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solarwonux · 6 months

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Business Proposal || knj (8/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting, semi-edited

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 7.0

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

A/n: I hope you enjoy, I will add all the extra links later. Please please please let me know your thoughts you have no idea how much it helps me. Enjoy!

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m.list | series m.list | wattpad

10 years ago.

You have circled around Dionysus Lake at least three times, in a failed attempt to calm your nerves. In all honesty you aren’t sure why you’re so nervous, it was a simple tutoring session with your friend's brother. Yet, the hammering in your heart and the pressure around your neck was impossible to ignore.

You know this has nothing to do with you finding him attractive. You can find someone attractive but not be attracted to them. Hence Jungkook. You know it has nothing to do with the fact that his meeting place of choice was the one cafe that was slightly out of the budget you set aside for iced coffees on the weekday.

What you do know is that it has everything to do with the fact that this is something new. A little hiccup in your perfectly curated daily routine. From now on every Tuesday and Thursday you will be meeting up with Kim Namjoon at seven o’clock at Serendipity Cafe. Who by some miracle will hopefully have you understanding the PEMDAS rules that you’re hundred percent sure we’re taught wrong to you. No more will be your days in which you stay at HYBE U’s seven floor library, cranking down on research or polishing essays after math class. No more will be your days that you decide that maybe it was time for some me time, and enjoy a nice long relaxing bath with different bath salts, bath bombs, and candles in an attempt to relax your racing thoughts and aching muscles.

No, now you have to squeeze in a half an hour walk after your algebra class to give yourself a breather. So, you don’t have to face your friend's brother all frazzled and annoyed that you have successfully sat through a math class without understanding a thing. Really, your nerves are really due to the fact that you don’t want to seem incompetent; but is it your fault that you’ve had incompetent math teachers or lack of math teachers throughout your academic year? It’s not your fault they couldn’t explain complex terms in a simple form. Or that they took advantage of the system to get close to younger children. You were cheated out of a decent understanding of math because the academic system simply worked against you.

It’s a thought you have been turning over and over in your head since you woke up this morning. You’ve been trying out every other excuse in the book.

“I’m sorry they had us do flawed computer programs in middle school instead of actually teaching us something.”

“You see I couldn’t really do my math homework growing up because I had ballet class at four until eight.”

“I’m actually really smart I just don’t understand how the fuck I have to apply an exponent when there’s a parenthesis involved.”

All of these excuses were dumb. A mask for the actual truth. Math was uninteresting, impalpable. It stayed constant and lacked excitement because you couldn’t see the puzzles laid out before you. That, and sometimes you sneakily read a book in the back of the class or whispered about the next big boy band with your equally as boy crazed friends Shalimar and Ruth.

Still, after your third wrap around Dionysus lake, you’ve decided that if questioned you’d just come clean.

“I’m stupid and I absolutely have no idea why we have to have letters and numbers mingle with each other.”

Hopefully he'll appreciate your honesty and grow a soft spot for you. At least that’s what you hope for. And you keep hoping for as you steadily approach the large wooden doors of Serendipity. There’s still about ten minutes until seven, but you figured you’d get there a bit early to grab a good seat. One in a section that’s quiet but not too quiet because the last thing you want while you sip on your peppermint tea is to be consumed by your overwhelming thoughts while you wait for your tutor.

You approach the counter, gripping the leather strap of your purse, going over your order in case you stumble upon your words due to pressure.

“Welcome to Serendipity whe—oh hey you’re Kookie’s girl.” The man behind the counter says in awe. While you cringe at the fact that you’re being referred to as Jungkook’s girl. You remember the doe eyed man referring to the man now wearing a button down with what seems to be condoms printed all over it as Hobi. Though his nametag states that his name is Hoseok. You try not to dwell on it for too long because he’s looking at you curiously. Probably wondering why you haven’t greeted him back or placed your order.

You shake your head, circling your moon shaped bag back to the front of your body, attempting to hide your discomfort. “Oh, hi, um, Jungkook’s just a friend.” You swallow, while he smiles in acknowledgement.

“I see, things are complicated. I get that.” He brushes you off before turning to the iPad in front of him. Before you can counteract with a ‘no it’s actually very simple, we share classes and he’s unfortunately picked me to annoy.’ He speaks up and gets right to the point. “What can I get you cutie?” He finishes, looking at you through his bangs.

The heat in your body erupts. No guy has ever been this forward with you but you’re positive this is just part of his customer service training. If he ever had one. Either way he’s talking you up and making you feel seen, which you assume is a specialty of his and probably why the cafe is crowded with many young adults.

With a grin you say. “Just a hot mint chocolate latte.” You nod in assurance before opening up your purse and taking out your wallet. When you fish your card out and go to swipe it across the reader a hand stops you. Startled, you look up to find Hobi or Hoseok smiling wide at you.

“No need, it’s already paid for.” He takes his hand away and gives you a white buzzer instead.

You furrow your brows in confusion. How has your drink already been paid for when you’ve just entered? You aren’t complaining, you did just save some money, but that small amount of happiness doesn’t mean that you aren’t confused.

The cashier seems to read your confusion and he chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Namjoon paid for you earlier when he ordered his drink.”

“What?” You glance down at your phone to see the time. Did you get it wrong? The two of you agreed on seven, and you even confirmed it this morning through a quick text just to be sure. So, why does the analog clock on your phone read 6:55, and Namjoon has possibly already been waiting for you.

You curse under your breath and quickly put your wallet in your purse before turning around to look at the almost empty cafe. There’s only a couple of people occupying the circular tables. All of them fully immersed in their books or laptop screens. Namjoon is nowhere in sight. You look back at Hoseok—you’ve decided to refer to him as such since it’s what’s on his nametag—and he laughs at your confusion.

He lifts up a finger signaling up, “he’s on the second floor, got here about an hour ago.”

His statement doesn’t do anything but worsen the panic already coursing through your veins. Maybe you did misinterpret the time, still it wouldn’t make sense because wouldn’t he have texted you by now asking where you were?

“Um thank you…”

“Call me Hobi.” He waves a hand in front of your face. “Any friend or special friend of the boys gets the privilege to call me Hobi. Plus Hoseok—” He points to his nametag with a boney finger. “Sounds too serious.” He shrugs.

You nod your head. “Thank you Hobi.” You rush out the acknowledgement and turn around and speed walk to the industrial style spiral staircase.

It’s a dizzying journey up, but once you make it to the final step you spot the man that has your nerves at an all time high. He’s sitting in the far corner next to a floor to ceiling window. His back is hunched as he types away on his laptop. Today he’s ditched the beanie and you can see his dark brown hair. A few strands of his bangs sneak their way behind the thick rims of his black glasses. He’s wearing a simple gray long sleeve, with black sweatpants. He looks relaxed, the opposite of what you’re feeling because the thing you hate most in the world is keeping people waiting.

With quick steps you approach the table, halting when you get to the front of a chair. “I’m sorry, I thought we agreed on seven.” You rush out instead of a proper greeting. In a quick motion he lifts his head and takes off the earbuds inside his ears, and you feel like more of an idiot than before because of course he would be wearing noise canceling earbuds.

“Hey, you’re here. Did you order something? I told Hobi that I would just pay for what you wanted.” He grins and stands up, extending his hand for you in a handshake.

You put your hand in his and feel a shiver run down your spine when his cold one meets your clammy one. “Am I late?” You tilt your head to the side.

Namjoon shakes his head, and lets go of your hand before sitting down again. “No, you’re right on time. I just got here a bit early to get a head start on an essay due by the end of the week.” He reassures you, and finally you can let out the breath you had been holding in.

You feel calmer now. Relieved. You set down your stuff on an empty chair and take the seat directly in front of him. You place your white buzzer in front of you, tracing the circular ridges. Now, that you’re not in such a panicked state you can finally show your gratitude to his selfless actions. “Thank you for the drink, you didn’t have to pay for it.”

The busy man smiles and waves his hand in front of his face to brush you off. “It’s no big deal, Hobi gives me discounts anyway.”

“So, I’ve heard.” You whisper recalling the first night you met him a week ago. Since then, Jungkook snuck his brother’s phone number to you the next day at the library. He didn’t say anything, he just passed by you with a green drink from the only smoothie place on campus and a sticky note saying:

Text Namjoon, he’s forgetful. -JK

It took the whole day to muster up the courage but finally you sent a simple text regarding your name and the fact that his younger brother had been the one to sneak you his number. In case, he assumed you had gone through multiple deep dives on the internet to retrieve it. Thankfully, Namjoon didn’t question it and just replied with a simple greeting. Then the two of you got into a brief conversation that lasted about two days because you’re also forgetful and forgot to reply to his messages. Basically coordinating a plan further than the one you had discussed the first time you met.

It was strictly business. Yet, a part of you felt a little happy that you were meeting and talking to somebody new.

Just as you’re about to take out your small notebook and pen from your purse your buzzer comes to life, filling the spaces of silence in the air surrounding the two of you. Namjoon’s eyes tear away from his computer screen, and you’re about to stand up when he beats you to it. He quickly grabs a hold of the noisy device saying, “Don’t worry I got it,” and he disappears down the stairs.

You’re now sitting by yourself, wallowing in your over consuming thoughts. Most of them involve the story Jungkook told you about his very eventful weekend while the two of you were walking to your math lecture earlier today. Truly, it was so odd knowing that he had run into Taehyung at a club in the rich part of town. The two of them stayed together the entire night and even brought home two girls to Taehyung’s apartment. Thankfully, he didn’t share further than that, but he did share that he was in love. In which you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you vertigo.

In the few months that you have known the man. He has claimed that he has been in love with every single girl he’s slept with. Which surprisingly, given his flirty nature was not a lot. What was surprising to you was Taehyung being at the club. It’s not out of character for him, but Saturday nights were always spent at Jimin’s one bedroom apartment catching up on life, and binge watching One Piece. When his text message came through on Saturday evening saying that he wasn’t feeling very well and skipping out. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad because you hadn’t seen him in a while.

Taehyung was always out and about, chasing every new adventure he could grasp. He called it inspiration for his art, but you always knew there was another underlying reason. One he never cared to explain because in all honesty it only made sense to him. He was a tough book to get through. Sometimes it keeps you questioning why you even have a soft spot for it. Though, you suppose it is the backstory the two of you share. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit hurt knowing he had chosen to not ditch you but Jimin as well.

The night wasn’t a bust and you managed to finally make a significant breakthrough on the anime. Twenty episodes in one night was something that needed to be awarded. It did feel a bit awkward when it was just the two of you. It was as if there was an invisible ceiling slowly crushing you, because on Saturday for the first time ever the two of you found yourself stuck. Nothing to talk about. No updates on life, only the sound of the anime doing its best to fill the void of Taehyung not being there that the both of you unspokenly felt.

It made you question a lot of things. Like was it maybe time to finally part ways? A chilling thought that sent shivers down your spine and one you pushed so far into the back of your head. One you really don’t want to think about now, especially when you’re about to succumb yourself to a full extra hour of torture. Otherwise known as: College Algebra.

“Hobi says that if you take a picture of his latte art to tag him if you post it.” Namjoon voices, placing a small tray in front of your open notebook. A white mug with a beautiful Jack O'Lantern drawn in white foam decorates the top of your warm decaffeinated latte. It’s impressive, surely puts all those swans and hearts to shame.

“He’s a big fan of Halloween, and he always says that fall time means it's Halloween everyday.” Namjoon finishes with a chuckle, as he takes the seat in front of you again.

You laugh a little, fishing out your phone from the pocket of your jean jacket. “I can get behind that.” You say as you click on the camera app and snap a couple of pictures.

Unbeknownst to you, Namjoon is watching as you rearrange the contents on the table. To get the right aesthetic for your perfect picture. He can’t lie, it's a little endearing, seeing somebody so excited over latte art he has grown accustomed to seeing. It’s something he will definitely spill onto Hoseok before he leaves. His friend was crazy talented in many areas and he hates that instead of sharing all his passions out with the world. He’s stuck running Serendipity because his grandfather wanted the neighborhood's hub to stay in the Jung family. When he should be out in the world sharing his clothing designs with anyone who’s willing to listen.

Namjoon’s thoughts are interrupted by your extended hand, holding out your phone for him. “What’s his instagram?” You grin, and his eyes make their way to the small phone screen. A beautifully taken picture, showing off the spooky pumpkin with a caption reading,

Halloween should be all year round @--

Namjoon lets out an ‘ah’ before taking your phone and quickly typing out his friend's handle. He reads the caption again, double checking to see if he made any mistakes, Halloween should be all year round @uramyhope.

He nods in approval and hands you back your phone. Deep down he feels a surge of something foreign. He can’t necessarily put his finger on it but regarding Hoseok’s statement when he first met you last week, when he asked both his brother and him for your number. He feels a little strange, knowing that he’s basically given the two of you a way to start communicating outside of him and Jungkook. Knowing the aspiring designer, he won’t miss a beat, and that makes him feel a bit odd.

He shrugs it off though, pushes away the churning in his stomach, concluding that it was because he chose to consume caffeine so late in the evening. He looks back at his computer screen, while you type away on your phone. He continues to ignore it, saves the document on his computer two times before closing the lid. He pushes it aside, and clears his throat, catching your attention.

Quickly you lock your phone and stuff it into the pocket of your jacket. You look over at Namjoon, his hands clasped in front of him and a scowl prominent on his face. It resembled the same one he transformed into the first night you met him. When he coldly stated he was done with blind dating thanks to his mother and step brother. Though, this time it does feel less intense, probably due to the fact that he knows you’re just here to be his tutee and not his future wife.

Still, it lets you know that time was ticking and it was finally time to get down to business.

“How have you gone on this long without understanding the basic principles of algebra?”

Namjoon is serious. He means business and you’re about to pull out the hair from your scalp.

“Maybe because I never had a permanent math teacher, they’d all leave in the middle of the year.” You pout, crossing your arms in front of you and slumping down in your seat.

He lets out a sigh before sliding your notebook to his side of the table. The metal spiral scratching against the wooden surface, letting out an unpleasant noise making you cringe.

“That’s a good excuse.” He says, grabbing his red pen and making all sorts of marks along the paper. You don’t need to know what steps you got wrong while solving the math problem. You know exactly where you went wrong. It was the second you signed up for the class even if you didn’t have much of a choice.

