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pjmparadise · 1 year

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Saw You in a Dream

PJM x Reader oneshot/drabble

──・──・・✿ ・・──・──

Pairing: Jimin x Reader ft Jungkook & Taehyung

Genre: fluff, angst, established relationships au, ex boyfriend!Jimin, idol!Jimin au, boyfriend!Jungkook, fiancé!Jungkook, friend!Taehyung, dream au, romance, Comet au, dream au, magic au

Audience: 18+ (minors DNI!)

Warnings: profanity, cursing, mentions of infidelity, emotional turmoil, crying, sad Jimin (so sorry!!), mentions of intercourse/intimacy, brief kissing, insecurities, mentions of anxiety, insinuations of jealousy and regret, mentions of death, mentions of marriage

Word count: 4.8k

Summary: You and Jimin have a history. He comes to you years later with the mention of a dream. Unsure if he’s still dreaming or in denial of the end, all he knows is it feels impossible to let you go.

“Because I’m so happy to see you and I don’t think I’ll ever forget you. I’m trying so hard to remember you like this.”

I saw you in a dream You had stayed the same You were beckoning me Said that I had changed Tried to keep my eyes closed I want you so bad Then I awoke and it was so sad

Song: ꒰ა♡໒꒱ to get with the sad vibes lol

°.♡➹.°

A/N: this is my first published piece on my blog and i know it’s a bit lengthy for it to be a drabble so i guess this can also be a one-shot, not sure. either way, i am glad you’re here and i am glad you’ve given my work a chance! it means the world. as for how this story came to be, it was recently that i revisited the movie Comet and was overwhelmed and inspired by the storyline and thus felt compelled to write my own version featuring Jimin. there are some timeline jumps in this story and i tried my best to make it easy to follow, so i italicized the flashbacks. i also avoided using any detailed descriptions for the reader so it can be more inclusive for my audience. lastly, i dont think badly of Jimin at all, this is simply a fictional story. i absolutely adore him. anyway!! please let me know your thoughts, it would be so so appreciated! i hope you enjoy! ·͜·

(moodboard was created by me with this story in mind)

──·──··✿ ··──·──

Six years after Jimin first met you, he finds himself standing outside your door; a clammy hand clutching a bouquet of wildflowers to his chest and mumbling to himself something you struggle to make out from where you stand, ear pressed against the door. “This is not a dream. This is not a dream,” Jimin assures himself, his voice hushed and trembling. It was his idea to visit you. Uncaring of the time that left a gaping hole between you two, he’d convinced himself to try again, prematurely deciding he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. He tosses the bouquet to the floor, knocks three times, and with immediate regret, bends down to pick up the arrangement of Cosmos, Borage, and Snapdragons. His heart beats wildly in his chest, the silence striking a brief pang of fear in his being.

You thought you were better equipped but at the sound of his knuckles rapping a weak knock for the second time, you feel your heart jump into your throat. It’d been almost a full year since the last time you two spoke and although proving to be slightly burdensome at first, after many lonely nights of wallowing in regret, you found yourself returning to a lover of years past. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to understand how your heart races and beats inside your chest like a vicious creature that was called by the only being able to tame it.

Out in the hallway, Jimin is pacing and rubbing his forehead continuing his quiet anthem of denying this is some sort of dream. Grounding himself in a reality he’s deeply afraid of.

After another torturous moment subsides, you reach for the doorknob and pull back the door and he’s standing there in front of you; handsome, with dark and melancholy eyes, long hair falling in lazy wisps over his eyes, a nice suit, and the same black boots he wore even on days he swore he made little effort to appear well dressed. You can’t help it, you smile warmly at him, and through bright eyes that always smiled first, he returns the affection.

“Jimin, come in.”

He follows you in and absentmindedly sets down the bouquet on the couch as his eyes begin to take in your living room. His wandering eyes flutter from picture frame to picture frame, from curious knickknacks adorning your shelves to the books arranged by the stereo, then back to you. He saw it; the framed photo of you and Jungkook sharing a kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower. He doesn’t mention it, instead, he turns away sharply and faces your kitchen. Rubbing above his nose bridge the way he used to after watching sad French movies with you, denying the ending got to him as his eyes welled with tears in secrecy, he picks up the bouquet from the couch and offers it to you, a timid look invading his otherwise emotionless face.

“Your cabinets are green,” is the first thing he says to you. You meet his eyes and he swallows at the saliva in his throat; his bright eyes are sadder now, avoidant of your gaze and when you offer him tea, he shakes his head no and sits down on your couch and doesn’t say a word for what feels like an eternity.

“You wanted to see me?”

He nods. His right leg shakes and he’s sniffing, his eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of him. “Is that….?” He signals at a framed photo of Jungkook where he’s pointing at a neon sign from a bar in the states.

You nod in confirmation, offering him a tight-lipped smile.

“Ah,” is all Jimin says for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t picturing him to look like that. I hoped he’d at least be ugly, sorry.” You laugh at his honesty and he lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, sucking at his teeth, and avoiding your eyes as he continues. “I wanted to tell you that I had a dream last night. About us. About the time we were together, except it wasn’t really a dream. It was like my life was flashing before my eyes and I was seeing everything I’ve lived all over again.”

You stand in front of him, quietly eyeing him. “I thought you didn’t have dreams,” you comment, smiling at him.

He looks up at you with a grave expression. “I don’t. That’s why this got to me. And it wasn’t even like a dream, it was as if I was dying, everything moved on so quickly and I got to watch us fall in and out of love over the years. I saw us, on the first day we met; then I saw us again in Seoul the evening we argued on the rooftop before the wedding” His voice is unsteady and he clears his throat. “I saw us in my dream, in Itaewon, remember?”

You nod, succumbing to the memory he’s referring to.

✧༚

It was January. You and Jimin had been separated for almost two years at the time and you were in Itaewon after your mother stopped in the city to grab a meal before resuming the trip back home. Inpatient and driven by the boredom of the company of a mother you couldn’t converse with for long, you’d decided you would find someplace to unwind in the meantime. It was beginning to grow dark out as you made your way through the deserted street when a door swung open and a voice yelled out your name. It was Jimin. He’d seen you walk past the window of the pub he sat in with your mutual friend, Taehyung, eating stew kimchi jjigae and going over the week’s work schedule. Without your knowing, he’d begged Taehyung to lend him his jacket to hide the kimchi stain on his t-shirt moments before he bolted to the front door to call you. He offered to be Taehyung’s genie in return for the favor and he paid no mind to the way his friend asked him to leave you be. You turn at the sound of his voice, in this memory, and you can almost feel the way your heart thumped in your chest at the sight of him waving at you from a distance.

You grin at him, letting him know you remember.

“I also dreamt of the last time we spoke. On the phone.” His voice is quieter now and you walk away from him, remembering that last conversation, your smile dissipating. “You really hurt me. I should’ve said I loved you more. I know that now but even after all this time, I think of that phone call and it hurts. Even if it was my fault.”

✧༚

The day of Jimin's birthday landed on Friday that year. You were driving back home when he called you, interrupting Amy Winehouse’s ‘You Know I’m No Good.’ You bit back tears and fought the urge of allowing the call to ring and go to voicemail. How could you tell him that you’d met someone else? That you might like this person, despite being with him for two years. You met Jungkook a few months ago at an art exhibit in Busan. Both your companies were collaborating on a project and they’d sent you to meet the group of collaborators in charge of setting up the function but due to a stomach bug that swept your office, you were the only person available for the trip. He was your age, with dark round eyes, and a smile so wide you thought you’d fall in the moment he extended out a tattooed hand to greet you. He was wearing a mossy green shirt he left unbuttoned near his chest with dark pants and boots that generously made him taller than you. Later on, you would find yourself remembering the way your attention was drawn to his masculine beauty and the way he shared what he felt at any given moment. Jungkook was different; he didn’t hide his tears, have an air of indifference, or suppress his feelings of love for you out of the sake of damaging his image; you couldn’t tell Jimin this now, not today. But he knew right away. Something was astray. What was it, he asked over and over. “Nothing, Jimin. I was listening to Amy Winehouse, and it just got to the good part and I wasn’t expecting a call,” is all you offered. “Bullshit!” he shouted in turn. “Bullshit! You’re hiding something! What is it?” His voice boomed through your car’s speakers, filling you with dread. “Jimin let's not do this right now, please.” “Why? What happened? Something is wrong, tell me,” he demanded, his voice cracking through the phone. You sat in silence, parking outside of your shared apartment. You caught a glimpse of your cat Ein fast asleep by the window, and you began to weep. “You’re not saying anything. Fuck, it’s bad isn’t it?” You don’t respond, now crying into your hands. His voice is higher now, altered and coaxed with his inevitable suffering when he says: “It's bad. This feels bad. Infidelity bad—it is, isn’t it?”

You look at him now, your hands trembling beside you. He stands up and makes his way to you, snapping you out of the bitter memory.

“I should’ve told you I loved you more,” he says softly. His dark eyes bore into yours and it takes everything in you not to cry in front of him.

“Do you regret meeting me?” You ask him. Afraid of the answer.

“No,” he responds, almost breathless. “I’ll never regret meeting you. You were easily the best thing to ever happen to me.” You can feel your face distort as you stifle a sob. “Easily.”

He takes notice of the way you wipe the corners of your eyes and he clears his throat, shifting the attention from his sudden emotional outburst. “So, Jungkook, is it? That's his name, right?” You nod solemnly. “I just wouldn’t have pictured this, it still hurts.”

“I know,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, you begin to chew the inside of your lip.

“And you, do you wish you’d never met me?”

“I’m glad I met you, Jimin. I am so thankful to you. I know we were young when first met and even when we considered ourselves more experienced the second time, we still didn’t know what we were doing. I needed to meet you. I don’t regret it.”

“Does he know I’m here?” He raises an eyebrow at you, almost amused. You scoff without intending to and rub your forehead, avoiding his questioning eyes. “He didn’t want me here,” he states, his jaw growing slack. He can’t help but smirk at this. “You argued to see me.”

“You sounded worried or something in the voicemail you left me, I don’t know. We didn’t fight but no, he didn’t want you here.”

“Can I?” Jimin stands and saunters over to a framed photo of Jungkook holding up Ein, baring a wide-toothed smile at you behind the camera. He holds the photo in one hand, looking it over, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “And he makes you happy?”

“He does.”

“I wish he wasn’t everywhere I looked, he’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, there are so many pictures of him.” You’re standing beside him now, admiring the smiling man in the photo, and you feel your lips turn into a frown. There is something so gut-wrenching about looking into the eyes of the man you love while it’s Jimin that holds him out in front of him, reflecting the gloomy air that hangs between the two of you. “I thought I had more time, you know? And this dream feels like a curse. Now I can’t seem to forget anything I lived with you. Life doesn’t even feel real anymore.” He gently sets down the photo, turning to face you, sighing deeply. “I dreamt I was here. Where I am right now, talking to you like this.”

✧༚

You cried in your car, listening to Jimin curse through the phone. “Who is it? Is it that guy...? The one that worked with you in the states, the one you met at the exhibition? Fuck…I can’t remember his name. Jeon Something… is it him?” You mumbled out a stifled “Yes,” earning an agonized groan through the phone. It was quiet for a moment before his exasperated voice resumed on the other line. “Fuck, I knew it. I knew it. You felt so different these past couple of weeks and when you left you kept avoiding me. I knew it. Fuck, I knew it.” His voice was shaky and you considered hanging up, overcome with a sudden urge to run out of your car and fall to your knees on the pavement, prepared to surrender to the sorrowful remorse that shook you. “Jimin, I think I should go.” “Did you fuck him?” The accusation stinging, you stared morosely ahead at the front door of your home, your mouth gaping in silence. “Did you fuck him?” He reiterated. “No, Jimin. It was never physical, I never…” “What was it then?” He interjected, his voice accusatory and perplexed. Jimin was in Busan, visiting his father, sitting outside his coffee shop, as it began to rain. “Just through texts,” you admitted. Jimin groaned at this and you weren’t present but you could picture the way he sat doubled over, crouching and hiding his face in his arms. The rain greeted him without mercy and in moments he was drenched. Unmoving, he pressed you to continue. “Just texts? How long has this been going on?” There was a momentary fraught silence as you mustered the courage to continue this detrimental unraveling of your wrongdoings. He chewed his bottom lip anxiously awaiting a response he dreaded. It would wound him, whatever you said it would bare no difference to the antagonized feeling that had begun to swallow him whole. “Since I got back.” “Fuck,” is all he said. He was rubbing his forehead, forcing himself not to cry. He stood under the relentless rain, masking the tears that clouded his vision, an uncanny feeling of loss coursing his being. “A month.” He repeated. “Jimin, not today, I didn’t want this day to go this way-“ “-the song you were listening to,” he retorts, cutting you off. “That Amy Winehouse song. It was a commentary on our relationship. You’re checked out, aren’t you?”

You’re standing across from him now. He has an air of despair about him that makes your heart falter at the sight of him. “You’re different,” you say, breaking the silence. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and he nods slowly, silently agreeing.

Jimin’s stomach feels emptied and his limbs feel foreign; he fears that a miscalculated step will send him tumbling. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of having lost all control of his movements. He meets your eyes and takes notice of the way your lips quiver willing you not to cry. He blinks away tears and rubs his nose, sniffing. “You’re different too,” he remarks, cracking a shy smile. “Still so beautiful, though.”

You blink at him, your fidgeting hands restless in your lap at his compliment. “You really dreamt this? Being here with me like this?” Your voice comes out quieter than you’d intended and he nods at you, a desperate look in the darkness of his tearful eyes silently begging you to believe him. “What happened in this part of your dream?”

He sighs deeply and looks down at his trembling hands. “I don’t know. I kept traveling back and forth between the beginning and the end, I don’t really know how it ends. I’m not even sure I’m not still dreaming.” He swallows hard, not wanting to break away from your stare. “I love you and I know now where we began to fall apart and I tried so hard to fall back asleep and go into that dream and fix it but I couldn’t.” His voice is low, shaky and he starts to rub above his nose bridge again when your gaze falls to the ground at him saying this. “Don’t marry him,” he drawls suddenly.

“Why are you doing this, Jimin?”

He’s standing close to you now, you can feel it. He’s standing so close you can smell his cologne; the smell reeling you back into a space and time where you loved him.

“You have an air about you I can’t explain, it’s so different, and you don’t have a ring on your finger but I’ve seen you fidgeting with your ring finger this whole time; you knew I was coming and you didn’t want me to see it, and I can see you’ve been listening to Amy Winehouse again. You’re not happy. Don’t marry him.” His voice doesn’t waver, carrying the same certainty his words always possessed. Like a tree that cannot be moved, he was always so sure of himself.

You look down at your left hand, ringless and strange looking now that it's brought to your attention. A hand that almost resembles a stranger's hand, reminding you of the time you asked him why he refused to marry you. You frown at him, completely unaware of how often you grazed your ringless finger, you feel your face hot with indignation.

You’re still. With your breath hitching in your throat, fat tears welling up in your eyes, and blurring your vision, you turn to face him and almost collapse into yourself when you see the innocent hope in his dark eyes. He’s sure of what you’re going to say, you can tell by the way he’s inching closer and is bouncing on the heels of his feet, eager for you to reciprocate. Jimin feels the warmness pooling in his face, his body beginning to tingle with anticipation and worry.

“I love him,” you say, watching his face distort and overcome with grief. “I’ve been tired because we’ve just moved in here. I am different, Jimin. I’m happier. And I’m not wearing my ring because it’s getting resized and I really just like Amy Winehouse,” you carefully explain. Like setting down a wounded bird, not wanting to further the injury or inflict new ones.

He takes a step back from you and a tear rolls down his cheek. His lips tremble and he rubs in between his forehead, turning away from you once more, to cry facing the cruel evidence of his delayed consciousness. Then Jimin realizes, without saying so, that you were the only person who had penetrated his being and willed him to pursue his musical career as he began to give in to defeat despite being neglected in sacrifice, and for the first time in the years you’d known him, he began to cry in front of you. In an instant, he discovered a newfound sense of woe that jolted him to sit down and sob into his trembling hands. Inconsolable with his newfound heartache, he realizes he might be too late. It’s beginning to feel like a nightmare he can’t pull himself out of. And perhaps he deserves it, perhaps it’s been written in the stars to end this way the same way it’d been written he’d see you and feel inexplicably drawn to you all those years ago.

