he doesn't). Jay Park has enough to afford a car to drive to his furthest class from his dorm building instead of walk or bike like every other college student, meaning he also has enough to afford a parking spot on campus (those things aren't cheap!).

Jay Park walks around your school's campus like he owns the place (and considering the amount of money his family has donated to the school, he practically does), looking like he just walked out of your local coffee shop's newest fashion magazine. His blonde hair is never seen untouched, his attire usually consisting of an undoubtedly high-end all-black fit, accessorized with multiple earrings and rings that probably cost more than all the overpriced textbooks you had to rent out this semester. It's safe to say that everyone knows Jay Park.

Bottom line is, Jay Park has everything.

Well, his friends beg to differ.

In their eyes, Jay Park has everything but a simple factor in the equation of love (or whatever love is to the minds of a couple of 19 year olds): commitment.

So yes, it's safe to say that everyone knows Jay Park. Because everyone knows he's the campus' rich fuckboy. (What's a college fanfic campus without one anyways?)

Jay doesn't go unreminded of this by his friends, to the boy's annoyance.

Jay is aware of this on a Sunday afternoon, in his dorm building's first floor lounge, where he and his said friends are having a study session.

They're doing anything but studying.

In fact, no one has any books out or anything. Not a single laptop in site.

"You don't think it's the slightly bit concerning?" Jake's words are muffled as he continues munching on the fried chicken that he spent majority of this study session debating if he should have it delivered through UberEats or not.

"I really don't, no," Jay shrugs as he continues mindlessly scrolling through his Instagram feed. They're having the same argument conversation that they've revisited multiple times over the course of their friendship, one that Jay has been lectured on too many times for his own good. He thinks his friends could become his new parents if they really tried.

"Look at it this way, okay. You're about to graduate college in a couple of years, into the big world. Like the actual, adult world. And that means you'll have to settle down. Which you can't do when you. have. no. commitment!" Jake punctuates each word with a single clap of his hands, desperate to get his point across.

Jay simply rolls his eyes. He looks over to Sunghoon, who's minding his own business, not bothered by the same topic he's heard over and over again. His eyes tell Jay you're on your own, in response to his blonde-haired friend's look of despair.

Jay thinks that maybe he should get new friends. Yes, that's the only solution here.

"My love life," Jay reaches across the table for a drumstick from the greasy tub seated in Jake's lap until Jake swats his hand away, "is none of your business. Also, ouch."

"Uh, it kinda is. Because of you and your reputation around campus, it kinda affects us, your best friends. How do you think we look, hanging out with the guy who's known to ghost every girl in existence after one night with them? No offense to you," Jake deadpans to him. Jay mentally reconsiders the term best friends.

Tough love. Jay tells himself it's tough love.

"Yes, because every girl totally hates Jake Sim, the teacher assistant of a physics class who volunteers at the pet shelter every Sunday and brings their pet golden retriever to campus every two weeks," Jay rolls his eyes at his Australian friend.

Jake sighs. "Okay, then I'm coming from a place of worry for you."

Jay groans. "Again, none of your business!" This doesn't stop Jake. He comes from good intentions, really, but Jay wants nothing more than to stuff the kid's mouth with some of that chicken to shut him up.

"What are you gonna do if one day you meet someone you like, genuinely like, and you screw yourself over because you've never been in an actual relationship before? A real, committed one. Like one that lasts at least three months."

"You don't think I can last three months in a relationship?" Jay questions the boy currently taunting him.

"Honestly? No. What's the longest relationship you've been in?" Jake cocks an eyebrow at his friend across from him.

One month and two weeks. But Jay's smart enough to not say that out loud.

"I can so last over three months," Jay mutters more to himself than Jake.

Jake laughs at that, pausing to take another bite of the drumstick in his hand. "Jay, I am willing to actually bet you. Bet that you wouldn't be able to." He leans back on the couch, the ball now in Jay's court.

Jay freezes, looking up from his phone, narrowing his eyes at Jake.

"Forget it, Jake. He's not gonna agree even if you offered him money," Sunghoon finally perches from beside him. Well he's not wrong. It's not like Jay is exactly in need of more money, per say.

"What kind of bet are we talking here?"

Sunghoon's right. Jay doesn't need the money, but he does hate being wrong. Even if it's over something as stupid as this matter.

Caught off guard by the blonde's answer, Jake blinks blankly at him and takes a second to think.

"Hmm..what about...what about if you can date someone for at least three months, and I mean an actual, committed relationship, then I'll do all of your physics homework next semester."

Jay's eyes sparkle at that. If there's anything he despises more than commitment, it's physics.

"And if I win, you have to buy all of my textbooks," Jake sits back from the edge of his seat with a smirk lying on his face.

Jay pauses to think about it. I mean, what does he have to lose? A couple hundred dollars over college textbooks? No. Because he just simply won't lose.

And maybe he'll learn what it'll be like to actually be in a committed relationship for once. Maybe he'll finally learn what it's like to actually devote yourself to someone, open up to them. He shivers at the thought. Never mind. He'll warm up to it. Baby steps.

Nonetheless, what could go wrong? Even if he does lose, at least his money would be going somewhere productive––towards his friend's education. Jay was probably gonna use that money on something useless like a blanket that resembles a tortilla (a burrito blanket, he calls it)––something he doesn't necessarily need, but must have, he would argue.

"Fine. Whatever, okay. Deal," he grabs Jake's extended hand in front of him and shakes on it.

Jake's impressively smiling at the boy as Sunghoon lets out a sigh, in disbelief with the two guys he calls his best friends.

Jay concludes that this will be easier than his Introduction to Photography 101 course he took his freshman year. How hard is it to find someone to date the Jay Park? Surely, everyone will be lining up once Jay switches his FaceBook relationship status from "it's complicated" to "single".

Turns out, it's not as easy as his class where all Jay had to do was take pictures of a pretty sunset, slap a VSCO filter on, and call it a day.

He comes to this realization on a Wednesday evening, as he's seated at one of the many study tables lined in the middle of the campus' library, staring down at his phone's dry iMessage app, with his laptop and blank sheets of scratch paper scrambled across the entire table, as an attempt to look half as studious as the other students studying in the facility.

Turns out, being known as the campus' fuckboy who ghosts every girl on campus isn't a good thing when it comes to wanting to find a real relationship.

He comes to this realization after failing to receive a single text back to the many ones he sent out throughout the first half of his day. The ghoster gets ghosted. Oh how the turn tables.

Jay groans dramatically as he tosses his phone on the hard surface of the table, earning himself a harsh shush from the librarian filing books in the aisle beside him.

He sheepishly smiles back as an apology, directing his attention back to his open laptop screen, where his untouched calculus homework stares back at him––his mind preoccupied with the looming threat of Jake's bet. Not that it was threatening in any way, per say, but Jay just hates losing. And from the looks of things, it's safe to say that Jay won't be celebrating any victories anytime soon.

Jay thinks he should just change his identity and just transfer to some boarding school in Switzerland. Yes, that's a much better solution than admitting defeat to Jake.

Jay sighs as he lies his head on the table, figuring he might as well just write the check for Jake's textbooks now. He wonders how he got here in the first place. Not how he got into the bet, and definitely not how he's sitting in the middle of the library, having yet to start his calculus homework due at 11:59PM tonight (he should really start that).

But no, he wonders how he gained the reputation as the campus' playboy. To be fair, his friends (mainly Jake), are constantly reminding him of his notorious habits. But how did they come a habit in the first place?

The idea of being in a relationship is nice, sure, but the commitment that comes with it? The idea of being dependent on someone? It's scary, vulnerable, and one that Jay can't picture for himself.

Maybe some people just aren't meant to be paired. Maybe some people, like Jay, like being independent and are meant to stay that way.

But Jay also likes affection. He likes the fleeting, warm feeling he gets every time he finds himself under someone's sheets. He likes the short-lived comfort he receives from someone else's touch, even though he knows it's going to cease to exist the second he steps out of those bedroom's doors. He just likes affection, simple as that.

That and he's a 19 year old teenage boy with needs, what did you expect?

And so what if he likes the idea of affection minus commitment? Is that so bad? Apparently it is, to people like his friends and the entirety of his school's campus, at least.

At this rate, he might as well pay someone to date him.

Wait. Jay lifts his head off the table's surface in realization.

He might as well pay someone to date him.

There's no harm in that, is there?

He wouldn't have to endure through an endless amount of dates to find someone he clicks with, then continue going on dates with said clicked person, all while trying to develop an actual, serious relationship.

He'll win the bet, get his physics homework done for an entire semester, and some lucky girl out there will be making profit for the small price of hanging out with Jay Park for three months.

And lucky for him, Jay knows the perfect candidate for this scheme.

Simple as that.

Just as long as said perfect candidate says yes.

And as long as Jake and Sunghoon don't find out. Or else Jay might really have to move to Switzerland after all.

You love your friends, you do.

Hana and Heeseung have been there for you when others haven't––they were by your side when you knew no one entering high school, and they were still by your side when you were all graduating said high school. Needless to say, you're eternally grateful for friends like them.

But right now, in this moment––with you seated in the middle of the campus' library, trying to write your essay, as your two friends blabber on and on about the most recent gossip across from you––your two friends could be your villain origin story.

But again, you love your friends, you do. So you don't have the heart to tell them to leave. You've managed to naturally tune out most of the conversation, anyways, for this––your friends coming to hang out while you're trying to study––is no rare occurrence by any means.

"Oh yeah, Jay Park texted me last night."

You hate how your brain's filter suddenly turns off at Hana's words.

You hate how your ears catch the sudden mention of Jay Park's name.

You hate how the thought of Jay Park gets to even occupy a single brain cell of yours.

You hate how you even know who Jay Park is. Well, knew.

Past tense. Because up until eighth grade––when Jay decided to just suddenly pretend you didn't exist––he was attached to you like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

And if you had asked past Y/N, ideally, Jay would've never left your side. Ideally, he would've never left you to fend for yourself when entering high school. Ideally, he would've stayed your best friend through out all four years of high school and ideally, you would've eventually told him how you really felt about him after growing up with him all your life. And maybe it would've lead to a completely different story. But for the sake of this fic, we don't live in an ideal world.

So yes, if it wasn't for his attendance at the very same university as you, you would've forgotten about the boy who brought you the painful memories of your childhood.

And since the universe clearly doesn't work in your favor, avoiding Jay Park's existence like he's the plague would have to suffice. And it works.

For the most part.

Until some people, bring him up uninvited into your conversation. Like now, for example.

"When was the last time you guys talked anyways?" Heeseung mindlessly asks as he reaches across the table to grab one of the many snacks you usually bring to your study sessions.

"Uh..like a few weeks ago. Give or take. Whenever you threw your house party. Can't say there was much talking involved however," she teasingly says with a giggle and wiggle of her brows.

Heeseung's rolling his eyes as you scoff and chuck a nearby crumpled piece of paper that was once one of your many essay drafts at her.

She bats it away right as it's about to hit her face as she laughs. "Doesn't matter anyways. He ghosted me the next morning, as he does with everyone else. Telling you this now," she extends a finger right at you, "stay away from Jay Park. That kid's just bad news."

You nod in response, mentally telling her she has nothing to worry about.

Been there, done that.

College. Ah yes, the very concept of spending four years of your life imprisoned on a campus where you'll be tearing your hair out from stress and spending all your life's savings just for a laminated sheet of paper with a golden stamp at the end of it all. We live in a society.

Because of said college, and all the weight that comes along with it, you had adapted a strict daily schedule in order to not completely lose your mind. It's a simple schedule really, one of a typical college student who's just trying to get by everyday with as little mental breakdowns as possible.

Wake up, get ready, go to class, go to the library to do your homework, walk all the way across campus to get back to your dorm, shower, then sleep. Oh and eat, of course. And maybe if time permits, be an actual social being and socialize.

It's gotten you this far into the college life without dropping out so, you conclude, you must be doing something right.

Sometimes, if you're feeling nice to yourself, you'll tweak the schedule a bit to fit in some exceptions. Maybe squeeze in a little trip to the bubble tea shop that's on the other side of campus, or maybe get dinner at that one dining hall that you don't usually go to because of the unncessarily long lines (but because they serve ice cream, you go anyways). It doesn't matter what the exception is, you still plan it out to fit into your schedule somehow. Everything is planned out.

Sometimes, however, the universe disagrees with your schedule, to your demise. Such as today, for example.

Because what you didn't expect for today was for a particular blonde-haired boy who you haven't spoken to in almost six years (but who's counting?) to approach your table in the library––a table you were sure no one could find you at, as it was quietly tucked away in the back corner, right next to the Astrophysics shelves. Because who browses the Astrophysics aisle for fun? Actually, maybe Jake Sim would. Anyways.

You definitely didn't anticipate a visit from the boy you've been actively avoiding, so you definitely didn't expect the first words coming out of his mouth when he sees you for the first time in six years to be:

"Fake date me."

You blink up at him.

Yeah, definitely not expected.

But you only let it phase you for a split second, until you feel a slight annoyance beginning to bubble up deep inside of you.

"Wow, hello to you too Jay! It's been what––half a decade? Yeah I've been pretty good, thanks for asking!" The sarcasm is practically dripping off your tongue.

You don't know what runs through Jay's mind, but apparently it isn't common sense––or the ability to read the room. Because next thing you know, he's sliding the chair across from you out from underneath the table and making himself at home.

And he's smiling right at you.

Curse him and his smile.

But no, you're not giving into it.

Not yet, at least.

"What do you want?" You deadpan at him when he makes no sign of making the next move.

"A girlfriend," he deadpans right back at you, as if he was casually telling you what he wanted for dinner. As if you two were close-knit friends that could approach one another without any proper greeting. As if you two had kept your friendship all these years. As if you two even had a role in each other's lives.

"Can't help you there," you scoff, deciding to not even question his lack of manners on top of his uninvited presence.

"Aren't you gonna ask me why?"

"Well gee, seeing that the first few words you decided to say to my face for the first time in forever were a demand, a demand to date you no less, then....no," your monotone voice says as you keep your eyes focused on your laptop screen, not daring to look at the boy across from you.

In the Introduction to Sociology course you took your freshmen year, you had learned of one important term: interactional vandalism. Textbook definition being: "ignoring signals of disinterest in a conversation, leading it to an offense."

Your definition being: "are you oblivious or just plan dumb, read the room!"

This was interactional vandalism, alright. Whether Jay's truly oblivious or just trying to annoy you until your head explodes (it's really the former, but you're convinced it's the latter), he takes your signals of disinterest and tosses it right out of his head to continue the conversation.

"I'm stuck in this stupid bet with Jake--do you remember him? He bet me that I couldn't date someone for more than three months and I figured having someone fake date me would be easier than actually dating someone, right? That's where you come into the equation," he proposes as he leans back in his chair, as if he had just finished a sales pitch to a prospective customer looking to buy a car.

You couldn't believe this. You're 98% sure this has got to be a prank. You're mentally preparing for a camera crew to jump out from in-between the library's aisles any moment now and scream into your ears that you've just been punk'd!

The remaining 2% of you, however, wouldn't put it past the two boys to get themselves in such a situation. The last memory you had of Jay and his friends were pretty much their childish selves back in middle school. And by looking at the current scene unfolding in front of you...it's needless to say they haven't changed much.

"Again, can't help you there. Ask one of the many girlfriends I thought you had." Ouch.

"But Y/N, you've known me all your life--"

"Up until you dropped me a few years ago but sure, let's call it that."

"--and convincing other people is gonna make me look--"

"--desperate? Yeah."

"C'mon, Y/N. What do you have to lose anyways?"

"Uh..my dignity? Pride? Self-respect? Sorry Jay, not happening," you turn your attention back to your unwritten essay in front of you, mentally checking out of this conversation. This would be a good time for that camera crew to jump out now.

"Look, no one else is gonna do it, Y/N." Jay has always been stubborn, you suppose. But so are you.

"Yeah, because you've managed to push every being of the opposite gender away from you. You gave yourself this reputation in the first place," you give it to him straight. It's not like you had a relationship with him to uphold anyways––Jay himself broke that friendship years ago.

Jay hates that you're right.

You're always right. He remembers how he used to always go to you for advice and clarity on the world's biggest problems. Granted, the world's biggest problems to him at the time equated to what he should dress up as for the fifth grade Halloween party, but still. A tough decision, for the mind of a ten-year-old.

You abruptly stop typing and begin putting your laptop and textbooks away as you huff in frustration. There's no point in trying to get your work done now. The longer you stay arguing with Jay, the bigger your headache gets. The longer he continues to occupy any part of your brain, the bigger your headache gets.

Getting up from your seat, packed and ready to slam your head into your pillow, you turn to the blonde one last time.

"Look Jay. We went on our separate ways years ago. If you weren't so notoriously known around campus and my friends would stop talking about you, I would've long forgotten you. I'm sorry you're in this situation, really. If I were you, I'd just tell Jake I can't do it. Or don't, I can't tell you what to do. Just don't get some innocent girl involved in whatever stunt of yours this is."

Jay stares at you, mouth agape, as you find your way out of the library and through the main doors. By the time he comes back to his senses, he realizes how he looks plain stupid––standing in the middle of the library, the look on his face screaming befuddlement, to say the least. Jay quickly makes his way out of the building, in hopes of convincing you one last time.

Jay catches sight of your figure already half-way down the walkway that connects the library to the main quad of your school's campus. Geez, you walk fast.

Not fast enough to outrun Jay's legs, however. If Jay running after you through the middle of campus in order to convince you to fake date him doesn't show how desperate he is to win this bet, I don't know what will.

"Wait, Y/N!"

You groan to yourself before turning to face the boy who can't seem to take a hint and leave you alone. You stare at his out-of-breath state as he heaves up and down from the slight jog he had to endure to get to where you are. If you're humored by him chasing after you, you do a good job of hiding it.

He meets your unimpressed state before stating his final proposition: "I'll pay you. Five hundred dollars."

You nearly stop breathing.

Now this catches your attention––after all, you're but a broke college student who's just trying to survive. And preferably not by feeding yourself instant ramen cups every night.

And so, naturally, you begin rethinking about the opportunity presented in front of you. You narrow your eyes at the boy as you weigh your options.

The first problem being, it's Jay Park––the bane of your very existence. You spent the last few years of your life pretending he didn't exist...for good reason. Not only did he do you dirty when you were merely a couple of 13-year-olds, but you just didn't want to be involved with someone like him. Someone known for his nature, someone who left your own current best friend ghosted. And not that Hana herself would care, for she has called herself the "female Jay Park", but you're sure this would be breaking some rule in the girl code handbook. Plus, if you agree to this, you'd be betraying 13-year-old Y/N, the one who decided to never speak to nor think of Jay Park again––which by now you've failed, but you get the gist.

Second problem being, three months is a long time. Three months is practically the rest of this semester, and did you really want to spend the rest of the semester tied down to the label of being Jay Park's girlfriend? There would have to be some negative connotations that came along with that title, right? No offense to Jay, but being his first girlfriend since, what, high school could make you come off as..naive, for lack of a better term. As if the only person you could settle for was Jay Park. As if you barely had any standards for yourself. Again, no offense to Jay.

Needless to say, if your school's debate club had to argue on why you shouldn't be doing this, you're sure the negating side could win with these two reasons alone.

But before you're rejecting the boy currently standing in front of you one last time, you find yourself mentally listing rebuttals.

First of all, you'd be getting paid. And again, you're merely but a college student living the stereotypical broke college student life––burdened by the costs of tuition, textbooks, and midnight McDonalds runs for when you're out of aforementioned instant ramen cups. Five hundred dollars could provide you with more than enough chicken McNuggets to last you the semester, and maybe some more to treat yourself to an online shopping spree.

Second of all, it's not like you were going to do anything better with your next three months anyways. It's safe to say you were too busy being a diligent student to actually look for anyone to date, per say. And if anything, having a fake boyfriend might actually be helpful in your case. Your mom would be off your ass about how you're still single, for one. And two, your friends (though it's really just Heeseung) would stop trying to hook you up on blind dates with guys that you would choose Jay Park over any day (and that really says something).

Third of all, it's Jay Park. As much as you despise the kid, you still know him. He's not a complete stranger to you, no matter how much you try to deny it. It could be worse, it could be a complete rando asking you to date him. At least you two have some sort of history, which would take care of the typical small talk and getting to know each other bit of this equation. And truth be told, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you weren't a tad bit satisfied by the fact that Jay chose you, of all people, to pull off this stunt with him. You don't know if it's the nostalgia of your childhood memories rushing back to you, but it reminds you of the endless schemes you two used to plan behind your parents' backs all the time. Granted, your childhood schemes––such as the both of you faking sickness so you could skip school together––don't even fall close to being in a fake relationship with one another, but still. It's the thought that counts.

All of those reasons plus, Jay isn't the worst to look at. He may have a spoiled reputation, but at least he has his looks going for him, you'll give him that (you're still secretly wondering when and how did he get his glow up, but don't tell him that).

And so by the guidelines of a college student's logic that states the pros outweigh the cons, you come to the overarching conclusion that maybe, this won't be so awful after all.

"Five hundred?" You ask, just for clarification. Jay's immediately nodding at your words. You continue to ponder on your thoughts as he stares at you hopefully.

The silent atmosphere of your campus heightens the tension so much, you swear you're in one of those overdramatic pausing scenes that occur too many times in k-dramas.

You sigh, then nod.

"Okay," you're internally praying that you won't regret this decision. "I'm in."

The next time you see Jay is at 12:17PM on a Friday afternoon, as you're exiting the doors of the lecture building that's home to your awfully long Capitalism in the Western World class.

You're going down the steps of the building, mentally deciding where and what you're going to treat yourself to for lunch––as the three hour lecture you had just attended drained all the life and energy out of you––when you hear the slight call of your name.

Turning to the source, you're met with a waving Jay, leaning against the passenger's side of his car, parked in front of the lecture hall building you were currently leaving.

Great.

You walk over to where he's casually waiting––he's unaware of all the stares he's attracted from fellow students leaving the same lecture as you. Can you blame them? It's not everyday you see a sleek, black BMW that probably cost more than your tuition pull up in front of your Friday afternoon lecture. It's not everyday you see Jay Park waiting for anyone outside of his said sleek, black BMW that probably cost more than your tuition.

"Hi," you simply let out as you plant yourself in front of him, not sure whether or not to question him why are you here? Surely, he wasn't waiting for you?

"Hi," he smiles down at you. There's a beat of silence. "I was waiting for you."

Bingo.

"Oh. What are you, my chauffeur?" You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Maybe. I am your boyfriend, after all," he says into the air, loud and clear, as if he wanted people to hear. Well that is the point, you suppose.

But still, all you want to do is smack the smirk right off his face.

Before you have time to put your next question into words, he answers it for you.

"I'm taking you out for lunch," he declares as if you have nothing else planned for the day. Well, to be fair, you didn't have anything else planned for the day. Except for your usual library run. But you figure the library could wait.

"Oh, like on a date?" You raise your eyebrows teasingly at him as you get into the car, Jay holding the door wide open for you. "Is Jay Park treating me to lunch as a date?"

Jay fights the scowl (or is that a smile?) growing on his face as he bends down to meet your eye level from inside the car. "Don't flatter yourself, princess. We've got fake lives to live."

"Call me princess one more time and you won't have a real life to live," you flash him a sarcastic smile and slam the door in his face.

Jay meets his own shocked reflection on the passenger's side window.

Cute.

"When you said you were taking me out to lunch, I expected like...I don't know...the diner on campus. Not whatever this is," you mutter to Jay as the two of you are brought to your table by a waitress at an upscale sushi restaurant, one that is undoubtedly out of your usual budget, but for sure an upgrade from your dining hall's pizza you were planning to have. You should've figured as much, the drive here was a little more than out of the way from campus, and who are you kidding, it's Jay Park you're eating with.

You stare down at your current outfit, which consisted of a hoodie you've owned since your junior year of high school and leggings that you threw on without second thought this morning––because you didn't exactly wake up and decide I'm going to go to a fancy sushi bar for lunch today!

"Why are we here anyways?" You ask him when you're both settled in your seats and the waitress walks away after listing the chef's specials for the day.

"Oh, they have killer dragon rolls here, you have to try it," Jay tells you nonchalantly as his eyes rake the menu in front of him, blocking your view of him.

How dense can one be? Your hand snatches his menu as you stare into his unamused eyes.

"No, Jay. I mean, why are we here? It's not like anyone's around to see us put on a show anyways."

"Oh. I figured," Jay's quick to grab the menu back from out of your hands as he continues, "that we should sit down and establish how exactly we're going to deliver this performance. After all, you're stuck with me for the next three months."

Again, smacking the smirk currently resting on his face would satisfy you beyond relief. Just once.

"If I drop out halfway through, do I still get $250?" You tease, leaning back.

"Ha ha. Funny. No," he narrows his eyes at you from across the table. "It's all or nothing."

You dramatically huff to make a show just for his annoyance.

"Worth a try. But sure, let's solidify this. What's the game plan?" You sit up in your seat, leaning over the table as if the two of you were hosting a secret meeting.

"It's simple really," Jay mirrors your actions, face leaning in close to where yours is hovering over the table. "Just pretend to be deeply in love with me for three months, and try not to actually be charmed by my cunning looks."

If someone gave you five dollars for every time you've already rolled your eyes at him today, you wouldn't even need to be in this deal for the five hundred dollars.

"Wow, smooth. Can I just remind you you're the one paying a girl to be in a fake relationship with you because you're just not competent enough to find an actual girlfriend?" You lean back, arms crossing over your figure.

Jay, unfazed, laughs, tongue briefly hitting the inside of his cheek. "Touché."

Your eyes go back to the menu in front of you as a silence falls over the table. Because you're not a loaded trust fund baby who comes to fancy five-star sushi restaurants for lunch on a daily, you don't recognize half of the entree names on the menu. You spot the dragon roll Jay suggested, but seeing that a basic California roll is less expensive, your natural broke-college-student-instincts figure the California roll shall do.

"Okay, in all seriousness," Jay begins as he puts his menu down. "It's simple really. We'll just go on weekly dates and post cute pictures of each other once in a while and a little after three months, I'll just say it didn't work out. I'll give you the five hundo and boom, we move on with our lives."

It's clear Jay's put some thought into this. Safe to say he's put more effort planning this out than the amount of work he's been putting into his classes. Someone's got their priorities straight.

You're impressed to say the least––you figured Jay would just be the kind to go with the flow and wait for the situation to unfold on its own and maybe blow up into flames. But seeing as he was just as serious about winning this bet as you were with making five hundred dollars, your doubts about this entire situation were slowly withering away.

Don't get it wrong, though, you still despise him. To an extent, at least.

"And don't worry about the dates. I'll pay on your behalf, as the loving, doting boyfriend I am," Jay finishes with a wide, cheesy smile you can't help but return a growing smile back at.

"Well then, as the loving, doting girlfriend I am, I shall gift you coffee, breakfast, all that fun couple stuff, whenever you please. Or maybe unannounced, if I'm feeling nice," you figure you should pitch in as much if he's paying for all your dates. And deep down, you find the idea kinda cute. But don't tell anyone that.

"Wow, look at us. We should become Dispatch's couple of the year already!" Jay exclaims, earning himself a small giggle from you, which pleases him to say the least. He thinks that maybe when this is all over, he'll hopefully make a good friend (well, for the second time) out of it.

And you're thinking that maybe the next three months won't be as bad as you initially had thought.

As the two of you delve deep into a debate about who would be the better significant other to each other, the waitress comes over to take your orders.

And because you're laughing and Jay's brightly smiling at you from across the table, you order the dragon roll.

The second time Jay takes you out––this time he gives you a heads up to get ready––it's at a, once again, high-class steakhouse.

The third time, you insist on the on-campus diner that's popular amongst the student population. Partially because you feel bad for the amount of money he's spent on you (even though he couldn't care less), but mostly because if you have to put on another fancy dress to just eat an overpriced meal that doesn't even fully satisfy your hunger, you might lose your mind.

And by this third time, Jake is aware of this newly blossomed relationship.

"Three dates! I didn't know you had it in you, going on three dates with the same girl!" Jake excitedly exclaims as he jumps into the empty spot on Jay's dorm bed and shoves his phone's screen into Jay's face.

The smaller screen displays Jay's most recent Instagram post: an image of you sitting behind your too-small-to-be-this-expensive-steak and smiling right into Jay's camera––a memory that brings a smile to his face:

~ ~ ~

"C'mon! We said Instagram posts would be a part of the deal! How else can we convince people we're dating?" A pout rests on Jay's face as he stares at you from across the table in the middle of the extravagantly decorated restaurant he picked out for your second date. You remember your eyes bulging out of their own sockets when you saw the "$$$$$" rating Yelp gave the place when you searched it up earlier.

"Okay, okay! One picture," you give in, already slightly annoyed that you were here instead of the comfort of your own bed, where you could be rewatching your favorite Netflix show for the third time. But because you made a deal and because you're desperate for money, you had to follow through––so here you were.

You flash an unconvincing smile to Jay's camera, which doesn't satisfy him, to say the least. "At least pretend you're somewhat enjoying this date," he frowns at you.

You sigh, until a thought crosses your mind and a smile grows on your face. "Only if you get me boba afterwards."

He narrows his eyes at you, but then meets your smile. "Sure, whatever you want. But only because I've been craving some mango milk tea lately."

"You're a fruit milk tea kind of guy? Sorry, but I might have to fake break-up with you," you tease as you take a sip of your overpriced drink to go with your overpriced meal.

Jay scoffs, feigning hurt by placing his hand over his heart. "Ouch. But before you break up with me, let me get this Instagram post in."

"Wow. Your priorities are so straight," you roll your eyes at him, eliciting a cheeky smile from him as he watches you through his held up phone screen.

"3,2,1."

"Hey, I wasn't ready! That was like mid-laugh!" You reach over the table to grab the phone, but not quick enough for him to put his phone back into his pants' pocket.

"Nope, nuh uh," he laughs as you quickly sit back down into your seat, not wanting to cause a scene in an establishment as proper as this one.

"It's fine. It's a good picture, you look cute," he casually lets out, unaware of the blush rising to the surface of your cheeks, thanks to the fact that you were suddenly interested in playing with the left-over food on your plate.

"Jay! Delete it, I'll let you take another one," you whine from your seat, imagining just how bad a candid picture of you could be.

"Ugh, fine. Ever so picky." He playfully rolls his eyes at you as he takes his phone out and opens the camera app as you prepare yourself.

"Okay, how's this?" Jay turns the phone screen to you after he takes a few snaps on his phone.

"I approve," you grin at him as he goes through the pictures himself, unaware of the smile growing on his face.

"Okay now delete the first one," you point your finger at him, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Okay, okay! Bossy," he laughs as he raises in hands in surrender.

When Jay gets home that night, he recovers the image from his Recently Deleted folder, telling himself it's for the sake of the memory.

Obviously.

~ ~ ~

"It's not that big of a deal," Jay mutters from his spot as his eyes go from the Instagram post to his Exile and Belonging in Modern Literature reading that's due tomorrow, bright yellow highlighter in hand. Typically, you'd find the reading buried deep at the bottom of his school backpack. But because Jay ran into you this morning and because he complained to you about the amount of work he's fallen behind on and because you had threatened him to do his work or else you're not going on another date––a fake date that is––with him, he figured he should at least get one reading done and annotated, despite his strong dislike for highlighters (they hurt his eyes, okay?)

