#except that I have been tired all week because school is hard and cross country tires me out every | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

azenkii · 4 years

Text

A Long List of Trash Fire Lord Zuko Headcanons

...that i couldn't get out of my head:

(warning: SUPER LONG POST i havent figured out how to trim posts yet)

he's the one who unchains azula despite iroh's protests. she doesn't even try to fight him, just cries into his shoulder and keeps mumbling about how father's going to be so disappointed in her. he takes her to her rooms and has her drink a sleeping draught, then stations the best guards he has left outside her chambers.

his first council meeting takes place literally a day after sozin's comet. he hobbles into the council chamber shirtless with his entire torso covered in bandages and every council member just looks at him like '...what'

he does NOT sleep for like,,a week after sozin's comet and then another two weeks after his coronation. katara, aang and suki try to persuade him to sleep and he doesn't listen. eventually sokka, toph and mai team up to literally drag his ass to bed and tell him he's not allowed to get up until he sleeps (does mai pin him to the bed with her knives? yes. is it kinky or sexual in any way? definitely not.)

he drinks So. Much. Tea. at this point it's practically tasteless to him but he drinks it anyway because he just needs something to do and tea is something familiar. he keeps iroh on his toes because he's constantly asking for new tea blends, uncle, i think i actually tasted the last one,

he flat-out refuses to grow his hair for at least a year after ozai's defeat. the second it starts getting close to his chin he shears it off himself, with his knife, and his stylist has a heart attack every single time

when he's tired he'll occasionally jump up when one of his guards moves. it stops after a bit, but for the first month and a half or so he's really twitchy. when sokka asks, the only explanation he can come up with is that he's not used to having people stand behind him silently and not want to kill him, much less want to protect him (sokka immediately takes him out for a shopping trip and makes a point of walking behind him the entire time, but only on zuko's right side, where he can clearly see it if sokka moves towards him)

when the healer declares azula mentally unstable and in need of an institution, he shuts himself in his office for the rest of the night. no one's allowed in, not even iroh. he finally emerges in the morning, eyes red from crying and sleep deprivation, and tells the librarian that he'd like a list of the best mental institutions in the country, please, the best in the world if you can get them

he loves theatre (is this even a headcanon?). unfortunately it practically died out in the fire nation along with the rest of the creative arts, leaving nothing but small troupes like the ember island players. one of zuko's personal goals (meaning things he wants to accomplish that aren't as important as restoring his country) is to bring back theatre; he finally manages to do it after about eight months or so of being fire lord, along with other arts like dancing, music and sculpture

he establishes a national day of mourning, on the first day of autumn every year, to commemorate the genocide of the air nomads. from 100AG onwards, every calendar printed in the fire nation has it marked. at first it was called the day of repentance, but aang persuaded him to have it changed (by arguing that he didn't want guilt to be a literal staple of fire nation culture)

he introduces literally So Many educational reforms, plus a mandatory class that teaches students about the cultures of the other nations (air nomads included) and how some of their traditions overlap

he turns down the offer of having a statue put up of him in the capital. toph ignores him and does it anyway.

he visits azula regularly, makes sure she's (relatively) comfortable and well-fed, and sometimes just sits down outside her door and tells her about everything that's going on right now ('some of the far colonies have developed their own standardised writing, azula, you wouldn't believe it, and i've asked the fire sages to come visit more often—but you never liked them, did you? oh, well; i'll make sure none of them go into your chambers by mistake')

(he doesn't know it, but when he does this azula sits by the door and listens. she wonders what kind of writing the colonists have developed, and whether or not the fire sages have taken on some new recruits.)

he hates being above anyone else. never sits in the throne if he can help it, nor does he sit on the dais in the council room. when he talks to people shorter than him, he finds himself stooping a little bit to talk to them on their level (the exception to this rule is sokka, who he mocks for being shorter all the way up until sokka grows taller than him, the bastard)

the first time he visits the earth kingdom, the earth king's ministers call a toast. he ends up being the only one who has to sit out, because he's too young to drink by earth kingdom law

once his servants figure out he won't kill them for talking to him, they start becoming a lot more bold, telling him off when he doesn't take care of himself. at one point, they force him to let them take care of him so much that he literally just bolts into the gardens and hides there until the staff rope in mai and ty lee

when he needs to escape, he does one of two things: (a) he dresses up as the blue spirit and does some parkour until he calms down, or (b) he goes to work at the jasmine dragon. (b) happens less often bc the jasmine dragon's in ba sing se, but there's been a few memorable incidents when an earth kingdom diplomat walks in and yells, 'LEE?!' when they see the fire lord

the first court artist who draws him also happens to be the one who drew azulon and ozai. he draws zuko without his scar. zuko takes one look at it and tells him, very calmly, that he'd like him to leave, please.

zuko burns the portrait. he doesn't fire the court artist, but he never calls on him again unless he has to. a second court artist is called, and can't help but be a bit confused when the fire lord tells him to be sure to include the scar

he forgets the crown. a lot. sometimes he walks into council meetings in his sleepwear with his hair tied up in a messy ponytail and a bunch of scrolls tucked under his arm. none of his councilmen have the guts (or the heart) to tell him that this is not, in fact, formal council wear

he goes to feed the turtleducks when he's stressed. he thinks he's being subtle. he's not. the entire palace knows, and they consciously give him space when they see him in the turtleduck garden

most of his staff are older than him, so they look at him and see this teeny tiny fire lord who is So Small and who Must Be Protected. the day after zuko's coronation, the head chef holds a meeting where they commence Operation Do-Not-Let-That-Boy-Turn-Out-Like-His-Father (subsection He's-The-Only-Good-Thing-We-Have)

one night he wakes up to find suki sitting in his room, decked out in full kyoshi warrior garb and makeup, and just about screams blue murder. suki tells him there are suspicions of an assassin in the palace, and would you please stop yelling it's very distracting, we won't be able to hear anyone coming over that racket

zuko gets very, very paranoid of random spirits after that. yeah, suki looks like a possibly malevolent spirit when she's wearing her makeup, what about it? (when he tells sokka he's highkey terrified of spirit shenanigans, sokka just looks at him and says, 'man, the stories i could tell...', and THAT'S when zuko remembers sokka spent like six months more than he did travelling with the avatar)

on his first visit to the southern water tribe, he removes his boots and leg guards, rolls up his pants and kneels barefoot in the snow. even though chief hakoda immediately starts trying to pull him up, he's stubborn as hell and stays kneeling for the entirety of his very long, very sincere apology-on-behalf-of-the-fire-nation speech. he nearly loses his toes to frostbite after that, and both sokka and katara never stop giving him shit for it

the first time he grows a 'beard' is completely accidental. he's stressed over some trade miscommunications with chief hakoda, hasn't slept in a few days...and then when sokka arrives as water tribe ambassador to help smooth things over, he takes one look at zuko and says 'man, facial hair does not suit you'

zuko: facial what now

he checks a mirror to find that he's got stubble covering his chin, dark enough that it almost looks intentional, and holy gods how the fuck did he not notice this before

'UNCLE WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME' 'i assumed you were doing it on purpose' 'WHEN HAVE I EVER DONE ANYTHING ON PURPOSE'

he shaves it all off immediately, of course, which prompts a lot of teasing and rib-poking from sokka until zuko finally snaps that he's scared it'll make him look like his father. sokka stops after that.

(the day after sokka leaves, zuko finds that a mysterious someone has scribbled all over ozai's royal portrait, giving him a frankly ridiculous beard and moustache that literally CANNOT be grown in real life. oddly enough, he can't bring himself to care about the defamation of royal property. he's too busy laughing.)

his paths cross with toph and sokka more than any of the others, because sokka is ambassador and toph is technically still a beifong. most of the time, at formal functions, he ends up sequestered in the corner with toph and a hoard of snacks, and they talk and swear much more than they usually do (zuko's ministers once heard him when he was drunk with toph, and the servants swear the older ministers' ears started bleeding)

he restores fire nation cultural festivals, and in doing so subjects himself to learning a lot of complicated dances

during one memorable week, he wrote so many letters and drafted so much legislation that he ran out of paper. he had to go visit the nearest school and ask for some

he keeps up with his firebending and sword training even though it's hard to fit into his schedule. his ministers refrain from reminding him that he has guards to protect him now; it's still hard for zuko to trust his safety with anyone but himself (team avatar is the exception).

he started sleepwalking about two months into his reign. no one knew why. one time, he nearly sleepwalked right off the edge of a balcony, and one of his guards had to grab him by the back of his robes.

the sleepwalking stopped after around a month and never happened again. at this point it's practically palace legend.

after freeing the war prisoners, he went around collecting every single earthbender-proof wooden cell he could find in the capital and surrounding areas. when he'd gotten most of them, he gathered them into a huge pile in the city square and set fire to them with his own hands.

unfortunately he couldn't do that with the waterbender metal cells but he did get toph to come in and bend them all into pretty shapes (well, toph thought they were pretty shapes. everyone else thinks they're meaningless squiggles)

he learned how to write with both hands at the same time out of sheer necessity (he refused scribes until it became clear that he'd be putting some people out of a job; that was when he started letting scribes write very, very minor things, but all important documents/drafts/letters are still written by him)

he once put the wet end of an ink brush in his mouth instead of the wooden end by mistake. didn't even realise until he bit down to keep it in place and ink went oozing everywhere

when his guards rushed in to find him coughing and spluttering black liquid all over his desk they thought he'd been poisoned but no he's just stupid

on his 17th birthday, his first one after being crowned, he got tackled by team avatar in the middle of the ballroom and ended up at the bottom of a cuddlepile for like ten minutes

this cuddlepile happened at an event that was very much public and very much formal. it was a scandal for weeks

just. fire lord zuko, guys. so much potential

#holy cow this ended up so much longer than i intended #atla #avatar #zuko #firelord zuko #headcanons

7K notes · View notes

arrowflier · 3 years

Note

Lovely Arrow, a random plot bunny appeared and I just know you could do it justice: what if Franny has some friends over at Mickey and Ian's place when she's older and one of them is new to the group and wants to learn a little more about her uncles? And Franny starts waxing poetic about how they're made for each other and complement each other so well and both Ian and Mickey overhear and it makes them tear up a little. Just a thought 😋🥰

Evie, thank you! I've decided that Franny's friends love her uncles almost as much as she does, so that's kind of where this went.

---

“Why are we here again?” Tiffany asks as they crowd onto the stoop of the little southside worker’s cottage. Franny doesn’t bother to answer as she knocks on the door, but one of the other girls takes pity.

“It’s her Uncle’s house,” Susan says. “Jesus, Tiff, pay attention.”

Well, not too much pity. There was a reason she’d never been invited before, after all.

“Yikes, Suze,” Tiffany mutters with a frown. “I just meant why weren’t we at her actual house.”

“Because my actual house is loud as shit,” Franny finally chimes in, not even looking back. “My mom gets lonely so we live with like three other families, it’s a nightmare for schoolwork.”

“You’d have known that if you paid any attention,” Susan adds, and they all ignore Tiffany’s pout.

It doesn’t last long anyway, because the door creaks open not a moment later.

“Hey Fran,” Ian says from the other side. His hair is longer than usual right now, and looks windswept—or like someone had been carding hands through it all morning. His shirt was tight-fitting and a little too short, like it didn’t belong to him, and the socks on his feet didn’t match.

“Hey Uncle Ian,” Franny greets, then gestures to her friends. “It still cool if we take over the living room for a bit? This group paper is a beast.”

“Of course,” Ian agrees with a wide smile. “Anything to help my favorite niece.” He opens the door wider to let them in.

“Nice to see you all again,” he says as they start to file inside. “John, Rachel,” he greets them individually. “Susan, that new haircut is fantastic, I told you it would be.”

“Thanks, Mr. Gallagher,” Susan says with a grin, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

Ian grimaces at her, playfully.

"Ian, please," he begs. "I've never met a Mr. Gallagher I didn't want to punch."

Susan giggles, and moves inside.

“I don’t think I’ve met you,” Ian says with a thoughtful frown when it's Tiffany's turn, and Franny jumps in with an introduction.

“Uncle Ian, this is Tiff,” she says. “She got put with us for the project.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ian says, and holds out a hand.

Tiffany takes it, and when Ian lets go, her hand just hovers there.

“Make yourselves at home,” Ian says as he closes the door behind them. “I’ll be in the other room if you need anything, but—

“Try not to need anything,” they all chorus, with the exception of Tiffany.

“Good kids,” Ian laughs, and then he’s gone, disappearing through the archway that leads through to the rest of the house.

They settle quickly. John and Rachel take the love seat, as they’re always wont to do, sitting just a little too close. Rachel giggles as their knees brush, and Franny rolls her eyes at John’s blush.

She takes her own usual spot next to Susan on the floor, notebooks spread out across the ottoman, and startles when Tiffany suddenly appears on her other side.

“Dude,” Tiffany hisses, poking Franny in the shoulder. “Your uncle is so hot.”

Franny frowns, staring down at the wrinkle Tiffany left on her sleeve.

“Yeah,” she says idly as she smooths it. “So I’ve heard.”

“I mean I mean I always thought red hair looked weird--no offence," she tacks on hastily, "but it really works for him."

Franny focuses on arranging her things to avoid smacking Tiffany in the face.

"Does he have a girlfriend?” Tiffany asks, biting her lip. She toys with the ends of her over-crimped hair, bright nail polish flashing between blonde strands.

“No,” Franny answers, and doesn’t give Tiffany any time to think about that before adding, “he has a husband.”

Tiffany pouts, shimmery pink lips sticking out comically. Franny exchanges a look with Susan, who mimics the expression in a way that has Franny trying to swallow her laughter.

“So not fair,” Tiffany whines beside them, crossing her arms. “Why are all the cute ones taken?”

“Hey!” John protests from across the room, but they all ignore him except for Rachel, who hits him with her three-ring binder.

“Mickey would probably kill you for looking at him,” Susan chimes in, “so you should probably keep your eyes to yourself anyway.”

“Yeah,” Rachel agrees, even as she rubs John’s arm in apology. “He’s been to jail, you know.”

“Ew,” Tiffany says, wrinkling her nose. “There’s no way he deserves someone like Ian, then.”

Franny grips her pencil too tightly. Susan sends her a warning look, but she ignores it.

“Actually,” she says casually, hiding her irritation, “they’re perfect for each other.”

Tiffany‘s brow wrinkles.

“No way,” she disagrees. “You Uncle seems so sweet, he deserves someone nice at least.”

Franny’s pencil snaps.

“Shit, she’s done it now,” John mutters.

“Uncle Mickey is nice,” Franny grits out between clenched teeth. “He’s a hell of a lot nicer than you, actually.”

“Franny—” Rachel tries to interrupt, but Susan cuts in over her.

“She’s not wrong,” Susan says. “You’re in the man’s home, Tiff, have a little tact.”

“Besides,” John speaks up, “Mickey is great. He helped me with my math homework last week.”

“Come on!” Tiffany cries. “There’s no way some ex-con should be married to that hunk out there.”

“Ian’s an ex-con too, though,” Susan says. “Right, Fran?”

Franny smiles.

“That’s right,” she confirms gleefully. “They were in jail together, actually.”

Tiffany pales.

“No way,” she mumbles, but they aren’t done.

“Yeah, it’s the most romantic story!” Rachel all but squeals. “Mickey wasn’t even in the country, but he heard Ian needed him and he came right back!”

“They’d been together for like, years already,” John contributes. “High school sweethearts or something like that.”

Rachel latches onto him at that, and he flushes again.

“And they take such good care of each other,” Susan adds. “Last time I was here Ian wasn’t feeling too good, and Mickey made us all be quiet so he could sleep. Then I helped him make some soup, ‘cause he isn’t good at that stuff.”

Tiffany is biting her lip again, staring at them each in turn.

“But Ian seems so—”

“In love with his husband?” Franny cuts her off dryly. “Sounds right to me.”

The others all agree, but Franny isn’t done.

“My Uncles have the best relationship I’ve ever seen,” Franny continues, “and I was a little kid for most of it. So if you think they’re gonna care what some random kid their niece hangs out with thinks about their marriage…” she trails off.

Tiffany’s eyes are downcast.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” she mutters, then looks up through her eyelashes. “Sorry.”

Silence, broken by Franny’s tired sigh.

“It’s okay, I guess,” she says. Then she hands Tiffany her notebook. “Here, you can write the introduction.”

——-

Behind a half-closed door down the hall, Mickey stands quietly, eyes wide. He startles when the door creaks open an extra inch, Ian slipping inside.

Ian’s eyes are soft when they fall on his face, and Mickey blinks hurriedly to hide the wetness in his own.

“You heard all that, I take it?” Ian whispers, and Mickey nods.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Kind of hard not to, those kids are fucking banshees.”

Ian laughs, soft and quiet.

“Banshees that love you,” he says, stepping closer. “As they should,” he adds when Mickey lets him wrap strong arms around him.

“Sounds like one of ‘em loves you more,” Mickey mumbles into Ian’s chest, and it shakes as Ian huffs.

“She’ll learn,” he says, holding Mickey tighter. “They all do eventually.”

“That I’m the better husband?” Mickey jokes, even as he rubs his face into the fabric of his own shirt over Ian’s broad chest.

“That we’re best together,” Ian corrects, and Mickey smiles.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, pressing a kiss to Ian’s sternum.

“Yeah, we really are.”

#hope this counts!#I couldn't let go of the idea that teenage girls everywhere would find their story ridiculously romantic #and defend it to the death lol #daily speedwrite #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #franny gallagher #fanfic

142 notes · View notes

kpopfanfictrash · 3 years

Text

Raise the Barre (Ch. 7)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+ (Eventual Smut)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Dance Academy!AU

Warnings: mention of vomit, intense physical training, blood blisters

Word Count: 6,829

Summary: You and Park Jimin have been rivals for as long as you’ve known one another; ever since he tripped you in the front row of your first dance convention. When you graduate from high school and enter Russet Ballet Academy, you tell yourself you’re leaving all past quarrels behind. The main problem with this though, is that your past seems determined not to leave you alone.

Worse still, the obstacles you face while out in the real world might prove more challenging than anything your enemy has to offer.

Fifteen minutes later, Jimin pulled to a stop at the edge of the curb.

Stepping from the sidewalk, you hastened to the passenger side and opened the door. Your wait had mostly been uneventful, but you hated standing alone in the dark for any longer than necessary. Sliding into the passenger seat, you pulled the door shut and turned sideways to face him.

“Thanks,” you exhaled, seeing him for the first time tonight.

Jimin looked sleepy, as though your call had woken him up – which it probably had, since it was near 1:30 AM. Yesterday when you spoke, Jimin had said he planned on going to bed early. He was dressed in what Noelle would’ve called a groutfit – grey sweats, grey hoodie and silver-framed glasses. You blinked at these, not having realized Jimin wore contacts.

“No problem.” Jimin stifled a yawn. “Seat belt.”

“Huh?”

“Put on your seat belt.” He nodded at the strap by your side.

“Oh – right.” Hastily, you pulled this across your chest. “Thanks.”

Silence fell as you did, the awkwardness increasing with each passing second. Usually, you were better about things like car safety, but everything about this moment felt surreal. Jimin had given you his number barely twenty-four hours prior – you highly doubted this was what he had in mind when he said he’d call.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, unsure what to do.

Jimin’s lips twitched. “It’s fine, Y/N.”

Glancing his way, you found Jimin’s profile dimly lit by the streetlights. He sat spread-legged in the driver’s seat; one hand placed casually on the shift. When he caught you looking, Jimin arched a brow and shifted the car into drive.

Pulling from the curb, he merged into traffic headed away from the club. As the bright lights of Excelsior disappeared into the rearview mirror, the cars on the road became few and far between. You drove in silence, city lights striping Jimin’s profile in black and white.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?” Jimin asked, too casual to be normal.

It took you a moment to answer.

Usually, you would’ve responded yes even if it weren’t the case, since no one truly wanted to hear about your problems. Asking someone how are you? in the city was the same as a nod hello. It wasn’t genuine interest in another person’s well-being.

Tonight though, your usual responses caught in your throat. Tonight, you felt tired, frayed and dangerously thin at the seams.

Everything was not okay, and you weren’t sure how to say otherwise. Your usual walls had been torn, leaving you with this sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Your fight with Finn had been a big one, even worse than the argument a few weeks ago.

Still, Jimin was a newer friend to you – if you could even call him that. It wasn’t fair to unload all your problems on him. Especially at such a late hour and especially not when he was the one doing you a favor.

“Yeah,” you said at last. “Everything’s fine.”

Jimin paused, as though he knew this to be bullshit.

“Let me rephrase,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Anyone’s ass I should kick?”

You laughed a little, surprised by his threat. “No, no,” you said, shaking your head. “Nothing like that.”

“Good.” Jimin’s smile faded. “So, what happened then? How’d you get stranded?”

He didn’t ask why you called him, but the implication was clear in his voice. Honestly, it was a question you had no good answer to. All you knew was when you were standing on the curb, staring at your phone and wondering who to call, Jimin was one of the first people to pop into your mind.

“I was out with my boyfriend,” you sighed. “I said I’d go to the club with him and his friends, but it got late and we have class tomorrow, so I told Finn I wanted to leave. He… didn’t.” Pausing, you swallowed. “I ended up leaving, but I didn’t realize the trains had stopped running. Uber surcharge was ridiculous, too.”

“Oh.” Jimin’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“Anyways.” You slouched lower in his seat. “You’re the only person I know with a car, so…”

“Ah. Right.”

Curious, you glanced sideways. Although Jimin was responding in one-word answers, they seemed somehow loaded, as though they contained hidden meaning. Even his profile seemed cautious, full of a tension you couldn’t quite place.

Jimin frowned. “Your boyfriend just… let you leave like that?”

“He didn’t let me,” you said as you straightened. “I can make my own decisions, Park.”

“I know, I just…”

“You just what, Park? Spit it out.”

“I don’t know.” Jimin shrugged. “It just seems kind of cold. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well.” Truth be told, it seemed cold to you, too. “I’m not exactly… thrilled with the situation, either. He turned off his phone,” you muttered, turning to face the window.

In the reflection, you saw Jimin grimace.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“What for?”

“That just sucks, that’s all.”

“Yeah. It does suck.”

Jimin made an indiscernible noise of agreement before lapsing into silence.

It was strange to be in a car with him at this late an hour; oddly intimate for a multitude of reasons you pushed aside.

The last time you’d seen Jimin dressed so casually had been when you walked in on him with Sabrina. It had been nearly a month since then, but you hadn’t heard any gossip of them being together on campus.

Maybe this was something you could’ve asked Jimin, but it wasn’t like you had that type of relationship. Sure, you were ballet partners and sure, you’d been getting along lately, but you didn’t usually interact outside of class. Yet another line you’d crossed by calling Jimin tonight.

Thus far, you’d mostly managed to keep Finn and Russet separate. Noelle had met Finn a couple of times – you’d gone to dinner once and gotten coffee together another time, but otherwise, nothing. Finn wouldn’t have wanted to come to one of your Grace Hall rom-com marathons or take a pilates class on Sunday morning.

Mixing personal life and dance felt strange to you, as though two separate halves of yourself were colliding. It was odd to see Jimin outside of Russet’s walls. He seemed more at ease in his car, like the lines of him had blurred more from dancer to person.

Something about the nighttime made things seem fuzzier. Tired from the day and just beginning to thaw from the cold, you found your lips and mind looser than usual.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jimin said, interrupting the silence. “But I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”

With a humorless sort of laugh, you turned to face him. “Yeah, well. I do.”

“Huh.”

Hearing his skepticism, you insisted, “I do!”

“I believe you!” Jimin chuckled. He paused. “Is it new, then? I don’t remember anyone coming to watch your dance competitions in high school.”

Warmth spread through your body, realizing Jimin must’ve kept tabs. He’d watched you at dance competitions. He knew your usual crowd of supporters.

“Finn isn’t new,” you said slowly. “He just didn’t come to a lot of competitions. They got repetitive, you know? Lots of waiting around for three minutes of watching me dance.”

“I guess.” Jimin shrugged. “I used to go to my ex’s tennis tournaments all the time, though. That was the same thing, except no AC.”

“Right,” you laughed. “You’re right, at least our competitions had air conditioning.”

Jimin turned on his blinker to switch lanes. Pulling onto a side street, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Another moment passed, and then –

“We broke up before college.”

Surprised, you glanced in his direction. “Oh. Okay.”

You stared at his profile, wondering if you were supposed to say something more. You could think of many questions to ask, but they didn’t seem appropriate coming from you. You hadn’t realized Jimin was dating someone in high school – although, come to think of it, you did seem to remember a blonde girl cheering for him in the audience at Applause Dance Competition.

“It seemed like time,” Jimin continued quietly. “She went to a school across the country and we just never assumed we’d stay together. That sounds bad,” he said with a half-laugh. “I kind of figured though, if we were meant to be, we’d figure it out. The fact that we didn’t try spoke volumes.”

“That makes sense. Honestly,” you said with a sigh. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if me and Finn had been long distance.”

As soon as the words left your lips, you blinked. The statement hung before you in mid-air, forcing you to consider it for the first time.

This wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to imagine before; what would’ve happened if you’d gone to a different school. Going to college so close to Finn had just seemed like a sign. You didn’t have the college break-up talk because you’d simply assumed you didn’t need to.

“Yeah.” Jimin sighed. “It’s hard, right? Everything is changing so quickly. You want things to stay the same, but isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Change. Grow. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Everyone keeps telling me change isn’t a bad thing.”

“Sure seems like it, sometimes,” you said softly.

Jimin nodded. After a moment, he reached out for the stereo. A familiar song filled his car and something uncertain unfurled in your stomach. You weren’t sure what you were even talking about anymore – change was a dangerous topic without Finn around.

When the chorus of the song kicked in, you smiled.

“I love this song,” you said, turning to Jimin. “I almost choreographed my solo to it senior year.”

“Really?” Jimin glanced at you in surprise. “Same.”

“No way!” you laughed. “Wow – that would’ve been awkward. Imagine if we’d both had the same solo.”

“It would’ve made us even more competitive.”

“Not possible.”

“You’re probably right.” Jimin smiled. “We were really at each other’s throats for a while, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, we were.”

Settling back in your seat, you couldn’t help but frown.

Something about this statement bothered you, although you couldn’t put a finger on what. Maybe it was what Jimin had said yesterday about your mutual competition pushing each other forward. Maybe it had something to do with that night in Danley Hall, when Jimin stopped by and said he loved watching you dance.