You leave him to lament and decide to fill a vase for the bouquet that wilts in the melancholy air. Your legs lead you blindly, your mind a puddle of recollections and unnerving feelings you’re unsure how to process.

✧༚

The evening in Seoul two years ago resurfaces as you fill the vase with water. Your glassy gaze is out of focus, vividly recalling how the chilly air stung your cheeks on the rooftop. “I don’t understand why you can’t just say you have someone when they ask. You don’t have to say my name, Jimin. I just want to feel like I exist, not only when we’re behind closed doors. I am so tired of hiding,” you sighed. “You know why, baby. You know it’s not as easy as we both want it to be.” “I know, I know,” you mumbled walking past him and clipping up your hair. “So, then are you almost ready for the wedding?” “No, I can’t find my earrings. But don’t change the subject, it makes me feel so bad about myself when you act like that.” “Like what?” He side-eyed you, bracing himself for a short-tempered response. “Like you don’t care. I don’t know why you say you love me and you constantly act like the things I say don’t matter and you just change the topic. It’s so annoying,” you snapped, storming in the opposite direction. “I do care!” He called out as you faced away from him. “Hey! Come back. I said I do care, c’mon. I just don’t want to be late for the wedding, can we please talk about this later?” “Are we ever getting married?” You wondered out loud. Distracted and monotone without meaning to be, he fingered the ring he had in his pocket as he replied: “Of course, we will. I love you.” His pensive stare fixed on the distant mountains ahead, he went over his speech internally, deciding tonight would be the night he’d finally propose after years of denying you the satisfaction of publicly being linked to him as anything. But at the sound of his voice, hurt and full of resentment at being hidden from the world for so long, you spat: “Does it not bother you that I am not happy?”

Jimin watches you from where he’s seated, solemn and silent. Devastated by your response, and unable to find the right words to say, his restless leg bouncing beneath his cupped hands, he gives up his efforts of saying anything. He thought he was capable of uncovering your truth and walking away unscathed after the time you’ve spent apart, yet he remains paralyzed with agony and a slow thudding in his chest he can feel up to his ears. A nagging part of his being refusing to accept the definite end urges him not to surrender just yet and his lips part to speak just as the vase slip from your grasp and shatters into hundreds of unrecognizable pieces.

Flustered, you grab a broom and begin to sweep up the mess. “It isn’t like you to cry,” you comment, looking over at him. He sucks his teeth, a habit he picked up when he didn’t know how to come up with a lie. A habit he’d never been able to shake. “You don’t have to say anything, Jimin. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve realized in getting older that it does nothing to suppress tears. I spent my whole life being told how to be a man, how to feel, and how I should look when I am at the lowest point of my life and the truth is, I like to cry. I held on to everything for so long I never knew where to put it.” He’s not crying anymore, but his nose is rubbed into a faint blush and his piercing dark eyes are rimmed red from crying. His eyebrows furrow, a hurt expression taking over him. “Don’t tell me you love him.”

“But I do,” you retort, dumping the shards of glass into the trash bin, looking straight at him. “You can’t just show up here, talking about dreams, and tell me you still love me and expect me to leave him for you, Jimin. It doesn’t work that way.”

He knits his eyebrows, his glassy eyes void of any strength they had, hurriedly blinking away at stray tears that betray him. “No, I know that. It’s just…” he moans, running a hand through his dark hair. “I can’t exist in this world without you. I used to talk about having time to settle, I know I was naive to think we had all the time when you were slipping from me. I don’t feel that way anymore. I walk around every day, just a shell of the person I was when I wasn’t drowning in this solitude and I can’t shake the feeling that you’re who I’m supposed to be with.” He feels immobile, shaken, and discarded but he clenches his jaw and wipes at his eyes hastily to appear stronger than he is. The truth is, he’s never felt so small.

“I’m happy I met you, Jimin. I am, but I am not who you’re meant to be with. We both know that. We’ve done it all before. It was perfect until it wasn't, and now I am with Jungkook and I’m happy. I’ve found what I was missing with you.” He winces at the latter.

Silently, he paces around the living room. His eyes look over the photographs of the two of you scattered about the place, like easter eggs full of remorse, broken promises, and deceit of years past. “I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to let you go,” he confesses, shooting you a pained look. He groans into his hands, a strangled sob escaping him. You hadn’t noticed, but you’re crying. “I’m glad you’re happy, I really am. Even if it’s not with me. I thought I had you the way you’ve always had me.”

You open your lips to protest and he interjects with: “Give me a moment, okay?”

You make your way closer to him, making him look up from his now crouched position. He’s crying silent tears, his gaze distant and unmoving.

“I keep thinking of that dream. If I could’ve just stayed there, this wouldn’t be happening.” He’s shaking his head, mumbling incoherent words to himself. Then out loud, a final confession: “I almost proposed to you.”

Your heart rings in between your ears and you can’t hide the trembling of your lips as you sit beside him, bringing your face into your palms. “Don’t tell me that, Jimin.”

“It’s true, the evening we argued on the rooftop when you asked why I didn’t tell the world about us, I had the ring with me but after our fight, I tossed it as far as I could when you went downstairs to greet your mother.” You frown, unsure of how to go on. Jimin’s body shakes with each sob that escapes him and he’s wishing he was wrong and that this is really still somehow a part of his dream of memories. For the first time since he walked in, he brings himself to really look at you, his stare unwavering and brimmed with sadness. He feels an irresistible urge to take your hand in his and kiss you one last time, now accepting his fate with totality.

“I don’t know how I’ll get on without you. I’m really sorry.” He hangs his head low, his voice serious and sincere. “I broke your heart and I never really deserved you but the truth is, I feel so stuck. I don’t know why it feels so impossible to let you go.”

“Why are you crying?” You ask him.

“Because I’m so happy to see you and I don’t think I’ll ever forget you. I’m trying so hard to remember you like this.” He lets out a dry laugh and offers you a sheepish grin. You smile weakly at him, wishing you could say something of comfort but not wanting to indulge in any of his false hope.

“How did your dream end? The part you left off on where we talk like this. How does that go?” You look at him through tearful eyes and he inches closer to you, his face now centimeters from yours. Your face is flushing and you can feel his breath, raising the hair on your arms.

“I didn’t finish it. I leaned in to kiss you and I woke up.”

“And how do you know you woke up?” Your eyes sting as they lock with his.

Neither of you has said anything and before you can, he mashes his lips against yours and you’re seeing it too.

✧༚

It was a cold evening in November when you first saw him. You were making your way through a crowd outside a concert, searching for your friend Taehyung who stood in line accompanied by a boy wearing a black hoodie, jeans, and a beanie. He was staring at you as if you were long lost friends, a familiar air that was so dreamy any person who came across him might understand what it feels like to fall into a dream while awake. In all of his life, he’d never felt so bewitched by another presence as you came into view. You were perfect. It was as if the Earth stood still and it was just the two of you. Your serious face brightened at the sight of your friend and you waved eagerly at the pair. His eyes smiled, then his lips pulled back into a wide grin and his first words to you were: “I think I’ve seen you before.”

#bts fluff #jimin imagine #jungkook imagine #park jimin moodboard #bts x reader #bts angst #bts oneshot #jimin drabble #jimin oneshot #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #jungkook x you #taehyung mention #jimin fic #bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #jimin x reader #jungkook x reader #bts imagine

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indouloureux · 2 years

Text

the lakes (where all the poets went to die)

tom holland x reader

"Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm setting off, but not without my muse..."

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒

summary: Life in front of obnoxiously flashing cameras isn't as pleasant as everyone believes. For Tom, it’s too constant that it’s suffocating him. When he decides to run away and give himself some fresh air, he meets you, writing poetry beside the lake with a cigarette between your lips and a masterpiece inside your head.

(and you prove to him that life isn't all that bad through moments of consolation and love that grows within)

word count: 9, 013

warnings: mentions of anxiety, smoking, angst, fluff, slight depictions of depression.

a/n: i wrote this when i took a break from writing part three of ‘debauched angels’. and i’ve been listening to folklore on repeat and personally ‘the lakes’ is one of my favorite songs in the track, and an idea popped into my head while listening to it so i decided to make this one-shot. Hope you all enjoy!

(p.s. tbh as much as i love the song and this one-shot, i'm not very fond of how i've written it. the ending seems rushed imo. yet still i hope you all enjoy it. feedback much appreciated)

MASTERLIST

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

Patience, patience, patience.

It’s a litany Tom has memorized inside his head when he sees that all-too familiar shape of the camera that’s heavily steadied by the hands of nosy, if not, abrasive men. He’s lived almost his entire life in front of cameras that continuously shove itself in his face, and by twenty-five he thinks he should be already used to it.

But he can't help but feel anxious and unsettled when he sees the reflection of himself in those cameras that makes him wants to wallow in self-deprivation and just relax.

The incessant blinding-white flashing of the cameras is suffocating him – like the light has turned into hands and reaches out to wrap itself around Tom’s neck and hold him still, fingers poking on the corner of his lips to present them a charming smile everyone will love.

“Tom look at here!” “Tom, here!” “Hey, Tom, give us a smile!” “Here. Look at here!”

The demands are anything but a soft plea. They’re loud, almost shouting. Demanding him to look at the cameras. And if he politely declines, or looks at somewhere else, he fears that the little, insignificant encounter will define him as an ungrateful snob.

And so he repeats his mantra:

Patience, patience, patience.

He's not on the red carpet (which is a good thing, because he'd be on the edge of a severe panic attack if he was), but he's just roaming about contentedly on the streets, seeking fresh air to elevate the heavy feeling on his chest that these men had only applied pressure to.

(Tom had also opted not to wear a cap before leaving since he hadn't seen any paparazzi since earlier that morning and was confident he wouldn't be followed. But he was clearly misguided.)

His fingers dance on his phone, feeling the cracks on his screen. His phone had no case, and being the clumsy he was, the screen protector Tom applied had been useless a day after he had it put in. He searches for his bodyguard’s contact – Jake – and types in words of emergency.

And as the cameras continue to follow him, Tom smiles under his mask, refusing to take it off with the amount of people surrounding him – not because of COVID, rather he feels that if they see the smile he gave them, they’ll look closely and call it fake – “Hotshot moviestar can’t give a genuine smile anymore? Are you not grateful for what you have?”

He ducks his head low and shoves his hands inside his pockets, walking faster.

Each flash heightens his anxiety. And it's not the every-five-second flash; it's barely a millisecond before another flash ensues from the ten cameras that encircle him. Tom feels like he's in the news, being asked if he's involved in whatever crime they suspect he's involved in.

Those white hands try to reach out for him, clawing at his skin and blowing at his eyes. It’s shouting such brash demands it increases the pressure in his chest.

Tom tries to recuperate from his anxiety. Tries to pull himself away from the falsely avid men who’s blinded by folly. If someone were to truly look at him rather than stare blindly at the photos of himself posted to the internet, truly his soul’s prevalent in rich pathos – to which covered by concoctions of false happiness.

The text he’d sent via iMessage confirms itself ‘delivered’ beneath the blue bubble, but the words ‘read’ that Tom expected to appear immediately seemed to be arriving later. His clammy, shaking hands almost drop his phone to the ground, so he clutches the phone closer his chest.

With the lack of response, it makes his feet walk faster, hands carefully – very carefully – pushing the paparazzi away. Tom searches for his car keys on his back pocket. When he doesn't feel the steel, he frowns dismissively, then panicking as he lets the realization reel in that he doesn’t have his car keys.

Either he dropped it, or idiotically left it inside his car.

Patience, patience, patience.

Despite the chilly air nibbling at his cheeks and ears, sweat begins to stream down his temple. And it’s as if his own heart paves through his arms until it reaches his ears, beating simultaneously with the shouts and flashes.

He can’t handle it anymore.

Tom bolts, his feet taking him wherever they desire. He trips over uneven roads; trips over the paparazzi’s chasing him like a prized treasure they can’t live without. His knees burn with how fast he ran, and he feels the soles of his feet scathe the material of his shoes.

He feels like he's in a movie, fleeing from the adversary who seeks to destroy him. He runs like he's in the wilderness, tripping over roots and logs as he desperately tries to get away from those bright, white hands; he makes the wise decision not to glance back and continues sprinting.

Tom's nose lures in the odor of beer rather than the insipid smell of air conditioning dampness as he pivots to an alley, the pavement wet from air con leaks. He nearly falls into one of the beer puddles, his shoes soiled by the booze, yet it’s the last thing on his mind.

His feet descend to the earth that emerges to lead to a forest, his heavy footfall on the asphalt road replaced by the sleek crackling of the foliage generated by the trees that surround him, and he is now earnestly trying not to trip on roots and logs.

(It’s like that one scene in ‘The Deathly Hallows’, Tom thinks. All I can hear is my breathing and my footsteps and fuck, being an actor does make it feel like your life is literally a movie when you’re doing stupid shit and cameras might be filming you.)

After what feels like ten minutes of interminable running, he comes to a halt and glances behind him, noticing that the town is far away and virtually buried behind the woods.

Tom exhales, placing his hands on his knees and leans forward, bending slightly to catch his breath. He tries to extinguish the burning in both his lungs and knees, resting against a tree. Tom removes his mask to breath properly, placing it in his pocket.

Then he decides to wander, not return to town. He knows he'll probably get lost someplace (and eventually be discovered decomposing beside an old tree), but he feels it's better that way than facing the cameras again.

Tom looks down on his phone – no signal, no reply.

He walks forwards, lifting his phone in various places while paying no attention to his footsteps. When he spins around, however, a voice startles him to death.

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Shit!” Tom yelps, his phone flying through the air before he clumsily catches it in his hands. He glances about for where he heard the sound, breathing heavily as he recovers from the fear.

You're sitting on the ground with a blanket beneath you to protect your light denims from soil stains. Although it's frigid outside, you're clad modestly in a white top that drapes over your body, displaying just a smidgeon of your stomach flesh.

Sitting cross-legged, one hand sets your notebook beside you, while the other draws the backlit cigarette between your lips, evicting the smoke you'd absorbed and consolidate it with the slender fog that coats your vicinity.

A strand of hair falls behind your ear, swaying gently above your shoulders as you nod your head to the lake beside you. “You were about to fall and honestly, I kinda wish I shouldn’t have told you.”

Tom chuckles, embarrassed. “Well, thanks anyway. Could’ve spared me a new phone.”

You shrug, the corners of your lips tugged downwards. “Eh. Kinda looks like you need a new one, still.”

“You’re right,” he looks down on the phone in his hands, then back to you. “What-what are you doing here?”

You shrug once more, and Tom thinks the smile that follows is cute. “I like it here. It’s quiet. And I like the lakes.”

He walks closer to the water's edge, peering down to see his slightly undulating reflection. Tom allows his gaze roam to take in the rest of the environs, his gaze tracing the clean cut of the elliptical lake that divides existence from its reflection beneath it; it's as if he's perceiving two universes.

(The man in the lake rests in tranquil waters. Oh how he hopes to be that man. In a world full of peace; in a world that lacks judgment.)

The crystal waters are pristine. It sits still, idyllic, like it is a mirror rather than water. The sight alleviates his throes; he’s in a sanctuary of peaceful folklore to which unequivocal to produce a hemlock of subterranean elation. They left eternally elixir warmth to his chest, the insignia of relaxation.

“Amazing,” he murmurs beneath a breath of dumbstruckness. “I’ve never known there’s a lake behind the town.”

Your laugh is angelic, only adding to the euphoric feeling. “Guess you’ve been missing out peace,” you say. “How’d you end up here, anyway?”

“I was running away from…” he looks back at you, the small smile on his face vanishing as he realizes you might not know who he is. “From problems.”

“Ah,” your eyebrows raise as you nod, placing the cigarette back between your lips. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

“What about you?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here?”

You draw on the cigarette before puffing it out, placing it between your index and pointer. Then you pick up your notebook and your pencil, the scratching of the graphite against the parchment fills his ears as you answer: “I draw. And write.” You pat the space beside you. “You can sit beside me, by the way.”

Tom begrudgingly sits beside you with a soft grunt. He mocks your position, sitting cross-legged while his hand tugs on the lace of his shoe, clueless to which direction he should look – the lakes, or your eyes looking at him in observation.

He rests his head against the bark behind him, his eyes wander to the pencil held between your fingers and your notebook.

Your handwriting is pretty, he thinks, penmanship tortuously polished. Tom shyly leans closer to get a better view of what you’ve written, his cheek grazing your shoulder.

