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penvisions · 25 days

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the melting point {chapter 18}

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Baker! Reader (exEMT! Reader)

Summary: Time moves and so does your world.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: references to canon typical violence, gun violence, reference to previous injuries, recovery, physical therapy, therapy, anxiety, medical jargon, description of injuries (not detailed), mention of surgical scarring, reader has limited mobility, reader uses a walker, reader uses a wheelchair, reader uses a cane, panic, depression, anxiety, reader is self-conscious in her body, a lot of emotions, body modification, reader gets some, pet names, a lot of emotions! reader has described as having specific color hair and tattoos

A/N: it's not the best, but it's a good step toward the end of this lovely little series. happy frankie friday, y'all!

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Frankie was pacing, the envelope opened, and the contents laid out.

Aggravated assault.

Child Services have been contacted.

Will was the first to be called, in order to get an attorney through the VA.

Pope was the second, because he had been witness to the incident in question.

A call interrupted the list of immediate people who needed to be reached out to. Child Services calling to confirm Frankie’s residence and let him know an officer would be conducting a home visit in the following days. Frankie’s mother, Isabella, had said she would stay the night beforehand, to ensure the house was in order and to talk to the officer on her son’s behalf before whatever appointment was set. And that she would be staying that night to help work through anything needing her help.

Benny was called third, because he had been there when Frankie had begun to deal with his anger issues and attended meetings with him where he spoke about it early in his recovery. To vouch that the man had never been violent outside of small outbursts and never in front of his child or in public.

Morgan was fourth, to question of she knew the man Pope had claimed frequented the bar across from Brass Knuckles.

It…it was a lot on top of an already overwhelming situation.

“Frankie?” You called as you tried to inch the feet of your walker as close to the threshold of the back door. The panel of the sliding door had been closed but the man wasn’t in any of the other places you had looked after waking from your slumber. It was the next day, a hectic one to be sure as more paperwork and things needed to be in order. His mother and daughter were upstairs, busy with the child’s few hours’ worth of homework to ensure she stayed on point for school when she returned after the winter break. The first half of the school year being done in the comfort of her own home, to help her handle the aftermath of what had happened.

That had been a conversation you hadn’t been a part of, something Frankie had admitted to you. The decision needing to be made while you had still been unconscious and in the hospital. Between his parents and his friends, trying their best to gauge the outcome of each option and what was best for Lex.

The clatter of glass falling and cracking was loud, spiking your heart in your chest. You called out for him again, worry dripping from you.

“I’m okay, querida! Just trying to fix this sun catcher and I accidently dropped it.”

“Is it okay?”

“…no.” His sheepish admission came from around the corner of the house.

“Fransisco!”

“It was an accident!” He appeared from where he had to have been messing with the charm hanging from a tree in the yard, bare feet hushing across the grass before they met the wooden stairs of the deck. He couldn’t hide the wide smile taking over his lips, delighting in the sight of you trying to hide your laughter.

“So…”

“Alright, alright, lemme get changed.”

“You didn’t even give me the chance to say anything yet.”

“That’s your ‘I have errands’ voice, sweet girl. Heard it enough times when we were trying to plan our first date.”

“Hey, I don’t wanna hear that. You essentially got me with that one date, so-“

“That’s not-“ His mind tried to supply him with other instances but it was the only one that was official.

“We hung out enough for you to fall hopelessly in love with me!”

“But not on official dates!” You giggled, feeling heat creep up your neck from your chest at the words.

“Then lemme take you out to one tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.” He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand splaying across your lower back.

“But…child services is coming tomorrow, we’ve got to focus on that…”

“We’ll both need to relax after that, I promise it’s okay.”

“Frankie…did,” You pulled back a little to gaze into the amber of his eyes lit up by the morning sun. “Did you really attack him?”

His forehead rested against yours, his eyes clenching shut and hiding them from your searching gaze.

“Yes. I did. Pope and I went down to the station to hear his statement and he was…he was saying all kinds of awful things about you and Lex and I just snapped.”

A hand to the back of his neck and your face pressed to his chest helped to calm him down. Shifting together, he helped you back into the house and into a new set of clothes to leave the house.

The shop was bustling, a line out the door and your dedicated employees working hard to fulfill each customer’s needs. Pride swelled up, a large smile pulling at your lips as you moved past everyone and toward the back. It had been easier to come in through the front door than deal with the two steps up into the back of the building. You could hear footsteps up above, signaling that Taylor was moving about.

He must be on break, running the shop for you while you recovered no doubt taking a lot out of him. It wasn’t his profession of choice but he knew enough to help out where it was needed. You really hadn’t wanted to shut down the shop for months on end, especially after the nearly two it had taken you to wake up and get clearance from the hospital to leave.