What he doesn't know, however, is how your threat was completely full of bluff––but don't tell him that.

"It is so a big deal, for you at least!" Jake hops off the bed and lands on the wooden floors of Jay's dorm room so hard, Jay winces and sends a mental apology to the poor person who lives below him.

Jake suddenly gasps. "I have to meet her, Jay! As your best friend, it's practically mandatory that I meet her."

Jay opens his mouth to protest, but not before Jake interrupts him once again. "Oh! We can bring Sunghoon too, it'll be so fun! The best friends meet the girlfriend."

Jay can't think of anything worst. Jay imagines that bringing you to meet his best friends would just intimidate you out of dating him––fake dating him, that is. Obviously.

He stares at his friend in agony then back at the reading in front of him––the one Jake said he'd come over to help annotate, but the intention completely left Jake's head the second he heard about Jay's recent dating life.

"You don't have to meet her," Jay says pointedly. "Plus, you already know her."

Jake frowns at his friend's excuse. "Yeah, but that was in middle school! This is different."

Jay's hands shuffle through the reading's pages in front of him as he realizes there's no way the two of them are going to finish the assignment at this point. He supposes he'll have to save death by blindness from highlighters for another day and hope you still agree to go out with him.

Jake suddenly gasps in realization.

"Oh my gosh! Childhood best friends turned college sweethearts," Jake says so dreamily, he might as well plaster heart eyes on. Hopeless romantic, this one.

Before Jay can argue, the piercing sound of three loud knocks echo through the small room, followed with a:

"Jay, are you in? It's me!"

Jay stills at the sound of your sweet voice. He whips his head to Jake, who is also frozen in place.

But the widened-eye boy is quick to come to his senses––unfortunately quicker than Jay himself––because the next thing Jay knows, Jake's eyes are lighting up and he's running to the door, ignoring Jay's screaming whispers through this seething teeth that were somewhere along the lines of Jake––stop, I swear to god if you open that door I'm gonna fucking--

"Y/N!" Jake swings the door wide open, revealing an overly excited him and a frozen Jay half-way to the door, as if he was about to grab the very boy welcoming you in. It's as if we're living in a Sims game and the player clicked pause on this very moment.

Jake's eyes are wildly going back and forth between you and your supposed boyfriend, as if he was waiting for Jay to run over and smother you in hugs and kisses...or something couple-y like that. Jay wouldn't know.

"Uh––hi," you're awkwardly standing inside the room now, a relatively large paper brown bag resting in your palms as you look around for a surface to place it on. Jay makes his way to you without a second thought, quickly taking the bag out of your hold.

"You seemed stressed out earlier, so I figured I could bring you some food as a little pick me up. I didn't know what you liked, so I kinda just got a little of everything from the dining hall. Nothing fancy," you're rambling, but smiling so excitedly at him, Jay doesn't know what to say.

Instead, his mouth slightly drops open as he stares at you in awe, mostly because he's not used to being on the receiving end of such spontaneously generous actions––all while Jake's still excitedly looking back and forth between the two of you, as if he was expecting a marriage proposal to come next.

"Oh wow. Thank you. Really," Jay, still touched by your simple act of kindness, softly says as he places the bag on the limited amount of empty space on his desk surface––the rest of it is covered with his untouched textbooks and unfinished assignments. He wonders if you did this out of playing your role or just because you wanted to. He internally hopes it's the latter. "Seriously, you didn't have to do."

"Nah, don't worry. I wanted to," you shrug with such a genuine smile that Jay realizes he actually missed your smile.

Despite having seen you during your brief run-in this morning when you were fetching your morning coffee, Jay realizes he missed you. The two of you haven't been seeing each other recently because of your busy schedule and if Jay didn't realize it before, he's now sure he missed your company and presence around.

Weird.

"Well, you two have fun! Sunghoon needs me for something," Jake suddenly chirps from his place near the front door, halfway through with putting his shoes on already, breaking the comforting silence that fell between the two of you.

Jay frowns. "But you said you were free all da––"

"SUNGHOON IS CALLING BYE!" And before Jay can even register what's happening, Jake's out the door without another word.

"Er..sorry about him, he's...weird," Jay scratches the back of his neck as he returns to his spot on his bed, mentally setting a reminder to yell at Jake later for leaving the two of you alone. Jay doesn't know exactly why, but he's nervous at the fact that you're here in his room. It's not like you two are complete strangers––or whatever you guys were before––anymore. "Good job on your part, though. How'd you know Jake was here?"

"Oh uh, I didn't"," you let out an awkward laugh. "I just felt like doing it."

Heat rushes to Jay's cheeks and he's not sure 1) what this newfound feeling is and 2) how to respond, yet again.

Having expecting you to leave after dropping the food off, Jay's taken by surprise when you take your shoes off and come over to his bed to look at the pile of work he's spread out.

"Is this everything you have to do?" You question the stressed-out boy as you flip through the various assignments, readings, and essays he put off in the past week.

"More or less," he groans. This is no rare occurrence by any means––Jay being behind in his work––but this time, Jay realizes he may actually be in deep shit, considering he has no idea where to begin.

Right as Jay's expecting a scolding from you, he looks up to meet a look of sympathy on your face. "Well, I mean, I'm pretty much done with my day. I can try to help, I recognize some of these readings from last semester."

Jay thinks to himself that the universe has sent him an angel through the form of you.

"Really? Wow, you were't kidding when you said you'd be a good girlfriend," he sends you a surprised look.

"I'm just being nice, Jay. A concept I'm sure you're not familiar with," you remark back at him, causing his forming smile to grow into a laugh.

"I can too be nice! Need I remind you of who's paying you $500, covering all of our dates AND giving you rides to class everyday?" He remarks pointedly at you, a teasing look resting in his eyes as you're reminded of the first of many times he's come to pick you up before class:

~ ~ ~

You're late.

This never happens.

But then again, your life's been a series of unexpected occurrences lately. Such as the fact that you're currently known as Jay Park's girlfriend, for one.

You're scrambling out of bed once you take one look at your phone and realize shit, you're already late for class. Throwing on whatever articles of clothing your eyes land on first, you're already mentally groaning at the fact that you'll have to skip breakfast and run across your campus to get to said class.

Curse your professor for hosting her lecture at the furthest possible building away from your dorm. Curse the architect who decided to make your campus so large.

You're running down the steps outside of your dorm building's doors when you're abruptly stopped by a familiar sounding cough. You look up from trying to gather all your belongings together at once to meet the gaze of the source of the sound––Jay.

"Wow, you're a mess," he smirks as he gets up from the spot on his car he was leaning against to make his way over to you.

"Gee, thanks! Good morning to you too," you flash him a sarcastic smile before your default frown quickly makes it way back onto your face.

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm here?" He grins as he grabs hold of your backpack to sling it across his own back as the two of you walk towards his car.

"Why are you here, Jay?" you sigh, your sarcastic tone hard to miss.

"To give you a ride to class, of course!" He's beaming at you, as if he's a pre-pubescent teen who just won their first girlfriend a prize from the arcade's claw machine.

Oh. That explains the car, you figure. Deep down inside, you're relieved that you'll no longer be bursting through the lecture hall's doors as a sweaty mess––a result of having to run across campus to get to class.

Determined to not let your satisfaction completely show, you resort with a little smile directed towards Jay as he opens the passenger door for you.

The second your enter Jay's car, the strong scent of coffee hits you, and your attention is targeted at the two small cups of coffee sitting in the cupholders of the car.

"Breakfast?" Jay asks as he enters through the driver's side and reaches into the backseat to whip out a small pastry bag. A small, deliciously smelling, pastry bag.

Okay, well. You suppose you could drop the annoyed act now.

Your eyes widen with joy as you grab the bag from him and open it to reveal your favorite breakfast sandwich. He's been taking notes, you'll give him that point.

"Okay, you win. Thank you," you grace him with a soft smile before taking a bite into the glorious gift in your hands.

"Of course, I was just feeling nice," he grins at you as he starts his car. "But don't get used to it." His tone is serious, but his smile directed towards you says differently.

And the fact that he still showed up to drive you to class the next morning.

And the next.

~ ~ ~

"And need I remind you who has to date your dumb ass for the $500 in question?" Your eyes narrow at the boy who can't seem to get that damn smile off his face.

Jay sticks his tongue out at you, ending the conversation. Really Jay? What are you, five? Well, mentally––probably.

You're looking around his minuscule dorm room for a place to sit down, and Jay can't help but feel embarrassed now that you're here, in his messy single studio room that pretty much reflects how Jay treats every other responsibility of his oh so hard life: neglected.

"Uh...here, you can sit on my bed," Jay immediately offers as he moves to the side to make room for your presence––and it isn't much, considering the university only provided him a twin XL bed which is definitely not built for two grown college-aged kids.

If you told yourself a few weeks ago that you'd be shoulder to shoulder on a bed belonging to the guy you cringed at the very thought of, you wouldn't have believed yourself. You wouldn't have believed yourself if you said you were actually glad Jay let you stay instead of kicking you out after delivering the food. Huh.

Weird.

"You know, this kinda reminds me of when we were kids. I always carried us through those horrible multiplication tests in the fifth grade," you wink at him as you settle in the spot next to him, hands grabbing hold of the papers in his lap.

Jay let out a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his. "Hey! The twelve times table is hard, okay?"

You roll your eyes at him––a habit of yours he's noticed whenever the two of you are together, but more recently, he thinks it's been more out of fun than annoyance.

He wonders why.

When Jay had first brought up the idea of bringing you as his date to his father's company dinner, you had expected a fairly fancy five-star restaurant with a formal dress code––for you've become accustomed to Jay's lifestyle. Turns out, your expectations can continue to be exceeded. Because what you had expected to be a simple dinner with a few other business men and women turned out to be an entire party, hosted in a hotel whose interior resembled something close to a castle (Or what you assume a castle looks like, as you've never personally been into a castle yourself, but this hotel is close enough).

Your eyes sparkle at the extravagant columns and diamond chandeliers hanging high above you, and Jay smiles at the expression on your face; like a little girl being brought to the amusement park for the first time ever.

"Wow, this is...wow," you mutter as you drink in the scene in front of you: people dressed in formal attire likewise to yours and Jay's, mingling and drinking what you imagine to be beverages that cost more than your entire life's worth.

Jay laughs from behind you, "Yeah the company goes a little...extra when it comes to these company dinners."

You scoff as you look up at him. "Oh really, you don't say?" You look around and you're suddenly aware of the many people surrounding the two of you and the attention you've acquired ever since entering the building.

"Jay, people are staring." You shuffle closer to him, your voice lowering down to a whisper.

"Well, it's not everyday the son of the company's CEO brings his girlfriend with him, so...looks like we'll be the talk of the party tonight. Smiles on," he winks at you, and you just know he's loving the attention the two of you are receiving right now.

"Jay Park? Is that you?" You hear a warm voice call out from behind the two of you.

The two of you turn around to meet the owner of the voice, a middle-aged woman dressed in an evening gown that matches the pattern of high-end brands you've been recognizing ever since arriving.

"Mrs. Lee! It's so nice seeing you again," Jay cheerily addresses the woman as the two of you bow in greeting.

You internally giggle at the thought of your Jay being so picture-perfect in the eyes of his father's co-workers.

"This is Y/N," he continues, his hand finding its way to your back, protectively resting it there as you go to introduce yourself. "My girlfriend."

You swear you feel goosebumps rise from where he's lightly touching you, and more so when he introduces you as his girlfriend.

You tell yourself it's just your nerves. Yes, that's it, you're just nervous. I mean, you're in a room filled with people who could easily pay off all your college loans with just a snap of their fingers, who wouldn't be nervous? Right? Right.

"Y/N! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, I've heard so much about you!" Mrs. Lee excitedly exclaims as you turn to Jay with a slightly confused look plastered on your face. He mirrors your expression as he shrugs, moving to stand behind you completely, bringing his hands to rest lowly at your hips.

His hands feel like feathers on the thin fabric of your evening gown, so light, so delicate, as if he's unsure if he's crossing a line. It leaves you wanting more, wanting to naturally lean against him and his warmth. You quick to shake the thought of your head as Mrs. Lee chirps up again.

"Jay's father is always talking about how you've been keeping Jay pleasantly busy nowadays! Good thing too, about time this poor boy settle down for someone as beautiful as you," the woman rambles on as you feel a blush creep up on your cheeks at the thought of Jay talking about you to his dad. If only they knew.

"We should probably go find our seats, I think the dinner is beginning soon," Jay says from behind you, saving the two of you from having to listen to Mrs. Lee's story of how she's known Jay ever since he was five years old and seeing him grow into this mature, loving, young man is so amazing. Oh look! I have baby pictures.

Yeah, he was more so saving himself from embarrassment.

The two of you bid your goodbyes before Jay gently uses the hand on your back to maneuver you through the crowd of socializing business moguls.

"She's not wrong, you know," you feel Jay dip his head so he's speaking near your ear, his warm breath tickling your earlobe, as the two of you make your way through the large foyer room.

"Hm?" You hum in question, turning your head up just enough to be able to make eye contact with him as he responds to your look of confusion.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says, eye contact not breaking once. You freeze in your steps.

You stare back at him in silence. Oh.

Your mind is panicking as it flips through your mental book of responses, unsure of what to say back. But because your mind is cloudy from staring at a put-together Jay in a dark navy suit to match your dress (mixed with the nervous butterflies in your stomach––have they always been there?), the only sound that's able to leave your lips is the small stutter of a:

"Huh?"

Wow Y/N, you had one job. A simple "thank you" could've sufficed! And you went with "Huh"?

You felt like a fifth grader who just learned from a friend of a friend of a friend that their crush likes them back.

"U-um. Mrs. Lee. What she said about you. You look good, really," somehow your nervousness made its way over to Jay now––his eyes flickering from yours to anywhere, anything, else in the room––the awkward tension growing tenfold each second.

Goddamnit Y/N, this is just Jay you're talking to, get a grip.

You're knocked back into reality when he slightly nudges your back to continue making your way to the main ball room, where the dinner is being held.

"Is that a compliment from the Jay Park?" Your smirk can't be seen by Jay, since he's still trailing behind you, but he can definitely hear it through your tone.

"Don't make me take it back," he chuckles, his words felt against your neck, leaving behind a tingly sensation you're not sure why you're feeling. You're glad he's behind you, so he isn't able to see the blush creeping onto your face for the second time tonight.

Jay gives a small nod to the people behind the check-in desk stationed at the entrance as the two of you waltz right into a large ball room lined with countless circular dining tables. So much for a small business dinner.

As the two of you approach one of the tables placed at the front of the room, you notice a familiar figure seated next to the seats reserved for you and Jay.

"Y/N!" Jake exclaims as he gets up from his seat to greet the both of you. "I'm so glad you made it, Jay was so excited to bring you tonight. Deadass would not stop talking about it."

Jay lets out a noise that falls somewhere between a cough and a goose being strangled, his widened eyes warning his talkative friend to just shut up. He's silently cursing the company for always seating his and Jake's family at the same table for these events.

"Aw, is that so? He's lucky he's cute or else I wouldn't have agreed," you grin, winking at your assumed boyfriend sitting next to you.

"Hey, YOU were the one excited to come! I recall a certain someone's face lighting up when I suggested we go shopping for tonight," Jay immediately retorts.

"Only because you were buying," you giggle, causing Jake to laugh as well.

"Damn, Jay. Tough," Jake jokingly adds as you laugh alongside him. The scowl sitting on Jay's face expresses the opposite of what he's feeling right now: warmth filling him up from the sound of your laughter and the image of you getting along so well with his best friend.

"I'm gonna get us some drinks, you two have fun making fun of me," Jay narrows his eyes at the two of you as he gets up from his seat. You bid him off with a smile before turning back to Jake.

"No but really though, this boy would not stop talking about you coming tonight. Then again, he doesn't really ever stop talking about you," Jake nonchalantly says, not knowing how much he was exposing his friend to you right now.

You raise an eyebrow up in response, "Oh really?"

"Seriously! I don't know what you did to him, Y/N, but this Jay I've been seeing recently is new. He complains a lot less about life nowadays, especially on the days he sees you," he leans back in his chair as his comment brings a smile to your face. Little does he know.

You stretch your neck up to find the boy in question and spot him right as he's returning to your shared table, two drinks in hand. You lock eyes with him from across the room and without a second thought, you're giving him a genuine smile that he's immediately returning.

Your heart beats faster at the view.

You wonder why.

It's 3:07AM when you hear the first ding.

You're not 100% sure as of why you're awake at this hour on a Tuesday night––perhaps a combination of your restless thoughts and feelings not letting you sleep plus the typical stress that comes hand-in-hand with the life of a college student.

It's 3:09AM when you hear the second ding, and you brush it off, assuming it was just Heeseung spamming you with memes again––something he does often when he also can't sleep (you found this out the hard way).

It's still 3:09AM when you hear the third ding, and at 3:10AM , you finally reach over and decide to acknowledge the being who's bothering you at this godforsaken hour.

Jay [3:07AM]: Y/N

Jay [3:09AM]: hi

Jay [3:09AM]: r u awake rn

Y/N [3:10AM]: unfortunately so

Y/N [3:11AM]: why are you up

Jay [3:11AM]: come outside

Y/N [3:13AM: jay it's 3am

Jay [3:13AM]: ye and? don't tell me ur a college student with a curfew

Jay [3:14AM]: plus im alrdy waiting for u outside so u have no choice

Jay [3:15AM]: :)

You groan at your bright phone screen currently illuminating your dark dorm room.

You ponder the consequences you may have to suffer tomorrow if you stay up any later than you already have. But considering the fact that you're probably just going to stay awake lying in bed for god knows how long anyways, why not?

(And you would like to point out that this decision has nothing to do with the fact that you haven't seen Jay in a few days and that maybe a tiny, tiny, tiny, part of you may have missed his presence. Nothing.)

And since that logic is obviously valid (you really gotta work on justifying your life choices), you're suddenly grabbing a hoodie from your closet and hoping it'll be enough to keep you, who's merely in an old band t-shirt from high-school and pajama shorts, warm.

The breeze hits your skin the second you open the doors to your dorm's building, and you're met with the view of Jay's sleek, black BMW that probably costs more than your tuition. He waves at you from the driver's seat, motioning for you to get in.

"To what do I owe you the pleasure at this hour," you deadpan at him with a stone-cold voice as you enter through the passenger's side door, hoping your tone was enough to hide the fact that you're giddy at the fact he invited you out at 3AM in the morning. Like a high-school girl sneaking out of her house to meet up with her bad-boy boyfriend that her parents dislike.

The second you enter his car, you're instantly comforted by the warm air blasting through his vents and his playlist softly playing in the background. Jay's pajama pants and messy hair give you more than enough information to know that he probably just rolled out of his own bed as well. You don't know why, but your view: Jay in his oversized hoodie with his unkept hair in front of your dorm building at 3AM on a Tuesday night, gives you comfort in weird ways you can't explain even if you tried.

But it's obviously just your cloudy, 3AM mind not thinking straight. Obviously.

"When I can't sleep, I go on drives around campus. It helps clear my mind," he says, looking over at you to give you a quick smile before starting his car. "Plus, SnapMap said you were still awake, so...figured you'd wanna join."

"Oh so what, you're my stalker now? You're not driving to the woods to kill me now, are you?" You tease, an eyebrow brought up. Jay lets out a laugh from beside you as he begins to drive further into your campus.

"Guess you'll just have to wait and see," he throws you a wink before reverting his gaze back to the road, mindlessly driving to wherever the road decides to take him.

A comfortable silence falls in between the two of you as Jay continues to drive endless routes around your campus. You look over to the boy driving next to you and take in his features––you don't know what changed, but you no longer feel the same anger or annoyance bubbling within you when you're around him. You're not sure when this changed, but you figure it's just the effect of desensitization. After all, you've been spending so much time with him, you're bound to get used to it. Right?

"Why were you up?" Jay finally asks after a few minutes of just the two of you silently basking in each other's presences.

"Ah, you know. The usual. Endless thoughts running through my mind, stress from school, nothing new," you sign, giving him a soft smile followed with a shrug.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You answer him with silence as you search your head for the answer.

"I don't know. This is kinda weird, isn't it?" You don't know why you get a sudden surge of confidence, but before you can stop yourself, you find yourself rambling on. "If you had told me a month ago that I'd be here driving around with you when it's nearly 4AM, I would've laughed in your face."

Jay doesn't know whether to laugh or scoff. "Is the idea of hanging out with me that unappealing to you?"

You give him a serious look back. "I mean, up until a month ago when you needed me for whatever this game is, you literally pretended I didn't exist."

Oh. Awkward.

You freeze at your own words, mentally screaming at yourself for letting the words leave your mouth. Why, why, why.

"Y/N..." Jay says after clearing his throat after a few seconds of silence.

"No it's fine, it was a joke," you awkwardly cough and direct your attention to anything else around you right now. The view of your campus' buildings zooming by. The clicking of Jay's blinker when he switches lanes. The quiet roaring of his car's engine. The nervous tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel.

The rest of the ride is excruciatingly silent as he exits the main road and into an empty parking lot of some administration building made out of glass that has too many floors for you to count.

You don't know why you feel your heart beating in your throat as Jay puts the car into park––why you feel uneasy. You slightly turn towards him in your seat, hoping to pick up any sign of well...anything from him.

You don't know why you feel a twinge of guilt––it's not like what you said was necessarily wrong. If you were being honest, you were slightly bothered by how the two of you seemed to silently agree not to mention your past all this time. You were always one to seek answers, to seek closure. You couldn't help but bring it up––Jay was your best friend during those years. For him to just wake up one day and pretend you were nothing to him hurt you, and you couldn't help but still wonder what in the world you did to initiate his actions.

"I'm sor–" You're interrupted with his timid voice, as if he was almost afraid to speak.

"I'm not good with people." He's nibbling on his bottom lip, fingers nervously picking at a spot on the steering wheel.

You're opening and closing your mouth, unsure how to respond. You're 100% positive you look like a fish right now. Good for you.

"I don't know why. Jake calls it commitment issues but in order to have commitment, people have to stay in my life. And people just...don't. They're all bound to leave at some point. So what's the point of putting in effort into relationships if they're just going to leave you at the end?"

You're stunned by his sudden confession, not having been prepared for such a heavy topic to arise between the two of you. Up until tonight, your interactions had always been light-hearted and easy––you guys got along well. You didn't know this is how he felt all along.

But you knew where he was coming from.

You knew what Jay had gone through as a child––his mother having left him and his dad when he was young. You remember when your parents had told you the news at the young age of 13, and you remember the pain and sorrow you felt for your then friend. All you wanted to do was go to him and comfort him, but he had already cut you out from his life by then.

"Or maybe I'm the problem. My dad barely acknowledges my existence because he thinks giving me an allowance is all the parenting I need, my friends probably only stick around because they feel bad for me, you wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the bet, and, fuck, I'm literally known as the campus' fuckboy," Jay continues, falling deeper and deeper into the hole he dug himself.

He hates this, he hates opening up and feeling vulnerable, so he doesn't know why he's doing it now. He doesn't know why he feels comfortable voicing out his fears and worries when he's around you. But he does know it's a new feeling––one he doesn't know how to deal with.

"Jay," you lace your voice with as much comfort as you can provide. None of this is his fault, you want to tell him. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything," he says with a hint of bitterness and you can't tell if it's directed towards you or the topic at hand.

You're completely turned in your seat now to face him––despite the fact that he refuses to meet your gaze, afraid that looking at you is gonna bring out the most vulnerable in him. "You can talk to me. Talking about it makes it a lot easier. I'll always be here for you, as a friend."

Jay doesn't know what it is or why, but something in him snaps at the sound of a certain word falling out of your lips. Friend. Friend.

Friends don't make his heart beat nervously whenever he's around them. Friends don't keep him up at 3AM in the morning, pondering about his feelings for them. Friends don't provide him with this new, warm comfort he's become accustomed to whenever he's around you.

Deep down, Jay knows you didn't mean to add fuel to the fire. But because he's strong-headed, stubborn, and hates how vulnerable he feels next to you, he unleashes his emotions without thinking about the destruction coming along.

"It's none of your business, Y/N. Forget I said anything. You're just a toy for this stupid game and when it's all over we can go back to our own lives and forget this ever happened."

His sudden words cut deep, but they hurt him more than you. The second the words tumble out of his mouth, he's hit with the feeling of instant regret washing over him, and the lump forming in his throat restricts him from finding the right words to take them back.

The silence that falls between the two of you this time is different. It's a cold silence. A loud silence.

Jay feels his walls coming back up around him––the ones you managed to get through––and all he wants to do is apologize but he's terrified. Terrified of seeing your reaction, terrified of losing you again. For the second time.

You tell yourself he doesn't mean it. You tell yourself that he's just enduring more pain that one should ever receive.

But you also tell yourself that this wouldn't be the first time Jay leaves you in the dust.

You tell yourself that you're foolish for ever believing a friendship, or more, could come out of this act at the end. That you're so naive for feeling those stupid, stupid butterflies you've started to notice in your stomach whenever you see, or even think of, him.

"Okay," you begin with a firm tone. You're hurt, but you refuse to show it. You won't let him hurt you for a second time. Not again.

"Just...find me when you need me. As your fake girlfriend or just...me. I'm still here for you," is the last thing you say before un-clicking your seatbelt and leaving his car, beginning your walk back to your dorm hall.

Jay is unsure about many things in life. He's unsure about what he wants to do in the future, he's unsure of where he's going to settle in life, heck, he's unsure about what to have for lunch tomorrow. But he's sure about one thing.

That he's wearing his heart on his sleeve right now, and it's all because of you.

That you've become this new lifeline and he has to choose between holding onto you or drowning.

When Jay wakes up the next morning, his first gut instinct is to get ready to pick you up for class. But today's different. Jay doesn't know where the two of you stand now, especially after last night.

Jay doesn't know how to deal with this combination of unknown emotions he's been feeling lately. They didn't come out of no where, by any means, he realizes. They've been slowly growing over the past month of seeing you so often––like a plant he's been watering overtime, not expecting it to bloom into a flower so suddenly––but he figured it was nothing more than just enjoying the company of a friend.

Until he realizes that the term friend just doesn't suite you anymore––not to him, at least. And that scares him. It scares him that you've made him genuinely smile more in this past month than he ever has in his 19 years of living. It scares him that when he's around you he can't comprehend his own thoughts, his feelings. It scares him that you make him vulnerable, that you've changed him. That you've managed to make the walls that he's spent so long building and polishing to crumble with a simple tap of your finger.

In a perfect world, Jay would have already told you all this––he would be unafraid of how you would react, unafraid of your rejection, unafraid of losing this growing relationship with you. But alas, we don't live in a perfect world. And so when Jay drives to class that day, he drives right past your dorm building.

"Where's Y/N?" is the first thing Jake questions when he enters Jay's car that morning, confused by your absence, having been used to you being in the front seat every morning when Jay goes to give Jake rides to class as well.

"I don't know," Jay mutters, unemotional eyes focused on the road in front of him, not interested in continuing a conversation that involves thinking about you.

Jake hesitates as curiosity gets the best of him. "Did you guys get into a fight or something?"

Jay's hands tighten around the steering wheel of his car. "Or something. Let's just leave it at that."

There are a few beats of silence before Jake speaks up again.

"Well, I guess this works out because I wanted to talk to you about something."

Jay continues to stare straight ahead of him, focusing on just trying to get by without mentally beating himself up at the simple thought of you.

The simple thought of you and your smile. Your witty remarks. Your stupid eye rolls. Your laughter. Your kindness. So much for not thinking about you.

"I'm calling it off," Jake's words catch Jay off guard.

"Huh? Calling what off?"

"The bet. I'm calling it off. I don't care about the textbook fees I'll have to pay next semester. Look, fight or not, you and Y/N are good for each other, everyone can see it. And I really don't want this to end up being one of those messed up teen TV shows where the girlfriend finds out the entire relationship was based off of a stupid game and then they break up and the boyfriend falls into eternal sadness and regret. And I don't wanna see you sad, dude. So yeah! Congrats," although he's admitting defeat, Jake's beaming widely, just content with the fact that his best friend has finally found happiness through the form of you. "You win."

But Jay feels like the opposite of a winner. Because even though his only intention coming into this was simply winning the bet, his life isn't as simple as it was a month ago. Because he discovered something much more valuable than some stupid textbook fees or five hundred dollars or getting his physics homework done for an entire semester.

Something he's scared he's already lost.

You.

⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺

The next time you see Jay is at the same time and place as when he first ever appeared to pick you up––at 12:17PM on a Friday afternoon, as you're exiting the doors of the lecture building home to your awfully long Capitalism in World History class. This time, however it's different.

Because this time, it's one month later, and Jay Park is no longer a forgotten side character in the story of your life. This time, you're frustrated because it's been three days since you've last heard from Jay. And because it's been three days since you've last heard from him, you can't focus on anything else, and because you can't focus on anything else, you're falling behind on every other aspect in your life. Jay's somehow managed to become the center of your life without even having to be present.

Well, up until now. Up until you go down the steps of your lecture hall's entrance and look up to be met with a figure leaning on a car you're far too familiar with. You freeze in your steps as you make eye contact with the boy you've been thinking about non-stop for the past month three days.

Your mind tells you to walk away, to just follow your flight instinct instead of fight, to just go back to your normal life. But here's the thing. Ever since Jay's made his way back to your life, it's been far from normal.

And if you're being honest, you had no interest in going back to your normal life. Normal's overrated anyways. You find your legs bringing yourself over to him, your heart leading the way.

"Hi," you simply say, planting yourself right in front of him.

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?" You already know the answer, but you want to hear him say it.

"Waiting for you," Jay doesn't hesitate in answering you. This time will be different, he tells himself.

"I can walk myself home, thanks," you state, but your actions tell differently, as you make no sign of moving from your spot in front of him.

Jay's mind contemplates telling you everything. About how he regrets that friendship-breaking decision he made that one fateful day in the eighth grade, about his true feelings, about how he first suspected these feelings when he was 11 years old and saw you in your fancy get-up for the sixth grade dance but put it off as a little crush, and about how the same feelings grew into something so, so much more in the present. But seeing that putting all these thoughts into words would involve more than one functioning brain cell (which is all he's convinced he has in the moment, for the view of you staring up at him, looking like that, has his brain short-circuiting), he settles with:

"He called it off. It's over. The bet."

"Oh."

Silence.

Okay, Jay. This is your chance. Say it.

"Is that it?" You lift an eyebrow, awaiting for more explanation. When it doesn't come, you slightly nod and start backing away. "I'll see you around then."

Is that it? Do the two of you just go back to your respective lives now? How can Jay do that, when he doesn't even recall what his life was like before you entered it––and especially when he has absolutely no interest in going back to that life?

Fuck it.

"Y/N!" He stands up straight, a newfound confidence taking over. This time will be different, he tells himself. Because now, he knows what he wants. For sure.

You turn towards him, to see him already making his way towards you, stopping in his steps when he finds himself close enough to you that he can't concentrate anymore.