“What are you writing?” he asks. There’s a hint of almost childish curiosity in his voice, as if a child were looking over someone’s phone and asks if they have games.

You place the cigarette back between your lips. “Poetry,” your voice is muffled, and there’s a lisp formed by the burnt cigar hanging from your mouth. You tap the eraser methodically against the parchment, chucks of tobacco scuffing the blanket below you with small black spots. “Oh, and I’m also drawing a tree.”

You hand him the notebook, where he gladly accepts. His thumb dances across the small tree drawn on the corner of the paper, smudging the graphite a little. He chuckles. “It looks great.”

“Can you draw?”

Tom scoffs, feigning offense. “Uh, yeah. Give me the pencil.”

When he takes the pencil from you, he begins lightly sketching on the space beside the tree, and it’s where you realize he’s drawing a crooked circle followed by an oblique line beneath, where he adds four more sticks as its arms and legs.

Then he draws another figure, but the shade is lighter and slanted as its being drawn beneath his little man, as if a shadow.

“Marvelous! Jaw-dropping!” you applaud, gasping dramatically. “Such art. I’m astonished.”

Tom bows. “Oh, stop it. Stop it. I’m touched.”

But instead of returning the notebook, he reads what appears to be unfinished poetry penned by you in the middle of the page, leaning his head sideways.

for discord causes exile

my rustic ardor makes you stay awhile

cage in forced adulations,

for they consolidate your debauched reputation

His peripheral visions you gnawing the bottom of your lip nervously, finger tapping your knee. Tom’s eyebrows raise, gently returning the notebook back to your fidgeting hands.

“I’m…astonished,” he repeats your words.

“No-”

“I’m serious,” his torso faces you. “It’s amazing.

You scan him for any sign of a detrimental joke that dwells, searching for his bluffs – the slow blinking of his almond eyes, the twitch in the corner of his lip, or his slight sniffing from his crooked, pink nose.

Seamlessly shunning such questionable doubt, there’s an incandescent glow in your eyes that hinders slight ubiquitous mischief that’s eager to know more of him. It’s risky, curiosity, but it’s what piques you.

The smoke escapes between your mouth, the mist obscuring your vision. Tom gapes at the sight of the smoke, watching as its silver flames dance in the air.

“Thank you,” you finally say. “For what it’s worth, your drawing is amazing. It’s cute.”

His ears blush, rushing to his smiling cheeks. Tom nervously ruffles his unkempt curls, swallowing his dryly. “Thank you. Too. Thanks.” He looks into your eyes, and he thinks they’re as beautiful as the words you’ve written. “Do you have more? Poetry, I mean.”

Jubilantly, you nod. “I wrote one earlier this morning. Here,” Tom sees innumerable artworks of those sizes within three seconds of flicking through the pages. The fuzzy image was nevertheless beautiful, and he wished he could stare at it for a little longer.

Finally, you decide on a wrinkled, smeared, and dried page. But it's not neat, and the calligraphy isn't flawlessly looped - it's hastily scribbled, with ink splotched with damp patches that had dried but were slightly darker than the paper.

my contemning love in the byline,

our affair breaking the fine line,

for my significance is the bane of your life,

the silver lining cut by your forsaking knife.

The words tug on his heartstrings. Tom can’t help but look at you through half-lidded eyes with a short chuckle. “Ouch.”

“Ouch, indeed.” Perhaps it’s martyrdom; perhaps you’d felt the gist of the grandiloquence, because the tone is etched with traumatic melancholy which Tom can’t sense the genuineness from the following scoff.

“Looks like you cried while writing this.”

“I did.”

“Oh,” Tom’s taken aback by your abrupt reply. “Do you mind if I ask?”

You're hesitant once again since you (think) you don't know who he is, yet his demeanor is friendly and accepting. You even notice you haven't obtained his name yet, but because he's a stranger, you figure you may as well explain why.

(And Tom wants to know the rhapsodic heartbreak hidden behind the elegy’s words.)

“My partner cheated on me a couple weeks ago,” you lick your lips, subduing the growing lump in your throat. “And, well I’ve been grieving – about our relationship – and I was listening to Taylor Swift earlier this morning and I just…bawled.”

Unable to figure out how to comfort, Tom asks, “which album?”

“evermore,” you say. “And folklore.”

“Ah,” he empathizes suddenly from the mention of the two albums. “I liked folklore more.”

“Folklore made me cry the hardest, though,” you look at him. “But tolerate it made me cry a lot when evermore came on.”

“Oh that’s where byline came from,” Tom gleefully points out. “It’s in tolerate it, right?”

“Yes,” you chuckle, and suddenly the lump in your throat dissolves into warmth that melts down into your chest from rapture. “I really like that line.”

There’s a silence that follows before Tom says, “Your partner’s stupid, though,” he pulls his knees to his chest, resting his elbows on top. “They’re just…stupid.”

“Yeah,” he frowns when he hears you sniffle. “They really, really are.”

Is it appropriate to tell a stranger she’s pretty?

“You’re really pretty, anyway,” he shyly admits, scratching the back of his ear. “It’s their loss.”

“That’s true. I am very pretty,” you smirk at him. “And so do you…”

“Tom,” he offers his hand, trembling from the cold and your presence. "Holland,” he finishes.

You extend your hand to him and introduce yourself. Tom grins and can't resist planting a light kiss on your knuckles. Your frigid hands are warmed by his kiss.

There’s something about Tom that enlightens your heart. Maybe it’s his charming smile. Or how easily he found his spot beside you. But you let your guard remain, instead pulling out your box of cigarettes to him.

“You smoke?” you ask.

“Fuck yeah,” he pulls one out, placing it between his lips. They’re thin, but they’re pink and soft like rose petals – pretty and inviting. But they’re the type you only want to admire, scared of what happens when you cross the threshold.

But Tom’s not afraid to cross that threshold. He’s letting his patience sink in, admiring your roses.

You take your lighter from your bag, lighting the cigarette for him as he cups his hand over the cigar. “Thank you,”

“No problem.” You smile. “So what really brings you here, Tom Holland?”

As Tom drags out his cigar, he lets the smoke out when he speaks. “Ever heard of Spider-Man?”

You tilt your head sideways. You speak with your cigarette still in your mouth, and Tom watches as it bobs up and down as you enunciate your words with a small lisp. “Yes. I used to watch his movies when I was a kid and – holy shit,”

Tom looks at you, a confused smile on his face. “What?”

“You’re Spider-Man,” you point out. “No wonder why you looked familiar,” chuckling embarrassingly, you look away from him with the side of your thumb rubbing your nose. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he gives you a look. “For not knowing me immediately? You know, I don’t have that big of an ego, (y/n).”

You shake your head with a miniscule laugh. “Right. Just the size of a basketball, maybe.”

“Think bigger.”

“Burj Khalifa.” You say. “No. That’s taller. A blue whale.”

“Okay, think smaller.”

Tom’s put a smile on your face again, and he thinks he’s won a medal; a trophy, even, just for making you smile when earlier you seemed like you were wallowing in self-pity.

“The, um, paparazzi’s were chasing me,” he rubs the bottom of his nose. “They were just…suffocating me. They kept on chasing me and all I wanted was to walk and get some fresh air. And I found the forest and just ran towards it.”

“You didn’t think about the possibility of you getting lost?”

“I just wanted to get away, man,” Tom sighs. “What about you? How’d you find this place?”

You take a very long drag of nicotine before speaking. “I was a kid,” you pull your right knee to your chest, the other resting obliquely on the ground. “Whenever I had problems I’d go here. And no one else knows this spot,”

“Really?” he lets out a bemused smile. “Not even your ex?”

“I considered,” you lick your lips.

“Well now you’re not the only one who knows this place,” Tom leans closer, to the point where your cigarette butts are knocking against each other.

This stranger’s arrival frightens you, for you’re unsure where it leads. Because unbeknownst to Tom, he’s finding his way into your heart that you refuse to open.

You're afraid you've written a fresh elegy that will leave an enduring legacy on your heart. But what is love without fear; without heartbreak and without a hindsight filled with the hesitance of welcoming?

Tom’s a stranger you’re willing to watch pass your byline, stepping over your sorrowful poetry to reach its center and mend your heart.

Unforeseeable camaraderie,

To which becomes an imminent love story,

But the quartz tears the pen in two;

The paper’s burned by fear and broken blues

“Tom!”

You gasp when he suddenly drops a cooler beside you, the surprise causing you to drop your pencil on the blanket and your lit cigarette on the notebook.

Tom chuckles at your reaction, keeping his mask in the back of his pocket. “Did I scare you?”

“You’re such a fucking dick,” you scowl, throwing the cigarette butt inside the plastic bag you’ve brought. “I could’ve burnt my notebook, y’know?!”

“But you didn’t,” he raises his eyebrows. “Stop writing and come drink with me.”

There’s something new in his laugh – it lacks the brash falsity he harbors in front of cameras. Now ameliorating with its dulcet baritone, his laugh now preludes such gleeful sincerity that bears you a candid smile.

“You’re awfully early,” you smile at him. “Did you piss the director off again?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “No,” he grimaces. “They just let us go earlier.” He shrugs. “And I never piss of the director.”

“Not even that time you switched his coffee to decaf?” Tom petulantly shakes his head. “Not even when you put ketchup in his coke? Or when you changed one of your costar’s make up with powdered chalk?”

“I didn’t do them consistently!” he defends himself, fishing out a bottle of beer from the cooler. “They never even found out that I did them.”

“That’s not something to be proud of, Toms,” you gladly accept when he hands you an opened bottle, too. Tom sits beside you with a deep sigh, closing his eyes with a small smile.

(Toms. The sobriquet makes him slowly step over the border and step on your ink.)

He looks relaxed, and he even observes this himself. For hours, Tom’s felt taut around people he barely knows. Which is why he looks forward for the time he’s able to come and visit you, elated to feel the sui generis of peace you brought upon his life.

You eradicate his anxieties by your amiability. There’s a warm glow on your face from the sun brought forth by the Gods. And you were so divine that Tom thinks even the Gods brought you.

“Tell me ‘bout your day.”

“Joe’s at it again,” you shake your head with a sigh. “They came to work today. Did a shit ton, actually.”

“Joe?” Tom frowns. “Are they-”

“The cute guy?” you smile a little. “Yeah, that’s them.”

When Tom pats your knee, you wince. His eyes widen a little, pulling back to scan your face. “Are you alright?”

Vehemently, you nod with a smile that hides the painful stinging that spreads. “Yes. Just grazed my knee earlier?”

“Sure?” he narrows his eyes. “Seemed more than that, to me.”

“I’m alright.”

“May I see it?”

You furrow your brows, taking a quick sip of the beer. “Why?”

“Just want to see.”

“It’s nothing, Tom.”

But when he gives you a stern look over your petulance, you sigh deeply and fold your jeans until it reaches above your knee. And you swear you almost roll your eyes again at his reaction.

It’s nothing like a graze, rather it’s a deep scrape that looks fresh albeit having been scraped about an hour earlier. The blood is on the verge of exsiccation yet it’s still seeping through. It dances on the edge of grotesque from the smudged up blood and the flesh exposed.

“Fucking graze, alright,” his accent twangs with incredulity at your lie. “Do you have alcohol?”

“Tom, with the world’s state in today that question already has an answer,” you chuckle, fishing out the small alcohol from your back pocket. “Please don’t spray it on my wound.”

“Why?”

“It’ll hurt.”

“You brought this upon yourself, darling,” heat rises to you cheeks at the nickname. “What happened, anyway?”

“I was biking on my way here,” you shamefully reply. “And, there were these dudes with cameras outside of this shop. I suddenly thought of you and I accidentally forgot I was riding my bike so…I tripped on a pothole.”

The shock dissipates into entertainment that slips between his lips in a snicker. You glare at him as he pulls on his sleeve and tries to hide his smile by biting his lip. “Idiot.”

“Hey!”

“I’m not the one who wasn’t watching where they’re going,” he giggles. “Do you have any cotton?”

“Why would I have cotton?”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“No, I don’t have any cotton.”

“Why not?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

Roaring was the laughter that left his smile. “I’m kidding,” Tom jests. “I’ll just—”

In an act of aid, and unexpectancy, Tom rips the right sleeve of his shirt as if it’s a piece of paper. You gasp quietly at his actions, maybe even at the innuendo you acquire from the way Tom’s biceps flex. And in a way it’s where you fully fathom how pretty his arms are – like sculpted from the Gods above.

“Tom!” you gape at the oblique cloth that falls limp in his grasp. The shirt is big though fit on him, but the sleeve looks small in his hands that, unperceived, you swallow thickly.

“What?” he says nonchalantly. “We need something to cover it.”

“You ripped your shirt.”

“Well, it’s not mine, love,” Tom chuckles. “It’s the set’s. I can break as much as shirts as I want to as long as it’s theirs.”

You sit there calmly watching as Tom asks if he can touch your legs. You agree, and he slides your calf forward with care. Tom pours alcohol over your open wound, apologizing when you flinch as the alcohol comes into touch with your dermis. Then he wraps the sleeve over your limb, observing the blood seeping through the linen before rolling your jeans down.

When he’s done, he lets his fingers hover over your knee before sitting back, sighing deeply.

“Long day?” you ask, picking up your notebook.

“Yes,” he replies, reaching over you to fish out a cigar from your bag. You ignore the way his left hand places itself on your thigh so he can lean closer, but you take note of the fact that he smells like lavender and the boyish smell of his cologne.

Today his hair is gelled, wearing only a white shirt and in his Levi’s jacket. But what breaks his casual street-style is his grey sweatpants, wrinkled as if he had just woken up.

(And to Tom, your hair is unbound with silky waves, crystalline glows from the radiant heat; he wishes he could run his fingers through your hair. And he takes note of your jeans that slip past your ankles, and the snug shirt you don that smells like velvet cherries and cigarettes.)

“Do you want to talk to me about it?”

Tom frowns, toying with the cigar before placing it in his lips. “Nah,” he says. Because how does he tell you that his dismal problems are too long gone to be remembered as soon as he looks into your eyes?

You place the beer on the ground beside you, your pencil scratching against your journal. “Why not?”

“Jus’ don’t wanna,” he slurs tiredly. “Talk to me about you?”

“Okay,” you don’t look at him, too busy drawing whatever it is that came up to your mind. Tom plays a small game in his head to guess what you’re drawing before you finish it. “I opened Twitter earlier this morning.”

“Wow,” Tom’s eyes open. “I thought your life was interesting.”

Though you take no offense, you glare at him. “Don’t act like you don’t reach for your phone the first thing in the morning,” you say. “Anyway. Your name was trending.”

He closes his eyes again. “I thought we were talking about you—”

“We are!” you chuckle. “We’re talking about what I did, aren’t we?”

“Well it includes me.”

“The story will be incomplete if I don’t tell you about this one,” you pout, nudging his shoulder. “I saw your name on twitter. Nothing big was going on. And now having to know you, I had enough of a curiosity to see what people post about you.”

Tom peaks an eye open to look at you accusingly.

“And I came across this guy who commented on this twitter thread of you in different movies. And thank God you told me you deleted your Twitter app because it made me think ‘holy shit how obsessed are these pretentious assholes?’” you say, and with your free hand, you gesticulate irritation as the other continues to draw mindlessly.

Although in the process of detoxing, Tom murmurs, “what did they say?”

“That Tom Holland’s nothing but Iron Man Jr.” you say with distaste, though unhesitant. “And I thought, well you’re nothing but a loser who’s got nothing to do but be jealous of someone else.”

You sense the hurt and disappointment radiate through Tom when he uncomfortably shifts beside you. Guilt pangs your chest, suddenly reaching out for his hand that raises to pluck the cigarette off his lips.

“And then I thought how difficult it must be for you to see what people think about you online,” you mumble, too shy to meet his eyes. Your thumb glides over his knuckles, hoping it brings some sort of consolation. “I stopped myself from fighting that guy off because I remembered, and even if this doesn’t connect to anything, I remembered how much of a strong person you are.”

Tom relaxes the hand you’re holding and instead let’s his other take his cigarette out, blowing. “It’s something I’m not…used to.” He says, looking at you through his eyelashes. “Hate is something that’s impossible not to bother you, as much as you pretend that it doesn’t. Especially – when they say something about the things you worked hard for,”

You take a swig of your beer, the octave crescendo inside the brown bottle joins in the gentle sound of leaves rustling about from the wind. Tom closes his eyes again.