Business was booming, the city showing an outpouring of love and support for you in the wake of what had happened. You were grateful, even if it felt like you were doing something bad sneaking in to steal some supplies for tonight’s family dinner.

Alexia had wanted to decorate cupcakes, something she mentioned a few days ago as you both fell asleep in the middle of the day with a cartoon movie on the tv, her anti-anxiety medication and your pain management ones getting the better of you two as Frankie was out in the garage tuning up the truck.

Will and Benny had stopped by for lunch, the gym being run by the staff allowed for the two of them to run around town and organize the fight night events that had been delayed a bit because of the shooting. They were debating the pros and cons of hiring a food truck for the event or getting a caterer to set up a spread in the front of the gym.

“I can always just cook for you?” You suggested as you carefully shuffled up from your seat on the couch, wanting a cup of tea to take the next dose of medication. “That was you don’t lose those earning or have to budget for it in the first place.”

The brothers shared a look behind your back, unsure of how to react. You were never one to offer something if you didn’t feel like you could handle it. But cooking for an anticipated crowd of over a hundred people would have you on your feet for quite a while. And while you were moving around with a little more ease, you were still keeping your walker close by. Frankie insisting on a wheelchair for the store and longer trips from the house.

A clatter had them both on their feet in a heartbeat, moving toward the kitchen to see you straining to reach the kettle on the second shelf of a cabinet. You had one hand on the counter and the other was stretched up, causing the fabric of your shirt to ride up. The shining skin of the scars from your surgery caught their eyes and they quickly jumped in to help. Will’s front was warm against your back as he gently swatted your hand away to get the kettle for you. His arms came around as he lowered it to the counter. Gasping at the flare of desire from the feel of a strong body against you, you froze.

“You okay, mante? You didn’t hurt yourself did you?”

“N-no, everything’s fine.”

“Honey, you’re burning up,” Will placed a hand on the back of your neck, gauging your temperature as best he could. Your head hung between your shoulders, both palms flat on the counter’s surface. When he shifted to reach for the med kit, he brushed impossibly closer, and you let out a charged sound that tapered off into breathy sigh.

Everyone froze.

“Mante?”

“Just, drop it.” You were shuffling away, prying yourself from the small space between Will’s body and the counter.

“Honey, you know you can talk to us.”

“No, it’s embarrassing. Frankie would be…mortified if I talked to you.” You tried to fight the heat rising to your face, clothing too tight all of a sudden, the air in the kitchen stifling.

“He’s not touching you, is he?” Will asked softy, voice holding sincerity. He’s seen this type of rift open up between people and couples in recovery. He had multiple pamphlets and brochures for those who approached him asking for help. He was the sole source of information, of course he knew what was going on. But he mentally berated himself for not seeing the signs of it sooner.

“He wouldn’t like me talking about it…with you.”

“That doesn’t matter, do you need to talk about it?”

“I have- a little, with Morgan but…I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“He’s probably just worried about hurting you, Mante.”

“But he is, hurting me. I-I don’t even really care all that stuff right now, I’m too tired and sore all the time but…it would be nice to know he still wanted me like that.”

“Does he help you change?”

“Y-yeah, yes.”

“Does he help you bathe?”

“He asked me not to unless he’s in the house.”

“Sweetheart, he’s probably worried about pushing you. I mean, not to be too crass, but your hips are kinda important for sex.”

You huffed a laugh, panic and anxiety waning at the guy’s well-meaning intentions.

“Isabella and I haven’t either…since it happened.” Will confessed with an open demeaner, not wanting you to think it was just you or just Frankie. That it was a normal response to traumatic events, to reassure you. And of course, you would know but being so weighted down with everything he also knew how hard it was to think rationally about it all. “It’s normal, nothing it wrong with you, okay?”

The officer regarded you curiously. Eyes downturned to the ring on your left hand.

“Now, we have no mention of you on any legal paperwork regarding Mr. Morales. And your official address is listed as the place of your business, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“You were the recent victim in the shooting that occurred on….” The date of the last summer farmer’s market was rattled off. “Where you were the one to run to the aid of the child in question, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, can either of you tell me why Mr. Morales wasn’t within range to do so himself?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Morales, please, let’s all keep calm here. It’s a simple question.”

“Does allowing his daughter to go off with one of his friends during an open market make him a bad father? Because that’s what your question seems to be getting at.”

“Ma’am, please. It’s a routine question.”

“I was yards away from her when the shooter decided to open fire in a public space.”

“And yet, you didn’t run to her aid.”