You groan, throwing your head back. “It’s not an excuse. My eighth grade teacher left in the middle of the year because she got pregnant, my ninth grade teacher unfortunately was diagnosed with cancer. Then my tenth grade teacher was accused of being a pedophile so he was fired an—“

“Okay,” Namjoon cuts you off, setting down his pen on top of your notebook. “I understand, your school was just shitty at keeping teachers around.” He grins, placing the notebook in front of you again. “But did you ever do your math homework?” He tilts his head to the side in curiosity.

Unfortunately you’ve been caught. “No,” you whisper, dragging your fingernail down the spiral.

The sound he lets out tells you enough. He’s proven his point with the sarcastic hum that escapes his mouth. “In my defense I had dance practice everyday after school from two to four and the ballet from five to eight.” You add but it does little to prove your innocence. Instead, it makes you look guiltier or maybe not you but your parents because who would choose an extracurricular activity over academics. Especially when they knew their daughter was absolute shit at math. They did try though, but even the math tutor they hired back in high school could not get through to you.

“I see,” he puts a pensive hand on his chin leaning back. The look he gives you makes you feel small. You can’t tell if he’s judging your upbringing or the you now who can’t seem to understand the simple PEMDAS rules.

“Your problem isn’t even that bad. It’s easy to fix. You know what each operation does. You just get confused with the order along the way.” He leans forward, picking up the pen and pointing to the problem you just finished doing. “You know to do parenthesis first, but then you forget that parenthesis don’t really go away. That’s your first mistake.”

It’s like a lightbulb has suddenly flicked on inside your head as you watch him solve the problem while thoroughly explaining each step. Writing out every single step even if it was unnecessary, but it helps.

“So the answer should be seventeen and not twenty-two.” He finishes, and the puzzle slowly starts to connect itself before your eyes. The steps are laid out perfectly and neatly. The parenthesis stay until the equation is factored to the lowest it can go. And you’re about to jump across the table to give the man before you the biggest hug. He’s the only one who's been able to point out what you’ve done wrong your whole life and then explain it easily.

You lift your head up, wide eyed and say “oh, that makes sense.”

Namjoon laughs, almost as if he’s relieved but also disbelieved. You start to feel bad because for the past hour he’s been trying to explain to you the basic principles in every way possible. And it was only until he explained it to you in baby terms that you finally understood. You’re about to apologize, but instead you’re left stunned by his next words.

“I’m giving you homework for the next time we see each other on Thursday.” He hums, flipping to the next page. Your eye twitches a little at the thought of math homework. If you never did it while you were in school and getting graded for it, why would you do it now?

“Homework?”

He hums, and begins to write down a bunch of different math problems. He can sense that you’re about to fill him with different complaints, so he speaks up. “Do you want to pass math class?

“Yes, but do you really need to give me homework?”

“How many hours were you in dance class growing up?”

“I don’t remember like five hours, but what does that have to do with you giving me math homework.”

“What were you doing for five hours?” He lifts his head, handing you your notebook. You take it looking down at the ten perfectly curated algebra problems.

You want to throw up.

“Practicing.”

“Exactly, and how are you going to pass math?”

You huff, seeing exactly where his question was heading. Proving a point or whatever. Jungkook did mention his brother was a bit of a smart ass. Now you’re unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end.

With a grunt you close your notebook. “Fine, I'll do the homework.”

Namjoon smirks, tapping his ear, leaning in further into the table. “No, I want to hear you say it please.”

You stuff your small spiral notebook into your purse, snatching your special pink mechanical pencil from his side of the table. You spent too much money on it to let—your stupid math tutor who is now giving you homework to make you suffer—steal it.

“I need to practice math.” You mumble, zipping up your bag, and putting it over your shoulder.

Namjoon laughs, letting his red pen fall against the wooden table with a clank. You roll your eyes before standing up. At least your suffering was amusing to someone.

You cross your arms in front you waiting for his laughter to die down. When it does he looks at you, watery eyes from joy and you feel a slight tug in the inside of your chest. You push it to the side, convince yourself that it’s just the irritation bubbling up inside of you.

“Are you done?”

He nods, shuffles around the table to put his stuff away. “How are you getting home?” He questions, standing up and hoisting his vintage messenger bag over his shoulder.

You shrug, “the bus.” You state, pulling up your phone to check the bus schedule. If you can catch the next bus that comes in ten minutes then you’ll still be able to get home with a couple of seconds left of daylight.

“I’ll go with you then.” He states firmly, standing up abruptly and walking past you. It leaves you no room to argue against him.

You’re quickly starting to realize that once he says something firmly enough to be believed as the truth. There is absolutely no room left for a final say.

And they call you stubborn…as if.

The bus arrived a minute late. A minute that felt longer than what it should’ve felt. The two of you were the only ones standing side by side under the dim light of the bus stop.

It’s one thing to be in the same room as your tutor while the only thing the two of you talk about is math. It’s another thing to have him offer to walk you home. There’s no conversation. There’s no way to start a conversation. The only thing you really know about him is that he’s still studying, he is Jungkook’s step brother and he’s a philosophy major. The only philosophers you knew off were the ones from Ancient Greece. All the readings for your Introduction to Modern Rhetorics course that you were assigned to do were somewhere buried in the back of your mind.

You don’t want to start up a conversation in which you know you won’t be able to keep up. You remember very little about the readings and somehow the things you do remember blend into one another. So you can’t differentiate between what one philosopher said and what the other said.

Instead, Namjoon and you walk in silence. At a safe distance but close enough to still feel the presence of the other. Then you stand in the bus stop. Neither of you sit on the cold metal bench because it’s still not cold enough for them to turn on the bench warmers. And when you see that the bus is a minute late, you start to feel the slightly awkward air around the two of you get thicker.

You’re about to bite the bullet, take the embarrassing moment for some sort of small talk when the bright blue bus turns the corner. You watch it approach the stop fast. At least that’s what it feels like and soon enough the driver opens the double doors to welcome the two of you.

Surprisingly it’s not full. There are a few people occupying the seats, but there’s enough room to not feel like you’re being squished upon one another. Namjoon lets you enter first. Once you click your transit card against the reader you scan the rows for an empty seat. And of course, there’s two left in the far back. You walk to it quickly. Pass the exhausted bystanders and take the seat against the window.

After all, you will be here for the next twenty five minutes. Though, it’s not only occurred to you that you don’t know where Namjoon lives, until he takes up the seat next to yours. You want to ask if he’s going out of his way or if his place is along this route. But you don’t want to pry too much. You’ve only just met him officially. You also don’t know what you would do with yourself if it does turn out that his place is out of the way. Probably, apologize profusely for being such an inconvenience.

To save yourself from the discomfort you sights upon the buildings outside the window. Your daydreaming only lasts a few seconds when you feel a light tap against your shoulder. In a quick motion you turn your head to face the man sitting next to you. You tilt your head in question and he opens his mouth to speak.

“What’s the deal with you and Jungkook?”

The question feels like you’ve been hit by whiplash. It’s not the first time you get asked about it. Your longtime friend Jina has brought it up a few times, but you always reply with the same exact answer. “I guess we’re friends.” You shrug.

Namjoon hums in acknowledgment, nodding his head. He looks ahead for a few minutes before looking back at you. “Are you sure?”

Now, this question takes you aback. Nobody’s ever questioned your honesty. At least until now.

You quirk a brow and nod. “Yes, we share a few classes and sometimes we study together. But it always feels like I’m there to study and he’s just there to talk because he never shuts up.” You rant.

“Ah,” he chuckles, moving his head in confirmation. “That sounds like him, when he was younger he never talked, but then he turned fifteen got a little confident because he found out a few people found him cute and he just never stopped talking then.” Namjoon reveals, making you smile. “He also talks in his sleep.” He adds, smiling when he hears you let out a giggle.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel as awkward as before. It feels a bit simpler. And you find yourself leaning into his aura a little more.

“I think he likes you though.” He adds, making your eyes grow wide in surprise. Maybe you’re dumb or you just don’t understand flirting thanks to the two very unserious relationships you had between the transition of high school and college. But from what you do know is that Jungkook holds no romantic feelings or a liking towards you. That’s something you’re very confident in.

“I don’t think so.” You scoff. “He would be stupid if he did.” You wave him off, and look out the window. You catch his reflection in the glass. He’s looking down at you, smiling in amusement. It somehow makes your cheeks get a bit hot and you divert your gaze down to the metal border of the window.

“He sat me down on our couch last night and laid down some ground rules.” He speaks up, looking ahead again. He lifts his hand and starts, “I’m not allowed to let you out of my sight, I have to be nice to you, and Hobi is not allowed under any circumstances get your number, which somehow I failed at doing.” He shrugs and counts with his fingers as if that proves his statement.

You stare at his hand before looking up at him again, you’re at a loss for words. Your thoughts are all jumbled up. Somehow you know tonight you won’t be able to sleep. You will now be questioning every single interaction you’ve had with Jungkook in the past few months.

Clearing your throat you say, “that doesn’t mean he like…has feelings for me.”

He lifts his hands up in defense. Your tone is harsh and he finds it amusing. He continues, “don’t shoot the messenger, I’m just relaying information on something I’ve observed.”

You finally turn to look at him. Your eyebrows are drawn together in a scowl. “No offense but your observation is stupid.” You cross your arms in a huff, pouting like a child. It makes Namjoon laugh loud enough to turn heads, causing you to look at him alarmed. It only makes him laugh harder and when you’re about to reprimand him, the automatic voice sounds in the speakers of the bus. It announces your stop and you scramble quickly to press the bright red button to stop the bus.

This shuts Namjoon up, he looks around, biting the inside of his cheek before nodding his head in confirmation. “This is your stop,” he voices just as the bus comes to a halt.

You nod, taking out your bus card from your purse and standing up. He copies your movements, makes his way to the card scanner and places his card against it. He doesn’t wait for you to exit he simply does and stands outside on the sidewalk, hands in his pocket. You scan your card and take the leap of faith from the bus stairs to the sidewalk. You land next to him, thanking your lucky stars for catching you and finally you voice out the question that’s been dying in the back of your throat.

“This is not your stop is it?”

“It’s not but, I promised Jungkook you would get home safely.” With that he turns on his heels and escapes the light of the stop, appearing again a few feet ahead underneath the street light. “Are you coming?”

“Do you do everything Jungkook says?” You grumble. The argument in which you state that you’re a big girl who is more than capable of walking home by herself escapes you. Only because when you’re finally standing in front of him. His head towering just a few inches above yours, it finally hits you. The jolt that springs in the pit of your stomach. The tug inside your heart that will have you up all night because it feels like a terrible case of heartburn. And the seed, his soft gaze plants inside of your mind.

It’s a mistake, a big one and you’re now regretting taking up Jungkook’s offer to have his brother tutor you. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen at all. The slow cascade down the wall you’ve built surrounding your emotions. You can feel it crumble already, ready to run down a dead end street, because that’s what it feels like. Whatever you’re feeling inside.

“I don’t.” The soft timbre of his voice brings out, you’re thankful it helps you find your way back down to the ground, but you’re not a fan of the way it paints goosebumps across your arms.

He continues, “I don’t want him to lecture me for not looking out after his friend.” He emphasizes the last part, combining it with a wink. You know what he is implying and you can’t help but feel a bit of the drink you had an hour ago threatening to make its way up your throat.

“You’re not going to give up are you?” You walk past him. It’s best to have him a few feet behind than right next to you. The space gives you time to regain yourself, yet it doesn’t last because in seconds he’s right next to you. His arm is so close. It almost brushes against yours. Thankfully it doesn’t but you can smell his cologne. It’s soft, and warm. Like fresh laundry on a sunday morning. It makes your insides burn and you know that from now on you will be looking for that scent everywhere so you can call it yours.

Namjoon shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him this protective over someone apart from his mom.” He whispers now, and the lower his voice gets the lower it sinks inside of you. “You must be special to him.” He concludes.

“I think I’m just the first girl who's never kissed his toes and finds him annoying.” You halt in front of a street light, and he stops with you. The little man signals red—do not go. You turn your head from side to side questioning your safety. If you run now, you will likely still be alive but most importantly away from the man next to you. Honestly, you’re a bit confused. When he was talking about algebra the only thing you could focus on was how to get from point a to point b while solving the problem.

Now that the moon is dim and the streets are emptying out. The only thing you can think about is how soft and ethereal he looks. Nothing like how when you first met him, but something straight out of a modernized fairy tale. It’s hitting you unexpectedly and you begin to wonder if it’s because your exhaustion is finally settling in, making you delusional.

“That could be true, but I think that you’re here to stay for a long time.” He chuckles. The little man switches to green and he takes the step.

“Why do you say that?” You walk fast to catch up to him. You realize that he is blindly following you and you to him. Sure, you’re almost home, but he’s leading the way as if he knows where he’s going. As if he’s done this before with you and has been doing this with you his entire life. It doesn’t do anything to calm your beating heart.

He stays quiet. He keeps on walking, stealing secret glances your way to see if he’s still at the same pace as you. It stays this way until you stop in front of a cute town house. The door is decorated with an autumn reef. The worlds ‘welcome fall,’ take up the entire circumference. There’s a red bell on the handle, to signal when someone is home since the doorbell has been broken ever since you could remember.

You’re home. But for some reason it had already felt like you were home.

“If it’s not Kook then it’s Hobi. Plus I need to make sure you pass math.” He voices.

You look at him, tilting your head in confusion. Until your mouth widens in a silent ‘oh’ recalling the question he had failed to answer a minute ago.

“I think your brain has been corrupted by reading into things while you do your research.”

He chuckles, “again don’t shoot the messenger, it’s not surprising though.” He shrugs, “My brother never shuts up about you, and Hobi hasn’t stopped asking for your contact information since you first walked into Serendipity a week ago.”

You roll your eyes, turning away from him and pressing your palm against the keypad of your house. It lights up, showing numbers and you quickly enter the code, wait for the little lock to signal it has been unlocked and you turn the knob.

Before you walk in you turn to face him again. “I won’t argue with you against the whole Hobi thing. But I know Jungkook doesn’t have feelings for me. If he did he wouldn’t tell me about all the dates he’s gone on and ask for advice whenever he has relationship or situationship problems. Plus he says he’s in love with someone he met this weekend.” You reason.

Namjoon takes his hands out of his pockets, raising his hands in defeat again. “Fine I’ll drop it, but I do think he finds you special. That’s all.” He states firmly and once again you’re reminded of that tone. He’s gotten the last word and you won’t bring up another one because if not then you’d be walking a tight circle around each other.