“It’s sometimes unbelievable how people can be so cruel to others,” he chuckles. “But, yeah. Did they say anything about my looks, though?”

Shaking your head, you mimic his chuckle. “Well, while people certainly forgot about the frog in your mouth, they do keep on photoshopping your head on Zendaya’s body, and vice-versa.”

“Ah, I live for those,” Tom smiles. His smile is endearing — beguiling like a renegade prince, you being the girl he encounters in the woods as he flees a world of principles and coerced reverence.

“I also saw that video of you in the Lip Sync Battle,” you snort when he looks away from you with an embarrassed moan. “I really like how you thrust your hips on the umbrella. And the costume – lord, the costume. That was so sexy. And you looked so beautiful, Toms.”

“Stop,” he laughs, covering his face. He blushes when you call him sexy, despite the fact that you had said it to make fun of him. “I don’t even know why I did it. I was so naïve.”

“I think Zendaya’s hotter, though,” you say, taking his cigarette from his hand for you to take a drag on.

It’s basically an indirect kiss, Tom thinks. Shut up. Stop blushing.

“Um, since when?” Tom scoffs. “I’m way hotter than her.”

“Are you though?” your voice is high, teasing. You return the cigar back to him, and Tom scowls at you.

“Yes I am.”

“Whatever you say,” you shrug, looking back at your notebook. “Whatever makes you feel good, Tom.”

“You’re so annoying,” he pouts at you. “Fucking div.”

You laugh at his pettiness, leaning sideways that you almost place your head on his shoulder.

Like flowers in spring, you flourish beneath the regnant solari; your smile, your grace, heals his day with the elixir of your joyful milieu. Your laughter as sweet as nectar is music to his ears that he wishes he could hear for the rest of his life, but for now he settles for the reason that Tom’s the receiving end of the giggle you emit.

And to you, though he might have been a prince in distress in the beginning, he becomes your sage in the interlude of your elegy; your sentinel to which adds more color in your dull painting.

You laugh together. A poetry in motion that only the two of you experience.

But when you realize that you’re being happier than ever, realize that Tom – a guy, a human being – is making you smile, an ache in your chest tears your smile away. The ink spills on your paper, blotting the beautifully written soliloquy.

You push yourself away from him, tucking a strand of hair beneath your ear. “Um,” you clear your throat. “Wanna, wanna watch me draw?”

He pretends that he’s not disappointed when your laughter suddenly dies down and instead he nods, straightening his back.

a stranger blindfolds you from the truth,

you cry and beg in the name of ruth,

and he pulls you away from the anarchy,

yet still you walk away foolishly

“Someone will die.”

“Of fun!”

“(y/n?!”

“It’s just a cliff, Toms. It’s not that high.”

His swimming trunks are soft against his skin, but that doesn’t decrease the heat he feels from being exposed from the sun. You, however, seemed to be used to the heat, but maybe because you’re still wearing a shirt and a pair of shorts that don’t even match your top.

Tom cups a hand above his eyes, his constant squinting almost made him trip earlier from the uneven road. But your guidance saves him from clumsiness.

“If I die, I’ll haunt you,” he whimpers. “I will haunt you, (y/n). I’m not joking.”

“Go and haunt me then,” you snort. “I’d enjoy the company.”

From above, the lake is a coalescence of vibrant aquamarine waters and the hoary lining of the clouds. It looks like a painting, or a photograph, the picturesque view too beautiful to just stare at that. It appeases Tom’s affinity of nature, he likes to appreciate the life bestowed around him.

So it’s no wonder why he’s comparing the panorama’s beauty to yours.

“I’m starting to regret this,” Tom tells you nervously, picking on the ends of his shirt. “I think. I don’t know. How are you so sure we’re not going to die?”

“Relax, it’s only like, 30 feet.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to die,” you laugh jovially, placing your hand on his shoulder. You don’t realize what you did, but Tom does, and he blushes under your touch. “Just jump or dive properly. Don’t land on your back or it could break your spine.”

Tom’s eyes widen. “That’s it. I’m going back down.”

“No! Tom -…wait!” This time you end up holding his hand to stop him from turning away.

Your palm is tender against his. However, he senses the callousness in your fingertips as a consequence of grasping a pencil for too long. Nonetheless, it feels divine. If Tom is already exhilarated by the touch of your hand, how much more when you touch him everywhere?

(To you, his skin is as soft as silk; they're the duvets you wrap around yourself in the morning and mourn to at night; they're soapstone that carves imperfect hearts; feathers that tickle your skin; Tom is everything that brings you comfort.)

“What if I jump first?” you ask softly, pointing your thumb behind you. “That way you can see how it works?”

“I think I know how to jump, love.”

Love. Love love love. Love-

“You know what I mean, Toms.”

He hesitates for a moment, letting his eyes wander on the lake below before they flit to yours. They’re expecting, as if waiting for approval. Eventually, he nods.

Tom rubs his thumb mindlessly on the back of your hand. “Be careful.”

You snort. “Of course.”

What you do next leaves him breathless.

As your hands reach down on your shirt, you pull it over your head, revealing your chosen swimsuit to him. Tom pays meticulous attention to the daisies scattered on your bra, watching the dip of your spine to the accentuated curves of your waist.

Like Galatea awakened by the sun instead, you move flawlessly to discard your shirt to the side. You breach the veil of reality, and you become Tom’s personal Aphrodite. You’re as beautiful as sunsets, as nature, as the birds singing in the morning, as goddesses.

Maybe even more beautiful. Maybe the most.

“Stop staring,” you shyly declare. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“So cliché,” he snorts.

Sadly, you turn your back to him as you saunter your way towards the edge of the cliff. Maybe you feel a little afraid, being up this high. But you consider this as a test – of what, you don’t know.

It’s called taking the leap of faith, dumbass.

You take a deep breath, letting your feet dance on the air before you push yourself off.

The air pushes everything behind you: your hair, your swimwear, your heart. It stings your eyes but you don’t care because you took ‘the leap of faith’ and faced your fucking fears.

In a calamitous splash, your body collides with the water – you shatter the unyielding mosaic with your valor. Tom watches you from above, sees you vanish beneath the glass.

And you rise with a loud gasp of air, looking up to see Tom at the ledge. His fingers nervously fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, hair disarray from the gust of wind that touches his skin. From your angle, he looks small, but it’s enough to see the hesitation in his face.

“Tom!” you shout. “Come on!”

The nervousness eats him alive. He worries he might break his spine, or land on his front and break his nose (though he’s not sure if that even is possible), or he’ll dive and never come back up. However, as you emerged from the deep waters unscathed and blissful, it might have added a twinge of compensation.

Slowly, he unbuttons his shirt. He throws it aside, not caring if the dirt soils the white fabric. Tom jumps a little on his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists in hopes of easing the tension his body radiates. But Tom doesn’t want to disappoint you, he can see the excited smile on your face that makes his heart swell. What’s the big deal? He thinks. It’s just thirty feet.

Running to the edge, he pulls his knees to his chest and braces for impact.

Tom’s more than pleased to say he made it out alive unharmed, surrounded by the waters he was afraid of not long ago because he thinks a hole would open up and swallow him alive to his inevitable death. Opening his eyes beneath, the dancing sun and the blue luminescence occupies his vision before you come down and meet him with bubbles escaping your nose, a puffy smile on your face; he knows your eyes are beginning to sting just like his.

He feels your heavy hands cup his face, thumbs dancing across the skin beneath his eyes before you pull away from him to swim upwards to life, gasping for air just like he did. Tom’s hair sticks to his forehead, some poking his eyes.

“See,” you smile, pushing the hair 0ff your face. “What’d I tell you?”

Flushing slightly in embarrassment, he rolls his eyes, splashing you in the face. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”

It’s an unabating, memory in creating between you and Tom. You both trade petulant splashes, plunging deep into the lake in quest of something that isn't there (maybe, Tom thinks to himself, he might find peace in the depths of that body of water), and luxuriate in the rare moments of stillness.

You’re hungry for a cigarette, and he’s hungry for more moments like these. Tom wonders if there’s a point in his life he can live like this – away from upheaval, no one to prod and observe his life like an item in a museum, free from the worry of missing a key from the piano he plays in the stage right in front of the audience that expects a tolerable performance (and maybe they can care about his fingers that bleed just for them).

And you wonder if people would find your elegy inspiring. If they see how hard you strive for at least a sliver of perfection for your life that’s poetry in motion. If they can feel your sadness through your written pages – if they can try to pick up the pieces of your broken heart and claim it for their own elegy.

“Tell me a poem?” he asks you, staring up the darkening sky.

“A poem?” you repeat, looking at the side of his face. You hope, with his eyes closed, he can see your face through the back of his eyelids. You hope he’s thinking of you.

But he opens his eyes and looks at you through his peripherals with a small, shy smile. “Yeah, a poem. Tell me something about you I haven’t heard yet.”

(It's his way of asking you a question, of getting you to tell him something about yourself. And Tom calls it a poem because he claims your life is as exquisite and as fragmented as an elegy — a renegade trapped within a labyrinth of self-discovery with poetry as your way out; your thoughts written on a crumpled-up piece of paper but still beautiful for him to appreciate.)

Maybe Tom could be the first person to find you inspiring.

“I often think about where I lacked,” you say, mimicking him as you begin to float on your back. “Like, what is it in me that makes people just give up on me? What makes people look at me and play with me as if I had no feelings whatsoever?”

Tom lifts his head, lake water dripping down his curls. “That’s not a story,”

“Yeah well, it’s a thought. And every thought is a story,” you look at him. “Well, could be a story, anyway.”

He takes in a deep breath. “Did you ever wonder if people liked you for who you truly are and not just what you show people?” Tom murmurs. “You ever think about how better it would be if people stopped using you for who you are?”

You let out an embarrassingly wet chuckle. “Funny how neither of us have an answer to those questions and we just let those things circle around our heads.”

“That’s because neither of us know the exact reason why,”

“Well,” you exhale, “I’m sure some people out there like you for who you truly are aside from your family,” smiling, Tom blushes a little at your words. “I mean, you’re very…neophyte. And while some people find that annoying, I don’t. I’ll most likely call you when I need something fixed because I’m sure you know how to.”

Tom lets out a bismal laugh. “How does that help my thought?”

“Because being a neophyte is one of the things about you that I really like,” you say. “I mean, I sure hope you’re not acting someone else around me because I’ve grown comfortable around you, Toms. I like you for who you are – a dork.”

“Yeah. Like that helps,” he stops floating and paddles his feet, looking at you with a playful frown before pretending to swim back to the land.

“Hey!” you pull on his ankle, tugging him to you. Tom yelps, almost kicking you. “I was kidding.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“I’m serious,”

Tom looks at you. Like, really looks at you. Like he’s looking for something that he yearns to see from you. But all you can see is how his eyes flit between yours, a single glance at your lips, then back at your eyes. Because you think he’s ignoring how close your proximity is.

“You’re…” there’s a long pause. “You’re enough. I mean, you don’t lack anything. They just seek for something that’s not there because they’re the ones who aren’t enough. You’re like, the glue that holds them together, but they think you’re just not enough. But you are. And they need you. They just don’t want to admit it,” He licks his lips. “They’re looking for something they already had and…they’re just too fucking stupid to realize that.”

You almost cry at his words. Almost. Because there’s something that holds your tears back that you forget to tell him. “Thanks,” you give him a soft smile. “That’s really-…really nice.”

“I try,” He tries to stop himself from planting a kiss on your forehead.

Tom leans close, the droplets on both your foreheads touching rather than your own skins. But his head tilts sideways, nose grazing yours. The sight of your eyes closing is comforting, and he thinks you wait for the touch of his lips, sealing the prophetic tension, the period at the end of your elegy.

But your next words make it a comma instead.

“I hope they think the same thing,”

(Tom trips on your parchment, his hands smudging your penmanship. He toils the paper with his trembling fingers, the ink mimicking the blood on his fingertips.)

His smile falls a little, edging away from you. You don’t realize what you said, and you don’t mean for it to slip out in a moment of fiduciary. It’s what makes the moment prosaic – a line that breaks the sent message altogether. Tom chuckles, almost in embarrassment because you’re thinking of someone else when he thinks of you.

“Who’s they?”

Posthaste, you gather all your words together. “Joe,” you swallow. “Th- Joe asked me out yesterday. We’re – we’re going out on a date tomorrow and…”

“Oh!” he’s suddenly chippy, and he hopes you don’t realized how forced it sounds. But it’s rich in pathos, his words, that he coats with happiness. “Good for you.”

“Tom-”

“Joe, the cute guy.”

“I can-”

“How did he ask you?” he suddenly asks, twirling around so he’s swimming back on land. You chase after him, helpless, with a heavy feeling in your chest. You don’t know if you should answer, but you do.

“Over a cigarette,” you answer hastily. “Tom, I’m sorry-”

It’s what stops him from swimming and turns around to face you. Tom softens his wide eyes, but it holds the faux still. “What are you sorry for?”

“I-” you swallow nothing again. “You sounded like I hurt you and I’m sorry-”

“Hurt me?” he repeats, incredulous. You know it hurt him, and he knows it too. “They’re just words, (y/n). You’re going out on a date with Joe and you only hoped they could see your worth. How would that hurt me?”

Pestilence, your words dive through your throat and it chokes you a little. “I don’t – I don’t know.”

“Well, it didn’t hurt me,” he forces it. Tom wants to prove you wrong when you both know how right you are. Because he can’t let himself let you know. “I’m fine with it. I’m…happy for you, (y/n). It doesn’t hurt me.”

I wonder if this is all a hoax. This pain that you’ve given me, this person that’s going to take you away from me. I hope it’s a hoax. Hoax hoax hoax. The only hoax I believe in.

When his voice softens, you almost believe him. And for the first time, he’s acting in front of you, because he’s forcing the happiness. “Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you, Tom.”

He climbs up and picks the towel off the ground that you’d left earlier, wrapping it around himself. You quietly watch him take out a cigarette from your pack and his own lighter out his bag before disappearing behind a tree.

You don’t see him after.

an unequivocally painful beginning,

there he is on his knees begging,

“open your heart,” he cried—

Unintentionally, though it seems like a ‘muscle-memory’, a line comes up in your head.

—“I’ll take care of it before I’ll break you apart.”

Your dress itches, gnawing on your skin. It’s far from comfortable and it’s no better than tight clothing. You’d ditched your cardigan and left it in the backseat of your car, changing your heels into your backup shoes as you stumble through the woods.

Tom hasn’t been answering your texts since that day. You wonder if he’s been too busy, getting too caught up in work that all he’s left you is a single ‘good morning’ and the rest being leaving you on read. And he hasn’t come to the lakes more often than he used to.

So yeah, that totally hurt him.

The crunching leaves coalesce with your ragged breathing, shoes stepping on roots and pebbles that poke at the soles of your feet. The moonlight serves as your guidance through the darkness, and you walk along with the guilt creeping at the back of your head.

It’s a formidable night. The effervescent stars twinkle against the glitter in your skin that came from your perfume. Tom’s ghost offers you the ink for you to write the fresh wound of your elegy, and for now you’re writing it in your head. And you hide it, in hopes that maybe you won’t ever need it; you only hope Tom comes back anyway, and the only poem you’d be writing is the story you’d both create.

(You save the ink so you won’t have to rewrite Tom’s mess over you.)

You clutch your phone and the pack in your hand, almost tripping on a log as you blindly stumble your way to your usual spot.

But to your surprise, when your feet steps over the mark you created, you spot Tom’s silhouette. And he hears you, turning around with eyes red from fresh tears. His hands are in his pockets, and he stands beside the edge of the lake. His body slackens, sighing at the sight of you.

Tom didn’t mean to ghost you. He hadn’t meant to keep you waiting for days when he wouldn’t appear in your usual spot. It’s because his wounds hurt – his bleeding fingertips lack the aid of your poignant hands. And he lets them bleed, because he knows they’ll heal eventually even as he continues to play the keys for the strangers that watch him.

“Tom,” you breathe out. “What are you doing here?”

He stays silent for a short while before he shrugs, looking down on his shoes with soil tainting the outsole. “What are you doing here?”

“I asked you first.”

“I needed peace,” he answers you blatantly, refusing to meet your glossy, confused eyes. “Everything felt too suffocating and then I remembered you’d probably be out on your date so I came here – which I’m totally wrong about. You?”

You wince at the mention of your date, but you say, “Because I realized something.”

His curls bounce when he shakes his head a little, and you want nothing to do other than run your hand through his hair. “And you came here for that?”