If you really stopped and thought about it, Jimin was the sole constant in your dancing career. Every year, at every dance competition, you’d make sure you were available to watch Jimin’s solo. You told yourself this was because he was your competition but really, you just loved watching him dance.

You could remember the cool air of the theatre as you snuck in, sinking into a plush, velvet chair and hoping you wouldn’t be seen. You’d loved watching Jimin near the front, close enough to see his facial expressions but not close enough to be seen from the stage.

If your solos were close to one another in timing, you tended to watch Jimin from the wings. This had been a different kind of intimacy, hidden behind the first leg while you watched him dance. Lights dim, you recalled Jimin’s silhouette while he would walk to center. The opening notes of his music would sound, and you’d stifle a shiver while you watched him, entranced.

As it turned out, Jimin had been watching your solos as well, but you hadn’t known this for some time. Not until he’d told you the other night.

Suddenly, you turned in your seat. “You know I think you’re talented, right?” you blurted. “There was a reason I was always trying to beat you.”

Jimin’s brows shot up so high, they nearly met his hairline.

“I – uh, no,” he said. “You’ve never said that to me before. In fact, you kind of said the opposite. You told me the only reason I won was because I’m a guy.”

Hearing your words thrown back in your face, heat began to creep up your neck.

“Listen, about that –”

“I’m kidding.” Jimin shot you a smile. “It’s fine, Y/N.”

“I – okay.”

“Look, I know men have an advantage in the dance world.” Returning his gaze to the road, Jimin’s smile disappeared. “I’m not dumb. I know we have higher centers of gravity, and all that. It’s just… you’re also talented, Y/N. People love to watch you dance, myself included. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Staring at him over the console, you felt oddly moved by this speech.

It was strange; many people in your life had called you talented. Your parents, your teachers and Finn, of course. Each of those compliments had meant something to you, but this one felt different. It felt different coming from Jimin – more important, somehow.

Maybe it was because you admired him most of all. The realization didn’t shock you as much as it probably should’ve.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

Jimin nodded, continuing to scan the road. His car was clean, you realized as you glanced around. There were no water bottles on the floor, no napkins hastily stuffed into the glove compartment. The only sign of being lived-in was a keychain dangling over the dashboard; a small, plastic photo frame with two people inside.

“My parents,” Jimin explained, noticing where you looked.

“Oh,” you said, bending a bit closer. “They look nice.”

He laughed, unable to help it. “I’ve always thought so. My dad is the one who encouraged me to be a dancer, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Fondly, Jimin smiled. “He’s always loved music. When I was a baby, he loved to hold me and jump around the living room to songs on the radio. My mom has tons of videos of it.”

You smiled at the image. “That sounds adorable.”

“And embarrassing. My dad’s not that great a dancer.”

Without meaning to, you snorted.

Hearing this, Jimin’s smile widened. “When I started memorizing all the dances I saw on TV, my dad convinced my mom to put me in classes. Things kind of spiraled from there.”

“That’s nice,” you said, settling down in his seat. “My parents have always been my biggest supporters, too.”

Jimin nodded, about to respond but then a blast of AC hit you and you shivered. You’d nearly forgotten what you were wearing – or more accurately, what you weren’t wearing. The thin tank top you had on did little to hide the bare skin underneath.

Jimin’s gaze darted sideways. “Are you cold?” he asked, reaching out for the heat. “You can have my hoodie in the backseat, if you want.”

“Oh. No, that’s okay.” Hastily, you untied your cardigan from around your waist. “I have this,” you said, sliding both arms into the sleeves. “Completely forgot about it.”

Silently, Jimin nodded – and then his lips twitched.

“What?” you demanded.

“Nothing!” He shook his head, fighting to keep his face even. “It’s just… you wore a cardigan out to the club?”

Glancing down, you felt your cheeks begin to heat again. “Yes,” you said, somewhat defensive as you looked up. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just, you know.” He paused. “My grandma has that sweater.”

“Well, your grandma sounds like a cool lady.”

“Without a doubt,” Jimin assured. “Not much of a clubber, though.”

Leaning your head to the window, you smiled. “That makes two of us then.”

You knew the city well enough by now to recognize you were only a few blocks from Grace Hall. Somehow, you found yourself not wanting the car ride to end. Talking to Jimin outside of dance practice was nice – even fun, you realized with some surprise.

It was a shame it’d taken you so long to recognize this.

“Seriously, though.” Jimin laughed. “Clubs can be a good time! There’s dancing, there’s music… rumor has it you like dancing.”

“Not that kind of dancing,” you sighed. “That kind of dancing is just a dry version of a lap dance for people who don’t know what to do with their hips.”

Jimin hid behind a smile. “Ouch, on behalf of your boyfriend.”

“Oh!” Straightening, you glanced at him in alarm. “That’s not – I didn’t mean…”

Stricken, you realized the obviousness of what you had said. Forget about your face heating, your entire body felt like an inferno. You had just told Jimin, in so many words, that Finn didn’t know what to do with his hips.

Jimin waved this admission aside. “Don’t worry about it, Y/N. I’ll forget what I heard the instant I get home. Up until tonight, I didn’t know the guy existed, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, settling back in your seat.

Rather than reassure you, this only gave you further pause.

It didn’t seem possible Jimin hadn’t known about Finn. Racking your brains, you tried to think of a time they would’ve crossed paths – only to come up short. Finn hadn’t ever stopped by the studio to pick you up, he hadn’t ever come to mutual hangouts with your Russet friends. Admittedly, Jimin had only recently started attending the same ones as you, but it still seemed unthinkable.

You and Finn had been dating for over two years. Finn’s name should have come up at some point and yet, it hadn’t.

Before you could respond, Jimin pulled to a stop outside your dorm. Glancing over the console, he smiled and again, you were struck by the image.

With his grey sweats, mussed hair and those glasses – you swallowed. It was a side of Jimin you hadn’t seen and something about the visual made your stomach lurch. Before you could launch into full-blown panic, Jimin raised a brow.

“Here you are,” he said with a grandiose wave. “Home sweet home.”

Glancing past him, you took in the steps of Grace Hall.

“Thanks,” you said, pushing open the door. Before exiting the car, you paused and looking over your shoulder. “Seriously, Jimin, thank you. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten home without you.”

In the darkness, you saw his expression soften.

“Anytime,” Jimin said.

You could tell he meant it. There was something to his gaze which made you nod. Jimin wasn’t the type to mince words or say things he didn’t mean. Just like when he said he loved your dancing, you knew Jimin was telling the truth. When he said anytime, he meant it.

Nodding, you resumed exiting the car. Waving goodbye, you stood on the curb until he was out of sight.

Once Jimin disappeared, you sighed and turned towards the building. Grace Hall was silent this late at night – it was nearly 2:00 AM and again, you were thankful Jimin had answered his phone. As you let yourself in and climbed the steps to your room, your thoughts began to race with all the what-ifs.

What-if Jimin hadn’t answered, what-if you’d had to walk home alone, or walk to find a cab. Pressing your eyes shut, you shooed these thoughts away. None of that had actually happened, so it wasn’t worth worrying about.

As soon as you got upstairs, you stepped in the shower – the stickiness of that girl’s drink continued to linger on your skin. After changing into fresh pajamas and brushing your teeth, you wearily climbed into bed. The last thing you did before falling asleep was call Finn again in case he’d returned home.

His phone went straight to voicemail though and, with a sinking stomach, you rolled over in bed and turned off the light.

After sleeping until the last possible moment, you managed to roll yourself out of bed around seven the next morning. This only left fifteen minutes before you needed to leave and even then, you felt like a zombie as you rushed out the door.

Grabbing coffee at the place down the street, you and Noelle entered class with barely ten minutes to spare. Jimin was already present but he was talking to Louis, so you stuck to your side and didn’t interrupt. You wanted to thank him again for his help, but all this flew out the window when a familiar woman followed Mr. Vlad into the classroom.

“Class.” Mr. Vlad set his things down by the window. “You remember Anna Hodelle, I presume – principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. She’s in town for a different master class and has graciously agreed to lead ballet this morning.”

The news was simultaneously exciting and nerve-wracking. Anna had taught a master class several weeks prior which left you sore for days following. Her classes were exciting though, and she was Anna Hodelle, one of the youngest principal dancers for the New York City Ballet in at least forty years – so there was that.

Her introduction didn’t require any response. Scrambling into place at the barre, the class waited while Anna shed her warm-ups and Mr. Vlad left the room. As soon as the music began, you found yourself grateful you hadn’t drunk the night prior.

Similar to her last master class, you found Miss Anna relentless in her pursuit of perfection. Her expectations were high and as a result, everyone gave their best effort – and then some. By the time you broke for water, no less than three students had already run for the bathroom.

It wasn’t pretty, but vomiting was something which happened with dance. Class could be such a grueling workout that occasionally, younger students pushed themselves past their limits. If you ate a big meal before practice, it was increasingly likely you might throw it up after.

You could count on two hands the number of times this had happened to you in high school. There had been some days you practiced so hard, sweat ran down your forehead and blinded your vision. On other days, the floor was so slippery, your bare feet couldn’t grasp the floorboards. Dance, despite being hailed for grace and glamour, tended to be exactly the opposite.

One of your teachers used to say you weren’t using your muscles if they weren’t shaking by the end. Ballerinas were seen as delicate, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. Ballet only looked effortless – this was a carefully cultivated image for the audience. At all times, all muscles in a ballerina’s body were engaged, yet even when sweat dripped down her brow, she had to smile.

You’d seen dancers finish their combination, give a sweeping bow, walk gracefully offstage and vomit into the nearest trash can. Everything was for show, everything was for the audience – one of your favorite parts about dance was knowing the brutal behind-the-scenes effort everything took. It made you appreciate the final product all the more.

By the end of class you were exhausted but happy, wiping sweat from your brow while you applauded the teacher. After Anna’s dismissal, you immediately exhaled and trudged towards your bag. Noelle chattered on about a TV show you were watching, reminding you to catch up before Monday.

As you picked up your bag, you felt its front pocket vibrate. Fishing inside for your phone, you pulled this out and felt your eyes widen.

Five missed calls and eight missed texts. Once you opened your phone, you saw they were all from Finn.

Finn: hey [8:18 AM]

Finn: Y/N, I’m so sorry [8:19 AM]

Finn: I don’t know if you’re ignoring me because you’re angry, or if you’re in class right now [8:25 AM]

Finn: you’re probably in class [8:30 AM]

Finn: if you’re not though, please call me back [8:31 AM]

Finn: fuck [9:01 AM]

Finn: I was such an ass last night, Y/N. I’m sorry [9:03 AM]

Finn: … please call me [9:35 AM]

With each text you read, you felt your heart sink. Up until this point, you’d gotten through class by pretending last night hadn’t happened. Now though, you were forced to remember every detail of the night prior.

Finn had left you at the club.

He’d stormed away from your fight, turned off his phone and left you alone. Each time you remembered the night, your fury only grew. This morning when you woke, you’d still been pissed off – even more so, when you turned on your phone and saw zero texts from Finn.

Had your roles been reversed, you never would’ve done the same to him. Sure, it had been a bad fight but who did that? Just took off in the middle of a conversation and shut everything down. The worst part was him turning off his phone. As soon as things didn’t go as planned, Finn simply washed his hands of you.

That was what hurt most of all, the shame burrowing deep into the crevices of your heart.

Beneath everything was a strange twinge of guilt at having called Jimin to pick you up. This was easily brushed aside, though – Finn had left you stranded. If anyone had a right to be mad here, it was you.

“Y/N? You okay?”

Noelle’s voice pulled you from your reverie. Blinking, you lowered your phone and realized you were alone. The rest of the room had cleared out after class – this probably wasn’t the first time Noelle had said your name.

“Shit, sorry!” Hastily, you shoved your phone in your bag. “Yeah… yeah, everything’s fine.”

Noelle gave you a look. “Really?”

After a moment, you sighed. “No,” you said, turning to walk towards the door. “Why pretend? It’s Finn.”

Following you from the classroom, Noelle fell into step alongside you.

“He’s not hurt, is he?” she said carefully.

“Unfortunately, not.”

Noelle snorted. “Okay, so he’s in the doghouse.”

“Yep.”

“Want to talk about it?”

At the top of the stairs, you paused. “Finn and I got in a fight last night,” you admitted. “He wanted to stay at the club, and I wanted to go home – so he told me to leave. I did, but then I realized I had no way to get there.”

Noelle’s mouth dropped. “Are you fucking kidding me? He just… left you there? Wow. The next time I see your ‘boyfriend,’ I’m going to – wait,” she said, pulling up short. “How did you get home, then?”

“I – uh, well… Jimin picked me up.”

Noelle stared at you a moment longer. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I,” you said, beginning to walk down the stairs. “Finn turned his cell phone off, so I couldn’t get ahold of him and by then, the trains stopped running. Uber was surging and Jimin is the only person I know with a car, so…”

“Ah, gotcha. That makes sense.” Noelle nodded. “Nice of him to come get you.”

“Yeah, it was nice. Anyways, Finn’s been texting me all morning.”

“Oh!” Noelle groaned. “That was your phone! I kept hearing something vibrating while I was waiting to go across the floor.”

“Yep, that was him,” you said glumly. “Apparently he’s sorry.”

“Of course, he is.”

“He said he was an ass last night.”

“Of course, he did.”

“… I’m still pissed at him.”

“Of course, you are!” Noelle cried, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Listen, tell him you got home alright – not that he deserves that much, mind you – but you need some time to cool off. He can wait until you’re ready to talk, right?”

Nodding, you saw sense in what she was saying. “You’re right.”

Despite Noelle making sense though, part of you didn’t want to wait.

Part of you wanted to call Finn back right now and give him a piece of your mind, but you knew if you did that, things wouldn’t end well. He deserved to be cussed out, but you were completely exhausted. The idea of fighting with your boyfriend left you feeling drained.

Noelle was right – Finn could wait until you were ready to talk, whenever that was.

Pulling out your phone a second time, you texted Finn you were safe and that you’d talk when you were ready. Once he responded okay, you shoved your phone in your pocket.

Noelle looked sympathetically on. “Why don’t we have a girl’s night?” she said, arm back around your shoulder. “We can invite Irene and Ari and just watch dumb movies and eat brownie batter in fancy lingerie. You know, like every guy’s sleepover porn fantasy.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “Sounds like a plan,” you said with a grin. “God, what would I do without you?”

“Be super bored, probably.”

You snorted, but the thought stuck in your mind as you left the building. It really would be awful without Noelle by your side. Without meaning to, your thoughts strayed to Sabrina. Aside from Katie and Allison, you had no idea who she hung out with.

It had to be lonely for someone like her. Russet was intense enough without a support system. You quickly pushed these feelings aside – even if Sabrina was lonely, she had no one to blame but herself. You’d offered the olive branch enough times by now to know when to stop.

“I guess only one question remains,” you said slowly.

Noelle glanced your way. “Oh, yeah? What?”

“How dumb are the dumb movies we’re watching? Like, From Justin to Kelly dumb – where it’s a guilty pleasure? Or, more like The Kissing Booth dumb – where things are just bad dumb.”

“Why choose?” Noelle shrugged. “Let’s do both!”

“Deal!”

As you climbed the steps to Grace Hall, you continued to ignore Finn’s texts in your bag. He could wait until tomorrow, at least. After what he put you through, a single night of not knowing what you were thinking seemed appropriate.

When you finally gave in and called Finn the next day, you weren’t sure what you were hoping for. Finn had already texted his apology, so at least he knew he’d been in the wrong. As to what degree he was aware, you didn’t know, but you got a fairly good idea once he picked up the phone.

Short answer: very wrong.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” Finn blurted, as though afraid you might cut him off. “I was such an ass to you Friday night. I – I don’t even know what to say. I don’t even know where to start. I fucked up so bad, Y/N and I’m sorry.”

Silence followed this outburst as you frowned, leaning back on the bed.

Noelle had graciously left the room to study at the coffee shop on the corner. Secretly, you knew this was mostly to flirt with the barista, Namjoon, but you couldn’t begrudge her for that. Namjoon did have the most adorable dimples you’d ever seen.

Focusing your thoughts on Finn, you played with a stray thread of your sheets. “I mean… that’s a good start, I guess,” you muttered. “But what are you really sorry for, Finn?”

His sigh was soft. “Everything.”

“Specifics would be good.”

“I was drunk,” he exhaled. “That’s not an excuse, but… I honestly don’t remember everything that I said to you. I remember the gist of it though, and I know it was terrible. I know you didn’t deserve it.”

You remained silent, even though you agreed with him.

“I wanted to stay out,” he continued. “That doesn’t really matter, though. I was a dick. I was stubborn and angry, and I took that out on you. You’re the last person I would ever want to hurt, and I just… I left you. Something could’ve happened to you. God, if something had happened, Y/N…”

Finn trailed off and you heard his voice crack but forced yourself to stay silent. Hearing him break was hard, but you reminded yourself what you’d felt Friday night – all the anger and terror when he completely disappeared.

This memory hardened you enough not to melt at his apology.

“Yeah, well,” you said tightly. “You’re right – something could’ve happened. The trains weren’t running and Uber was crazy expensive. I couldn’t get back in the club. I ended up waiting outside for nearly twenty minutes before someone came to pick me up.”

“Fuck.” Finn sounded strangled. “Fuck… Y/N, I’m sorry…”

In your mind, you envisioned him shoving a hand through his hair. Finn did that when he was stressed or upset and right now, he sounded a little of both.

“Yeah.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Who picked you up?”

Immediately, you stiffened. “Do you seriously think you deserve an answer to that?”

“No, no, I – you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Thank them for me, okay?”

You remained silent and again, Finn sighed.

“Are you… are we going to be okay?”

It was a loaded question. Closing your eyes, you leaned your head to the wall. In all honesty, you didn’t know the answer to that.

On the one hand, you loved Finn. That hadn’t changed. On the other hand, it was becoming more and more apparent your problems weren’t going away. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise – but all couples had problems, didn’t they?

In the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but think a break-up should be more obvious than this. A break-up should be something big, something irreversible. You were beginning to wonder though, at what point were problems considered insurmountable. Everything about this seemed grey and right now, you really needed black and white answers.

Both your lives were changing, as Jimin had said. Freshman year was a cacophony of change; in order to succeed, you and Finn needed to learn to grow with each other. Hiccups were to be expected, bumps in the road were to be expected, but if you wanted to stay together, you needed to learn how to fight for this relationship.

“I think so,” you said, opening your eyes. “I think we’ll be okay. I just… Finn, you really hurt me that night.”

“I know.”

“It can’t happen again.”

“It won’t.”

“You know… I want to spend time with you, right?”

“I… do.”

He paused for longer than you would’ve liked, but you brushed past it. “I know you like going to clubs and all that,” you said. “But that’s not really me. Maybe next time we can do something different. Something a little more low-key.”

“Yeah.” Finn chuckled. “That sounds nice, honestly.”

“Good.”

“At least my friends really liked you.”

Taken aback, you snorted. “Oh, come on, Finn. I was barely there.”

“I’m being serious! Ben told me he thinks you’re funny.”

“Ben,” you groaned. “Has all the humor of a wet sock.”

Finn laughed and this time, it sounded like him. His laugh had been watery before, a restrained version but now, his true mirth broke free. As soon as the sound hit your ears, you began to relax. Truthfully, you hadn’t been sure things would be okay until then. Hearing him laugh, you knew Finn meant it. He wanted this, too.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “Ben sucks, but at least he has the taste to know that you don’t. Next time, we’ll do something more fun.”

“Next time,” you agreed.

“Next time.”

Despite your conversation having gone as well as it possibly could’ve, uncertainty continued to linger in the back of your mind.

You spent Sunday evening watching TV, but still slept restlessly before your class the next morning. Mr. Vlad’s ballet was definitely not one you wanted to arrive at ill-rested, but Monday you showed up with bags under your eyes.

You tried to push all negative thoughts from mind while warming up at the barre. By the time class broke for water, you were feeling marginally better. Ballet was soothing that way. The repetitiveness of barre helped to put things in perspective. Your ankle had almost completely healed by this point and now, two weeks after the fall, your technique had finally begun to improve.

No longer were you the last one to catch onto combinations and Mr. Vlad only yelled once about your turnout at barre. This was a marked improvement from the start of the year and although you still were far from the top, you felt relatively good about your standing. You had a feeling once you and Jimin began to practice, the moves would come even easier.

The first combination at center was a slow adagio. It wasn’t particularly difficult aside from a lift in the middle, but despite the familiarity of the moves, Jimin was being oddly hesitant.

Mr. Vlad showed the combination with his dance assistant, Mina. After they demonstrated a particularly difficult lift, they gave everyone time to practice – which, in your and Jimin’s case, turned out to be necessary.

“Ladies, pique to arabesque!” Mr. Vlad called from the front. “Lift your leg higher and – the man lifts! He walks you in a promenade. Then you’re lowered, exhale – and bourrée!”

Brian immediately raised his hand for help, so Mr. Vlad left to assist in his corner. The lift was proving itself to be tricky – it required most of your weight balanced against Jimin’s side while he gripped your thigh, lifting you up.

You and Jimin began to practice, but no matter what you did, nothing seemed to be working. After the fourth failed attempt where Jimin nearly dropped you on your ass, you shakily landed and whirled around.

“Alright,” you said, both hands on your hips. “What’s going on?”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how’re you supposed to lift me if you’re barely touching me? Look at Sabrina and Paulo!” you said, gesturing in their direction. “He’s got his whole fucking hand under her leg!”

Jimin’s cheeks turned red. “I – uh, right. Yeah. Let’s try it again.”

Staring at him another moment, you nodded and returned to your spot. Jimin settled into fifth position, jaw clenched and looking as though he were in pain. You stared at him in the mirror, considering calling him out before thinking better of it.

Taking a deep breath, you piqued into arabesque. Leaning your weight to Jimin, he reached again for your thigh – only to falter, leaving you hanging.

“Jimin!” you half-laughed as you slipped down his leg.

“I’m sorry!” Jimin blurted, stepping away. Looking thoroughly distraught, he shoved both hands through his hair. “It’s just… well, I…”

“It’s just what?”

“You have a boyfriend,” he said, a bit pained.

In response to this, both your eyebrows shot up. That had not been the answer you’d expected.

“I… okay?” you said, failing to grasp the point. “So what?”

“So.” Jimin glanced furtively around. “I don’t know, it’s just weird! I don’t want to… overstep my boundaries, or anything.”

“But…” You stared. “I had a boyfriend last week and it wasn’t a problem.”

“Okay, but last week I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

Again, you looked at him as though he was crazy.

“This is stupid,” you said, stepping closer. “Ballet is our job, Jimin. It’s the least sexy occupation on the planet. Right now, I’m bleeding from three different blisters inside my pointe shoes. I’m sure my deodorant has long worn off by now. Would you just fucking get over yourself and grab my thigh?”

Jimin’s upper lip twitched. “Well. When you put it like that.”

“I am putting it like that,” you said with a grin. “Now, let’s go again.”

Nodding, Jimin followed when you walked backwards. Taking another deep breath, you piqued to arabesque and this time, Jimin didn’t flinch when your weight transitioned to his. Hand sliding beneath your thigh, he lifted you easily into a promenade.

As soon as you turned your head, you caught Jimin’s gaze and felt – something.

Something other than the white noise of the room. Something other than the thud-thud of your heart, other than the music on the stereo and Mr. Vlad yelling counts from the corner.

Despite what you had just finished saying, something unknown seemed to bloom in your chest. In the middle of the lift – blood blisters and all – you felt an errant spark where Jimin’s front pressed to yours.

You barely had time to recognize this before the moment was gone. Slowing his walk, Jimin set you back down – and you wobbled.

This time it had nothing to do with his technique.

“Ah, shit.” Jimin frowned. “That’s my bad – I can do better! Let’s try it again.”

Nodding, you felt a bit wooden as you followed in his footsteps. When Mr. Vlad started the music, you fought the surging tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm. It had been nothing, you told yourself. Nothing of importance, anyways.

Shoving whatever you’d felt in a box, you pushed this to a corner of your mind and firmly shut the door. Forcing a smile to your lips, you lifted your chin as you began the combination.

It was lucky everyone else found you a talented performer, since beneath all your smiling, all you could think about was what was hidden in the box.

Something unknown, something tentative – and something which could be dangerous, if it ever came to light.

Author’s Note: I was so close to re-writing this chapter with Mr. Vlad picking her up LOL just kidding, but thank you for reading! 😊 New chapters of Raise the Barre are posted weekly; dates are listed on the series Master List. Requests for updates will be deleted.

RAISE THE BARRE MASTERLIST

#bangtanarmynet #btsbookclub #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin writing #bts writing #jimin au #jimin series #bts au #bts series #jimin dance au #bts dance au #jimin e2l #bts e2l

1K notes · View notes

mianavs · 3 years

Text

Ameliorate

Your life was always a dark abyss until Matsukawa came in and made everything better

Matsukawa x f!reader

a/n: hands down the most difficult piece I’ve worked on but it’s finally done. not sure how i feel about it but i hope you all enjoy it anyway! kind of a slow burn fyi

tw: smut, oral (f!reader receiving), heavy angst, mentions of death/grieving

wc: 5.8k

It was a call you didn’t want to take. You were at work going over some accounts when the screen of your cell came to life and angrily vibrated on your desk. Sighing, you reached over to swipe on the red phone icon but the caller id caught your eye leaving you stunned.

[Mother]

You almost missed the call, lost in the negative emotions that the title unburied from the dark recesses of your mind. On impulse, you answered last minute and took a deep breath before you spoke to your mother for the first time since you left home four years ago. In the second it took for your mother to speak, you held out for an apology but instead received the news that your father had passed away the night before.

You exchanged few words with your mother, who was as frigid as ever, but nonetheless agreed to return home for the funeral. After informing your supervisor and taking off the rest of the week, you collected your things to leave only to be bombarded by your coworkers offering their condolences. You accepted their sincerity but felt nothing except for a queer emptiness.

Upon reaching the ground floor of the building, the elevator doors opened and a familiar voice caught your attention. You looked up to face your ex-fiancé speaking animatedly on the phone—until he saw you and his smile faltered.

It had been a mutual decision. After two years of dating, he’d wanted marriage and you—well, you weren’t sure what you wanted but marriage sure wasn’t it. The last you’d heard he had gotten married to some girl from HR and he looked happy. You plastered a smile on your face and greeted him with a nod before heading out.

At least one of you was happy.

On the train to Miyagi, memories of your parents occupied your thoughts. Your relationship them had always been strained. As the only child of a prestigious university professor and a retired news anchor turned housewife, they expected a lot from you academically and socially. Throughout your childhood, you struggled under the immense pressure they placed and you , more often than not, disappointed them.