“I did, the second the first shot went off and the crowd began to panic, I was looking for her.”

“So you didn’t have eyes on her.” The officer made a note on the file open in her lap. You bristled at the uncaring demeanor, unable to hold your tongue as she talked at you and Frankie instead of with you.

“I would like to speak to the child in question.”

“That can wait a minute, excuse me.” You leveled her with a focused look, not willing to roll over and show your stomach to this woman who was supposed to be conducting an interview. But instead she was taking everything and twisting it to the narrative she was trying to depict in her notes. “Frankie had eyes on her. He always knows who she’s with, where they’re going, for how long and ensures he’s the one dropping off and picking up or it’s someone he trusts with his daughter. He is a good father. I don’t think the focus here should be whether or not he reacted fast enough to a shooter scenario but the fact that there was a shooter scenario that you are trying to twist in your favor.”

“I am merely asking routine questions, the shooting response is only one of the areas in which I am concerned. The other would be your sudden presence in this house. How it affects the child in question.”

“You’re not even using her name. Her name is Alexia. She is a very real, very traumatized child who doesn’t need anything else upsetting her. I get that you may not understand the dynamic Frankie has with his friends and how they care for his daughter as if she was their own. Or how I’m “affecting” her presence by being in her home that previously only contained her and her father. But you’re going to sit there and ask us questions and listen to what we have to say.”

“What is your relationship with the child?”

“I’m her-“

“She’s my fiancé, she intends to sign the guardianship papers to share legal responsibility with me.”

“And…is it because you think it’s too much to handle on your own?” The officer looked less tense, at least. Nodding her head along as she looked something over in her file. “It states here you never reached out for resources that are available to you. Can I ask why that is?”

“No, ma’am. It’s because she asked me to. We have a beautiful bond and she wanted to make it a little more tangible and it was a way for Alexia to feel included once the wedding rolls around.”

“And as for the resources, I served and did my time. I make enough money for us to live comfortably, and I have a good support system. I didn’t want to take away from those resources should there be a child in a worse off situation.”

“Okay, thank you.” She closed her file, looking up at the united front you and Frankie made on the couch across from her armchair. “The rest of my questions are for Alexia.”

“She’s upstairs with my mother at the moment, let me go fetch her.”

“That won’t be necessary, I’ll see myself up the stairs if that’s alright with you?”

A curt nod from Frankie was all he could manage, knowing that this wasn’t going well. It wasn’t going well at all.

Nearly an hour later, everyone was gathered around the kitchen table as the officer went over her notes for the visit.

“Based on the conclusion of this interview, I do not deem Mr. Morales a bad guardian nor someone who appears to have present day anger management issues. He had no prior history of assault and if everyone else we reach out to that is a part of this family’s circle corroborates the same narrative, then there will be no further investigation. Thank you for your time, have a lovely rest of your day.”

The snap of the thick folder in the officer’s hand startled you, head ducking and hands coming up to cover it. She at least had the decency to look apologetic for the action, not thinking of what the sound would do to you.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A nod paired with her words, and she was gone.

The rest of the day was spent talking to the attorney Will had found that was more than willing to take on the case. A court date had been established for the end of the following month.

No sooner than the door closed behind her and you all took a collective breath, was there another knock at the door. Three long strides led Frankie back to it, opening it up with a pinched expression. He was trying to remain calm, but he was shaken beyond belief. One small moment of instinctual protective anger and he had created this whole mess not sitting well with the man. But it wasn’t the officer returning, it was your nurse, picking you up for a scheduled physical therapy appointment.

“Hi, yes, of course. Lemme get her bag and she’s all set here in the living room.”

“Pastel! Can I go with you?”

“Oh, um, Lex, I’m not sure.” You looked to Frankie as she descended down the stairs, Isabella moving to slow her speedy approach as you pulled yourself up from your position on the couch with the walker. “You have to ask your father.”

“But you’re gonna be my Mama Pastel, you can say yes now!”

“…That’s technically true, but your father has final say, mija.”

“Yes, mi amor, you can. Papa needs to take care of some things, but it’ll be good for you to get out of the house.” It was the first time she had asked to leave since the shooting, surely a good step that she wanted to go somewhere, even if it was to the rehabilitation center with you for something so routine.

Three months.

Three months since your entire life was upended for the second time.

Frankie’s court date had last month, postponed to today. Not an official trial, due to the plaintiff being sentenced to a maximum facility. His case had been open and shut, no way of getting out of serving time. He had deliberately carried an automatic weapon into a public space and opened fire. Even if he hadn’t pleaded guilty in the hopes of garnering a deal, no one was siding with him or cutting him any slack. No lawyers had been willing to take him on as a client and he had denied a state-appointed one, knowing full well the consequences of his actions.