“I didn’t expect you’d be here. But…now that you are, maybe I should just say it,” you tug on your split ends, feeling the sweat drip down strand of hair. “I realized that you’re the only one that can truly see my worth.” You chuckle nervously. “Other than me, obviously. I just started seeing it like, a couple minutes ago when I ditched Joe.”

He has a frown settling on his eyebrows, coming with somewhat of a roseate glow on his cheeks that don’t come from his dyspeptic tears. “You ditched Joe?”

“Yes,”

“Why?”

“Because I was wasting my time with a person who won’t think I’m enough,” you murmur softly. “And even when I was in that date all I kept thinking was, would Tom eat that? Would they laugh at my joke like Tom would? Would he offer to run away from this stupid place like I know Tom would?”

The brown curl on his forehead bounces when he takes a step forward. He bends sideways to place the beer back on the ground before he returns his way to you. He tries to differentiate his sadness between you and his messy life. But right now, as he approaches you and toys with the band on your wrist, he lets a tired sigh emit from him, lips trembling with words he’s too afraid to say.

“And I…” you laugh dryly, looking down at your shoes that touch his. “I felt so stupid saying that to you after you were so sweet to me because I ended up looking for you on a date that I’m supposed to enjoy with someone else.”

His finger traces the bump of your chin before he curls it around and forces you to look up at him. He’s saddened by the tears on the crevice of your eyes, by the regretful frown on your face. In an act of reconciliation, Tom cups your cheeks, thumbs gliding across your cheekbones.

And god, did you look beautiful.

He knows beneath all that beauty are scars that taint your soul. Your heart’s broken, almost inadequate of salvation. A sculpture shattered by devastation, no one left to put them back together. But Tom does. His glue – his love – is what puts you back together.

“So you also realized my worth, huh?” he jokes. You smile with him, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yes, Toms,” you confess. “Yes, I realized your worth. And even if I’d only known you for God knows how long, I think I really like you.”

So you didn’t need the ink Tom gives you. Because you let the smudged poem fix itself with the following words you write;

— “I’ll take care of it before I’ll break you apart.”

“for our love is reglorified,

And you’ll be the one I seek ‘till the day I die.”

(Tom stands up, and with tainted hands, he holds your face and offers you a kiss that takes time into a retrograde flow; mingles his words into your poem, and kisses you reverently.)

And Tom does kiss you. His lips are soft like flowers in spring, his lips taste of cigarettes and his faint tears, but you sink in his taste. And he smells divine, his curls soft against your rough hands.

He pulls away, looking down at you with loving eyes, and desecrates the components of your face; though full of scars, of cracks, you are reborn; an elegy brought to life.

༻✦༺ . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ . ༻✧༺

banner by @lauras-collection

(thank you all for almost 600 on 'scratching : countertops'! if you want to read, scroll up for my masterlist <3)

#tom holland x y/n #peter parker oneshot #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #tom holland x reader #peter parker x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland #tom holland one shot #tom holland x you #taylor swift #the lakes #tom holland fanfiction #indouloureux's writing

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axelnyx · 1 year

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God I Wish I Never Spoke Part 3

part 2

Can also be read on ao3

After Ghost had left his office, Price sat and thought for a moment. He agreed with Ghost, he really did need to talk to his sargeants. Especially Soap. Price grimaced as the memory of Soap’s expression flashed through his mind. He ran a hand down his face and let out a heavy sigh. Yeah, he definitely needed to apologize to Soap.

Determined, Price stood from his desk and left the office, locking the door behind him. He wandered around base searching for either of his two sergeants. The two were known to be loud and rambunctious but, when it came down to it, they were damn good at making themselves scarce. If they didn’t want to be found then Price was going to be looking for a very long time. Sure, he could wait for them to come to him but it’s already been three days. To Price, that’s three days too long. He should have at least attempted to mend his mistake the same day he had made it. Instead, he had selfishly sat and wallowed in his guilt. He’d definitely have to thank Ghost later. The lieutenant was never afraid to put Price in his place if he crossed a line. It’s one of the reasons Price made him his lieutenant in the first place.

Price searched for a few hours before finally stumbling upon Gaz, who was sitting under a tree on the edge of the forest that was located next to the base. The sergeant hadn’t yet noticed him approaching so Price took the time to give him a once over. He felt his stomach twist and guilt burn his chest as he took in Gaz’s condition. The man looked exhausted. He had heavy bags under his eyes and the ever constant grin he had was now replaced with a slight frown.

Price took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself as he purposely made his footfalls heavier to alert the sergeant of his presence. Gaz’s head shot up upon hearing his approach, locking eyes with the Captain. “Captain,” Gaz said in way of greeting, his voice tinged with anxiety. Price tried to make himself seem less intimidating, keeping a relaxed posture and expression soft. “Sergeant,” he replied, “Mind if I join you?” Gaz shrugged and gestured to a spot to the left of him. Price nodded in thanks and carefully sat down next to him.

It was silent for a few moments, Gaz fiddling with his hands anxiously. Price took in his tense form and let out a sigh, startling the man slightly. “I came to apologize,” Price said softly. Gaz looked at Price with a surprised expression. “Sir?” he asked cautiously. “I want to apologize,” Price continued, “for my behavior the other day. I should never have lost my temper like that. I sure as hell shouldn’t have taken it out on you boys. You were just doing your jobs and took the best course of action you could think of.” Price turned to face Gaz, looking the sergeant in the eye. “So, I’m sorry for losing my temper and I’m sorry for scaring you, son.” he said softly.

Gaz took in a shaky breath and searched Price’s face for any signs of deception. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had apologized without meaning it. Seeing nothing but honesty and regret in Price’s expression caused the dam Gaz had been holding back to break. He hastily turned his head away from Price, not wanting his Captain to see the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. Gaz bit his lip to stop it from trembling as he tried his best to reel in his emotions.

“Kyle?” Price asked softly, placing a gentle hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. Price had a moment of panic as a sob ripped through the sergeant. He was about to take his hand off his shoulder, fearing he had fucked up somehow, when suddenly Gaz threw himself onto Price and latched onto him. Price held the sergeant close, cradling the back of his head as he sobbed in his arms. Price whispered apologies over and over as he rubbed Gaz’s back in an attempt to comfort him.

It felt like ages before Gaz’s sobs turned into sniffles, when in reality it was probably only a few minutes. He still clung to Price like his life depended on it, keeping his face buried in the Captain’s shoulder. Price continued to apologize as Gaz slowly collected himself. After a few more moments Gaz took a deep, shaky breath and pulled away from Price. Price let him go but kept his hands on the sergeant’s shoulders to keep him grounded. Gaz wiped his face to rid it of any tear tracks before his red rimmed eyes finally met with Price’s concerned ones.

“I get why you were upset,” Gaz said quietly, “so I forgive you.” Gaz seemed to hesitate for a moment. Price gently squeezed the sergeant’s shoulders to try and encourage him to continue. Gaz took another deep breath before speaking again. “Just…try not to do it again?” It sounded more like a question than a request but Price nodded none-the-less. “I won’t do it again,” he replied with a determined expression. “Besides,” he continued, “Simon promised to break my nose if I did and I quite like having my nose in tact.” This earned a surprised laugh from the sergeants as he once again wiped his eyes. Gaz sniffled slightly before looking at Price again. “Thanks sir,” he said, a small smile on his face. Price nodded in reply, a smile of his own beginning to form.

The two sat for a while in silence, simply just enjoying each other's company. It wasn’t until about an hour later that Price broke the silence. “Do you know where I can find Soap?,” he asked softly, “I need to talk to him.”

#captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #price mw2 #john price #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #mw2 fanfic #call of duty mw2 #cod mwii

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crystalkleure · 8 months

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Saying shit like "go to therapy" and "get help" as an insult is like, deeply fucked up lol

Don't fucking tell somebody to "seek mental help" as an equivalent to saying "I think you should be locked up in a psych ward until I deem you more palatable to exist around here in society with us Normal People," Jesus Christ??

I have DID, and thus also the severe PTSD that necessitated the development of it. I cannot tell you how many times someone has nastily told me to "get help/work on myself" for just visibly displaying symptoms of an incurable condition.

I talk to myself, out loud. I space out and stare at nothing sometimes. Things that seem benign can make me very visibly anxious/distressed, even if I manage to keep functioning anyway in spite of it and even tell people not to worry because I know my fear is irrational. I get confused, I don't remember things. I sometimes speak with irritation in my voice, though it's not directed at anything external, it is directed at the 10 other people in my head who won't shut up while I'm trying to focus on something. And yet, even if I explain this, the external people around me still get offended by my tone.

Sometimes I tell people I need space, and they tell me something like "Oh but I just want to tell you about this nice thing/I just want to show you something cool real quick!" and continue speaking to me when I am already too overwhelmed and trying to communicate this, leading to me snapping at them and possibly even shouting at them to stop, which offends them because they were "just being friendly." Me asking for space is perceived as unreasonable because they think I should not need it, because needing it for the reason[s] I've provided is "not normal."

I am told it is rude of me to just be visibly unwell, it's inconsiderate to other people because it's inconvenient to them, it's embarrassing to the people I'm with in public because "people are staring." Even if I know how to get through whatever problem I'm having, like to shut my eyes and cover my ears and stop for a minute, or to say something to myself out loud because I can't currently commit it to memory otherwise due to dissociating, it's still unacceptable.

I am told it is childish to carry a stuffed animal or other toy around in public at my age, even though the tactile sensation of fidgeting with the object gives me something to focus on other than my own thoughts, which makes the toy excellent anxiety-abatement.

I'm told it's inappropriate behaviour, because it's weirding people out. I'm told I need to be able to either 1. not have these problems in the first place, or 2. be unbothered enough by them to hide them completely, before it is acceptable for me to be around other human beings.

I had a panic attack in a car once, inconveniencing the person who was driving, because they had to pull over through heavy traffic due to the high chance I was about to vomit. I was harshly scolded and blamed for this, and told I ought to be pumped full of horse tranquilizers. I was compared to an animal and told I should be sedated against my will, NOT because it would make me feel better, but because it would make me more bearable to deal with. "You should have your autonomy taken away because you having autonomy inconveniences me." And that is only one example of the many times I have been told something like that. "Get help," "fix your life," "you need medication," "you need to be strapped down and sedated," said with disgust instead of concern when I am in acute distress.

And then I am told I cannot be offended by this because "What's there to be upset about?? It would be good for you. Do you just like wallowing in misery, do you just want pity without allowing anyone to help you? Do you not want to improve as a person?" [Hey it's fucked up that "no longer having a mental health condition" is considered "improving as a person" btw. Mental illness is not a fucking moral failure.]

I was in therapy for years. I would be in therapy right NOW, if not for transportation issues. Therapy is great. I love therapy and highly recommend it to anybody who is struggling. It will improve your quality of life significantly. It will bring you a lot of peace of mind.

Therapy did not magically cure me. Not all mental conditions CAN be cured. Therapy actually taught me to do the exact behaviours that people tell me I need to be institutionalized for, the talking to myself to help with the memory issues, the methods to calm down when distressed.

I've even been medicated before, nothing really helped and the side effects were too detrimental to my physical health. It was determined I actually do better unmedicated.

This has all made it pretty clear to me when somebody is suggesting I go back to therapy out of concern for my wellbeing, because they can see I am suffering and would like me to NOT be suffering, vs. when they are telling me "Go away until someone fixes you and makes you Not Weird, so I don't have to put up with you in the meantime."

HEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS, taught to me by a mental health professional, are met with disgust and admonishment for being Weird In Public. I DID go to therapy. This is what the therapist literally told me to do!

Hey, is the person covering their ears and humming to themself in a clearly distressed way actually causing harm to you at all, or are you just AFRAID they might attack you because some part of you thinks "mental condition" = "potentially dangerous"? Are you afraid FOR the suffering person, or are you afraid OF them? There is a big difference, and we can tell which one it is when you say shit like "you need help" with revulsion instead of worry in your voice.

#I get VERY ANGRY about ''Go to therapy /neg''#.It speaks #About me #Psychology #You can't necessarily just Get Rid of a mental condition! Sometimes you can only work around it #And sometimes working around it does indeed make it obvious that there is a mental condition in the first place #This should not be a big damn deal! Merely Having A Mental Condition should not get somebody labelled as unsightly/dangerous!

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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Will Babey feel so comfortable sleeping naked/scantily clad with Daemon that she'll continue doing it even after she gives birth? Also, it'd be fun to see Alicents reaction to Babey's more revealing Dornish dresses. And Cristons reaction.

Thank you

Hey, anon! I think it's really common to see women in fanfic resent or feel ashamed of their bodies post-birth, and this really does mirror a lot of women's experiences in real life. But I'm not super sure if I plan to take that same route - in a lot of ways, I feel like Babey's going to be someone who is just so damn proud she got through one of her biggest fears, and she has the marks on her body to represent that experience. Of course, there might be a little "will Daemon's attentions change as a result?", but like - lol, he's the reason for her body changing in his own mind, so no doubt he'd find the idea that he's left his permanent mark on her hot. I feel like, rather than wallow in the anxiety of that, she's just going to push through and go "no, I birthed a whole child, I am not going to feel ashamed of the body that did such a thing". And that kind of assurance will be... you know... hot to Daemon. Hair trigger, that boy.

Alicent will definitely have some thoughts on Babey's new dress style, haha - Babey's more-or-less given up on 'conventional' wear, because the Dornish style is purposefully loose in my head and you can wear it throughout pregnancy. All you gotta do is add more holes in the belt as you progress, haha. Criston's gonna be sour-faced as shit, cuz he always is.

I hope this answers your question, anon! Thank you!

#fanfiction asks

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movementsofmylife · 1 year

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bad buddy ep 6 (rewatch)

how many times does pran pull out his entire (extremely intense) set of markers and not use them:

total so far: //// (what this counter is actually making me realize is that i am overly obsessed with stationery and pran pulls out his markers a reasonable amount)

this episode is soooo much. it feels like it ramps up and up and then the ending with the competition doesn't resolve anything but keeps the emotions and potential open for next ep.

ok so i have an entire partially written story about how the entire trajectory of their relationship would have gone differently if pran had answered this knock. but i also think that's the premise of the whole episode. pran had so many chances to talk to pran, to talk to wai, to do basically anything other than keep everything to himself, but his anxiety and fear simply would not let him.

and i also think part of it is that pran is used to holding these feelings to himself. sharing it, even with pat, can feel worse than wallowing alone. and like, obvs there's fear (considering the consequences of last time he thought about sharing any of these feelings with pat) but i think by the end of the eps it's clear that part of pran's witholding is that there's a certain kind of pleasure you lose when an emotion becomes public. (i am so certain i read a post about this before, but i cannot find it)

case in point the wallowing. there's a comfort in familiar pain.

and in this situation extremely understandable anxiety about pursuing anything.

but the fact that he's doing all this in blue, surrounded by more blue says something here i feel about his state of mind. it's not doom green, it's more like a need to pause and be in these emotions by himself.

the difference between the first time pat tries to grab pran, and the last! i love prallels, circles, snake eating its own tail etc. and this show delivers so many.

okok so. i don't think this is a hot take, but i have a lukewarm take, that pran should have told wai about the situation here.

like, there's no homophobia in bb universe, so that isn't what's holding him back. this is his best friend (annoying as he sometimes is) and i think part of pran's growth is learning to trust someone outside of himself with his emotions.

and obviously that becomes pat, but i think it could have been great if it was wai too. (like he's literally holdinng/wearing his love on his sleeves here, and i think wai can tell somethings up and that's part of the tension of the ep. and i think pat's insistence of "talk to me" is something that everyone in pran's life probably understands to some extent.)

to be clear, this is not a wai apologist post, there's not really any reason to out someone ever, esp not the way wai did it. but i also do enjoy him as a character, he's such a goblin.

this room is just so patpran core, how have i never noticed. this show had zero chill.

i also love this. the nong nao in the corner and the fucking red boat. once more this show has no chill.

i love pa's continued everyone must like ink agenda. obviously who wouldn't like ink? (not her though, that makes no sense)

god the fucking yearning.

jr and uncle tong!!! fully in patpran colors, like the supportive family that they are.

so, these are my favourite outfits from the entire show. i love the seersucker and this large print.

and this fucking resource game. the line "just give in if you can't do it anymore" while slowly losing what ground they have, and inevitably falling. just truly fuck me up.

like truly. ohmnanon deserve everything for what they delivered here.

also pran is fully the scarier one of patpran. which both in terms of sheer willingness and ability to manipulate lol but also we see pran get mad so many more times than pat. pat is mad a total of twice, ep 5 and ep 10. pran tells his friends to fuck off like so many more times. truly living up to pran the warrior.

idk if they meant to shoot this to look like a dreamscape of an idyllic patpran future life, but it certainly looks like one. also the fact that there's doom green shirt over the blue on pran and it comes off later after the market scene when they finally got time to themselves for the first time after everything. (those two min on the beach of pran yelling at pat does not count)

they're so happy to be called a couple! my babies!

pat getting to have the clearing the air conversation pa suggested in ep 2 (?) which i think was necessary for them to later on have a conversation about the future. or at least make up a ridiculous game to find a way to that future.

and then finally! finally!!! we get pran in his own colors, for the first time in the whole ep. he finally got to be himself after spending a day reconciling with pat. :')

also the fact that they clearly expected to be placed into a room together, and when the universe finally stopped throwing them together (the universe being pat's decisions for at least half of them) pran finally takes a step forward.

this still remains one of the funniest scenes of the show

pran is clearly a scorpio in some planet and i'm calling venus. bc i'm a scorpio venus and i have friends who are and this is the kind of shit that comes out of our mouths. sometimes you just have to be the most esoteric bitch on the beach.

this show is so good at making what we all know is an inevitability at this point (patpran getting together) feel like a suspenseful journey. it's simply marvelously executed.

and then it ended on this and i felt no peace for an entire week.

i fully wrote a fucking essay and honestly i could just keep going about this episode, its such a good episode!!! like the fact that pran uses the headphones pat gave him to listen to his heartbreak music, if that's not the most emo shit. but i will stop.