It seemed that no matter how hard you tried to be their perfect daughter, you always fell short and got reproached accordingly. Your above average grades were never good enough. Your clumsiness and constant slouch made you unladylike, and your awkward mumbled speech was shameful. No matter what you did, the scrutiny never stopped and your imperfections only worsened over time. Your grades fell, you avoided going out with your parents to social events, and you spoke very little to your parents.

A quiet girl with no self-esteem, you started high school at Aoba Josai and everything changed when you met Matsukawa Issei. He approached you first during homeroom on your first day of school and never stopped talking to you from then on. He was patient and kind with you but also pushed you to get out of you shell. Before you knew it, he became your best friend and the two of you spent all of your free time together.

Issei’s friendship raised you up in many forms. Your grades increased after all those study sessions with him and Hanamaki. You stopped looking down at your shoes and found that the sky was much nicer to look at. You laughed, yelled, cried, and talked to Issei about anything and everything.

The change had been so sudden that even your parents noticed and treated you better. They stopped criticizing your every movement and that did wonders to your confidence. While the relationship between you and your parents slightly improved, your relationship with Issei bloomed like the cherry blossoms that fell on the day he confessed to you. For the first time in your life, you were truly happy until everything shattered when your parents found out about you and Issei.

You were reckless with the lies you told your parents to sneak out and see Issei. Your mind was clouded with thoughts of your boyfriend that you hadn’t noticed your parents had been awake when you snuck out at night. That night your parents caught you outside on a park bench with Issei’s head on your lap. As a result, you were confined to your room for a week with your mother becoming your personal jailer and after getting a taste of love and freedom—you refused to go back to being that insecure girl.

You rebelled against your parents. You got into screaming matches with your mother and argued with your father. The worst part of it all was the guilt that you felt after you’d yell at your mother or insulted your father. In that moment, you’d see the hurt in their eyes and the hesitation before they sent you to your room. You hated those looks because it proved that they too had feelings and you were capable of hurting them just like they’d hurt you.

Until you graduated, you lived like a ghost in your own home avoiding your parents as much as you could. You filled the emptiness you felt with Issei, who became your whole world. You went to all of his volleyball matches, he picked you up after work, and you spent most of your time at his house and with his family. The two of you planned a future together during your first year at college in Yokohama until the news of your mother falling ill sent you back home.

“Now arriving at Tokyo station”

The announcement interrupted your musings and you pulled out your phone to distract yourself from the bustle of people exiting the train. You scrolled through your social media page until a rare post from an old friend caught your attention. Oikawa had uploaded a photo of a historic site in Argentina and you found yourself searching for Issei’s name among the thousands of likes and comments. While Issei’s name hadn’t popped up, Hanamaki’s did and you clicked on his profile thoughtlessly. It didn’t take much digging on your behalf to find what you were looking for.

Only a couple of posts down was a photo of Hanamaki and Issei from a year ago at a restaurant you would recognize anywhere—after all, you’d worked there for two years. You couldn’t help but admire how good they looked. You memorized every detail of Issei’s face before a thought crossed your mind and your finger hovered over the screen.

A tap on the photo revealed Issei’s account and you hesitated to wonder if stalking your ex-boyfriend’s social media was the right move before you tapped on his username anyway and his profile opened up. It was on private to your dismay but his account picture showed you more than enough. It was one of Issei with one arm swung over a pretty woman’s shoulder. Shutting off your phone, you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t care but the tightness in your chest proved otherwise.

Gazing out the window at the rural towns the train passed reminded you of your father and his love for the countryside. You hated to admit it but, after living in the city for three years, you came to share the same sentiments as your father.

After returning home following the news of your mother’s illness, your father moved the family to rural Miyagi believing the fresh country air would do her good. Moving back with your parents wasn’t as difficult as you’d feared after leaving everything behind. Your mother still nagged you over everything but not as cruelly and would occasionally compliment your cooking when you fed her.

It was the relationship with your father, however, that changed the most which was why his deception hurt you the most. Your father was the one that helped you transfer to the university he taught at. The two of you always left for school together and conversations about school eventually filled the quiet void during those hour-long train rides to Sendai. Your conversations became personal at night over tea or sake and, in those moments, you felt as if you could forgive your parents and develop a relationship with them.

You should have been more suspicious about your mother’s condition. Whenever you asked your father about it, you’d attributed his wavering gaze to concern over your mother. The improved relationship between you and your parents distracted you from the unchanging condition of your mother despite constant medication and hospital visits. It never crossed your mind that the sickness had only been a ploy to guilt you into coming back to Miyagi so your parents could resume molding their matured daughter into what they wanted.

You found out by chance while listening in to a conversation amongst them but that was all it took to turn your newfound affection for your parents into resentment. For the entirety of the confrontation, you bit back tears when their reactions confirmed everything had been made up. After packing up your things and disowning your parents, you left home vowing never to come back.

“Now arriving at Sendai station”

The long drive to your childhood home did nothing to prepare you for the meeting with your mother. She looked tired and beat down; a sharp contrast to the strong woman she used to be.

“You look awful,” She chided, eyeing you with her sharp gaze. “You’re thin and sickly.”

“So are you.” Your retort was immediate and thoughtless but it shut your mother up. After a moment of deafening silence, she offered to help you with your bag but you declined.

“Come downstairs after you unpack. Dinner is almost ready.” With that, your mother left to the kitchen.

You were surprised to find your room in the same state it had been when you left for college. Palming through your old notebooks, opening your drawers to sift through old clothes, and collapsing on your bed to bury your nose in the sheets made you miss the simpler days of high school.

In the end, you were too distracted by your room to unpack but made sure to wash up before heading down to dinner—a habit your mother instilled in you and returned after only being in the house for twenty minutes. You also took your usual spot across your mother while the chair that your father had once sat in stood bare at the head of the table. The empty spot was disconcerting but your eyes remained fixed on the chair while your mind worked to restore the image of your father on it. Your trancelike state stopped when your mother cleared her throat.

“The wake will be tomorrow morning so ready by nine.”

“Do I need to do anything?”

“A small speech is expected of you.” She stated and left no room for argument. “There will also be familiar faces so behave accordingly.”

The meaning behind your mother’s warning dawned on you when the two of you entered the funeral home and were greeted by the one familiar face you didn’t expect to see—Issei.

If he was surprised to see you, he didn’t show it and was all business when he addressed your mother. Your shock only increased when your mother didn’t go off on Issei and instead treated him like an actual human.

When his sharp gaze shifted to your form, the air around you seemed to thicken and breathing became impossible. Standing in front of Issei took you back in time to those days when Issei would wait for you in the mornings to walk to school. You could have lost yourself in his eyes but the purpose of your return tore your eyes away and you bowed in greeting, not trusting your voice. He bowed as well and offered his condolences before turning to your mother and discussing the schedule and other details as they walked into the building with you in tow.

The discomfort you felt during the service increased tenfold with the arrival of the guests. Former colleagues of your father, friends of your mother, and neighbors crowded the small funeral home and they all had their eyes on you. The condolences, hugs, and pats left you suffocated and desensitized. Before long, their words fused together into a clangor that left you disoriented. You thought you were going to pass out until a former professor of yours asked a question that destroyed whatever remained of your composure.

“…so when did they find out the tumor was malignant?”

Tumor?

Malignant?

Your overwhelmed brain pieced together the information until you understood what had caused your father’s death—cancer. In that moment, everything ceased to exist and there was only you and your thoughts. Your blood ran cold and all of your limbs went numb. While your mouth hung open, not a syllable fell from your lips. As opposed to your frozen body, your mind raced and a whirlwind of emotions wreaked havoc on your being. When you came to terms with the fact that you hadn’t known your father’s cause of death, a strangled cry escaped your mouth and you darted out of the room.

The urge to leave and never return overcame all logic but, before you could make it out the door, a pair of large warm hands clasped your shoulders, gently stopping you dead in your tracks. The faint smell of cologne and musk hit you and you knew it was Issei before you looked up.

Warmth radiated from every part of his body and all you wanted was to bury yourself into him and hide from the world. His eyes widened slightly before he looked around and guided you away into a small room away from the guests. There was a sofa that he led you too and sat down next to you. Suddenly, Issei’s hands were on your cheeks wiping away tears you didn’t know where there.

“God…I’m a fucking mess.” You cursed and buried your face into your hands.

“Funerals are…difficult,” Issei offered. “Trust me, I work here.”

“I didn’t know,” you muttered raising your head. “I didn’t even know how my father died. I never asked my mother and she never told me. She just told me he died and I took a train here without thinking.”

“Everyone processes death differently, Y/N.”

“Fuck, Issei—I’m his only daughter for crying out loud!” Your voice broke as a fresh set of tears threatened to spill. “We’ve never had a stable relationship…but still, what kind of a daughter doesn’t know the cause of death of her own father? I just feel like I’m suffocating and I-I…”

Sobs tore out of your chest inhibiting you from speaking and Issei didn’t hesitate to envelop you in his strong arms that rocked you while he whispered calming reassurances in your ear.

“Shhh…it’s okay.”

“Everything will be fine.”

“This will pass.”

Your cries eventually ceased but neither of you let go. It felt easy to cling onto Issei while he held you just as tightly. The return of your wits, however, brought you back to reality and you let him go knowing it wasn’t right to cling onto anyone’s boyfriend—even if he’d been your friend before he’d been your boyfriend.

“Thank you, Issei. I should really head back now.”

Issei’s grip loosened slowly until he faced you with his thick brows knitted with concern. You smiled hoping it was convincing enough to reassure him before the two of you stood up and left the room. Near the entrance of the hall stood your mother angrily pacing back and forth until she saw you and Issei and opened her mouth to speak but stopped. You decided to speak first before she misunderstood the situation.

“I needed some space to calm down and Issei helped me find a place.”

Her piercing eyes took you in and lingered on your eyes; they were no doubt red and puffy from crying. The anger seemed to dissipate and her shoulder’s relaxed before she finally addressed you.

“It’s time for your speech. Are you ready?”

Coming from the woman that never asked you anything, her question caught you off guard but stirred something in you. You answered by nodding and followed your mother into the packed hall and up to the front where your father lied in his coffin. You stood to the side while your mother addressed the guests and you looked at your father for the first time in years.

The sight should have made you feel anything but the relief that washed over you. He looked at peace and it reminded you of the rare glimpses you’d caught of him talking with his students, fishing in the small pond of your country home, or drinking sake at night. It was with those memories that you replaced your mother and spoke to the guests.

You were composed for the entire speech despite your distraught state only minutes prior. It felt like a blanket of serenity had wrapped itself over your shoulders and shielded you from any remaining guilt. In the end, you wished your father well not because you forgave him but because you wanted to close that chapter in your book.

The rest of the ceremony was easier to stomach without the turmoil in your head. After the last guest left, you and your mother spoke to Issei and his boss about last minute details for the funeral the next day. Your mother offered a brisk thanks before heading out first and Issei’s boss followed, leaving you and your ex alone. The desire to ask him for his contact info was immense, but your better judgement won and you offered him a quick thanks before following your mother.

Very little words were exchanged with your mother that night and you headed up to bed completely drained from the day’s events. You’d just finished hanging up your mourning clothes when your mother knocked on the door and waited until you let her in—something she never did.

Still in her mourning gown, she held out a letter addressed to you from your father and seeing her up close, you noticed the wet cheeks and puffy red skin around her eyes. In all the years you lived with your mother, you had never seen her cry. Crying out hysterically? Yes. Witnessing actual tears or the evidence of tears on her face, however, not even once. Which was why you stood stunned as your mother placed the letter in your hand before leaving you to your privacy.

You tore open the sealed envelope and opened the letter to see that it was dated one year ago.

{Daughter,

If you are reading this, it is because I am no longer on this earth. As the disease weakens my body, I know that I will never see you again and write this to convey everything that I could not in life. I am well-aware that I lost the right to your forgiveness and I do not wish to receive it. Nothing will ever justify my actions towards you. I failed you as a father and caused you to grow up in a miserable home. I held you to expectations that not even I could achieve and I will regret the pain and suffering I caused you until my last breath.

I remember the day your mother brought you into this world. When I saw your frail little body and held you in my arms for the first time, I was struck with an immeasurable amount of fear. I was terrified of being a father and didn’t want you to suffer the way I did. I wanted to prepare you for the world in the way my parents never did for me. However, in the end, my own selfish desires to re-live my life through you tainted whatever intentions I’d had. I will never forgive myself for the irreparable damage I caused you therefore I ask that you do the same.

I wish to end this message by expressing how proud I am of the strong woman you’ve become. Everything you’ve accomplished is derived of your own merits and in spite of the suffering I caused you. Your mother and I are happy to hear of your successes and wish you happiness in your married life. I know you will live a long and happy life because you are not like me. You’re a fighter. You know what you want and take it without regrets.

With this, I hope that you will continue to grow and forget me as I am undeserving of living in your thoughts.}

What began as tears trailing down your cheeks, ended up as wails mourning your father. The proud man that you knew him to be in life came undone in that short letter and every word pierced your heart. In a manner reminiscent of the past, you disobeyed his requests and genuinely forgave your father while engraving each of his words into your heart.

The urge to see your mother led you to tuck away the letter and open the door only to find her already there. Muffling her sobs with her hands, her whole body shook as she gazed up at you. The fragility of her state stirred your compassion and your arms wrapped around her. Collapsing onto the ground, the two of you clung to each other and truly mourned the death of your father.

You woke up enveloped in motherly warmth like you were an infant again. Her eyes that once scrutinized your every move, were softer now as she talked about your father’s last days over breakfast. The hand that had disciplined you in the past now held yours during the Buddhist priest’s chant at the funeral. The circumstances were wretched but you finally felt at peace with your parents.

The funeral and cremation passed with you and your mother holding each other up. As the two of you jointly picked up the bone fragments with chopsticks and placed them in the urn, you came to terms with the fact that the relationship with your mother would never go back to what it was. A sense of filial duty stirred within you for the first time in a while only it wasn’t out of guilt—this time, you genuinely wanted to take care of your mother.

You found yourself outside of the crematorium waiting for your mother to settle things when Issei walked up to you. He’d been at the funeral ceremony, of course, but the crematorium wasn’t a part of his duties so you were surprised to see him. He still wore his black slacks and matching button down but his tie was nowhere to be seen and he’d undone the top two buttons of his shirt.

He began by inquiring about the cremation to make sure everything had gone well. You assured him everything went well before an awkward silence pervaded the space between. Desperate to fill the void with anything, you asked Issei a question only to find him simultaneously asking you one.

“Talked to Hana—”

“How long are yo—”

Your face flushed and Issei rubbed the back of his head as the two of you apologized for interrupting each other.

“You go first,” Issei gently insisted.

“I was going to ask if you’d talked to Hanamaki lately. I saw that you two went out…” The implication of your words caused you to clamp your mouth shut while your face burned even more.

“You saw…us?” Issei sounded amused and you looked up to find that same smirk from six years ago that produced butterflies in your stomach.

“Er…yeah,” you admitted. “I kinda found Hanamaki’s social media and happened a picture of you two.”

“Oh, that picture. That was the last time I saw him since he lives in Tokyo now. We still text though.”

“So Tokyo, huh? Good for Hanamaki.”

“What about you?” Issei asked, his eyes more intense than before. “Your mother mentioned you live in the city.”

“Uh yeah,” You said fidgeting with the material of your kimono. “I live in Yokohama. Got a job offer after graduation and I’ve been there ever since.”

“…Are you going back now?”

Issei avoided your eyes by looking away—an old habit you instantly recognized. Like the old days, you moved in the direction of his face and stood on your tippy toes with a cheeky grin on your face. Surprise flashed on his eyes before his mouth broke into a fond smile.

“I’m staying for a couple more days.” You replied and the next word flowed out naturally like water in a stream. “Why?”

“I wanted to catch up with you.” He admitted before his expression sobered. “Only if you’re up for it though. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“I’d love to catch up!”

And with that, the two of you exchanged contact information before your mother approached you. As you watched Issei walk away, you mother piped up next to you.

“He’s a good man. I regret not seeing it before.” It wasn’t exactly an apology but the effect was the same to you.

“And I regret letting him go,” you lamented.

“You still have a chance.” She replied and you met her gaze.

“I don’t. He has a girlfriend.”

“Then why did I overhear his boss trying to set him up on a date with his niece?” Your mother countered and then started to walk towards the newly arrived taxi.

“Wait, what?!”

Heeding your mother’s advice, you dressed up for your meeting with Issei. He picked you up and the first thing you noticed was the similar colored clothing the two of you wore. Laughing it off, you got into his car and made small talk about the changes in town while on route to the restaurant.

The conversation gave you the perfect excuse to admire him at ease. Issei had always been handsome but you had to admit that he’d really grown into his looks. Any lingering teenage awkwardness was gone and replaced by an air of confidence that he exuded in his speech, mannerisms, and voice. From his defined jaw to the protruding veins on his exposed forearm, you memorized each detail and replaced the memory you had of college freshman Issei with it.

Issei took you to the same restaurant you spent most of your evenings in during high school waiting tables and chatting with the volleyball team after closing time. Unlike the rest of the town, the tables, chairs, and décor remained the same and you were overcome with emotion the moment you walked in. After chatting with the owner for a bit, Issei led you to the table the boys would always take after practice to wait until you got off work.

“I can’t believe this place remained the same after all these years.” You commented after placing your orders.

“I know,” Issei replied grinning. “I can’t imagine this town without it.”

“Just sitting here brings back so many memories of us…” you trailed off when you noticed Issei’s unwavering gaze on you.

“Ah! And the boys too!” You added letting out a nervous giggle before taking a sip of your beer to cool your heated head. “How are they, by the way? I’ve seen Oikawa’s posts of Argentina but what about Iwaizumi?”

The conversation about the whereabouts of the volleyball team lasted until the food arrived. You asked about his family in between bites and Issei answered each of your questions about his siblings and parents.

After finishing your meal and ordering a second round of drinks the conversation switched over to work with Issei eager to find out what you did.

“Financing! Can you believe it?” You laughed. “Specifically, in the mortgage department.”

“Seriously?” Issei chuckled. “Whatever happened to being a novelist?”

“Life happened.” You answered and raised your glass in a mock toast.

“Ah, trust me. I completely understand.” He clinked his glass against yours and the two of you laughed before taking a sip.

After finishing your second beer, the warmth in your cheeks and your animated speech were all clear signs you were buzzed. It wasn’t until you asked the question on your mind since you’d seen that picture that you realized just how buzzed you actually were.

“So…are you seeing anyone?” Your eyes were lowered, but when Issei didn’t respond you looked up.

Issei’s eyes were darker than they’d been. The intensity of his gaze locked your eyes on his leaving you vulnerable. You were suddenly keenly aware how intensely your heart was beating and wondered if Issei could hear it.

“Why do you ask?”

His strained voice sent chills down your spine making you painfully aware of the building tension in your core. You knew what you wanted and you suspected he wanted the same thing but you needed to confirm your suspicions.

“I saw your social media account and the picture you used. The one where you’re hugging a woman…smiling…”

The more words that spilled out, the more pathetic you sounded and you eventually trailed off while averting your eyes.

“We broke up about a year ago.”

“What?!” The word slipped through your lips when your eyes snapped back to see him sheepishly running a hand through his wavy black locks.

“We wanted different things. I felt like I was holding her back so I let her go.”

“I completely understand,” echoing his words, your hand reached across the table to his. “My engagement got cancelled for similar reasons. He wanted marriage sooner than later and I wasn’t ready.”

The two of you shared a moment when, out of the blue, Issei took ahold of your hand and used his thumb to run slow circles on your palm; a gesture he’d always used to signal he wanted to be alone with you. Your breath hitched and a lazy smirk graced his face as he lifted your wrist and pressed a kiss on your pulse point.

“I-Issei,” you gasped and darted your eyes around the room to ensure no one had seen.

“Let’s get out of here. Come to my place.”

His voice was like honey to your ears and you nodded as the tension that’d been building spread to other parts of your body. With that the bill was settled and Issei drove you to his place while keeping a hand on your inner thigh that would occasionally drift and tease your clit.

By the time the two of you made it inside his home, Issei’s tongue had tasted every part of your mouth while his lips left yours swollen. Flushed and whimpering, Issei planted wet butterfly kisses down your jaw until he reached that spot on your neck that elicited a moan from your parted lips.

Issei groaned before sucking on that spot and you to pulled him closer by tugging on his hair—a move you knew drove him crazy.

“Fuck,” his warm breath fanned on your neck. “Fuck—not here.”

He picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulled his lips into another wet kiss that had him groaning into your mouth as his erection pressed against your soaked panties. He set you down on his bed and broke the kiss that left the two of you panting.

His hungry gaze traveled all over your body. Your dress was hiked up and he could make out the darkened material of your panties—the proof of your arousal. With a groan his stripped out of his shirt letting you take in his broad chest that you ached to touch. Grinning from your cute reaction he pressed a kiss to your forehead before snaking his arm behind your waist and laying you down on this middle of his bed. You reached for his clothed erection but Issei gripped your hand and placed it over your head.

“Not yet, pretty girl. Let me spoil you today.”

Issei’s skilled hands worked on your dress and slipped it off you followed by your bra and panties. His eyes raked over your body taking in the flushed skin, erect nipples, and trembling legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmured and leaned over to lick and suck on your sensitive peaks. Each flick against a nipple had you gasping. Each bite had you arching your back. The longer he teased, the more desperate your need to be touched and filled became until you took his hand and placed it between your legs.

“T-touch, me Issei, p-please...”

“That’s my needy girl,” he cooed and pressed one last kiss to your chest before settling between your legs and admiring the way your dribbling cunt clenched around nothing. “Such a pretty cunt.”

He flattened his tongue on your throbbing clit sending shocks of pleasure up your body. Issei’s mouth that alternated between sucking and biting down on your clit had you in tears from the immense pleasure and you lost count of how many times you came on his face. When his tongue delved into your aching cunt, you rutted against his face to push his tongue in deeper.

“Nghhh—Isseiiiii! Need y’now, please!”

Issei’s head rose from between you legs and just sight of his face covered in your arousal had your cunt pulsing again.

“What was that baby?” He teased and licked the translucent substance off his lips. His hands began to work on his pants and your eyes greedily took in his tented underwear. “Is this what you want, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes! Need it!”

It’d been so long since you’d been with a guy let alone one of Issei’s size. In fact, you were certain Issei was the biggest you’d ever had. That being said, the sight of his erect cock had you whimpering from both apprehension and desire.

Issei, always so attentive, noticed your reaction and settled himself on top before pressing a sweet kiss on your lips and assuring you he’d be gentle. You nodded before wrapping your arms around his neck while he rubbed his cock between your folds and against your clit in the way he’d always done before filling you.

Once your slick coated his cock, he lined himself at your entrance and slowly sheathed himself into you. The stretch was still painful even with the prep but as soon as he was halfway in, your walls relaxed and pain turned into pleasure. After bottoming out, Issei waited for your cunt to relax around him before he started moving.

With each thrust, Issei hit that spot near your cervix that built up your release time and time again. Every time your walls fluttered and your cum coated his cock, your nails raked over his back and Issei’s groans filled your ears until he too found his release. The two of you were insatiable and continued your lovemaking until the early hours of the morning.

In the end, you stayed the night and woke up mid-day with your head against Issei’s chest and his arms wrapped around you. Listening to his steady heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his chest convinced you of the thought you’d mulled over since your father’s funeral.

You wouldn’t return to Yokohama.

268 notes · View notes

onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (next part)

(word count: 3,098)

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

Part Two: Sapnap

Sapnap has never thought of himself as an outwardly sentimental person, but nights like tonight make him consider changing his mind on that front.

Things have been weird, lately. Weird in a different kind of way from the usual weirdness. Personally, he blames Wilbur Soot and his dumb drug van that has somehow evolved into a dumb country and a dumb revolution, because apparently he thinks it’s fine to be invited onto someone else’s server and promptly declare independence. But whatever, it’s fine, and so what if it’s getting a little more intense than the games they usually play? So what if Dream’s starting to get strangely obsessive about the whole thing? Sapnap thinks he might too, in his position, and there’s no need to get too worried about it anyway. There’s no way this war—if it can be called a war at all—will last much longer.

But it’s been weird.

Nights like this, though, remind him that it’ll all be okay in the end. Because tonight started out as a war meeting, all of them hunched around a table in Dream’s base, talking over plans and hypothetical ways to kick the L’Manbergians straight into next week the next time they fight. But over time, conversation shifted to other things, lighter things, and Dream flicked water at George’s face for some reason, and George retaliated by throwing small objects at Dream’s mask, and somehow that’s resulted in them all piling onto each other in front of the TV, watching really terrible horror movies. Dream tosses popcorn at the screen whenever someone makes a horrendous decision, and they’re all cracking stupid jokes and making silly commentary, and Sapnap feels warm and tired and safe. It feels like old times, when it was just the three of them on this server, or maybe even like just a few months ago, before Wilbur got it into his head to create a drug empire and they were all still friends, and the stealing and the griefing was all in good fun and the disc thing was a joke and not something that Dream is still weirdly preoccupied with.

It’s a nice reminder. Things were good before, and they’ll be good again. Everything will go back to normal soon, and right now, with Dream draped across his lap and George half sprawled over both of them, he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be.

And then, Tommy stumbles into the room.

He blinks a few times, because what? But no, Tommy’s still there, even though this is about the last thing he expected to happen. Scratch that, it’s like, the negative third thing he expected to happen tonight, because what is Tommy doing here?

There is a split second in which his instinct is to go for a weapon. But even disregarding how fucked up that is, because this is still Tommy, still the kid he joked around with and hung out with in the early days, and he doesn’t want him hurt or dead no matter how annoying he’s been lately—even disregarding all of that, the urge fades quickly.

Because Tommy looks like shit.

He’s unarmed and unarmored, nothing on his back but his usual t-shirt, and that appears rumpled, like he slept in it and didn’t bother to change before coming here. His hair is mussed, even more than normal, and his eyes are red-rimmed. Sapnap would chalk it up to sleep deprivation if there weren’t obvious tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Which, holy shit. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tommy cry before. So what the hell could have happened that he would show up in Dream’s base of all places, alone and looking like this?

“Uh,” he says, very eloquently. “We’re having a war meeting? What are you doing?”

Tommy’s gaze drifts from them to the TV and back to them again.