"I'm sorry for ditching you in the eighth grade. I'm sorry for ignoring you since then. I'm sorry for dragging you into this stupid mess and for pushing you away and I'm sorry for calling you a toy. Because it's far from truth. I like you. A lot. And––and I'm scared. I'm scared of what this means for us, because I just keep messing things up and all I know is that I don't wanna wake up tomorrow and realize you're not in my life anymore and––"

"Woah, woah, Jay. Slow down," you look up at him, the corners of your lips threatening to curve up into a smile. "You're an idiot, you know."

Jay's never really confessed his feelings to anyone before, per say, so he doesn't really know what to expect. But he's watched enough Netflix rom-coms in this lifetime (which is still not that many) to know that hearing the words "you're an idiot" isn't what you're supposed to hear after pouring your heart and soul out. Surely not, right?

"I––I'm not sure how to respond to that," he quietly says, searching your eyes for a sign, for anything. You giggle at his sudden shyness as you grab both his arms and look at him right in the eyes.

"It's okay. I get it, if anything, I'm also scared. But you somehow got me wrapped around your stupid finger, and I hate it," you smirk at him, your hands slowly making their way up his arms to circle around his neck.

Jay's hands naturally fall at your waist as he lets out a breathe he didn't even know he was holding as he returns your smirk. "Well, I could say the same about you. And I also hate it, for your information."

"Hmm, is that so? I guess it cancels out then, right?" You smile at him as he's pulling you in so close, your head turns cloudy.

Jay grins at you, his eyes holding so much joy and endearment as they quickly flicker down to your lips before returning to your own eyes. "I guess this only means one thing then."

"Mm, and what's that?"

And before Jay can answer––and because your life's been anything but normal lately––you make the first move this time, moving your head up to close the small gap between the two of you.

His arms instinctively tighten around you as you capture his lips with your very own, and Jay swears he's about to lift off into space right now. He's on cloud nine, and he makes no plans to touch the ground ever again.

The kiss quickly becomes fervent, all the pent-up tension that the two of you had for one another finally finding its way out, all the words that were previously left unsaid finally expressing themselves. You don't even care if you're being judged by the conservative faculty members of your school right now, or by the looks of fellow students walking past the two of you.

You try your best to keep yourself from smiling as he continues to press his lips against yours, his hand moving to hold your chin, guiding your mouth with his.

Before you find yourself getting carried away, you step back to take a breath, resting your forehead against his chest as his hands rest against your back. He smiles at the sound of you giggling against him.

Jay takes a step back to take one look at you and realizes, in this moment, that change can be good. And he's willing to undergo this change. As long as it's with you.

⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺ ⸺

The next morning, you bounce down the steps of your dorm building's entrance to meet the wide, bright smile of your ex-childhood-bestfriend-turned-fake-boyfriend-turned-real-boyfriend waiting for you in front of his car, small pastry bag in hand. You smile back at him.

Jay drives you to class that day.

And everyday after that.

. ⋅ ˚��- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ :

✰ let me know what you think! if u made it til the end, mwah :') <3

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dangan-tiki-bar · 3 years

Note

hey mod tsumiki!! can you write me a fluffy one shot with kazuichi and fuyuhiko? ty in advance!! also good luck with modding this blog!!

kazuichi and fuyuhiko fluff headcannons!

Thank you so much for the request! Love these boys cidncicjci absolutely amazing. Super underrated. Again, thank you so so much!

- Mod Tsumiki

KAZUICHI SOUDA.

• Kazuichi is such a fluffy person in general. He cares a lot about you, and he wouldn't change you for the world. You make him happier than anyone. You actually listen to him, and take his words into consideration, and actually believe that he's smart and talented. The way you look at him makes him so, so happy.

• He loves cuddling with you especially. He's such a little spoon. The boy will see you laying on the couch and just crawl over onto your chest, being tired from the exhaustion of working. You excuse the grease and dirt from him, you know he needs the affection right now.

• He likes doing cute things like hugging you from behind, but he's not sneaky at all. You can hear him walking through from a mile away, but he's sincerely trying to make you surprised! Just act for him, the poor boy loves seeing you happy.

• He will make little gadgets for you! If you like little stim toys to play with, you will see him making them outside on his break. He loves making things for you, so trust him with this! He may not be an inventor and he may primarily work in cars, but he would totally make anything you asked.

• As much as people like to say he's creepy towards the people he has a crush on, he's not. To you, he's kind and respectful, and just trying to get you to notice him. He genuinely loves you and would do anything for you, just ask him. He's a simp, but he's your simp.

FUYUHIKO KUZURYUU.

• As much as Fuyuhiko tries to deny it, he really cares about you. He's always looking after you, even if he seems preoccupied. He's secretly a really anxious person, and being a Yakuza worries him. Not about his own safety, about yours. So, he's overprotective. For good reasons.

• He's so, so tired sometimes. The stress of everything takes a toll on him, and sometimes his energy drops. He doesn't even have the power to be angry, he just needs you. So, he'll plop down on the bed next to you and wrap his arms around you, mumbling something under his breath and relaxing for once.

• He's really classic with his gestures. He tends to send you flowers with little notes attatched to them, words that he wouldn't say often. Keep all of the notes, they're something that come from Fuyuhiko's heart. If he happens to find them, he'll be the happiest guy in the world.

• He will teach you how to fight. He cares way too much about your safety not to. He'll try to send Peko with you wherever you go, but what if he can't? He needs you safe! So, he'll teach you self defense and give you a special switchblade. Only the best for his lover.

• He's not completely a tsundere. He shows you he loves you through creative ways, and he wouldn't dare let you believe he doesn't. A constant reminder is a kiss on the forehead before bed, just holding you close and protectively. You're his. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

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libraryofsouls · 4 years

Text

jealousy meter - masked slasher edition

masked slashers jealousy hcs + how to quell their anger.

Asa Emory / The Collector

controls his temper really well but the vibes he gives off just screams murder.

if you’re being hit on, he’ll step in before ushering you behind him. sarcastically asks the stranger if they needed anything.

if they're persistent, asa will get more ....uncivil by the minute. he won’t start a fight though.

if they touch you - he’s going to be PISSED. now it’s personal. he’ll waste no time in prying their filthy little fingers off you.

again, he won’t start a fight but he’ll have any notable features memorized so he can deal with them later on.

rating: 8/10. won’t publicly fight anyone but this man holds grudges. touching you = stuffs them in a trunk for his own twisted amusement. might even show it off to you if he’s feeling particularly immoral.

solution: distract him. cling to his arm and take his attention away from the poor idiot who tried flirting with you. not usually a fan of pda but he’ll have an arm around you for protection. no amount of sweet-talking will stop him from abducting the creep later on though.

Brahms Heelshire

unsurprisingly gets jealous of the only other person you get to talk to.

who takes this long to drop off some groceries? why can’t he take a bloody cheque and just fuck off already?

somehow, in some way, he’s going to figure out how to get that fool out of the house without being seen.

was he... hitting on you? gasp! THE NERVE-- starts breaking objects in other rooms. scatters rat corpses all over the man’s car.

brahms will either be grabby hands at you as soon as you’re alone or just stubbornly keep you in his arms until you make him feel better.

rating: 10/10. hates it whenever the grocery boy drops by, especially when he’s blatantly checking you out. especially if he’s still breathing. AWFUL tantrums during and afterwards.

solution: praise him while showering him with affection. hold him tight and tell him how much you love him. kisses make his anger melt away fast. let him glue himself onto you until the next week or he’ll get upset.

Bubba Sawyer / Leatherface

thinks he’s not exactly ideal boyfriend material and he knows how much you prefer not being a cannibal.

big boy sad. initially gets mad when he sees someone flirt with you, but he’s plagued with insecurities. maybe you wanted someone normal and nice-looking. maybe you’re sick of living with the sawyers.

snaps out of it if he sees you uncomfortable. bubba is quick on his feet! don’t worry he’ll save you!!! literally saws the man in half.

creeper? dead. meat? acquired. yee? haw. he’ll quickly check to see if you’re okay. doesn’t quite understand if you freak out on him.

chainsaw go brrr. bubby doesn’t hold grudges and he’s not mad at you or ...whoever this guy was! he’s a simple man: he sees a problem, he saws it in half.

rating: 5/10. not above keeping you in a room to avoid unwanted attention. just gets sad and insecure a lot. tries to “save” you from everyone.

solution: just as easily swayed. please keep reassuring him otherwise he’s just going to keep tearing himself down. usually just reminding him how much you love him will work but why not give him some extra cuddles while you’re at it?

Jesse Cromeans / Chromeskull

very possessive. confident in himself and your relationship but gets an ego boost every time he successfully adds to his body count.

he sees a threat, he eliminates it. simple as that. jesse has more patience than the rest but his violent tendencies tend to get the better of him.

very observant so he’s most likely already blocking you from a creep. uses his towering figure to lowkey cover you. what is he doing, you ask? oh nothing, dear. pets you.

if they still stupidly pursue, he’ll be an asshole about it. “exit’s that way, pal.”

if a stranger tries to reach out for you - it’s game over. let’s just say he might not care if his partner has a weak stomach.

rating: 10/10. bathes in the blood of your fallen admirers. if he feels especially sinister he’ll let them live to pour salt on their wounds. snogs you in front of them after he’s broken both their legs.

solution: literally nothing. jesse’s just the type to kill people for fun. trying to reassure him would just feed into his ego.

Jason Voorhees

believes that his protection is the only thing he can offer you so if he happens to fail at that, he’s going to blame himself for the longest time.

if you’re within the stranger’s reach, alarm bells are rapidly going off in his mind. too close. they might hurt you. silently hopes you run away.

they might not even be able to get a word out honestly? being tackled by jason voorhees probably feels like being hit by a train.

if he’s somehow preoccupied with other trespassers and found you a bit late, he’ll see red as soon as he discovers a horny trespasser had been harassing his beloved!

full speed ahead! all aboard the jason train!

avoids killing in front of you if possible. at the best of his days he’s still questioning why you even stay with him. you’re not afraid of him now but you might change your mind if you see him off someone with his bare hands. it’s a risk he’s not willing to take.

rating: 7/10. similar to bubba, he often tries to “save” you from everyone. he’s also got a lot of insecurities himself so he might keep you in his cabin as an absolute last resort.

solution: heavy dose of TLC. jason’s indifferent towards verbal affirmations - he’s seen people lie all the time. the best way to reassure him is through actions: holding him, mending his clothes, helping around the camp, etc. it’s the little things that have the biggest impact on him.

Michael Myers

the most possessive out of the bunch. stalks you all the time because he’s mike myers and that’s what he does.

hates people and tolerates you at best. people around you though? ick. talking to you and smiling at you? disgusting. doesn’t even smile at you himself, but it’s not like you expect him to. and that’s why you’re his tolerable little thing.

flirting with you? VILE. he’s already made his way inside the premises. mikey is going to back this person into a corner and take his sweet time.

also stalks anyone you meet regularly. don’t be surprised if they rant to you about the harmless but unsettling encounters with a “masked man.”

you are not free from michael’s wrath. he’s going to mark you up in any way he can. if he’s feeling especially territorial he might even show up maskless at your workplace to “pick you up.” (cue him rawing you in the nearest restroom.)

rating: 100/10. AWFUL. he’s gone off the charts, folks! all you need now is a leash and a collar and you’re all set. luckily this hasn’t crossed his mind yet.

solution: bold of you to assume he’s doing this for you. you better believe mikey’s just doing this for his own satisfaction. this man is simply a asshole and nothing can stop him.

Thomas Hewitt / Leatherface

middle man tommy is both insecure and possessive, but he does genuinely care about you. unlike bastard hands mcmike.

very similar to bubba. he’s haunted by his insecurities and believes well in the fact that others can offer a lot more for you than he can.

he won’t jump in with the saw right away, but he’ll immediately come to your side. just kinda stands there and looks as menacing as possible, just silently daring them to try something.

he’ll make sure to put himself between you and the stranger. if they persist then he’ll get to the wrangling. won’t kill them if hoyt isn’t around but won’t let them go unscathed either.

lowkey gets clingy after the ordeal. you need to be in his sights now at all times. won’t keep you around the gore but he’s always within earshot.

rating: 9/10. more likely to keep you in a confined space for safekeeping. you’re too good for this world and tommy’s not about to let anybody hurt you.

solution: very similar to jason, he needs a HEFTY amount of TLC. more actions instead of words. would probably get emotional if you whisper sweet nothings to him though.

Vincent Sinclair

very insecure and would bend over backwards for you. doesn’t get possessive but worries you’ll get tired of him.

he’s also going to convince himself that you’re much better off with a “better-looking” boyfriend that can give you a normal life.

if a victim starts flirting with you, he's already close by, listening intently. wax man sneaky. he’ll knock them out mid-conversation and pull them away from you. saves them for last so they can watch all their companions get waxed.

if they touch you though, he’ll jump in and disembowel them in two seconds flat.

either way - he’s not going to turn them into wax figures. please don’t ask him why. he’s too ashamed to admit his jealousy.

rating: 6/10. stews in his own insecurities and sulks a lot. only time he’ll get angry is if someone touches you inappropriately - then he’ll get extremely violent.

solution: keep him company. seriously, you don’t even need any sort of activity. just do your own thing in the basement while he works on his art and he’ll be more at ease. (but he also enjoys random kisses throughout the day too, he’s just too shy to ask.)

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angelharness · 3 years

Text

ns/fw tag is junkbox, blacklist that tag if needed

somehow this evolved into. frank getting railed. was just thinking about how there’s virtually no sub frank content and then this happened. gender neutral reader, could be interpreted as a strap-on or otherwise.

WARNINGS: smoking, brief descriptions of blood

FRANK MORRISON / THE LEGION

When Frank picks you up for your typical Friday routine, he’s tense. More so than usual, enough that you can notice it, despite being so acquainted with his usual taut air. You’ve just come from dinner with Susie and Julie at the only karaoke bar in the area, still a ways from Ormond, cheeks bitten by the cold and the crescents of ice caught on your lashes.

Stuffed on crisp fries and more than one refill of Shirley Temples, you’re a little groggy and just want to get to his house to pass out in bed, but through your coma-esque fogginess you see Frank’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. His eyes are almost unfocused, and you feel his dad’s old Ford Mustang begin to veer slightly as he begins down the route to his place.

You’re staring at the highway in front of you, but as the car inches over the dotted white line of the road and reaches well into the next lane over, you grab for Frank; a bad idea, he snaps to reality with a jerk in his shoulders, and the wheels screech and whine when he tears the steering wheel suddenly to the side. You gasp for a moment.

Frank swallows, readjusts his grip, and redraws into the proper lane. You look over at him, worried, and though he glances back fleetingly, his focus still resides elsewhere.

“Frank, do we need to pull over?” you suggest, somewhat meekly. Frank was never a good driver, liable to concerning cases of road rage, but it’s out of character for him to be so out of focus. As you expected, he takes offense to your comment, as well meaning as it was intended.

“Fuck, I’m fine, okay? Can you just—” His grip tightens further, you can hear the stiff creak of the worn leather furrowing intensely between his fingers.

He twitches when you reach a hand to rub his shoulders. As you graze down his side with a gradually increasing pressure, he jolts beneath his heavy denim jacket. He careens inward, retreating from your touch, but in the moments after, falls back into the space between you two.

You rub his hip comfortingly; Frank begins to loosen up, though his hands remain rigid, defined by furrowed veins across his straining knuckles. Your hand rests on his thigh, where you rub gentle circles. He tightens up again once more, then finally relaxes, and though there is no audible indication you can feel an exhale of relief as his limbs unstrain.

He slouches back into the driver’s seat chair, but you still see him spare you glances, less frantic but still with meaning.

It’s been a period of fluctuating silence now. Only taking his eyes off the road to struggle open the center console, retrieving a suspiciously brown box of his favorite Classic Filter Kings cigarettes, he rummages further for his lighter but resigns his attempts, the unlit cigar fixed between his fingers as he returns to the wheel.

“What’s wrong, Frankie?” you push. Your hand moves inward on his thigh. You can’t tell if it’s a gasp, but his mouth snaps open then shuts just as quickly, eyelids fluttering in fluster.

“Can we talk about it when we get back to my place?” he replies. His voice comes out smaller.

When you pull up in front of his foster parents house, the sprawling display of Christmas lights across neighbor’s lawns projects in smears of color down the windows of the Ford Mustang. His house is dark, an unfitting, unwelcoming silhouette between the neighborhood's jolly spectacles. Its windows stare back like dark, unfeeling eyes.

Frank draws into the empty driveway. His parents are always out at night, though you never borrowed to ask, thankful for its convenience. He alluded to them being out of town this weekend, though.

As Frank is now newly-nineteen, they don’t especially care much for whatever pursuits he undergoes in the privacy of his room, as long as that means he isn’t out late and getting into trouble with the law (which still makes up all of his time otherwise). You’d barely talked to them at all, actually—when Frank first brought you home, of course with the intention of sex, they hadn’t said anything at all, despite his foster mom spotting you as he rushed you up the stairs to his room.

He practically kicked you out afterward, just in time for dinner, which you guess had saved you from any uncomfortable introductions. You would rather not spend an awkward evening at the dinner table, shifting under the judgemental, wordless glares of his parents.

The car doors slam and the two of you trudge up the driveway to the door. Despite his parents' evident indifference, he’d always insist on entering from the back door closest to the stairs when they were home to ensure as minimal confrontation as possible. It’s in their absence that he hurries inside, eagerly pulling you along, breath heavier in cold plumes of crisp winter air.

The door shuts, he flips on the living room lights, a sad Christmas tree blinking to life wearily in the corner by the front window.

“The usual?” you start with a slight smile. Sex was never routine, actually, but you can tell when he needs to destress. Your relationship, never technically made official but by all other means definite, started with a teen-aged, carnal fiercoity. These escapades mellowed out and became sparser in your months together, now your time is spent in a more intimate, personal affection. To an outsider (such as Joey), they might think that that flame has lessened, but in fact you prefer the genuine romance that has developed in sex’s absence.

He’s rolling the cigarette anxiously between his fingers, gaze fixed elsewhere.

Frank is not shy. He feels so rawly and with a strengthness that wards off those who have not developed the acquired taste of his intensity.

Here, though, in the doorway of his house, breathing deep first, then shallow, he is small.

“In the car,” Frank mutters. His brows lower, frustration forming between his eyes. It’s an incomplete sentence but said with finality. He wants you to figure it out.

In the car.

You step forward and slide your hand down his arm.

“Frankie?” you say, and while it is said with understanding it comes out teasing. He parts his lips. He grabs your shoulders and pulls you into a vigorous kiss. Parting for desperate breaths but still so fervent. It’s not the intensity you are familiar with. It is, in some aspect, resigned, from a place of surrender. He’s warm, despite the December night you’ve entered from.

You’re starting up the stairs even as his hands clench at the fabric of your shirt. There’s the cold slide of zippers as you shed your jackets and stumble into his room. Blind, preoccupied with heavy kisses, he swats at the doorway to his room, finding the end of his door and slamming it shut after you.

The lights come on next. His room is as messy as usual; what clothes he couldn’t manage to cram into his drawers he’s instead kicked under the bed. It smells of old weed, never a smell you would get used to. His collection of army and pocket knives remain perhaps the most organized aspect of his room, mounted on his bedroom wall in a thick frame. Torn magazine pages are plastered about on the wall; various models in bikinis, and though a joke (he claims), it’s still the subject of teasing from Julie.

Frank tugs you along, falling back into his bed, guiding you to straddle him. His face is so red. He looks away, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Please,” he manages.

It’s the first time you’ve heard that from him, in any context. It’s so bizarre you nearly laugh, but this is also just so rare of an experience you don’t want to risk embarrassing him, in which case surely this occurrence would never present itself again.

He’d always been the one in control. Perhaps steered by his own collecting frustration, he fucks roughly and uncaringly. That is not to say he’s ever hurt you, but he’s never entirely there in the moment. He’s there for the feeling, but his mind is so many places at once you’ve never felt so alone in an inherently mutual act. His intensity carries over into his hands and touches, strokes which barely pass as such. Bruises and scratches are expected, though they heal fine enough on their own. Biting, too, wherever on your neck he can sink his teeth into it while fucking you.

Your hands must be cold, or he’s just nervous (both, you decide), as the muscles in his chest twitch when you run your fingers firmly down his bare chest. There are plenty of scars, varying in color, in recency. Old, faded scars juxtaposed by those more recent and a painful red. There are dark bruises up his forearms where he scratches subconsciously when anxious. You kiss up the bruises there, caring, sweet, but intensifying when you rise to meet his lips.

Frank was never treated kindly. Beyond that, he never opened himself up to kindness; paranoid by a history ridden so distinctly with hurt and mistreatment from those expected to care for him.

In your time with him you’ve slowly introduced intimacy. Genuine intimacy, loving kisses and compassionate touches. You like to think he’s calmed down over the years. You see that in your time alone, where he’s come to allow himself to relax and trust you, your intentions, your love for him, but you never see it otherwise. With others, he’s still Frank, still ambitious and self-destructive, careless perhaps in the desire for hurt, for what he thinks is punishment. You wonder how much of it is an act. He keeps it all hidden well behind unyielding eyes.

You run your fingers through his short hair, moving your kisses to his neck. Instinctively, his hands claw at your back, nails sinking in bare skin for security. If he’s so jumpy at just this, you’re not sure if he’d be able to handle much more.

“It’s okay,” you promise, murmuring into the crook of his neck. Somehow, it’s hot, even as snow gathers on the outside ledge of his bedroom window. Your skin is pricked with goosebumps but your neck burns up to your cheeks.

He says your name, eyes squeezed shut, a shy request for more. The kisses on his neck escalate, and you graze your teeth on the sensitive flesh experimentally. He pulls you closer. More. You sink your teeth in. Dark blood beads around the marks, and when you retract you gently dab away the red. More bites, he yelps shortly but his breath becomes distinguished and desperate. He’s still pulling at you.

“Is this ok?” you pause to ask. He nods his head and moves impatiently beneath you.

He usually is relatively silent when you do get around to fucking, and in the times when he’s not he rambles on and on, names, some degrading and others loving and some both. Teasing, too, the most relentless teasing.

Seeing him so oddly vulnerable, your hands clasping his wrists to the bedsheets, that almost drunk blush bright across his cheeks. It’s weird, so weird, but it feels incredible, too.

Pants come off, his boxers you pull down. He’s making the faintest whining, but you can’t tell if it’s out of anticipation or anxiety. You check in again and he responds a little annoyed, urging you on with rising impatience.

“Fucking christ, come on,” he finally spits, grinding pointlessly against nothing, and yet there’s immediate regret in his eyes when you grip his thigh in warning. His foggy eyes lurch to look down at the hand inching up his inner thigh. Frank is taken aback, but still you feel him move against you, pushing into your touch to ease the burning want even if slightly. You let him go.

He shoves the cigarette on his cluttered dresser, sitting up to stretch past his nightstand, but when he turns back to you you guide him to lay back down. He lays expectantly and swallows his nervousness. You take his cock in your hand. Another taut intake of air and dizzy mumbling.

“Yeah,” he urges in response to your inaction.

You start at a steady pace but quicken soon enough to meet his impatience. Hearty strokes, he pushes into your touch, needy and hot, the whimpering now very much audible. He jerks his head back across his pillow and looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, a twitch to his lips. You stop to admire the piercings on the underside of his shaft. He snarls, you jerk him sharply and he shuts his mouth with a surprised sound. Faster now, his mumblings evolve into barely restrained moans.

“Good boy,” you say encouragingly, “Such a good boy.”

“Fuck. Fuck!” His hands slide from your back, marked with the red imprint of fingers, and instead he tangles the sheets tightly in his fists, twisting them. He’s panting.

“Oh,” you muse. He groans shakily. “Do you like that? Being called ‘good boy’?”

He can only make a sound in reply. Possibly above admitting it, but when your strokes slow, he nods. You stroke faster.

Internally, you store this revelation in your head to tease him about later. Right now, you find yourself oddly warm at this nickname.

Again, “Good boy, what a sweet boy.”

He ruts into your palm and you see the glint of what might be tears stinging his eyes. He’s burning, so flushed, so needy. He relents and falls back into himself. It’s an entirely new intimacy to see him like this.

He releases with an audible shutter, chest heaving an extraordinary amount for such an act. You’ve jerked him off before without a fuss, though again in those moment’s he was still demonstrating complete control, usually with a hand knotted in your hair. Exploring that loss of control you just find so exciting, though. You’re incredibly turned on and possibly more embarrassed than he is.

You both take a moment, his breathing evening out again. You cup his cheek and run a thumb along the frame of his face, rough with scars and bruises. You kiss the light scar that runs through his lip, humming sweetly. He exhales hotly, eyes heavy and half-lidded, murky with lust.

“Fuck me,” he says suddenly. You think for a moment he’s regained his signature brashness, maybe previously lost to emotional exhaustion—no, though. He grinds against your thigh, searching so urgently for relief. You like withholding it, like watching him squirm and sputter for words, to flounder in this new sensation, flustered and aching but also groggy in his own befuddlement. But lost to an overwhelming yearning, he severs contact with the shame he’s constructed to keep him from intimacy and vulnerability, concepts still very new and scary.

Funny how new emotions manage to be Frank’s greatest, most incapacitating fear; you’d more readily believe he would kill a man before he would ever let himself be emotionally vulnerable.

“How do you want me to?” you ask. You are incredibly nervous but manage to function with the rush of acute longing thrumming sweetly in your veins.

“I—I dunno,” he mumbles hotly to the side. The unpatterned fabric of his bed sheets furrows in his clenched fingers. He glares needles at the wall, far too embarrassed to look at you as you move above him.

“What if you just relax and I’ll take control this time?” you offer, dropping the teasing note in your voice. You gently rub his shoulders, unwinding the muscle there, coaxing him into relief, the unclenching of self where he had not realized he had been tensed. He releases a breath, closing his eyes, and says with it, “yeah.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you remind him. He stares at you almost timidly, eyes angled through his blond eyelashes.

Shifting to a fitting angle, you lean in to kiss along his jawline, then taking his face in your hands, kissing up the bridge of his nose, at his chin, at his cheek, at his lips once more.

He makes a sound beneath you.

“Mmph.” Though short and exhaled almost bluntly, it’s content. A moan comes after but he silences it, drawing in his bottom lip, squeezing his eyes closed again.

Properly pushing into him, rocking up against him. He squirms briefly and resituates himself before unclenching again and following your slowly building thrusts.

He brings an arm up over himself, to shield the bedroom lights or to avert the further embarrassment of seeing you stare. Frank tucks his face into the junction in his elbow.

“You don’t have to be so gentle.”

He manages a glance your way. It’s not a dare, not said to badger you or push buttons he knows all too well.

You sink in further and watch his chest hitch, testing broader thrusts. When his breathing normalizes, you push the remaining width deeper, now comfortably situated snug in his hips. You let the both of you adjust, then return thrusting with newly-realized confidence. Moaning, his fingers seize the sheets again and twist them.

Mumbling incoherently as you fuck into him, he shakes, jerking. You lose yourself in the feeling, tight pleasure in your belly. He encourages you even as his face burns red ear to ear.

“More,” he asks, and more you give him. It’s almost too much. Like winding up a chain with a crank, the ecstasy tightening his core wrenches him suddenly into undoing; pleasure, striking and raw, racking his body in release.

If he could have been any redder his face might have well been solid crimson, already stained with pink and a few stray tears. You catch your breath with him, staring at him, beautiful and unraveled.

You lay down beside him and somewhat hesitantly ask, “Did I do ok?”

“Yeah,” he says with the mildest smile. He still glances away, scrambling to recover his composure before looking at you again.

Frank cleans up and retrieves a new set of boxers and his discarded pants. From his nightstand he withdraws another pack of cigarettes, this one nearly empty. You give him a look when he reaches for his blocklike lighter, cups his hand carefully around it, and lights the cigarette, taking a long drag. He returns to your side, laying next to you and shifting to allow you to rest your head on his chest.

“Your room’s a fire hazard, Frankie,” you joke. He pinches the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling a gray-white ribbon of smoke.

He stares at the undecorated bedroom wall across from the bed, the only wall in his room not graffitied in some manner. He seems to contemplate speaking, turning the words over in his mouth with his tongue.

“It—it felt good,” he admits, and the dark flush reappears at his ears and cheeks.

“Oh?” You scoot closer. “You looked really cute,” you tease, “I wish I could’ve taken a picture.”

You throw an obvious glance over at the clunky camera that he tossed uncaringly onto his desk. It looks virtually unused, but now certain thoughts start a smile across your face.

He shoves you but is smiling. He presses the cigarette into the ashtray behind his bed-side lamp, the smoke eaten suddenly away.

You take the moment to kiss up his neck again. Squirming, he bites back a laugh. You cradle his face with a loving hand, guiding him to look back at you.

“I love you, Frank,” you remark, suddenly serious. Frank, for a second, looks worried, but is reassured by more kisses on his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he replies—returning the gesture in his own manner. His lips meet yours, though a moment later you part and laugh, nose wrinkled. "What?” he shoots back, seeming confused. You only shake your head. Smoke just really isn’t a palatable taste.

Eventually, you pull away and maneuver over him on the bed to stand, snagging your own clothes.

“You leaving?” he asks, and it might be disappointment. You shake your head as you ball up your shirt and pants. “No,” you reply. You push your hair from your face; “I need to wash up.”

“Unless, ah, you want me to leave,” you say, too nervous to turn around and look at him. You were completely prepared for him to kick you out after the fact, an expected conclusion but never one you looked forward to.

There’s no response, despite the shuffling of sheets, then he speaks.

“You can stay if you want to.”

It would sound displeased to anyone else, but you, fluent in his terminology, know it’s a genuine invitation.

“Can I take a shower first?” you ask with a well-meaning laugh. “Yeah, that would be nice,” he replies. You doubt he meant it, but it came out as an insult, and you cackle back at him. Confused at first, he realizes, opening his mouth to clarify, but you’re the one to speak first.

“So that’s what you think of me, got it,” you joke further. He grabs a pillow out from under him and launches it your way. You retreat from it and take cover in the hallway, still giggling to yourself, and almost prance to the upstairs bathroom.

You look away from your own reflection in the mirror, flustered again, suddenly, by the image of him beneath you still recent in your thoughts.

God.

#junkbox #frank x reader #frank morrison x reader #dbd #dbd x reader #dbd frank #dbd legion #legion x reader #reader insert #x reader #horror x reader #slasher #slashers #dbd imagine #harpy writes

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amerrierworld · 3 years

Text

Babysitter (pt 9)

Thor (Ragnarok) - fanfiction

Pt 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Summary: A Loki interlude.

Characters: Hela, Loki

Word Count: 2,111

Warnings: Idk, swearing?

Loki was incredibly annoyed at the current situation.

He’d woken up on a random, clunky spaceship with a pounding head and a bruised neck. He remembered the world going blank and being quite certain that he’d been dead until, frustratingly so, his lungs gasped for the most painful breath he’d ever taken.

A janky pirate ship had snatched him from floating in space amongst the debris, stripped him of his armour -no doubt to sell or melt down into other knick knacks- and left him in the back amongst the cargo. They’d presumed he was dead, so when he had woken up, they had a bit of a shock.