#bad buddy #badbuddyrewatch #bad buddy ep 6 #i sincerely apologize #i fully don't know if this is anything #but that's how i feel about most of my bb vibes

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dollypardonne · 8 months

Text

midnight hospitals, early dawn rooftops.

trigger warnings: implication of ideation and attempts

it's those moments before crying, when your breath gets shallow and you feel your eyes burn from holding it back. your heart leaps like it wants to burst open your chest and your lips quiver with every gasp for air, then the waterworks follow after despite how much effort you've made in suppressing them. it happens a lot that these sensations have become innate to me.

after a good cry, i'm journalling all my heartache today. but i write, and write, and write. it never seems to be enough.

yesterday i fell down in the middle of my aerial pilates routine and incurred an injury under my eye. it's not a huge one so i managed to go about my day just wearing a bandage over it. but then i kept feeling some tenderness in my lower back. i ignored it for as long as i could because there was so much work to be done. there is a lot that i still have to do, and it's regretful that i'm wasting it away here at the hospital. but my mum kept insisting that i get it checked, because i was incessantly protesting about it. i hadn't even realised how much i talked about it. part of me wishes i didn't, because i was admitted that same night and i spent the dead of it wallowing in my sorrow.

i don't hate hospitals. ending up in these halls so often, everything has become familiar. honestly, getting admitted is almost always like a retreat. no decisions apart from medical ones, a lot of them i personally don't have to worry about. no work deadlines, no housework—though i do miss my babies kai and kuma. three meals, clean sheets, and a call bell. attention only takes a push of a button for an anxiety-ridden person like me. what i dislike is when i start to form an attachment to this kind of medical attention. when i'm here, i'm safe and cared for. sometimes i even make friends.

once i met another patient whose heart would beat irregularly. i'd say i can't remember what the illness was called but now that i think about it, i was never told nor did i ever ask. she would hoard food in her night table; food that she'd stolen off her roommates' trays. at some point, she had bugs in the room that she'd been moved to because of her food spoiling in the drawer. she was a difficult person but i thought it was something we had in common, just in a different sense.

she wore see through nighties, no underwear, not even a robe. she would walk in the halls just like that. i thought it was funny. the staff thought otherwise. she never had any visitors during her stay that i was around for either. i remember every resident sighing in relief the moment she got discharged. i felt bad and i expressed that to one of them, only for them to say she'll show up again and i have nothing to feel sorry for. they continued on to tell me that her condition was self-induced. what was it called? marchartsen? manchansin? manchester syndrome. something like that.

i started to wonder if i had that, too. with how much i frequented, i almost feel like i'm making it all up, that there's nothing really wrong with me, and somehow everyone's just validating me because they're scared of what i'd do to myself. i'm scared of what i'd do to myself. it's not really easy being in my head. one could argue others have it worse, like my old friend. but maybe that's why i sympathised as much as i did.

these copious amounts of thinking had my head spinning. my hands started getting numb, then my legs, then the rest of my body followed suit. i could feel a sting creeping up my cheeks and swallowing my ears right after. it was unbearable and the thought of me becoming paralysed had me respiring. i couldn't hear anything else but those audible breaths and the rapid beating of my heart. that loss of control, this great fear of mine. i know it's just a hitch. i know it's all supposed to pass and i just have to ride it out. but in those moments of struggle, i'd always feel desperate.

and this time, i was desperate enough to make it stop and my unsound mind could only come up with one quick fix. one that didn't need the press of a button. one that didn't need anyone's assistance. and if this is how i go, i'd be at peace with that; not bothering someone for once in my life—my life where i abundantly convinced myself that i was self-sufficient.

conveniently, it was early morning. rooftop doors aren't usually kept open in places like these, so seeing it unlocked—unbolted—i took that as a sign. maybe this is something that i have to do. maybe finally, i can be free from this constant ache in my chest, free from these intense fluctuations in my emotions, free from this all-consuming pain.

but i figured the odds of seeing someone else beat me to getting there was unsurprisingly high. it was someone familiar, in fact. no, not the friend i'd been talking about. just someone who would visit you in your dreams. she didn't even look like a patient, or i doubt she could have been, considering she was garbed in full black clothing. she looked formal and professional, uptight even. she never once looked at me in the eyes or even turned to see who i was. i just remember she spoke in tongues. i couldn't tell you what she said exactly even if i tried. i was spiraling mentally, i'll blame it on that. but the confusion took over that overwhelming swirl. it sobered me up, i think.

now i'm here, wondering how i'd gotten so close and backed out once again. maybe that person, whoever it was—maybe she was my savior.

#voiceover: jennie #tw #cw #drabble: jennie

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free--therapy · 9 months

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+ I mean, it's been two years now and I'm still stuck on the same two topics that I started worrying about back then. One being the whole issue with intrusive thoughts and fear about OCD and other anxiety disorders and other being the whole issue with mistakes, feeling guilty, apologising and feeling undeserving. It's like every time my mind picks up one of the two topics and when I tell myself "you've already dealt with it" then it makes some aspect of the worries seem more complex to confuse me again.

Like when I thought that all this time, I wasn't bothered by intrusive thoughts at all no matter what the content, it gave me these realistic ones which make me think something like "this will be my life now with these images popping up all the time"

like I know it's not even that bad if I don't constantly wallow over it but since my mind somehow convinced itself that "this is it, these thoughts are different, they are more realistic looking in the real world so they won't go away" and like my mind is convinced that unlike "all other intrusive thoughts" these ones could actually become an issue. It's because I thought like that that it really became an issue 😭

You know, it's like when a problem comes up in our mind when we're anxious, we feel like we need to do something about it. Even though it isn't really a problem at all and just our anxiety making us tricking us into believing that.

Like I somehow thought "this is it. now these thoughts/images are a problem I'll have to live with always"

Even though I know I'm just catastrophizing but I don't know how to think about it in any other way right now. I don't know how else to think about them.

Then it again sends me into a loop of "but this is a new problem because I never thought about it like that. So what do I do now?"

I hope I can find a different perspective to think about where I can really learn to believe that these are anyway just thoughts and not a problem anyway so I don't have to wake up and think "I have this problem with intrusive thoughts going on tho" because it isn't a problem at all. I've somehow managed to think that my life is ruined or something. I hope I can learn to believe that actually nothing has happened to my life at all and that I can continue to live however I want without considering things like "but what about those thoughts?" Etc.

I had intrusive thoughts and associations about other things before like I've mentioned but I never thought of them as a "problem" so it never bothered me or affected my life. But since I thought of these ones related to s*uicide and ceiling fans as "different" than others so my mind somehow got convinced that it's really a "problem" and that it's something different so they became stuck. Now I'm trying to remind myself that these are just thoughts like any other too so not a problem either.

I hope I can reach the point soon when I can believe that this is nothing different than any other intrusive thoughts. I don't have to think of them as something that'll ruin my life or something 😭

Also, there's this something I've been thinking about.

This is kind of unrelated but you know when I was worrying if I should apologise to everyone for any mistake I could've made in the past? I was really overthinking about it.

Of course, in the end, I reminded myself that it was just my anxiety making me feel like that and that I didn't need to do that. However, I did apologise to certain people for some things that I personally felt i really should let them know.

But now I'm thinking...was that okay? I mean, it was like I did this xyz thing and didn't tell them or didn't apologise. Like when I mentioned when I was a child I had stolen like five dollars a few times from my relative's shop but they didn't know. After contemplating over it, last year I told my cousin from their family about it because he was the one who I felt most comfortable sharing it with.

Then recently I was worrying what if he hasn't told their other family members about this? Should I tell them too? But then I think I'm just overthinking.

However, now I'm wondering...to the people I did apologise to, while I did feel the need to tell them about whatever I did and apologise but wasn't I doing it just for my sake?

I mean, I did apologise, but more than for them, I was doing it for myself wasn't I? To get rid of the guilt and to feel like I got closure. I wanted to get closure and move on, so I did it. So wasn't that something I did for my sake?

When I think about it like that, now I'm feeling bad. What do I do now?

Should I apologise to those people and tell them that I was just doing it for myself? That I wanted to get closure and move on so I apologised? I mean, isn't it unfair to them? In that sense, aren't I undeserving of the apology? So do I tell them that and apologise for that as well? Like tell them that I apologised because I wanted to tell you about it but I also just wanted to get rid of this guilt and wanted closure so I could move on or something?

Or am I getting anxious and overthinking again? 😭 Do I not need to do any of that and move on anyway?

Apologizing for closure definitely is more for you than it is for them. More than likely they don't remember the situation or hold onto it as much as you would. Your mind should be okay with wanting to let go of the situation since you've done all you could to rid yourself of the guilt, except letting it go. There's no need to hold onto any of it now since you can't change the past.

I don't think it's necessary to tell them why you're apologizing because it's pretty much an unsaid thing that people do whenever they want to take ownership of what they did and that you want to move past the situation now. Having them know why you apologized kind of just defeats the purpose and it's unnecessary now. You don't have to feel guilty or "unworthy" for wanting to do that.

#ask #answered #anon #overthinking

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pealla · 11 months

Text

A Mother’s Love

I often wonder if my mother truly loved me. If I was seen as her daughter and not some cash grab. Someone she could gloat around and parade to her friends to make them seem insignificant when they compare their children.

“Mine won an award for research”

“Really? Well mine is going to college for Pre-Med”

“Wow! But really that’s nothing on what mine is doing”

I felt incompetent when it came to my own achievements. What was I doing wrong? I did everything and more when I was younger so what happened.

I burnt out. I was no longer this big ball of gas that my mother took upon to shape and mold into what she believed was perfect. What made me perfect. I took control of my life after I graduated high school. I can never tell if it was a mistake or not. Some days I feel the constant “I told you so” ringing in my head as I plan my life out. It was never a straight road. I experienced many obstacles and within those obstacles I rediscovered myself on numerous occasions. Each time more intense, but some were inner realization of where I fall in the system that made up my family.

Did my mother love me because I could provide for her? Did she love me because she has to? Does she give me just enough of her love to control me? To think I have to give her something in return for such affection. Whenever I question my mother’s love for it, it made me cry. I would cry endlessly wondering where I went wrong. Such an odd thing to do. Wondering why you are the problem for not giving your all for love that shouldn’t be priced so high. It doesn’t bother me anymore— not as much as it did before. I feel content in the idea even. Content that we were no more than business partners. Than roommates or even employer and employee. There was nothing but static between us. Never truly reaching a connection.

But then it happened. A flicker. A spark. The buzzing goes away and it became a bit clearer to see and hear. It brought me a mixture of emotions— ones that are filled with happiness, doubt and fear. I fear this feeling wouldn’t last. I ride off the high like I’m drugged to a point of not realizing the dangers. She grabbed me. Her hands turn to claws as they dug into my skin leaving marks. The suffocation brought upon, it’s almost warm and comforting. The way I stopped to look at her — really look at her and see her for what she is: my mother.

Then she retracts. The warmth is replaced with chills. The marks left by her leave hopelessness and worry. The anxiety that came with it came in waves that grew larger and larger as I continued to let her in. But why? Why do I let her in when she leaves me wallowing in my own sorrows? Did I not learn from the countless times she watched me struggle. To survive in a world that forces you to grow up. It’s silly really. Heartwarming— manipulative no doubt.

But the answer is so simple, she made my favorite food.

#growingupwithanasianmothertrope

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kaniathestarwalker · 1 year

Text

04/09/23 - Walks Alone in the Park

Hello! I'm Kiana. I'm about 20, and a few months. I remember my mother asking me a question I never really thought about before. "What have you learned in the last 20 years of being alive?"

I was stumped by the question, and even a little, scared. I couldn't answer her immediately, had I really learned nothing? Not only that, but I felt stupid a bit, stuttering in the car when she asked this question. She had a bit of a chuckle, and I just told her it was hard to explain. She seemed satiated by this answer, and left it at that.

I don't think I've exactly cracked that code, per-say. I've learned so much, just not how to drive! A fool I've been I thought.

But last night, I remember I was overcome with plenty of emotion. Fear, anxiety, anger, irritation, and regret. If there was one thing I have learned, is not to live with regret.

Even at my big age, I was afraid, to leave my house in the night, to take a walk in the dark to relieve myself of the upset feelings. I usually would have wallowed in my room. The feeling overwhelmed me so much, I basically descended into the kitchen floor, and laid there on the cold psudo-wood for what felt like 20 minutes. My dog, came and laid a distance from me, next to the couch in the living room, turned to me.

Emotional agony was not a good feeling, but I hadn't sat with the feeling before. I laid there, 20 minutes on the floor as I oddly enough, heard Skrillex of all things playing in my ears. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the floor, or the small piece of glass I saw sitting on the floor. Even after all that sweeping, and all that mopping I did days ago, pieces of my mistake remained. I felt something there, something that confused and scared me.

But if there was another thing I learned, is that I hated feeling scared, or stupid. But if I was going to be scared and stupid, I was going to be brave about it.

I blew the piece of glass into an unknown crevasse, and picked myself up off the floor. I straightened myself up as I sped upstairs, careful to not wake my mother up. I grabbed my wind breaker, threw on my crocs and I left, a hasty walk out the house as tears stung my eyes. I hadn't done this before, and living in the suburbs, it was pitch black when I left. Only a few street lights illuminating my way. I walked.

I walked a familiar street, at an unfamiliar time of day. It was a woody area, a green area, full of untrimmed grass, and unkempt trees. People coming home from night shifts, from work, from parties, from friend's houses. I continued my movement, at a steady, no rush pace. I knew where I was going.

I'll admit, even in a suburb, to have both my headphones in might have been foolish but in my emotional state, I didn't care. I desired for some adrenaline spiking experience. I feel like, I have been safe for too long. To try and not make waves or upset the people who loved me. I didn't care now, though. It was like, a late phase teen rebellion. Not really a rebellion, but if you heard how often my mother called me during my nights in Chicago; smoking weed, hanging out with my friends and moving about at night, you'd think I'd be doing this since I hit my teens.

But no, I just started and I've never been so excited about life. Even if it was, just a walk at the park. I felt, free. I felt, like me.

The rest was a blur, as I got to the park, I swung on the swings, I slid down slides, I climbed things I hadn't climbed for my own amusement in so long. I just felt, better.

Fresh cool air. My music shifted, from being somber and low, from the sweet voices of Coldplay's Sparks, Rises the Moon by Liana Flores and I Love You so, by the Walters.

The thought of my mother's upset was there, but not in the same, fear inducing capacity it was before. It was floating around in my mind, but in a way that I'd simply have to shrug. I didn't have the energy, or capacity to care anymore.

By the time I reached back home, it was 8:45. I left about 7. Her ring camera caught me coming home, but instead I rang the normal doorbell to our home, as I called her phone, asking her to open the door. My brother opened the door, and asked me if I had taken the dog with me. I said: "No, I just took a little walk."