He had entered the courthouse a walking mess of anxiety and worry. A man concerned about the future he could provide for his daughter, for you, for his family. If he had been deemed an unsatisfactory guardian with notations of anger management issues, his job would be on the line. Tourism bringing so much to the city and the company wanted to aid Vets in any way they could. But would surely draw the line as such an accusation and paper trail.

He had emerged from the courthouse light on his feet with a grin on his face. Stopping at the shop to check on things for you, purchasing a bouquet for you and Lex on his way home.

Then had been Lex’s birthday, where she wished out loud as she blew her candles out that she wanted to go back to school. Frankie had a long conversation with her therapist, and they agreed she would return to school after the winter break. The first half of the school year done at her own pace but well enough at home to allow for her to seamlessly integrate back in.

Taylor had returned home with a promise to come out three times a year. The guys had one last night out with him along, having bonded with him over the course of his time here. Morgan helping to make sure they didn’t over indulge and that they all got home okay. And another night with everyone involved when Morgan had a night off of her own. Though Taylor wasn’t her focus, having gotten together with Santiago, she was sad to see him go along with everyone else. You missed him, his presence and calming demeanor. The way he had brought home to you in such small ways you hadn’t known you had missed until they were right in front of you. But you had left for a reason and he had a life and a kid to get back to.

Will and Isabella were official and he has asked her to move in with him, prompting Benny to search for a place of his own. He was working on convincing the new assistant he hired to let him take her out, but she admitted to you one day when she came into the shop that she liked how hard he was trying to get her attention. You both laughed, lamenting over the eager attitude he possessed. But ultimately you had turned serious and said he was a good man who would do right by her. That she should give him the chance to show her how much he cared.

You had gone back to working in the shop, though you needed a cane to help you get around. It was a part of who you were now, spells of numbness and healed injuries aching long after recovery. But you were stronger than you had been, able to stand on your feet and do what you loved best. The shop was to be featured in a second article, praising your bravery and return to work, the same writer from before presenting you with a ‘best local bakery’ award from the open poll the magazine holds each year.

But now….now you were running late.

Cursing under your breath, you carefully moved down the stairs of the apartment and down to the ground floor. The cats had been moved to the house forever ago, but there was a stray that came around the back door and you wanted to put a better dish out for them to have food and water. It had run from you, but you hoped it would come back for the fresh food and new bowl.

Locking up, you loaded up into the truck and carefully took off across downtown.

The twinkling lights strewn up were beautiful, reflecting off the large windows and glass bottles of the bar and you leaned over to press your lips to his neck over his collar. Though he didn’t turn to face you, in deep conversation with the people across from you, his arm moved around you and pulled you close, hand caressing your hip over the fabric of your dress.

An engagement party, curtesy of Pope’s determined mind and the help of the magazine editor. She had been delighted and more than happy to help cover the costs for the celebration, she had pulled you into a hug when you arrived arm in arm with Frankie. Everyone posted around the bar, the one where you and Frankie had your first official date, and cheered as you entered. You had been sure it was closed, worried that Frankie had mixed up his days for the reservation, but he had said Santigo had made it for him.

It had been an amazing surprise, tears of affection threatening to spill over your lash line at all of your friends and favorite people in one place. To celebrate your and Frankie’s love.

The food was amazing, the full menu available to order and you made sure to get a serving of crispy brussel sprouts that were too spicy for Frankie. He had smiled fondly at you as you inhaled them, taking delight in how the simplest of things could bring a smile to your face. Just as you popped the last one in your mouth, he was pulling you out of the booth and up on your feet. When you reached for your cane, he gently took both your hands in his and guided you to the middle of the floor, where people were dancing.

“Fransisco, if I recall correctly you said you don’t dance.” You teased, hands going around his neck as his went around your waist to settle on the small of your back.

“I don’t, sweet girl. But for you, I’m willing to try.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, eyes taking in the way your long curls framed your face. How the auburn of them was complimented by the dark green almost black of your dress, the ink on your skin crystalline from your glittery lotion Lex had coerced you into buying for the guest bathroom.

“You’re perfect just the way you are, mi amor.” You allowed him to gently sway your bodies back and forth, small words of affection flowing between you as the music lulled into a soft medley of strings and horns.

“I’m so glad Pope pestered you everyday, what I wouldn’t give to have seen him get shot down the first time.” Frankie chuckled, chest vibrating close and warming you up from the inside out.

“He took it in stride, I think. He likes a challenge.”