Not a word was comprehensible, Loki couldn't understand whatever gibberish language they spoke, so he ignored them and shuffled to their food supply. That got him a whack on his back from a whip and a kick to the back of the knees.

Trying to take back his armour also earned him a few bruises. They didn’t seem very dangerous, but quite a nuisance.

Amongst the cargo he found familiar debris that struck an icy chord inside Loki. There were piles of Asgardian clothing- ripped and filthy, but Asgardian nonetheless. Bags with very few belongings, and metal scraps of the ship they had been on.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the remainder of the ship of refugees was probably lost. When the pirates began to beat him again for rummaging through their stuff, a rusty old pipe amongst the stolen goods helped quiet them down immensely.

With his kidnappers knocked out, Loki scarfed down what measly rations they had and set course for Earth at light speed -well, the closest speed they got to light speed which was more like a quick paced jog.

He tied up the crew and tossed them in the back, and lounged in the cockpit as the ship traveled on autopilot, picking scraps of food from between his teeth.

Communications on this ship were absolute garbage, he concluded. There was barely any signal and he couldn’t figure out where the closest planet was. So, he took a nap, ate some more food, and tried not to think too much about the harrowing experience of Thanos choking him to death.

Hours later, they entered a very familiar atmosphere. Loki let the ship crash-land, grabbed a bag of few supplies and hopped out just before they hit the ground.

He marched on through the thicket of trees where they landed. Angry shouts that were no doubt curse words echoed from the smoking ship as he left them behind and tried to gather his bearings.

An old cabin was the first building he saw. With a rusty dagger at the ready, he inspected the home around the back, looking for a vehicle he could take, something to get him moving faster than his legs, when suddenly a high pitched shriek nearly shattered his eardrums.

A young girl, no older than six, was staring at him with big brown eyes. Rain boots covered in mud, an aged stuffy in her hands. Loki put his finger to his lips, dreading that he was going to have to kill the girl before she gave him away or screamed bloody murder.

“Daddy! There’s an Avenger in the yard!” she sped off towards a shed, where there was a light on inside. Loki’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Whatever outcome he was expecting, this was by far the worst.

“I’m not- fuck.”

He shoved the dagger away and out of sight and stomped towards the shed, fuming with annoyance. He was about to go off at the man for letting his daughter talk to random strangers and how he certainly was not an Avenger, but the man in question had a large saw in hand and about 200 pounds of muscle to carry, so he snapped his mouth shut.

“Oh, hello there,” he said, his daughter bouncing about the workshop. “What brings one of you all the way out here?”

“And where exactly is out here?” Loki asked.

“Canada! What, you superheroes never been to Canada before? Always hanging around New York, eh? Are you taking a trip or something?”

“No. I, uh, crash-landed here.”

“From space?” the girl piped up, gawking.

“Yes, from space,” Loki said through gritted teeth. “Fighting angry aliens.”

“I told you, Daddy! He’s a hero!”

“I bet you’re trying to find your way to America, then? Lord knows why, there’s all kinds of weird things happening around town nowadays.”

“What do you mean?”

“Half the world’s gone! Poof! Just like that, some alien business I bet.”

“Are you going to save us from them?” his daughter asked again. Loki sighed.

“I’ll try my best. Now, can you please show me how to get to New York as fast as possible?”

The lumberjack’s husband took Loki and his daughter in his jeep and drove a merry long way to the nearest airport. On the way, the little girl asked him all sorts of questions about the Avengers, that he could only half-answer.

“Is it true Thor is super powerful?”

“Well. He's not that powerful. He just uses a hammer. Anyone with a hammer can use it as a weapon and suddenly be considered powerful.”

“I wish I had a super powerful hammer. Then my brothers would stop teasing me so much.”

“Hey,” her second father softly scolded.

“They’re mean!”

“Sibling feuds? I know the feeling,” Loki muttered.

“Do you have siblings, Mr. Avenger?”

“Sure do,” he smiled wryly. “Absolute bullies.”

“Me too!”

“Hey now, let our guest settle down a bit,” her dad said. “She gets a little excited around new people, so sorry.”

“It’s no problem.”

“The local airport’s just up here. It’ll take you to Detroit, and then you gotta get a connection flight to New York.”

“Thank you,” Loki said, genuinely.

“Why are you going to New York, Mr. Avenger?”

“To find my siblings,” Loki sighed. “At least, one of them should still be there.”

“But they’re mean to you?”

“Yeah,” Loki pondered as the car came to a stop. “But they’re family. I suppose.”

A few cunning lies and disguises later, Loki was suddenly landing in New York, amidst chaos. It had been a few days since he’d woken up, and apparently a few days since what they call the ‘Blip’. Humans clearly don’t like having their realities altered.

Your home was abandoned. Alfred didn't even greet Loki at the door, and no amount of pulling and prying opened it for him. The lights were off, and he feared the worst.

It wasn’t until he was in the streets and overhead muttering about some crazy goth lady terrorizing a nearby street that Loki thought he had finally found something.

He marched down the street until, to his surprise, he found Hela sitting hunched on the side walk, scowling and daring anyone to come close to her. She looked incredibly tired and disheveled, but her eyes were clear and angry, and recognized her idiot brother immediately.

“What the hell brought you back here?” Hela snarled.

“A toddler’s wisdom, if you’ll believe it,” Loki said, ignoring her glare as he sat down next to her.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

Hela grumbled.

“Have you eaten?”

“Since when did you become Mother? I don't need your help.”

“Really?” Loki picked up a filthy scoop from a pile of three ice cream tubs that were fully devoured. He dangled it from his fingertips for a moment, pulling a face. “I think you do.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Glad to see you too, sister.”

Silence. Hela really did look like shit, Loki noted. Her hair was mussed, and there were rips and broken pieces in her armour, reminiscent of the time they’d met. She had to be weak not to bother fixing it with her powers, or was just too preoccupied to even think to fix it.

“Where’s Y/N?” Loki asked.

“Beats me.”

“Did you kill her?”

Hela’s eyes snapped to his, a sudden fire in them. “How dare you say that?”

“Well, her home is abandoned and no one answered the door, and you’re here cowering like a criminal. One makes conclusions.”

Something changed in her expression, and she turned her body to face him. “Abandoned?”

Loki frowned, “yes. Didn't you know?”

“No- I.. I’ve been here, the last time I saw her...”

Hela jumped to her feet, nearly kicking Loki in the process. “That bastard, he took her, didn’t he? Him and his awful, forsaken pieces of shit he calls friends.”

“Who?”

“Our darling brother,” she spat. “He came in and- and threatened me, and then took her from me.”

She paced in front of him, green fire trailing behind her heels, hot with anger. She had expected you to come find her, take her back to your home, make her feel safe. But when you never came she had assumed you had abandoned her. Now, knowing Thor had taken you instead, filled her with rage.

“Where does your little posse hang out, hm? Some supposed secret lair? A great big castle in the sky?”

Loki blinked at her, at her sudden outbursts, at the scared glances from passerbys, and didn’t know what to say.

“Fine then, I’ll get her myself,” she growled, turning away from him.

Loki nearly let her walk away, let her walk into whatever doom she was getting herself into, but with a groan and a mad realization, he knew she was the only one he could rely on right now.

“Wait,” he said, reluctantly, hurrying after her and grabbing her arm. “You can’t just go running off. Tell me what happened.”

Hela spat at his feet. “I don’t need to tell you anything.”

“You care about her, don't you? Y/N? Why else would you want to ‘rescue’ her from our brother?”

“Be silent,” she hissed.

“No, no, I’m right, aren’t I? You care for her, but you messed up, and now you have no one on your side. That’s why you left, and that’s why Thor had to take her.”

Hela yanked her arm away before Loki could see her face, but he knew what she felt; remorse, and loss.

“Tell me.”

And so, reluctantly, knowing she had no other choice, Hela sat him down, this time on an actual park bench rather than the ground. She told him what had happened, how her mistrust had turned to affection for you, and how Thanos had destroyed everything in the end, and how the Avengers had fought her out of fear.

“I know the feeling,” Loki agreed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching an elderly lady feed a bunch of pigeons as if nothing drastic had happened to the world the past few days.

“And now I don't know where she is, and she probably hates me, but who am I to blame her for that?”

“If I know anything about Y/N, is that she cares about everyone, but it takes a lot more to win her love. She doesn’t hate you. She’s just afraid. I mean, you did after all break her window and run off into nowhere.”

Hela stayed quiet, made an annoyed sound in her throat, and looked away.

“I’m starving, how did you get all that ice-cream? Why not an actual meal? Or were you just eating your feelings?”

“Y/N doesn’t like it when I kill people, so it was either massacre the street or steal their dairy products,” Hela bristled.

“Fair enough.”

“Now what, hm? You come out here, seemingly from the dead, chastise me for messing up, and now judge my diet? What do you really want, Loki?”

“Not sure, to be perfectly honest,” Loki said. “I thought I was dead, and then I wasn’t. Frankly, my priorities are shifting.”

“And what is your current priority?”

“Getting you back to Y/N so you stop moping around and fix this.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

Loki grinned, standing up. His armour shimmered and regained its full glamour; horned helmet and deep green cloak.

“Taking notes from me, are we?” Hela grumbled. Loki glared at her.

“I was wearing this look long before you got here. Now, get up, we’re going to infiltrate the Avengers and give you your romantic happily-ever-after so you stop being such a pain in everyone’s neck.”

“You think we’ll just be able to get in? You really are as mad as Father was.”

“I’ve broken into quite a few places over the years, I’ll have you know. I’m the God of Mischief after all.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Hela stood, her own armour strengthening again.

“Shut it.”

A/N: Loki is not dead! I know he’s technically alive in an alternate universe or whatever.. but I wanted the Odin Trio to be together sooooo here we are. Let me know what you think!!

taglist: @midnight-lestrange @cheerfullyvenomous @germansarechill@gaylorrds @amii-nyc @waitingfortheendtocome @novakitten0901@marvels-writings

#hela #hela x reader #hela/reader #hela x you #hela odinsdottir #thor #thor ragnarok #thor ragnarok fanfiction #loki #loki odinsin #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction #cate blanchett #tom hiddleston #best siblings amirite #wlw #lgbt #merry writes

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allisonxmoynihan · 4 years

Text

always be my baby ~ p. moynihan

Note: This is Part Two of the fic! If you haven’t read part one yet, or need a refresher, you can do so here! Thank you so much for the endless support and I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3,491

Life had returned to normal: you were back at school surrounded by your friends, exploring in your downtime, spending time with Olivia and Kelsie, and you and Pat were friends again. It wasn’t easy to forgive him, but a couple months after your dad’s birthday surprise you decided it was time, and the right decision, to at least let him back in as a friend.

It was the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week, and you had just finished your last class before Fall Break. You found yourself sprawled out on your boyfriend’s bed as he sat on a beanbag next to you playing video games with a few of his friends.

“Hey, babe, what time are you heading home?” Sam asks you, turning his head to look over at you.

You shrug your shoulders looking up from your phone, “I don’t know, some time tomorrow morning probably? Are you heading home at all?”

Sam turns off the game console before coming over and plopping down next to you, “Nah, I’m staying here for the break, my mom’s meeting me in Boston on Friday morning for brunch”

You adjust your head so that you can listen to the steady beat of his heart and you smile, content that today was a good day for the two of you, as his arms wrap around your waist, one hand going and twisting strands of your hair gently in his hands. It wasn’t that you and Sam had an unhealthy relationship, because for the most part everything was perfect, but sometimes the two of you would bicker nonstop to the point of you having a meltdown in Olivia’s dorm and him ignoring you for days afterward.

“You’re going to eat crappy dining hall food alone on Thanksgiving?”

He sighs, “yeah, but it’ll be okay princess, they’re supposed to have mac n’ cheese that day too”

You lift your head up excitedly, “Why don’t you come home with me tomorrow? My parents are dying to meet you anyway, and besides no one should have to be alone on a holiday!”

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, “anything for you, but you have to come to brunch with my mom then.”

~*~

Thanksgiving Day at your house was always hectic. Somehow your parents always got stuck with hosting, and your mom would be stuck in the kitchen all day as your dad and brothers played sports in the backyard as your grandparents sat at the kitchen table keeping your mom company. As soon as you got your driver’s license you got put on emergency grocery runs.

“y/n, I don’t have the stuff for the pumpkin pie or the sweet potatoes,” your mom says as she scrambles about the kitchen, checking the turkey. “Oh, and I need stuff for brownies and stuffing!”

You stand up from the kitchen table and grab your car keys, “anything else?”

Your mom shakes her head fervently, “hurry,”

On the car ride to Shaw’s your favorite song came on the radio so you turn the volume up and start belting out the lyrics, a wide grin plastered to your face as you slow for a red light.

Sam immediately goes to turn the volume back to an inaudible volume, “babe, really?” he asks, looking at you as if you were crazy.

You feel your face lose color as you continue to stare ahead, a little hurt that your boyfriend of the last five months would do something like this when he clearly knew it was your favorite song. You fight off the thoughts that Sam held you back from being completely happy, that Patty would never do something like this. You silently curse at yourself for constantly comparing Sam to Pat, as you turn into a parking space, but it was no secret that Patty would never treat you the way Sam did.

In the five months of dating Sam, he was always quick to call you out on your weaknesses and shortcomings, using your poor grades on a test to boast about his 100%, and even getting annoyed when your goofy and childish nature was highlighted. But time and time again you decided that the good outweighed the bad in the relationship.

Completely disregarding your sudden and distant behavior Sam slips out of the car and strolls towards the door. You take a deep breath, grabbing a shopping cart and hurrying after him. You finally catch up with Sam who is waiting for you in the produce section. “What did your mom need again?”

You force a smile onto your face, hoping you’ll sound somewhat positive, “sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie stuff, and stuffing,” you say, starting to pick up various sweet potatoes and put them in a bag.

“Here, let me get it,” Sam says, taking the bag from your hands and grabbing more sweet potatoes. You glance up, seeing Patty across the produce section and a big, genuine smile erupts on your face as you wave to him. Pat smiles back before going back to investigating which head of lettuce was the best. Sam clears his throat, directing your attention back to him.

“Why don’t you go get a box of stuffing mix and then meet me back here? Stuffing should be aisle three.”

You nod, walking off as Sam continues to fill a produce bag with sweet potatoes. Feeling a presence next to him Sam glances at the brunette boy next to him who is preoccupied with picking up various sweet potatoes, inspecting them, and putting them back in the crate, all while glaring at Sam.

“Who the hell are you? The boy finally asks.

“Sam Loughlin, what’s it to you?”

“That’s a pretty douchey name,” the boy mutters under his breath as he finally selects a sweet potato and adds it to his cart.

“Excuse me?”

“How do you know y/n?” the boy asks, continuing his inspection process of sweet potatoes just like he’s probably seen his mom do a million times over.

“I’m her boyfriend, who are you anyway?”

The boy turns and glares at Sam, his eyes blank of emotion, “Patrick Moynihan, the love of her life.”

As if on cue you return at that moment with a couple of boxes of stuffing in your hands. Patty looks down at you, “Hey y/n! Tell Nate and Luke I say hi, and of course to your mom and dad.”

You smile, tossing the stuffing into your shopping cart, “yeah, same to you Pat, Happy Thanksgiving!”

Sam stands beside you possessively, snaking an arm tightly around your waist, and you go to look at him and see him seething with anger and you go to ask him what’s wrong but nevertheless he waves you off.

“Pie crust and pumpkin filling is all that’s left on the list. Let’s go,”

~*~

By the time you got home and dinner was ready you were exhausted and couldn’t wait for the day to be over so you could call Olivia and discuss your Black Friday shopping plans that occurred every year. And Thanksgiving dinner couldn’t have been any worse.

“Mommy, I wish Patty was here,” Nate whines, pushing his green beans to the side of his plate.

“Eat your green beans or no dessert, sweetie pie,”

“Daddy, do you think Patty will come over later tonight like he used to and have dessert with us and play football with us?” Luke chips in.

Your dad looks over at you, sorrow filling his eyes, “Uhh, no honey, I think Pat has his own family plans this year,”

Your mom, sighs, “well his jokes would be much appreciated right now after a long day of cooking,” she laughs as she places a spoonful of green beans onto Luke’s plate who groans at the sight.

“He wasn’t here to help with the turkey either!” your dad exclaims.

You glance up at Sam, hoping he’s not upset or angry, but to your dismay annoyance and disgust are written all over his face. And you know you’re going to hear about it after dinner.

Your grandma cuts up her piece of turkey, “y/n, what happened to that sweet boy we all liked? He was kind of tall. Goofy. Very goofy. But he had sweet eyes,”

“Marilyn, his name is Patirck,” your grandpa explains, placing his hand on your grandma’s shoulder who turns to look at him.

“Oh hush up and eat your stuffing, Charles”

You laugh, shaking your head at your grandparents, envious of their deep affection towards each other.

Sam exhales loudly and you look up at him. He lifts his chin to the right towards the kitchen and dismisses himself from the table walking into the other room. Your mom looks at you worriedly, “I’ll be right back” you whisper, following Sam into the kitchen.

You walk in to see Sam standing tall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. You immediately feel sheepish, like a small child that disobeyed their mother.

“I can’t fucking take anymore of this bullshit tonight” Sam says in a hushed tone,

“Take what? What’s going on?”

“That asshole from the store, your family raving about how great he is even though may I remind you he cheated on you. I didn’t really want to come here in the first place, especially if it meant you falling for your fucking ex all over again,”

You sigh loudly, “whatever, if you don’t want to be here then go, I don’t have to put up with your attitude either.”

Sam rolls his eyes, a scowl taking over his face, “I’ll send you the address for brunch, and don’t embarrass me.” He says before walking to the front of your house and slipping into the shadows of the night.

Later that night you called Olivia to discuss your shopping plans but also to vent to her about the events that went down that night.

“I’m just so sick of Sam getting mad whenever a guy says hi to me or something, like he’s in a frat for crying out loud, he has girls on him all the time”

“Yeah, I don’t know y/n, it’s just weird”

“And he’s annoyed that my family was upset that Patty wasn’t there, like I’m sorry they grew attached to him in the thirteen years of knowing him”

Olivia sighs heavily, finally selecting on the blush pink nail polish instead of the cherry red one.

“What?”

“I don’t want to be mean, but y/n you’re my best friend and I just want you to be happy. But if you want my honest opinion, I’ve never seen you more unhappy than you are with Sam and that’s including when Pat broke up with you”

After finalizing your plans with Olivia for Saturday you find yourself painting your toenails and watching dance moms when you get a facetime call from Patty.

“Hey, Pat!” you smile, starting a second coat on your toes.

“Hey, what are you up to?”

“Watching dance moms and painting my nails, and I guess talking to you now,”

Pat smiles, “Remember when I let you paint my nails and you wouldn’t let me take it off”

“And all the guys chirped you for being ‘so whipped’”

Patty grins, “yeah, that was a good memory”

There’s a comfortable silence that falls over you before Pat starts telling you about his grandparents and how they’re doing, and also asking about yours.

“Well I’m glad they’re doing well y/n, that’s great news,”

You nod slowly, pouring over your conversation with Olivia about Sam. You zone out contemplating what you should do. She did have a point, you were extremely unhappy and have been for awhile, but at the same time you saw how good Sam could be, and that potential was enough to keep you there.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Patty asks, concern filling his voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing,”

“What did that asshol you were with earlier do something? I’ll fight him.”

You laugh to try and fight the tears that were stinging your eyes, but they inevitably start rolling down your cheeks, “What’s wrong with me? Why am I not enough for anyone? Sam. You. Literally everyone,” you croak out, rubbing furiously at your tears.

Patty’s face softens, “c’mon don’t say that, y/n, you’ve always been enough,”

“Then why’d you leave me? Why’d you cheat?”

Patty sighs, rubbing his hand across his face, “I don’t have a good explanation. I was lonely and drunk and I missed you and didn’t know what to do about it, but that’s all besides the point. y/n you’ve always been good enough, okay? You’re too good for the majority of guys in the world, including me.”

You sit there, rubbing the seemingly never ending tears that were pouring down your face.

“Hey, c’mon, just like Abby says, ‘save those tears for the pillow!’”

You smile slightly, “Hey, there’s that smile!” Pat gushes.

You roll your eyes, “you’re such a dork,” you say as you wipe more tears away.

Pat continues to try and cheer you up by telling you knock-knock jokes, because they’re your favorite, recalling funny moments from the past, and filling you in on all the embarrassing moments from his time at school.

Suddenly Pat sits up in his bed, “you should just leave him,”

“What?”

“Leave Sam. He doesn’t treat you right, and I know I’m one to talk, but y/n c’mon, the guy treats you like an object,”

You lean over to turn your light off and slip in under your bed covers, getting comfy in bed. “I can’t leave him, Pat. He’s a good guy, trust me. You just don’t know him,”

Patty sighs and quickly changes the subject to the most random of things, his voice low and soft as you drift into slumber. Patty sits and watches you sleep for a bit, remembering the times you were falling asleep next to him, and before he hangs up he whispers ever so quietly, “I never stopped loving you,”

~*~

The next morning you were supposed to meet up with Sam for brunch with his mom, but you weren’t really feeling it that day. You strolled down the streets of Boston wearing your oversized sweatpants, Patty’s Nobles hockey sweatshirt that you had never given back, and a pair of birkenstock sandals.

“The hell are you wearing, y/n come on, this is a nice restaurant and my mom is coming, remember?”

You roll your eyes as he looks at you disgustedly, “Yeah, about that, I’m not staying”

“Jesus, why do you always have to go and make a fool of me wherever we go”

“See that’s the thing, you turn everything on how it affects you, and sorry to break it to you but not everything is about you.”

“What the hell are you going on about now?”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m tired of always stressing about how I look and how my actions are going to impact you. I’m not even living for me anymore, I’ve become your puppet and you still can’t stand being around me”

He rolls his eyes, “Well if you’re leaving, go. I don’t really need you around”

~*~

That night your parents are out with your brothers at a hockey game, so you find yourself home alone in desperate need for a distraction. You find yourself baking brownies when you hear a knock at the door. You frown, dropping the measuring cup into the flour jar, and going to check who’s at the door.

“Oh, hey,” you say, stepping to the side to let Patty in who gladly walks right into the kitchen and taking a seat at the kitchen island. You follow him so you can resume your cooking, breaking the silence Patty says, “you still stress bake?”

You nod, whisking the eggs into the batter.

Patty is slow to nod, “Liv told me you might be upset and I wanted to come and check on you.” you look at him with a blank face and he stammers, “y’know because we’re friends. And that’s what friends do”

“I’m fine.”

Patty props his elbows up so he can rest his chin in the palm of his hand and watches you pour the batter into the pan. He takes you all in, the way your hair is falling out of its bun, how you have flour all over the front of your shirt, and how you gently scrape at the sides of the bowl to get the excess batter out. Deciding you have enough batter in the pan you start licking the extra batter out of the bowl and sucking your fingers that have batter stuck to them as well.

“What?” you ask looking up and noticing Patty’s stare.

“Nothing,”

“Is there batter on my face?” you ask as you smudge your hands across your face, wiping at the batter that was never there in the first place.

Patty laughs watching you, “no, you’re good,”

“Then why are you staring at me”

Patty’s face momentarily goes red before he shrugs it off, “I’ll help you with the dishes,” he stands up and takes the bowl from your hands and starts washing all the utensils you used.

Taking a seat at the island, you watch Patty wash the dishes and think about all the times he’s done this same exact thing before.

“Hey Patty?”

“What’s up”

“This is going to sound really silly,” you look down at your feet fumbling with the hem of your shirt, “but, um,”

Patty shifts his weight to one side and leans against the counter, “I’m sure it’s not silly”

“That’s because you haven’t heard it yet,”

“y/n what’s wrong?”

“Patty, I really miss you, and I’ve dated so many guys trying to forget what it felt like to have you by my side, but none of them are you”

His face softens, “I really miss you too,”

You laugh slightly shaking your head, “Everything in me is saying to give you a second chance like you asked five months ago, but I’m scared”

“y/n, please just give me a chance, I know I can be the guy you deserve to be with.”

You're silent and go to put the brownies in the oven before turning to grab some water.

“Kelsie says that you did it once before so you’re just bound to do it all over again, so how do i know you’re for real this time”

Patty sighs, grabbing a towel from your pantry and starting to dry the dishes in the sink.

“I know you’re just trying to avoid my question,”

Patty sighs, putting the towel down and turning to look at you, “you really want the honest story?”

You nod, going back and sitting at the island.

Patty takes a deep and shaking breath before he starts, “Because ever since we were six years old and I saw you yell at Timmy Moore for pushing Olivia off of the swing, since we were eleven and I forced Ciara to become friends with you so I could go to your birthday party with her, since we were thirteen and we started becoming really good friends. y/n it’s always been you; it was you on the playground on September 6, 2007, it was you when Ashley Turner had a big crush on me and everyone told me to ask her out, it was you at the eighth grade dance, it was you when I left Millis High and went to Nobles, and it was you the whole time in Michigan, and fuck, it was you at Providence too. It’s never been about anyone else but you.”

You sit there, dumbfounded, at a loss for words, staring straight back at him. He only shakes his head and goes back to drying the dishes before saying, “I can leave if you want,”

“Please don’t go again,”

Patty looks at you, walking slowly over to where you were seated, “y/n, i never stopped loving you”

A lump gets lodged in your throat as you look back up at him, “me too, patty,”

He cups your face in his hands, “please, give me a second chance, I won’t let you down,”

Your heart practically melts at his touch, at his words, and you can’t help but stare at his lips, “if you mess up moynihan I’m having my dad come and beat you up”

Patty laughs, pressing his lips to yours for the first time in a year, “if i ever hurt you i will come over just so he can beat my ass,” he mumbles against your lips, pressing them to yours one more time as the oven timer separates you two.

“Looks like i should be staying for dessert too,” Patty smiles watching you go over and take the brownies out of the oven,

“You’re such an idiot,” you laugh,

“Yeah, an idiot that you love y/n. An idiot that you love,”

#patrick moynihan #trevor zegras #jack hughes #ntdp #ntdp imagine #ntdp boys #hockey #providence college hockey #i never know what to tag things

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hopeshoodie · 4 years

Note

Random but what do you think some of the LIs love languages are? Like are their any that stand out as obvious to you?

You fool!! You’ve activated my trap card!! I’m kidding but I’ve thought about this SO much. ((Also please don’t comment gift giving/acts of service are shallow- these are real love languages- or as real as any other love language- and it’s not kind to shame people for how they feel affection))

Arjun’s is giving and receiving gifts. He’s a really flashy person, so seeing you wearing something he gave to you (especially if it’s made clear he did pick it out and gift it) feels so intimate and gratifying.

Blake’s is physical touch. I don’t really have a canon reason for this, it just seems right.

Bobby’s is physical touch. This doesn’t mean he’s into PDA- he’s not, he gets flustered in MC wants to fully make out in public- but little gestures like holding his hand or kissing his head mean the world to him. Every time MC gently pats his legs or squeezes his arms in conversation, he can still feel the echo of that touch after she’s pulled away.

Carl’s is acts of service. He’s busy all the time and remembering he is loved/loves others is something that doesn’t occupy a lot of mental space- but having something that makes his day easier- whether it’s MC cleaning his car or make him breakfast- reminds him how real their love is. Doing things like bringing her lunch or renewing paperwork like licenses/insurance/whatever means a lot to him to be able to do, and he gets sulky if you don’t acknowledge them.

Chelsea’s is quality time babey. She loves spending time with MC and her LI, it literally doesn’t matter what they’re doing. Chelsea can make anything fun, so as long as they’re together she adores it. Plus, people with ADHD sometimes struggle with emotional permanence (remembering their loved ones still care even if they haven’t seen her in a while or maybe said something she interpreted as snippy), so being able to see people in person is really reassuring.

Elijah is words of affirmation. He just really loves having his ego stroked, and also secretly fears that everyone hates him. Hearing that reassurance from his partner is really important.

Elisa is receiving gifts. She has a really specific curated aesthetic, and receiving gifts not only makes her realize that other people care about her and what she likes, but also validates that other people see her aesthetic and perceive her the way she wants to be perceived.

Felix’s is quality time. I don’t really care, but he likes when you make time to see him and go out with him.

Gary’s is physical touch. Unlike Bobby, Gary’s super into PDA. Whenever your driving somewhere, his hand is on your thigh. He’s constantly holding MC, regardless of the context. I think he’s big on coming home from work, coming up behind you and hugging you.

Graham, first of all fuck Graham, but his is words of affirmation. I don’t care enough to explain.

Hannah is physical touch. So I think she’s a closeted lesbian, and is still really preoccupied with the appearance of straight relationships (baby girl wait until I tell you about butch women). She thinks she likes big bulky men and wants to physically feel small and dainty- so things like holding hands and hugging really get her flushed. The first time she’s with a girl is... exactly the kind of touch she was always looking for.

Henrik’s is words of affirmation. He’s got a massive praise kink and even in non-sexual settings, hearing genuine compliments makes his day. If someone says he’s handsome or funny, he absolutely thinks about that for the rest of the day and is giddy about it.

Hope’s is acts of service. I imagine for much the same reason as Carl; she tends to be emotionally withdrawn and not realize the importance of relationships in her everyday life. But little things like her LI bringing in the mail or cleaning up the kitchen after she tried to cook have her smiling all day. Once she gets a flat tire and the LI comes and helps her change it and she just... realizes how immensely she loves this person.

Rahim’s is quality time. He loves being able to spend money to do flashing things with his LI, but that’s not about gift-giving because it’s never really tailored to what the receiver likes. It’s about spending time together and having opulent experiences that will bring them closer together.

Jakob is words of affirmation. Like Elijah, he just needs his ego fluffed. Unlike Elijah, compliments about his personality always mean more than ones about his physical appearance.

Jo’s is gift giving. Growing up, she didn’t have a lot of nice things, so it’s meaningful when other people say ‘this nice thing reminds me of you’ because she feels like she doesn’t deserve it. She also loves being spoiled.

Kassam’s is acts of service. He’s very action-oriented; saying one thing doesn’t matter unless you follow through and act on it. He’s a bit self-conscious, constantly insulting himself and worrying that others don’t genuinely like him, so he just rolls his eyes at compliments. But when his LI makes it clear that they love him and then /show/ him that? Magic.

Lottie’s is also acts of service (and a bit of words of affirmation). She’s similar to Kassam and Hope, but also she just doesn’t really like being touched a whole lot or showered in shallow compliments.

Lucas’ is quality time. He wants to be with his partner every day for as long as possible, and he misses them when they’re gone.

Marisol’s is giving and receiving gifts. It’s a lot less about materialism, and more just about a reminder that MC cares about her and is thinking about her. Like I talked about in my pros and cons, Marisol gives really thoughtful gifts for important occasions, but she also gives constant gifts. If MC and her are on a walk, she’ll give her a flower or a rock and say ‘this reminded me of you’. If Marisol is out shopping, she’ll always bring back something small or silly and say ‘I thought you’d like this’. Their house is NOT minimalist, it’s vintage eccentrism and maximalism because it’s full of art and objects that Marisol’s collected and have sentimental value.