“Agree to disagree.” You smile, taking one step inside your house. “I’ll take your word for now. Thank you for walking me home. You didn’t have to even if Jungkook asked you to.”

He buries his hands into his pockets and grins. “I also wanted to.” He takes one step back. “Good night, I’ll see you on Thursday.” And with that he turns around, starts his way down the same path that led the two of you here.

Home.

You’re left astounded. In a rush to feel comfort once again, you hurry through the door, slamming it behind you, pressing your back against it. For a moment you’re scared your parents might find you in this state, wallowing in feelings you can’t begin to understand. Then you remember that they were at dinner with their friends, and you’re thankful that you still have some time to regain yourself.

Namjoon’s words cut deep. Not what he said about Jungkook. You know as well as you know your name that romantic feelings between the two of you are nonexistent. But you also know that he said he wanted to walk you home.

Chivalry might not be dead but the bar is low, because he wanted…he wanted…he wanted to wa—

Beep.

Your phone goes off signaling a message. With all the ditzyness a girl with a school girl crush can have. You fish out your phone with a haste, what if it’s him.

Though, that thought dies as quickly as it was conjured. It’s not him, but it’s a notification that in the same right births a little flame inside of you. Maybe not as bright as the one Namjoon left behind, but it has the potential to grow into something more.

uarmyhope wants to send you a message.

Your smile gets wide when you swipe across the notification. It opens up to your Instagram and it quickly directs you to your DMS.

You open it, and you feel a spark when you read the few choice words that were chosen. They’re simple but they’re enough. And they’re the start of a long night of getting to know someone else.

Your next latte is on me cutie.xx

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spacegirlinorbit · 3 years

Text

Help Me Understand

Part 1

Obi wan x reader

Angst, fluff

Takes place during ROTS. Y/n there to be by Obi wan side as he discovers the truth behind the abrupt turn of events in the war, Anakin becoming darth vadar, and eventually how he will come to fight him.

Let’s be honest now, I don’t know how the fuck Obi wan did this without falling to pieces and having multiple breakdowns on the spot

Angst prompts :“I don’t want space. I want you. ...I need you, please stay with me.” “You don’t have to face him alone, you’re not alone.”

SIDENOTE: ‘//’ when its one parenthesis's they are talking through the force and when its double ‘’ like normal its being said aloud

We all felt it. The shift in the force and environment of the entire infinite galaxy. Jedi all connected felt the buzz in the air and their connections faltering causing minor pain of links being cut without warning. The force connected the Jedi to all things. Alive and dead. The war that we have been fighting has taken a turn for the worst. It wasn’t hard to suspect what was taking place, but even I knew as I felt the confusion in the force right before my fellow Jedi fell.

Chancellor Palpatine had called for Order 66.

We were not prepared for our own army to turn against us, but here we are. I try to silence the force as it overwhelms with my sensitivity to see and feel the emotional tethers that connect Jedi to the force. Jedi face a war within their walls. The clones have turned on them and a power shift has caused a rift in the force.

I, friends with Obi-wan and Anakin, have been asked to stay with Padme. To protect her while they fight their battles. I did not mind seeing as Padme and I have grown to be friends over the years as her a senator and me a Jedi.

Many times we have been stationed on Coruscant doing our diplomatic duties to the republic. Only now I fear, those efforts were for nothing.

As the pain fell away, I reached out to the force and let the force guide me to my brothers and sisters. My heart felt like it was being stabbed a thousand times over as they all fell with grace.

May the force be with you. A tear ran down my face and I drew out of the force.

Then I hear it like a distant dream, ‘My love’ whispers softly that I barely caught it.

“Obi- Wan?” I say aloud with a gasp, he’s never called me that before. ‘Are you okay? Are you safe?’

‘I am now, dear. I have just received contact from Senator Organa. I am going to meet him now and Master Yoda. Are you safe? Are you and Padme safe?’

‘Yes, Obi. We are safe for now. I fear the clones will come for me any minute.’

‘Be vigilant and I’ll be there soon.’ He says and I can hear and feel the frustrations in his heart and mind. Confusing times and the stress on top of it all doesn’t help it.

‘Stay safe, Obi. Please.’ I try to contain my composure on the outside but on the inside I can’t hide my dread and panicked state.

‘You too, y/n.’

‘Obi’ I reach out a bit more with a bit of harshness like I was crashing into him.

‘Yes?’ He breathes. I want to question what he meant before. My love. Sure he’s called me nicknames before but that’s nothing new for the flirty handsome Jedi master. But that felt different.

I decide against bringing it up now. ‘Just...get back to me once you have received news. I’ll keep my comlink open.’

‘Will do, dove.’

The connection is cut. We pull away from the force and I sit on the couch lowering my head into my hands.

“What’s wrong, y/n?” Padme asks standing by the window she has been staring out of.

“Nothing. Just talked to Obi.” She looks at me confused and then her face resorts to understanding.

“The force.” She says.

“Yes. He is safe. Something has shifted in the war, but everything will be fine.” I say trying not to have the emotional pregnant woman burst into tears.

“C3PO.” I say as he walks into the room. He nods to me and walks over to Padme.

“The chancellor's office indicated Master Anakin returned to the Jedi Temple. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be alright.” C3PO relays to Padme.

I knew it from the moment I felt in the force earlier. Master Anakin Skywalker has fallen to the dark side.

Padme can’t hold back the sob and pours out her emotions as she cries into her hand, hugging her body with the other. I get up and do my best to soothe her. Padme has been on edge when it comes to Anakin and with the senate nothing has been looking good lately.

“Come sit down.” I tell her and pull her to the couch. I know she doesn’t need to hear it to know what C3PO’s message actually meant. But I feel it within her and in myself that maybe there's hope for Anakin.

I look out the window from the couch and see the jedi temple up in smoke and burning down slowly as it’s licked with flames spread about the temple. I don’t even want to try to reach out to Anakin for fear of what will confirm that I should be hopeless after all. Probably best for my protection anyway. If he’s at the temple now and he hasn’t detected a change in me I could be good as dead.

So I do the one thing I never thought I would have to do. I cut myself off my the force. I hide my presence and make it ordinary. Like a switch has been turned off but a very powerful switch that will and can leave people wondering if I live or died. I just need to buy time in order for Anakin not to sense me.

I watch out the window and as I suspected I see Anakin make his way through the other speeders and fighters in the sky. It’s now or never.

“Padme listen to me. I have to hide now. Obi wan has told me the clones have turned on us Jedi. I sense Anakin on his way. He will be able to protect you now. Meanwhile I must go and see if fellow Jedi are still alive in the building. But please don’t relay any of this to Anakin. Just tell him I went out and I haven’t been back. Don’t let him know you know about the clones.” I talk fast knowing I only have two minutes before Anakin arrives.

“Of course. Is he really-“ I can see it in her eyes as she hesitates to finish her question.

“All I know is that he loves you. Have hope.” She nods and squeezes my hands as she takes them into hers. Letting me know it’s okay.

Everything is not okay. Everybody knows it.

I go inside Padme's bedroom and go to her bathroom. And hop on the counter to prop myself up into the ceiling vents. I climb through the ceiling vents so I’m close to where Padme and Anakin stand on the balcony.

“What happened?” I hear Padme.

“The Jedi tried to overthrow the Republic.” Lies. Anakin sounds different. Something is terribly off about him but with my force down to insure my safety I can’t figure out what.

“I can’t believe that.” Padme acts well considering what I have told her. Her senator instincts must be kicking in.

“..Master Windu..” it’s getting hard for me to hear as the vents start to rumble slightly at the cooling system turning on. “assassinate the chancellor…”

No. I felt it in the force right before I cut it off. Master Windu had died and somehow Anakin was a part of it.

“My loyalties lie with the chancellor.” Well damn be the republic now.

“With the senate and with you.” He finishes. Maybe Padme is Anakin's only hope out of this.

“What about Obi-wan? Y/n?” She mentions me as the system starts to fade out. I can hear them better now.

“I don’t know. Many Jedi have been killed.” You can hear no remorse or sadness or any sort of pain in his voice. He barely spares a word for Obi-wan. His teacher. His friend. His brother.

I pick up on their conversation and hear Anakin mention his mission from the chancellor. I must warn Obi-wan now.

I climb out of the vents back to the bathroom and make my way down onto the counter and soon out of the room. Padme can be seen clearly in distress.

“He said wait for me.” She tells me.

“I know. Padme you can not let him know what you know. You’re pregnant as well and should rest. Don’t need the stress to kill you.” I joke with her giving her a small smile. She nods and heads to her room to sleep. I know she won’t sleep well without Anakin or knowing he is safe, but at least she is resting.

I meditate on the floor in front of the large expanse of the window. I fill my body with its spirit and energy course my veins. My force has returned.

‘DOVE! Y/N!’ I hear through the force immediately it almost makes me physically falter.

‘Obi!’ I yell back trying to trace him through the force. Finally we collided and our energies reach out hand in hand to one another. I can feel him reach relief as he connects with me.

‘You’re shaken. What’s wrong? Why couldn’t I sense you? I thought I lost you. Are you okay?’

‘Obi calm down. I’m safe. Anakin was just here to see Padme I had to hide myself from the force so he wouldn’t detect me.’

‘Oh thank the stars, I-I thought-‘ I can feel him sigh. ‘Please warn me before you do that. I thought you were gone.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I try to ease by reaching out with feelings of calmness and serenity as focus on regaining my power with the force.

‘I-‘ We both start and Obi speaks up again.

‘You first.’

‘Anakin he is different.’

‘Master yoda and I have just discussed Anakin. He’s changed hasn’t he?’ I feel Obi Wan falter in his feelings. It’s an ache in his heart and he’s in pain and conflicted but it’s controlled. He was always good at controlling his feelings. It’s what made him the best. I admire him for it. How he is able to do what I can not most days.

I have to tempt my feelings for Obi Wan down quickly. I can’t let him know. Never. We’re in a war. We are Jedi. And our friend needs our help.

‘Yes, but I feel there is hope for him yet. He is strong with the force. He’ll make the right decision.” I pray my words will ring with truth.

‘I know.’

‘Obi-‘’

‘I’m coming back to Coruscant. We have to figure out how to decode the clones.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, you’re the best at decoding well anything really. We could use your help.’

‘Then I will help you anyway I can. May the force be you, Obi-wan.’

Later that night Padme had received word that a senate meeting was to be held in the morning. Perfect. I can meet Obi Wan then as she is in the meeting.

The next day, I received word that Obi was landing on Coruscant at the Jedi temple in an hour. I make my leave from Padme giving her a hug and telling her to keep her blaster on her just in case. I told her I was going to make myself scarce and left quietly and quickly from the Senate building to the Jedi temple. By the time I arrived I see Kenobi and Yoda have done the work of taking out the clones. It’s a sad sight to see the army that was helping you fight the war was just propaganda to fight against you.

(Part 1/2)

A/N: THIS all took up ten pages on google docs and so I had to make a part 2 lol

#star wars #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #angst #obi wan angst #anakin skywalker #darth vadar #rots #padme amidala #yoda #revenge of the sith

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vmficrecs · 4 years

Text

Every school has an obligatory psychotic jackass. He’s ours.

It has been one year since The Incident. In celebration of this beautiful, snarky, dynamic, passionate, beloved, smug, asshole, essential, etc., etc., character I have complied a lengthy (but by no means exhaustive) collection of some of my personal favorite fics focusing on Logan, or on his relationships, or fics that i just think do something neat in terms of Logan/his journey/his character. ❤️

Previously on vmficrecs:

dark_roast, “Fish Out of Water,” Mature, Post Season 1 AU

Logan opts to leave Neptune, and spend summer vacation with his grandparents.

Notes: This AU is essential reading if you love Logan. His characterization is nearly perfect, and the premise of the fic is endlessly engaging and smart.

wily_one24, “Sleep, Perchance...,” Mature, Pre-series AU

Logan thaws towards Veronica and sets out to save her.

Notes: I want to eat this fic. If you’ve never read it, read it-- it will linger endlessly inside of your brain in the best way possible. So many of the things Logan does or says in this fic exist in a very tangible and palpable manner for me, it’s that good. I think about it constantly.

ghostcat, “What We Have in Common,” Teen, Post Season 3 AU

Weevil Navarro, his incredibly poor choice of a research paper prepping locale and the close talking, finger waving jackass that interrupts and effectively hijacks his night. Set in 2010, three years after The Bitch is Back.

ghostcat, “A Trace of Meaning,” Teen, Pre-series

13 year-old Logan Echolls and 14 year-old Veronica Mars wait at the Kane Estate for their held-up sleepover hosts to show up.

theohara, “Rich Dirt,” Mature, Pre-series AU

And Logan wouldn’t let you have anything. He’d danced over to you and smirked in your face and twirled your plastic cup right out of your hand and cooed that just because your Daddy wasn’t sheriff anymore didn’t give you license to break the law, and he’d acted all shocked with his hand over his mouth and he’d laughed like breaking glass and nanced off with your drink.

anjou, “Into the Blue,” Mature, Post Season 1

It’s almost summer, and Logan is sinking into the blue.

flyingcarpet, “Mexicali Blues,” Mature, Post Season 3 AU

When he reaches the water he doesn’t hesitate, just keeps walking until he can duck his head under and start to swim away from shore, letting the salt and the waves wash away the residue that Neptune’s left on his skin.

absolutelyiris, “Truth for a Dream,” Teen, Future Fic (Pre-movie)

Fleet Week 2012. A reformed bad boy turned sailor and a former party girl turned career woman meet in a bar…

Notes: A LOGAN AND PARKER FRIENDSHIP FIC!!! pure fucking delight

absolutelyiris, “Come Around,” Mature, Future AU

A woman travels the world over in search of what she needs and returns home to find it.

Notes: I will talk about this fic until the day that I day, and then I will still talk about it. One of my absolute favorites. Pure gold Logan/Keith dynamic. I would 10/10 die for Razia. and, of course, the l/v is so damn good

TheLastGoodGolfish, “The Phenomenal Pixie, #1,” Teen, AU

Veronica is a masked avenger who stalks the streets of Neptune. Logan is the intrepid reporter who’s on the story.