I went upstairs to my mother's room, opening the door as she looked over to me. She said goodnight, I told her goodnight, before retiring to my own room.

I'd had never taken my own agency like that, never have I simply up and left because I was upset, knowing that I was feeling upset and being in my room wouldn't have helped. I needed that.

Not only that, but I refused to allow her possible, hypothetical anger to upset me any longer. Anyone's hypothetical anger to stop me from doing anything.

This is Kiana, and I'll be back

lol

#blogger #personal post #blog post #self reflection #journal #mylife #mental health #introspective

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hatmp · 4 years

Text

Ha ha haaaaa just realized I’ll be going through fall alone.

Woot.

#my bugs #i continue to wallow in my fear and anxiety #scribes anonymous

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

tooth and nail

ask and you shall receive ;) @denpine14 @strawberrygem21

in which the Dimitrescu daughters exhibit cat-like traits

---------

“Dear Mother Miranda,

The girls have grown well, though there are some complications. Bela seems to have some form of anxiety and very low self-esteem, Cassandra has anger issues, and Daniela, I believe, has some type of hyperactivity disorder. Despite all of this, I love all of them dearly.

However…more strangely…they have…feline-like habits. I expected the hissing and growling, but the other things… Well, I’m not too sure how this has happened, as they were born from insects, but they weirdly act like little kittens in the most absurd ways. These mannerisms include, but are not limited to…”

“…headbutting…”

“Oof--” Alcina blinked in surprise and looked down as Bela headbutted her leg. “Yes, my darling?”

Bela giggled and headbutted her again. Alcina rubbed her head, which triggered a strange sound to fill the air.

“…and purring…”

Purring. Her daughter seemed to be purring.

Alcina’s heart swelled with love. She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips.

Later that day, Cassandra and Daniela did the headbutting thing, too, both of them bonking her in the legs while giggling adorably. When she scratched along their scalps, they purred, just like their big sister had.

--- --- ---

“…staring when they want something…”

“Yes?” Alcina asked, raising an eyebrow at the trio of girls staring at her. If it weren’t for their different hair colors, it would have been difficult to discern them from each other with their matching black gowns and hoods. She made the mental note to give something to them to help make them out better.

Her daughters continued to stare.

“Is everything alright?”

Still nothing.

“Darlings?”

Cassandra reached out, swatted at her dress, and then they all took off running in different directions, their sock-clad feet making them run in place for a few seconds before they gained traction and streaked away in blurs of black.

--- --- ---

“…and also staring at nothing at all, as though they are seeing ghosts…”

Alcina blinked. Her daughters were staring intently at the wall, their eyes wide and shiny, like they had just witnessed the secrets of the universe. She tried to see what they were looking at but could spot nothing at all.

“What in the…?”

--- --- ---

“…pushing random things off of surfaces for seemingly no reason other than the fact that they like to…”

A loud clatter echoed down the hallway, and Alcina was quick to hurry to the source of the noise: the parlor, where Daniela was perched on one of the tables inside, staring down at a fallen candelabra. Luckily, none of the wax sticks were lit, as they would have sent the red-and-gold carpet over the floor up in flames. Daniela looked up at her, her eyes awestruck and shiny.

“Did you knock that over?” Alcina asked.

Daniela stared back. Then, slowly, reached out her hand and swatted over a cup.

--- --- ---

“…causing utter destruction…”

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Alcina snapped, shooing Cassandra away from the blinds. Her daughter leaped back, her claws ripping out of the fabric she had been sharpening her talons on. “No. Do not scratch things up, Cassandra.”

Cassandra inspected her claws. “Then what am I supposed to sharpen them on? Look at how blunt they are!” They showed them to Alcina.

They were sharp enough to gut a human in one swipe.

In amusement, Alcina said, “How about tree bark? It’s rough enough to hone them.”

Cassandra considered it, then nodded. “Alright!” She bounded away to go destroy one of the trees in the garden.

That same day, Alcina found Daniela chewing on a branch in her bedroom, creating a small pile of woodchips beneath her jaw. She seemed to be doing the same thing as her older sister: sharpening her natural weapons. Alcina left her be.

--- --- ---

“…sudden hyperactivity…”

The loud sound of footsteps suddenly burst throughout the hallways, rebounding like thunder. They would stop at random, then begin again, seemingly in a sporadic pattern. When Alcina finally stepped out of her bedroom to investigate, she barely caught a blur of black as one of her daughters, she couldn’t tell who, whizzed past her like lightning. She spun around, blinking.

“What--”

At the same moment, one of the others came from a different direction and skidded to a stop in front of her. She whirled to them and saw that it was Bela.

“What are you three doing?” Alcina asked.

“Playing,” Bela answered blithely. She stepped forward, headbutted Alcina lovingly, then zoomed off again, slipping on her socks as she went.

--- --- ---

“…getting startled at the most mundane things…”

The parlor had been peaceful at one moment; Alcina was drinking her tea, while Cassandra and Daniela played chess and Bela multitasked reading and watching the game. It was then that Bela’s thread bookmark fell out and she swiped at it to pick it up. However, when the string seemed to catch on her claws, she got frightened, leaping at least five feet up into the air. Seeing their older sister so unsettled, Cassandra and Daniela did the same, nearly jumping out of their skin and scattering the game of chess as they scampered away in terror. Alcina laughed loudly as her daughters huddled against her sides, shaking.

--- --- ---

“…bringing me dead animals as gifts…”

Alcina was cleaning up for bed when there was a knock that filled her bedroom. She walked to the door and opened it, only to see no one. When she turned around, she saw Daniela clinging to her window sill, a mass of fur caught between her teeth.

“Daniela!”

Alcina quickly opened the window, and Daniela hopped inside. She presented the thing in her mouth to her with great pride: a rat.

“For you, Mother.”

“Ah-- thank you, my dove.”

Daniela purred as her head was rubbed affectionately.

The next day, Cassandra padded up to her, her chest puffed in pride, a large snake pierced by her fangs.

“A gift, Mother.”

“Thank you, my sweet.”

And then, that evening, Bela came to her door with a bird in her mouth.

“Here, Mother.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

And then the bird jerked away when Bela set it down and flew off down the hall in terror. They both watched it go.

“It was too pretty to kill.”

Alcina chuckled. “I see.”

--- --- ---

“…laying on my things when I need them…”

Alcina stared tiredly at the stack of girls laying on the folded clothes on her bed. All that space on her giant mattress that was made specifically for her size and they chose that exact spot. On her clothes.

Well. They were much too cute to wake up.

--- --- ---

“…laying on me and keeping me from getting up…”

“Maiden,” Alcina whispered.

The maid passing by stopped and turned to her instantly.

“Get me a glass of blood. I can’t get up and I am thirsty.”

The maid eyed the form of her youngest daughter stretched out on her lap, asleep, and then nodded, whisking away.

She hadn’t moved for three hours.

--- --- ---

“…they have no concept of personal space…”

Alcina was awake that night, her girls piled on top of her to the point where they were practically smothering her, Daniela and Cassandra under arms and Bela on her chest. Every time she twitched, they would move closer, snuggling in deeper to her heat. She wouldn’t be sleeping very comfortably, but at least her daughters were warm.

--- --- ---

“…sitting in strange places…”

“Are you comfortable?” Alcina asked, laughing.

Bela looked up from where she was reading and wedged inside a basket that was meant for quilts. Despite her small, wiry frame, it technically wasn’t her size, but she managed to curl herself inside, piled by the blankets and indulging herself in a good book.

“Yes,” Bela said, smiling.

Alcina would also go on to find Cassandra napping haphazardly on the banister of the upper hallway balcony, which she picked her up from and placed her back into her bed in fear of her falling off, and Daniela hiding in one of the cupboards in the kitchen.

However, none of these things beat when she found all three of her daughters crammed in a box, murmuring and giggling to each other over something.

--- --- ---

“…did I mention the purring? Because the purring is absolutely endearing. I do believe it has healing properties…”

Alcina wasn’t quite sure what she had come down with that day, but she woke up feeling exhausted and achy all over. She didn’t even think to get up and alert her girls to her condition, choosing to rather wallow in her bed, so it wasn’t a surprise when her room was soon filled by three worried bug-spawn creatures.

“Mother?” Daniela’s small hands were set on her shoulders.

Alcina stirred.

“Mother?” That was Bela, now.

She rolled over and blinked tired eyes at the worried-looking faces of her daughters.

“Hello, my darlings,” she croaked.

“Mother,” Bela said again, her voice thick with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Alcina nodded, though her mind was wavering, shrouded in a heavy fog. “I am fine. Just a little unwell.”

“Can we help you?” Cassandra asked, her hands twitching.

“Don’t worry,” Alcina answered. “I’ll be fine.”

Her daughters exchanged looks. A moment later, they were climbing onto the bed, curling up around her.

“We’re helping,” Daniela said.

Alcina had no idea how cuddling was supposed to help her, but then she heard the soft churring that filled the air. The purring in itself did little to actually heal her sickness, but something about the soft sound and the presence of her precious daughters soothed her. Bela, with her head on her chest, filled her heart with a gentle rumbling. Daniela, curled up right next to her, chirred gingerly in her ear. Cassandra, stretched out over her stomach, resonated a soothing burr throughout her body.

She chuckled tiredly. “Thank you, my loves…”

--- --- ---

“…and, at least when they were newly reborn, absolutely hating when I go into a room without them…”

She was just taking a shower. That was all. And yet, she could hear her young, one-week-old daughters on the other side of the door, yowling and screaming and scratching their claws into the wood.

“I’m just bathing!” she snapped.

They wailed louder.

--- --- ---

“…to wrap the letter up, it is certainly a strange phenomenon to the experiment, but I am not complaining at all. They are much more entertaining and endearing this way. I wouldn’t have them any other way. I would like to thank you again, Mother Miranda, for letting me have such sweet daughters.

That will be all for now. I will follow up in another letter if anything new comes up.

-Alcina Dimitrescu”

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #dimitrescu daughters #dimitrescu family #resident evil fanfic #re8 village #tooth and nail

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kodzumie-archived · 3 years

Note

Komaeda eating out a shy fem reader for her first time? She’s nervous but really wants to do this 😔😔

❝PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE❞

Synopsis; Going down on you had always been a fantasy of Nagito’s, and—if you were being honest—yours as well. But will your anxieties allow you to pursue your mutual desire?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); (N)SFW and cunnilingus (oral sex).

Kodzumie’s Note; Of course I will! I apologize for the delay of your request! Thank you so much for requesting and your support. Take care! Muah <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ Truth be told, going down on you had always been a thought situated at the back of his mind when engaging in such erotic intimacy with you.

⤷ It’s a sexual fantasy of his; to swipe his tongue along your slit, collecting your dew and suffocating his senses in your clenching cunt. He dreams to taste you; to indulge in you.

⤷ Though despite how much he yearns to please you, and even follow your wishes of indulging in his own fantasies and pleasuring himself as well, he understood to respect your hesitancy to that particular act.

⤷ Nagito was one of many things, but he wasn’t going to force you into something he knew full well you weren’t comfortable with just yet.

⤷ He knew such a position was one that brought flourishes of vulnerability, and an uncomfortable exposure that you wished to ease into rather than dive in head-first.

⤷ You wanted time, and Nagito was more than willing to let you take as long as you need. Because honestly, he assumed you’d reject the idea without hesitancy, so he was more than willing to be patient.

⤷ At first, Nagito had assumed that you didn’t want him to go down on you. His mindset spiraling into the oh-so-familiar state of degradation that he put upon himself. He assumed that he was the problem, but thankfully, you relentlessly reassured him of otherwise.

⤷ Truthfully, you wanted to do it and, of all people, you’d prefer Nagito to be the one you’d allow to see you so vulnerable. You trusted him, you truly did. But there seemingly was always an inkling of fear; insecurity. What if you didn’t live up to the expectations of his fantasy? What if it didn’t feel as good as you assumed? What if something went wrong?

⤷ It was this seed of worry that lead you to avoid such ministrations. Guiding his head back up to press kissed against your neck rather than any lower.

⤷ Months after the first time he’d proposed the idea, and you’ve yet to engage. Postponing further and further as the urge grows suffocatingly tempting. You want to, you truly do, but...to this point, you begin to wonder; what’s holding you back?

⤷ You question this as you find yourself laid atop the blanketed mattress within your shared bedroom, bare and exposed to Nagito’s eyes as he looms above you with a tantalizing hunger in his eyes.

⤷ As his eyes interlock with yours, they soften for a moment before he buries his head in the crook of your neck, capturing a patch of skin between his lips as he licks and suckles. He marks your skin, staking his claim as he continues to travel farther down.

⤷ But once his lips reach between the valley of your breasts, peppering your chest in fleeting kisses before moving to take your right, hardened nipple within his mouth, he doesn’t dare travel further. Even as he loses himself in the curves of your body, he firmly ingrains your comfort with each fervent kiss.

⤷ You notice this. You’ve always noticed this; the way he puts your comfort and wishes as his priority, even when dazed by his craving to ravish you.

⤷ So that’s why, as you reluctantly swallowed back the anxious lump in your throat, you cup his cheeks and direct have a gaze back to you. Confusion sparks within his ghostly green hues as you refer to him with a shaky grin. “I think I’m ready.”

⤷ It took a moment or two before he managed to muster out some sort of reaction. His eyes widened as his mouth gaped open; his visage was composed of pure surprise. Yet there were tracings of ill-disguised happiness as the corners of his lips twitched into a smile.

⤷ “Are you sure?” He questions. His eyes fixated on your expression of bashfulness, attempting to decipher any traces of possible regret. But you nodded with a smile that seemed much less restless, putting forth faith in your decision; faith in your trust within Nagito.

⤷ At your confirmation, his lips begin to explore realms of your frame that he restrained himself from setting upon before. Kissing and sucking on the plush skin that his mouth had yet to discover. The sensation of his moist mouth clasping over your thighs was electrifying.

⤷ Yet even as his tongue drags over your thighs with such zeal, you couldn’t help the anxieties that bubbled within you, tearing your gaze away from him, muffling your whines.

⤷ And after a few moments of teasing bites and particularly harsh sucks, he noticed your lack of audible moans.

⤷ His first thought was that what he was doing wasn’t what you enjoyed, hence your silence. But as he lifted his quizzical gaze to meet yours, he discovered that your hand had been firmly placed over your mouth; stifling all your harmonious cries.

⤷ Not only that, but your eyes were cast to the side, avoiding his countenance. As much as the sight caused Nagito’s heart to flutter—having always been a sucker for your shy nature—he wanted you to gaze upon him as he devoured you; he wanted to hear you as he pushed you to unravel from the sole use of his mouth.

⤷ Thus, he pushes himself up from between your legs and gently wraps his fingers around your wrists. This causes you to momentarily meet his eyes before hurriedly clenching yours shut, attempting to hide your flustered face behind your hands.

⤷ But Nagito pries them away before you could; his grip gentle yet firm, to assure that you don’t try to hide your beloved face from him.

⤷ “Love,” He begins, waiting for you to open your eyes. But you don’t. Chewing on your bottom lip in nervousness as you try your utmost best to not look at him. Everything in that moment felt so overwhelming, and your poor little heart was struggling to handle it.

⤷ “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You know I only want what you’d enjoy most, right?” He reassures you. His hands atop both of yours as he cradles them so gently. And there it is, again.

⤷ Once more, you wonder what you continuously allow to hold you back from fulfilling your mutual desires; you want this just as much as him.

⤷ And even so, he’s respected every denial and even the current temporary false hope you’d provided. He’s been so patient with you, he’s been so good to you. It’s truly ludicrous that someone as considerate as him even exists. Much less that he also degrades himself constantly; degrading the person you truly believed to be the most respectful significant other to ever exist.

⤷ “No, no. I want to, I promise! It’s just...I’m just—“ You stumble over your words in an attempt to piece together why you keep prolonging this. But you couldn’t formulate the words. Even as you stuttered and tries to come forth with a decent explanation, you couldn’t. Did you even know why?

⤷ Upon your silence, Nagito leaned forward to meet his lips with yours, drawing you in for a kiss. Finally, you open your eyes to meet his softened pair as he pulled away. Time seemed to still as you accepted that you didn’t truly have a reason other than the turmoil of emotions within you.