Noah’s is acts of service. This is absolutely me projecting, but my s2 MC is just a hot, successful version of me so she absolutely has depression. Noah feels so loving when he’s able to take care of her, doing things like cleaning their living room or making food when she’s in a depressive episode. He loves being a caretaker, but he also is really comfortable being taken care of.

Priya’s is quality time. She’s absolutely the girl to get frustrated when her friends/partner are on there phone when they’re together. When she’s with you, she wants to talk and be with you, not online and distracted.

Rocco is words of affirmation. Someone he respected once told him he was so inventive, and he’s literally never stopped thinking about it. His uncle said “I’m really proud of the person you’ve become” and that’s the most meaningful thing he’s ever heard.

Shannon’s is quality time. What, you think she invited you to Las Vegas for no reason? She adores trips with her besties.

#litg #love island the game #litg s2 #ask #headcanons

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sapphire-strikes · 4 years

Text

☆Some Smile For Me Headcanons Pt. 3☆

Gonna be more fluff about Habit after he's able to open up in a friendship. I'm really into the idea of Kamal and him living together along with FK just sort of becoming a part of their lives, showing up all the time to hang out with Boris. (Again, these are mostly to be considered platonic but feel free to use your imagination)

Part. 1 Part. 2 Part. 3 Part. 4 Part. 5 Part. 6

{Note: You are Flower Kid!}

• Like I mentioned before Boris' hugs are fantastic. It's probaby one of his favorite forms of phisical affection. And being the gental giant that he is, he's big enough to hug all of his friends at the same time! Or...completely smother one poor soul that made the unfortunate decision of frowning around him.

• I also get the impression that Boris is like freakishly strong. He can easily pick up and carry around his friends (Often picking up you and Kamal at the same time).

• Most of it comes out in the form of hysterical strength though. More specifically when someone he cares about is in danger. Definetly the guy to call if you get stuck under a car.

• Boris would definitely be a huge tickle monster

• Like, it's literally one of his favorite things to do. What could be better then being close to someone you care about while they smile and giggle helplessly...whether they want to or not.

• You can tell when he's about to attack because he'll approach you slowly with a big smirk on his face. If you manage to catch onto him before he gets to close, his smirk will turn into a full blown smile and he'll wiggle his fingers teasingly at you. That's your cue to start running.

• This might be the only thing Kamal hates more than the puppet. He's been around Habit long enough to tell when he's feeling playfully and will run for cover when he suspects something. Poor guy has survived way too many of these, but now he has you as a distraction! "No hard feelings, little buddy."

• You weren't sure what the big deal was until the first time Boris attacked and managed to catch you.

•The big guy doesn't really know when to let up and will tickle you until either you pass out or you just can't laugh anymore. Whichever one comes first.

• The way he sees it, there's no such thing as too much laughter! Try to crawl away all you want, he'll just grab you by your leg and pull you back.

•Careful though! Try to escape too many times and he'll scoop you up. Cradling you in one arm and going to town on you with his other.

• He does a lot of verbal teasing as well. Whether or not it's actually meant to be teasing is hard to tell since he sounds very genuine and enthusiastic. He'll repeatedly compliment your laughter and smile, asking to see how it changes as he tickles you in different spots.

• "Now Now...", He looks down at you smugly, "Laughter is the best medicine, and you're not allowed to leave until you get a heaping dose! Doctor's orders!"

• Once Kamal feels like Boris is properly preoccupied with you, he'll come out of hiding and return to his work. Only offering a chuckle at your cries for help, "Heh, shoulda run faster, kid. Maybe keep a better eye out next time, ay?"

• And yes, there will be a next time...

• It becomes almost a routine of yours to meet Boris at his flower shop and walk him back home at the end of every day. You spend so much time at their place you might as well live there. Kamal just finds it amusing. You're still his little buddy after all and having you around definatly makes Boris really happy.

• You're most likely younger than the two of them leaving Kamal to take the roll of the parent/responsible older sibling.

• Boris might be the older one but he's far from the most "responsible".

• You and Boris team up and do your best to help people around town. Most of their problems being of similar caliber to those they had while in The Habitat.

• Boris is a sweetheart, a goofball and he can't say no to you. You two would get into all kinds of trouble trying to figure out people's problems. Without Kamal the two of you might accidentally get yourselves killed.

• You really have to appreciate Kamal. He takes it upon himself to act as the sense man despite his nervousness. Assuring you that you can come to him if you ever need someone to talk to. If you're on the younger side, he might even become one of the prominent adult figures in your life. The kind you can trust when you can't turn to your friends or parents.

Do I hear a Part 4??? (I'm gonna start doing requests as well so if there's any subject or character you wanna hear about in particular feel free to ask!)

#smile for me #boris habit #dr. habit #kamal bora #sfm #sfm headcanons #flower kid #sfm writing #had a lot of fun with this one #do I hear a part 4 anyone???#gonna get all my creative juices out #gonna start doing requests

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

Text

One Foot In (5/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9K’ish this chapter, with feelings AN: Thank you to everyone who is clicking and reading and saying nice things about this story. It is very nice and I think you are awesome. We’re deviating a bit from the Pushing Daisies path here, so, uh...let’s get magical, huh?

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam. Or! You can catch up from the start ||

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—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, nine hours and sixteen minutes old when she decides she may actually be going crazy.

It would explain away a whole host of her problems.

Ruby is flirting, genuinely and legitimately flirting, and Emma has a few sinking suspicions about the origins of the shirt Killian is wearing, but she’s also a little distracted by whatever the tips of Killian’s ears are doing because it seems he can dish the flirty banter out, but he absolutely, positively cannot witness it.

Or however the saying is supposed to go.

And he won’t stop staring at Emma. Like he knows something she doesn’t.

It’s unnerving.

“If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to turn me to stone,” Emma mumbles, letting her head drop back and that is a mistake. She can’t remember ever having a concussion, but the wall behind her feels impossibly hard.

That may just be the situation. Ruby laughs again, leaning over the edge of Victor’s desk until the tips of her hair skim over papers and the not-so-good doctor looks incredibly overwhelmed. Emma understands the feeling.

She bites her tongue to stop herself from making some kind of absolutely absurd noise because Killian’s eyes widen slightly at the scene in front of them and the longer she tries to remember the dream, the harder it’s becoming to separate reality from fiction and she can’t actually google psychiatric institutions.

That would probably alert some kind of government agency.

“If what we’ve been told is true, I’d imagine that’s entirely possible,” Killian says. He doesn’t take a step towards her, but Emma knows he wants to and she swears she can feel him next to her.

Maybe there are psychiatric institutions listed in the yellow pages.

She’s not even sure there are yellow pages anymore. The whole thing sounds incredibly antiquated, even in her head.

Ruby makes a ridiculous noise when she knocks a pile of papers off Victor’s desk. His answering whatever makes Emma want to gag.

“And,” Killian adds, ducking his head so Emma can’t avoid his gaze. “I know you’re thinking something, love. So let’s have at it. At least it’ll distract us from whatever is going on over there.” “This is normal.” “That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

She scoffs, digging the toe of her shoe into the tile underneath her. “What’s the matter, Jones? Not into public displays of affection?” “How does the man not realize what’s going on? It’s honestly almost too much, don’t you think?”

Emma shrugs and maybe it’s the wall that’s moving because it seems to be pushing even harder against the jut of her ponytail. She can barely remember anything about the dream now, just wisps of memories and moments and it was so, incredibly dark.

She hasn’t been able to get the goosebumps off her arms since they got into her car.

“Maybe,” Emma says. “But I don’t think he really cares. And, you know, it works. Gets us to the body and—”

She cuts herself off, wincing as soon as the word body falls out of her mouth. Killian tilts his head, the ends of his lips quirking up.

“You’re doing another admirable job of avoiding my question. Seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Sweeping judgment,” Emma grumbles. She’s going to dislocate her toe if she presses her shoe any harder into the floor.

Killian shakes his head. He’s bent his knees at some point which, if Ruby and Victor weren’t far too preoccupied flirting with, maybe, some purpose, would probably lead to both of them making fun, but it also makes Emma tug her lips back behind her teeth and breathe a bit sharply through her nose and it is not fair how good he is at this.

Still.

Maybe that was part of the dream.

Something about understanding.

She kind of remembers the woman’s face. Her eyes looked...not quite sad, but a little disappointed and a little wanting and that’s the feeling Emma hasn’t been able to shake, a tug in the pit of her stomach and a pull in the center of her soul and she’s never dreaded a trip to the morgue more.

God, what a weird sentence.

“Not sweeping,” Killian amends. “Accurate. And obvious. Do you think it’s possible?” Emma blinks. “Do I think what is possible?” “You’re not actually going to make me say it, are you?” “I think I may kind of need you to say it.”

It’s an admission Emma doesn’t need to make, but she feels as if she’s drifting between dream and reality and she swears she’s seen those people before. She knows she knows them, she just can’t figure out how. Or why they showed up in her subconscious.

Emma’s eyes flit up when Killian doesn’t respond immediately and she’s not sure if she’s glad or frustrated that she does – because she can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows, the clench of his jaw probably doing damage to several different parts of his mouth. His lips move again, like he isn’t sure if smiling is acceptable in an emotionally charged moment in the middle of a goddamn morgue, but it only takes half a second for him to decide and Emma is thankful for the wall behind her.

“Do you think it’s possible that I was inadvertently working for some kind of magical darkness because that same magical darkness thinks I am…” “Magical?” Emma suggests, and Killian’s answering noise is strangled at best. “I have no idea. I’ve never...it’s not like I’ve met a lot of other people who can wake the dead and ask them who murdered them.” “Have you ever woken anyone who wasn’t murdered?”

Emma tenses. She knows she tenses. Killian knows she tenses. Ruby is in the middle of something absolutely ridiculous and she probably knows Emma tenses.

She’s the world’s worst liar and even more terrible at trying to deflect the conversation, but it suddenly seems like she’s balancing on that tight rope again and her head shake makes her entire neck ache.

“Nope,” she says, far too quickly to be anything except the blatantly obvious lie it is.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Nope?” “Nope. I...well, why would I do that? I’m not trying to play God.” “I’m not suggesting that.” “Then what are you suggesting, exactly?” He lets out a low, vaguely sardonic chuckle and Emma figures that’s fair. His hand twists behind him, tugging on hair and pressing the pads of his fingers against the skin just behind his ear. There’s a hint of color on his cheeks.

That’s disconcerting too.

Emma can barely hear him over the buzzing in between her ears.

“I have no idea at all,” Killian admits softly. “But well...I don’t know. I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about or suggesting or even theorizing, but I’m at least ninety-six percent positive I can hear you, Swan. Or maybe feel you. God, shit, that sounds ridiculous.” “That doesn’t sound ridiculous.” “You’re being generous, love.”

Emma makes a contradictory noise, ignoring the fluttering of her pulse. “I’m not,” she promises. “I...you have no idea what you were trying to collect though? For this...darkness? Honestly, that almost sounds more ridiculous than you being able to feel me.” “That kind of sounds like a line.” “It might be.” Killian smiles, head falling forward when he exhales and Emma’s palms are never going to recover from the nails she keeps digging into her skin. “We are exponentially better at flirting than Lucas is.” “Don’t tell her that, she’ll get offended.”

Emma briefly wonders if magic is possible, based solely on the force of Killian’s expression when he looks at her. It’s not immediate, which almost makes it worse or, probably, better, but Emma’s clearly lost control of the English language, so she’s not going to be specific about which adjective she uses.

He tilts his head up slowly, like he’s trying to savor the moment and she needs magic to be real and fix this because not reaching out and brushing her fingers over the curve of his jaw is growing more and more difficult.

“What are you thinking about, Swan?” he asks, voice low but with a hint of something that sends a shiver down Emma’s spine and makes her dig her heels into her shoes and maybe they should have gone to prom together because they appear to be very good at dancing around the subject. At least Emma is.

“Way too much to be even remotely healthy.” “Can you think so much that it would be a detriment to your health?” “You’re the one who’s read encyclopedias. I’m surprised you’re not a doctor at this point.” “Not a doctor,” Killian says, smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. Ruby is taking her sweet time getting them to see this body.

Emma does not want to see this body.

“That wasn’t a contradiction to the encyclopedias,” Emma points out. “And I’m surprised you can’t feel my neurons like...short-circuiting or something at this point.” “You’re also not a robot, Swan.”

“Look who’s being generous now.” His eyes widen slightly before raking across her, drifting from her face to her arms and the bend of her elbows, tracing back across her hips and the bend in her right knee. Emma doesn’t mean to hold her breath, but she’s still on that metaphorical tight rope and she kind of feels like she’s being taken stock of. It’s not altogether unpleasant.

Every single inch of her feels like it’s buzzing, a quiet energy under her skin and a hum of something that might actually be power or magic and Emma can’t remember the last time she went to the doctor.

She assumes a doctor would be able to refer her to an appropriate psychiatric facility.

Killian’s head shifts again, hair dangerously close to his brows, but she can still make out his eyes perfectly and--

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, Swan.” There’s a hint of a plea to his words and Emma realizes, rather suddenly, he’s been doing a very good job of taking this in stride, but it may be a bit of an act and a possible show of magic and she inhales quickly, like that will give her an extra boost of confidence.

“I’ve never met anyone else like me,” she says. Her voice shakes. That’s disappointing. “Ever. There’s...it’s not like we have club meetings or matching lettermans jackets or anything like that. There is just me and what I can do and shouldn’t be able to do and—” “—Why don’t you think you should be able to do it?” “What?” “What makes you think it’s inherently wrong, Swan?” Killian asks.

Emma gapes at him, stunned that he could think it was anything except that, but she knows Ruby also kind of thinks that and she’s incredibly good at self loathing. It’s probably the trail of bodies in her wake and the lingering sense that she’s forgetting something important about that dream. Killian’s expression doesn’t shift though, steady and certain and the confidence that’s practically pulsating in the air around him has an almost legitimate taste.

Like berries or something.

She’s honestly gone insane.

“It’s…” Emma starts, waving her hands in the air when she can’t come up with the right words to prove what an absolutely, terrible, no good, very bad person she is. “It’s unnatural. This is—”

“—Magic?”

“That’s crazy.” “Swan, you touched me and I wasn’t dead anymore. I think that’s fairly good proof that there’s some kind of magical something happening here. And it doesn’t make it a bad thing.” “So long as no one knows about it.” “Explain that.” “I’ve been...Graham wasn’t wrong before, you know. I don’t really...talk to, well, anyone. I mean I talk to Ruby and some dead people and the people who buy my pies, but it’s not like I’ve got a thriving social life or anything. And I can’t.” “Why?” Killian presses, and there isn’t any anger there, just genuine curiosity and concern. Emma’s pulse is going to fly out of her body.

At least there is an actual doctor nearby.

“Because I left Storybrooke when I was a kid, alone and absolutely terrified and...I knew I could do this...whatever it is. Magic or a genetic mistake or—” “—You’re not a mistake, Swan.” “It’s nice that you think that.” “Emma,” Killian snaps, and she’s dimly aware of Ruby’s sound of frustration when they get loud enough to distract Victor from whatever part of the flirting plan she’s currently executing. He doesn’t take a step forward, there’s not enough room, but he rocks forward slightly and Emma’s breath hitches, stinging her nose and making her lungs burn and she’s totally unprepared for the look on his face.

He’s determined and not, a strange combination that’s also a little soft and maybe Emma should start reading the dictionary so she can come up with better words in situations like this.

Situations that end with conversations in her head.

“I don’t think that,” Killian continues. “I know that. Unequivocally. You didn’t...whatever reason this happened to you, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.” Emma shakes her head out of habit, pleasantly surprised and slightly charmed by the look of exasperation on Killian’s face. “I shouldn’t be able to do this,” she whispers. “It’s not right. It’s not safe. I mean...if you move the wrong way or—” “—That’s not going to happen.” “You can’t know that!” Ruby groans again, throwing them both a glare over her shoulder before redirecting her attention back to Victor. This is taking forever.

Emma hopes that isn’t a sign.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Swan,” Killian says, another promise he can’t make, but one Emma also kind of needs and maybe covets and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get bluer when he looks at her. “But you’re deflecting quite a bit again, love. What are you worried about?” “Would you like an itemized list?” “I wouldn’t refuse it. You’ve been jaw-clenching since you answered the phone this morning.” Emma sighs, letting her tongue trace over her teeth. “When I was a kid, I was terrified of what would happen if someone could find out what I could do. That they’d...take me or use me and no matter how much you try and cover it up by flirting with me, we both know this is something I shouldn’t be able to do. It’s not normal.” “That doesn’t make it wrong.” “It doesn’t make it right either.” “You are impossibly stubborn.” “Yeah,” Emma mutters. “But that’s the point. I haven’t really...I’m very good at pushing away with both hands so no one will know what I can do.” “You can’t actually push me away, you know,” Killian says. It’s more out of place flirting. Emma’s pulse does not care.

“That’s stupid.” “That’s what you’re capable of doing.” Emma groans, less frustration than...something else. “I’m kind of freaking out,” she admits, wholly unfair all things considered. Killian’s smile looks a hint sadder. “And I...well, Cora said the Darkness was looking for people like us, right?”

“I’ve never undeaded the dead, Swan.” “I figured that’d be part of the reintroduction, honestly. Hey, Emma, long time no see, I also can touch people back to life.” He chuckles, fingers fluttering at his side like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her. “I wouldn’t have called you Emma,” Killian mutters. “Save that for special occasions and exercises in self confidence.”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“Your self confidence or the magic?”

“Throw a dart,” she quips. “But mostly the magic.” “Like I said, I have no idea. But I knew something was wrong as soon as the goons got on deck and there had to be some reason they wanted that water moved. I doubt the Darkness is all that concerned with proper hydration.”

“You’re absolutely hysterical.” “Got you to smile though,” Killian points out, waving a finger through the air and it’s dangerously close to her cheek.

“Cora seemed very adamant.” “Well, we all know that Cora wouldn’t lie.”

She might laugh, but the sound feels like it rattles around her throat, scraping against the side and leaving behind marks that will linger for days or weeks or the rest of her goddamn life. Emma’s eyes fall shut, breathing only slightly erratic, which really is a step in the right direction.

“I used to have dreams,” she says, another sudden admission she hadn’t planned on making until the words are flying straight out of her. “When I was a kid and there were new houses and cold houses and I’d never been very good at sleeping, but it got worse and worse the older I got. I used to fall into these kinds of fits and they changed a lot, different locations and faces that weren’t ever really specific, but it always ended the same.” She opens her eyes, vision blurred slightly. She can still see the flecks of something in Killian’s eyes. It might be magic.

Emma still wants it to be magic.

If only to prove she isn’t as alone as she’s always felt.

“How did it end?” Killian asks, another rock forward that she should object to. She doesn’t.

“Badly.” She doesn’t say anything else, knows she doesn’t really have to when Killian’s tongue flashes between his lips. He’s not close enough for Emma to actually feel his exhale. Her brain doesn’t care. It latches on to the want and the need and the taste of blood lingers in the back of her mouth when she chews on her tongue again.

“Is that what happened last night?” Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “What?” “Is that what happened last night?” Killian repeats. “A dream that ended badly?” “How do you know that?” “That’s not an answer, Swan.”

She huffs out a breath of oxygen her lungs could desperately use, running a ragged hand over her face. “I can’t really remember,” Emma mumbles. “It wasn’t the same as those ones. It was...it was dark and I was alone for awhile, but then I wasn’t. There were people there. A man and a woman and they said…” She grits her teeth, trying to remember details that are fading as quickly as she can try and hold onto them. “They said it was going to be worth it.” “What was going to be worth it?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” Killian laughs again, low and almost unsurprised because of course there’s another mystery. “Figures. You weren’t by yourself though.” Emma considers that for a moment – trying to remember the feeling of the dream and the faces that were almost familiar in a way that made it seem as if they’d been there since the very beginning. Her smile feels almost natural. “No, I wasn’t.”

She shakes her arms, doing her best to get rid of the sudden surplus of excess energy that appears to be lingering in the tips of her fingers. “And I don’t think Cora would lie either,” Emma adds, avoiding Killian’s gaze.

It doesn’t matter. She can feel his eyes widen and she wrings her hands together just to prove that she hasn’t, in fact, turned to stone.

“Emma.” “Oh, c’mon.” He rolls his eyes when she does, finally, meet his eyes. It’s a bit of normal in the crazy and Emma’s thankful for it, even when they’re discussing something another human has already referred to as the Darkness.

“They called him master,” Killian says. “That’s...he must have been looking for something.” “Something magical.” “But the water is gone. I saw it crash before, well…before everything went to shit.” “That’s a nice way of putting it,” Emma mumbles, drawing more laughter and another smile and that’s comforting too. She lets her head drop back again, pulse almost evening out and breathing coming almost normally – until Killian runs his hand through his hair and rocks back on his feet and—

“You know, I used to wonder about you,” he says, rushing over the words as if they’re somehow embarrassing. “Not, well, not in a stalkery, all the time kind of way. But in a you were gone and eventually I realized you weren’t coming back and I wondered what you looked like sometimes kind of way.” “What I looked like?”

“Yeah, in retrospect that sounds a little stalkery too, doesn’t it?” Emma twists a strand of hair around her finger, chewing lightly on her lower lip. “Sounds a little flirty, honestly.” “Ah, that’s bitter.” “How’d it play out for you?” Killian hums in confusion, a furrow to his brows that is equal parts attractive and a little overwhelming, as if one look can alter the entire state of gravity around Emma. She presses her palms flat against the wall, not really much better than digging her nails into her skin because whatever this wall is made out of is kind of gritty and horrible, but Killian’s ears have gone scarlet and the tip of his tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Play out,” Emma repeats. “As far as looks go.” He might genuinely growl at her.

Whatever the sound is, it lingers in the air around them until Emma is certain it’s crackling with electricity and want and a slew of other adjectives that make her heart race and the possible magic she’s definitely in possession of soar.

Killian’s eyes darken, crowding into her space and pressing his hand above her head. “That’s a loaded question. And I’m a little disappointed it’s not more obvious.” “Maybe I’m just trying to get some more confirmation.” She can see his shoulders shift, a twist of skin and muscles and a t-shirt that’s half a size too small. They really are incredibly good at flirting with each other.

Emma licks her lips before she considers the repercussions of it, whatever noise that rumbles in the back of Killian’s throat making her feel as if she’s floating and a little drunk and both of those things would be a better explanation than magic.

It’s definitely magic.

She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows and she wants to ignore the idea of the Darkness for the rest of her life.

“Better,” Killian says, low and gruff and Emma swears the word slinks into her bloodstream. It wraps around her heart and several other internal organs that would probably sound disgusting if she were to ever say any of this out loud, drifting down her limbs and taking up residence at major pulse points, a steady rhythm that helps ground her when the buzzing in her brain roars to life.

Emma doesn’t scoff, it’s more of an exhale, but still a little disbelieving and a little needy and—

“Yeah, you too,” she breathes.

And, honestly, in a conversation about magic and death and dreams that end with Emma serving as the subject of several vaguely horrible science experiments, telling a guy she’s definitely started referring to as her boyfriend in her head that she’s attracted to him shouldn’t be so surprising. But Killian’s face hasn’t appeared to get that memo.

His eyebrows jump into his hairline, a muscle in his temple fluttering at a rate that can’t be medically accurate. He doesn’t move his right hand, but his lips press together tightly and Emma’s eyes dart towards his left arm when he tries to twist it behind his back.

His eyelashes are impossibly long, fluttering when he closes his eyes and his shoulders move again, as if he’s trying to readjust the weight that’s landed there.

“Hey,” Emma says, reaching out against her better judgment to tug on the front of his shirt. “That’s...do you want to talk about it?” “No.” “Killian.” “What is there to talk about, Swan? It was there when I left home and it was there when I got on the boat and it’s very clearly not here now, so somewhere between living and dying and living again, someone decided I didn’t need to have my left hand anymore.” “I think you want to talk about it.” He glares, but she’s almost confident in her ability to read him too and if they’re going to share magic, or whatever, Emma figures it’s part of her biological right. “The most stubborn person alive, you know that?” “No,” Emma argues. “You’re alive too. That, at least, makes us even.”

“God, it’s not fair that you can still do that.” “Yeah, tell me about it.” Killian grins, less...everything except something Emma can’t possibly begin to think about in a morgue. “Cora said she didn’t think they’d take it,” he whispers. “As in there’s a reason they did take it. And I’m pretty positive the they in this scenario are the goons.” “Seems to be a trend.” “Yeah, it does. A frustrating one that I can’t wrap my head around. Have you ever heard of a fairy tale where the villains steal someone’s hand?” “Fairy tale,” Emma echoes skeptically, and Killian’s teeth dig into his lip. She’s slightly optimistic that it’s so he won’t be tempted to kiss her.

“Are you not my knight in shining armor, Swan?”

“That’s almost laying it on too thick, don’t you think?” Killian mutters a quick disagreement, bringing his left arm back to his side. “I think it’s some very twisted trick of the universe that I’d spent more time than appropriate during my teenage years wondering if your hair was still able to reflect sunlight only to die before finding you again and then, upon not being dead, being unable to touch you as much as I very desperately want to.” “Desperately?” Emma’s voice cracks on the word, and she knows she should stop repeating everything he says, but she’s having a difficult time breathing and she assumes he won’t fault her lack of sentence structure. Ruby’s laugh has taken on a decidedly victorious tone, Victor grumbling something that sounds like the tell-tale signs of acquiesce.

They’re running out of time.

“Desperately,” Killian repeats. “And, as if that weren’t enough, if we do somehow figure out a way to magic ourselves out of this mess, figure out who killed me, fight off some mythical Darkness and make sure you get to REM sleep every night, I still won’t be able to hold onto you with both of my hands.”

Emma doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until all the oxygen rushes out of her lungs in one great, big enormous huff. She’s not crying, so that feels like a victory, but Killian’s suddenly the one who can’t hold her gaze and that doesn’t compute at all.

She shuffles her weight between her feet, trying to put some incredibly undesirable space between them so she can hold her hand out expectantly.

“Is that code?” “We didn’t come up with the code yet,” Emma points out, and it’s enough to work a slightly tremulous smile out of him. She’ll take her victories where she can get them at this point. “And I know there are gloves in your back pocket. Hand ‘em over.” “Swan, what…” “Don’t argue with me, Jones. A pirate is supposed to share his booty with his crew or something, right? I have no idea how pirate rules work.” “I don’t think pirates had many rules, love, that’s why they were pirates.” “You are grasping at straws and distracting me from my point. Gloves, now and now.” He makes a disbelieving noise, but doesn’t argue anymore, yanking the gloves out of his pocket and dropping them in her upturned palm. It takes some finangling on Emma’s part to make sure she doesn’t inadvertently elbow him in the ribs or something more catastrophic, but she keeps her grunting to a minimum as she tugs the fabric over her fingers. And it’s obvious he realizes what she’s about to do before she does it.

His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and he might mumble her name, a quiet Emma that sounds half like a plea and half like another wholly impossible promise, but none of that is quite as gravity-altering as whatever happens to every single inch of Killian’s face as soon as she wraps her glove-covered finger around the end of his left arm.

Emma doesn’t say anything – isn’t entirely certain she’s capable of it and, really, she’d rather not embarrass herself by saying something idiotic, like telling him she may honestly be in love with him again or still or whatever – so she just lets her fingers drift over skin she’s not actually touching, tracing over scars that are far cleaner than she expected them to be.

That gives her pause, but she refuses to linger on it when she knows they’re already on borrowed time. The clack of Ruby’s heels is getting closer.

And Killian, for his part, looks a little stunned. His eyes don’t ever leave Emma, bouncing from her fingers back to her face and drifting towards her mouth and maybe they should start carrying saran wrap with them at all times.

That seems a little weird.

“Emma,” he whispers, and when they get out of this, when there are no more dead bodies and no more threats and she’s told him the absolute truth about absolutely everything, she’s going to kiss every single inch of skin she can find. She’s going to linger on these few inches, an emotional brand that feels as heavy-handed as any of the decidedly sentimental thoughts she’s considered in the last few days, but she’s going to do it anyway, until he believes it’s ok and worth it and—

“Did you say you wondered if my hair could reflect sunlight?” Emma asks.

Whatever noise he makes will probably play on loop in Emma’s memories for the rest of her life and very likely into several different afterlifes. It warms her from the inside out, another rush of power and a hint of guilt she’s been ignoring because she’s definitely keeping big, important facts from him and Killian is already nodding.

“I did when I was a kid. Especially in the summer. We’d be outside all the time and, God, I swore it was, like, phosphorescent or something.” “That’s a very big word for a nine year old.” “I didn’t come up with that one until I was ten.” “Ah, well, that’s ok.” He nods, half a wink and it’s not very good, but it’s still stupidly charming. “Like it was it’s own power source,” Killian adds, half to himself as his fingers drift through the air just above Emma’s head. “It never made any sense.” “Yeah, join the club.” “I think I probably could have remembered every single strand when I was a kid. And, fuck, I know I’m not helping my stalking case, but—” “—No, no,” Emma interrupts, far too quickly. “That’s...I mean, it’s kind of ok.” “Good news for me. But it was like it was imprinted in my brain, even after you left. Years and summers and how ridiculous it was trying to race myself down that stupid hill.” “You went back to the hill?” “My uncles thought it was a coping mechanism, and it was at first, but then it was so I wouldn’t forget too. I wanted to hate you for a while, Swan. That you left and never came back and—” “—Not all of that was my fault.” “I know it wasn’t, love, but tell that to a decidedly friendless, leather jacket sporting fourteen year old and you’ll find I wasn’t very rational at that point. I wanted to hate you, more than I’d wanted just about anything at that point.” “Did you?” “No,” Killian answers immediately. “I kept going back to the hill and the memories always seemed to slam into me and I couldn't hate you if I tried. So I stopped. I remembered everything and every time I went back there I always seemed to remember the exact way the sun reflected off your hair.” She opens her mouth. Only to close it again. And does that four more times. Killian’s smile turns a little nervous, but that may be because Emma hasn’t let go of his arm.

She’s got no intention of letting go of his arm.

Or him.

God.

“That’s decidedly romantic for an angst-ridden teenager,” she says, which is really the last thing she expects to say, but is also kind of par for the course and Killian grabs one of her hands so he can press a kiss to the bend in her knuckles.

“Yeah, it is.” Ruby groans, the scrape of Victor’s chair sounding impossibly loud when he gets up, muttering an excuse about taking an early lunch lingering behind him.

“Are you guys done?” Ruby asks. She’s already tapping her heel. “Because we are on a very tight schedule here.” “The guy isn’t going anywhere,” Killian reasons.

“Yeah, about that guy. I’ve got some facts.” Emma blinks, and lets Killian lace his fingers through hers. “What kind of facts?” “These kind of facts,” Ruby says, brandishing a questionably large file in front of her. “The kind that show that Charles Thatch has spent the better part of the last ten years in and out of several different prisons in a variety of states. He never seems to have much in the way of employment history, but he’s certainly got the means to bounce around the country quite a bit.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, our Mr. Thatch, who, incidentally, was found in the woods on the edge of the Storybrooke city line—” “—Town line.” “I’m going to kill you.” “Let’s avoid that, please,” Emma mumbles, trying to pull her arm out of Killian’s grasp so she can dramatically cross them over her chest. He tightens his hold.