Off to the side the man in question was seated at a booth, his tie loosening and his attention on his best friend and love. His heart full and his mind working in overtime to try and figure out how to top this for Frankie’s bachelor party. His attention called back to the present as a small figure bounded up to him with a fresh new fizzy drink.

“Tio Santi! They had strawberry syrup!”

“That’s amazing, mi corazon. Muy delicioso!” He reached out to lift her up, settling her in his lap as she caught sight of her dad and soon to be mom dancing together. Completely caught up in each other in the best way. She smiled, happy.

“Are you excited to go back to school, mi corazon?” Santiago bounced her on his leg, the layers of her dress floating in the air with his motions.

“Yes, but I’m also nervous.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

“My friends will all have new friends, I’m afraid they won’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“Nonsense, everyone is gonna crowd around you and be so excited to see you again.”

“I hope so.”

“I promise you, it’ll all be okay. You’ve come so far, mi amor.”

“Pastel too! And Papa!”

“Them too.” Santi looked toward where you were still softly swaying with Frankie, slow music playing over the speakers. The backdrop of the flowers and warm string lights strewn over the ceiling lighting up your features enough to see the soft smiles you shared with each other. Frankie’s hands were around your waist, helping to support you while you own were wrapped around his neck. Whispering sweet nothings to each other as the night continued on.

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lilylilym · 3 years

Text

Cinematic language to help you understand why Levihan is more canon than you think

First thing first, of course the plane was Hange. And the wood parallel is deeper than just hints of canon ship

If the birb is Eren then the plane is Hange. It’s called a ✨symbol✨ and a ✨parallel✨ , a narrative device and a visual cue means for readers to reflect on

a) things that happened related to the actual object (when have we seen this before and last time we see it what happened)

b) what it could represent in terms of symbolic meaning (travel, migration, meaning mobility and freedom and civilization and means and that Levi has a good life for example)

c) how it is positioned in relationships with other object/symbol that are similar to it visually, to draw some similarities and differences in terms of narrative (plane is a machine birb, scientific birb, Levi sees plane while Mikasa hanging out w birb, what do this mean???? Thinkkkkkk)

Some folks will find value in learning comp lit, to know how to read narrative work, including cinema. AOT is visual but it is also deeply cinematic in the way Hajime Isayama draws the panel and the variety of shots he uses to depict the passive narration such as voice-over, time-lapse, flashbacks, time jump, etc.

Here’s an example of how AOT is structured by paralllels, symbols, and narrative devices through editing/cinematic techniques to tell the story. This is my favorite scene when Isayama uses a combination of cutaway and montage to use a character’s dialogue beyond the immediate moment (real time) to depict a larger theme of the story:

This scene is Levi and Kenny talking to each other in real time. There are many ways to depict a dialogue. If it is about each other, then characters are usually depict in “continuity editing” where the whole scene is about them talking to each other, shots will be opposite shots of their face, over-the-shoulder, giving audiences a feel that you are there with them in the convo, listening to them talk. But this scene “cutaway” in that it breaks up the “linear time” by showing audiences other images not realistically been seen by any character, to broaden the scope of the scene. Now you know it’s not just about the dialogue. However, cutaway usually is a thing that realistically in that scene, like cut to the tree while Kenny is still speaking, then go back to them.

In this “sequence,” what is shown is a montage of images that are not only “flashbacks” (memory of things the characters have seen/witnessed, since he couldn't have seen Kuchel) but compilation of new images that are “symbolic” to the lines Kenny is speaking. In other words, the author is drawing “parallels” from one instances to others, connecting separated people, scenes, stories, actions, decisions into one larger thing we call “theme”––Isayama’s making sure that audiences know exactly what to think by forcing separated images into one montage, and make sure you understand that this message needs to be understood beyond Kenny. So that’s the cinematic language readers should be aware that Isayama is using.

That’s why arguing events based on literal evidence is limited, because it is cannon itself that events, stories, people’s decisions and investments are meant to be interpreted and understood in juxtaposition.

Now let’s move on to juxtapositions and parallel in Levihan and Eremika:

I know people have use the wood parallel to talk about how Levihan is canon, but I think the wood is meant to show that Levihan are the adult version of Eremika, who also understand and rely on each other, but a lot more secured in their relationship and trust.

So, get this: for Eremika, Eren had to ask who he is to Mikasa (I know, dumbo) before they get the alternative living in the wood. That’s cuz their young love is shy and also full of insecurities and they are unsure of how to understand their affection for one another. The insecurity is especially pronounced when Mikasa, after having been asked that (”who am I to you”), still get so hurt when Eren said he had been hating her since they were kids. That means we can read that she took the question as “what do you want from me why are you clingy” instead of “pls tell me you like me.”