“Oh, good,” Tommy says, and he sounds… off. Like he’s trying too hard to sound casual. Sapnap’s not quite sure how he knows that, except that there’s an odd strain in his voice, and the words don’t seem to come easily, like he has to search for them, and that’s wrong. Tommy delivers insults as easily as breathing, even when they’re not particularly clever ones. “Here I was worried you were having a sleepover. Like middle school girls.”

“We can have a sleepover if we want,” George mutters, sounding slightly offended and also like he’s too tired for this. Which, honestly, Sapnap completely agrees with.

“If this is supposed to be a sneak attack or something, it’s a really bad one,” Dream says, and finally puts in the effort of rolling to his feet in one smooth motion and taking a few steps in Tommy’s direction. “Why are you here, Tommy, and how soon can you leave? Or do we need to make you?”

It’s definitely too late at night to sound threatening. Even Dream can’t manage it very well, too much sleep creeping into his voice.

Except it seems to work. Tommy flinches, and takes a step back. Alarm bells start clamoring in Sapnap’s head, because the one thing Tommy has never been is scared of Dream.

Dream catches it too. His head tilts, and he stops his advance. Sapnap exchanges glances with George, and they both get to their feet as well, the earlier warmth and comfort almost forgotten. The movie continues to play in the background, disregarded.

“I’m not here for a fight,” Tommy says, and Sapnap can’t stop his snort.

“You’re always here for a fight,” he says, and Tommy—

Tommy looks at him. Just looks at him, and it’s only for a second, but he could swear that there is something dark in Tommy’s eyes, something dangerous, something that Sapnap has seen before but never in the face of someone so young, something that speaks of loss and bloodshed and an unshakable determination to do whatever it takes. To accomplish what, he doesn’t know, and he can’t find out, because Tommy blinks, looks away, and the moment is gone.

“Not tonight,” Tommy says, and turns his gaze on Dream. And keeps it there. “I want to propose a deal.”

“You want to propose a deal,” Dream repeats. “You want—you came here at three in the morning to try to make a deal with us? I—okay, why? What do you want, and why do you think we’ll give it to you?” Dream’s voice is increasing in both volume and snappiness, and Sapnap can’t blame him; deals, when coming from Tommy, inevitably end in some sort of scam, in his experience, and if Tommy’s really trekked all the way over to their base to try to pull one over them, he’s got another thing coming to him.

But at the same time, Tommy has actually trekked all the way over to their base, looking like he’s halfway to death via exhaustion. His voice is flat, and he’s watching Dream like he’s some sort of predator, like he’s going to attack at the slightest provocation. Which might just be the case, but the point is that Tommy has never seemed this aware of it. Never been careful, never given Dream the respect and caution that his skills deserve, despite Dream besting him in combat time and time again. So somehow, Sapnap doesn’t think that a simple scam is the end goal here.

“You’re going to give it to me because I know you, Dream,” Tommy says, lifting his chin defiantly, and there, there is some of his usual spark, his usual confidence. Odd, though, that it seems to be just that: confidence, not false bravado, not a child playing in shoes several sizes too big, not Tommy trailing after Wilbur like a puppy trying to learn to be a wolf. Just surety. “I know what you want.”

“Oh?” Dream crosses his arms. “And what do I want?”

“The discs,” Tommy says, and Sapnap feels his jaw hit the floor. “And I’ll give them to you. No scams.”

Dream has gone still. Shocked, Sapnap thinks. “You’ll give me the discs?” he says. “Just like that, you’ll give them to me?” He’s disbelieving—but he’s interested. That much is plain as day. And Sapnap still doesn’t understand why Dream cares about those things so much, because sure, Tommy was being really annoying about them, but at the end of the day, discs are all they are. Music discs like any other music discs.

“I mean, no, not—not just like that,” Tommy says. “This is a deal, man, I want something from you. But that’s what I’m offering. The discs. Both of them.”

Sapnap scans his face, his posture, searching for any sign of a lie. There is none. Tommy’s lips are drawn in a thin line, his expression more serious than any Sapnap has ever seen from him.

“Okay, what is it?” he asks.

“L’Manberg’s independence,” Tommy says. “Independence for the discs.”

And that’s—that’s laughable. This revolution of theirs has barely been going on for a month, and it’s already painfully obvious that they’re going to lose, and badly, that they don’t have the resources or the manpower to defeat Dream. They’re going to crush them; they’re not about to let them form their own country right in the middle of the Greater SMP just because of a couple of music discs. That would be stupid.

Except Dream’s still interested.

“You’d be willing to give up the discs?” he asks, an odd note in his voice, and—he’s considering it. He’s actually considering it.

“Oh, come on, Dream,” George says, apparently thinking along the exact same lines. “You can’t just—”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and shifts his weight between his feet. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Dream. His whole body is tense as a bowstring. “I mean, you know. Sometimes you’ve got to think about what’s important.”

“Did Wilbur ask you to do this?” Dream says.

Tommy stays silent. For a moment, Sapnap takes that as a yes, as agreement, and a burst of anger flares, surprising him. But the core of it is this: sure, Tommy’s irritating, but the discs are important to him. That much has been made extremely clear. So for Wilbur to force the kid to give them up for the sake of his grand country would be messed up.

But Dream laughs, soft and low. “He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?” he says, and Sapnap starts, looking back to Tommy for his reaction.

Tommy winces.

Did the child really waltz into enemy territory without telling anyone where he was going? That’s stupid, even for him.

“What Wilbur doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Tommy snaps, and then scowls. “Well, usually. I take that back, actually. But I’m not here because he told me to. I’m here because this—this is the best choice. It’s the best outcome. So how about you just take the fucking things, and then you go away and leave us alone forever, eh? How about that?”

Dream hums. “And how do you know I won’t take the discs and then raze your little country to the ground anyway?” he asks. “What would stop me?”

Tommy levels a flat stare, and for a second, it’s like there’s someone else peering out of his face.

“I’d fucking stop you, you bitch,” he says. “I’m not—I’ve got news for you, buddy. You think you’re some kind of god. Well, you’re not. You’re just some guy, just like the rest of us, and so what if you’re all strong and shit? There’s always someone stronger.” He pauses for a moment. “There are worse monsters out there than you, Dream. More powerful things. And if you start trying to play your games with me, I’ll take you the fuck out. Don’t even try me. I don’t—I don’t have time for this.” His voice cracks suddenly, and Sapnap looks on in horrified fascination, trying to make sense of anything he’s saying. “Look, you still want the discs, yeah? You can have them. Just give L’Manberg its independence. I won’t try anything. They’re yours to keep, forever. I won’t fight you. So c’mon, you green bastard, do we have a deal?”

Throughout this speech, Dream has gone very, very still.

“More powerful things than me?” he asks. “Tommy, this is literally my server. I think you’re underestimating me here.”

“No,” Tommy says. “No, I’m really not.”

Dream stays silent for a moment. Sapnap would bet anything that underneath his mask, he’s frowning.

“Alright,” he finally says. “Show me that you have them here, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Sapnap would protest. He feels like he should. A couple of discs aren’t worth allowing a whole new country to form in their server. But Dream’s tone brooks no argument, and more than that, there’s definitely something wrong with Tommy, something that grabs his attention and keeps it, even though he can’t put a finger on what it is. So he just watches as Tommy brings his enderchest out of his inventory, and pulls out two music discs, staring at them both for a long second.

And then, he holds them out toward Dream.

“The discs for L’Manberg,” he repeats, and his voice is colorless.

“The discs for L’Manberg,” Dream replies, and takes the discs from Tommy’s hand. Tommy jerks his arm back quickly, face going pale as a sheet as he stumbles a bit.

“Don’t,” he says, and he’s shaking, shaking hard, “don’t you fucking, don’t fucking touch—”

Sapnap’s not sure what the issue is. Dream’s fingers might have brushed Tommy’s when he accepted the discs, maybe, but he doesn’t know why that would cause such a reaction. Dream freezes in place, startled, and it’s impossible to tell where he’s looking, so Sapnap exchanges another glance with George and steps forward, intending to calm Tommy down, perhaps, to guide him out of the base so he can get back home. Maybe he’ll walk him himself; he’s not sure he trusts the kid not to get eaten by a zombie on the way, in the state he’s in.

But Tommy wheels on him, stabbing a shaking finger at him, and he stops in his tracks.

“Don’t,” he says, and he’s near tears, barely getting the words out, and Sapnap feels so lost. “Don’t get near me, just, just fuck off, why don’t you?”

“You’re in our base!” he says incredulously. “Tommy, what is up with you?”

Tommy just shakes his head. His eyes drift back over to Dream, and the discs in his hand. His face contorts, and Sapnap can’t even begin to interpret the expression he’s making, something sad and angry and desperate all at once, but with something else, something… weird. Everything about this is weird, though, and he doesn’t particularly want to admit that he’s slightly worried about TommyInnit, but frankly, he’s not sure he has a choice.

Because he’s slightly worried about TommyInnit.

“It’s for the best,” Tommy says, quietly, as if to himself, but his voice sounds so wrecked that Sapnap’s first instinct is actually to give him a hug. It’s easy enough to refrain, but still. “It’s for the, it’s for the best. For L’Manberg. It’s, um—” He glances up, right at Dream’s mask, and flinches again. “Right. I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but it never is. Bye, Dream.”

And then he’s backing out the entrance, and he’s gone.

“Bye, Tommy,” Dream says, somewhat belatedly, and then they all stand there in silence for a good two minutes. Dream turns the discs over and over in his hands, a repetitive motion. Sapnap recognizes it for what it is—a self-soothing mechanism, something to calm himself with. He’s rattled.

“So, that was really weird, right?” George says, and Sapnap lets out a long breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d say that was weird, George.” And then he whirls on Dream. “And you! Are you serious right now? You’re just going to, what, let them make their country, just like that? Over a couple of discs? Seriously?”

Dream takes a moment before replying, and when he does, his voice is low, considering.

“I want to see where this goes,” he says. “I didn’t see this coming. I didn’t think that Tommy would be willing to give up these discs for—well, for anything. And the fact that he did this on his own? Without even telling anyone? You’re right, it’s weird. I want to figure it out.” He shrugs, posture untensing. The discs vanish into his inventory. “Besides, I have the discs now, which means I have power over him. And we can always declare war again later if we want. I promised him L’Manberg’s freedom, not that they would get to keep it.”

He frowns. “I guess.”

Power over Tommy. Normally, he’d agree. Holding the discs over his head in the past has worked wonders. But the way Tommy looked, the way he came to them of his own volition, suggested giving up the discs himself—something about him has changed, and Sapnap’s no longer sure that it will be that simple. Because sure, his face when he gave them up was agonized, but then there was everything else, too, everything he said, the way he was acting, like he thought there was some bigger threat on the horizon, and that it wasn’t Dream.

Weird. Just, so weird.

“Alright, I guess we see how this goes, then,” George says.

“Yeah, we’ll see how it goes,” he echoes, and wonders why the words inspire such dread in him.

They go back to their movie. But though they sit together again, pressed into each other’s sides, none of them relax. The tension in the room does not leave, and he knows that none of them are paying attention to the movie at all, that all of them are lost in their own thoughts, and he resents it, a bit. He wants that easy camaraderie back. Wants his friends, his friends and simpler times, before war, before discs, before Tommy-fucking-Innit and all the rest of them. Just him and Dream and George, messing around, doing what they want, making a server into a home.

Simpler times seem like a long way away. Sapnap thinks about it long into the early morning, long after the credits stop rolling, and can’t come to a conclusion that satisfies him. Can’t find peace. He doesn’t think the other two can, either.

But then, he’s not sure what else he expected. Sometimes, he thinks he’s forgotten what peace means.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #sapnap #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #/rp #cw swearing #cw violence mention #cat writes fic #long post #time travel au

48 notes · View notes

puckmeupfam · 4 years

Text

Emotion | Andre Burakovsky

Word Count: 3064 Note: I’m a sucker for soulmate AUs and this has been in my head for awhile. Excuse any spelling/grammar errors because I barely edited it. Sorry I couldn’t find a way to include Burky getting into a random car thinking it was his Uber or Backy calling him his “baby boy.”

Growing up, no matter how confusing everything else seemed to be, you knew one thing for certain: everyone had a soulmate. You could purposefully communicate with your soulmate no matter how far away they were and any especially strong emotions were shared whether you wanted them to be or not. There were some rules that had always seemed rather nitpicky to you. You couldn’t communicate where in the world you were, or your full name, or anything too identifiable. But other than that, the whole thing always seemed amazing to you - there was someone out there who you would know better than you knew yourself, someone meant for you.

There was one major problem in your personal circumstance. Your soulmate was much, much further away than you would like. As early as pre-school you remembered getting feelings of your soulmate’s emotions before dawn. Excitedness at breakfast. Boredom while you brushing your teeth in the morning. Sometimes you would even be woken up as early as three in the morning with exuberance and for hours you would be too jittery to get back to sleep.

Around the time you started school ou had begun receiving messages from him. You were forced to the conclusion at just six-years-old that your soulmate was a complete idiot. The messages he was sending you were in utter gibberish. Your first real encounter with your soulmate consisted of him waking you up early with his words that made no sense. It was annoying and you had to go to school tired. In the car, there was more and you sighed. But by the time of your spelling test, you had had enough. You were trying to focus and there was a voice in your head interrupting your thoughts. No one had ever officially taught you how to send communications but you couldn’t sit back and let him bother you any longer. You closed your eyes tightly and focused as hard as you could.

“Could you please shut up!” Yes, you had been taught not to say things like that to anyone let alone your soulmate but drastic times called for drastic measures. Luckily for you, your soulmate finally stopped talking. You did feel a wave of… something, but while it was odd and made you feel slightly shaken it was now time for recess, and all of your soulmate problems were soon forgotten as you ran for the swingset.

Later, as you grew up and learned how to articulate the millions of emotions that encapsulated your life, you would be able to classify that feeling better. Apprehension.

The next day was a Saturday and the weather was nice enough that you got to color outside. You sat criss-cross applesauce on the grass even though it made you a bit itchy. As you were deciding which shade of pink to use you felt a tumbling in your belly that you usually associated with the first day of school or singing a song at camp all by yourself. Nerves.

That’s when it came through. The stuttered, “hi.” The word didn’t sound like you had ever heard it before. Not clear like your teacher or confident like the boy who sat across from you in class. But whether or not it sounded like he was eating saltwater taffy, this was an improvement to you. So you squared your shoulders and sent back a hi of your own. Unlike the first time, the feeling that washed over you felt good. This time it felt… cheery. The feeling egged you on so you sent another message.

“My name is (Y/N).”

His response came, still not clear but slightly less timid, “‘m Andre.”

—

Over the years your Andre had become more and more fluent in English. After you’d grown up a bit you had asked him enough roundabout questions and done enough research that you had determined that what he was speaking was not gibberish but rather Swedish. While the difference between the two wasn’t that big to eight-year-old-you, it was still an improvement.

It was when each student in your class had to do a report on a country of their choice that you had to come to terms with the logistics. When the teacher announced the project you had been quick to raise your hand and request Sweden. But when you sat down to do the research you discovered the startling fact that you were about five thousand miles away from the country. For Andre, it was around dinner time when he must have felt your thunderstorm of emotions. Disappointment. Frustration.

“What is wrong?”

You sighed and replied sadly, “you’re far away.” His response was slow and when it came back it was just a solemn, “very far.” For a minute you just sat and stared at the wall. Before Sweden had seemed like this fun, magical place where your soulmate would live until the day you were both ready for him to appear on your doorstep. It wasn’t until this random Monday that it occurred to you that it might not be that easy. That you were separated by oceans not streets. That you may very well never be able to find him.

That’s when his words came, “It is very far. But we are soulmates and I will come to you.” He sounded more certain in those big plans than he ever was before and you genuinely felt like if anyone could make something like that happen it would be Andre.

You tried your best to transmit all of those feelings and hopes to him and thousands of miles away, on a completely different continent you knew he would sense it. Reassurance.

When you were in your teenage years it was a definite fact that Andre was your best friend. He had always been your soulmate and you’d always had a certain affection towards him with his goofy jokes and dumb ideas. But over time he had become your confidant and he had become yours. You’d become decently proficient at Swedish- enough that he could complain to you about his parents or his totally unfair and definitely rigged penalty. It had also become your party trick at school to teach everyone the Swedish swear words that you had learned from Andre.

You knew that he played hockey and that it dominated his time and his thoughts. You’d felt waves of excitement, disappointment, and pure adrenaline throughout his games. But it was in 2013 that, together, the two of you came to terms with the fact that he was going to be drafted. While you were so proud that he was going to be living out his dream, another part of you was full of nervous excitement because not only would he be playing professionally… he would be playing professionally in North America.

In the weeks leading up to the draft, there seemed to be a constant flurry of nervousness coming through your connection. You did your best to take deep breaths to send back as much calm energy as you could muster. There were times when you knew he was sitting awake. Trepidation.

“It’s going to be fine, ‘Dre,” you would tell him, “you’ll go where you’re supposed to be.”

“But what if no one takes me,” you would hear in his nervous whisper.

“From everything you’ve told me about yourself you’re really good so unless you’ve been lying to your dear and beloved soulmate, someone will pick you,” you were trying to come off as cheeky, trying to make him smile even if you couldn’t see it for yourself. His anxiety was starting to diminish but your own mind was filling up with something else… something that you spurred you on to say more. To make him understand.

“Andre. At the end of the day, if all else fails, just know that I will always pick you.”

Both of you were swimming in emotions. There was a crushing weight of something in your chest that almost brought tears to your eyes. The feelings were all new and unfamiliar and it made you feel too overwhelmed to try and categorize. So you chose one of the simpler ones. Bliss.

The day of the draft you had practically glued yourself to the TV. You swore you could feel Andre’s nausea. As it was all gearing up you made sure to tell him how proud of him you were no matter what happened. You sat through most of the first round chewing your lip before the twenty-third pick came up and with absolutely no preamble you heard it.

“Washington takes Andre Burakovsky.”

The camera panned to the player and his family. Your jaw dropped as you practically drowned. Disbelief. Glee. Euphoria.

You knew but asked anyway, “is that you?” You swore you saw him laugh before he said “yeah.” The voice in your head was full of happiness and tears sprung your eyes as you laughed. Anyone watching would think you were deranged but there he was. Still not with you, though you chose not to dwell on that, but he was real. And you had to say it, “you’re so hot.” Through the screen, he shook his head jovially while the wide smile seemed unable to leave his face. As the Canucks took the stage for their pick you were still stunned. Andre was chattering to you happily but you couldn’t quite focus. “It’s you,” you were interrupting his rambles and he paused. While you had already established that the Andre on the TV screen was your Andre, he knew what you meant.

“It is me… and it’s always been you.”

—

During his time on the Otters you let him focus on hockey while simultaneously teetering on the edge of Something. He was on the verge of making it and you didn’t want to complicate that, but you were both acutely aware of each other. For as long as you could remember Andre was yours and him being in the NHL didn’t change that. Over time you’d gone from kids who could barely conceptualize that the voice in their head was a real person to teenagers who were friends and now you were adults who were a bit more. You were falling for your soulmate.

On the night of his debut with the Caps, you were bubbling over with delight. You were sitting on the floor in front of the same TV that you watched him get drafted on. The camera followed him as he did his first lap on NHL ice and like the first time your mind went blank except for Andre. You were enraptured watching him during the anthem and when the game started your eyes didn’t follow the puck, instead they stayed trained on number sixty-five.

Suddenly there was a turnover by the Canadiens and there was Andre with a one-timer and you actually screamed as you watched your soulmate score his first goal just six minutes and forty-three seconds into his NHL debut. As he jumped the boards you did your best to focus enough to send him a clear message. He was tackled by his team so you weren’t even sure if he got it until he emerged to high five everyone on the bench. That’s when you heard him. Short and tooth-rottenly sweet.

“For you.”

Pride.

—

Not every day was as rejoiceful as that one. His upper-body injury during their 2018 Cup run hit him hard. He had missed time due to injuries over the last two seasons and he had been hoping to prove himself. Healing during the playoffs gave him far too much time to overthink. Every time he told you about a pass that missed or a shot that was saved you did your best to talk him down and convince him to focus on healing. The trouble came when he was finally back in the lineup but seemed to psych himself out of every scoring chance. You watched as he went back to the bench after barely five minutes of ice time. Anger. Desperation. Normally you avoided communicating with him during games but you could tell he needed more than even Nicke or Tom could give him.

“Andre, don’t beat yourself up. Just focus on the team.”

“You’d pick me?”

“I will always pick you.”

Later that night, even though Andre hadn’t scored, the game was one to remember forever. Your jaw hung open as you listened to John Walton cheer, “The demons have been exorcised! Good morning! Good afternoon! And good night Pittsburgh! We’re going to Tampa Bay! The Capitals have done it!”

Shock. Thrill.

When Washington won the Cup final against Vegas you were overpowered by Andre’s triumph and ecstasy. You couldn’t even tell where his excitement ended and yours started. While he spent the rest of the summer drunk on happiness and an unbelievable amount of alcohol you found yourself oddly jealous. The two of you had never really discussed a plan for meeting. But now you were selfishly upset that he had gone through this momentous life event without you. That he had gone so much of his life without you by his side. You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to distract him. You told yourself it was because you had to make your education a priority. But Andre was out there.

When the season started again with the team affected by their Cup hangover, you could feel Andre’s stress. And though you were wallowing in your own cowardice, you pushed it aside to support him and let him focus on hockey. You did your best to congratulate him on every goal and reassure him about every loss. Even though the team was doing well, even clinching their division title, it was a tough time for your soulmate. He only had twenty-five points through seventy-six games. While you were so proud of him and content with the progress he was making with his sports psychologist, you could feel how heavily it weighed on him. Everyone was telling him that he was supposed to be on the first line besides Ovi. Andre was invaluable on the rush but the constant pressure seemed to do nothing but push him further and further away.

It wasn’t until July that everything changed. You were calmly stirring honey into your tea when it hit you right in the chest. Dread. It felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. Something was clearly very, very wrong. Worry settled in your stomach and you took a moment to steady yourself before reaching out.

“Are you okay?”

“I got traded.”

You felt vaguely hollow. Another major life event that you weren’t there for. And this time it wasn’t jealousy that you felt but sadness. He needed you and you weren’t with him.

“I’m terrible. The Capitals dumped me because they knew I wasn’t good enough.”

“Andre, could you please shut up,” you said, quoting the first time you ever spoke to him, “you’re fucking amazing, I know it, and maybe now you’ll finally get the chance to show everyone else.”

His grief dispelled a bit and he replied, “I miss you.” Your eyes stung as you tried to contain your emotions so he didn’t feel the need to worry about you.

“You can’t miss me, you don’t even know me.”

“I do know you, though.”

Heartache.

You composed yourself enough to ask him where and when his voice replied Colorado it felt like the decision was made for you.

—

As soon as the Burakovsky number ninety-five jersey appeared for sale you bought it. When the dates for the pre-season came out you sprung to buy a ticket out to Denver. The travel website asked you when you would like your return flight to be and without even thinking you clicked one-way.

Your knee shook as you sat on the plane, waiting for takeoff. The cabin was tight and full of chatter but you were too busy imagining what it would be like when you finally met your soulmate to care. Eagerness.

“Everything good with you?” Andre asked. He could feel your nervous energy, but you wanted to keep the surprise.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just excited about your first game as an Avalanche,” it wasn’t untrue and you hoped he wouldn’t press for more.

“When I score it’ll be for you,” he replied. It mirrored his first-ever goal and you laughed lightly, “I have a really, really good feeling.” Giddiness.

You dressed in his jersey and spent longer than usual on your hair wanting everything to be perfect. Standing outside of Pepsi Center hours before the game you took a deep steadying breath as you thought about how your life was about to change. Your soulmate was somewhere in that building and holy fuck this was really happening.

“I’m here,” you told Andre after you had willed yourself inside. Despite your best efforts, your voice shook on the words.

“What,” his shocked reply was immediate, “no… where?” You looked up and communicated all of the signs you could see, just hoping that he had learned enough of the building to know where you were. Within minutes you heard the sound of someone running. The door flung open and there was your Andre. Amazement.

For a minute the two of you just stared at each other. He was dressed in a crisp game-day suit with his usual swoopy, messy hair and he looked so tall in person. You took one step towards him and that seemed to wake him up enough to hurriedly get over to you. Right before he actually reached you, with just a few inches distance between your bodies he stopped again. Looking up at his astonished brown eyes that were so clear even in the harsh fluorescent lighting you saw everything going through his head. It felt different than when you felt his emotions through your connection because there he was right in front of you.

“Hi,” you whispered. Andre smiled and if you weren’t absolutely gone for him before you definitely were then. “Hi,” he murmured back.

Joy.

You reached out and tangled your fingers with his. They were warm and calloused from years of hockey. Andre tightened his grip on your hand and squeezed your hand as if to check if it was really there.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me… and it’s always been you.”

Love.

#andre burakovsky #andre burakovsky imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #Colorado Avalanche #hockey imagine #Hockey Fanfiction #nhl fic #colorado avalanche imagine #i am a washington capitals fan first and a human second #emotion fic #a.burakovsky

248 notes · View notes

belovedrival · 3 years

Text

“It’s Jonas.”

It’s been almost six months but I did say I would talk about my experience, so here goes...

(It’s really long, I started this draft when Jonas was three months old)

I was told that I would be induced on March 10, a Wednesday. My due date was the 17th but baby had been measuring large for months so my doctor just wanted to go ahead with it. I agreed. We’d made it to 39 weeks and that was good. Plus, I felt huge and just...done with being pregnant.

I worked (from home) on the 10th. It felt sort of surreal, knowing that we’d be at the hospital at 5 pm that evening, but I knew I needed to work to keep my mind off what was coming. For a while, at least.

We’d started packing the hospital bags for weeks before. I’d left my suitcase open next to the bed and I’d throw things in there whenever I’d do laundry or think of something else I wanted to take. I sort of knew then that I was majorly overpacking (and in hindsight it’s laughable how much stuff I never wore/used) but at least we were prepared, right?

Yeah, about that...

Mister drove to the hospital. Since I was being induced, it wasn’t any frenetic, movie scene type, panicked dad experience. We just put our things in the car and drove there. On the way we talked about how strange it was, knowing that when we came home (God willing), there would be a baby in the car seat. Of course at that time we still didn’t know if our baby was a girl or boy.

(Mister told me later that he was almost certain baby was a boy. He said he’d heard too many nurses/medical personnel ‘slip’ while we were having ultrasounds and whatnot.)

People can choose to find out or not, but it puts a whole other dimension on the experience when you don’t know in advance. Just my two cents.

As we turned into the hospital parking lot, Mister told me to open the glove box. “There’s something for you in there,” he said. I opened it, trying to swallow the bowling ball that had lodged itself in my throat.