Notes: PERFECT. PERFECT PERFECT PERFECT. also-- “That’s ridiculous. My favorite person is a sorority girl.” in my head, rent free, and i am forever indebted.

bryrosea, “Waste of Breath / A Quartz Contentment,” Mature, Post Season 2 to TDTL

Part one: Logan Echolls, the nine years, and the Navy. Part two: Veronica Mars, the nine years, and a new normal.

Notes: I am recommending specifically “Waste of Breath” for my boy, although Veronica’s piece is excellent as well.

always_winter, “Written Out,” Teen, Season 2 AU

Duncan has some residual guilt and Logan wants to be left out of the story.

always_winter, “White Combs and Sweet Honey,” Mature, Season 1

Even when Aaron is trying to be a good father, there’s still a lot he’s doing wrong.

Notes: This fic is so tender to me!!! A beautiful Logan and Aaron piece.

sadiekate, “Grand Canyon,” PG-13, Season 1 to Future AU

Three friends reminisce several years in the future, snarkily and pointlessly.

sinaddict, “Necrosis,” Explicit, Season 2 AU

Death in bits and pieces, denial as a religion… Or ‘normal’ in Neptune.

sowell, “Surviving the Wreck,” Explicit, Season 3 AU

Nothing’s ever simple with Veronica Mars. Weevil’s day at sea gets a little complicated.

Notes: THIS FUCKING FIC!!!! i love everything about it and especially at this moment in time, the part where logan gives weevil a blow job but weevil notes that somehow, in spite of this, logan retains the upper hand. this fic is world class and i am grateful everyday for it

theohara, “Broken Toys,” NC-17, Pre series AU

One glance across a street saves Lilly Kane’s life. It changes everything; it changes nothing.

Notes: This is the most heartbreaking Veronica Mars’ fanfic ever. I have such a deep love for it. It takes Lilly’s character and Logan/Veronica’s relationship to places I don’t ever think they would go and yet it works in this and it works so damn well. a truly devastating and beautiful au

fluffernutter8, “The Ninety Nine Percent,” Teen, Post Season 3 AU

Junior year of college, Logan gets some news that proves that no matter how hard he tries, life is just going to keep throwing him curve-balls. Post season 3, non movie canon compliant.

youcallitwinter, “gravity is gonna keep you tied down to this city,” Teen, Post Season 3 to TDTL

[your life in extended parenthesis] the lone neon nights and the ache of the ocean, and the fire that was starting to spark. From the love to the lightning and the lack of it.

Notes: please don't fall out of love with me, okay? don’t you dare give up on me. I DIE EVERY FUCKING TIME youcallitwinter is a force with all of her writings, but this one.......my god every single bit about it is fucking flawless

petpluto, “Of Scars & Consequences,” Teen, Post-series AU

Almost a decade in the future, Logan's still a little messed up. And Veronica's still a little closed off. They make it work.

julietbravo, “one brutal thing after another,” Teen, Pre-series to Season 1

These rich boys think they can get away with anything, don’t they.

querulousgawks, “there should be stars for great wars like ours,” Teen, AU

It’s gotta be some Alliance mind game, a holdover, the Operative’s last trick: Logan’s old secrets manifesting everywhere around them. Where are you, how are you doing this, he wants to scream, but he doesn’t know which ghost he’d be railing at.

SilverLining2k6, “Sometimes (You Can’t Make It On Your Own),” Teen, Season 1 AU

Silly Duncan stopped taking his meds. Now, one dead Fitzpatrick later, Logan and Veronica need to get him out of town. Too bad they hate each other.

SilverLining2k6, “Control,” Teen, Pre-series AU

Don’t you mess with a little girl’s dreams. ‘Cause she’s liable to grow up mean. Pre-series. Oneshot. - A twisted little tale of hate and revenge.

Notes: CONTROL!!!!! I love Control so much, it’s one of the first fics I ever read for the fandom and one of the finest. The Logan that exists in this is sooo good and his relationship with Veronica is deeply flawed & wonderful. M is in the process of writing a remix to Control (more in-depth emotion) and I for one am foaming at the fucking mouth every day about it.

nevertothethird, “Reunions,” Teen, Post Series AU

Sometimes it just takes a little longer to get things right. Two high school reunions and a birthday party should do the trick.

youcallitwinter, “you give love a bad name,” Teen, Season 2 AU

“Hey, did you guys know there was a sensitive poet-type hiding behind this hard exoskeleton of expensive alcohol and bitter cynicism?” In which Logan Echolls is, well, Logan Echolls.

scandalpants, “Something to Remember,” Mature, Post Series AU

Facing a separation, Logan and Veronica spend their last night together exchanging gifts.

Notes: I am always in a goddamn state about this fic. Logan jacking off in front of Veronica at her request? Yes, thank you please. thank you so much

leurocrystal, “Take Your Time,” Teen, Post Season 2

Keith doesn’t know how to look at or touch his daughter for the first time in his life.

petpluto, “We Are Nowhere, And It’s Now,” Mature, Series AU

“You know there is another way of looking at this, Logan. If you’d still been together, you might be dead too." Logan and Lilly both die on October 3rd. But for Veronica, it’s not like they’re gone. And she still works to solve their murders.

absolutelyiris, “Delay,” Teen, Post TTDL

Logan reflects on his first Christmas with Veronica after a ten year separation, as well as how his life has changed with her absence.

New to vmficrecs:

Christmas in Arkham Author: dark_roast Pairing: Logan Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort, A Really Good Hug Setting: Season 2 Spoilers: 2.09, “My Mother, the Fiend” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 10128 Status: Complete Summary: Sequel to Fish Out of Water. Logan spends christmas with his grandparents. Notes: This is, full stop, my favorite Veronica Mars fanfiction ever. I am so protective of this fic that part of me doesn’t even want to give it a formal place on the blog, which is ridiculous because I’m sure plenty of people have already read it and obviously it’s so good that I want people to read it but....this belongs to me, somehow, like I feel like it’s mine that’s how much I love it. ANYWAY possessiveness aside-- Every word, every sentence, every punctuation mark in this fic is perfect, devastating insight into Logan’s character. Absolutely beautiful and wonderful and every other good thing.

The Teeth by the Shoulder Author: ghostcat Pairing: Fab Four, Logan/Lilly, Veronica/Duncan Rating: Teen Genre: Friendship, Angst Setting: Pre-series Spoilers: 1.01, “Pilot” Chapters: 3 Word Count: 17273 Status: Complete Summary: Two couples, two friendships. The Fab Four in three Octobers. Notes: WE’VE NEVER FUCKING RECOMMENDED THE TEETH BY THE SHOULDER BEFORE?????? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE OH MY GOD jesus this is one of the greatest fanfictions ever written. three pre-series explorations into the fab four friendship and it is impossibly good. i am especially in love with the logan/lilly in this fic (the first chapter!!!!) and as always special care is given to exploring the logan + veronica dynamic. the third chapter will break your fucking heart so bad in the best way

Seven Times Logan Echolls Went to Jail Author: sowell Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Veronica/Piz Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, Romance, Logan Echolls is a Little Shit Setting: (Post) Season 3 AU Spoilers: 3.12, “There’s Got to Be a Morning After Pill” and 3.16, “Un-American Graffiti” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 6701 Status: Complete Summary: Who thinks Logan behind bars is sexy? I do, I do! // Logan goes to jail and calls Veronica to bail him out. Again and again and again and again. Notes: WE HAVEN’T DONE THIS BEFORE EITHER???? oh my god!! I remember finding this one a few months before the movie came out and i would just lay in bed in the dark and re-read it endlessly. and then i left it alone for a few years and when i went back to it holy shit it undid me all over again. perfect logan and veronica relationship. p e r f e c t!!! i firmly believe this is exactly what shape their relationship would’ve taken if veronica hadn’t cut and run

Love is Just a Four-letter Word Author: bigboobedcanuck Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Keith, Weevil Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Setting: Future AU Spoilers: 1.12, “Clash of the Tritons” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1753 Status: Complete Summary: Set a few years down the road from high school. Logan hits rock bottom. Keith and Veronica help him back up. Notes: Lynn’s body turns up and it is fucking DEVASTATING. A short piece that’s told from Keith’s POV (anyone who knows me knows how much of a sucker I am for Keith + Logan interaction) and holy hell Logan is so good in it and I think about it all the fucking time

Serendipity Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Veronica/Piz, Carrie, Gia, Stu Cobbler, Ensemble Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Detective-ing Setting: Post Season 3 Spoilers: 3.20, “The Bitch is Back” and The Movie Chapters: 4 (out of a planned 6, fingers crossed!!!) Word Count: 59763 Status: Complete Summary: During her sophomore year at Hearst, Veronica takes on your run-of-the-mill blackmail case: the clients hate her, the evidence is impossible to destroy, and her ex turns out to be a bit of a distraction, but Veronica is a sucker for a damsel-in-distress. Even if the damsel is an intoxicated, pissed off Carrie Bishop. Notes: I AM HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING. Transplanting the movie plot to this timeframe works tremendously and TLGG’s execution is fucking perfect. Carrie is a powerhouse in this fic and god, Logan is such a honey it in which is why it is being recc’d for him. Him practically letting Carrie move in with him and doing his damnedest to protect Carrie and Gia (much to Veronica’s chagrin) is so, so important to me and I love him so much.

The Phenomenal Pixie - Interlude #1 - “Bugs” Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica, OC’s Genre: Humor, Fluff, Logan and Veronica Are Smarter Than You Setting: AU (Season 3) Spoilers: uhhh n/a Chapters: 1 Word Count: 5072 Status: Complete Summary: Dating a superhero poses a unique set of challenges. Notes: Tiny sequel to The Phenomenal Pixie which you absolutely must read first (and is recommended above) because it’s a fucking delight. Logan is incredible in this fic and I would die for him, like always. The part where Steve can sense Logan is thinking about punching him in the face-- a million chefs kisses.

The Medusa Jewel Author: TheLastGoodGoldfish Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Established Relationship Bliss, Fluff Setting: MKAT Spoilers: MKAT Chapters: 1 Word Count: 5336 Status: Complete Summary: Logan and Veronica's new neighbor is a writer. Notes: is my TLGG obsession shining through? good because it fucking should be. The Logan/Veronica in this relationship is so sweet and perfect and is 100% my reality and i would like to bathe in this fic and live in it forever as is my right.

Drowning Together Author: bryrosea Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort Setting: Season 3 Spoilers: 3.07, “Of Vice and Men” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 897 Status: Complete Summary: AU of the confrontation scene from 3x07: Of Vice and Men (Logan and Veronica both need a hug) Notes: Absolute wonderful insight and even some reconciliation into a canonical season three fight. Logan calming down while Veronica falls apart as they hug is so important to me.

Interrupt Us Author: bryrosea Pairing: Logan/Veronica Genre: Romance, Hijinks, They Want To Fuck So Bad Setting: Post TDTL Spoilers: through TDTL Chapters: 1 Word Count: 17223 Status: Complete Summary: Logan Echolls is home from deployment. Time to cue the sweeping movie montage, right? Notes: Logan and Veronica try to have sex everywhere and it is my life force. The car scene when they get pulled over and Logan instinctively hiding under Veronica’s desk....god i love everyone in this bar

Ready to Go Author: Amberina Pairing: Logan/Duncan; Veronica Genre: Friendship, Romance, Angst Setting: Post Season 1 Spoilers: not obvious but 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 6346 Status: Complete Summary: "Let's leave. Let's go. What's left in Neptune for us anyway?" (AKA Duncan, Logan and Veronica have wacky adventures on the road! Also angst.) Notes: Logan getting hissy and storming off from the car while Duncan and Veronica just watch him and then calling a taxi once he’s out of their sight is PEAK logan. I love boyfriends, even if they’re angst-ing in this, and they big time are.

Nashville On My Mind Author: hjcallipygian Pairing: Logan, Veronica, Duncan Genre: Friendship, Hijinks Setting: Post Season 1 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1659 Status: Complete Summary: Every year, they take a road trip together. This year, it's to Nashville, Tennessee. Notes: i just spent forty minutes trying to find this fic to the point where i was genuinely concerned i had hallucinated it. it’s so fucking good. a sequel/prequel of sorts to grand canyon by sadiekate (recc’d in the previously section). logan is a mess and by god do i love him

Six Times Logan Echolls Got Wet Author: bryrosea, CarolineShea, ghostcat, kmd0107, marshmallowtasha, SilverLining2k6 Pairing: Logan/Veronica Rating: Teen Genre: Romance, Friendship, Hijinks Setting: Everywhere Spoilers: All series to MKAT Chapters: 6 Word Count: 11568 Status: Complete Summary: aka: The Wet Henley ChroniclesSix stories in which we probably give Logan Echolls pneumonia, inspired by the movie's infamous wet henley. Set variously across the series and post-MKAT. Notes: each chapter is written by a different author, they’re all good but bryrosea’s chapter and silvery’s chapter are my favorites. set during the summer between season 1 & 2 and post season three respectively they do such a great job dealing with the fractious and tumultuous nature of Logan/Veronica’s relationship at the time and i love it so much

A Little Dysfunctionality Goes A Long Way Author: fluffernutter8 Pairing: Logan/Veronica Rating: Teen Genre: ANGST with a side of fucking ANGST, happy ending but jesus Setting: Post Season 3 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 2878 Status: Complete Summary: Despite their history, Logan and Veronica might be somewhere on the brink of normal. A few years post season 3. Notes: i just read this for the first time 07/13/20 at 9:08pm because when i asked shelby for her favorite logan fics she included this one. i am fucking dead now and-- there’s nothing else to say about it. i’m just fucking dead. for YEARS i have said that nobody with the username fluffernutter8 should be able to write shit this goddamn emotional and yet, time and time again, i find myself here fuckign wrecked and furious about it

these are just ghosts that broke my heart before i met you Author: theviolonist Pairing: Logan, Veronica, Carrie, Dick Rating: Teen Genre: Introspection, Angst, I Love Logan Setting: Pre Movie & Movie Spoilers: Movie Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1326 Status: Complete Summary: In the army they say, don't think of the target as a person, otherwise you won't have the guts to pull the trigger. Notes: fuck, you guys. this one is so beautiful. an exploration into logan’s grief and him trying to move on and it cuts like a damn knife because he can never really do it but fuck he wants to so bad and [lucas scott voice] that’s gotta mean something, right? truly so so wonderful

Fugue Author: vaeran Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Logan/Lilly, Dick Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, hopeful ending Setting: Post Season 1 Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 4137 Status: Complete Summary: It's something he refuses to let go because it defines who he is and what he has become. Notes: deviates from the PCHer confrontation on the bridge, which means logan takes a little longer to come around to reconciliation with veronica. it’s perfect and i particularly love the logan/lilly in this, he’s hurt but still so impossibly and eternally in love with her

One Flew Over the Echolls Nest Author: Wynn Pairing: Logan/Veronica, Duncan Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, Friendship Setting: Post Season 1 AU Spoilers: 1.22, “Leave it to Beaver” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1507 Status: Complete Summary: Open wide and see what's inside. A bridge and a bed and Veronica. Logan finds himself in a mental institution after the events of "Leave it to Beaver." Veronica, Duncan, and Logan's psychiatrist attempt to help. Notes: so sad and so good!!! the part where Logan’s psychiatrist asks him when the last time he was happy was fucking wrecks me everytime!!