In another world, she is her fierce self who lives only for her and Eren (like she used to back then, ready to fight the whole army to keep Eren alive but now she’s a soldier for humanity) and suggested that they runaway to live in the wood. In this scenario, Mikasa’s suggestion was implied, we never saw her do it, only told in Eren’s retelling, and even so, in his words (“thats what you said, Mikasa”).

This whole scene is continuity editing with flashbacks, purely from the perspective of Mikasa. You as the reader assumes her point of view, because the images depict Eren speaking, and Eren’s words dictate most of the information. So you, as a reader, is being told to, passively that this is what happened, and that whatever decision of how they get here, has been made prior to you. In other words, while the dialogue happening about them being together is real time, the dialogue of how they decided to do so, is not. That is meant for interpretation. The author does not let you know how it happened in real time. This intended foreclosing is meant to evoke a sense of confusion, unsatisfaction (because you do not get to know how decisions are made and why), so it is safe to assume that the intended feeling is also just that--bittersweet. You know the couple get to be together, but they were not entirely at peace. This life will weight heavily on them until the day Eren dies. This scene is in chapter 138, but in story’s time, it’s meant to be continue before the timeskip.

For Levihan, in chapter 126, the conversation between Levihan was playing out in real time itself, but the whole scene is an independent moment that preceded the real event (which was continued on from chapter 125, where Hange and Levi met with Pieck and Theo).

In this scene, readers can see that the suggestion was direct, and we were in on the act as it happens. Hange thought Levi was unconscious, so they were thinking out loud. “Maybe we should just live here together, right, Levi?” We see Hange contemplating about it, said it out loud, and sad that it might just be a wild thought.

Time cut. Now they’re doing something else, before the path appears, and they turned around to wake Levi up. Levi woke up at that same moment, immediately asking about what happened before he was unconscious, not letting Hange know that he heard the whole thing. He took time to catch up with what happened, gathering information and providing information. This means he is contemplating about Hange’s proposal.

“I let him get away again.” Hange responded to this sentence with “I’m sure you want revenge, but for now...” Levi moved on, seamlessly, without a beat, “If we keep running and hiding, what will that get us?” At first it seems like a continuation of the convo--as in Levi doesn’t want to keep hiding and want to go back to battle, but Hange understood immediately that he was referring to their talk: “So you heard me talking to myself.”

Here, Hange weren’t like “omg im sorry I didn’t know u were up i would have never,” because that would suggest that the relationship between them is unconfirmed and that Hange has yet to know what Levi thinks of them (as seen in Eremika’s nature of their relationship). But they were just like, ok, so you heard. Then Levi saw that Hange was making a thing to carry him, and concluded, “I know you. You’re not able to stay out of the action.” Hange admitted, “Yeah, that’s right, I can’t.”

If you look at the scene itself, you will see a lot of opposite shots (POV of the two characters who are talking to each other), many of them are close-up (right in their face). It is a short, but continuous, linear conversation where Hange and Levi got to talk about the possibility, discussed it together, before Levi pointed out that Hange could never just sit this one out, and Hange agreed. This scene is also meant for interpretation, because even though they talked about the possibility, they didn’t go “so what do you think, I think we should” but it was Hange’s wild thought that they fully intended not to go through, and Levi’s understanding that he was not meant to truly respond, because he saw that Hange already had a plan to keep it moving. (The next scene is Levi negotiating with Theo and Pieck, so it’s safe to assume that they spent the rest of their conversation discussing strategies.)

Levihan’s scene is short, but it was meant to read in juxtaposition with Eremika’s more elaborate life in the wood in 138 -- communicating the idea that if they had run away together, they would also suffer intensely survivor’s guilt. Which, as soldiers and commanders, they simply cannot choose. So, in a way, this is to depict Levi’s theme, “no regret,” even as they never had a future to be together at peace. The fact that they can have this extremely heavy conversation means that there were peaceful moments between them that they experienced, that would allow this scene to read like a final good bye.

So, as I have rambled more than I needed to, I’mma stop here. My point was pretty simple and meant to invite folks to read AOT very generously in terms of its couple/romantic/partnership, in that just because things are not fleshed out doesn’t mean it’s not real and that readers are supposed to read between the line, thematically, across storylines to get the full picture, but sternly in the way that you need to understand narrative devices and visual cues the ways they’re meant to be read. To go back to the plane controversy (apparently some people insist that planes are planes), of course planes are planes, that’s what they first and foremost need to be. No object would be included for the symbolic meaning only - it always need to be itself first and foremost, to create a normative sense of reality before it could go imaginative and interpretive.