⤷ “I’m just nervous.” The words that fell from your lips were like mist, so subtle you almost assumed he didn’t hear you. But he did, and a breathy chuckle escaped him as he pecked your lips once more.

⤷ “Is that so?” He hums. You nod, tempted to break eye contact as embarrassment seeps into you. Your mind pacing with a flurry of anxieties. What kind of excuse is that? Nervous? Surely he sees you as pathetic now. What did you have to be nervous of? You trust him, don’t you?

⤷ Wallowing in remorse and self-pity as you suffocated within your shame, you tear your gaze away. But a sigh of relief forces your head to whirl back to gaze upon Nagito; the bearer of that sigh of relief.

⤷ “My hope, it’s okay to be nervous. Honestly, I’d be more alarmed if you weren’t nervous.” He admits. You’re thrown into a state of disbelief; confusion.

⤷ Over and over, he reassures you and promises that your feelings are valid and normal. He promises that it’s okay to be nervous, you’re trying something new, after all.

⤷ His delicate words and consideration cause your heart to swell as your worries have relatively eased up. The fears—the anxiety—that seemed to cage you were eased, almost as though they were never there. It’s almost terrifying how easily he could calm you.

⤷ Nagito allowed his words to hang in the air as you processed it all. He respectively awaited your answer, pleased, regardless of what it’d be. Because Nagito’s relief had stemmed from your ability to confide in him, and that means more than any form of sexual pleasure.

⤷ As you exhale, sighing out the last of your contemplation, you meet his eyes with a much more confident visage.

⤷ “I want to do this. I really do.” A voiced affirmation, and one that you felt assured of. You wanted this and, even through your nervousness, you genuinely wanted this.

⤷ Once again, he trails kisses along your body; from your jaw all the way to your thighs. Each kiss brushed over with a swipe of his tongue, teasingly stimulating you.

⤷ With each peck, he lowers. Closer and closer as you begin to anxiously squirm. It’s still so nervewracking, but you’ve culminated a determination to follow through. Despite your bashfulness causing you to tear your gaze away from Nagito.

⤷ This time, he’s not so forgiving as his teeth gently clamp down onto your thigh. You yelp, moaning out in slight pain and surprise as you turn your head back towards him; gazing as his head was tucked between your thighs, breath fanning over your pussy whilst his green orbs pierced into yours.

⤷ “Keep your eyes on me.” He ordered before tentatively rubbing his tongue over the bite mark as an unspoken apology. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as arousal overcomes you at his unnaturally assertive nature.

⤷ You oblige; keeping your eyes trained on his face as he returns to his ministrations. Heart thumping and ringing in your ears, you gasp as a Nagito dragged his tongue from your slit to your clit.

⤷ He hums, a serene chuckle resonating from the back of his throat before he circles his tongue around your clit. Soon enough, his lips curl around the bud, suckling gently as to avoid hurting you, yet stimulating you enough to release a small shriek.

⤷ After the initial slurp—the testing of new water—Nagito found himself encapsulated within a trance; his lips popping off of your bundle of nerves before plunging his tongue into your tight, drooling cunt repeatedly. Over and over, he continuously yearned for more of you; more of your flavor. You tasted heavenly.

⤷ Restlessly circling his tongue from within you, familiarizing himself with your walls as he douses himself in your juices; his senses engulfed with you in your entirety. And he adored every second of it.

⤷ Just like he adored the squeals of euphoria followed by your alluringly baritone moans that eagerly shot blood to his erection, straining against his pants with full intent to be sheathed within you. But he, too, wanted to savor your tastes.

⤷ With each slurp, you found yourself edging towards your release. Your toes curling, spurts of shock stunning your legs as you twitch and squirm, attempting to make some distance between the nearly unbearable waves of pleasure.

⤷ But Nagito kept a firm grip on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin. His mouth relentless upon his ravishing; he wanted to taste you as you reach your high, and he wants you to ride it out as his tongue swirls within you.

⤷ It only took a mere few seconds before you let out a particularly loud whine, tremors wracking through your body as your cunt squirts your juices; your cum drizzling down Nagito’s chin as he hungrily laps it up.

⤷ “Nagi—Ah!” You attempt to speak—voice hoarse and raspy—but the aftershock of your orgasm causing your pussy to be far more sensitive. Every kitten lick Nagito takes is intensified as you pant.

⤷ And soon enough, everything stills. Your chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as Nagito finally arises from between your thighs, his bottom lip and chin drizzled with your cum.

⤷ The sight flusters you as you gaped. His tongue dragged over your nectar, eagerly relishing in the remains of your orgasm as he grinned.

⤷ “So, how was it?” He asks, curious to your perspective; after all, you were very hesitant prior. It warms your heart how, even after everything, your well-being is the main thing on his mind.

⤷ With an exhausted sigh, you wrap your arms around your lover’s neck, tugging him down onto the bed with you. His clothed chest pressed against your bare one as you held him close, the delicate pulsating of your hearts sloppily synchronize. “It was amazing. Thank you, ”

#cunny licker komaeda lol #sdr2 x reader #dr2 x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #danganronpa x reader #nagito hcs #nagito imagines #danganronpa hcs #danganronpa scenarios #danganronpa imagines

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weelittleweasley · 3 years

Text

may i sit? (h.p.)

prompt requested by @oh-no-whoopsie: from what you were taught, slytherins and gryffindors weren’t supposed to get along, much to your dismay. a certain gryffindor had caught your eye and you desperately wanted him to know who you were. when you are having a bad day, you receive comfort from an unexpected guest...

pairing: harry potter x fem! slytherin reader

warnings: crying, anxiety, isolation, loneliness

word count: 2.4k

It was never explained to you as a first year student, but you had always followed the unspoken rule that Slytherins and Gryffindors had a merciless rivalry. You feared being ostracized by your house if you were to befriend a Gryffindor that someone had a vendetta against, so instead you focused on maintaining friendships within your house. This way, there was no risk of being outcast and strengthened the relationships with those who were similar in personalities to you.

However, you did feel like your lack of interaction with some Gryffindors made you miss out on exciting experiences. Since you were friendly with the Weasleys, you didn’t get invited to common room parties that they threw, you didn’t get invited to study sessions with Granger in the library, you didn’t hang out in the courtyards with Longbottom. You just stuck to your non-Gryffindor friends and hoped that it would be enough.

But you did find days where you would longingly find yourself watching as Hermione Granger looped her arm with Harry Potter’s, throwing her head back in laughter at something he had said in passing. He would lightly smile as he watched his best friend laugh before shaking his head and rolling his eyes. His eyes...what would it be like to stare into those beautiful green eyes...

Only problem was when Harry did catch your eyes, your cheeks flushed a bright crimson red as you darted you gaze away from him. It was like it felt wrong to look at him. If someone caught you stealing longing glances at him, that they would tell everyone else in Slytherin house and that would be the breaking point.

So instead of letting yourself look at him and him to you, you would bury your head into some other business and brush aside the thoughts that crept into your mind of what it would be like for the Chosen One to speak your name on his lips.

You thought it was silly for you to have a crush on Potter. First of all, majority of your house didn’t like the boy at all. In fact, they found him arrogant and self-absorbed, and immature. Secondly, you had little to no interaction with him through out your five years with him at Hogwarts. Maybe once you bumped into him at the library and muttered a sorry to each other, but nothing more. No real conversations. Even though you craved to know more about him than just general knowledge, you would remind yourself that it wasn’t in Slytherins’ nature to befriend Gryffindors.

And again the cycle continued of being with your non-Gryffindor friends, watching Gryffindors’ friendships blossom, daydream of what could be, sigh over Harry Potter, distract yourself from Harry Potter, and repeat.

It became exhausting at times. Constantly having to tell yourself no to something that you really wanted. Something that you knew you would enjoy. You knew that you would get along well with people like the Weasleys and Granger and Potter and Thomas and Longbottom. It didn’t matter that your house was different from theirs. But the fear of not being accepted by your own house consumed you to the part where it would drive you to tears on occasion.

Loneliness was always a fear of yours. You had always liked to surround yourself with people you loved, friends, family, or both. It was their presence that made you feel warm and comforted. But some days, it was hard to not feel alone. There were days where you wished your house wasn’t so competitive or pretentious. You wished that your house could let down its guard and actually enjoy school for what it was rather than view it as a jungle, a competition. Hunter and prey. Keeping up with it all was exhausting and you were exhausted to say the least.

Wallowing in your pity, you found a small bench in the outdoor hallways of Hogwarts, knees pulled up to your chest as you rested your back against the concrete wall, the cool temperature calming your warm body. You sniffled and wiped small tears that fell from your eyes as you cried quietly to yourself.

You loved your Slytherin house friends, you really did. They were fiercely loyal to you and would defend you at the drop of a hat. They were funny and witty and charming and intelligent and you loved being around them. But sometimes, you wished that they would be more open to the idea of being around new people. People who were different in nature, but majority of them protested. Pansy would always argue, “We have everything we need in each other, (Y/N). Why would we go out and make friends with others when we are perfectly fine on our own?” She earned the nods of a few heads as you sighed in defeat.

Maybe to see what being with others with different interests and wants and desires in life would be refreshing. Being around Gryffindors could bring a new sense of excitement into your life. It could be good; a change. A new start.

But that wasn’t realistic. You knew that if you became friends with a Gryffindor secretly, your friends would give you hell for it. They would implore you on why you needed someone else, a Gryffindor, as a friend. Especially if it were someone like-

“Are you alright?” a voice interrupts your thoughts as you sniffle and look in the direction of the voice.

Standing a little down the hall a couple feet away was the boy with those captivating green eyes. Harry Potter wore a concerned expression on his face as he watched you wipe away the tears that gently fell from your eyes. His green eyes stared into yours, hoping that you would answer him.

Your heart beats a little quicker at the sight of him and you blinked a few times to make sure this wasn’t some sort of hallucination or prank being pulled on you. Quickly snapping out of it, you spoke, “Yeah, yeah,” wiping your eyes, “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Harry took a few steps closer to you, very cautiously as to not make you skittish. He knew that his presence could make some people wary or uncomfortable, so he tried to approach the situation of an already crying girl very carefully. “You sure?” he implores. “I don’t like seeing people alone. Especially if they’re upset...”

His concern for you was endearing, especially since you had barely spoken to each other before. You wipe your nose on the cuff of your jumper as you shake your head. “It’s alright. I’m used to it at this point, I guess,” you shrug, the words falling from your mouth as Harry gives you a concerned look. You did this often? his eyes seemed to ask as you shook your head. “Not like that,” you let out a light laugh. “I guess I’m just...” you start before realizing who you’re talking to. With a gulp and a look at him, you shake your head, “Never mind, it’s not important anyway.”

Before you can rise from the bench to excuse yourself to go to the Slytherin common room and pull yourself together, Harry stops you. “You don’t have to go,” Harry sticks his hands out, preventing you from rising. “I mean, I’m the one who interrupted you, I should be going,” he insists as you give him a small smile. “But I can assure you, whatever you were upset about isn’t something to brush off if it made you sad enough to cry,” he gives you a sad smile.

You sigh and shake your head. “You’re right,” you admit with a surrendering smile as Harry returns one. “But you don’t need to leave either. This isn’t my hallway,” you joke as he gives you another smile.

The two of you watch each other for a moment, in silence, taking the other in. Harry notices how he’s seen you around a few times and maybe chatted to you before, but didn’t know you well enough to strike up conversation. But for some reason, Harry felt compelled to sit and talk with you tonight. It was like he was supposed to stumble upon you like this. Harry clears his throat. “May I sit?” he asks quietly.

Your heart flutters and an involuntary smile appears on your cheeks as you nod your head. “Of course,” you scoot over on the bench so Harry can sit next to you comfortably.

Harry takes the spot next to you with a smile and turns toward you as you lean back on the concrete wall. “I’ve seen you around before, but I don’t think I know your name,” he speaks. “I’m Harry,” he extends his hands to you, offering a shake.

With a small smile, you accept his gesture. “I’m (Y/N). It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” you tell him as he nods. “You don’t have to feel obligated to sit with me because you walked in on me crying though,” you try to excuse him, but Harry profusely shakes his head.

“No, no, no,” he speaks. “I want to make sure you’re not alone. In case you need someone to talk to...” he offers as you give him a sad smile. “We don’t need to talk if you don’t want to though. I can sit here and you can talk and I can listen. Or you don’t need to talk and I can distract you. Or we can just sit here until you feel better,” he gives you a happy smile.

Could the boy be any more perfect? You practically swooned at his words, he was so thoughtful to someone he had literally just formally met seconds ago. And yet he was so kind and gentle with you. The thought alone of him wanting to be there for you was overwhelmingly genuine. For someone with as much status and popularity as Harry, you didn’t expect him to be so down to Earth.

You quietly thank Harry as he nods, understanding completely. The two fo you sit in silence for a little while as you collect your thoughts, feelings, and emotions before sighing. “I guess,” you start. “I feel a little lonely sometimes,” you admit to the Gryffindor. Harry nods his head, completely understanding. “I have great friends and a wonderful family,” you tell him, “but sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I’m so lonely here.” Harry hangs onto every word that comes out of your mouth, intently listening to what you have to say. “I do like being a Slytherin. Both of my parents were,” you tell him. “But I want to branch out and be friends with other people who aren’t Slytherin.”

Harry gives you a puzzled look. “What’s holding you back?” he asks.

Sighing, you speak, “I know that not all Slytherins are fond of other houses. Especially Gryffindors,” you look at Harry who just chuckles. “I fear that if I do become friends with others, especially Gryffindors, I’ll be ostracized by my friends in Slytherin,” you confide in him.

Harry shakes his head and sighs. He understood in a way about what you were going through. The pressure could be a lot for someone and he hated the look on your face as you expressed your situation to him. Harry wished he could make things better, he really wanted to. “Can I give you a bit of advice?” he speaks as you nod. “Let’s say you do become friends with a Gryffindor,” he says, “and your Slytherin friends do that to you,” he continues as you clench at his words, “and I’m not saying they will,” he retaliates before continuing, “but if they do...(Y/N), those people aren’t your friends.” Harry gives you a soft look as you sigh, knowing that he had a point. “Friends don’t come along with terms and conditions,” he speaks. “They are friends. They are supposed to support you. Not support you when it suits their best interest.”

His words were very true and carried a wise beyond his years weight. But it was illuminating to you in a way you didn’t think of before. His insight was much needed. “You’re right, Harry,” you sigh as he smiles, his advice succeeding in bringing you clarity. “Thank you.”

He beams, “Surely.” You lightly chuckle. “With all that being said,” he starts. “I hope you know that we can surely be friends, (Y/N).” Your eyes widen and mouth lightly falls open. He wanted to be friends? Was this a sympathy move or did he genuinely want to get to know you? “I hope you don’t think I’m saying any of it because of the circumstances,” he clarifies, “I think you’re lovely.”

Your cheeks slowly burn as a smile inches its way onto your lips. He thinks I’m lovely. His kind words mean more to you than he’ll ever know. You give him a shy look before accepting, “I’d like to be friends, too, Harry.”

Harry smiles and for a moment, you think there’s a similar rosy hue on his cheeks. “Brilliant,” he speaks quietly. Carefully, he places a hand on yours, “I’d like to be there for you, (Y/N). Whenever you need it.”

The contact of his skin on yours makes your stomach do a flip as you gulp, eyes glued on his hand placed delicately on yours. Slowly, you look up at Harry who pushes his glasses up on his face as they fall on the bridge of his nose. He was quite adorable, wasn’t he? “The same goes for you, Harry,” you tell him. “I’m here.”

You gently squeezed his hand as you saw him inhale deeply. The two of you looked into each other’s eyes, observed the way they flickered and the way the colors danced. Harry’s eyes felt comforting and familiar; like you trusted him already for some odd reason. But you relished in the feeling of this new found comfort.

The two of you gently peeled your hands away from each other before Harry clears his throat. “Before I saw you, I was on the way to the kitchens to snag a snack for Ron and I. Would you like to join me?” he asks with a light smile.

Nodding your head with a smile, you speak, “Sounds like fun. Plus, I know where the house elves keep the fresh biscuits.”

Harry chuckles, “I think we’re going to be good friends, (Y/N).”

The two of you laugh and start making your way to the kitchens. But you had to agree with Harry. You had a really good feeling about this friendship.

#Harry Potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfic #Harry Potter Smut #harry imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter x reader #harry potter x ravenclaw!reader #harry potter x ravenclaw #harry potter x slytherin!reader #harry potter x fem!reader

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