Free at last Author: querulousgawks Pairing: Logan, Weevil, Aaron Rating: Teen Genre: Frenemies, They Are Boyfriends Setting: Season 2 Spoilers: 2.09, “My Mother, the Fiend” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 1242 Status: Complete Summary: Logan and Weevil and fire go a long way back. A flashback scene interrupts their Season 2 meeting in the Neptune Grand. Notes: I LOVE EVERY SINGLE THING ABOUT THIS SO GOD DAMN MUCH

The Right Shade of Red Author: ghostcat Pairing: Trina, Logan, Aaron Rating: Teen Genre: ANGST Setting: Pre-series Spoilers: 1.15, “Ruskie Business” Chapters: 1 Word Count: 883 Status: Complete Summary: Trina finds her jerky little brother hiding in her closet and does the unexpected thing. (Or, A time Logan trusted Trina) Notes: If you want 883 words to be able to make you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck this is the fic for you! I love the Echolls family dynamics so much, and this one is excellent.

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whumpywhumper · 5 years

Text

Oryn--Part 4

@castielamigos here’s part four! Part One, Two, and Three

So this one has some conlang in it that I played around with for my big OC work. I put the translations in the parenthesis cause I wasn’t 100% how best to show what he was saying--lemme know if you have any ideas? I could’ve re-worked it but I wanted to leave it in.

Oryn doesn’t get a whole lotta feed back, but I appreciate all of you who seem to like him :) @0idril0 as always was a huge help

Oryn was paralyzed, his limbs refusing to move, left panting as fire enclosed him, lapped over his face with lazy swipes of its tongue. His body was useless, unable to struggle, at the mercy of the inferno that crackled over his skin. He panicked, unable to calm himself, and couldn’t stop his horrible pants of fear that sucked in huge lungfuls of smoke. He couldn’t see to reach for anything to pull himself free of the heavy weight that held him and ignited his body in heat suffocating smothering heat. Flames seared his airways with white embers and he was going to die, he was going to burn, no no no—

The soft thud of a door slipping closed woke Oryn with a harsh intake of smokeless air. He cracked his gritty eyes open and his desperate hands clutched at his blankets. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, were assaulted by a bright lantern that had been left in the corner. He whimpered in instinctive fear, withdrawing from the fire. His skin was still alight with the searing heat of the fire from his dream. Slick drips ran down his forehead, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The image of his skin sloughing off in the heat and pooling around his bones danced in front of his eyes but, other than the lantern, there was no flames in sight. Nothing devouring his flesh.

Where? Where was he?

Oryn held back a weak gasp as his sore muscles strained to turn his head and take in the rest of the room. He flinched when a soaked rag flumped onto the pillow next to his face--the movement sending a sharp bolt through his neck. Eyes swimming, Oryn swallowed back nausea until the room finally settled into fuzzy detail.

Heavy wooden blinds kept the obvious moonlight from reaching into what was clearly a study, filled with papers, specimen jars, and other baubles. He had not been in this room before, but it was not outside of Soren’s scope to want to run an experiment with his notes or tools nearby.

The tools glimmered in the moon and fire light, sending sparks across the room to ignite the walls and play with the dripping shadows. Dread heaved it way up through Oryn's gut and he watched in transfixed terror as the sparks grew into a grin. White, pupil-less eyes looked down on him from the ceiling and he shrank back into the mattress. He can't, he doesn't want to, no more--he panted at the burgeoning panic rising in his chest.

He raised his arms to defend his face and blinked in sudden confused realization. He looked down. He was alone and he wasn't chained down. The metal cuffs were still around his wrists, cutting him off from his magic, but he wasn’t chained down. The scabs and sores from his struggles had been bound with tight bandages underneath the cuffs. Thin splits were wedged into the bandages to keep the broken bones of his wrists straight. But he wasn’t chained down.

Looking back to the ceiling, the monster that had appeared was gone but the lingering shadow of terror drove him to action.

He had to get away.

Oryn struggled with the blankets tucked around him. His hands trembled as he pushed at them, fingers clumsy and lacking their usual dexterity. A throaty groan poured from his mouth as he managed to pry his torso from the bed. Pain was building like the burgeoning cascade of water behind a beaver dam, held back only by a thin barrier of drugs and terror. A violent shiver wrench through him as the blankets slipped from his fever hot skin. Echoing cracks sprinkled through, pain starting to hiss through his frame.

He set his teeth and tried to drag himself upright but he gagged at the onrush of pain, barely managing to hunch forward. His head became a heavy, unwieldy weight on his neck and it pulsed in time with his heart beat. Vision spiraling, he tipped forward with a quiet moan. Oryn fell with a heavy thud to the floor, unable to stop himself, his legs tangled in the bedding. Sharp, splintering agony erupted from his broken bones as he connected with the stone floor, white flashing across his vision. A scream fluttered behind his clenched teeth as a wet slick slide poured down his side from popped and snapped stitches.

He panted, wet and small. Unable to pull in a deep enough breath. The barely conscious Fae felt more than heard the thundering boots that rushed toward the room. Oryn was unsurprised to find tears falling down his hot cheeks as he gasped and scrabbled at the stone floor. He didn’t fight the childish need to worm his way under the cot, seeking any kind of safety, before the door slammed open with resounding bang as it bounced off of the opposite wall.

A pair of scuffed boots were all that Oryn could see from his vantage point on the floor. It was pointless to hide, there was a trail of bedding that led to his hiding place, but he couldn’t suppress the curling of his body around the blanket he had accidentally drug under with him. Trying to make himself smaller. Less of a target.

A heavy knee dropped to the floor in front of Oryn’s shelter accompanied by a gray, wrinkled face with deep set brown eyes that peered under the cot. The stranger’s concern was illuminated by a stray beam of light from the lantern. “Oh lad,” the rough voice whispered, “what have you done to yourself?”

Oryn’s pitiful growl sounded like a mewl even to his own ears. He pressed his back against the cold wall, giving himself mere inches of distance from the stranger. The narrow cot was not deep enough to keep the strong hands that gripped the side of it from reaching him, and he wheezed with fright.

“I know you feel safer under there, little pup,” the older man tried to soothe, “but I think you have opened your stitches.” He didn’t reach for him, but held his gnarled palm out.

Oryn flinched and drew his blood-tacky hands further away, pressing at his stomach to stem the bleeding. He grunted, turning his face away to the cool stone. Shivering violently, his gut sank as his eyes arrested on dark wiggling lines on the floor. Fear crawled up his spine. He snarled, showing sharp teeth when those shadows became reaching claws.

“What are you seeing, lad?” the man questioned.

Fevered, yellow eyes snapped over to the one speaking, and he shuddered. Shadows ate away the stranger's face, leaving it gaunt and misshapen. The shadows would eat everything, everyone, taking it from the Mother’s embrace. He couldn’t do anything, he was powerless, weak. He was already cut off from Celüne's power, he could not be taken by their corruption too.

Oryn squeezed his eyes shut and he shook his head. His ribs ached. “Mi’hael naught," (Don't touch me) he wept, sudden sobs tearing from his throat, "n’ya triske, Celüne, därog pæl.” (I don't want to, Celüne, please (emphatic)) The sæthe spilled from his lips in a fervent prayer, and he sniffled through his tears.

"I don't understand, lad," the voice murmured to him, trying to soothe. "You have to come out of there, pup, you're burning up with fever."

He didn't understand. He didn't want to be burned up. He didn't want to be corrupted. He wanted to be left alone.

A wail forced its way through Oryn's teeth when a dry hand brushed against his bare shoulder and he jerked away. "Naught," (Don’t) he pleaded, "naught! Mi'zenÿa salleine!" (don't! Leave me alone!) He flailed under the bed, "Celüne, mi'cuita!," (Celüne, help me) he gasped beseechingly, eyes still squeezed shut. Panic raced through his chest. Panic and pain. He coughed and a lance stabbed through his ribs--forcing the air from his lungs. He cried out, gasping for air.

A curse from the man, and he called out, "EMRIK! Get in here!" The hands returned to his body, and he thrashed to keep them away. The cot thunked as the wooden frame knocked into the wall, "Fuck, lad, I am not going to hurt you! Be still!"

"Galen?! What's wrong?!" A young voice interrupted the coarse cursing of the man trying to wrangle Oryn, and he opened his eyes to see tiny boots run into the room.

"His fever is spiking. I think he’s hurt himself. Help me calm him. I don't know what he's saying."

A silvery silvan face dropped into view beside the now normal wrinkled one. Shimmering blue eyes met Oryn’s panicked yellow, and the Fae hissed with his remaining air at the lesser seelie when he raised a hand toward him.

"Naught-ila råné," (Literally-- "We don’t hurt") the silvan murmured in a harsh accent, jumbling and forgetting syllables.

Oryn startled at the sæthe, eyes growing wide as he panted air through a reed.

"Please," he continued, and Oryn watched his fingers knot a spell, a dyät, for calming but didn't release it, waiting. "Triske-ila—damnit—we want to - to- cuita, that’s it!—triske-ila cuita.” (We want to help)

The Fae continued to struggle against the hands that were trying to drag him from under the cot by his shoulders, movements becoming uncoordinated and jerky. “N’ya regrovat-il,” (I don't believe you) he panted between tiny gasps of air. His chest was screaming like a banshee, impossible to ignore, making his hands feel numb.

A concerned frown creased the young seelie‘s unlined face. “Let him go, Galen,” the silvan murmured. “Just for a second.”

Galen looked at the silvan with worry, "We have to get him out from under there," he said, but removed his hands. Holding them at the ready as he backed away.

The injured Fae trembled and used the last of his remaining feeble strength to pull his arms back to his chest. His throat was raw, and he couldn't get enough air. He writhed under the cot, pressing at the pain in his chest. He whined, everything hurt, tears cascaded down his hot cheeks and he curled in on himself. "Celüne," he implored, his voice wet and breathy.

“Galen, open the blinds,” Emrik whispered urgently, and the human moved with creaking agility to do as the silvan asked. “El-aith, look.” (She is here)

Oryn’s heart clenched as the blinds were drawn away from the windows to allow moonlight to spill across the floor. Gentle light reached through the room and without thinking he moved his hand forward to meet it. He sobbed, thin reedy noises of his lungs barely able to bring in air.

A sound of skin on stone, and Oryn saw the silvan reaching for him again, the delicate bird-like bones standing out in the moonlight. “Mi’regrovat,” (believe me) he said.

His bloody hand didn’t twitch away from the dyät knot that Emrik showed him this time, allowing the warm feeling of comfort to envelope him. Eyelids fluttering, Oryn's body relaxed into the stone of the floor. The pain wasn't less but the overwhelming panic that surged through him had faded to a low thrum in the back of his mind.

The silvan slumped as the magic ran from himself to Oryn. The Fae watched through cloudy eyes as Galen caught his shoulders before the lesser seelie face planted and deftly moved him out of the way.

They turned to face Oryn, and he felt a buzz of fear push at the dyät knot, "Easy, it's okay," Emrik murmured, sending a note of peace. He brushed Oryn's hair back from his forehead before leveraging his arm under the dark head. "Galen, get his legs."

Galen moved in synchronization with the silvan, drawing his limp body out from under the cot with gentle hands. They settled him on the floor, stretched out on his back, and Oryn wheezed at the strain on his chest. "I know, pup, I know," Galen murmured, his hands prodding at his ribs. "There's no movement on this side," he said to Emrik. Oryn felt the slide of a hand on his side and saw the old mans face turn dark, "fuck, that's air. Grab my bag from that table."

Oryn drifted as the two others worked around him, the dyät knot keeping him limp and malleable. He turned his face toward the windows, glassy eyes settling on the waxing moon. He struggled to breathe still but the lingering panic from the shortness of breath had been shuttered away.

His caretakers jostled him, moving his arm to the side, and he moaned softly when pain rolled down his body. He shuddered and reached out instinctively, finding the sleeve of the silvan. The silvery face appeared over his own and grabbed his cheeks. "I need you to listen to me," Emrik said, "this will hurt but it has to be done, okay?"

The lack of understanding must have shown on his face because he grabbed Oryn's left hand and held it tightly, up and away from his chest and placed his other hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Creases appeared at the corners of Emrik’s eyes, and he sent a wave of comfort through the dyät. "Now, Galen," he ordered.

Oryn cried out when something popped into his side, between his ribs, and he tried to arch away. The tiny silvan held fast, using his weight to keep him from moving. Panic surged and broke through the dyät when Oryn felt something move inside of him. This hurt, it hurt it hurt make it stop, he couldn’t breathe and this hurt. He opened his mouth, trying to shove air down his throat and heard a wild croak erupt from his lips. "Därog! St--Stagni!" (Please! Stop!)

They said that they didn't want to hurt him. He didn't understand. Why? He shook his head, desperate, and clawed at the dyät, feeling it shred and weaken in places.

Emrik grunted at the attack, "Hurry!"

"Almost," Galen said to himself, with the metallic clink of a metal tool being thrown away.

With a last jolt of pain, the huge weight that had settled on Oryn's lungs was removed. Air, blessed air, filled his chest and the wave of oxygen sent a high through him. He threw his head back, taking as big of gulps as his broken ribs would allow. His body sank into the relief of being able to breathe—muscles spasming with exhaustion and fatigue. A low overwhelmed moan rumbled in his throat. He hovered at unconsciousness, feeling his heartbeat in every injury.

“That’s it, breathe.” He heard a great sigh and a hand rested on his breast bone, his skin sliding under a calloused palm. “Breathe, pup.”