#snk #aot #levihan #eremika #levi ackerman #hange zöe #kenny ackerman

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floralcodes · 3 years

Photo

Hello everyone ! 🌸

I'm sure some of you apple/safari users have noticed by now that my themes/blog are having some issues, to say the least. Sometime within the last few days, there was a change that makes dropbox (the site I use to host my CSS files) not load properly using Safari and most(?) iOS devices. I've done a LOT of maintenance today to resolve this issue, as well as some other fun stuff:

Moved all of my CSS files over to Github & my google drive ♡ This should also permanently solve the Privacy Badger issue as long as you are using the current version(s).

Converted all of the theme files from .RTF to .TXT ♡ I had to get rid of some fancy formatting in the comments, but this will solve the problem with some users not being able to open with programs that don't support .RTF files.

Started the process of moving my themes over to Gumroad ♡ Payhip has been giving me tons of issues with not sending out emails to customers lately among other things, & Gumroad seems to give you so much more control over everything. This will also give me the ability to send out customized emails, add pre-order releases, allow me to add a mobile version upgrade option to my themes, a commercial use option, as well as enable you to shop my themes without ever having to leave my tumblr. You will also be able to create an account on Gumroad (if you don't have one already) to keep a library of the file(s) you've purchased from me!

This is something I'm experimenting with at the moment, & will most likely go in effect when my intended blog revamp is done. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask!

In the meantime, all of my theme files went through a LOT of changes today and it was a ton of tedious work, so please let me know if I've inadvertently messed anything up! It's honestly bound to happen with the amount of hours I spent staring at my screen today.

On top of all that, Marmalade Suite got a huge update! Here’s what’s new:

Increased font sizes across the board for better accessibility

Fixed custom font not working in some places (clock,address bar, etc)

Minor positioning fixes for various aspects of the theme

Fixed some issues with long post titles

Slightly better customization panel notes

"Frosted glass" lightboxes (chrome/safari only I think; Firefox, IE, etc. will now have a nice transparent effect)

Increased various line-heights throughout the theme

Increased some icon sizes

Each link section now has unlimited links! No more 12 link limit!

Upgraded the Update tab button to be more obvious

Increased the height of the Update window

I will be sending out email updates tonight with the updated files for you all, but if you're experiencing an issue receiving them (& have already double checked your spam folder), please inbox me (off anon) with the email you used to purchase and I will send them over to you manually!

Also, be on the lookout for commission waitlist slots to open up sometime soon!

Thank you all so much for your endless support & patience as always 💕

#blog #faq

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 10

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 10 - Back to the City

Black shadows rose from the middle of the road, eyes without pupils staring at Lin Yan's car. There were ragged children with skin stretched tight on their bones running around, and even women in palace costumes, stretched out their long white hands, scratching the body of the car with their nails. It was an apocalyptic escape. Lin Yan took a deep breath and accelerated to two hundred and ten kilometres per hour. The trees on either side of the road became looming shadows, and he couldn't clearly see anything on the road. He was firmly pressed back onto the seat by the impact of the acceleration. The uneven dirt road and the speed made Lin Yan worry that the car would flip over at any second. Even so, he didn't dare take his foot off the pedal for a second. The car was like a strong black wind, cutting its way out of the ghost formations in the mountains and forests.

Escaping towards the land of the living.

Just before the needle on the fuel gauge dropped to empty, Lin Yan finally saw the city. He got on the Fifth Ring Road and he rolled the window down a crack. The cool night breeze dissipated the heavy bloody air in the car.

Cities, traffic, human voices, normality.

Lin Yan let out a long sigh of relief and relaxed into the chair.

The events of the exorcism in the mountains seemed like a dream as he drove through the bright lights of the city, but the evidence of the event sitting in his passenger seat was very reak. Lin Yan slammed his hand against the steering wheel, thinking that his life must really be hell. The most damn thing is that, in an era in which people lived in peace and well-being, and the leaders lived in happiness, leading the future of the country with diplomacy and socialism, he had saved a ghost who came to kill him from the hands of a master who didn't know what was going on.

Lin Yan found a secluded place to stop and rest.

"Man, celebrate, we made it out."

There was no answer. The ghost next to him seemed to be asleep, his eyes closed as he leaned on the seat, his black hair hanging down to cover most of his face.

He didn't die, did he? Lin Yan's heart clenched, and then he realized that this thing was already dead, and there's no way that it could die again. No, he couldn't say anything. Lin Yan glanced at him. His quiet manner with his eyes closed was no different from that of a living person. He was even breathing, his chest slightly rising and falling regularly. Dressed like a Confucian disciple, with loose hair that was very inconsistent with traditional practices, his clothes were stained with old blood, but the fabric was still visible beneath it. Looking down, bare feet peeked out from beneath the straight hemline. They were covered with a series of mottled cracks and old wounds like he had been walking for a long time.