“Oh!” I said. “What I always wanted - an owner’s manual!”

When I’m nervous, I often joke.

There was a small white box next to the owner’s manual. In it was a necklace with an aquamarine pendant; one of the birthstones for March. Of course I cried.

We took an obligatory selfie before going inside the hospital. After getting checked in, we went to our room. I remember thinking that we’d only be in that room probably a day, and that 24 hours later, we’d be upstairs post delivery.

Ha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

I was given a drug to start labor (not pitocin). I’ve always hated needles and so getting an IV was not part of my top 100,000 Things I Love to Do List. Thankfully, the nurse who put it in was really good, so I barely felt anything.

The one major memory of this whole experience (other than Jonas, of course) was how good the nurses were. I am forever grateful to them.

Other than the IV and monitors, Mister having to sleep on the sofa, and me laying on a hospital bed, we could almost trick ourselves into imagining we were staying at some sort of hotel. Almost. For a few hours, anyway.

Wednesday night into Thursday morning was okay. I was feeling persistent pain. It wasn’t terrible, just uncomfortable, and I knew that it was part of the process. I didn’t sleep great but I was able to get some rest.

Around six o’clock there was a shift change, and my nurse for the day came in. Liz had a kind of cheerleader vibe about her, very positive, and in some other circumstances I might’ve found her annoying. But I liked her.

My doctor came in a little after seven and broke my water. That experience was...weird. I mean, it was a new experience for me, so it’s hard to describe. Uh, water is wet, so it was wet? Honestly, the thing I remember the most is that there was some meconium after Doc broke my water, which worried me a little. Baby was doing fine and no one seemed super worried, so I set it aside. I DID think it meant I was guaranteed to have the baby that day. How wrong I was, and not for the first time...

They gave me pitocin after my water was broken. So my contractions increased. It felt more like strong period cramps to me. I should say at this point that I have a high pain tolerance. I don’t know what the same level of contractions would feel like to someone else. Sometimes I was only mildly aware that I was having them.

Probably one of the most annoying things about my entire experience Wednesday/Thursday/into Friday was not being allowed to eat anything. I had ice chips, and water, and Liz managed to get me some Jello. This was actually something of an issue, because I had gestational diabetes, so at first nobody wanted to give me anything except for sugar-free Jello. I did have some of that, but as the day wore on and there wasn’t much progress, Liz talked to somebody and got me some regular Jello. I would’ve preferred something else, but Jello was what I was allowed, so Jello I got.

I...don’t really like Jello. Seriously, like if it’s the only thing, I’ll eat it, but...yeah.

The hours ticked by. Progress was slow. At first I looked forward to Liz and the other nurses coming in and checking me, but by late afternoon, it was clear that things were slooooooow. The best part of Thursday was sometime in the afternoon Liz suggested bouncing on the ball. I was really happy to get out of bed and bounce for a while. After doing that, I decided it was time for the epidural.

I’d decided beforehand I wanted an epidural. As I said, I absolutely hate needles, but I also didn’t want my body to be so stressed that labor couldn’t progress. In the back of my mind, I also thought that if the situation changed, and a c-section became necessary, the epidural would already be in place.

After the epidural was put in, I started shaking on the edge of the bed, tears rolling down my face. Liz was still holding on to me, and Mister was there, and they both asked what was wrong. I couldn’t speak for a minute. It felt a little like I was five years old, still terrified of that darn needle, and all the tension I’d suppressed had to get out somehow.

“It’s okay,” Liz said, giving me a hug. Sometimes that’s all that’s needed. I was sorry to see her go when her shift ended. She said she was working again on Saturday and that she’d stop by to see us after the baby was born, to see what we were having. (She did stop by.)

This was a constant refrain from most of the nurses: upon first coming into the room, and looking at the white board that had my information and seeing next to “Baby” was written “Surprise!!” we inevitably got the question, “You don’t know what you’re having? That’s awesome!”

Getting the epidural made the pain diminish, but it also made things more complicated for me because I couldn’t move. Overnight, a tag team of nurses turned me one way and the other, and checked me.

(I should also mention that all of the staff at the hospital had already been vaccinated, and they all wore masks into the rooms. We did not have to wear masks in the room, but if we went outside it, they were required.)

By Thursday night, both Mister and I were feeling rather discouraged. All day Thursday we’d been told that baby would come “by the afternoon”, then “by the evening”, and then late Thursday, “by Friday morning”. Bear in mind that I’d been on an IV/ induced since roughly six pm on Wednesday.

Maybe this sounds laughable to people who’ve had 72 hour long labors, but I’d been mentally prepared for around 24 hours of labor. My twin sister had been induced with her first, and her labor had gone about that long. Around midnight on Thursday I was feeling pretty discouraged. Mister wasn’t angry but he said (when we were alone) that he felt like the staff had been overly optimistic. I just don’t think either of us had thought about the implications of me being induced without any sign of active labor. In hindsight, I was glad it was done then, but...yeah. Not being mentally prepared for that long of a labor was hard. I felt bad for everyone who was waiting on updates; it felt like literally nothing happened for about thirty hours. Like I think was dilated to five by Friday morning. And effaced? Practically nothing. My cervix wasn’t getting thinner at all.

Early Friday morning, a new nurse started her shift. My first impressions of Diana were...well, I thought, “she’s definitely not as friendly as Liz.” She was more brusque. As I hadn’t slept much Thursday night, and having been in the same situation for over a day, I didn’t care nearly as much about making friends. By that point I was tired - physically, mentally, emotionally.

But Diana was awesome. She got me turned onto my hands and knees, and had me start doing some vigorous exercises, to really move labor along. I was fine with doing whatever she said because I was REALLY ready to be done. So it felt a little like my cross country days in high school, at the finish of a difficult race. I was tired, I wasn’t sure how much I could do physically, but we had a GOAL and dammit, we were going to do everything to get there!

By late morning, even after the exercises, I was still dilated at a five. Hardly effaced at all. After checking me again, Diana left the room. The option of a c-section had been discussed, especially since it was over 24 hours since my water had been broken.

“I think I’m done,” I said to Mister. Even though I’d never really been 100% ‘I want a natural birth experience’, it felt a little like giving up. I started crying again. “I just don’t think this [natural labor] is going to work. I’m done.”

“If you’re done, that’s it,” Mister said. “Tell Diana you want a c-section.”

I have to say something here about Mister. Even though he kept saying he didn’t know what he was doing or how he should support me, he was AWESOME. He supported every decision, and listened to me talk about the different options. For as hard as labor was for me, I think he had a different hard time. All he could do was literally sit there and watch me go through pain and doubt and fear, and comfort me as best he could. He was a great comfort.

(This is why even if thoughtful partners don’t think they’re doing a good job at supporting laboring moms, they most likely are. Their presence is invaluable. For anyone who doesn’t have a supportive partner with them, or an absent one, my profound condolences.)

When Diana came back in, I told her I wanted a c-section. This was around 11 o’clock Friday morning, March 12th. “I agree,” she said right away, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ve done everything you possibly can to get this baby delivered naturally. I trust mom’s instincts on this.”

Her support meant so much. Really, when a veteran nurse says they trust your instinct, how can you not feel better about your decision?

She left to contact my doctor and several other people, and Mister let people know what was going on. At that point I was more relieved that soon it would be over. I wanted to see our baby.

Mister said later that he learned that hospitals have two speeds: 1) we’re in no rush; and 2) something is going to happen NOW. While my c-section wasn’t an emergency, once the decision was made, things did happen fast. Diana brought the anesthesiologist into the room so he could numb me up. As I already had the epidural, this didn’t take very long. After a few minutes of letting the medication work, Bryce asked if I could feel my toes.

“No,” I said. It was weird. I knew I shouldn’t feel them, but I couldn’t help saying, “I’m trying to wiggle them!”

“No, no, it’s good you can’t feel them,” both Bryce and Mister said. I was wheeled out of the labor room a few minutes after that (I was not sorry to leave it) and taken to the OR. Mister went with someone else to take our stuff to the recovery room.

I’ve been in operating rooms before. They aren’t places that make me want to stay there. Bright lights, metal everywhere, many thoughts of what could go wrong...although I will say that all the staff in the OR made me feel confident. I was glad to see my doctor.

I felt better once I was in the OR (the only time in my life I’ve ever felt that way) but it felt like a long time until Mister arrived in there. He’d gone with a member of staff as they took all our stuff to a recovery room, then been taken to the OR. Once he was in place, everything started.

Doctor M had asked me before Mister arrived if he wanted to ‘announce’ was the baby was. I told her that he most likely would, but to ask him. She did, and he said yes, he’d love to do that.

There was a blue sheet in front of me so I really couldn’t see anything that went on - which was PERFECTLY FINE with me.

Obviously, I was flat on my back, and everything below my chest was numb. The doctor and others asked me at various times if I felt anything, and I didn’t (other than tugging and pulling). At one point, I suddenly smelled the unmistakable scent of something burning. “What is that? That burning smell?” I asked, glancing above me (really, behind me) at Bryce, who stood there.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.

Which immediately told me I didn’t want to know what it was.

Yeah, it was me burning, while the medical staff cauterized me, keeping me from bleeding to death.

(The fact that cesarean sections are major surgery, and regularly happen every day in the United States, is, frankly, a miracle. Everyone hears about the horror stories when something goes wrong, but considering the number of women who go through them without incident, we as a society completely take them for granted.)

As the tugging and pulling continued, and Doctor M said things like, “there’s the head”, the sense of anticipation increased. I’ve never felt anything like it before. Both Mister and I knew any moment we would meet our baby, and after waiting 39 weeks (and eight years before that), it was almost unbearable.

Doctor M said, “Here’s the baby!”

I heard a slight cry, and I looked up at Mister, who sat on my right, holding my hand. He looked down at me and said, “It’s Jonas.”

Even thinking about that moment now brings tears to my eyes. In knowing Mister almost eleven years, I’ve only seen him cry maybe five times. Including this year, on March 12th. We both were bawling, and laughing at the same time, as Jonas VERY loudly screamed his disapproval at being evicted from his warm, cozy space. At one point, Mister, laughing as he cried said, “One of the ---s (our last name) needs to stop crying in here!”

He has a rather husky cry, Jonas does. I loved his cry from the moment I first heard it (though I don’t actually like to hear him cry, if that makes any sense).

As I was sewn up, Mister moved his chair over to where our baby was, under a heat lamp. Then he brought Jonas over to me. My first thought was, he’s HUGE. My second thought was, he was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen.

He weighed nine pounds, five ounces at birth, and had a fifteen inch head circumference. After I heard that, I knew a natural birth was never going to happen. He was born on Friday the 12th of March, at 1:14 pm. The digital clock on the wall said 13:14, which I thought was cool. And it made it a bit easier to remember the time :)

He had lots of dark hair, which I loved. My sister’s had bald babies, so it was nice to have a different-looking kid. Over the last few months, his hair almost entirely disappeared due to cradle cap, and is coming back in...blond. Genetics!

I can say now that it’s past, that I was more afraid during pregnancy than I could admit to anyone, even Mister. I have always been a worrier, and finally being pregnant after so many years, and being high risk due to my age (and my shunt, and the gestational diabetes...) I was in almost constant worry of something going wrong. First of miscarriage (no one needed to tell me of the statistics regarding older mothers), then of stillbirth, like the cord getting wrapped around baby’s neck, and death happening before delivery could happen. I have heard of at least two different stories of that happening to pregnant women in the ninth month - friends of friends of mine - and the fear of that, or something else equally catastrophic happening was, at times, almost crippling. I would’ve preferred to have never been pregnant at all rather than suffer a miscarriage or stillbirth.

Perhaps it sounds childish, but mentally I didn’t think I was strong enough to have the dream of motherhood dashed, when every day of pregnancy brought that dream closer. I was (and still am) too much of a realist to ignore the statistics; I couldn’t pretend I was 22 and have a blissfully ignorant uneventful pregnancy. To this day, even after giving birth to a healthy baby, one of the biggest things that will set me off is the assumption that way too many people have. “We’re planning on getting pregnant soon.” “Just have kids, you’ll understand.” “I can take you out and make one just like you.” [a redneck phrase I’ve heard being said to a misbehaving child]

Not many of us can “plan” on getting pregnant exactly when we want to - or even within a year’s time. Not all of us can “just have kids” - they’re not like going to the store and getting a gallon of milk. (I recognize the privilege of living in a society where going to the store and expecting fresh milk can also sound arrogant to those who don’t live in one.) ‘Take out’ a kid (even said in jest), and ‘make another one’? I MIGHT have another child in the next couple years. More likely, I won’t. Not all of us can just get pregnant at the drop of a hat. (That’s assuming the one wanting to get pregnant even has a male partner or sperm donor at the ready...some never find that person to have a child with. And adoption can be a great thing, but not everyone is cut out for it. Shaming infertile and childless people for not wanting to adopt is disgusting.)

I was open with my OB-GYN about my fears during pregnancy and she referred me to several resources, and monitored me for PPD. My best friend’s son died in March 2020, a year before Jonas was born (though Billy had severe disabilities which made his death a certain thing), and my sister had had a stillborn son in August 2019 (my nephew Christian). So Jonas being born healthy was a huge relief for me. I can’t really describe the relief, except to say that as much physical weight I gained during pregnancy, letting go of the weight of the worry was felt even more deeply than losing the pounds since his birth (and I’ve haven’t lost all of that).

I will probably always worry about *something*, when it comes to Jonas. He gave me a scare earlier this week, rolling off the couch before I could catch him. He’s fine...and the incident scared me more than it scared him. But every day since he was born is a reminder of the gift he is, and I hope I never lose sight of that, even on the frustrating days (and there have been those over the last almost six months, and there will be more to come).

If you ever wanted children, and are fortunate enough to have them, cherish them. Be grateful for them, even when they drive you up the wall. Even when you only want three minutes’ peace, and they won’t give it to you. Love them anyway. I try to.

#this was heavier than i thought it would be #don't get me wrong #i had a good experience overall #nurses are awesome #nurses #hospital #birth #birthday #march 12 #jonas #2021 #life #real life #family #me and mister #mister #he's great #pregnancy #parenthood

2 notes · View notes

acrcsstheuniversee · 5 years

Text

Good Enough For Me

Pairing: Paul McCartney circa 1962 x John Lennon circa 1978 (McLennon)

Rating: Mature, readers 18+

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of porn and sex work

Words in this chapter: 1800+

Author’s Note:

Here it is! Refer to my summary and introduction post if you haven’t done so for more disclaimers, visuals, tag list info, and more.

*Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles. This is fiction and written for leisure. Aspects of the story will not be historically accurate and should not be taken extremely seriously.

Chapter 1

Already a month into the semester, Paul found himself struggling to keep up with his studies. He tried his best to focus on typing an essay on the history of guitars that’s due the next day by 10 a.m. but just couldn’t get himself to do it. Not like it was hard or anything; he just hated doing what he’s told, especially if it was something he didn’t care about. He just wanted to do music but having a degree is a necessity now.

He pressed the home button on his cracked phone screen to see that it was already midnight. He was only half way done with the assignment that could’ve taken him only 30 minutes if he wasn’t writing songs in between paragraphs.

It was all too much anyways. American universities have much more homework assignments than back in England. Times like these made him question whether or not going out of the country for school was worth it. There almost seemed like there were more cons than pros in his decision. He lacked resources, he didn’t have any friends or family here except his roommate/best friend George, he was poorer than ever, and must work and attend school part-time. If he stayed in Liverpool and just continued school locally, he probably would’ve earned his degree by now; but now he’s what Americans consider a “super senior” because he’s 21 years old with the amount of classes completed equivalent to a third year student. Despite the struggle, all of it was better than his father dictating his every move.

He shut his laptop, giving up on the assignment and leaned back into his desk chair, rubbing his tired droopy eyes.

He had two classes and work tomorrow. The thought of them made him roll his eyes. Music history from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m., a business class he couldn’t remember the name of from 1 p.m. to 2 p.m., and work right after at a restaurant nearby as a dishwasher, and occasionally performer if the artist they booked cancelled that night.

He yawned as he got up and slide into his bed. Before shutting his eyes, he turned his head and looked directly across the tiny dorm room to his right to see his childhood best friend and roommate, George Harrison sound asleep.

Paul really needs to take a note out of George’s book and sleep earlier. These late nights are just stressing him out more and more.

***

“Paul….. PAUL! Get up!”

Paul jolted up right when a sudden raised voice rang in his ear. His eyes met George’s signature judgemental look. One of his thick brows cocked and his lips curved awkwardly. He was already ready to go to class.

“Ah, what time is it?”

“9:30. I woke you up 30 minutes before hand because I just know you aren’t going to get up to the 9:45 alarm unless you expect to make it to your first class in 15 minutes,” George teased.

George is a pain in the ass and a know-it-all, but Paul loved him dearly. He comes off mean sometimes but Paul knows it’s just because he’s younger and feels the need to prove himself. Paul was used to it after all this time but sometimes, that boy needs to know when his criticisms cross the line. Despite being a dick sometimes, they’re both grateful to be going to the same college together. It was one in a million chances for George to land the same US college as Paul just a year after Paul’s acceptance.

“Okay, whatever. You have a point, I guess.” Paul groaned and rolled out of bed.

“I know I do, ha. I’ll see you later.” George messed up his friend’s darkhair more than it already was, making Paul swat his hand away.

When George left, Paul finally got ready and headed off to class with his incomplete essay.

Everyone was already seated and the professor was setting up today’s powerpoint lecture when he finally arrived. Paul sat down in the back where he’s been since the beginning of the semester. It hasn’t been a problem until a girl started to sit near him everyday since last week. When group or partnered work was assigned, she would often ask him to join her. She was kind, but Paul knew she liked him. She couldn’t make it less obvious. They would make small talk here and there---just about classes and hobbies. She was also very good at piano just as Paul was, but not too good on guitar though she claims to be.

He felt her looking at him, making him turn his head to find out he was right. She just smiled and waved. Paul nodded and gave her a small smile in return, trying not to show too much emotion, afraid she would like that too much. She already had the wrong idea but he didn’t want to be mean about it. Paul was not interested in the slightest and, he was gay. Found that out in high school and hasn’t been too shy about it since then.

When class ended, Paul left immediately to his second class to avoid conversation with anyone. This next one was business related which is something he also could care less about. He was a bit behind in this one too, but this time, he truly didn’t understand the material. He definitely needed a tutor soon.

Not much happened other than him writing mini poems all over his in-class assignment. He didn’t even bother erasing any of it before turning it in at the end of class.

Paul sighed as he made himself to his busboy job right off campus. Before stepping inside, he felt his phone vibrate. It was his dad. Ugh, he thought but answered.

“I’m about to go into work, Dad. What is it?”

“Well, hello to you too. I was just wondering how the first month in the states have been. I haven’t heard from you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine? Have you got a chance to tour places? You should send me photos.”

“No and no. I don’t want you to be sending the pictures to your friends as if you helped me get here. I know you do that.”

Paul heard his father sigh.

“Just text me when you get home and tell George I said hi.”

“Okay, bye.” Paul said before hanging up and walking into his shift.

It seemed harsh but his dad was a selfish prick. He loves to be in control of everything. He was the reason Paul came to the states to study. All he wanted was to ride the wave of success his two sons have been achieving.

In all truthfulness, Paul stopped believing his dad’s bullshit after mom died about 6 years ago. His dad seemed to have lost his way but Paul couldn’t be around all the time if he had a dream to follow. It’s been rough without his mom around but Paul had to do what he was right for him, even if that meant getting away from his dad which is something even she would’ve supported.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how irritating school and his dad were during his shift. The rude coworkers and customers didn’t help his case at all. This wasn’t new though. Paul was used to working constantly in some shape or form. The only problem this time is that he needed more money now that he’s completely independent from his father.

“Hey, busboy!” his boss called out to the dishroom from the back office. Paul rolled his eyes and went to see what he wanted.

“Yes?”

“I have to cut your hours in half. Here is your new schedule. You’re off now, so don’t wash another dish.”

“In half?” Paul took the schedule and saw that his income now would not suffice his monthly tuition payments, let alone some money for necessities. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Why?”

“We can’t afford to pay you. I’m sorry, kid.” he said nonchalantly.

“Will I be able to perform sometimes still?”

“Ehh, sure.” he said as he continued his paperwork, not even looking at Paul.

Paul rolled his eyes again. Could his life get any more annoying? He let out a sigh and clocked out. Now what, he thought making his way home.

When he got home George was playing his computer games with his big headphones to fit on his large ears. The younger man didn’t even notice his friend come in until one side of his headphones was pulled and slapped against his head.

“Hey!” George readjusted himself then paused his game to face Paul with his eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“My hours got slashed.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope, hah.”

George frowned.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you going to find another job?”

“Well, I’m going to have to because I will not be asking my dad for help.” Paul said as changed into his pajamas and hopped onto his bed.

George sighed. Paul just stared at his friend for a moment, not knowing what to say. This was bad news for both of them. George didn’t have the same financial issues as Paul did. He only had enough for himself. If George could help, he would---and Paul knew he would.

“I’ll think of something, George. Don’t worry.” Paul got under the covers and listened to his friend shut off his computer and lights before hopping into bed as well.

He stared at the ceiling and sighed, then began to think about all the ways he can make money quickly but none of it would be fast enough to pay his next tuition bill. He rubbed his eyes. It was beginning to stress him out the more he thought of it and he just wanted it to all stop for a second.

Ah fuck it, he thought before whipping out his phone and started to scroll through his favorite porn blog on Tumblr. What better way to forget about things than looking at some sexy pictures of guys?

Paul scrolled until he ran into a post that was by a male sex worker selling nude photos and thought hard to himself. It was a young guy about his age selling his photos for $25 a piece and a private snapchat story for $5 per friend request and $15 extra for screenshot privileges.

Paul bit his lip nervously. It’s been a couple years since he did sex work. All he did was some cam work, sold some nude photos, and made customized videos for people on the internet. He remembered enjoying it but there was always the parts he hated that made the job extremely draining like any other job.

He laid there staring at the screen. He must admit, it was tempting to dive in again but he was afraid what George would think.

“George… Maybe I should go back into sex work…” Paul said suddenly.

George didn’t reply. He just snored in in response. That bastard.

Paul sighed and continued to scroll through sex work blogs, inspired by the possibilities until he slowly drifted to sleep.

Tag list:

@nowandthenoldfriend

#acrcsstheuniversee fanfics #acrcsstheuniversee #acrcsstheuniversee mature #acrcsstheuniversee gefm #the beatles #the beatles fanfic #the beatles fanfiction #the beatles smut #the Beatles fluff #paul mccartney #john lennon #ringo starr #george harrison #classic rock

21 notes · View notes

doloresrojo · 4 years

Text

I rant a lot in my head, this time it was about Anne with an E.

Nothing last forever, I know that. But why does it feel that everything that is good and beautiful in this world ends before its time?

A few weeks ago, Anne with an E, was canceled; just a day after season 3 ended in Canada, not even after it was broadcast internationally on Netflix. I don’t really know the reasons why it was cancelled and I don’t care about them, none of them will make sense to me.

Could it be that it didn’t hold up because it was a good show? And by good I don’t mean that it has quality, which it does, but that everything that is inherently good is not meant to last. I know that is a very strong statement based on the cancellation of a TV show, but it’s just what it feels like to me.

It could be just my perception. It seems that everything that is good seems strange to us, impossible, not trustworthy. Or even worse: cliché, corny, immature, and childlike. When something good happens or someone does something good without expecting anything in return, there is always a feeling of caution. No one does anything for nothing, all the good that happens do not outweigh all the evilness. We have a saying in my country “Piensa mal y acertarás”, I believe that the right translation in English would be something like “Think the worst and you’ll get it right”, I am from Mexico, and to me this saying pretty much summarizes the Mexican idiosyncrasy; from a very young age we are expected to distrust everything and everyone. And even though I admit that sometimes that way of thinking results more advantageous, it really conditions you to never believe in anything good, which in the long run results more harmful.

Before I saw Anne with an E, I had only heard of Anne of Green Gables; I knew that it was a series of books that it had various adaptations but the most famous ones were the 80’s movies; I never thought that it would mean so much to me.

I binge watch the first season in a day. Anne remind me so much of me. When I was a kid I used to be very imaginative, vocal and misunderstood. I remember thinking that I could understand why people weren’t so fond of Anne at the beginning, she was intense. And I could also feel her desperate need to belong, to be loved and accepted for who she was. So many times I wished that I could get through the screen and hug her, to tell her that she was perfect just the way she was, and that she had beautiful green eyes and stunning red hair. All of those were things that I wished someone had told me, except that I don’t have green eyes or red hair, why hair is dark brown and also are my eyes.

But there is one thing that Anne had that I never did: Bravery.

Every time life knocked her down she found her way back, sure sometimes she faltered, like when she decided to drop out of school, but she went back and killed it. In spite of her insecurities she knew that her voice needed to be heard, she offer comfort and comprehension to anyone that ever felt misplaced or lonely. Cole, the wonderful Cole, what would he have done had Anne never crossed his path?

Anne is the type of person that refuses to be beat down by the world.

Anne is the type of person that won’t let it turn her into a shadow of herself.

Anne is the type of person that will encourage other to be themselves, just as she has always been.

Recently I became aware of the existence of Fred Rogers, the loving man that had a TV show for kids “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood”, this show and this man may have been an exception to the rule, his show lasted 31 seasons. 31 seasons, how did he manage?

I watch the documentary “Won’t you be my neighbor?” it gave me a mix of hope and sadness. I read the famous Esquire article by Tom Junod, Mr. Rogers’s friend in real life and the real inspiration for Lloyd Vogel, the journalist in the movie “A beautiful day in the neighborhood”. Tom Junod wrote another article for the Ataltic for the December 2019 issue; in it, Junod said something that made feel hopeless: Mr. Rogers didn’t leave any successors. Mr. Rogers believed in kindness and love above anything else, it didn’t matter to him if the person deserved it or not, for every person once upon time was a child too, and every child deserved to be treated right. I once read that we live know in a reactionary society instead of a reflective one; we shout, we demand, we insult, when we should reflect and then proceed. Even Anne learned this lesson in season 3 after that article debacle; I don’t mean that I haven’t done it too, the only reason I created a twitter account was to join the fight to bring Anne back, and sometimes I demanded Netflix and CBC for an answer and for justice. I said in the beginning that I don’t care for the reasons, I really don’t, but as time passes I wonder, is there a reflective way to bring Anne back? And if there is, will it work?