Emrik released Oryn's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to his hand as the Fae settled. The silvan slumped back with a slight thump on the floor. "Fuck," he muttered, "That was, uh, what the fuck."

"Are you alright?," Galen asked.

"Yes," Emrik murmured, "that, shit, that took more than I thought it would."

“You sure?” the human asked as he continued his work at Oryn’s side, the clink of bottles and rustling of cloth.

“Hmph,” a dismissive noise, “let me go get the water and miscallum while you finish.”

Oryn allowed himself to float between consciousness when the silvan left the room, listening to the quiet humming that the human started. It was a lullaby, the simple melody soothing on the coarse vocal cords. Exhaustion coated every fiber that made him, and he could feel the heat of fever on his cheeks as it flared. Small sparks of pain rose from his side where the old man's hands remained, but they weren't enough to draw him back.

He stirred a time later when he was moved by hands under his shoulders and knees. His eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, “Nuh…”

“Just getting you back in the bed, lad,” a voice murmured into his hair. He whimpered at how his bones ground together at the movement, but they settled him quickly, wrapping him in warm blankets. He shivered when a cold weight was placed on his forehead and tried to turn away.

"I know, I know it feels cold-" fingers pushed through his hair, "-but your fever needs to come down."

A whisper, "This should help him get to sleep."

Oryn flinched when something pricked the soft skin of his inner elbow but the hand didn't leave his hair, rubbing at his scalp with soothing circles.

His caretakers murmured between themselves, and Oryn allowed the black tide of sleep to take him under.

#Oryn #my oc's #my writing #whump #painful care taking #medical whump #fear #fever #care taking #punctured lung #conlang #constructed language #Fae #fever dreams #delirious

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sunflowerdabbles-blog · 5 years

Note

hello and welcome!! sooo can u do something w/ ben about him and reader being coworkers and he has such a crush on her and she's clueless so someone else tells her and he's all nervous around reader and all that cute funny stuff? thanks !!

hi there! thank u so much!! i’ve been in the fandom for a couple months now but only made this blog like two weeks ago? anyways. this ended up being longer than expected bc i have no self control i guess? but i hope you like it!! have 1.4k of ben full on pining.

(oh and like i said before, english isn’t my mother tongue. so this is a weird mix of american and british english djfgkjs. and a lot of parenthesis and italics because that’s how i roll).

Like most things in Ben’s life as of recent, it was Joe’s fault.

See, he was perfectly fine, actually minding his own business and feeling a lot more comfortable on his own skin after finally getting over a quite messy break up. He was putting himself out there (exclusively for a good time), having fun with his friends, and his auditions were going pretty well too (sometimes people even called him first, things were that smooth, mind you).

So, naturally, Joe fucked it all up. And not even on purpose. The first time he mentioned her they were just catching up on his flat, one of the few times he could be bothered to go to London instead of expecting everyone to show up in New York. And that was it, really. Just one mention of this new friend he made the last time he visited: that was, in a way, all it took. Her name was [Y/N] and she had only moved there recently, working occasionally as a dialect coach and accent expert of sorts, and was somehow shy yet one of the funniest people I have ever met, Benny, I swear to god. You would like her a lot, I think.

And wasn’t that the whole problem? He just, fuck, he just liked her so much it was ridiculous (and quite embarrassing, as the annoying little voice on his head that sounded suspiciously a lot like Gwilym’s would like to add). After that first mention, Joe would just casually bring her up sometimes and not even three weeks later, fate (if you want to call it that) started playing its part as well. If he hadn’t given that much thought to the lovely woman that apparently made his friend cry of laughter once (Joe had this way of taking everything out proportion and besides, he’s just having fun now, right?), Ben was in no way prepared for the absolute angel he met on the first day of production for his most recent movie.

It was kind of humiliating, to say the least. Ben was not used to losing his breath when he met a beautiful woman but, it seemingly turns out, there’s a first time for everything. And it was definitely not the last. It was almost seven am and the weather wasn’t helping a lot in terms of motivation, but her nose was red from the cold, her body shaking a bit under many layers of clothing, a big yellow scarf almost swallowing her up, and Ben was falling under and fast even before she talked and moved him completely: her name was [Y/N] and, because the movie was a historical fiction book adaptation, it was her job to help him practice a swedish accent until it hopefully sounded native (or very close to it, at least). And things just got worse from there, really. Ben’s pretty sure he’s been dying a very slow and painful death for the last two months and, even worse (!), he couldn’t be more obvious about it even if he tried.

He even feels like a creep sometimes. They practice every day and yes, his voice quality seems to be getting a lot better (something about using a lower tone helping the accent roll easier on his tongue), but it’s like his skin can’t stop itching no matter how much he tries. He was, in all seriousness, pretty much shaking the first time they were alone, her small hands helping him correct his posture so he could reach a better pitch; and if he’s being honest with himself, every time after that. It’s like’s he’s restless al the time; the smell of her hair and perfume staying on his memory long after their last hug (and yet not quite enough), her laugh making his heart jump quick whenever they talk, the possibility of seeing her again actually motivating him to get up at five am (!) and the mere thought of kissing her until her knees were trembling was enough to lead to certain uh, interesting thoughts when’s alone in bed at night (or at the tube, the market, the fucking bookshop that one time he prefers not to think about).

The thing is he’s so obvious about it that everyone has noticed. And he doesn’t mean just his co-workers (which is already bad enough!) but also his friends have quickly caught up on his incapability of shutting up (whining, according to Rami) about her and, as expected, they’ve been completely insufferable ever since. Hell, even his mum called him the other day asking when she’s meeting the girl that has him so interested. Fuck Joe, honestly. Why does he even talk to her on the phone, anyways? It’s like he just needs to tell everyone (and well, uhh).

As if he wasn’t already easy to pick on; by all means, he could just put a big sign on his head announcing his feelings into the entire world and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. But, funnily enough, [Y/N] seems to have no idea, even though he’s been torn between (unknowingly) dropping hints constantly and wanting the ground to swallow him whole for a while now. It’s just, she’s probably used to having a ton of people interested? Or maybe she’s been trying to tell you she’s just not that into you and you’re a clueless bastard that she has to deal with because it’s her job? The possibilities are endless, you see.

—Hey, can I– are you busy right now? do you have a minute? –she asked, closing her umbrella and stepping into the trailer, the rain just starting to pour down outside.

Oh.

—Su-sure, of course. Is everything alright? I thought you were going downtown with- –he said, cleaning his now very sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants but stopped abruptly after taking in her blotchy cheeks and shaky hands, holding them with his own before moving one to gently caress her jaw– Hey, did something happen? You’ve been crying, I can tell –his voice caught on his throat upon seeing her eyes fill up with tears again, now holding her face with both hands and trying to get her to look at him– Did someone do something to you? Please, you know you can tell me anyt–

—I talked to Joe –[Y/N] replied, remembering the phone call that had taken place not even half an hour ago, her heart still so hopeful it ached from it– He– Ben, be honest with me, okay? Okay, so, he said, well I guess he implied that– that you may have a crush on me, I think? But like, he could be wrong? Maybe he was joking.

Oh. Oh shit, this can’t be good at all. It was bound to happen eventually. But everything was so perfect (could be more, though, always more) when they were together, running over his lines and practicing impressions until their stomachs hurt from the laughter, drinking tea when it was still impossibly early in the morning and then talking about anything and everything in the afternoon and late into the night, that he forgot this moment was even a possibility.

—He– he did that? –she nodded slowly, not even daring to lift her head, so scared of what she could find in his eyes (is he upset? What if he’s angry, disgusted, even?) and, even more, of what it could mean for them– I– fuck, I could kill him I swear he– listen, I don’t. I don’t want you to feel obligated, alright? This is– I can handle it, really. But I can’t stop, [Y/N], I swear I’ve tried but hell you’re just so– you. And I like you, okay? I like you so much it’s not even funny and if you give me a little more time maybe I can get over it and we’ll still be– umphh– –it felt like he was melting from the inside and bursting at the seams; her lips were soft and chapped from the cold, the absolute best thing he’s ever felt, his hands going from her face to her waist, not knowing where to settle, where to even begin. Months of waiting and craving seemed like nothing (and yet, meant everything) now, knowing that this was at the end of the line.

—You’re an idiot, you know?

She giggled and he fell in love all over again.

Maybe he would thank Joe, after all.

#ben hardy x reader #answered asks #drabbles and ramblings

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geesenoises · 4 years

Text

sunday six

I’m doing this wrong, but I was doing some google doc cleaning last night and wanted to post some lines I really liked from things I’ll never publish (old fandoms, no real concepts, etc). Maybe someday I’ll get to recycle them into other stuff. Fandoms in parenthesis, but feel free to interpret however you want.

Rin will kiss Sousuke on the forehead, on the lips, on the shoulder that aches when it rains and tell him the medal belongs to both of them and it will be the last time he apologizes for wounds he didn’t cause, for futures that never existed. (Free!)

He was never one for religion but Yuuri has given him belief as clear and as full as the ocean they’re wading in. Even with his eyes closed, the sunrise is still blinding. Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s neck and worships. (Yuri on Ice)

Tooru thinks about all the ways he’s been living locked inside himself and realizes Iwa-chan’s the only one who’s ever had the key. (Haikyuu!!)

Haiji used to think that if he could just run far and fast enough, the heat would burn him from the inside out, leaving only the best parts of him like a refining fire. It had burned, but all it had left was barren scorched earth. (Run with the Wind)

Rin collected the burdens of expectation and duty like an amateur bug catcher, obsessively cataloging and mounting their empty husks in fragile glass cases. (Free!)

There’s a bottle of cologne he doesn’t recognize on his dressing table. Aziraphale picks it up and gives it an experimental spray. Cedar and sage and clean cotton, earthly scents that fade after a few moments, but lingering in the air is the scent of the first rain, of soot-black feathers, and of air freshened by verdant green leaves. I know what you smell like, Crowley had snapped at him, but none of this is anything that Aziraphale recognizes in himself. Aziraphale turns the bottle around in his hands and inspects the label. In flourishing copperplate, it reads “A Dream of Whatever You Like Best.” (Good Omens)

A Good Omens one for the road--though I do have ideas about making use of that one. I just like it enough to not want to sit on it for the inevitable eons it’ll take me to finish and publish something. Happy Sunday! Have a great week!

#my writing #sunday six #i feel like there's a definite pattern #i just am not seeing it

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lotshusband · 7 years

Note

okay but steve rogers is trans and you should list some of your favorite headcanons

Bucky collects some of his old castoffs from his ma after Sunday dinner. It’s a testament to how much grief he’s given the woman over the years that she doesn’t ask any questions, just sighs long-sufferingly and helps him rummage around in the hall closet.

Bucky goes home and helps Steve hack his pigtails off over the bathroom sink. It’s a rough job, but Bucky does his best, and the person looking back at Steve in the mirror now is a lot closer than it’s ever been to the person that’s actually living inside his skin.

Steve puts on the old shirt and buttons it with trembling hands. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are wild, and Bucky supposes he kind of knows what Steve’s getting at anyway.

“It’s a bit big in the shoulders, but you get the idea,” Bucky says, and smiles, ruffling Steve’s new hair with his warm, broad hand.

If Steve was desperate to prove himself before, there is a feral creature now standing in the place where Bucky’s best friend used to be. He lashes out, picks fights, gets thrown around a little now that men aren’t hindered by moral objections to street-fighting a dame.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Bucky says, helping Steve to his feet, hand curled around a wiry bicep.

Steve spits blood out the side of his mouth, grins, shows Bucky teeth that are red and wet. “That’s the idea,” he says, and Bucky crushes him close, puts a hand to the back of Steve’s head and holds him there, does not stop holding him, does not stop holding his breath.

When Bucky sets Steve up on dates – much to Steve’s wide-eyed, wincing chagrin – he makes them double dates so he can keep a suspicious eye on the girl and make sure she doesn’t turn out to be a jerk.

“What’d you tell her about me?” Steve asks dully, while they’re walking to the dance hall.

Bucky shrugs, says, “Only the good stuff,” and means it. When the girls ask him about Steve, he can only grin and say “Swellest fella I know,” with his heart in his throat. Steve is never what they expect (soft chest, skinny wrists, high voice), but it doesn’t change what Bucky sees in him. Steve is the best man he knows.

Steve is a better man than Bucky will ever be.

Bucky pales the first time Steve tries to enlist. They have a long, drawn out fight, Bucky hollering, “You’ve got fucking asthma,” and Steve spitting out, “I’m a man, Buck, that means they gotta take me!”

Steve keeps enlisting.

Bucky doesn’t say shit the second time, the third, the fourth; he just watches Steve’s hands grow more and more white knuckled around the rejections, puts a hand to the middle of Steve’s back, right between his shoulder blades. He can’t swallow back the truth, though:

He’s furious on Steve’s behalf, yes, but he is so fucking relieved that Steve is staying behind.

Bucky goes to Steve in the middle of the night when he hears Steve coughing, slipping into the sheets behind the small, curled parenthesis shivering under the blankets.

“Shh,” he murmurs, and rests his hand on the slightly concave curve of Steve’s stomach, pad of his thumb fitting perfectly into the dip between two of Steve’s ribs.

“If I died right now, they’d bury me under the wrong name,” Steve says, voice rough from coughing, and takes Bucky’s hand, clasping their fingers together tightly. Their entwined hands are nestled between Steve’s small, soft breasts now, and Bucky has never known how to word how grateful he is that Steve lets him in like this when he’s at his most vulnerable, but he is so grateful, he’s so grateful it makes his teeth ache.

“I’d never let that happen,” Bucky says quietly, with conviction, lips brushing over the nape of Steve’s neck as he speaks. “And you ain’t gonna die on my watch, so shut the hell up and go to sleep.”

When Bucky kisses him for the first time, Steve pants, pink-flushed and narrow-eyed, and holds Bucky at arms’ length with one hand fisted around Bucky’s collar.

“Were you kissing me like a dame?” he asks suspiciously.

“Hell no,” Bucky answers, indignant.

“Thank fuck,” Steve says, and pulls him back in by his lapels so he can kiss him hard, small hands just as strong as Bucky knows them to be.

Bucky goes off to war and Steve’s jaw is clenched the entire time they say their goodbyes. Jealousy and fear are dueling on his face, Bucky can see the turmoil battling in the twist of his perfect mouth, in the lines between Steve’s brows.