Ruby scowls. “Yeah, that was kind of shitty, right?” “Just a little. Go back to lording facts so you feel like you’re in control of the situation.”

Ruby flips her off that time. “Mr. Teach bounced around everywhere. Doing odds and ends and things that don’t make any sense at all, but, and this is the most important part, in the last two months he applied for, and received, an expedited passport.” “Meaning?” “Oh I get it,” Killian mumbles, and Emma isn’t sure if he means to squeeze her hand that hard. It’s almost worse if he doesn’t.

“Honestly were you a PI in another life?” Ruby demands. “Or a cop? Getting upstaged like this is not fun for me at all.

“As far as I know only one life. If we start dealing with regenerations or something too, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle that.” “Regner-whats?” “Like Doctor Who,” Emma supplies. “His brother was a giant nerd.”

The casual mention of Liam catches her by surprise, eyes widening to a size that Ruby absolutely notices and Killian’s brows pull low in confusion. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it too, Swan. You were the one who wanted to build a TARDIS that one time.” “Yeah, well, it didn’t work did it?” “We didn’t know about the magic yet.” “Can we focus, please?” Ruby shouts, jumping for emphasis and they are being kind of unfair to her. “Because as Jones said, but didn’t actually explain, the passport thing is important. It means that Mr. Teach was able to leave the country with relative ease in the last two months, which could potentially include a little jaunt into the Atlantic ocean and—” “—Oh shit,” Emma mumbles.

“Exactly. So, shall we touch him and ask him if he’s got TSA pre-screening?” “I don’t think they let felons do that,” Killian shrugs, ignoring whatever strangled noise Ruby makes and his hand doesn’t leave Emma’s when he directs her towards the nearest door.

She’s never really enjoyed trips to the morgue.

She assumes no one really does, except possibly Victor, but he’s a little weird and she understands that trips to the morgue are necessary. It’s the lighting though. It’s far too bright and everything smells like bleach and somehow stale at the same time, as if death is just permeating the air molecules.

Emma takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, shuddering despite her best efforts to control her limbs.

“Hey,” Killian mutters. “It’s going to be fine, Swan. No matter what happens.” She doesn’t respond, but her eyes dart towards Ruby’s and there’s a warning there that Emma doesn't entirely appreciate. “How’d he die?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Teach. If they found him in the woods, there must have been a medical examiner there, right? Some kind of report.” Ruby makes a face – a stop sign in human form, but the question is already there and—“Just touch him and ask him how he killed Jones and who he was working for, Em.” “Wow, that was kind of blunt, Lucas,” Killian says. His gaze keeps moving back towards Emma though and she’s going to chew through her cheek by the time the day is over.

She really wishes it were tomorrow.

The Doctor never had to deal with this shit. That’s fundamentally untrue, but it makes her feel better to compare her problems to those of a fictional character who, eventually, was forced to blow up his entire planet.

Emma just hopes she won’t have to do that too.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she mumbles, tugging the glove off her right hand with her teeth when Killian continues to let go. She drops her phone onto the edge of the table.

Charles Teach is old, that much is obvious. He’s got wrinkles around his eyes and a decidedly disheveled look to him that kind of screams no good, very bad villain. They’ve already removed his clothes, a mass of skin that’s marred with scars and jagged lines and a life that practically reaches out and smacks Emma across the face.

And part of her knows that none of those marks are what killed him.

The other part of her is screaming. Loudly. In her head.

“Is that him, Jones?” Ruby asks, and Killian hums.

“Yup. You’d think the Darkness would get better looking lackeys. He looks like he's been dead for a very long time, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s weird. Seriously, am I going to have to offer you a job?” “It’s probably better than me testing the market when I’m fairly certain I don’t have a social security number anymore.”

“Oh, yeah, it’d be weird explaining that at an interview probably.”

“Plus, look at all the fun we’re having. I think I’m starting to grow on you, Lucas. I knew it was only a matter of time.” Ruby gags. “Don’t press your luck.”

Killian chuckles again, a flash of a smile that does not belong near a guy who definitely does not look like he’s only been dead for a few hours. There’s a pallor to his skin that doesn’t make sense, gray and drawn and everything looks far too calm.

A guy with a track record as long as Charles Teach should not have died a peaceful death.

It is the single worst observation Emma has ever made.

“Swan,” Killian prompts when Emma continues to stare at the man on the table in front of them. “Emma, love, you’ve actually got to—” “—Yeah, yeah, I know,” she interrupts sharply. Ruby clicks her tongue.

She doesn’t think much about where she touches, swatting her hand against Teach’s and he doesn’t jerk up the way most bodies do. Emma hates that she thinks of them as bodies. He opens his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings as he lifts his head off the table.

There’s a piece of hair sticking to his forehead.

“Who the hell are you?” Teach asks, directing the question to, presumably, Emma. Her hand is still hanging very close to his. “And what the hell are you doing here, Jones? Didn’t I already kill you once?” “Yeah, I believe I was there for that,” Killian says flippantly. “Why’d you do that incidentally?” “Should have asked a few more questions before you met your untimely demise, my boy.” “Not your boy and honestly who says demise? That’s…” “Not important,” Ruby hisses. “Why’d you kill him? And what was the water for?” Thatcher narrows his eyes, but he almost looks impressed and Emma isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. “The water was for my master. I’m sure Jones told you that already.” “And that master,” Emma says, finding a bit of courage she didn’t expect and she’s not sure if it’s entirely because it feels like there’s sparks in between her fingers. The same fingers twisted up with Killian’s. “That’s the Darkness, right?” “You know far more than you’re giving yourself credit for.” “What the hell was the water for then? And why did he want Killian?” “It wasn’t Jones specifically,” Teach argues. “It was what he could do. It all timed up rather perfectly until he decided to be infuriatingly noble about it.” “Did that make negative sense to anyone else?” Ruby asks, glancing around the room as if there are more than the four of them there.

Emma shrugs. “The magic, then? That’s...that’s a real thing?” “Can’t you feel it?” Teach asks. “It’s practically got its own frequency. Granted, part of that is how worried he is about you right now, but it’s there regardless. It’s rolling off you in waves.” “What does that have to do with the water?” She hates that she shouts the question, hates that she’s lost her last few strings of apparent sanity and control, but Killian squeezes her fingers again and tugs her hand up towards his lips and that can’t possibly be the right course of action.

Emma couldn't care less.

“My master,” Teach says. “He’s been looking for something, for a very long time, to bring back someone. And nothing has worked. It’s been...well, he’s been very disappointed. But we’d heard of something in those waters, a magical source of rejuvenation—”

“—Like the fountain of youth?” Killian asks.

“Obviously not. The lad is dead already, keeping him young wouldn't do much of anything. The legend of this water said it could revive things that had been...not living. My master believed it would work, but he needed another magical being to transport it for him.” Ruby scoffs. “And that was Jones?”

“Obviously.” “Why wouldn’t the Darkness do it himself?” Emma presses, and Teach gets that same impressed look on his face. It sends a chill down her spine. “Cut out the magical middle man as it were.” “It was dangerous. And my master doesn’t need to involve himself in matters like this. Not when it wasn’t guaranteed and he’s looking for…”

Teach trails off, expression shifting again to something far closer to terror than Emma is entirely ready for. She glances at Ruby – who immediately holds her hands up in confusion.

“Fat lot of help you are,” Emma grumbles. “Alright, so the Darkness is looking for something to revive someone, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? What...what else could there be?”

“You don’t know?” “Obviously not and you are running out of time.” “I’d answer her,” Killian adds, a wholly unnecessary and slightly gallant move that leaves Ruby with her tongue hanging out of her mouth and Emma blushing just a bit. Teach’s mouth twists, understanding settling on his face.

Emma hopes there isn’t actually ice sitting at the base of her spine.

“I’m not doing anything,” Teach says. “I’m assuming I’m already dead given my surroundings and I’d imagine I won’t be going back to that funeral home any time soon. So it’s really up to you. Jones wouldn’t help my master, so he had to die. It’s as simple as that.” “But you took my hand,” Killian growls. Teach’s laugh bounces off the walls and echoes around them, seemingly growing louder and more threatening and— “That’s part of the mystery my boy. Trust me, my master’s getting plenty of use out of it. He’s gone back to the start. He’ll figure you all out sooner or later. There’s no way around it.” “The start? And, wait, wait, did you say you were in the funeral home? What the hell were you doing there?” “Making sure you made it into the ground. Unfortunately I didn’t stick around long enough to guarantee that, but I can’t be entirely faulted when the whole world went pear shaped and—” “—Did you die in the funeral home? When?” “Are you dense?” Teach sneers, sitting up now and Emma keeps glancing at her phone. “Of course I was in the funeral home. I was there when you were there. How you got out and I didn’t is a question for the ages of course, but—”

He doesn’t finish. Emma doesn’t let him finish. She swings her hand out, skin against skin and Teach falls back on the table with a thump that sounds far too loud.

Ruby curses under her breath.

“Well,” she whispers. “At least we know how that ended. And you know...justice is kind of served. So points to us.” “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Emma argues. She squeezes her eyes closed, as if that will change the scene in front of her or stop Killian’s gaze from boring into the side of her head and she could play this moment out eight-hundred thousand times and she’d still never be prepared for the next few words out of his mouth.

“What is going on?” Killian asks, low and a hint desperate. His thumb starts tapping against the back of Emma’s wrist, directly on top of her pulse point. She figures that’s what does her in.

She doesn’t open her eyes.

It’s a cowardly move.

Emma feels like a coward.

“There’s another rule to all of this,” she whispers. “Me, I mean. And what I can do. That...well, that I didn’t tell you yet.” Killian’s arm falls back to his side. Ruby curses again. “What kind of rule?” he asks.

“Remember you wanted to know why it’s a minute? It’s uh...it’s because the universe needs to stay balanced or something and if a not-dead-anymore person stays alive longer than a minute then—” “—Someone else has to die,” Killian says.

Emma’s eyes snap open. “How’d you know that?” “Context clues.” “That’s impressive.” “Yeah, it’s something isn’t it? So Teach died because you didn’t kill me. Did you know that was going to happen?” Emma nods – quick and jerky and painful, but that may just be the echo of Ruby’s heel in a room filled with a bunch of dead people. “Did you know who it would be?” “No, it’s not…” “Right. Right. Just a trick of fate and happy coincidence.” Emma isn’t sure what to do with that tone of voice. It’s not angry and she knows he’s not, not really. The man on the table in front of them killed Killian, cut off his hand for reasons they still can’t figure out and apparently serves some mythical being with the worst villain name in the history of several universes, but he’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before and it’s not the exciting, slightly overwhelming gaze it’s been in the last few days.

It’s like he can’t quite come to terms with her. It’s like he’s wondering if maybe she is, in fact, wrong. Emma bites her cheek again.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she says, not sure why she’s still talking. Ruby is going to sprain her tongue. “This,” Emma waves her hand towards Teach. “That wasn’t part of the plan. And I mean—” “—He did kill you,” Ruby adds, grinning when Emma flashes an appreciative glance in her direction. “So, you know, if we’re keeping tally marks in the Emma saving your ass column...”

Killian doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t even blink, but his eyes drift back towards Emma and she tries not to breathe too much. It feels like he’s taking stock of her again and she desperately wants to live up to expectations.

She’s still not telling him everything.

“That’s true,” Killian says eventually. “Thank you, Swan.” Emma wishes she could nod like a normal person. Her lungs are going to rise up in protest of her. “But,” he adds, and Ruby might try to actually cast a spell on him. “There’s one part I don’t entirely understand. Teach said he was in the funeral home, but they found him by the line. And now...going back to the start. The Darkness, I mean, was going back to the start. Where do we go? It’s not like we know who this thing is.” “I still don’t think it’s an alien,” Emma mumbles. It’s a piss-poor attempt at a joke and control and Ruby rolls her eyes so hard it must hurt.

She throws both her hands in the air when she, apparently, comes to some sort of conclusion. “Oh, fuck, fucking fuck!” “Eloquent.” “Shut up, Em. You have your car?” “Do you want me to shut up or…” “Oh my God. We have to go. We have to go now. Jones, would your uncles be in your house, right now?” “Yes,” Killian says slowly, drifting back into Emma’s space. She doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “They don’t...oh fuck.”

“Can someone tell me what is happening?” Emma yells.

“The start. He’d go back to try and find whatever he was looking for. Whatever Thatch thinks he needed my hand for.” “And that would probably be a little jarring for your shut-in uncles, yes?” Ruby asks, already moving towards the door and brushing by a clearly confused Victor.

Emma suddenly understands.

She needs to expand her curse vocabulary.

Because the Darkness is on his way to Storybrooke.

Emma doesn’t actually count how long it takes them to get to Killian’s house, but she isn’t sure she’s ever driven that fast and she’s going to get at least half a dozen tickets for running all those red lights.

Killian’s out of the car before she’s really stopped it, running up steps with long strides and ignoring both Emma and Ruby’s cries to wait two seconds, Jesus. That last part is mostly Ruby.

The house itself is exactly the way Emma remembers.

The shutters are still that same shade of blue Liam picked when they were kids – an afternoon that felt like torture at the time, but quickly dissolved into paint-stained clothes and color-streaked cheeks. There aren’t any chairs on the porch anymore, the curtains drawn closed on the huge bay window in the front of the house and Emma can see the fabric fluttering slightly, as if something or someone is standing just inside them.

“Killian,” she calls again, but he’s already bounding up the steps. He jumps over the third one. It creaks. And he doesn’t bother closing the door behind him, the screen slamming against the side of the house and Emma’s out of breath by the time she catches up to him.

There’s no one inside.

At least it doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside.

Everything feels as if it’s been paused, a stillness that’s unnerving and incorrect in a house like this where Emma only knew laughter and smiles and blanket forts with incredibly detailed engineering. She lets her eyes flit around the room, taking in the differences. There are more frames on the wall now, Killian at a variety of ages with a variety of hair styles and two men Emma only has vague memories of.

There are pillows everywhere, decorative lamps that are just treading the line between classy and ostentatious, blankets draped over both couches.

She reaches her hand out before she thinks about, probably something to do with magnets or those words she’s been ignoring for the better part of the day and it doesn’t really matter because Killian moves his hand behind him to grab at her too and that’s when everything suddenly and completely goes to shit.

It’s as if an explosion goes off, a darkness so deep Emma briefly wonders if it’s possible for the villain of this story to toy with the sun.

She blinks, gripping Killian’s fingers like a lifeline and one of them must mutter we’re going to be ok, but Emma genuinely has no idea who it is. She’s far too busy shrinking back from the laughter that’s suddenly surrounding them, jarring and victorious and just a little unhinged.

The darkness ebbs slightly, bright enough that Emma can make out the shadow in front of her.

And, for half a moment, that’s all it is – a shadow and smoke over the water, but then the laughter grows and the magic in her veins sings, doing its best to battle back. It doesn’t work. Particularly when the shadow turns corporal and the smile on the Darkness’ face is like nothing Emma has ever seen.

“We’re ok, love,” Killian whispers. “It’s ok.” She must shake her head – can feel her hair shift against her neck, but the words get caught in her throat and the Darkness hasn’t stopped staring at her.

Emma barely notices the other men who have appeared there, faces that match the ones in the frames and one of them curses when he sees Killian standing there. “No,” he mutters. “No, no, that’s going too far. Kill us. It’d be better than this.”

The Darkness laughs again.

It makes his whole body shake, head thrown back and Emma suddenly notices there’s a slight glimmer to his skin, like he’s glowing and it may be the single worst thing she’s ever seen.

Until he snaps his head back, eyes meeting hers and she will eventually wish she didn’t whimper. In the moment, though, she can’t seem to do anything else. She holds her breath and tries to melt into the floor, but she can’t do that either and she can’t turn into Killian’s side and every single promise he makes falls on deaf ears.

“I thought he’d bring you,” the Darkness says, the same triumphant look that was in his smile working its way into his voice. “You’re rather predictable, but the good ones always are.” “What do you want?” Killian asks. Nemo, Emma thinks it’s Nemo, curses again, doing his best to fight against the rope tying him to the chair he’s sitting on.

The Darkness waves a finger through the air. “You already know that, dearie. There’s no point in rehashing. I know you spoke to Teach.” “How?” “Please, I know everything. That’s how I know this is going to work. Because the good ones are always easy to get an edge on and,” he lets out a low whistle, taking a step closer to them as Killian tries to push Emma behind him, “she’s practically bursting with it. But first we need to clear the air a little bit.”

“Meaning?” Emma gasps, the realization striking her like lightning or something equally metaphorical and terrible and she kind of wishes it weren’t metaphorical because then she wouldn’t have to do this. It feels a bit like blowing up her planet.

Or at least the sun she’s started orbiting around.

She’s not even sure that makes sense.

She really has no idea how anything scientific works.

The Darkness bobs on the balls of his feet – an absurd sentence and an absurd visual, particularly when his skin has gotten even brighter, like he’s growing more powerful the longer Emma plays coward. He lets out another laugh.

Shakespeare might be the one who curses that time.

“Oh, this is going to be delightful,” the Darkness says, a wistful sigh that makes Emma wonder how long he’s waited for this. “I don’t need you anymore. Well, no that’s not true, I’ll take you, but I’d rather have her and—” “—You’re not getting Emma,” Killian growls. “I’m not...not again.” “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, dearie. I should have known from the very start it wasn’t you. You were just...a leech, a latch on, a sponge.” “What?” “Of the magical variety.” “I don’t…” “Oh, I know you don’t,” the Darkness continues. “But magic leaves a mark. It lingers where it matters and Cora should have realized. That was foolish of me. To believe she’d be able to differentiate and, well, I do admit it’s close, but…” “Make some goddamn sense!” “Oh my God, Killian,” Nemo sighs.

Killian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand. And Emma is only slightly confused. She’s mostly doing her best not to cry.

The Darkness stares at her again. “But you my dear,” he says, a longing in the words that makes her whole body ache. “You are something entirely new. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. The only problem is I need you to be free of those pesky secrets that have been crippling your magic. The Savior can’t have that.” Emma blinks. “The what?” “We’ll get to that. First thing’s first though. The truth, Ms. Swan. About what happened in this house all those years ago and how you’ve spent your entire life running from it. Then the fun will begin.”

She tastes blood in her mouth, vision blurring with tears she can’t bring herself to cry because it is her fault and it’s always been her fault and she should have told him from the start.

She’s wrong.

From the very start. “Swan, what is he…” Killian starts, but his eyes widen when the Darkness moves back towards Shakespeare, a knife at his throat and a predatory glint in his stare.

“Go ahead, Savior,” the Darkness sneers. “Or we’ll start killing. I’m not nearly as upset about it as you are.” Killian spins on the spot – ignoring the villain and the knife pressed to his uncle’s neck and Emma’s breath hitches when his glove-covered hand brushes her cheek, catching a tear on the fabric. The whole thing is very cyclical.

She hates it.

“Like the goddamn sun,” he mumbles, and it doesn’t make sense. It makes a negative amount of sense, but Emma exhales like it’s the single most important sentence ever uttered and—

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.”

Killian’s hand falls away from her.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #one foot in #late today because i was watching hockey #and writing hockey fic #it's the playoffs so it's time for me to hoard more fic

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rendezvousrenjun · 4 years

Text

idk u.

✰ pairing: jeno x reader (strangers ➝ lovers) ✰ genre: angst + fluff ✰ word count: 2.6k ✰ warnings: slight cursing, mentions of cheating

✰ synopsis : you just needed somewhere to sit in the morning. never thought it would end up with crying over a dumb boy and riding on the back of his motorcycle.

procrastination. You were extremely familiar to it and the overwhelming stress that came with waking up at 3 am and realizing you haven’t started your work yet.

This meant rushing to complete that workload almost everyday on the way to your morning classes. Which, you still question yourself, why you made your schedule play out like that instead of registering for afternoon ones?

Anyways,,, today you were ultra struggling because there was not one available table in sight to plop yourself down at and finish this one tedious assignment right before entering class

Sure, you could’ve gone to the school’s library, or maybe a cafe---but they were both so far from class and why would you when there were a couple of tables right here!! Around the main hall!! Yet they were unavailable

You had two options. Option one was to just say screw it and not complete the work. Option two was to gather strength and just sit across from one of the individuals who preoccupied the tables.

Much to your confusion, apart from being a procrastinator you are also a perfectionist. Those two traits were never meant to clash,,, but here you are now making your way to the closest table perpendicular to your classroom which happened to be taken by a boy who seemed like he wasn’t doing any work at all.

What a waste of a table

You hastily blurt out “hi im y/n sorry for the abrupt greetings but can i sit with you?”

The boy takes out one airpod and looks up at you, eyes almost rolling back, nods his head in a very slow and dragged out manner before averting his gaze back down at his phone.

“Great thank you so much” you immediately fling your bag and belongings onto the table, breaking out your pencil pouch and pens to get back to writing-- constantly checking the time as if you were on the game-show minute to win it

You’re so consumed by your highlighting that you fail to notice the boy across from you peeking up and subtly smiling to himself at how determined and tense you look to finish

“Shoot shoot shoot” you scold yourself under your breath as you check the time once more before shoving everything into your bag, and getting up to see your other classmates making their way inside

You’re about to go inside before you realize that the boy across from you hasn’t moved

“Hey aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not in that class” his voice more soothing than you had expected it to sound

“Oh,,,,, then why are yo- actually nevermind” you just need to BLAST

Thanks to that mysterious edgy boy you were able to turn in the assignment and receive a passing grade.

The next morning you thought you would’ve learned your lesson, but yet again you are rushing against the clock.

And again you see that boy.

“Hello good sir uh can i sit here again??? Sorry…” you apologize but you are already sitting down and pulling out materials. “I forgot to ask about your name by the way,,how rude of-”

“Jeno” this is the first time he makes eye contact with you for this long. Neither of you break it, and when he talks again your eyes trace back to his lips, “shouldn’t you keep working?”

“Oh right, right” you snap back into reality. This goes on for a couple days, or maybe even a couple weeks.

There’s curiosity gnawing at you; wait what department is he from? How does he get to school so early? Is he actually listening to music? What’s he doing on his phone?

You don’t realize you’ve let his name slip a couple times with your friends (more like one friend let’s be real here) until they bring it up.

“And then this morning he was like ‘you’re late’ which means he anticipates me to sit with him right??? But i said ‘maybe you’re just early, ever thought about that lee jeno’ and he was all like ‘my bad’ like dang okay…” you stretch over to grab the coffee jaemin bought that day. It was extremely bitter.

“Wait who again??” jaemin looks up at you from the floor, almost snapping his neck at the name.

“Lee jeno” you repeat slowly, a bit surprised by his reaction.

“Do you have a picture?” “ uh no” “mMMmMMMMMMMMMmmm I might know him”

“whAT, how??? Yo lowkey give me so fill me in with information I’ve been trying to talk to him about…stuff,,,,”

Jaemin gets up from the floor and joins you on the bed, the both of you cross-legged and facing each other. “Okay so you remember the best friend I told you about the first time we met at study group?”

“no way that was jeno?”

“Yea.. basically he changed a lot once we got to senior year high school. I think it had something to do with his family and like his ex-girlfriend at the time, but it really upset me. He didn’t let anyone get close to him; it was as if he became some type of dry wall i guess?” You nod your head as you listen intently to what jaemin had to say. There were a couple things you found out about jeno which you weren’t too sure you were even allowed to know. As if you violated his privacy.

For example, Lee jeno has really bad trust issues. Jaemin thinks it’s due to the fact his girlfriend of four years cheated him at the same time Jeno found out his dad had another family in Singapore.

Lee jeno started riding a motorcycle senior year. Jaemin said it was a way to rebel and stop riding in his dad’s car.

And lastly, that lee jeno likes, as in loves cats.

“But hey, don’t think of catching feelings for him anytime soon okay? I feel like you’ll regret it.”

“Oh please…. Me? Liking lee jeno??? Pshhhhhh never!” you push jaemin off the bed. But really you were already scared. You were already fond of your table-mate.

The next day you honestly could not see jeno the same.

“Good morning sir”

“Yea.”

Today was one of those rare days you actually had nothing to work on. I guess you could call that a miracle.

“You have nothing to do today? That’s crazy” jeno puts his phone down to make eye contact with you. You found that as time went on, he did that more often.

“I would be offended but I’m honestly genuinely surprised myself”

You are caught off guard by Jeno’s laugh. Maybe this is the first time you’ve heard it in the past two months you’ve known him. You notice the way his eyes smile along with him and maybe it was the lack of caffeine, or the chaotic side of you that jumped out because you don’t remember saying “cute”.

Jeno’s smile immediately begins to dissipate.

Oh fuck he heard you,,, YOU DIDN’T EVEN HEAR YOURSELF WTF hiufegkhglh;orehqo ihwelk

Jeno just gets up and begins to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

You want to deny that you felt this way. That you felt like you’ve been rejected. Despite it being a casual compliment, you should’ve thought twice,, no ONCE before blurting it out considering jeno’s background.

For the next couple days you did not see jeno at the table. It upset you. But then again, did jeno ever consider you his friend the same way you did? With all the mini relaxed conversations between you two, at least an acquaintance right? Were you being too attached?

You didn’t mean for lee jeno to hit like this.

The day you realize you caught feelings was when you saw jeno in the main hall carrying his motorcycle helmet and heading over to the vending machines. You could tell he was making small talk with someone from his department. Maybe it was a good time to greet him again?

When you walk up to him you did not expect him to still be upset with you. “Hi Jeno” you timidly say, an awkward hand coming up to wave.

The look he gives you makes you feel disgusting, like a piece of dog shit that he accidentally stepped on. It makes you feel small.

“Do you know her jeno?”

“No.”

He immediately leaves. You’re left standing there. Did that just happen?Maybe you were being a big sensitive baby who got affected by the littlest things but the next thing you know you were bawling in the main hall. Gosh dARN It jUST suck IT Upppp what are you??????? Some type of ??? idk SHOoot another tear

Jaemin finds you sitting at that dumb table after class and he tries to pat your head, trying to comfort you with his baby shushing sounds. He catches sight of Jeno who begins to pass by to get to the parking lot.

“HEY LEE JENO!” Jeno freezes dead in his tracks. It’s been awhile since he’s heard that voice. He doesn’t have enough time to turn around because Jaemin’s hand is already making him. “Apologize.”

“Get your hand off me.”

“Not to me, but to y/n. I don’t know what you did, but do it. Apologize.”

“I don’t know her though.”

“It’s fine Jaemin, don’t make a scene.” both of them look over to see you walking towards them. jeno shakes off jaemin’s grip and makes his way outside.

“It was a dumb thing to get upset over anyways.” You quietly mumble to yourself.

The next day you realize you shouldn’t even regret calling jeno cute. It was so harmless! It was literally just a tiny compliment! But your thoughts recall the past and how tiny compliments might’ve been triggering. It’s fine though. You don’t have time to think about this because at least now you have the table all to yourself to do work at.

Which is what you were doing until someone sits across from you.

A hand extends out palm face up, in it a piece of paper folded into an origami cat.

“Who are you again?” you say looking up to see jeno. The eye contact is stronger than ever today.

“Please take my apologetic cat”

“Are you just going to ignore me again?”

“I’m sorry. You probably didn’t mean any harm, I just was taken aback and remembered a couple of things. It didn’t give me an excuse to act like that though. I’m sorry.” he takes the cat between his thumb and index finger and bounces it, little meows leaving his lips from time to time to try to show his sincerity

.A grin blossoms on your lips and you accept his apology cat.

“Open it when you have time.” he gets up to leave again.“Where are you going?”

“You’re going to be late, I didn’t want to distract you any longer.”

Damn that was kind of sweet, maybe jaemin really did knock some sense into him.

You ended up opening the folded paper in class towards the end of the lecture. “Hey y/n… i was really dumb sorry. I acted really immature and got mad, real dick move, real SMALL BRAIN move right there… it’s a long story on why I turned out like this, and maybe I can tell you sometime? You know…. When you aren’t trying to finish assignments five minutes before they’re due?? Or not.. Haha that’s dumb..unless…. Um yea anyways I owe you!! This apology cat can be exchanged for one favor so feel free to ask. Again i was dumb. - lee ‘small brain’ jeno”

You try not to laugh in class, your hand covering your face in an attempt to keep the giggles from spilling out. “Btw turn the paper over” you check the back and there lies jeno’s phone number

You felt bad not telling jaemin that you and jeno had started hanging out pretty frequently after you guys exchanged numbers.

It was scary how things escalated so quickly. How you were able to reach jeno over his wall still was a question even you could not answer.

One day jeno invited you over to his dorm, which you weren’t too sure was a good idea at first, but jeno insisted that he wanted you two to do work right away so you guys could just talk comfortably at the table instead of being stressed first thing in the morning.

“It’s for the sake of our bonding experiences y/n, just trust me.”

“Wow kinda weird how we switched roles huh? See how hard it was for me to approach you and get you to be acquainted with me?”

“B O N D I N G E X P E R I E N C E”

You ended up going over to his dorm. Jeno already knew you were most likely going to say yes, so he prepared another helmet for you.

“Oh hell nah, I’m not riding your motorcycle dude.”

“I promise I drive safe.”

“I’ll just walk alongside you”

“You can hold onto me, don’t worry.”

Holding onto jeno you could feel how warm his body was, especially with this new found adrenaline with you by his side.

“You play the guitar?” you point over to the case laying in the corner while you two worked on his bed, backs against the wall.

“Yea, it really helped during that one dark time in my life I told you about.”

“Can you play a song for me?”

“Is this the favor?”

“Mmm i guess so, I have the cat in my wallet let me give it to you.”

“No, it’s okay you can keep it.” He removes his laptop from his lap and climbs over to the bed. He stops two steps in and turns to look at you. “Just grant me a favor in return.”

“Okay, sure.” The expression on his face seemed as if he already knew what it was. He picks up the guitar an starts strumming to the tune of butterflies by queen naija, humming along to the song.

There’s a warm feeling that grows as you begin to adorn his features. The way his fingers delicately place themselves on the strings, or his concentrated expression, or the way his body holds the guitar against it. It’s warm. Really warm.

“Hey jeno? I think I need to go.” you say, realizing it was going to be a terrible idea to keep feeling this way. Jaemin’s warning suddenly being brought back to you. I can’t feel this attached again.

“y/n. Wait.”

“Mm?” you turn back to look at him standing close to you, your hand leaving the handle of his front door. He puts his guitar down, and looks at you again.

He was looking at you with almost concern, as if he wanted to make sure this moment remained a memory for a long time. Was he going to say something bad?

“I’m afraid too.”

You’re breathing quickens, as if you’ve been holding it in for the past hour and now is the only time you’ve exhaled. “You’re afraid?”

“C-can I ask you my favor now?” you give him a nod.

“Please take care of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m asking you to date me.”

“are you trying to make fun of me right now? Because this isn’t funny jeno.”

“No, I seriously like you. A lot. And it scares me because I don’t want you to leave.” jeno begins to tear up and you feel like you’ve misplaced your foot again, misplaced your words and intentions.

Your hands make their way around jeno’s neck and you pull him into a hug tighter than when you were holding him on his motorcycle.