Tom Junod said that Mr. Rogers fought a battle he couldn’t possibly win, and yet he kept fighting. Anne and Mr. Rogers, and Wonder Woman, yes Wonder Woman, have this in common; they believe that love will save this world, and they are right. As cliché and corny as it sounds is the truth, even in my darkest moments I believe it. So they fight and give for the world they see and know that it can be, and seeing the world with their eyes is a beautiful thing. They have seen the darkness and yet they choose to focus in the light.

Where do they get their strength? How do they defeat hopelessness?

I guess that even though fighting is hard, giving up is even harder.

As I write this, I’ll admit, I feel tired and resigned, and yet there’s hope. Hope that one day kindness and love will start to become the core values of humanity again, and that my favorite show will be pick up for another season and as many seasons it has left. And if it doesn’t happens, if Anne with an E ends with the sweet note of her and Gilbert finally declaring their love for each other, I will be sad, I will mourn it, but I will stay with the good and with the knowledge that it did leave a mark and that it didn’t go unnoticed, that it didn’t only resonated with me.

It’s a loss and a win at the same time, it’s bittersweet. Something great was taken away but it did leave successors, and like Mr. Junod said about Mr. Rogers; the fact that people remember him, even though they don’t practice what he preached, is a sign that there is a yearning for goodness, and the fact that Anne with an E has created a revolution is also a sign for the need of goodness.

We are not doomed.

#wewillfightforanne #save anne with an e #renew anne with an e #annewithaneseason4

4 notes · View notes

acuppellarp · 5 years

Photo

Welcome (again) to A Cup-pella, Shay! We’re excited to have you and Sienna Banks in the game! Please go through the checklist to make sure you’re ready to go and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

OOC INFO

Name + pronouns: Shay, she/her Age: 28 Timezone: CST Ships: Sienna/happiness Anti-Ships: Sienna/unhappiness

IC INFO

Full Name: Sienna Marlene Banks Face Claim: Zoë Kravitz Age/Birthday: 32, September 23rd 1987 Occupation: Middle school health teacher Personality: Outgoing, nurturing, flirtatious, calm, secretive. Hometown: Dallas, TX

Bio: Sienna Marlene Banks was born straight into a Southern American dream; a large, loving extended family with a home surrounded by the picturesque white picket fence. The baby of eight children, Sienna wanted for nothing. Her father, Nelson, was a respected member of their neighborhood fire department while her mother, Renee, worked tirelessly as a stay at home mom and president of the The Marianne Scruggs Garden Club. Life was great; full of endless warm days and the joy of childhood. Sienna benefited from the guiding hands of her parents who encouraged her to find something she was passionate about. While she tried her hand at a number of different activities, only two managed to stick: singing and running cross country for her school’s track team.

With the Banks name came great responsibility. Sienna was schooled in the art of etiquette from the moment she could walk. And grew up knowing that one day she would be expected to entertain guests from every walk of life alongside her mother. With her outgoing and kind nature, hosting and the responsibilities that accompanied it came easy to Sienna. The only exception came in the shift in conversation as she got older. Suddenly everything revolved around who she imagined herself marrying and if she would have kids to carry on their family traditions. Slowly she found herself doing something she had never been forced to do before- keep a secret from her family. Because the sole crack in their picture perfect life came in the form of her parents’ strict conservative views and Sienna was slowly coming to the realization that she was gay.

She toiled under the weight of this secret all the way through her senior year of high school. Sienna had accomplished all of her parents’ dreams, she had graduated high school near the top of her class and had an acceptance letter to Brown University safely secured within her grasp. Despite her concerns about eventually coming out to her family, Sienna felt like she was on top of the world. That is, until the summer before college when one of her siblings caught her kissing a girl behind the bleachers at a track meet. The rug that was her perfect life was pulled out from under her feet. Suddenly Sienna found herself kicked out of her childhood home and cut off from contacting any of her immediate family members.

Sienna was left with one choice. She moved to Providence, RI and got her education degree from Brown University. Not a single member of family attended her graduation, a fact that made it easier for Sienna to apply for teaching positions across the United States. Outside of the social restraints of her family she discovered that she was much more easygoing and the idea of throwing applications to the wind and seeing where she landed enthralled her. At the age of 23 she accepted a position as a health teacher for Robert F. Wagner Middle School in Manhattan. The move to the big city opened up even more possibilities for exploring her identity.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon a few weeks after she moved when Sienna wandered into a local flower shop and met Reagan Lane. They bonded over a shared love of plants, a fact Sienna utilized to her advantage before purchasing a pale pink peony to present to the shop owner. This blossomed into a routine. Every Sunday Sienna stopped by the shop to purchase flowers, becoming one of Reagan’s first dedicated customers. Every Sunday she gave Reagan a flower, until a few months later when Reagan surprised her by asking her out to dinner. It wasn’t long before they were dating exclusively and what started as a casual relationship quickly became something much deeper. They moved in together and whispered dreams of the family they would surely have someday. Much like her life back in Dallas things were going perfectly. Until Sienna realized she was falling right into the plan that had always been written for her. Here she was just twenty-four years old and settling down. She felt unexplainably trapped and instead of turning to the one person who had captured her entire heart and soul, Sienna turned to the unfamiliar arms of another woman.

This continued for months until the day that Reagan caught them in the act. Unwilling to own the past that brought her to this place Sienna chose to leave as Reagan demanded, without any explanation as to why she had thrown away their relationship. She left her job and spent the next couple of years doing substitute teacher gigs across the United States. This wandering lifestyle suited her free-going nature, as did the number of casual lovers she picked up along the way. Sienna isn’t sure why she recently accepted a teaching position with East Side Middle School. Maybe it’s because she’s finally ready to settle down. Or maybe it’s because in NYC lives the one love she’s never quite gotten over.

Pets: None

Relationships:

Hunter Clarington: Roommates. Sienna’s a bit of a hippie, which Hunter makes fun of. Hunter is a bit of a grouch, which Sienna loves to poke at. Sienna admires her photography and knows the best time to pay them compliments. It works itself out.

Warblettes: Sienna has never lost her passion for singing so when she discovered the Warblettes after her most recent move she was determined to audition.

Reagan Lane: Ex-girlfriend. It’s been nearly eight years since they’ve spoken and things were left on bad terms.

EXTRA INFO

[ This is for the masterlist, but also a fun little way to get to know your character! ]

Twitter name/twitter URL/description: sienna. simplysienna. granola lesbian, if you’re into that.

Five latest tweets:

@simplysienna i’m not sure if i like the implications for my fashion sense that birkenstocks are ‘back’ in style. in my world they never left.

@simplysienna support your local songbirds tonight by tweeting support for the Warblettes! #BOTB

@simplysienna to the men puzzling over what flowers to bring home to their partners- you can never go wrong with pink peonies. take it from me.

@simplysienna i never thought i would miss texas thunderstorms but here we are. everything really is bigger in texas.

@simplysienna as someone who is tired of hearing if you can get pregnant from grinding too hard at the sadie hawkins dance- SUPPORT SEX ED IN SCHOOLS.

#accepted

4 notes · View notes

initiala · 5 years

Text

Hook-Echo (6/9)

Summary: They’re in a rut. That’s what Deputy Emma Swan tells herself over and over again as her boyfriend, Killian Jones, grows more and more distant, and more frustrated, due to complications with his dissertation research on tornado formation. But storm season’s more than halfway over and this dry spell is doing nothing to make things easier for him–or their relationship. Will everything blow over, or is there a greater storm on the horizon?

Rating: E

Content warnings: Graphic depictions of injury resulting from natural disasters, minor character death

I’m sorry. That’s all.

Thanks again to @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, and @idoltina for all they did on this.

This is also on AO3 or FF.Net if that’s how you wanna roll.

There'd been more than a couple of times in Emma's life when she'd felt like she was preparing herself for war: her first day at the police academy, when she'd been outnumbered almost ten to one by the men; the first day of school in a new school district; every day she told her social workers about the abuse and neglect from various foster parents; the day she thought Ingrid was sending her back, only to have the whole day turned on its head when she was told about the adoption papers. She wasn't a stranger to conflict, and while her armor was a little rusty, it wasn't completely out of use.

However, she didn't like feeling like she had to prepare for war with Killian.

She'd gone to bed the night before and turned over all the usual self-pitying thoughts: what did I do? Why is he mad at me? Why didn't he call? What did I say? What, what, what. Why, why, why. She'd tossed and turned and made the sheets too hot and the pillow felt too warm to be comfortable, and when sleep finally claimed her, it was fitful and full of unsettling but ultimately forgotten dreams.

So going downstairs in the morning, she was tired, she was hurt, and she was pissed off.

"You painted," was Killian's mumbled greeting from the couch.

Emma stood in the doorway, her hands going to her hips as she tried to figure out if that remark would be the last straw or not. He lay prone on his back, one arm thrown over his face to block out the light from the windows over which she hadn't hung the curtains back up.

She didn't really feel bad about that.

"I did," she said. "Didn't really have anything else to do, what with all the last minute change of plans and all."

He sighed, heavily, and sat up with what seemed like an enormous amount of effort. He also looked like he'd been run over by a tractor, which gave her some kind of schadenfreude after how bad she'd felt for almost all of last night. "I did tell you-"

"No," she said, interrupting him. The last of her patience evaporated in that moment, gone over the last week of worrying about him and not hearing anything except for the national news, over a bad night of sleep and missing him terribly, over his fucking brother putting awful ideas into her head. "Do you know who told me you were just going to high-tail it out of here for a week or more? Your advisor. Dr. Bhavsar called me after you left to give me the head's up, because he thought you'd be too, what did he call it - forgetful about what was really important. And because I love you, I didn't say a word about it when you called me from Nebraska-"

"Kansas," Killian said quietly.

"Whatever. You were hundreds of miles away before you even thought to call me." Her eyes burned and she didn't know if she was just tired or if she was actually going to angry-cry over this. "Did you think I was going to stop you?"

"I don't know."

"Killian, I want you to be done just as much as you want to be done. You don't-"

"Do you?"

Emma blinked as he got to his feet, a hard look on his face as he stared at her. "What? Of course I do! I see how frustrated you are, how it affects us."

His hands flexed and she saw the silvery scars on his left hand standing out against pale skin. "If you really wanted me to be done, you'd take your ridiculous restrictions off of me-"

"Ridiculous? You could have died!"

He laughed without humor, holding up his hand. "But clearly I didn't, with only some scars and stiffness to prove anything happened. No, you just want to keep me coddled and tucked away, while the real professionals are out there at all hours to save lives."

Hot anger was giving way to cold rage and Emma tried to keep a handle on her temper, or else she'd say something she was going to regret. "First, if you want to save lives so much, become a first responder. We need that kind of help. Second, you don't have time to be out at all hours to save lives, because whenever you're not out chasing, Liam has you working yourself half to death at the bar."

Killian snorted. "You really think he doesn't want me to be done with this, that he'd rather I waste away at his dive bar for the rest of my life?"

"I think he's a little blind when it comes to you," she said, trying to remember what Ingrid had said. "And I think he wants to protect you, because that's what he's always done, and he can't protect you if you're out there throwing yourself into a vortex of death."

He scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Liam's not the one chaining me to the back porch like a dog who might run off after the slightest noise. Liam actually wants me to complete my program, to focus on what's important."

If she'd felt cold rage before, now her blood was turning to ice. "Oh right, I forgot. Liam knows what's best. Liam, who never wastes any time correcting me or talking down to me or treating me badly for no other reason than I'm dating you. Liam, who wouldn't raise a goddamn finger to help me if my car rolled over into a ditch."

"Don't you dare question what he would or wouldn't do-"

"He as good as called me a whore, Killian!" she shouted. "He calls me a whore and all you get is a slap on the wrist, because he's fucking blind when it comes to you. He just wants you to stop fucking some hussy and finish your degree, like the fact that I love you has nothing to do with it or the fact that I have no goddamn control over when the weather happens and it's fucking sucked this year! You and him are the same, you're both taking out all your anger about your fucking program on me, when I can't do a goddamn thing about any of it!"

"You could let me go!" Killian shouted, stalking up to her. Emma didn't flinch away, not now, not when she felt so cold she might actually break if he touched her. "I could have been done weeks ago if you weren't so selfish, that storm had an actual formation-"

"Selfish?" Emma asked. "Selfish? I'm selfish because you almost died? I'm selfish because I don't want to pay for your funeral?"

"Well at least one of us has the money to do it if I did die," Killian snarled, and her heart plummeted into her stomach. "You think I like living like this, waiting around and twiddling my thumbs because I can't contribute to anything? Because I'm constantly scraping to get by and paying for everything on bar tips and photos? You just went and painted our fucking house, Emma. You didn't ask, you just did it, because it was your money and you'd have the final say anyway."

"We talked about this!" she cried. "I didn't do it to throw money in your face, you know how tight our budget is anyway! We've been talking about getting rid of that stupid wallpaper, and I had nothing else to do while you were off doing fuck-all across the goddamn country, because my friends either work or are about to have a baby, and I'm not going to face your stupid brother when he's insulted me and you don't even have the balls to stand up to him for me."

His face was dark, his eyes like ice under his heavy brows. "Well I'm sorry that I'm all the entertainment you have," he said, his voice heavily layered in sarcasm. "I didn't realize I was your only plaything, seeing as how all of your friends seem to actually have their lives together. As for Liam, I did, as you say, have the balls to stand up to him - I told him to piss off about whatever we did together, that he had no right to speak to you as he did. And he reminded me that the last time I was this involved with someone, it ended badly then too."

She was trembling with rage and fear and dread, but she refused to look away from him. "Well I'm sorry you hate living here so much," she said coolly. "What with me flinging my paycheck around in your face and all, and dreading the day you don't come home because a chase went badly. If I knew that me caring about you at all was causing you so much pain, I would have told you to get out."

His eyes flashed, and in another moment he was stalking towards the door. "A fine idea that is," he snarled, grabbing his keys from the hook and slamming the front door behind him.

To her own credit, Emma managed to wait until she reached the couch, hearing the rumble of the TIV disappearing down the street, before she quite thoroughly went to pieces.

How she was able to pick herself back up, get ready for the day, and stomach any food, she didn't know. All she kept doing was replaying the fight in her mind over and over, like she was half asleep on the couch after watching a DVD and the start menu was playing on repeat again and again and she couldn't wake up enough to turn it off.

But she was awake. She couldn't turn off her brain. All she could do was kick herself for letting her temper get the better of her, for lashing out, for telling him to leave.

Remembering the look on his face as he'd left was like a dagger of ice in her heart.

"Emma?"

Graham was trying to get her attention, but Emma shook her head. "I'm fine."

He leaned against the door, arms crossed and a worried look on his face. "Sure, and I'm Bono. Just forgot me sunglasses. Did something happen?"

The word 'yes' stuck in her throat - admitting it to someone else made it real, made it not some kind of nightmare that she could shrug off and pretend never happened. So she stayed silent and just shook her head again, not even really aware of what she was writing at her desk. "Do you need to take some time off today?" he asked.

"No."

"Emma-"

"I'm fine, chief. I'll do patrol today, I need to go do something," she mumbled, and went to grab the keys to the cruiser before Philip, the usual patrolman, could.

She drove around town at random - Storybrooke wasn't that big, after all, so it's not like she had a really set area to stick to. She did have to make herself avoid Foxglove Lane - Killian would have no doubt gone back to his brother's place, and as much as she wanted to find him and try to make up with him, she also didn't know what to say to him.

Weirdly, all she really wanted to do was call him and tell him she'd had a fight with him.

Was that strange? Emma had several people she could call or go and see - Ingrid, Ruby, Mary Margaret, her cousins Anna and Elsa who lived in Missoula, any number of the people who have taken her in as their own over the years - people she could vent to and cry on their shoulders. But the only person she wanted to talk to was Killian.

Killian, who she told everything to. Killian, her best friend. Killian, who always made her feel better.

Except this time, Killian had been the one to make her feel this way.

She parked the cruiser near the edge of the road on its way out of town and watched for speeders, but this time of year and this time of day held little promise for anything interesting to happen. The fastest thing to cross her path was a squirrel, but even then it stopped a few times in its lazy hops across the road and she mentally scolded it to keep going in case a car actually went by.

She played with her phone for something to do with her hands as she watched clouds scuttle by above - puffy cumulus clouds, white and wispy at the top and carrying no sign of any rain that might wash away some of the dry dust that always seemed to settle over everything this time of year. She didn't know if she'd feel better if it was supposed to rain; at least a chance of rain might bring a chance for Killian to get another chase in, a chance to get the data he needed and be done with all of this.

Emma sighed, resting her head on her hand, her elbow propped up on the door. Even if, by some miracle, he did get everything he needed, would he still be mad at her? Would he forgive her for what she said?

Would he ask for forgiveness?

Would she even give it?

Her eyes blurred again and it stung, the skin around her eyes sore enough as it was, and she hated feeling this way. Blinking back tears, she threw the car into drive and headed for her mom's shop; it was the middle of the day, but Ingrid would put everything aside if Emma came in the way she looked right now.

Luckily, there was someone else helping at the front counter when Emma went in, the little bell above the door signaling her arrival. Ingrid smiled at first when she saw her, but the smile vanished into worry when she got a good look at her daughter's face. Without a word, Emma was bustled into the back room, the door to the front closed firmly behind them, and she fell into her mother's arms just as she started crying again.

Ingrid soothed her, drawing the story of what had happened out of her a little at a time; Emma was made to sit and given a bottle of water while she talked, and then she was given a milkshake that was made with rocky road and far more chocolate syrup mixed in than anyone was ever served out front.

She tried not to think about cliches and ice cream and things that soothed a broken heart.

They weren't broken up, they were just...

Broken.

"Oh my sweet girl, I'm so sorry," Ingrid said, holding her again and stroking her hair.

Emma leaned against her; her entire face hurt from crying so much in one day, how was that even possible? "I don't know what to do," she mumbled.

"You don't need to do anything right now. You both need space and distance from it before you can do anything rational."

"All I want to do is call him and tell him about it," Emma whispered. "Like when he's gone, we'll call and talk about our day, and all I want to do is be like 'hey, so I got in a huge fight with my boyfriend and it sucks' and talk it out with him, but he's the one I got into a fight with and he knows."

"I know, sweetheart."

"And he just looked so mad. He was so mad at me and I don't even know why."

Ingrid paused in her gentle ministrations for a moment. "I think he was mad about a lot of things and it just came out wrong. Same as you."

She thought back to that morning, wondering what the final straw would be, and thought maybe Ingrid was right. "I'm just... I'm just tired, Mom. I'm tired of missing him all the time when he's right there, I'm tired of feeling like it's my fault he's not done yet, I'm tired of feeling like I'm always putting him first and not getting anything in return. And I'm tired of Liam."

She felt Ingrid sigh more than she heard it. "I don't know what to tell you about Liam, other than you can pick who you love but you can't pick who they're related to. As for the rest... I can't fix any of it for you and I wish that I could. I'd like nothing more than to march over there and shake that boy until his teeth fell out for treating you so badly."

An immediate protest lept to the tip of her tongue - that Killian didn't treat her badly - but she stopped to consider her mother's words. If she were in someone else's shoes, looking at this, would she think the same way?

She was taught in school to look at a case from all the different angles, to try and distance herself from anything that might make her biased. She tried that now, looking over things as her mother might see it, as Ruby might see it.

They'd had their slips and rough spots before, but nothing that any normal couple hadn't faced. They'd talked and made up and compromised and worked together to make things better. And that had held true until the last several weeks.

Over the winter, as they'd gotten settled into the house, Killian had talked eagerly about the coming spring. He'd anticipated a wet spring with plenty of tornadic activity, his grant from the university to be renewed to continue chasing outside of the state, finishing his research and starting work on finalizing his dissertation. "This is it," he'd said one night as they lay together under the blankets of their bed. It wasn't even a proper bed at that point, they just had the mattress on the floor while they waited for the bedframe to be delivered. "This will be the last spring I'll need to finish everything, and then I'll be done. This is the start of something wonderful in our lives, Swan, I can feel it."

"There's probably something poetic in there about spring and new beginnings and whatever," she'd teased, her foot hooking around his calf and bringing his leg between hers.

"Probably and whatever," he'd agreed, and he'd kissed her, the sex that night giddy and full of hope.

But one wrong thing after another - the grant fell through, a dry spring, another delay on his work - and the stress started to grate on him. She understood and they'd still worked together to make do with what they could, but there was only so much she could do to support him, and she thought he'd understood that.

But maybe he did? "It's been a rough couple of months for him," Emma said finally. "I think it's like you said - he's mad about a lot of things and it came out wrong."

She wasn't angry anymore, not after spilling the whole story. She was hurting, yes - God, her chest ached and she missed him and she just wanted to sit down and talk with him. And she was hurt over some of the things he'd said, and she felt guilty about what she'd said in return, both of them spitting daggers before realizing they weren't actually mad at each other - they were just angry at the world and the things they had no control over and the final straw hadn't just broken the camel's back, it had caused the whole camel to shatter under pressure.

Okay, maybe she was a little mad at him about some things. Like he could have called. And he could do more to stick up for her to Liam.

But neither of those things were worth destroying everything they'd built together.

Ingrid pulled away, getting a paper towel and wetting it before coming to kneel in front of her, dabbing gently at Emma's cheeks. "I know you, sweetheart; you've already forgiven him, haven't you?" she asked softly, wiping away what was probably the worst raccoon eyes Emma had ever had in her life.

"No," she said, surprising herself. "But I'm open to the idea, if we talk first."

Ingrid smiled. "Look at you. You've grown so much in all the time I've known you."

Emma pushed herself off the chair and threw her arms around Ingrid's neck. "Thank you," she whispered. Not for today, though that helped; no, her mom knew what she'd been like for years, she'd commented on it just last week. Emma came to her a broken girl, hardened by the world, and it had taken a lot of patience and a lot of love from this woman to make her able to even consider having this kind of conversation with Killian in the future. "For everything, Mom."

She told herself she was imagining the little sniffle she heard, but she knew it was a lie as Ingrid's arms came around her and held her tight. "You're very welcome, my darling girl."

Three years ago…

To his credit, Graham did not, in fact, laugh her out of his office when she broached the subject of going out with Killian, but the look on his face said that he dearly wanted to. Emma would have been offended, except that she knew she was being overly cautious and ridiculous and, if she was being honest with herself, a little bit classically-Emma in trying to find a way out of entangling herself with another person romantically. Which was also why it had taken her two weeks to gather the courage to even ask in the first place. So instead of laughing at her (chuckling didn't count), she and Graham wound up having a very interesting discussion about how cops and criminals walked very fine lines around each other, how easy it was to befriend someone on the other side as long as they kept business out of it, and how this could easily wind up with cops turning dirty.

Most importantly, he told her that a simple spot check did not a criminal make, and if she really wanted to go on a date with Killian, she was allowed to.

"Now, if it turns out you break my bartender's heart, I might have a thing or two to say about that, but-" This time Graham did laugh as Emma reached across the desk to swat at him, her cheeks burning red.

"One dinner doesn't make or break anything," she huffed, sitting back down and avoiding looking at him.

He sounded odd as he responded, "One dinner can make or break anything, Emma."

She glanced up and was struck by the wistful look on his face; his gaze wasn't directed at her, instead looking off towards something she couldn't see. "Graham?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. I think we've spent enough of the morning gabbing, let's get on with the business of the day."

By the time she got home, had dinner with Ingrid, and got up to her room, Emma had mostly forgotten the conversation she'd had with Graham that morning. She showered and got into her pajamas; it was early for bed, but she was just tired of wearing real pants and a bra. She was halfway through an episode of the show she was binging on Netflix before she remembered.

Hey. You busy?

She didn't think that blurting it out without knowing he could respond would help the cloud of butterflies that had erupted in her stomach. If he was working and it was a busy night at the bar, she didn't want to tell him and then sit there waiting and wondering and maybe he'd decided it wasn't worth it and he wasn't interested anymore and she wasn't worth it or -

Her phone buzzed. Got some time. How goes, Swan?

Emma swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry. Okay. You?

Keeping busy.

Cool.

A pause.

So I talked to Graham.

Another pause.

He said it's ok. He didn't laugh at me, but he wanted to.

Still no response.

For the dinner or whatever you'd asked me about.

Another minute ticked by.

My answer is yes, if it wasn't clear.

More silence.

I know I'm ridiculous, by the way.

Now when there wasn't a response she started to get worried. No, it wasn't worry, it was outright nausea. Emma fought the urge to just throw her phone across the room and ignore it and keep watching her show, and now she'd missed like ten minutes of the plot and she had no idea what was going on and -

Bloody hell, sorry, Liam has the worst timing. As do I, apparently. I'm very glad to hear you want to go to dinner and that there are no restrictions on it. And I will take you to a proper dinner, but it's going to have to wait a few weeks.

What happened?

I'm leaving tomorrow on a chase, I'll be gone at least a week. Maybe more, if another system crops up. My grant got approved so I have time/money to get more research done before the opportunities drop off.

Her stomach was now somewhere under her bed. Now Emma wanted to throw her phone across the room for another reason, mostly so she could pretend this conversation had never happened and she could ignore reality for a while. Oh, she typed back, not sure what else to say.

She set her phone aside and skipped back a bit on her show to pick up where she'd missed things, but as she settled back down on her bed, her heart wasn't really in it. She curled up with her pillow and tried not to beat herself up about it; if she'd talked to Graham earlier, if she'd just ignored her worries and said yes like she'd wanted to, maybe they wouldn't have to wait - or maybe it wouldn't feel like some kind of contrived excuse for blowing her off. Maybe she really had waited too long. After all, she hadn't gone to the bar since he'd asked her out, not wanting to give him hope or give him the chance to talk about it when she hadn't actually checked to make sure it was okay. So really, there were plenty of reasons why he may have changed his mind, thought it wasn't worth waiting around for her.

Her phone buzzed on the bed - not a text tone, but an incoming call.

Emma's brow furrowed as she picked it up. "Killian?"

"Love, I am not doing this over texts, it's far too easy to misunderstand intent. Please don't take this as an excuse, it's not. This is the first good system I've had a chance to chase in weeks, and the opportunity exists for more. I need to get more research in this season or else I get another delay on my dissertation and graduation. I very much would like to take you out this weekend, but unless you can spring for a surprise week vacation and prefer eating at whatever fast food establishment I can find in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, I'm afraid we have to wait."

She reached over and paused her show; if she'd heard him right, he somehow had gotten into her head in the last ten minutes. "How the hell did you know that's what I was thinking?" she asked.

"You're something of an open book, Swan."

Emma made a face. "Not something a cop likes to hear."