“If I was going with you…” Steve starts, fist clenched around the strap of Bucky’s bag.

“Don’t,” Bucky says sharply.

“But –”

“Please,” Bucky says, and he’s edging on desperation now, because he knows what he’s leaving Steve with. Brooklyn is theirs, it’s their city, but it’s dirty and hard and forgets about people like them. They don’t have much when they don’t have each other.

“Please,” Bucky says again, softer.

“Alright,” Steve says, visibly biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying more, and hands Bucky his bag. Bucky takes it.

All the boys on the war front talk about their gals back home, and Bucky seems to be the only one who doesn’t partake. He doesn’t have a gal back home, after all, all he’s got is Steve. He could do it, he guesses, he could dredge up some stories from when they were kids, but that puts a bad taste in his mouth. So he doesn’t.

He tells them all stories about his scrappy bastard of a best friend, whose knuckles are always purpling with bruises, who tells bad jokes that only he thinks are funny, who can’t keep himself from picking a side every time there’s a fight.

He tells these stories, thinking about Steve’s long-fingered hands and ungainly guffaw, right up until the moment he falls behind enemy lines, and even then – oh, even then – Steve is the only thing that keeps him sane when he’s strapped to that table. Bucky keeps Steve’s name, Steve’s right name, curling on his tongue where it belongs.

When Steve finds him again, Bucky is babbling nonsense and does not, at first, believe what he sees. His serial number repeats in his head like a broken record. Steve lifts him up and half carries him out of the HYDRA base, battling through the enemy agents one-handed.

“The fuck did they feed you while I was away?” Bucky asks, hysteria creeping up his throat like bile as he watches the strong muscles of Steve’s back move under his ridiculous costume.

“Finally started eating my greens, obviously,” Steve tells him, flashing Bucky a grin, and throws his shield like a frisbee, catching it again after it knocks a HYDRA agent flat. He’s beautiful like this, strange and beautiful, lit up from the inside out with a violent joy that makes Bucky’s pulse race a little faster.

“Fuck,” he says, dazed, and clings a little to Steve’s – very solid – bicep.

10.

When Steve asks him if he’ll be part of his team, his shoulders are curled inwards slightly, like he thinks there’s a chance Bucky will say no. Bucky watches him silently for a long moment. He can’t take his eyes off the way Steve’s broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, he keeps catching himself watching Steve breathing. He can’t stop thinking about Steve breathing like it’s easy.

“In the entire time you've known me,” he says at last, “When haven’t I followed you?” He gives Steve the best smile he can muster, which isn’t very much, but the smile he gets in return is full of teeth. It’s like sunlight to look at.

“So you’re following a skinny dame into battle? What’ll the boys back home say?” Steve teases, rolling his eyes like it can hide the relief obvious in his voice.

“They won’t say shit,” Bucky says, pushing his knee into Steve’s and letting it stay there. “Mainly ‘cause you ain’t a dame.”

“Well,” Steve says, ducking his head. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky says. “You know what you are?”

Steve just looks at him sideways. “Tell me.”

“Same thing you always were.” Bucky’s hand curves over the iron strength of Steve’s jaw, feels his pulse against his fingertips, feels the living warmth coming off Steve’s skin. “Swellest, dumbest, piece of shit fella I know.”

#brief brief suicidal ideation /#but i am better at writing now!!#good to reblog /#i reworked some old headcanons in here maybe u will recognize them lol #replies #seraphicsteve #stevebucky #stucky #trans headcanons #uhhHHH HAVE A FIC I GUESS #nathaniel.txt

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inloveontherun · 4 years

Text

Blog 4: Chapter 7: Conflict, Crisis, Resolution

His face reads like an open book: I'm allowed to stay if I want, but he isn't about to beg for my company. He just wants someone to cease the ache of loneliness for a whisper of time, and, at this moment, that someone is me.

I'd been there to hold his hand at his father's funeral when What's-Her-Face couldn't bother to show up. I was the someone who stood by his side in solidarity. I was the someone who watched while he nearly drank himself to death in the following days after. I was the someone who cleaned him up night after night; I wiped his forehead that was sticky with sweat while his head was stuck in a toilet. I was the someone who got him into the shower, into fresh clothes, and into bed.

It wasn't a question who would be here to pick up the pieces when she left him; it will always be me. I am his someone.

We lay here like this. The only noise breaking the silence is our heavy breathing. His face is stone-cold; I watch from the other side of the bed as he calmly numbs the emotions he can't talk about.

This means nothing to him, and too much to me.

I read his face like a book I've re-read a thousand times; I can recite this first chapter word for word with no pause. He will sit up soon enough, slide his white t-shirt over his head, pull his pants on, and walk out the door without a second thought to say goodbye. We won't talk about this; it never happened to him.

I could live like this every moment he needed me to, even if it's only for him. He doesn't know the pain that cracks my body in half every time I fall into his bed at half-past one in the morning, every muscle and joint in my body yearning simply to be held. He doesn't know that I just want to be loved. He doesn't know that I care so much I'm willing to throw away this friendship, this partnership, this relationship that means absolutely everything to me, just for the sake of his happiness. Just to see him smile. Just to hear his laugh. I would do anything, and he doesn't know.

He doesn't know. Or maybe he does.

I can't decide which is more painful: the fact that he doesn't know, or the fact that he doesn't care to see.

Mitch stands, and I lean into the comfort of my blankets, searching his face for some sort of emotion towards me.

"I got somewhere to be. I guess I'll see you soon." The voice that comes from him is lifeless. It's not the Mitch I know. He stares blankly at the wall above my dresser as he puts his shirt on, then down at the floor when he puts on his pants and shoes.

He doesn't say goodbye when he closes the door behind him, and I think that that is more painful.

* * *

My phone lights up with a text from Mitch. "Can I come over," with a classic parenthesis smiley face.

It's an infrequent, drunken, late-night Friday call for me to placate him while he's in pain; I am the pain reliever. I answer, of course, with a dutiful, "ok" followed by another smiley face.

We go through the motions, per usual. I've become numb to the pain that ensues after. I am a security blanket he doesn't need anymore but sometimes comes back to.

I sometimes stare at his face still, wondering when it is that he will wake up and love me instead. He's found another What's-Her-Face, and she is somehow worse than the first.

I could do anything for him. He chooses not to know.

"I got somewhere to be," he mumbles as he puts his shirt on. "I hope I see you soon."

He doesn't say goodbye when he closes the door behind him; I keep thinking it'll get easier, but it hurts just as much as the first time.

* * *

Rain patters on my window; it's finally monsoon season. A few cracks of thunder and I'd be out like a light. The arm wrapped around me pulls me closer; Anthony is warm, and his warmth brings a certain cheeriness to my heart.

I envy his peaceful slumber; my thoughts prevent me from falling asleep as quickly as him.

Of course, it's when I'm on the verge of sleep that my phone starts to buzz uncontrollably.

I sit upright and pull myself from the comfort of his arms. "Hello?" I murmur sleepily into the phone.

"I need you." He's drunk.

I sigh, and tip-toe quietly to the bathroom. "Why? What's wrong, Mitch?"

"Where are you?" He slurs, ignoring my questions. "It's too quiet in my apartment without you."

"I was in bed trying to sleep," I whisper.

"With What's-His-Name?"

"Yes, with Anthony."

"What a stupid name," he mutters.

“Mitch isn’t any better.”

"He'll just break your heart. He sounds dumb. Who names their kid Anthony?” He asks disdainfully.

“Who names their kid Mitch?” I retort.

The line goes silent for a moment. "You should be smart.”

I snort quietly. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“No, I mean about him. Leave your apartment. Come over."

"Mitch... you know I can't."

Yes, you can," he argues. "You shouldn't even be with him. You don't even know the guy and you're letting him stay in your bed, in my place..." His voice trails off, breaking in a way I’ve never heard before.

"You never - "

"You know what? Fuck you, Meg. I don't need you anyway. You are replaceable, just like everyone else."

My jaw drops. He doesn't say goodbye and the call drops.

Years. It had taken me years to finally stop looking at him from across my sheets like he owed me something. Like he owed me an explanation like he owed it to me to give a shit about me. Even after that, it took me months to move forward.

I crawl back into my bed, tears streaming down my face, and I can't sleep knowing that Anthony is sleeping where he used to lay.

My phone dings with a text. "Are you still awake?"

I read it, and turn my phone off.

* * *

"Meg?"

I hear the voice from behind me, but I'd know that voice anywhere, even across a grocery store.

I turn around slowly. Yep, it’s him. "Hey, Mitch." The green onions in my hand suddenly don't feel real anymore, like they’ve come from another planet.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. "I... um. How have you been?"

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Good, good. Yeah, I just got a new job. Working as an assistant downtown for a photographer. She's really nice. How about you?" I force myself to stop rambling.

"I've been better," he smiles meekly. "Just been hangin’ around. Listen, about the last time we talked - "

"It was a long time ago, Mitch. All is forgiven in time," I smile sadly.

"No, you... you don't understand." He sighs. "This isn't exactly where I'd like to be doing this but I'm sorry for how I treated you. You were the only person who stuck with me through it all, never complained once about how you were treated, never seemed to do anything but care for me."

"I loved you," I say, shrugging. "You were my best friend."

"I know. I just... I didn't know how to love you back. I never deserved you - that’s why I never tried to be with you. You deserved someone who stayed the night in your bed and held you when you needed it. I was never that for you."

I smile. "You could've been, though. I gave you so many chances."

"I know."

"You got anywhere to be?" I ask, jokingly.

"I got nowhere to be. I just wanna be with you."

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heartslogos · 7 years

Text

newfragile yellows [13]

“Behavioral training or exam?” The hulking mass of a person says, barely glancing up as Dorian enters the front room of the office.

“Pardon?” Dorian blinks, setting down Archimedes onto the floor.

“You’re not here for grooming,” The man says, looking at something in his hands behind the counter - probably texting - “Hairless cats don’t really need grooming. So it’s either behavioral training or some kind of physical exam or something.”

“I was actually here to see if I need to make an appointment,” Dorian says, “And to find out more about this business. I don’t just trust my cat to anyone.”

Before either of them can say anything further, the entryway door chimes open and Dorian turns to see a harried looking man with no less than three bags awkwardly struggling to hold the door open as a parade of dogs trots in.

Once the mass of dogs has entered the building, the man follows suit, awkwardly and carefully lowering the tote bags hanging off his shoulders to the floor to release even more dogs.

“Rutherford,” The man behind the desk says as the blonde man with the slightly dazed and frazzled look that can only come from managing too many things at once walks past him and opens the door to what Dorian assumes is the main working offices of the veterinary practice.

“Bull,” Rutherford nods back, clearly moving on auto pilot as he gestures the dogs in.

“You’re missing two,” The receptionist - apparently a man named Bull says.

“Maxwell’s facetiming his dogs in my car,” Rutherford answers, gently nudging a small pug into walking towards the doors with the tip of his shoe, “I’ll get them after this lot is sorted.”

“I figured,” Bull says, “You’re still missing two.”

Dorian stares at Rutherford. As if this - this pack wasn’t enough?

Rutherford suddenly starts counting off on his fingers and muttering before blanching in the realization that he, most likely, has forgotten two.

“I left them at Evelyn’s house,” Rutherford gasps, and then, blinking - stares at Dorian and then curls in a little on himself. “I’m sorry - was I interrupting?”

“I was just trying to make an appointment,” Dorian says, “Don’t mind me.”

Rutherford blinks, frowning and glances at Bull, “Are we supposed to be making appointments now?”

“He’s new,” Bull says, “No, you do not need an appointment. Cool it, Rutherford and get your other dogs.”

Suddenly the sound of something hissing and spitting comes from the depths of the office, made clear by the echoing walls and the fact that Rutherford is still holding the heavy door open.

“Sera’s lizard has a tooth ache,” Bull says by way of explanation.

Moments later a woman’s voice is heard yelling, “No! No more Binky for you! No more Binky until you behave! You are being very naughty Monoxide! Very naughty! You are being a bad example for Carbon and I will not have that in my office!”

“So,” Dorian turns to look back to Bull, “Behavioral or exam?”

“Right, almost forgot - don’t freak out but my house is haunted. You want a beer?”

“Your what is haunted?” Krem gapes turning towards Skinner as if she can provide a better explanation.

Skinner shrugs, shoulders past him and follows Bull into his house.

“My house Aclassi,” Bull calls from deeper inside, “I know you grew up poor as shit but I know you know what a house is.”

“I think he’s more hung up on the fact that you call it haunted,” Varric says, waving at Krem from where he’s seated in front of Bull’s TV. It looks like most of Bull’s things are unpacked. Cullen and Dorian are working on setting up his TV and his multiple electronic devices that hook up to it.

“How do you know it’s haunted?” Krem asks.

“Aclassi,” Bull says, handing Skinner a beer that she somehow opens with her bare hands - a trick she claims she learned in college, which is a lie because Skinner has never gone to college, a lie which when called out on Skinner replies I never said it was my college - “Since when have I looked like a buttercups and lavender kind of guy to you?”

He points out the window where, sure enough, the window boxes are full to bursting.

In fact every window box that Krem can see is full to bursting.

“Dunno, Chief, you’ve always been more of a daisies kind of guy.”

“Exactly,” Bull says. “Also I’ve been playing a guessing game of trying to figure out her name for the past week since I moved in.”

“Her?”

“Chill, Cole and I spent a week confirming she’s a she and not a he or a they,” Bull says, “I’m not gendering a ghost wrong.”

Skinner meets Krem’s eyes and shrugs, sitting down on Bull’s sofa and putting her boots up on the coffee table.

“What do you mean guessing game with her name?” Krem asks instead.

“Check the hallway mirror,” Bull says.

“You own a mirror?”

“Couldn’t take it down,” Bull says, “Haunted house, remember?”

“Gently loved,” Krem startles and jumps straight up in the air, turning around to see Varric’s boy standing directly behind him. “She prefers the term gently loved house.”

“Cole,” Krem says and Cole looks abashed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Show Krem the mirror, Cole,” Bull waves them off and Cole turns around, gesturing for Krem to follow.

Cole leads him into a narrow hallway and points at a nearly four foot long slightly tarnished mirror.

“She’s ready,” Cole says and then leans forward to breathe over the mirror.

In the fog over the glass the word hi becomes clear.

Krem stares and the fog travels over the glass without anyone breathing on it to reveal an elaborate game of hangman.