“Jeno” your voice is soft spoken against his ear, “I’m afraid you’ll break my heart just as much.” You feel him embrace you even harder as a way to tell you no. As a way to give you reassurance.

It’s weird. To trust somebody like this. But just like how you don’t know when the next time you’ll finish your assignments earlier, or like how jeno doesn’t know the next time someone will leave him, you two don’t know what will happen if you don’t give falling in love a try.

a/n: so i totally accidentally deleted this... but yes tell me if you guys want a part two or these type of bulleted lists more! <3

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atsixesandcevans · 4 years

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my only wish (this year)

Summary: The world is different after the events of the snap, and that causes both you and Steve to make major changes in your respective lives, unknowingly pushing yourselves towards each other.

Both unlucky in love, and both longing for something fundamentally missing in your lives, what happens when you – quite literally – crash land into each others’ lives?

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: none

A/N: this was written for @capcountdownchristmas‘s challenge with the prompt of the song My Only Wish (This Year) by Britney Spears, though it ended up being only loosely based on that hahaha!

set post-endgame, except everyone’s alive and nobody’s sad :)

this will be a small series, I’m not sure how many parts there’ll be or when they’ll be posted but they are in the works, so please feel free to send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in this or any other of my works :)

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

November 2023

The disappearances – people had started calling it the snap, though you weren’t entirely sure why – had changed you. Changed everyone, really, in one way or the other. Every single person in the world either lost someone to the whims of the mad titan, or had been lost themselves.

You had been walking through Central Park when the screaming started. Panicked shouts of names, people disintegrating before your eyes. Your confusion morphed into dizziness, stumbling on your feet a little as you slowed to a stop. A gasp was caught in your throat as you looked down at your body that was half-gone already, fear swelling in your chest before everything went black.

When you woke up what felt like five minutes later, you were still in the park, but it felt… different, somehow. The sky seemed darker, the trees less vibrant. All around you, people were on the ground, matching confused expressions as they sat up, passers by rushing to help people up. Someone came and held your hand, pulling you to your feet, and you stuttered out a strained “what happened?”

The stranger’s confused but hopeful eyes scanned you for injuries, while they replied, “you’re not gonna believe me.”

Five years. They told you it had been five years since Thanos – whatever the hell that was – wiped out half the planet. You found it near impossible to fathom that half a decade had passed without you – without 50 percent of the world’s population.

Just like the rest of the world, you went on with your life as usual. At least, you tried to. You really did try, but each time you got up and went to the boring office job you hated, making the same small talk with co-workers you didn’t care to be friends with, every time you came home to your drab, empty apartment, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was fundamentally missing.

It seemed that the snap had put things in perspective for a lot of people; walking home at the end of the day, surrounded by couples holding hands, going on dates. Even your friends were in love; two of them had had a romantic epiphany in the midst of the grief surrounding the snap, and had been in a happy relationship ever since. You were happy for them, of course, but you couldn’t help the surge of jealousy that you felt whenever you saw them kiss or be romantic around you. You longed for what they had; someone for you to love, who loved you in return. Another person to share your little corner of the world with, someone to celebrate the highs and commiserate the lows of life with. You yearned for it, and held out hope that you’d have that someday, and yet every year that went by, every birthday, every Christmas spent alone made that hope dwindle further and further.

You were stood in front of the coffee machine in the break room at work a month or so after the snap was fixed when you had what you could only describe as a moment of clarity. It dawned on you that the only way your life was going to change was if you changed it yourself. It was then that you decided that you would live your life the way you wanted to, no exceptions.

So, the next morning, you handed your two-weeks’ notice to your boss, and started looking for a house in Brooklyn, where you grew up.

Luck was on your side, it seemed, because you quickly found a small, reasonably priced (for Brooklyn) brownstone house in the Clinton Hill neighbourhood. After a viewing, you used your savings to buy the place, and within a month you were all moved in, with a part-time job lined up at a nearby art gallery to keep on top of your finances while you pursue your passion for art.

You still felt the absence of deep human connection, but you could only hope that the changes you had made would only bring more good things your way.

Steve had been staying upstate in Tony’s house since the defeat of Thanos and he had returned the stones to their rightful places in their respective timelines. Upon his return, Steve passed his shield on to Sam, who he knew would do a great job in the role of Captain America, officially hanging up his suit and finally allowing himself to just exist, without the responsibility that being in the Avengers had brought.

For two months, Steve had been helping Tony with the rebuild of the compound, as well as figuring out what role everyone would play in the new Avengers. It was quickly decided that Tony, like Steve, would be retiring, to spend time with his family and watch Morgan grow up. Bucky and Sam would lead the team, with Wanda and Peter working alongside them to tackle the evils of the world. Natasha decided to finally put aside the Black Widow title, though she would remain at the compound as an agent, leading the training of the new recruits for both S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers, as well as acting as a kind of logistics support for missions. And Bruce would continue as he always did; conducting experiments and continuing to use science and technology to make the world a better place.

With everyone settling into their roles, Steve found himself feeling almost restless. He had agreed to remain a semi-active member of the team, offering advice and support to the active members, but ultimately decided that he would move back into his house in Brooklyn and rediscover who Steve Rogers was outside of the Captain America image.

And so, he made the move back to Brooklyn, with the minimal belongings he had with him upstate stashed in a duffel bag, and the motorcycle that was almost an exact replica of his old one that Tony somehow had hidden away at the back of his garage. He had handed him the keys with a shrug and a non-committal “let’s just call it a little retirement present, from me to you.” Steve still often found himself baffled by his friend, but he couldn’t deny the genuine affection that had developed between them over the years.

As Steve re-entered the city, he was reminded of just how much he loved living here; sure, it could be loud and dirty and crowded at times, and there were definitely too many hipster coffee shops around… but it was home. Despite the changes that had inevitably happened in the 80 years or so since he grew up there, there was still the same feel to the place, the old brownstone buildings lining the streets reminding him of the apartment where he lived with his mother, the kids that often played in the streets reminding him of all the times he was ill and wishing that he could be out there with them. His memories of this place were good and bad, sure, but for the first time in a while he found himself thankful for the body given to him by the serum; he finally had the physical wellness and the free time to able to go out and enjoy his city in a way he never had been before.

Steve walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he made the walk from where he parked his bike to his front door. There were more cars about now than there were last time he was here, so he ended up having to park almost half a block away. As he passed the house next to his, he noticed that the small garden that was overgrown and messy was now neat and tidy, and there were potted plants on the stoop, as well as heavy curtains that replaced the tattered blinds that once covered the windows.

He was so preoccupied looking at the clearly now inhabited house and wondering who it was who had finally bought the place, that he didn’t notice you coming from the other direction, eyes glued to your phone screen as you read through an email from your boss.

The two of you collided, and Steve tripped on uneven ground, sending him falling backwards, landing on his back. In your attempt to remain on your feet, you ended up tripping over the same bit of ground, and landed on what you could feel was an incredibly defined chest, both of you releasing a soft grunt at the impact. Glancing up towards his face, ready to apologise, you were taken aback and your words caught in your throat at the sight of easily the most beautiful man you had ever seen; strong features, soft beard spread across what you could tell was an angular jaw, and long lashes framing eyes the prettiest shade of periwinkle blue.

You suddenly became very aware of how close your face was to his, and immediately felt a blush creep onto your face as you hastily moved to push yourself up and off him, rattling off a litany of oh god I’m so sorry and I wasn’t looking where I was going. The stranger smiled almost shyly at you, cheeks tinted pink, probably from the cold evening air, as he shook his head and got back on his feet, insisting “please, it’s my fault entirely, I should have been paying more attention. Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

You couldn’t help the way your heart swelled at his thoughtfulness; he was the one who had landed flat on his back with a whole other person on top of him, and he was asking you if you were okay?

Realising that he was still waiting for an answer, you cleared your throat before replying with a chuckle, “apart from a couple bruises to my dignity, I think I’m okay.”

His laugh shook his whole body, his face scrunching up in the most adorable way, and an inexplicable warmth spread through your chest at the sound, finding yourself desperate to hear it again.

You bit your lip to suppress a grin as he held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Taking hold of his hand, you noticed just how warm it was, despite being bare in the cold winter air, and introduced yourself, adding “I promise I don’t make a habit out of literally running into strangers outside my house.”

Steve cocked his head to one side, confusion across his face. “Your house?”

“Yeah, I live just there,” you said, pointing to the house he had just passed – the one that he was busy thinking about when he bumped into you.

A wave of understanding crossed his face before he let out a surprised laugh, nodding to the house next door, the one you had been passing not five minutes earlier. “I live next door.”

It was your turn to be confused. “You do? I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of that house in the two weeks I’ve been living here.”

Steve chuckled wryly. “Yeah, I’ve had some… business to deal with upstate, so I was gone for a few months.” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t completely open about being an Avenger – or, ex-Avenger, now – but subconsciously, a part of him wanted to live as Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, instead of the persona he had been presented as for many years… and that same part of him wanted you to know him only as that version of him.

You nodded, though the expression on your face told him you were unconvinced by his bending of the truth. The two of you stood in silence for several moments, looking at each other with soft smiles on your faces, until you finally broke the silence. “Well, I um… I should probably head inside, it’s getting late.”

Steve nodded, though he couldn’t help the inkling of disappointment he felt. You both shared a soft goodnight with a smile before you moved past him and through the wrought-iron gate leading up to your door. It was as you were unlocking the door that you heard him call your name and you turned towards where he stood at the bottom of his own stoop steps. “Yeah, Steve?”

He looked oddly nervous, a shy smile on his lips as he fiddled with his keys, an almost imperceptible pink tinge to his cheeks. “I don’t suppose you’d want to grab a coffee with me sometime, would you? I’d love to make it up to you for knocking you over, and it’d be nice to get to know my new neighbour a little.”

His voice was hopeful, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “Sure, I’d love to. But there’s really nothing to make up for, I was the one who knocked into you.”

Steve smiled wide, though he shook his head a little, getting the feeling that he wouldn’t win the fight with you about who bumped into who. “How does 11 o’clock Friday sound?”

You mentally checked your availability before grinning brightly at him. “Sounds perfect.”

#captain America countdown to christmas #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers/you #christmas #fluff #beth writes

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delphinidin4 · 6 years

Link

Forty-five percent of adults say they’re preoccupied with their weight some or all of the time—an 11-point rise since 1990. Nearly half of 3- to 6- year old girls say they worry about being fat.

...

I have never written a story where so many of my sources cried during interviews, where they shook with anger describing their interactions with doctors and strangers and their own families.

Chances of a woman classified as obese achieving a “normal” weight:.008%

SOURCE: AMERICAN JOURNAL OF PUBLIC HEALTH, 2015

Diets do not work. Not just paleo or Atkins or Weight Watchers or Goop, but all diets. Since 1959, research has shown that 95 to 98 percent of attempts to lose weight fail and that two-thirds of dieters gain back more than they lost. The reasons are biological and irreversible. As early as 1969, research showed that losing just 3 percent of your body weight resulted in a 17 percent slowdown in your metabolism

“As a kid, I thought that fat people were just lonely and sad—almost like these pathetic lost causes. So I want to show that we get to experience love, too. I’m not some 'fat friend' or some dude's chubby chasing dream. I'm genuinely happy. I just wish I'd known how possible that was when I was a kiddo.”— CORISSA ENNEKING

“If you looked at anything other than my weight,” Enneking says now, “I had an eating disorder. And my doctor was congratulating me.”

...

When Joy Cox, an academic in New Jersey, was 16, she went to the hospital with stomach pains. The doctor didn’t diagnose her dangerously inflamed bile duct, but he did, out of nowhere, suggest that she’d get better if she stopped eating so much fried chicken. “He managed to denigrate my fatness and my blackness in the same sentence,” she says.

“There is so much agency taken from marginalized groups to mute their voices and mask their existence. Being depicted as a female CEO—one who is also black and fat—means so much to me. It is a representation of the reclamation of power in the boardroom, classroom and living room of my body. I own all of this.”— JOY COX

Physicians are often required, in writing, to prove to hospital administrators and insurance providers that they have brought up their patient’s weight and formulated a plan to bring it down—regardless of whether that patient came in with arthritis or a broken arm or a bad sunburn. Failing to do that could result in poor performance reviews, low ratings from insurance companies or being denied reimbursement if they refer patients to specialized care.

...

Three separate studies have found that fat women are more likely to die from breast and cervical cancers than non-fat women, a result partially attributed to their reluctance to see doctors and get screenings. Erin Harrop, a researcher at the University of Washington, studies higher-weight women with anorexia, who, contrary to the size-zero stereotype of most media depictions, are twice as likely to report vomiting, using laxatives and abusing diet pills. Thin women, Harrop discovered, take around three years to get into treatment, while her participants spent an average of 13 and a half years waiting for their disorders to be addressed.

...

If Sonya ever forgets that she is fat, the world will remind her. She has stopped taking the bus, she tells me, because she can sense the aggravation of the passengers squeezing past her. Sarah, the tech CEO, tenses up when anyone brings bagels to a work meeting. If she reaches for one, are her employees thinking, “There goes the fat boss”? If she doesn’t, are they silently congratulating her for showing some restraint?

Emily says it’s the do-gooders who get to her, the women who stop her on the street and tell her how brave she is for wearing a sleeveless dress on a 95-degree day.

Ratio of soda and candy ads seen by black children compared to white children: 2:1

SOURCE: UCONN RUDD CENTER FOR FOOD POLICY AND OBESITY, 2015

...Paradoxically, as the number of larger Americans has risen, the biases against them have become more severe. More than 40 percent of Americans classified as obese now say they experience stigma on a daily basis, a rate far higher than any other minority group. And this does terrible things to their bodies. According to a 2015 study, fat people who feel discriminated against have shorter life expectancies than fat people who don't. “These findings suggest the possibility that the stigma associated with being overweight,” the study concluded, “is more harmful than actually being overweight.”

...

Kids as young as 3 describe their larger classmates with words like “mean,” “stupid” and “lazy.”

And yet, despite weight being the number one reason children are bullied at school, America’s institutions of public health continue to pursue policies perfectly designed to inflame the cruelty. TV and billboard campaigns still use slogans like “Too much screen time, too much kid” and “Being fat takes the fun out of being a kid.” Cat Pausé, a researcher at Massey University in New Zealand, spent months looking for a single public health campaign, worldwide, that attempted to reduce stigma against fat people and came up empty. In an incendiary case of good intentions gone bad, about a dozen states now send children home with “BMI report cards,” an intervention unlikely to have any effect on their weight but almost certain to increase bullying from the people closest to them. [I have a friend who had to take a paper home in high school telling her family she was obese. Now, in her late twenties, she’s still dealing with the emotional scars.]

...

The effects of weight bias get worse when they’re layered on top of other types of discrimination. A 2012 study found that African-American women are more likely to become depressed after internalizing weight stigma than white women. Hispanic and black teenagers also have significantly higher rates of bulimia. And, in a remarkable finding, rich people of color have higher rates of cardiovascular disease than poor people of color—the opposite of what happens with white people. One explanation is that navigating increasingly white spaces, and increasingly higher stakes, exerts stress on racial minorities that, over time, makes them more susceptible to heart problems.

...

But perhaps the most unique aspect of weight stigma is how it isolates its victims from one another. For most minority groups, discrimination contributes to a sense of belongingness, a community in opposition to a majority. Gay people like other gay people; Mormons root for other Mormons. Surveys of higher-weight people, however, reveal that they hold many of the same biases as the people discriminating against them. In a 2005 study, the words obese participants used to classify other obese people included gluttonous, unclean and sluggish.

...

Fat people, though, never get a moment of declaring their identity, of marking themselves as part of a distinct group. They still live in a society that believes weight is temporary, that losing it is urgent and achievable, that being comfortable in their bodies is merely “glorifying obesity.” This limbo, this lie, is why it’s so hard for fat people to discover one another or even themselves. “No one believes our It Gets Better story,” says Tigress Osborn, the director of community outreach for the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. “You can’t claim an identity if everyone around you is saying it doesn’t or shouldn’t exist.”

“I think some folks are genuinely surprised that a man who looks like him is with a woman like me. As a fat person, I'm very aware of when I'm being stared at—and I have never been looked at this much before. So I thought that taking the photo in public would be a good idea. It feels subversive to show my fat body doing regular stuff the world believes I don't or can't do.”— EMILY

Since 1980, the obesity rate has doubled in 73 countries and increased in 113 others. And in all that time, no nation has reduced its obesity rate. Not one.

...

The problem is that in America, like everywhere else, our institutions of public health have become so obsessed with body weight that they have overlooked what is really killing us: our food supply. Diet is the leading cause of death in the United States, responsible for more than five times the fatalities of gun violence and car accidents combined. But it’s not how much we’re eating—Americans actually consume fewer calories now than we did in 2003. It’s what we’re eating.

For more than a decade now, researchers have found that the quality of our food affects disease risk independently of its effect on weight. Fructose, for example, appears to damage insulin sensitivity and liver function more than other sweeteners with the same number of calories. People who eat nuts four times a week have 12 percent lower diabetes incidence and a 13 percent lower mortality rate regardless of their weight. All of our biological systems for regulating energy, hunger and satiety get thrown off by eating foods that are high in sugar, low in fiber and injected with additives. And which now, shockingly, make up 60 percent of the calories we eat.

4% of all agricultural subsidies go to fruits and vegetables.

SOURCE: ENVIRONMENTAL WORKING GROUP, 2014-16

But that’s still no reason to despair. There’s a lot we can do right now to improve fat people’s lives—to shift our focus for the first time from weight to health and from shame to support.

...

In 2017, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, the expert panel that decides which treatments should be offered for free under Obamacare, found that the decisive factor in obesity care was not the diet patients went on, but how much attention and support they received while they were on it. Participants who got more than 12 sessions with a dietician saw significant reductions in their rates of prediabetes and cardiovascular risk. Those who got less personalized care showed almost no improvement at all.

“My son and I both like to play the hero. There wasn't necessarily any intentional symbolism in the costumes we chose, but I am definitely a member of the rebellion, and I see my role as an eating disorders researcher as trying to fight for justice and a better world. Also, I like that I'm sweaty, dirty and messy, not done up with makeup or with my hair down in this picture. I like that I'm not hiding my stomach, thighs or arms. Not because I'm comfortable being photographed like that, but because I want to be—and I want others to feel free to be like that, too.”— ERIN HARROP

A review of 44 international studies found that school-based activity programs didn’t affect kids’ weight, but improved their athletic ability, tripled the amount of time they spent exercising and reduced their daily TV consumption by up to an hour. Another survey showed that two years of getting kids to exercise and eat better didn’t noticeably affect their size but did improve their math scores—an effect that was greater for black kids than white kids.

You see this in so much of the research: The most effective health interventions aren't actually health interventions—they are policies that ease the hardship of poverty and free up time for movement and play and parenting. Developing countries with higher wages for women have lower obesity rates, and lives are transformed when healthy food is made cheaper. A pilot program in Massachusetts that gave food stamp recipients an extra 30 cents for every $1 they spent on healthy food increased fruit and vegetable consumption by 26 percent. Policies like this are unlikely to affect our weight. They are almost certain, however, to significantly improve our health.

...

What does work, Corrigan says, is for fat people to make it clear to everyone they interact with that their size is nothing to apologize for. “When you pity someone, you think they’re less effective, less competent, more hurt,” he says. “You don’t see them as capable. The only way to get rid of stigma is from power.”

...

“Fat activism isn’t about making people feel better about themselves,” Pausé says. “It’s about not being denied your civil rights and not dying because a doctor misdiagnoses you.”

...

There is no magical cure. There is no time machine. There is only the revolutionary act of being fat and happy in a world that tells you that’s impossible.

“We all have to do our best with the body that we have,” [Ginette Lenham] says. “And leave everyone else’s alone.”

#fat pride

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miraculousmumma · 6 years

Text

Designs on You - Chapter Four - Dreams Don’t Hurt

Characters: Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, all of the class really, Tom Dupain, Sabine Cheng, Nadja Chamack, Gabriel Agreste, Nathalie Sancoer

Pairings: Adrien/Marinette, Chat Noir/Marinette

Warnings: A little angst, a little fluff, a little swearing, a little kissing, an orchid

Word Count: 25,825 (17 chapters)

Summary: When Chat Noir comes across Marinette sitting alone in the park sketching late at night, he offers to see her home safely. What starts as a simple conversation between them quickly develops into something more that leaves both sides of their personas confused about their feelings.

Adrien was determined to give Marinette the chance to give him the box privately, so as not to have her feel pressured in front of their classmates, and he came up with the perfect plan. The bakery opened at seven, school started at eight-thirty. If he went to the bakery about eight to buy something he could legitimately offer Marinette a ride in. His driver took his order of a diversion with a grunt, and they were soon at Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie. He spoke politely to Sabine while she filled his order, just a couple of cheese croissants he could pass off as a lunchtime treat, that Plagg would happily help him with, and four fruit tarts to share with his friends, Marinette included. He paid, then checked his watch.

‘Madame Cheng, as I’m heading that way, do you think Marinette would like a ride to school?’

‘I’m sure she won’t say no.’ Sabine smiled. ‘I’ll just go and get her.’

Marinette looked at the patterned gift box Chat had chosen for the waistcoat, so many thoughts running through her head. The first one was that she had promised Chat she would give the gift, he had made her pinky swear as he left her balcony that night, and she wasn’t one to break a promise, but her stomach butterflied with nerves at the thought. Second to that was what she was going to do about Chat. He came back, that was three nights in a row she had seen him out of her mask. She felt like she was leading him on, or lying to him intentionally, something she hated in other people, but what was she to do? She knew she wasn’t ready to tell him who she was, if he were affected by another akuma it could reveal her identity to Hawkmoth. It could put her family in danger, she wouldn’t do either of those things deliberately, but…but… she sighed. As Ladybug she only got to see him in action, when things were dire, either fighting, or running from their Miraculous’ beeping, even if they patrolled together he was flirty rather than friendly, but this, she got to see a side of the man he really was, the generous, encouraging man who loved dessert and didn’t laugh at her inability to talk to a boy, who knew Shakespeare by heart and walked her home because he was genuinely that good a person. She liked seeing this side of Chat, she loved seeing it, it was like someone had suddenly lit him up, showing him for what he was, for all the things she missed as Ladybug due to duty and time restraints, and she realised that he didn’t know her either. If only there were some way of repaying him in kind, letting him get to know her civilian side, and then she realised he was. That was exactly what was happening, only he didn’t know it was Ladybug he was encouraging to give a gift to her long term crush. He would be devastated. It wasn’t fair on him, and she didn’t want to hurt him by telling him to stop coming by, not when he evidently enjoyed it so much, but the only other way was to tell him who she was. She didn’t want to lead him on, but…

‘What’s wrong, Marinette?’ Tikki tilted her head as she flew up close to her chosen’s face. She had been staring at the gift box in her hand for three full minutes, almost four now. If she had a reset button, Tikki would have pressed it.

‘I can’t keep lying to him, Tikki.’ She said quietly.

‘Adrien?’

Marinette blinked and focused on her small red companion. ‘No, Chat. I’m getting to know him in a way I can’t as Ladybug, and he doesn’t even know he’s letting his guard down to his partner.’

‘Are you thinking of revealing yourself to him?’ Tikki asked gently.

‘Yes, no, I don’t know!’ She said in frustration. ‘I don’t think it’s safe to do so, but the only other option is to turn him away as Marinette, and I kind of get the idea he needs to be able to come here, that it helps him. Like he’s lonely.’

Tikki regarded her carefully, realising she had described Adrien perfectly, and yet she still had no idea. ‘I think you’re right.’ Tikki said softly. ‘He does seem lonely, and he does seem to enjoy visiting you. Are they really your only two choices?’

Marinette shrugged. ‘I think so. And I don’t want to hurt him because he’s been helping me with my crush on Adrien.’

Tikki’s lip twitched as she tried not to smile, but Marinette didn’t notice, her eyes back on the gift in her hands. ‘I think he’d be fine with that.’

Her eyes darted to her kwami again. ‘Really? Because I don’t.’

‘He wants you to be happy.’ Tikki shrugged, glancing at the hatch. ‘Someone’s coming.’

Marinette quickly opened her shoulder bag for Tikki to fly inside, turning as there was a soft knock on the hatch before it opened, her mom’s head appearing wearing a knowing smile.

‘Good, you’re ready. One of your friends stopped in for pastries and has offered you a ride to school.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Marinette grabbed her backpack, still clutching the gift in one hand, holding it against her chest before following her mom downstairs.

‘Grab a croissant so you don’t go hungry.’ Her mom told her as they passed a tray not long out of the oven, passing her daughter a paper bag to slot one in. ‘And don’t skip lunch either.’

‘No, Maman.’ Marinette dutifully replied, her father helping her bag the croissant with a quick kiss to her cheek. ‘Merci, Papa.’ She smiled.

‘Have a great day, baby.’ Tom grinned, and it made Marinette frown at him. He was being…weird.

‘And don’t forget to thank your friend.’ Sabine continued as she walked into the storefront, Marinette behind her.

‘I won’t, Maman. Adrien?’ She gasped, almost dropping the box in her hand as she saw which classmate was waiting for her. If she hadn’t had her mind so preoccupied with Chat she might have figured it out, as no one else she was close to got driven to school.

‘Good morning, Marinette.’ Adrien smiled, his eyes flicking to the box just once, glad she had chosen to bring it. ‘Do you want a ride to school?’

‘She does.’ Sabine pushed her stunned daughter forward and out from behind the counter. ‘Have a great day, kids.’

‘Merci, we will.’ Adrien nodded to her before turning back to Marinette. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Uh huh.’ She nodded, just a little too fast, but flashed her mom wide eyes as she went, her mom rewarding her with an encouraging thumbs up. ‘So, you don’t normally come to the patisserie.’ Marinette asked as soon as they were outside.

‘I had a real craving for cheese pastries this morning, and I figured where best to quell that craving but the best patisserie in the city?’ He indicated to the bag and box in his hands.

‘What did you choose?’ She asked, more for something to say than because she actually wanted to know.

‘Cheese croissants.’

‘They’re really good.’ She agreed with his choice. ‘Sometimes Papa makes them with bacon too. They’re the perfect thing for a lazy Sunday brunch.’

‘I might have to try that this weekend.’ He said as they reached the car, Gorilla holding it open for them. Adrien insisted Marinette get in first, then followed her, both putting on their seatbelts as Gorilla started the engine. ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’ Adrien asked, gesturing to the gift Marinette didn’t see to want to let go of.

‘Oh, no, not a birthday, not really. More a whim, definitely a whim.’ She nodded rapidly. ‘Sometimes I design things, and, and they just need to be made, I have to make them, and they aren’t always something I can wear myself, and,’ she sighed, ‘and a good friend told me not to be afraid to give them to people who might appreciate them, who they would suit, and fit.’ She flushed heavily and looked down at her lap, holding the box out to him. ‘So, here. I thought this might fit, and you might get some use out of it. If not, that’s okay, but it’s not going to do me any good sitting in my closet.’

‘For me?’ Adrien put as much genuine surprise into his words as he could, taking the familiar box from her.

‘Sure.’ She side eyed him, taking in the smile he wore, and it was contagious, leaking onto her own lips as she tried to watch him open it without being too obvious.

‘The box is really pretty too.’ Adrien remarked.

‘My friend chose it.’ She mumbled, watching as he pulled the ribbon away and lifted the lid, placing it on the seat beside him. The waistcoat was folded carefully, layered in tissue paper so as not to allow wrinkles, and he lifted it out by the shoulders, holding it up before him, grinning more at the fact she had actually done it than the garment itself.

‘Wow! I love it, you made this?’

She couldn’t talk as his green eyes turned on her, his face split in an excited grin, instead she just nodded.

‘Can I try it on?’

‘Now?’ She said, wondering how he was going to do that, as he already had his shirt on over a Gabriel t-shirt.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ He asked, and she shook her head, a little wide eyed. ‘Great.’ He slipped his arm out of the seatbelt, hoping that his enthusiasm would encourage her to be more outspoken with him, as she was with Chat, more comfortable. He threw the box onto the seat with the lid and laid the waistcoat on top of it, pulling off his shirt and handing it to Marinette. ‘Could you hold this?’ He asked, not pausing as she clutched the garment which was still warm, and smelled of him and, oh my God he was taking his t-shirt off!

Marinette stared fixedly at the back of the seat in front of her, her cheeks, she was sure, were scarlet. Adrien Agreste was sitting next to her shirtless. Breathe. Yes, breathing was good, and she realised she was holding hers. That wouldn’t help. She took in a deep breath, wondering if she was going to die in this moment, knowing she would go happily at this point.

Adrien took the shirt from her hands again and slipped it on, fastening all the buttons before carefully putting on the waistcoat and leaving it open, putting his arm back through the seatbelt before turning to his friend. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think I died.’ She mumbled, and he noticed she was wide eyed and flushed, staring at the seat in front of her.

‘You’re not dead.’ He laughed, poking her thigh with his finger. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I just don’t get given gifts like this very often. I guess I got kinda excited. Thank you, it seems to fit perfectly.’ And he quickly leant in and kissed her cheek, much as she had his the night before.

Marinette decided she was dreaming. Yup. No way this was real. She wasn’t dead, he was right, she was still asleep, because Adrien giving her a ride to school, stripping half naked in the car, then kissing her cheek, was something right out of her wildest dreams. Well, maybe not wildest, but it was up there. And it was her new favourite, she decided, because it felt so real. But, as it was a dream, she didn’t need to be as shy, she could talk to him. It just took one word at a time.

‘You’re honestly welcome.’ She turned finally, seeing the overall finished look, and it was amazing, to see Adrien wearing something she made for him, and it really suited him, fitting his physique perfectly. ‘I actually wanted to make a jacket but I didn’t have enough material, so it became a waistcoat.’

Adrien blinked at how articulate she suddenly was. Maybe that was the key to getting her to talk more naturally to him like this, to give her a subject she felt comfortable with. ‘A jacket would be amazing, but I love this. It can be smart or casual, just add a tie, and the colours are so bright, really fitting this season. You’re a great designer.’

‘It was nothing.’ She nudged him with her shoulder.

‘It’s not nothing, you obviously put a lot of work into it. It’s well made, and trust me, I know quality clothing.’

‘I guess so.’ She replied. ‘Thanks for not freaking out.’

‘Why would I freak out?’ He asked as the car stopped outside the school, moving the box into the footwell so they could slide across the seats, as Gorilla opened the door for them. Adrien got out and turned to wait for Marinette, aware that several of his classmates were already outside, including Chloe who called one of her sickly nicknames as she approached, but he simply threw her a wave, waiting for Marinette.

So far, Marinette was enjoying this dream, even Chloe being here had so far not ruined things, but as she stepped out of car, or tried to, she remembered that she was a klutz no matter whether awake or asleep. One foot caught in the gift box, flipping it up into her other leg and sending her sprawling through the door, her feet still in the car, but Adrien was there as she twisted in the air, arms flailing.

He had never been so happy that his cat-like reflexes sometimes bled over into his real life, as he saw Marinette falling out of the car. He caught her easily, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her head, as though she were some movie heroine he had just rescued, and he couldn’t help but quirk her a cheeky grin. ‘Well, I guess I know the exact moment you fell for me.’ He joked, helping her find her feet on the pavement before letting her go, Nino and Alya whooping from the steps in delight.