"Well, maybe your tough policewoman act works better on the seedy underbelly of Storybrooke, but not on me."

She had to laugh at his phrasing and his half-smug, half-provocative tone. "Don't forget, I had to make sure you didn't count as one of those seedy underbelly people."

"Ah, but who's to say I'm not? Maybe you just haven't found that side of me yet. Please, though, just inform me beforehand if you have to do a strip search so I'll be sure to have on clean boxers."

Emma snorted and covered her face. He really was ridiculous. "Didn't picture you as a boxers guy," she said.

"What, picturing me as more of a Calvin Klein man?"

She bit her lip at the image that brought to mind. They'd definitely be an improvement over the tighty-whities she'd seen him in that first time. Still, she'd gone there and she was only giving as good as she got. "Actually, I pictured you as more of a commando kind of guy."

There was an odd noise on the other end, and then it sounded like he dropped the phone altogether. Emma blinked. "Killian?"

"Uh - yeah," he said, his voice sounding oddly high, then he cleared his throat. He stumbled over the start of another sentence and she raised an eyebrow, her amusement growing at how flustered he sounded. Giving him a taste of his own medicine seemed to be working out amazingly. "So - dinner. As soon as it can be managed. Two weeks?"

She settled back against her pillows. It was a bummer that they couldn't get together before then, but at least she wasn't feeling as low about it as she did before. "Are you going to be back by then?"

"Swan, after what you just told me, I'll put some damned wings on the TIV if I need to."

Emma laughed, her stomach resettling in her abdomen and the leaden feeling leaving her as he charmed and flirted her bad mood away.

They kept in touch over text when they could over the next week or so. He didn't have good signal that often and she was often out on patrol for work, so sometimes an hour or more would pass between exchanges.

So, tell me more about how I go commando?

That one came just after she'd gotten into the patrol car to start her morning shift. She replied after she parked on the edge of town to watch for speeders.

Says the guy who made his first impression in some tighty-whities.

Nothing came until she got to the school to help with the pre-school year safety checks.

Intimate details, Swan, I want intimate details.

Unfortunately for him, she had to let him sweat it out while going over the new safety rules and school safety officer schedules with the district's principals and superintendent. After that came a long discussion on how to handle the sports schedules and the station's plans for the football season, and she only managed to reply just as her shift was ending.

Imagine, I could be telling you those intimate details in person if we were on a date right now.

In fact, since telling him in jest, she'd definitely had a few thoughts about the matter and could probably offer a few intimate details. But given the circumstances, and his interesting reaction to the comment in the first place, she wanted to see what he'd do if she actually did tell him in person.

His reply to that came as she was getting into bed that night, and it made her smile wryly.

You know how to cut a man deep, love.

She kept glancing at the clock, her leg bouncing so much that it was causing the pens and miscellaneous knick-knacks covering her desk to rattle around. Ruby kept giving her a Look whenever she happened to walk by and hear the minor racket she was causing, and one of the deputies, Arthur, had complained about noise earlier until Graham had told him to shut it. Arthur had continued to grumble under his breath, just loud enough for Emma to hear, but Graham had to threaten to send him out on patrol duty unless he knocked it off.

No one really liked either of Graham's deputies, but Arthur was easily the most disliked.

Towards the end of the day, Graham sauntered over and perched on the edge of her desk, his added weight offsetting the relentless bounce of her leg and quieting the rattling. "Officer Swan, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were nervous."

"Shut up," she said, finishing up a report.

"Is that how you talk to your boss?"

"Shut up, sir."

He laughed, then pretended to think. "Now, why is it that you might be nervous? Do you by chance have something important happening tonight? A date, maybe?"

Emma glared up at him. Sometimes it was hard for her to balance the two sides of him that she knew: Chief Humbert was a sensible man, good-natured, but able to make you jump to attention with a single look. Graham, meanwhile, could be sillier than a basket of puppies and she'd been in a field of wildflowers with more sense than he had in his head. And God help her when the two occasionally mixed. "Did you need something, sir?" she asked pointedly.

"Nothing really, just checking to make sure you have the permission slip I gave you for your excursion tonight."

She groaned, dropping her head down on the desk between her arms. "God, shut up."

He chuckled somewhere above her. "You have to admit, Emma, it was a bit ridiculous."

"Like you didn't make any stupid mistakes when you were a rookie," she grumbled. She sat up and finished saving her report, moving the file to the shared drive and shutting down her computer. "I'm out for the evening."

Graham moved in her way before she could leave. "Seriously, though, have a good time," he said. "You deserve a bit of happiness, Emma, and I think he could do you a world of good in that regard."

She felt her face heat up; she never would have expected something like that to come from her boss. From Mary Margaret, sure, or even her mother, but Graham? "I - thanks," she said, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy over the word.

He let her pass and she went out to her car, still silently shaking her head over the exchange.

As she got ready, she kept second-guessing every single one of her decisions: did she really need to go out and buy this pink dress? Did it make her look too girly? Her hair - she'd curled it and then decided she wanted to wear it up, but would he like her hair in a ponytail like that? Should she go for false lashes? Did she really want to wear those shoes? Would they make her taller than him - come to think of it, there weren't many times when she'd seen him not behind the bar, and she couldn't remember how much taller he really was.

At some point she sat down on her bed in disgust and wondered if it was too late to call the whole thing off.

Then she remembered how she'd felt when he'd had to postpone everything, and thought better of it.

But the whole effort was worth it when she went to answer the door and his mouth fell open at the sight of her. "You look stunning, Swan," Killian said.

Emma's eyebrows rose as she took in the sight of him; she'd never seen him outside of a Pour House t-shirt and some worn out jeans - the first time in his underwear didn't count - so this well-dressed Killian was a treat in and of itself: tight black jeans, short-sleeved button-down shirt that brought out the color of his eyes, black vest. "You… look…"

He shrugged, an easy grin on his face. "I know." He pulled one hand from behind his back and offered her a single red rose. Emma took it, her face warm; she couldn't remember the last time, if ever, anyone had bought her flowers. "Shall we?" he asked, offering his arm.

Emma grabbed her purse and locked up behind them; Ingrid was working that night, after being sworn not to make a big deal about one date. She took his offered arm and he walked her down to a car she knew wasn't his; he'd told her about how he'd turned his truck into the TIV and hadn't bothered getting a second car.. "Liam's," Killian said, opening the door for her. "Only indulgence he allows himself, this old muscle car."

She knew nothing about cars past how to keep her vintage Bug in working order, so she just made what she hoped was an appreciative noise as she slid in and he closed the door behind her.

They were both oddly quiet on the drive to the restaurant; Emma fiddled with the hem of her dress, caught between wanting to talk and feeling like she had nothing interesting to say. Killian didn't seem too perturbed by it, opening the door for her and leading her in without pressing her about it; he'd made a reservation and they were seated almost immediately, and he even pulled her chair out for her. "Such a gentleman," she said finally, grateful for something to say.

"I'm always a gentleman," he told her, sitting across from her with a wink.

"I've seen you toss out disruptive patrons; the look on your face could hardly be described as 'gentlemanly'."

"Aye, well, ensuring the continued atmosphere and content of my patrons certainly is."

"Always worried about the atmosphere."

She wasn't sure at all how he managed to grin at her in such a pleased yet sultry way, but he managed to make it work, and from there the evening continued without any of the earlier awkwardness.

They decided to take a walk after dinner, continuing their conversation from dinner about her career plans, her hand grasped firmly in his. Privately, Emma thought they were just looking for an excuse to continue their time together, but waiting for some of the wine they'd had over dinner to work its way out of their system was as good an excuse as any. They meandered through the downtown area before slipping onto some of the side streets, the late-summer cicadas providing a soundtrack to their talk as it shifted to books. She wasn't as much of a reader as she used to be - she just didn't have the time - but she was able to hold her own when he started talking older books.

And she trounced him in Harry Potter trivia, which she delighted in teasing him about.

"I did move here when I was quite young, you know," he grumbled as they turned a corner.

"Doesn't matter, it was a global thing. You should at least know your House."

The street they'd turned down was less inhabited, or at least most of the houses on the block looked dark; after all the patrols she'd done and all the calls she'd gone on through town, she knew the area fairly well - retirees, empty nesters, no one who really went out past nine if they didn't have to. So when Killian turned her and pressed her back up against a tree, Emma felt quite reasonably assured that no one would be peeping on them at this point. She wet her lips, her heart racing as she looked up at his face - too close to hers to be thinking about doing anything other than what she hoped he was thinking - and in the dim light she saw his eyes flick down to her lips briefly before looking at her again. "You're kind of a geek, Swan," he told her softly.

"Says the giant science nerd who built a giant armored science tank."

"Then I'd say it takes one to know one," he breathed, his lips brushing hers, and a moment later he was kissing her fully.

She'd been kissed before. She'd had kisses that made her weak in the knees, kisses that stole her breath, kisses that made her forget her name. But never, before now, a kiss that did all three and then some. His hands came up to cup her face, his palms rough on her cheeks. She shivered as they moved down her neck, skimming her shoulders and down her arms. His lips were as gentle as his touch, dipping in once, twice, three times at different angles and with varying degrees of pressure. His hands settled on her hips and she felt intensely aware of every point where their bodies touched, but none more so than the feeling of his tongue tentatively tracing the seam of her lips.

She opened for him, eager for more; her arms went up around his neck and she groaned into his mouth as his tongue slid against hers. Her fingers slid through his silky hair and she was filled with the urge to grab on tight and use it as leverage to take this to the next level. She felt drunk, her skin tingling at every touch, dizzy and muddled and like she could do anything as long as he just kept kissing her.

She rose up on her toes, pushing off the tree, and he stumbled backwards a little; his hands slipped, her skirt bunching up, and she whimpered at the feeling of his fingers on her thighs. He made a questioning noise and she sighed an assent and her pulse quickened when he let the fabric slide over the hands that rose up to tease the edges of her lacy panties.

She actually squirmed when the tip of one finger caught under the edge and traced the line of her panties back and forth. There was a fire building between her legs and he was only stoking it higher and higher and she was definitely, definitely going to have to do something about this if he kept going -

A dog started barking down the street, distant enough that they weren't the cause but still close enough to make them jerk apart. Absurdly, she felt cold as soon as Killian stepped away from her, despite the warmth of the evening and how flushed she felt. "We should - we should head back," he said and she really, really liked how thoroughly wrecked he sounded.

He held out his hand and she took it, following him on legs that felt far too wobbly for some kissing and light petting. "I might not make it that far," Emma admitted sheepishly.

He just smiled at her. "I'll carry you if I have to."

But they made it back to the restaurant without having to resort to that, though she did entertain quite a few thoughts about how that might feel, and he drove her home without further incident. No driving down to the outskirts of town to go parking. Or kissing. Or hands where they shouldn't be.

Which was really disappointing.

He did insist on walking her to her door, though, and Emma claimed another kiss from him. This one was more chaste, with his fingers entwined with hers and her foot popping up precariously from sheer bliss. "Will you go out with me again?" Killian asked hoarsely, his nose brushing against hers and the question spoken against her lips.

She kissed him again instead of answering, squeezing their fingers together. "Text me."

Emma half expected her mother to turn on the porch light, they stood there so long lingering in each other's spaces, but Killian was the first to break, taking a reluctant step back. She moved to unlock the door, knowing if she didn't move now, she never would. "Good night, Killian," she whispered.

"Good night," she heard him reply, and then she slipped inside, closing the door behind her and leaning against it with a happy, yet a little overwhelmed sigh.

She was so, so fucked.

#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #cs angst #csbb #amanda writes #oh the angst #ohhhhhhhhhhh the angst

54 notes · View notes

tarithenurse · 5 years

Text

I see you - Chapter 13

Pairing: Heimdal x fem!readerContents: some swearing, angst, piningA/N: It’s funny how a story takes on a life of its own, unfolding with more details and surprises than expecting when first planning it. Also!! Huge grats to @malaptive-ninja-returns for guessing the theme of the chapter titles! YAY!!

Ch. 13 – You’re not there

A light rain is tapping on the windows, far too gentle to fit your mood and with the setting sun’s rays fragmenting into mini-Bifrosts in each drop. Not even the magnificence of Asgard can distract you from the storm raging within you, a storm that has gained strength as one day has taken the other while you wait for Heimdal to visit again. It’s been a week. A week since the excursion to the mountain followed by facing the one responsible for the attack on your home world. A week since the kiss. Did I misinterpret? Not for the first time, your thoughts spiral into a theme of apprehension and doubt. Perhaps the connection I thought was there hadn’t been more than simple friendliness…maybe not even that.

Pacing the room, there’s no way you can outrun the negativity. Both because you’re well aware it’s all in your head, a result of years spent with a guy who’d put you down at any given chance, and also because the regenerative treatment you’ve received that very same day has left you sore and tired. It adds to the dreadful feeling of inadequacy. In fact, why should you even bother worrying about Heimdal or anything? In the end, an end that draws nearer each day your health improves, you’ll have to go back to earth and your old life. I’ll need a new job. Even if the publicist you’d worked at still existed, there’s no way you’d still be employed there after such a long time away. Most likely it’s been destroyed during the fighting like so many other companies in that area of Manhattan. And then what? Without a work lined up, you’d lose your place to live in the city (which had been hell to find). Your rent was automated, sure, but money doesn’t last forever, and your bank account must be getting close to the red digits.

Sighing, you pour a glass of water from the carafe. There’s nothing you can do about anything. You’re perfectly safe where you are…still the world is crumbling around you.

…

Staring into the endlessness beyond the golden, globular observatory, Heimdal stands immobile, his thoughts much closer than the many worlds he’s watching. A week has passed, yet for someone who has lived more than a millennium, this week has been an eternity.

On the way from [Y/N]’s chambers, the Watcher had been approached by a servant of the king and told to follow to the throne room. The conversation with Odin had been brief and rather one-sided. No one refuses the All-Father lightly, and so Heimdal had been reinstated as the Keeper of Bifrost and Guardian of Asgard effective immediately. Furthermore, he’s tasked with supervising the training of an elite squad of Einherjar. Their responsibility will be to scout for very specific types of threats in the chaotic aftermath of Loki’s betrayal and they will in time be imbued with seiðr, granting them abilities similar (although not as potent) as his.

By the time Heimdal’s daily tasks end and he’d make it to the [Y/N]’s quarters…he’d find her fast a sleep. A few times, he’d lingered in the doorway, a smile finding its way to his lips as the moonlight illuminated graceful features, her chest rose and fell steadily, and the eyelids would tremble lightly at whichever dream-visions she saw. Each time, he’d leave quietly.

Momentarily, his gaze slips and amber eyes glow with a golden light.

…

The walls of the room fall away, revealing the splendor of stars and galaxies, you only have seen during the night where the pain medication hasn’t been enough to grant you rest. Iridescent clouds of space dust shimmer in the light reflected off a comet as it sweeps through, creating purple and peach ripples against the never-ending darkness of the backdrop. With a fluid motion, the scene changes and comes to rest with a planet in focus, its red and green surface riddled with mountains and valleys, although there’s nothing to compare it to you have a distinct feeling that this is a small globe, and only one city (because it must be just that) is visible on the horizon. But before you know for sure, your view is shifted again. This time you see through a haze of clouds and smoke erupting from tall chimney belonging to a city that cover every inch of the surface, blanketing the alien planet in gold, black and grimy white. It could have been impressive, the individual buildings maybe even beautiful, if it wasn’t because industrialism and pollution was smothering every sign of life.

“How can they –?” You stop yourself, knowing that no one’s there to answer your question.

“Lady [Y/N]?” A warm voice emanates from all around you. Or within me? “Don’t be alarmed, you’re safe.”

The sight fades, leaving you blinking against the fading sunlight. The half-full glass is still in your hand. In fact, nothing has changed…except everything is different.

You know which voice you just heard. “Heim-Heimdal?” Carefully replacing the glass onto the table, you sit down not knowing what to expect.

“It is I, Heimdal.” This time the voice’s in your mind. “My apologies, I didn’t intent to show you what I see…”

“Wait, you see that?” Maybe he can read your mind (the thought immediately makes you blush), but oddly enough you still speak out loud.

“I am blessed with sight and hearing beyond that of any mortal.” There’s an edge to his words that makes you think he’s trying to be modest. “In a simple vernacular, it would not be amiss to say that…I can see across time and space. This is not to mean that I see the future, though.”

Science in high school had been alright, but the teacher had favoured the boys, thinking that girls shouldn’t bother with things like that, and so it’s hard to remember the details about space and light. “What you see is actually happening the moment you see it instead? No delays like the rest of us would have when observing something lightyears away…”

“Well said.”

An awkward silence descend. Is he still there? There’s no way of knowing for you and after a week without his visits…Oh, just try!

“Heimdal…” A hum of approval reverberates in your skull, like a meditative chant that brings peace. “Can you show me Ear-Midgard?”

Blue, green and white on one half at first, the familiar planet rotates into view with its moon in a slow waltz around it. Even sitting down (which is odd when you can’t see yourself or where you’re sitting), you’re breathless at the glorious sight suspended in a universe infinitely more complicated than you once suspected. Continents and coastal countries are discernible between meteorological patterns and you recognize North America easily before the view zooms closer, bringing you to New York where construction sites have spawned since last you were there. Life goes on, of course. And as reassuring as it is, the trepidation infuses your limbs with lead. How can I? The answer will have to wait, and until you find it, you’ll simply take each day at a time. By guiding Heimdal, the offices of the publicist come into view…or what’s left of them. Half the building is gone! And what’s left is being torn down by humongous, canary-coloured machines.

“At least I don’t have to worry about missing out on work, I guess…” The dry laughter you manage to produce doesn’t spook the encroaching dread away.

Buildings sweep past, making it seem like you’re flying (although it’s nothing like the pigeons and seagulls of the metropolis) and bringing you north before crossing Central Park along a familiar route. It calms you to recognize the Japanese Zelkova tree and all the other plants in the rectangular oasis still are intact. Yes, it’s different flowers blooming, and the colours of the park has changed with that…but there’s no damage to be seen here. There. You have to remind yourself that you are, in fact, sitting in Asgard far across the universe.

A slim border around the park is intact, but as the flight brings you between buildings you can see the destruction and havoc. It’s more scattered. Maybe from stray missiles or whatever aliens use? Already the crews of labourers with their towering machines have found their way to each site, clearing away rubble and debris and tearing down what’s left of the buildings that had gotten hit. Including your home.

“I’m sorry.”

Heimdal’s words reach you, warm and soothing…except you’re certain the shock isn’t related to the loss of your home and belongings in themselves, as he might think, rather the fact that you’ve got one place to go: your hometown. Fuck. It wasn’t for nothing that you’d moved across the country to get away from that hell-hole. Returning would be humiliating. And according to the last messages from your sister before New York was attacked, your ex had been far from over the sudden abandonment.

Breathing in deeply and taming your voice just enough to breathe out: “Thank you. That’s enough.”

Once more, you find yourself in the beautiful room flooded with the warm glow from the setting sun which adds a pink tint to the white walls and light up the wooden details with the radiance of fire and gold. A slim vase sits on the table, housing a single flower that only opens at nightfall to allow the delicate anthers and stigma to shine like tiny stars. It had been there when you woke up the morning after the…picnic. At first, you’d thought it was from Heimdal. Now you weren’t so sure.

Something lands on your hand, startling you from the somber train of thoughts. A wet drop glistens in the light and you realize your cheeks are damp too. Angrily, you wipe them away.

I knew, I had to go back to earth.

Still, it’s not the planet itself that worries you.

I’ve made it out of there once before…I can do it again.

People start over all the time, finding new homes in countries they’ve never been to before and often starting out with nothing but their own will to succeed. Determined, you decide that you’ll do the same.

#I see you #mcu fanfiction #heimdal #heimdal x reader #asgard #i see ch.13 #marvel cinematic universe

37 notes · View notes

skammovistarplus · 5 years

Text

Culture and Translation - S01 E06

This is a bit of a weird episode, in that it feels like not much happened. Because Skam España switched a few things around, it seems like episode 6 shouldn’t be the episode in which to hang out with the characters for a while before shit goes down. But one thing that got me hooked to Skam almost straight away was the way you got to “hang out” with the characters even in small, drama-free moments, and this episode has a couple of clips I really like.

CLIP 1: Monday blues

Es que le metiste un corte (You were razor sharp with him): “Meter un corte” is really hard to translate. It basically means to be really cutting with someone when they aren’t expecting it, in a way that shuts the conversation for good. Which Amira did, over and over, but the dude wasn’t getting the hint.

I do think Nora feels a little bad for the guy, but only because Nora is extremely empathetic with everyone in the world, to the point where it’s surprising when she’s not empathetic.

Viri is a great liar. We will come to find out much of what she says in this scene is a lie, but she has no tells. This is why I think the Selena Gomez shoe line thing was Viri teasing the girls, because she broke character almost immediately. If Viri wanted the girls to believe it, we can see here that she would’ve managed.

Nora’s shirt says, “No means no.” ‘No es no’ was first a slogan for an awareness campaign, promoted by several Spanish city halls, which aimed to curtail sexual abuse and rape during local festivals, such as Sanfermines. There’s also an Axel, Soledad song. And it has of course been slapped on all sorts of merchandise. Like shirts!

The sides of the mirror are tagged with graffiti, by the way.

And also, Eva and Nora are late for first period! They end up skipping it entirely.

CLIP 2: Lucas has feels; Eva’s are stronger

Eva and Lucas are listening to Molly Svrcina’s Fallen Angel. I think the point of the song was lost in how incredibly random the song is. This is a song Lucas recommends Eva listen to. It’s about Lucas, not Eva. Lucas is trying to give a hint to Eva about himself, but Eva’s too focused on the Jorge drama.

While this clip dropped during recess, Eva skipped school. Not sure if Lucas did as well, though.

It’s Viri who shares a birthday with Paris Jackson, as I already wrote in the post for last episode.

Alejandro Reina does a nice bit of acting with his eyes at the 5:22 mark. Lol, Lucas is so fucking tired of the Eva/Jorge drama carousel.

Y tú me caes de puta madre (“And I think you’re fucking great”): Lucas is not just saying that he thinks Eva’s great. He’s saying he really fucking likes Eva (as a friend, that is!).

Es que sigo enfadada (“‘Cause I’m still upset”): This is a sentiment that will be expressed often this week by Eva, Jorge and Lucas. I’ve seen subs that translate it “enfadada” as “angry” and it’s not wrong, but I feel Eva and Jorge are both more upset than angry during this week. Your mileage may vary, though!

CLIP 3: Ship wars

Cullera: Cullera is a beach city in the Valencia region that has been taken over by tourists (or guiris, if you will!). There are some nice sights, but people visit for the beaches. Many Spanish familes own some sort of apartment by the beach, but Cullera is a step up from the usual, which is Torremolinos. A hint about Inés’ parents’ economic status! Cullera means “spoon” in Valencian language, by the way.

Easter break: The 2019 Easter break runs from the 12th of April to the 22th. Coincidentally, there are some rumors that s2 will premiere after Easter break 2019.

Tú no te líes, que el viaje importante es el de Mallorca, ¿eh? (Okay, but don’t lose sight of the important trip, the Majorca trip, huh?): A closer translation would be: “Don’t get sidetracked, the important trip is the Majorca trip, okay?” Which is actually a shorter line, so we should maybe change that, lol.

Que parezcamos ahí dos lapas como estas parejitas que están por ahí (For us to look like two barnacles like those couples you see everywhere): The literal translation would be, “for us to look like two barnacles like those couples that are around,” but that sounded like shade towards Eva and Jorge, who are also broken up this week. It’s not meant as shade, and in fact Eva has no reaction to it, so I reworked it.

Viri’s economic background is hinted through her confusion with job titles. In Spanish, she doesn’t remember if Alejandro’s father is a “director” (which could be translated as director, manager, and even principal, but also CEO) and “directivo” (executive or CEO). I settled for initials salad.

There is a bit of dialogue at the end that was cut from the episode version. The girls present their final arguments in the Viriandro vs Aleviri debate… which ironically, foreshadowed the Norandro vs Alenora shipname wars. It appears as if most of the fandom has settled on Norandro, at last.

Viri: It’s that, it’s like a Greek god.

Cris: What are you, Voldemort or something?

Viri: It’s like, it’s funny because it’s like a Greek god, like Viriandro is a Greek god sort of name. Yeah, it’s super neat.

Cris: It’s a gladiator name, dude!

Almost totally off topic linguistics note: The girls use the English loanword “ship” in the fandom sense. The verb had obviously crossed language lines in fandom spaces years ago, but it became part of mainstream Spanish culture (yes, really) when Operación Triunfo became big last year, and everyone was shipping couples from the show. The interesting part is that Spanish speakers came up with two declensions for the Spanish form of the verb: “yo lo shippeo” (I ship it) and “yo lo shippo” (again, I ship it). People who had been in fandom longer leaned towards “shippeo” (and so do I!), so I find it aesthetically pleasing that the girls favor that declension.

CLIP 4: Eva shoots his shot. It doesn’t go well.

I was certain Jorge’s secret would have to do with one or both his parents being unemployed, so at the time I made note of the fact that one of the apartments he walks by is up for sale. It’s the reddish orange sign at the 10:06 mark.

The song that plays at the end of the clip is Zahara’s El Frío, but it has been edited. These are the lyrics that have made it to the clip: “I didn’t expect that the one who started all the fires would also be the one to put them out. How did you let the cold inside you, it has destroyed everything.”

CLIP 5: Speederman

This has to be a change from my high school years. I did the Cooper test in 3º ESO (the equivalent of 9th grade in the US) and never had to do it again through high school.

More info on the Cooper test, in case you care. Not only was I not tested on a standard 400 m tartan track, but we were also not trained to perform it properly. Ah, high school PE!

Venom premiered in Spain the 5th of October. This clip dropped the 19th of October.

Yes, that is actually how we pronounce Spiderman in Spain.

I love that Nora is into Viri saying she loves anything that has to do with saving the world. Nora is so earnest, lol.

¿O qué vas a hacer, tía? ¿Quedarte en casa llorando? (“Or what do you have in mind, dude? Staying at home, crying?”): Another translation could be, “Or what are you going to do, dude? Stay at home and cry?” but I went with the line in the subs because I thought it flowed better.

Cómo jode que te dejen, ¿eh? (It sucks to be dumped, doesn’t it?): “Sucks” is a lot less charged than “joder,” which is the word Inés actually uses. I guess you’d have to say “fucking sucks” to get the intensity across. You’ll have to make do with Inés’ line delivery.