“We have three letters,” Cole says, pointing.

Krem figures that with only two letters missing, it should be easy enough to guess.

“It isn’t the point to know,” Cole says. “I’m guessing obelisk.”

An invisible hand draws a cross on the mirror underneath the hangman and then draws a flower underneath the hanging figure. The figure is missing a leg.

Cole looks at Krem expectantly.

“Has anyone guessed closed parenthesis yet?” Krem says, and the invisible hand draws one out on the mirror and adds a bee around the flower. Aside from the fact the image is a hangman missing a leg, it’s a pretty nice picture that’s been drawn out on glass.

Real detailed.

“So, gently loved, huh?”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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cristinalooksatthings · 6 years

Text

The cosmic orphan by Loren Eiseley

When I was a young lad of that indefinite but important age when one begins to ask, Who am I? Why am I here? What is the nature of my kind? What is growing up? What is the world? How long shall I live in it? Where shall I go? I found myself walking with a small companion over a high railroad trestle that spanned a stream, a country bridge, and a road. One could look fearfully down, between the ties, at the shallows and ripples in the shining water some 50 feet below. One was also doing a forbidden thing, against which our parents constantly warned. One must not be caught on the black bridge by a train. Something terrible might happen, a thing called death.

From the abutment of the bridge we gazed down upon the water and saw among the pebbles the shape of an animal we knew only from picture books— a turtle, a very large, dark mahogany-colored turtle. We scrambled down the embankment to observe him more closely. From the little bridge a few feet above the stream, I saw that the turtle, whose beautiful markings shone in the afternoon sun, was not alive and that his flippers waved aimlessly in the rushing water. The reason for his death was plain. Not too long before we had come upon the trestle, someone engaged in idle practice with a repeating rifle had stitched a row of bullet holes across the turtle’s carapace and sauntered on.

My father had once explained to me that it took a long time to make a big turtle, years really, in the sunlight and the water and the mud. I turned the ancient creature over and fingered the etched shell with its forlorn flippers flopping grotesquely. The question rose up unbidden. Why did the man have to kill something living that could never be replaced? I laid the turtle down in the water and gave it a little shove. It entered the current and began to drift away. “Let’s go home,” I said to my companion. From that moment I think I began to grow up.

“Papa,” I said in the evening by the oil lamp in our kitchen. “Tell me how men got here.” Papa paused. Like many fathers of that time, he was worn from long hours, he was not highly educated, but he had a beautiful resonant voice and had been born on a frontier homestead. He knew the ritual way the Plains Indians opened a story.

“Son,” he said, taking the pattern of another people for our own, “once there was a poor orphan.” He said in such a way that I sat down at his feet. Once there was a poor orphan with no one to teach him either his way, or his manners. Sometimes animals helped him, sometimes supernatural beings. But above all, one thing was evident. Unlike other occupants of Earth, he had to be helped. He did not know his place, he had to find it. Sometimes he did not understand his Mother Earth and suffered for it. The old ones who starved and sought visions on hilltops had known these things. They were all gone now and the magic had departed with them. The orphan was alone; he had to learn by himself; it was a hard school.

My father tousled my head; he gently touched my heart. “You will learn in time, there is much pain here,” he said. “Men will give it to you, time will give it to you, and you must learn to bear it all, not bear it alone, but be better for the wisdom that may come to you if you watch and listen and learn. Do not forget the turtle, nor the ways of men. They are all orphans and they go astray; they do wrong things. Try to see better.”

“Yes, papa,” I said, and that was how I believe I came to study men, not the men of written history, but the ancestors beyond, beyond all writing, beyond time as we know it, beyond human form as it is known today. Papa was right when he told me all men were orphans, eternal seekers. They had little in the way of instinct to instruct them, they had come a strange far road in the universe, passed more than one black, threatening bridge. There were even more to pass and each one became more dangerous as our knowledge grew. Because man was truly an orphan and confined to no single way of life, he was, in essence, a prison breaker. But in ignorance his very knowledge sometimes led from one terrible prison to another. Was the final problem then, to escape himself, or if not that, to reconcile his devastating intellect with his heart? All of the knowledge set down in great books directly or indirectly affects this problem. It is the problem of every man, for even the indifferent man is making, unknown to himself, his own callous judgement.

Long ago, however, in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls hidden in the Judaean Desert, an unknown scribe had written: “None there be, can rehearse the whole tale.” That phrase, too, contains the warning that man is an orphan of uncertain beginnings and indefinite endings. All that the archaeological and anthropological sciences can do is to place a somewhat flawed crystal before man and say: This is the way you came, these are your present dangers; somewhere, seen dimly beyond, lies your destiny. God help you, you are a cosmic orphan, a symbol-shifting magician, mostly immature and inattentive to your own dangers. Read, think, study, but do not expect this to save you without humility of heart. This the old ones knew long ago in the great deserts under the stars. This they sought to learn and pass on. It is the only hope of men.

What have we observed that might be buried as the Dead Sea Scrolls were buried for 2,000 years and be broken out of a jar for human benefit, brief words that might be encompassed on a copper scroll or a ragged sheet of vellum? Only these thoughts, I think, we might reasonably set down as true, now, and hereafter. For a long time, for many, many centuries, Western man believed in what we might call the existent world of nature; form as form was seen as constant in both animal and human guise. He believed in the instantaneous creation of his world by the Deity; he believed in his duration to be very short, a stage upon which the short drama of a human fall from divine estate and a redemption was in process.

Worldly time was a small parenthesis in eternity. Man lived with that belief, his cosmos small and man-centred. Then, beginning about 350 years ago, thoughts unventured upon since the time of the Greek philosophers began to enter the human consciousness. They may be summed up in Francis Bacon’s dictum: “This is the foundation of all. We are not to imagine or suppose, but to discover, what nature does or may be made to do”

When in following years scientific experiment and observation became current, a vast change began to pass over Western thought. Man’s conception of himself and his world began to alter beyond recall. “Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone,” exclaimed the poet John Donne, Bacon’s contemporary. The existing world was crumbling at the edges. It was cracking apart like an ill-nailed raft in a torrent— a torrent of incredible time. It was, in effect, a new nature comprising a past embedded in the present and a future yet to be.

First, Bacon discerned a mounds alter, another separate world that could be drawn out of nature by human intervention— the world that surrounds and troubles us today. Then, by degrees, time depths of tremendous magnitude began, in the late 18th century, to replace the Christian calendar. Space, from a surrounding candelabrum of stars, began to widen to infinity. The Earth was recognized as a mere speck drifting in the wake of a minor star, itself rotating around an immense galaxy composed of innumerable suns. Beyond and beyond, into billions of light years, other galaxies glowed through clouds of wandering gas and interstellar dust. Finally, and perhaps the most shocking blow of all, the natural world of the moment proved to be an illusion, a phantom of man’s short lifetime. Organic novelty lay revealed in the strata of the Earth. Man had not always been here. He had been preceded, in the 4,000,000,000 years of the planet’s history, by floating mollusks, strange fern forests, huge dinosaurs, flying lizards, giant mammals whose bones lay under the dropped boulders of vanished continental ice sheets.

The Orphan cried out in protest, as the cold of naked space entered his bones, “Who am I?” And once more science answered. “You are a changeling.” “You are linked by a genetic chain to all vertebrates. The thing that is you bears the still aching wounds of evolution in body and in brain. Your hands are made-over fins, your lungs come from a creature gasping in a swamp, your femur has been twisted upright. Your foot is a reworked climbing pad. You are a rag doll resin from the skins of extinct animals. Long ago, 2,000,000 years perhaps, you were smaller, your brain was not so large. We are not confident that you could speak. Seventy million years before that you were an even smaller climbing creature known as a tupaiid. You were the size of a rat. You ate insects. Now you fly to the Moon.”

“This is a fairy tale,” said the scientists, “but so is the world and so is life. That is what makes it true. Life is indefinite departure. That is why we are all orphans. That is why you must find your own way. Life is not stable. Everything alive is slipping through cracks and crevices in time, changing as it goes. Other creatures, however, have instincts that provide for them, holes in which to hide. They cannot ask questions. A fox is a fox, a wolf is a wolf, even if this, too, is illusion. You have learned to ask questions. That is why you are an orphan. You are the only creature in the universe who knows what it has been. Now you must go on asking questions while all the time you are changing. You will ask what you are to become. The world will no longer satisfy you. You must find your way, your own true self.”

“But how can I?” Wept the Orphan, hiding his head. “This is magic. I do not know what I am. I have been too many things.”

“You have indeed,” said all the scientists together. “Your body and your nerves have been dragged about and twisted in the long effort of your ancestors to stay alive, but now, small orphan that you are, you must know a secret, a secret magic that nature has given to you. No other creature on the planet possesses it. You use language. You are a symbol-shifter. All this is hidden in your brain and transmitted from one generation to another. You are a time-binder, in your head the symbols that mean things in the world outside can fly about untrammeled. You can combine them differently into a new world of thought or you can also hold them tenaciously throughout a lifetime and pass them on to others.”

Thus out of words, a puff of air, really, is made all that is uniquely human, all that is new from one human generation to another. But remember what was said of the wounds of evolution. The brain, parts of it at least, is very old, the parts laid down in sequence like geological strata. Buried deep beneath the brain with which we reason are ancient defense centers quick to anger, quick to aggression, quick to violence, over which the neocortex, the new brain, strives to exert control. Thus there are times when the Orphan is a divided being striving against himself. Evil men know this. Sometimes they can play upon it for their own political advantage. Men crowded together, subjected to the same stimuli, are quick to respond to emotion that in the quiet of their own homes, they might analyze more cautiously.

Scientists have found that the very symbols which crowd our brains may possess their own dangers. It is convenient for the thinker to classify an idea with a word. This can sometimes lead to a process called hypostatization or reification. Take the word “Man” for example. There are times when it is useful to categorize the creature briefly, his history, his embracing characteristics. From this, if we are not careful of our meanings, it becomes easy to speak of all men as though they were one person. In reality men have been seeking this unreal man for thousands of years. They have found him bathed in blood, they have found him in the hermit’s cell, he has been glimpsed among innumerable messiahs, or in meditation under the sacred bô tree; he has been found in the physician’s study or lit by the satanic fires of the first atomic explosion.

In reality he has never been found at all. The reason is very simple: men have been seeking Man capitalized, an imaginary creature constructed out of disparate parts in the laboratory of the human imagination. Some men may thus perceive him and see him as either totally beneficent or wholly evil. They would be wrong. They are wrong so long as they have vitalized this creation and call it Man. There is no Man; there are only men: good, evil, inconceivable mixtures marred by their genetic makeup, scarred, or improved by their societal surroundings. So long as they live they are men, multitudinous and unspent potential for action. Men are great objects of study, but the moment we say “Man” we are in danger of wandering into a swamp of abstraction.

Surveying our fossil history perhaps we are not even justified as yet in calling ourselves true men. The word carries subtle implications that extend beyond us into the time stream. If a remote half-human ancestor, barely able to speak, had had a word for his kind, as very likely he did, and just supposing it had been “man,” would he approve the usage, the shape-freezing quality of it, now? I think not. Perhaps no true orphan would wish to call himself anything but a traveller. Man in a cosmic timeless sense may not be here.

The point is particularly apparent in the light of a recent and portentous discovery. In 1953 James D. Watson and Francis H. C. Crick discovered the structure of the chemical alphabet out of which all that lives is constituted. It was a strange spiral ladder within the cell, far more organized and complicated than 19th-century biologists had imagined; the tiny building blocks constantly reshuffled in every mating had both an amazing stability and paradoxically, over long time periods, a power to alter the living structure of a species beyond recall. The thing called man had once been a tree shrew on a forest branch; now it manipulates abstract symbols in its brain from which skyscrapers rise, bridges span the horizon, disease is conquered, the Moon is visited.

Molecular biologists have begun to consider whether the marvelous living alphabet which lies at the root of evolution can be manipulated for human benefit. Varieties of domesticated plants and animals have been improved. Now at last man has begun to eye his own possible road into the future. By delicate excisions and intrusions could the mysterious alphabet we carry in our bodies be made to hasten our advancement into the future? Already our urban concentrations, with all their aberrations and faults, are future-oriented. Why not ourselves? Is it in our power to perpetuate great minds ad infinitum? But who is to judge? Who is to select this future man? There is the problem. Which of us poor orphans by the roadside, even those peering learnedly through the electron microscope, can be confident of the way into the future? Could the fish unaided by nature have found the road to the reptile, the reptile to the mammal, the mammal to the man? And how was man endowed with speech? Could men choose their way? Suddenly, before us towers the blackest, most formidable bridge of our experience. Across what chasm does it run?

Biologists tell us that in the fullness of time over ninety percent of the world’s past species have perished. The mammalian ones in particular are not noted for longevity. If the scalpel, the excising laser ray int he laboratory, were placed in the hands of some one man, some one poor orphan, what would he do? If assured, would he reproduce himself alone? If cruel, would he by indirection succeed in abolishing the living world? If doubtful of the road, would he reproduce the doubt? “Nothing is more shameful than assertion without knowledge,” a great Roman, Cicero, once pronounced as though he had foreseen this final bridge of human pride— the pride of a god without foresight.

After the disasters of the second World War when the dream of perpetual progress died from men’s minds, an orphan of this violent century wrote a poem about the great extinctions revealed in the rocks of the planet. It concludes as follows:

I am not sure I love

The cruelties found in our blood

From some lost evil tree in our beginnings.

May the powers forgive and seal us deep

When we lie down,

May harmless dormice creep and red leaves fall

Over the prisons where we wreaked our will.

Dachau, Auschwitz, those places everywhere.

If I could pray, I would pray long for this.

One may conclude that the poet was a man of doubt. He did not regret man; he was confident that leaves, rabbits, and songbirds would continue life, as, long ago, a tree shrew had happily forgotten the ruling reptiles. The poet was an orphan in shabby circumstances pausing by the roadside to pray, for he did pray despite his denial; God forgive us all. He was a man in doubt upon the way. He was the eternal orphan of my father’s story. Let us then, as similar orphans who have come this long way through time, be willing to assume the risks of the uncompleted journey. We must know, as that forlorn band of men in Judaea knew when they buried the jar, that man’s road is to be sought beyond himself. No man there is who can tell the whole tale. After the small passage of 2,000 years who would deny this truth?

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