‘Oh please, that was years ago.’ Marinette laughed, shifting her bag back onto her shoulder where it had slipped down her arm.

‘What?’ Adrien’s mouth fell open at her perhaps inadvertent confession, but she didn’t seem to hear, most likely because Alya and Nino were talking rapidly and loudly as they reached them, leaving Adrien to take his bag out of the car along with his pastries in a state close to shock. Marinette fell for him years ago? What? Suddenly it all became clear. Her shyness, why she couldn’t give him gifts, why his pictures were on her wall. Ohhhhhh.

‘Dude, looking swish.’ Nino offered him his fist to bump, and Adrien did it halfheartedly without really looking.

‘Thanks.’ He mumbled.

‘New waistcoat from your father’s line?’

‘No, it was…it was a gift.’ He murmured, watching Marinette as she chatted to Alya, or more accurately listened to whatever it was Alya had on her mind. As though sensing his eyes on her, Marinette turned and flashed him a smile, blushing slightly. ‘Hey, Nino, do you ever look at something for so long you suddenly realise something that was right in front of you the entire time?’

‘Oh man, all the time!’ Nino laughed as they started walking towards the school, falling into step behind the girls as Nino started to relay related stories.

‘You got a ride in with Adrien, how did that happen, girl?’ Alya encouraged her as they walked up the steps.

‘It’s a long story.’ Marinette smiled warmly at her friend…before walking firmly into the door. ‘Ow!’ She rubbed her shoulder where she jarred it and carried on inside.

‘Well, you can tell me the long story after lunch, okay? And you have got to watch where you’re walking. That knock will leave a bruise.’

‘Yeah.’ She muttered, her shoulder throbbing from it, which was when it hit her. Dreams don’t hurt.

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fan fic #mlb #mlb fanfiction #Designs on you #marichat #adrienette #miraculous mumma

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top40gordy · 6 years

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Twitt https://twitter.com/share?text=Everything%20You%20Know%20About%20Obesity%20Is%20Wrong&url=https://highline.huffingtonpost.com/articles/en/everything-you-know-about-obesity-is-wrong/&via=HiSEPTEMBER 19, 2018

For decades, the medical community has ignored mountains of evidence to wage a cruel and futile war on fat people, poisoning public perception and ruining millions of lives.

It’s time for a new paradigm.

STORY BY Michael Hobbes

IMAGES BY Finlay MacKay

From the 16th century to the 19th, scurvy killed around 2 million sailors, more than warfare, shipwrecks and syphilis combined. It was an ugly, smelly death, too, beginning with rattling teeth and ending with a body so rotted out from the inside that its victims could literally be startled to death by a loud noise. Just as horrifying as the disease itself, though, is that for most of those 300 years, medical experts knew how to prevent it and simply failed to.

In the 1600s, some sea captains distributed lemons, limes and oranges to sailors, driven by the belief that a daily dose of citrus fruit would stave off scurvy’s progress. The British Navy, wary of the cost of expanding the treatment, turned to malt wort, a mashed and cooked byproduct of barley which had the advantage of being cheaper but the disadvantage of doing nothing whatsoever to cure scurvy. In 1747, a British doctor named James Lind conducted an experiment where he gave one group of sailors citrus slices and the others vinegar or seawater or cider. The results couldn’t have been clearer. The crewmen who ate fruit improved so quickly that they were able to help care for the others as they languished. Lind published his findings, but died before anyone got around to implementing them nearly 50 years later.

This kind of myopia repeats throughout history. Seat belts were invented long before the automobile but weren’t mandatory in cars until the 1960s. The first confirmed death from asbestos exposure was recorded in 1906, but the U.S. didn’t start banning the chemical until 1973. Every discovery in public health, no matter how significant, must compete with the traditions, assumptions and financial incentives of the society implementing it.

Which brings us to one of the largest gaps between science and practice in our own time. Years from now, we will look back in horror at the counterproductive ways we addressed the obesity epidemic and the barbaric ways we treated fat people—long after we knew there was a better path.

I have never written a story where so many of my sources cried during interviews, where they shook with anger describing their interactions with doctors and strangers and their own families.

About 40 years ago, Americans started getting much larger. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, nearly 80 percent of adults and about one-third of children now meet the clinical definition of overweight or obese. More Americans live with “extreme obesity“ than with breast cancer, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and HIV put together.

And the medical community’s primary response to this shift has been to blame fat people for being fat. Obesity, we are told, is a personal failing that strains our health care system, shrinks our GDP and saps our military strength. It is also an excuse to bully fat people in one sentence and then inform them in the next that you are doing it for their own good. That’s why the fear of becoming fat, or staying that way, drives Americans to spend more on dieting every year than we spend on video games or movies. Forty-five percent of adults say they’re preoccupied with their weight some or all of the time—an 11-point rise since 1990. Nearly half of 3- to 6- year old girls say they worry about being fat.

The emotional costs are incalculable. I have never written a story where so many of my sources cried during interviews, where they double- and triple-checked that I would not reveal their names, where they shook with anger describing their interactions with doctors and strangers and their own families. One remembered kids singing “Baby Beluga” as she boarded the school bus, another said she has tried diets so extreme she has passed out and yet another described the elaborate measures he takes to keep his spouse from seeing him naked in the light. A medical technician I’ll call Sam (he asked me to change his name so his wife wouldn’t find out he spoke to me) said that one glimpse of himself in a mirror can destroy his mood for days. “I have this sense I’m fat and I shouldn’t be,” he says. “It feels like the worst kind of weakness.”

My interest in this issue is slightly more than journalistic. Growing up, my mother’s weight was the uncredited co-star of every family drama, the obvious, unspoken reason why she never got out of the car when she picked me up from school, why she disappeared from the family photo album for years at a time, why she spent hours making meatloaf then sat beside us eating a bowl of carrots.

Last year, for the first time, we talked about her weight in detail. When I asked if she was ever bullied, she recalled some guy calling her a “fat slob” as she biked past him years ago. “But that was rare,” she says. “The bigger way my weight affected my life was that I waited to do things because I thought fat people couldn’t do them.” She got her master’s degree at 38, her Ph.D. at 55. “I avoided so many activities where I thought my weight would discredit me.”

Chances of a woman classified as obese achieving a “normal” weight:.008%Source: American Journal of Public Health, 2015

But my mother’s story, like Sam’s, like everyone’s, didn’t have to turn out like this. For 60 years, doctors and researchers have known two things that could have improved, or even saved, millions of lives. The first is that diets do not work. Not just paleo or Atkins or Weight Watchers or Goop, but all diets. Since 1959, research has shown that 95 to 98 percent of attempts to lose weight fail and that two-thirds of dieters gain back more than they lost. The reasons are biological and irreversible.

As early as 1969, research showed that losing just 3 percent of your body weight resulted in a 17 percent slowdown in your metabolism—a body-wide starvation response that blasts you with hunger hormones and drops your internal temperature until you rise back to your highest weight. Keeping weight off means fighting your body’s energy-regulation system and battling hunger all day, every day, for the rest of your life.

The second big lesson the medical establishment has learned and rejected over and over again is that weight and health are not perfect synonyms. Yes, nearly every population-level study finds that fat people have worse cardiovascular health than thin people. But individuals are not averages: Studies have found that anywhere from one-third to three-quarters of people classified as obese are metabolically healthy. They show no signs of elevated blood pressure, insulin resistance or high cholesterol. Meanwhile, about a quarter of non-overweight people are what epidemiologists call “the lean unhealthy.” A 2016 study that followed participants for an average of 19 years found that unfit skinny people were twice as likely to get diabetes as fit fat people. Habits, no matter your size, are what really matter. Dozens of indicators, from vegetable consumption to regular exercise to grip strength, provide a better snapshot of someone’s health than looking at her from across a room.

The terrible irony is that for 60 years, we’ve approached the obesity epidemic like a fad dieter: If we just try the exact same thing one more time, we'll get a different result. And so it’s time for a paradigm shift. We’re not going to become a skinnier country. But we still have a chance to become a healthier one.

A NOTE ABOUT OUR PHOTOGRAPHS So many images you see in articles about obesity strip fat people of their strength and personality. According to a recent study, only 11 percent of large people depicted in news reports were wearing professional clothing. Nearly 60 percent were headless torsos. So, we asked our interview subjects to take full creative control of the photos in this piece. This is how they want to present themselves to the world.

This is Corissa Enneking at her lightest: She wakes up, showers and smokes a cigarette to keep her appetite down. She drives to her job at a furniture store, she stands in four-inch heels all day, she eats a cup of yogurt alone in her car on her lunch break. After work, lightheaded, her feet throbbing, she counts out three Ritz crackers, eats them at her kitchen counter and writes down the calories in her food journal.

Or not. Some days she comes home and goes straight to bed, exhausted and dizzy from hunger, shivering in the Kansas heat. She rouses herself around dinnertime and drinks some orange juice or eats half a granola bar. Occasionally she’ll just sleep through the night, waking up the next day to start all over again.

The last time she lived like this, a few years ago, her mother marched her to the hospital. “My daughter is sick,” she told the doctor. “She's not eating.” He looked Enneking up and down. Despite six months of starvation, she was still wearing plus sizes, still couldn’t shop at J. Crew, still got unsolicited diet advice from colleagues and customers.

Enneking told the doctor that she used to be larger, that she’d lost some weight the same way she had lost it three or four times before—seeing how far she could get through the day without eating, trading solids for liquids, food for sleep. She was hungry all the time, but she was learning to like it. When she did eat, she got panic attacks. Her boss was starting to notice her erratic behavior.

“Well, whatever you're doing now,” the doctor said, “it's working.” He urged her to keep it up and assured her that once she got small enough, her body would start to process food differently. She could add a few hundred calories to her diet. Her period would come back. She would stay small, but without as much effort.

“If you looked at anything other than my weight,” Enneking says now, “I had an eating disorder. And my doctor was congratulating me.”

Ask almost any fat person about her interactions with the health care system and you will hear a story, sometimes three, the same as Enneking’s: rolled eyes, skeptical questions, treatments denied or delayed or revoked. Doctors are supposed to be trusted authorities, a patient’s primary gateway to healing. But for fat people, they are a source of unique and persistent trauma. No matter what you go in for or how much you’re hurting, the first thing you will be told is that it would all get better if you could just put down the Cheetos.

Emily went to a gynecological surgeon to have an ovarian cyst removed. The physician pointed out her body fat on the MRI, then said, “Look at that skinny woman in there trying to get out.”

This phenomenon is not merely anecdotal. Doctors have shorter appointments with fat patients and show less emotional rapport in the minutes they do have. Negative words—“noncompliant, “overindulgent,” “weak willed”—pop up in their medical histories with higher frequency. In one study, researchers presented doctors with case histories of patients suffering from migraines. With everything else being equal, the doctors reported that the patients who were also classified as fat had a worse attitude and were less likely to follow their advice. And that’s when they see fat patients at all: In 2011, the Sun-Sentinel polled OB-GYNs in South Florida and discovered that 14 percent had barred all new patients weighing more than 200 pounds.

Some of these doctors are simply applying the same presumptions as the society around them. An anesthesiologist on the West Coast tells me that as soon as a larger patient goes under, the surgeons start trading “high school insults” about her body over the operating table. Janice O’Keefe, a former nurse in Boston, tells me a doctor once looked at her, paused, then asked, “How could you do this to yourself?” Emily, a counselor in Eastern Washington, went to a gynecological surgeon to have an ovarian cyst removed. The physician pointed out her body fat on the MRI, then said, “Look at that skinny woman in there trying to get out.”

“I was worried I had cancer,” Emily says, “and she was turning it into a teachable moment about my weight.”

Other physicians sincerely believe that shaming fat people is the best way to motivate them to lose weight. “It’s the last area of medicine where we prescribe tough love,” says Mayo Clinic researcher Sean Phelan.

In a 2013 journal article, bioethicist Daniel Callahan argued for more stigma against fat people. “People don’t realize that they are obese or if they do realize it, it’s not enough to stir them to do anything about it,” he tells me. Shame helped him kick his cigarette habit, he argues, so it should work for obesity too.

This belief is cartoonishly out of step with a generation of research into obesity and human behavior. As one of the (many) stigma researchers who responded to Callahan’s article pointed out, shaming smokers and drug users with D.A.R.E.-style “just say no” messages may have actually increased substance abuse by making addicts less likely to bring up their habit with their doctors and family members.

Plus, rather obviously, smoking is a behavior; being fat is not. Jody Dushay, an endocrinologist and obesity specialist at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston, says most of her patients have tried dozens of diets and have lost and regained hundreds of pounds before they come to her.

Telling them to try again, but in harsher terms, only sets them up to fail and then blame themselves.

89%of obese adults have been bullied by their romantic partners Source: University of Connecticut, 2017

Not all physicians set out to denigrate their fat patients, of course; some of them do damage because of subtler, more unconscious biases. Most doctors, for example, are fit—“If you go to an obesity conference, good luck trying to get a treadmill at 5 a.m.,” Dushay says—and have spent more than a decade of their lives in the high-stakes, high-stress bubble of medical schools.

According to several studies, thin doctors are more confident in their recommendations, expect their patients to lose more weight and are more likely to think dieting is easy. Sarah (not her real name), a tech CEO in New England, once told her doctor that she was having trouble eating less throughout the day. “Look at me,” her doctor said. “I had one egg for breakfast and I feel fine.”

Then there are the glaring cultural differences. Kenneth Resnicow, a consultant who trains physicians to build rapport with their patients, says white, wealthy, skinny doctors will often try to bond with their low-income patients by telling them, “I know what it’s like not to have time to cook.” Their patients, who might be single mothers with three kids and two jobs, immediately think “No, you don’t,” and the relationship is irretrievably soured.

Many of the financial and administrative structures doctors work within help reinforce this bad behavior. The problem starts in medical school, where, according to a 2015 survey, students receive an average of just 19 hours of nutrition education over four years of instruction—five hours fewer than they got in 2006. Then the trouble compounds once doctors get into daily practice. Primary care physicians only get 15 minutes for each appointment, barely enough time to ask patients what they ate today, much less during all the years leading up to it. And a more empathic approach to treatment simply doesn’t pay: While procedures like blood tests and CT scans command reimbursement rates from hundreds to thousands of dollars, doctors receive as little as $24 to provide a session of diet and nutrition counseling.

Lesley Williams, a family medicine doctor in Phoenix, tells me she gets an alert from her electronic health records software every time she’s about to see a patient who is above the “overweight” threshold. The reason for this is that physicians are often required, in writing, to prove to hospital administrators and insurance providers that they have brought up their patient’s weight and formulated a plan to bring it down—regardless of whether that patient came in with arthritis or a broken arm or a bad sunburn. Failing to do that could result in poor performance reviews, low ratings from insurance companies or being denied reimbursement if they refer patients to specialized care.

Another issue, says Kimberly Gudzune, an obesity specialist at Johns Hopkins, is that many doctors, no matter their specialty, think weight falls under their authority. Gudzune often spends months working with patients to set realistic goals—playing with their grandkids longer, going off a cholesterol medication—only to have other doctors threaten it all. One of her patients was making significant progress until she went to a cardiologist who told her to lose 100 pounds. “All of a sudden she goes back to feeling like a failure and we have to start over,” Gudzune says. “Or maybe she just never comes back at all.”

60%of the calories Americans consume come from “ultra-processed foods” Source: British Medical Journal, 2016

And so, working within a system that neither trains nor encourages them to meaningfully engage with their higher-weight patients, doctors fall back on recommending fad diets and delivering bland motivational platitudes. Ron Kirk, an electrician in Boston, says that for years, his doctor's first resort was to put him on some diet he couldn't maintain for more than a few weeks. “They told me lettuce was a ‘free’ food,” he says—and he’d find himself carving up a head of romaine for dinner.

In a study that recorded 461 interactions with doctors, only 13 percent of patients got any specific plan for diet or exercise and only 5 percent got help arranging a follow-up visit. “It can be stressful when [patients] start asking a lot of specific questions” about diet and weight loss, one doctor told researchers in 2012. “I don’t feel like I have the time to sit there and give them private counseling on basics. I say, ‘Here’s some websites, look at this.’” A 2016 survey found that nearly twice as many higher-weight Americans have tried meal-replacement diets—the kind most likely to fail—than have ever received counseling from a dietician.

“It borders on medical malpractice,” says Andrew (not his real name), a consultant and musician who has been large his whole life. A few years ago, on a routine visit, Andrew’s doctor weighed him, announced that he was “dangerously overweight” and told him to diet and exercise, offering no further specifics. Should he go on a low-fat diet? Low-carb? Become a vegetarian? Should he do CrossFit? Yoga? Should he buy a fucking ThighMaster?

“She didn't even ask me what I was already doing for exercise,” he says. “At the time, I was training for serious winter mountaineering trips, hiking every weekend and going to the gym four times a week. Instead of a conversation, I got a sound bite. It felt like shaming me was the entire purpose.”

All of this makes higher-weight patients more likely to avoid doctors. Three separate studies have found that fat women are more likely to die from breast and cervical cancers than non-fat women, a result partially attributed to their reluctance to see doctors and get screenings. Erin Harrop, a researcher at the University of Washington, studies higher-weight women with anorexia, who, contrary to the size-zero stereotype of most media depictions, are twice as likely to report vomiting, using laxatives and abusing diet pills. Thin women, Harrop discovered, take around three years to get into treatment, while her participants spent an average of 13 and a half years waiting for their disorders to be addressed.

“A lot of my job is helping people heal from the trauma of interacting with the medical system,” says Ginette Lenham, a counselor who specializes in obesity. The rest of it, she says, is helping them heal from the trauma of interacting with everyone else.

“My weight makes me anxious. I'm constantly sucking my stomach in when I stand, and if I'm sitting, I always grab a pillow or couch cushion to hold in front of it. I'm most comfortable in my bathrobe, alone. At the same time, my brain starves for attention. I want to be onstage. I want to be the one holding a microphone. So, I decided to split the difference with this photograph: to perform and to obscure. The worst part is that intellectually I know that I have worth beyond pounds and waist inches and stereotypes. But I still feel like I have to hide.”— SAM (NOT HIS REAL NAME)

Emily says it’s the do-gooders who get to her, the women who stop her on the street and tell her how brave she is for wearing a sleeveless dress on a 95-degree day. Sam, the medical technician, avoids the subject of weight altogether. “Men aren’t supposed to think about this stuff—and I think about it constantly,” he admits. “So I never let myself talk about it. Which is weird because it’s the most visible thing about me.”

Again and again, I hear stories of how the pressure to be a “good fatty” in public builds up and explodes. Jessica has four kids. Every week is a birthday party or family reunion or swimming pool social, another opportunity to stand around platters of spare ribs and dinner rolls with her fellow moms.

“Your conscious mind is busy the whole day with how many calories is in everything, what you can eat and who’s watching,” she says. After a few intrusive comments over the years—should you be eating that?—she has learned to be careful, to perform the role of the impeccable fat person. She nibbles on cherry tomatoes, drinks tap water, stays on her feet, ignores the dessert end of the buffet.

Then, as the gathering winds down, Jessica and the other parents divvy up the leftovers. She wraps up burgers or pasta salad or birthday cake, drives her children home and waits for the moment when they are finally in bed. Then, when she’s alone, she eats all the leftovers by herself, in the dark.

“It’s always hidden,” she says. “I buy a package of ice cream, then eat it all. Then I have to go to the store to buy it again. For a week my family thinks there’s a thing of ice cream in the fridge—but it’s actually five different ones.”

Ratio of soda and candy ads seen by black children compared to white children:2:1Source: UConn Rudd Center for Food Policy and Obesity, 2015

This is how fat-shaming works: It is visible and invisible, public and private, hidden and everywhere at the same time. Research consistently finds that larger Americans (especially larger women) earn lower salaries and are less likely to be hired and promoted. In a 2017 survey, 500 hiring managers were given a photo of an overweight female applicant. Twenty-one percent of them described her as unprofessional despite having no other information about her. What’s worse, only a few cities and one state (nice work, Michigan) officially prohibit workplace discrimination on the basis of weight.

Paradoxically, as the number of larger Americans has risen, the biases against them have become more severe. More than 40 percent of Americans classified as obese now say they experience stigma on a daily basis, a rate far higher than any other minority group. And this does terrible things to their bodies. According to a 2015 study, fat people who feel discriminated against have shorter life expectancies than fat people who don't. “These findings suggest the possibility that the stigma associated with being overweight,” the study concluded, “is more harmful than actually being overweight.”

And, in a cruel twist, one effect of weight bias is that it actually makes you eat more. The stress hormone cortisol—the one evolution designed to kick in when you’re being chased by a tiger or, it turns out, rejected for your looks—increases appetite, reduces the will to exercise and even improves the taste of food. Sam, echoing so many of the other people I spoke with, says that he drove straight to Jack in the Box last year after someone yelled, “Eat less!” at him across a parking lot.

“I don’t want to be portrayed; this is not about me. It’s about that guy you always see on the far treadmill at the gym. Or the lady who brings the most beautiful salads to work every day for lunch. It’s about the little girl who got bullied because of her size and the little boy who was told he wasn’t man enough. It’s not about me but had it been about me when I was that chubby little girl, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here, head against the door, wondering if I’m enough.”— ERIKA

There’s a grim caveman logic to our nastiness toward fat people. “We’re attuned to bodies that look different,” says Janet Tomiyama, a stigma researcher at UCLA. “In our evolutionary past, that might have meant disease risk and been seen as a threat to your tribe.” These biological breadcrumbs help explain why stigma begins so early. Kids as young as 3 describe their larger classmates with words like “mean,” “stupid” and “lazy.”

This is not an abstract concern: Surveys of higher-weight adults find that their worst experiences of discrimination come from their own families. Erika, a health educator in Washington, can still recite the word her father used to describe her: “husky.” Her grandfather preferred “stocky.” Her mother never said anything about Erika’s body, but she didn't have to. She obsessed over her own, calling herself “enormous” despite being two sizes smaller than her daughter. By the time Erika was 11, she was sneaking into the woods behind her house and vomiting into the creek whenever social occasions made starving herself impossible.

And the abuse from loved ones continues well into adulthood. A 2017 survey found that 89 percent of obese adults had been bullied by their romantic partners. Emily, the counselor, says she spent her teens and 20s “sleeping with guys I wasn’t interested in because they wanted to sleep with me.” In her head, a guy being into her was a rare and depletable resource she couldn’t afford to waste: “I was desperate for men to give me attention. Sex was a good way to do that.”

Eventually, she ended up with someone abusive. He told her during sex that her body was beautiful and then, in the daylight, that it was revolting. “Whenever I tried to leave him, he would say, ‘Where are you gonna find someone who will put up with your disgusting body?’” she remembers.

Emily finally managed to get away from him, but she is aware that her love life will always be fraught. The guy she’s dating now is thin—“think Tony Hawk,” she says—and she notices the looks they get when they hold hands in public. “That never used to happen when I dated fat dudes,” she says. “Thin men are not allowed to be attracted to fat women.”

Andrea, a retired nurse in Boston, has been on commercial diets since she was 10 years old. She knows how hard it is to slim down, knows what women larger than her are going through, but she still struggles not to pass judgment when she sees them in public. “I think, ‘How did they let it happen?’” she says. “It’s more like fear. Because if I let myself go, I’ll be that big too.”

Her position is all-too understandable. As young as 9 or 10, I knew that coming out of the closet is what gay people do, even if it took me another decade to actually do it. Fat people, though, never get a moment of declaring their identity, of marking themselves as part of a distinct group. They still live in a society that believes weight is temporary, that losing it is urgent and achievable, that being comfortable in their bodies is merely “glorifying obesity.” This limbo, this lie, is why it’s so hard for fat people to discover one another or even themselves. “No one believes our It Gets Better story,” says Tigress Osborn, the director of community outreach for the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. “You can’t claim an identity if everyone around you is saying it doesn’t or shouldn’t exist.”

Harrop, the eating disorders researcher, realized several years ago that her university had clubs for trans students, immigrant students, Republican students, but none for fat students. So she started one—and it has been a resounding, unmitigated failure. Only a handful of fat people have ever shown up; most of the time, thin folks sit around brainstorming about how to be better allies.

I ask Harrop why she thinks the group has been such a bust. It’s simple, she says: “Fat people grow up in the same fat-hating culture that non-fat people do.”

Since 1980, the obesity rate has doubled in 73 countries and increased in 113 others. And in all that time, no nation has reduced its obesity rate. Not one.

Draining this poison from our trillion-dollar food system is not going to happen quickly or easily. Every link in the chain, from factory farms to school lunches, is dominated by a Mars or a Monsanto or a McDonald’s, each working tirelessly to lower its costs and raise its profits. But that’s still no reason to despair. There’s a lot we can do right now to improve fat people’s lives—to shift our focus for the first time from weight to health and from shame to support.

The place to start is at the doctor’s office. The central failure of the medical system when it comes to obesity is that it treats every patient exactly the same: If you’re fat, lose some weight. If you’re skinny, keep up the good work. Stephanie Sogg, a psychologist at the Mass General Weight Center, tells me she has clients who start eating compulsively after a sexual assault, others who starve themselves all day before bingeing on the commute home and others who eat 1,000 calories a day, work out five times a week and still insist that they’re fat because they “have no willpower.”

Acknowledging the infinite complexity of each person’s relationship to food, exercise and body image is at the center of her treatment, not a footnote to it. “Eighty percent of my patients cry in the first appointment,” Sogg says. “For something as emotional as weight, you have to listen for a long time before you give any advice. Telling someone, 'Lay off the cheeseburgers' is never going to work if you don't know what those cheeseburgers are doing for them.”

4% of all agricultural subsidies go to fruits and vegetables Source: Environmental Working Group, 2014-16

The medical benefits of this approach—being nicer to her patients than they are to themselves, is how Sogg describes it—are unimpeachable. In 2017, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, the expert panel that decides which treatments should be offered for free under Obamacare, found that the decisive factor in obesity care was not the diet patients went on, but how much attention and support they received while they were on it. Participants who got more than 12 sessions with a dietician saw significant reductions in their rates of prediabetes and cardiovascular risk. Those who got less personalized care showed almost no improvement at all.

Still, despite the Task Force’s explicit recommendation of “intensive, multicomponent behavioral counseling” for higher-weight patients, the vast majority of insurance companies and state health care programs define this term to mean just a session or two—exactly the superficial approach that years of research says won’t work. “Health plans refuse to treat this as anything other than a personal problem,” says Chris Gallagher, a policy consultant at the Obesity Action Coalition.

The same scurvy-ish negligence shows up at every level of government. From marketing rules to antitrust regulations to international trade agreements, U.S. policy has created a food system that excels at producing flour, sugar and oil but struggles to deliver nutrients at anywhere near the same scale. The United States spends $1.5 billion on nutrition research every year compared to around $60 billion on drug research. Just 4 percent of agricultural subsidies go to fruits and vegetables. No wonder that the healthiest foods can cost up to eight times more, calorie for calorie, than the unhealthiest—or that the gap gets wider every year.

It’s the same with exercise. The cardiovascular risks of sedentary lifestyles, suburban sprawl and long commutes are well-documented. But rather than help mitigate these risks—and their disproportionate impact on the poor—our institutions have exacerbated them. Only 13 percent of American children walk or bike to school; once they arrive, less than a third of them will take part in a daily gym class. Among adults, the number of workers commuting more than 90 minutes each way grew by more than 15 percent from 2005 to 2016, a predictable outgrowth of America’s underinvestment in public transportation and over-investment in freeways, parking and strip malls. For 40 years, as politicians have told us to eat more vegetables and take the stairs instead of the elevator, they have presided over a country where daily exercise has become a luxury and eating well has become extortionate.

The good news is that the best ideas for reversing these trends have already been tested. Many “failed” obesity interventions are, in fact, successful eat-healthier-and-exercise-more interventions. A review of 44 international studies found that school-based activity programs didn’t affect kids’ weight, but improved their athletic ability, tripled the amount of time they spent exercising and reduced their daily TV consumption by up to an hour. Another survey showed that two years of getting kids to exercise and eat better didn’t noticeably affect their size but did improve their math scores—an effect that was greater for black kids than white kids.

Which brings us to the most hard-wired problem of all: Our shitty attitudes toward fat people. According to Patrick Corrigan, the editor of the journal Stigma and Health, even the most well-intentioned efforts to reduce stigma break down in the face of reality. In one study, researchers told 10- to 12-year-olds all the genetic and medical factors that contribute to obesity. Afterward, the kids could recite back the message they received—fat kids didn’t get that way by choice—but they still had the same negative attitudes about the bigger kids sitting next to them. A similar approach with fifth- and sixth-graders actually increased their intention of bullying their fat classmates. Celebrity representation, meanwhile, can result in what Corrigan calls the “Thurgood Marshall effect”: Instead of updating our stereotypes (maybe fat people aren’t so bad), we just see prominent minorities as isolated exceptions to them (well, he’s not like those other fat people).

This has always been the great hope of the fat-acceptance movement. (“We’re here, we’re spheres, get used to it” was one of the slogans in the 1990s.) But this radical message has long since been co-opted by clothing brands, diet companies, and soap corporations. Weight Watchers has rebranded as a “lifestyle program,” but still promises that its members can shrink their way to happiness. Mainstream apparel companies market themselves as “body positive” but refuse to make clothes that fit the plus-size models on their own billboards. Social media, too, has provided a platform for positive representations of fat people and formed communities that make it easier to find each other. But it has also contributed to an anodyne, narrow, Dr. Phil-approved form of progress that celebrates the female entrepreneur who sells “fatkinis” on Instagram while ignoring the woman who (true story) gets fired from her management position after reportedly gaining 100 pounds over three years.

“Fat activism isn’t about making people feel better about themselves,” Pausé says. “It’s about not being denied your civil rights and not dying because a doctor misdiagnoses you.”

And so, in a world that refuses to change, it is still up to every fat person, alone, to decide how to endure. Emily, the counselor in Eastern Washington, says she made a choice about three years ago to assert herself. The first time she asked for a table instead of a booth at a restaurant, she says, she was sweating, flushed, her chest heaving. It felt like saying the words—“I can’t fit”—would dry up in her mouth as she said them.

But now, she says, “It’s just something I do.” Last month, she was at a conference and asked one of the other participants if he would trade chairs because his didn’t have arms. Like most of these requests, it was no big deal. “A tall person wouldn’t feel weird asking that, so why should I?” she says. Her skinny friends have started to inquire about the seating at restaurants before Emily even gets the chance.

Hearing about Emily’s progress reminds me of a conversation I had with Ginette Lenham, the diet counselor. Her patients, she says, often live in the past or the future with their weight. They tell her they are waiting until they are smaller to go back to school or apply for a new job. They beg her to return them to their high school or wedding or first triathlon weight, the one that will bring back their former life.

And then Lenham must explain that these dreams are a trap. Because there is no magical cure. There is no time machine. There is only the revolutionary act of being fat and happy in a world that tells you that’s impossible.

“We all have to do our best with the body that we have,” she says. “And leave everyone else’s alone.”

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