CLIP 6: Ride of the Valkyries

As it turns out, Alba Planas is also a fan of og Skam, so I’m going to pretend Eva’s string of sorries is also an homage to Tarjei’s delivery.

This scene was shot right outside of Cine Paz.

Pero no me seáis pavas (“But don’t be silly”): Viri says “pavas,” which is hard to translate. Essentially, Viri’s afraid the girls are going to embarrass her in front of Alejandro, either unintentionally or (not unlikely given this group) intentionally. I.e. they’re not going to behave maturely in front of him.

Madre mía (Good heavens): Okay, so I already talked in the post for episode 5 about the way Amira uses interjections that aren’t swear words, and this is an example of it. “Madre mía” literally means “mother of mine” and it’s basically meaningless as an interjection. What matters is the tone you add to it. In this case, Amira’s impatient that the girls are getting distracted chatting about whatever, instead of going into the theater. I don’t love “good heavens” as it has Christian connotations. On the other hand, “geez” feels too short for how impatient Amira sounds.

It took me a while to realize this, but this clip actually has an og equivalent. This would be the clip where Vilde notices William and Sara hooking up, and looks devastated. Skam España chooses to go about it in a totally different way, with the girls backing Viri up as they walk in.

CLIP 7: Tout le monde veut devenir un cat

Sí, hija, sí (“Yeah, girl, yeah”): Jorge actually calls Eva “daughter,” lol. Much like with tío and tía, we might call anyone “son” or “daughter.” I’ve even caught myself using it on my own parents! If I have the right info, this is also common in Latin American countries, except they use “mijo” and “mija,” instead. “Hijo” or “hija” is more affectionate than “tío” or “tía,” although, much like with “madre mía,” it’s used to express a variety of emotions. Here, Jorge is dismayed that his chocolate romance went awry.

Pretty sure those are knockoff peanut M&Ms. Most likely from the Spanish grocery chain Mercadona.

The song that plays at the end of the clip and through the credits is Bely Basarte’s Mariposas. You can find a translation here.

Tomás Aguilera, who plays Jorge, has managed to be almost impossible to find online. However, his instagram bio makes reference to the French version of the Aristocats song Everybody wants to be a cat. It’s adorable.

Social media:

The girls talk about the Zaorejas random again, Cris notes that he looked young enough as to be in ESO, or MSE, Mandatory Secondary Education. MSE runs through the equivalents of 7th to 10th grade in the US.

#culture and translation #skam españa #skam spain #skames #skamesp

9 notes · View notes

purplesurveys · 5 years

Text

378

For a change. I love Internet people for never running out of survey ideas.

Just say what you think of (doesn't have to be one-word answers) when I mention these. Quick, simple, just for fun. Curtain: I remember a story JM told us of when he nearly burned his house down when he was younger - he was flying paper airplanes but not without lighting the tips on fire. One of the planes landed on the curtain and I think it burned that particular room pretty bad or something. Door: I have a door to my right at the moment. It’s brown and I know my dog is waiting outside because I can hear his paws. Shoe: We went shoe hunting yesterday for Joacky, because he wanted a pair of the Nike Cortez. It’s widely popular in the PH right now so even though we visited like 7 shoe stores yesterday, we weren’t able to find one in the color that he likes. Pants: I finally got a pair of mom jeans yesterday and I can’t wait to wear it for school. I’m tired of wearing the same bottoms. Wig: I attended a workshop a few months ago where the speaker disclosed that she has leukemia, and she took off the wig she had been wearing the whole time to show us her head. I also remember the RuPaul Stans part of Twitter because they say ‘wig’ all the time...

Makeup: Kate made me her subject last Thursday and she played with my face and put makeup on it. Ended up feeling really pretty because she did a pretty awesome job. Instagram: I snubbed Instagram for the longest time but thought that a ‘one-pic-for-every-day-of-the-year’ dump account wouldn’t hurt, so I made one of those for 2019. My photography skills are absolutely nowhere to be found, and my gallery is super haphazard, but I really want to make an effort to store memories this year. YouTube: Hmm first thing I thought of was PewDiePie. I subscribed to the dude when he had like 60,000 subscribers eight years ago and only had a couple of Amnesia montages up. I always feel like a proud momma/early bird whenever I remember how far and how big he’s gotten since. Life: Exhaustion, mainly. It’s gonna start snowballing by next year when I graduate. It’ll be nonstop from there - facing the prospect of coming out to my parents, graduating, getting a job, getting my first credit card, moving out, paying bills...it’s all very exhausting, exhilarating, exciting, and overwhelming to think about. Chili: Gabie and I had Japanese for early dinner last week, and I was a little weirded out by the restaurant because each seat had a red chili pepper on the placemat? I’m talking every damn seat in the place??? Idk if it’s some sort of good luck charm for the owners but it made things very slightly unsettling hahaha. Cherry: There was a WWE Diva named Cherry like ten years ago who had the gimmick of a 50′s chick, I think...I was never quite sure what her character was supposed to be, but she had roller-skates every time she went to the ring and would sometimes wear outfits with polka dots so I thought she was pretty cute. Neil: Armstrong. Haha I was going through Reddit awhile ago when I saw a video of Buzz Aldrin punch a dude who went up to him and said that the moon landing was a hoax. Not exactly Neil Armstrong but still a good story. Drive: I like watching car chases. It’s almost...therapeutic when the suspect crashes or loses control of his car and finally gets caught. Murder: I never got into How To Get Away With Murder. It’s too fast-paced for my life. I feel like I’m the only person who doesn’t understand legal concepts because so many people are able to catch up with this show even if Viola Davis speaks a thousand words a minute and they’re all really deep words??? Idk HAHAHA. I watched like two episodes and felt super dumb after. Ice cream: OMG I hate a la mode desserts. I’d eat anything, but I wouldn’t eat two separate things with different textures. Get your ice cream away from my brownie. Water: I can’t wait to go back to the beach. Hard: Hammer? It was the first image to pop up in my head. Anne: Harry Styles’ mom is named Anne hahaha the Directioner in me jumped out, sorry not sorry. Cow: There’s this video that went viral a few months ago of a girl who was playing the accordion; all of a sudden this adorable herd of like 15 cows come running up to her and just intently watch the kid. Wholesome af. Frog: Frog legs are served in some Philippine provinces. Tastes like chicken. Cheese: My lactose intolerant ass will grate half a block of cheese (exaggeration, but you get the point) for my spaghetti. That’s the only way to enjoy pasta. Bowl: Can’t really think of anything except that bowl cuts look so cute on babies hahaha. Television: Is something I never use nowadays unless I’m staying over at a hotel. Other than that, I cannot tell you the last time I held a TV remote control to change the channel or something. Skull: There’s an episode of Friends where Phoebe brings home a skull and nonchalantly sets it on the table where Monica, Rachel, and Chandler were hanging out. Chandler goes, “Pheebs...skull?” Phoebe says, “Yeah, it’s my mom’s,” and Rachel shrieks until Phoebe clarifies that her mom owned the skull, and that the skull wasn’t of her mom. Underrated segment. Rachel’s mini-meltdown was hilarious. Seasons: I had to watch Rent for film class several months ago. Terrible movie. Cemented my dislike for musicals. This is what I remembered because afaik this is the musical that has the minutes song. Language: I can speak two and can understand some archaic/modern Spanish because they conquered us for 300 years and subsequently ruined my country. Trump: McDonald’s. An international embarrassment. Chocolate: We found this AMAZING Chocnut spread at the mall yesterday. I had my initial doubts - I thought it was gonna taste like a cheap Nutella rip-off. But it tastes exactly like Chocnut, just in the most perfect spread-y form. I plan to finish the entire jar just with a spoon. Stove: I’m terribly afraid of using any and every kitchen equipment because I have a big fear of setting the house on fire. I only ever use the stove when I’m deathly hungry and I have to make something by myself. Toy: My family recently went to a kid’s birthday party that had giveaway bags with toys inside, but seeing as we’re all teenagers now who had no use for it, it was earning dust in the house. Now, the Philippines is abound with street children so when we went out yesterday, my mom gave the bag to a couple of kids who were knocking on our car. I know I’m not supposed to romanticize the situation, but they had the biggest smiles when they realized what they got and I saw them playing merrily at the side of the street and even invited some other kids to join in. Again, not glamorizing it - I’m just happy they were happy. Video: I could never run out of things to watch on YouTube. It’s one of my favorite websites, especially when bouts of depression have to happen. Kiss: It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, IT WAS ONLY A KISS. Glass: The glass section of department stores always creeped me out. One wrong move and you can knock a whole shelf down, and the ‘You break it you pay for it’ signs all over the area don’t help at all. Light: Light and queen come together in this survey and all I remember is Lightning McQueen. Queen: ^ Moon: Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Moon river, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style some day. Blue: My organization’s color is blue, so I have a soft spot for blue. Cream: I like soups that are creamy. I say this because my sister had ramen yesterday and it was so oily and salty and fatty and creamy and ugh I loved it. Dead: The Misfits. They’re more horror than death, but still. Purple: My great-grandma loved the color purple and I remember when her house used to be peppered in purple stuff. All her dresses were purple. I’m fairly sure it was the reason why it was my favorite color as a kid. Lace: Underwear, hahaha. Cardboard: Gabie was munching on sunflower seeds when I picked her up last week. I’ve never tried those, so I asked for some and I said it tasted like cardboard. I’ve never eaten cardboard but I would imagine that that’s what it tastes like. Elephant: Majestic. Deserves to be saved and properly cared for. Harry: One of my fave members of the royal family. He’s so precious. Leather: Is bad. Paisley: Isn’t there a country singer with this name? Italy: Pasta and stuff. Joey Tribbiani. Immature: I saw the gun girl Kaitlin-something on Twitter because she got viral again for a dumb-ass tweet she made. She posted pics of herself in the snow and tweeted “Look at all this global warming,” like seriously America??? Wtf do they teach y’all in your schools?????? Crime: Raisins in cookies. Angel: I had a friend named Angel - talked about her a lot in old surveys. She migrated to Canada when we were 12 and I haven’t seen her since. We do follow each other on Twitter but all she tweets about is K-pop so I had to put her on mute. Great memories with her. Boil: When I read this tweet aloud in my head, what I did think of was Charles Boyle from B99. Key: Key lime pie. Never tried it, but I’m always down to try anything. Sacrifice: The Catholic schoolgirl in me remembers the crucifixion because textbooks and teachers would overuse the phrase, “Jesus sacrificed his life for our sins” or “God sacrificed his son to save the world,” and all those cheesy lines. It’s as though the Bible’s favorite word is ‘sacrifice.’ Larry: Punk and AJ’s dog is named Larry Talbot. Dog: ^ Psychology: I took one psych elective last semester, but the prof was average at best so it didn’t really win over the course as a whole to me. Psychology was one of my ‘what-if’ courses so at the start, I was excited about taking it - but the class that I had was just so boring and the prof gave tests that were way too hard for otherwise fairly easy topics, so I quickly ran out of enthusiasm for the class. Rag: I hate touching rags. Especially wet ones UGH. Sun: Hate it, unless I’m at the beach. Lips: My friends dragged me to the makeup section of the department store last week and there were rows upon rows of lipstick testers. As someone who’s never purposely browsed for makeup, I ended up swatching like 20 shades on my wrist and looked like a five year old who doodled all over her whole left arm. Cage: The UFC ring, because it looks like a cage. Alarm: I had/have several alarms set on my phone throughout today to tell me to start working on various deliverables. For example, I had an 8 AM alarm to work on my J 196 paper; then from 8:30 AM I had an alarm to compose letters that I needed to write as my org’s secretary; then at around 10 AM, my alarm was for finishing up my readings for Kas 154 (short for kasaysayan, which means history). Official: I have a batchmate from high school who just got engaged...she was honestly one of the weirder ones back then so as much as I didn’t want to judge, it was hard to take it seriously at first, but it’s whatevs. I have no business in her life and I’m happy she’s happy. King: I finished my history readings this morning and there were so many mentions of kings. Lost: That show. The general consensus is that they ended the show crappily, but other than that I know nothing about it. Dating: There was once a dude who joined a dating show. Ended up being a serial killer. I forgot his name though. Balm: I was at a Korean store yesterday and saw an array of lip balms and glosses. I was never much of a makeup girl but the collection they had was just so cute, it made me think if I should start investing in makeup as well hah. Tomato: Ketchup is my second least favorite condiment after mustard. Game: Hmmm I downloaded a bunch of new game apps on my phone because I recently realized that I’m so boring??? and I only have social media on my phone??? I got ten new apps to make my phone more alive haha. Lotion: Is slimy, but smells nice and makes my skin smooth and look better. I got two hand creams for Christmas last year and it was then that I knew I was getting older because I was genuinely excited to try them both out. Expensive: Everything is. Powder: Reminds me of babies. The smell calms me down so well. Cross: I was shopping for clip-on earrings yesterday and there were several designs with crosses on them, which just reminded me of Christianity and it kinda peeved me for like 3 minutes lol. History: My favorite subject. I’ve never been so excited to be dumped on with such a thick stack of readings until this semester. Sex: Haven’t had it in a bit, too busy. Rainbow: We watched a film called Rainbow’s Sunset, which was really promising because it told a story about two men, both very old, and are lovers. In a traditional, conservative, poisonously Catholic country such as the PH, it’s a very bold move to produce a feature film that tackled such a horrible, taboo, horrifying thing (please note the sarcasm/mockery). We didn’t escape the guffaws and the loud ew’s whenever the two leads would kiss, which was sad.

Anyway that’s not my point and what I really want to say is that the film was ultimately terrible, it was terribly-executed and it portrayed gay men in such a cheesy manner which in the long run, probably contributes to the continuing negative image of LGBT people in the Philippines. Gab, the bigger film buff between the two of us, felt so offended by how bad the movie turned out to be lol. Bay: Bayley, from WWE. She was a huge star like 3 years ago, but I think the bookers ultimately fucked her character up and now she’s stale. I feel so bad. Seth: Seth Rollins, also from WWE. Also very attractive. Pepper: I had okonomiyaki for lunch yesterday and there was like a thicker chunk of pepper that made it to my plate. Didn’t particularly enjoy that bite. Necrophile: Katie Vick. Google it to believe it. Wrestling is fucking dumb. Gravel: Funnily enough I do have a memory for gravel. Akeelah and the Bee was one of my favorite movies growing up; I watched it so many times that I had chunks of dialogue memorized at one point. One of the first scenes had Akeelah joining her school’s spelling bee, and one of the kids spelled grovel as g-r-a-v-e-l. He couldn’t understand why he got it wrong so the judge had to tell him that the word ‘grovel’ actually exists and what it means. Deep: I had a mental picture of the ocean when I read this word, so there’s that. Stephen: Hawking. Bucket: Chum Bucket. Hahaha Spongebob forever. England: Rugby? Grown: I always use the term ‘grown-ass’ haha. Spell: Spelling was one of my favorite activities in grade school and I would always score the highest in spelling exams. Kind of led me to my favorite job of proofreading/copyediting, really. Bark: My dog barked at nothing for five whole minutes a couple of days ago and it was hilarious. I shot two minutes of it. Long: Trees? Fan: Pamaypay, or hand fans in English.

Australia: First things that came to mind were the Sydney Opera House and Vegemite. Iron: Gabie’s nose bled last week. It wouldn’t stop flowing out of her nostrils and it smelled like rust for a good 15 minutes while she was trying to wash all the blood off, so it didn’t exactly help my case as someone who’s squeamish to death at the sight of blood. Melt: Chocolate. Beanie: Too warm for this country’s climate. Wax: Candles. Vigils. Burning your finger. Staying up all night to pray. Catholic school. Disease: Zombies. Resident Evil. Cannibal: The band Cannibal Corpse. Tried to get into them because Punk listened to them but it was too heavy for me. Flight: Airplanes, flights, vacations, away from everyone, nothing to worry about, good food, fighting with my siblings for the window seats. Porn: People be having weird fetishes sometimes. The thumbnails I see on websites...some of y’all crazy. Pot: I thought about how college life is so crazy. People would sell brownies or cookies with weed in them IN SCHOOL, meanwhile I still don’t even know if weed and pot are the same or if they’re two different things ohmygod HAHAHAHA I’m so sheltered wow I’m hopeless?????? Style: Taylor Swift and that subtle shade to Harry. People were shookened five years ago. Floss: Pork floss is really good. Star: There was a local celebrity who recently tweeted a pic, supposedly of a tiny tiny star that was beside the moon at like 5 AM, and she was asking what it was. Someone replied that it was Venus and explained what she just saw for her. Super cool. Nate: I don’t know anyone named Nate. I DID, however, remember the Naked Brothers Band. The older brother is named Nat, so it’s close enough. Soft: Pillows are soft. Orange: Hayley Williams’ hair 11 years ago. Witch: Philippine superstitions and how crazy and obsessive Filipinos can get. My mom, one of the most rational, no-nonsense people I know, scolds me every time I mock witchcraft or what we call ‘kulam’ cos she believes something will happen to me if I do. I’m all for honoring our mythology and traditions but sheesh, not to the obsessive extent. Mound: Ants. Root: Gabie used to watch this show where she shipped two girls named Root and Shaw. Oil: Massages. Hot: Deserts. Disc: Childhood, blowing on it to make it work, double-sided discs for longer movies, if a disc had scratches expect it to die soon. Soil: Plants. Planting trees. Muddy. Ugly: That scene in Spongebo where Patrick tells the story of the ugly barnacle. “Once there was an ugly barnacle. He was so ugly that everyone died. The end,” which didn’t help Spongebob who at the time was feeling super ugly hahahahaha. Sugar: Maroon 5. Also, my grandma used one particular jar for sugar throughout my entire childhood. It’s plastic, it’s clear, and it came with a red-orange lid. I’d often eat sugar on its own so I saw that jar quite a bit and it gives me a sense of nostalgia. I’m not so sure if that’s still the jar being used in the old house. Bone: Ribs :( Been craving for some. Sigh: Air??? I don’t know. Throne: Game of Thrones. I had to watch a 26-minute documentary of a GoT production for my broadcast management class. It’s insanely hard. So much respect to everyone involved in its prod. Calendar: I’m secretary for my org, which means that I always have to update everyone about our calendar of events. Carpet: Fancy. Flesh: The Walking Dead. Cement: Dangerous. Vow: The movie with Rachel McAdams and Channing Tatum. One of my guiltier pleasures. Sweet: Desserts. And now I’m hungry.

#survey #surveys #lengthy but a goodie

4 notes · View notes

betsynagler · 6 years

Text

Tired of Being Treated Differently

In 1996, my best friend from high school invited me to go on a two-week cross-country trip with her and three of her friends — which turned out to be four for the first six days, when one of them decided to bring an extra person, until we dropped him off in California. I’d never driven across the country, and was excited to give it a try, so I said yes. It was an incredibly fun and also eye-opening experience, not only because it was my first visit to sites like the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, and the Corn Palace, but because four of the people in the van — and once we dropped off our California-bound late-addition, everyone except for me — were people of color. How did this matter? Well, for starters, when we’d land in places like a fishing town on the Oregon Coast, and everyone would stare. As a fairly generic-looking white woman of 27, I was used to passing without a second glance in most of the places I’d been to that point (basically the States, Europe and Canada), certainly anywhere I’d been in the U.S. It very quickly became obvious to me that this wasn’t the case if you were were Black or Asian American, like the friends I was traveling with. Turned out there were parts of the country — and a lot more parts than I’d suspected — where you were going to get noticed, and not in a friendly way. But there was also stuff I learned on that trip that wasn’t as obvious. Like what it meant when we went out to lunch in a nice restaurant in Santa Fe and got terrible service. My impulse was to just chalk that up to the fact that we were all in our 20s and didn’t look like we had money — particularly after spending more than a week’s worth of nights either camping, sleeping on friends’ floors, or in Motel 6s (the night we splurged on the $40/night Excalibur in Vegas, it felt like we were staying at the Plaza). Because that was what I’d dealt with before. My friends, however, felt pretty strongly that the way we were being ignored and slighted had something to do with race, because they’d dealt with that before. And so, while it’s not like this had never occurred to me until then, that trip helped drive home in a tangible way that 1) my experience of going through the world was not the same as everyone else’s, and 2) that that body of experience, that history that each of us had, was going to lead us to view the same situations very differently.

These concepts weren’t hard for me to get, not just because I had friends of color, but because of what I’d been experiencing in my own life and career, starting with graduate school. Since moving to New York to become a filmmaker six years earlier, I’d often had this feeling that I was being treated differently, but in ways so hard to prove, even to myself, that I'd mostly just accepted it was all in my head. When guys I’d shot films for as a first year at NYU, who’d been really happy with my work, instead chose the same other guy to shoot for them in second year, I chalked it up to my not being “technical enough,” or not having the confident decisiveness to take charge of the set the way the DP was supposed to — until I realized that no women were shooting films for men at all, unless they were their girlfriends. When I arrived on professional sets, it started sinking in more and more that men really were always telling me to smile, or offering to “help” me with my job when their jobs were unrelated to mine and I hadn’t asked for their help, or treating me as an object of flirtation, even if they were my superiors. I eventually learned to handle all of that by being more tolerant, competent, and professional than they were, but what I had the hardest time with was what I cared about the most: sending out scripts, or soliciting constructive feedback from peers in writing workshops, and receiving constant rejection or rude/patronizing remarks. Okay sure, cruelty is considered par for the course in a business where success is so elusive and so coveted that people are just expected to accept all kinds of abuse — verbal, sexual, physical — in order to get somewhere. But that only makes it more infuriating when there are additional comments or obstacles that other people don’t seem to be dealing with. Like when I wrote a film about a friendship between two teenaged girls, and one of the men in my writing group couldn’t understand the point of the script unless they had a lesbian relationship. Or when I submitted a script to a production company and the coverage I received said that the reader had no interest in the story, which featured two female main characters and one love interest who was a man of color, until the second love interest, a white guy, showed up. Yeah, that's when things got good, he said. I was starting to see that I was stuck in a system where the white male arbiters of good and bad had all the power not just to decide whether my work was one or the other, but to define what the terms “good” and “bad” even meant. So it was easy for them to claim — and fully believe — that the failure of women to scale their ranks wasn’t due to our gender, it was due to their inability to master “the craft.” All they had to say was, “I couldn't get into the story,” or, “I didn't care about the characters,” and those were considered legitimate critiques based on merit, when of course there was way, way, way…basically everything more to it than that.

This is what makes unequal treatment such a hard thing to pinpoint: it has everything to do with who’s distinguishing and quantifying “good” and “bad” in an entrenched system. So it's only when you look at the big picture over time, quantified in data, and see the work of women and people of color highly underrepresented in nearly every area of the arts — music, painting, sculpture, literature, theater, cinema, etc — that you can see discrimination is happening because the system itself is fucked.

What I was going through wasn’t the same as what my friends from that trip were going through, not at all. Each of us is a different person. But we all knew that we were being treated differently, based on countless experiences we’d had that added up. And we knew, because we’d experienced that too, that the kind of discrimination we were dealing with was so insidious and damaging precisely because people who hadn’t faced it were going to scoff and chalk it up to something entirely innocuous, and say it didn’t even exist.

I was reminded of all this last weekend, when I watched the women’s final of the 2018 U.S. Open. I don’t think most people would say that Serena Williams behaved perfectly when she argued with umpire Carlos Ramos and then later broke her racket when she threw it down in anger. But the question is not whether she did something wrong, it’s whether she was treated differently. Of course you can say that Ramos was just following the rules, that she shouldn’t be getting special treatment because she’s the great Serena Williams, and that plenty of men have been penalized like she was — with articles like this jumping on opportunities to bring all of that up and say “What about…?” But if you dig a little deeper, you find way more examples of white men behaving worse in less important matches, even toward that same umpire, and not having him penalize them so severely as to ruin a tournament final for everyone involved. In other words, yes, there are rules, but if they aren’t applied in the same way across the board, we are back at “He said, she said,” and it's always the “He said” that comes first. Always.

The Whatabouters always say, “Why does everything have to be about race/sex?” Well, yeah, it’d be great not to have to talk about discrimination, but you can’t when it won’t leave you alone – even when you’re arguably the best athlete in the world. If you’re a woman and/or a person of color, your experience has told you that it nearly always is about that. It just is. Then the Whatabouters say, “Then you’re asking for special treatment when you break the rules.” Well, that’s because the rules, by which I mean all of the laws of this country dating back to the Constitution, were, from the very beginning, designed to treat women and people of color differently – creating a world in which the norm is special treatment for white men. Again, it just is.

And how often have our laws and rules that were not designed to be unfair been applied evenly and fairly? Let’s face it, the U.S. Open’s got nothing on the American justice system. Why do we refuse to recognize that when fallible people who do “bad” have to be punished, and when other fallible humans are doing the judging about how “bad” they are, there's going to be all sorts of bias and unequal treatment? If the recent news isn’t convincing to you, we’ve now got data to prove that Black people are much more likely to be on the receiving end of police violence; have been far more likely to receive the death penalty in capital cases; that crack users in the 80s, who were more often Black, received far stiffer sentences than white users of powdered cocaine; that Black people were far more likely be searched and arrested for possession of marijuana than white people (two of the reasons, in case you were wondering, why so many more people of color have been incarcerated en mass during the War on Drugs); and that Black schoolchildren are likely to be more severely punished, suspended, or even have the cops called on them than white children for the same transgressive behavior.

And systems by which people are considered “good,” like at their jobs, and promoted? Again, completely dependent on the fallible judgments of those in power, so that only in the aggregate can we see how Black employees receive extra scrutiny from their bosses, Asian Americans are the least likely racial group to be promoted to management positions, women are punished and considered “bad” at their jobs for traits that are considered “good” in men, like ambition, speaking up, or doing too well in school; and how, of course, women of color are the least likely to be supported or promoted for equally good work.

I know what the Whatabouters are saying now: “Yes, people in the past were wrong, but now, moving forward, we’re the ones trying to treat everyone the same.” Um, really? We’re supposed to believe that? We’ve had this whole lifetime of experience that tells us otherwise, and you’re dismissing that, again? You’re claiming that, at long last, in this tennis match, or court of law, or screenwriting competition, or job review, or state senate, when it comes down to questions of “rules” and “fairness” and “objectivity,” we should continue to just trust the white guys? Yeah, right.

If you’ve been wondering why so many women and people of color are running for office this election season, well, here you go: we’re just sick of being treated differently. For a long time, we’ve trusted the white guys who say they’re going to fix things and finally respect our rights the same way they respect their own. Now we’re finally deciding that the only way things are going to change is for us to get in there and make the rules, and apply them ourselves.

Can you blame us?

8 notes · View notes