Lin Yan sighed, thinking that this time he definitely offended his ancestors. He hesitated for a while, debating between abandoning the car and fleeing or committing suicide, and finally decided to wait until the "person" woke up. "Don't believe the words of the dead, ghosts only remember what they want." The lines from the movie "Voice" flashed in his mind. Lin Yan shook his head, his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The look in the ghost's unwilling and nostalgic eyes looked too real.

Suddenly, Lin Yan was not afraid of him. He hesitated and hadn't bothered to take a good look at him back in the temple. Ghosts. . . ghosts were invisible and intangible. What does it look like?

Through the ghostly tangles, Lin Yan stretched out his hand and slid away the long hair covering his face.

For a moment, he had prepared himself to see a rotten face, even a skeleton, completely lacking any facial features, but when the black hair fell behind his ears, Lin Yan was taken aback when the man’s sleeping face was revealed.

It's. . . a ghost. . . how could he look so good?

His face resembled those from ancient times, with long eyebrows stretching to his temples, a straightened nose. Between his eyebrows, there was a brilliance that did not belong to this era. His restless sleep was probably exhaustion from what the temple master put him through. He was frowning, curled up in his sleep, as if he was still protecting the little wooden block.

What? Such a good complexion. Maybe it wasn't all that bad having an early death to keep these looks. What the hell, this ghost looks good.

The skin was also very smooth, like a jade carving, with invisible pores.

Lin Yan glanced at him sympathetically, and his heart lurched. This guy didn't just think of me as his dead wife who he didn't had died years ago. He was desperately trying to achieve this virtue for some surrogate substitute. The things that happened in the temple made Lin Yan feel a little guilty. He couldn't help but brush away the broken hair from his neck and gently wipe the dried blood on his face with the back of his hand.

The ghost startled and his eyes snapped open, staring at Lin Yan with spite.

Lin Yan yelled out of fright, and he instinctively covered his neck with his hands.

The target of the attack this time changed to his shoulders. A pair of infinitely powerful ghost hands squeezed Lin Yan's shoulder blades harder and harder. He could almost hear the rattling of bones, and there was a burst of pain in his shoulders. This shit was endless. Lin Yan panicked and scrambled for the car door like a wild animal, but when the car was parked, it was automatically locked and could not be opened.

The car was so dark that he couldn't find the button that controlled the door lock. Lin Yan had to fumble around near the small green light on the control panel. The ghost's hand slid off his shoulder and touched the wound on his forearm. After hesitating for a while, he leaned over and lowered his head to gently sniff the newly scabbed-over knife wound.

Lin Yan remembered that he was still sprinkled with the Yin and Yang energy stone powder, there was only a human scent remaining at the place of the cut. He couldn't help but rub his shoulders and let out a laugh.

"It's me, don't smell it. It's not the real scent."

The ghost gave a long sigh and pulled Lin Yan's arm into his arms. Lin Yan looked at him blankly. All the energy he had disappeared with the obedient look and he had to let go of the door handle. Leaning towards the passenger seat, he rested his face on the ghost's chest.

"Brother, I'm sorry about today. You were almost hung up by the old monk without even knowing it. I owe you, let's not take this as an example, though."

The ghost's arm was wrapped around his waist, and Lin Yan's cheek was tickled by the long hair.

"Do you miss your wife?" Lin Yan grabbed the hand on his waist. He intertwined their fingers and whispered, "I have always missed my ex-girlfriend, but once you break up, it's done. You have to move on."

"It was wrong for me to dig up your grave, but this is what I'm learning in school. Whatever my professor tells me to do, I have to do it. Don't pester me, reincarnate instead. In due time, come back as a young lady or little loli in your next life and find Uncle for some sweets."

"When you grow up, Uncle will introduce you to someone."

". . . Forget it, you don't understand anyway."

Quietly in the car, the neon lights of the city reflected on the windows, and the Apple logo on the top of the tall building in the distance exudes cold white light. There were groups of people coming and going on the road. Groups of little girls changed into their summer clothes and carrying shopping bags, laughing and playing together. The boy was wearing headphones and concentrating on leaning against the window to play mobile games, probably because he was impatiently waiting for his girlfriend.

In the Audi parked by the roadside, Lin Yan and the ghost leaned against each other. The hustle and bustle outside the window seemed to fade away. All that was left was an unusual sensation. In an era that promoted independence and material desire, a bustling city, and impetuous life, full of voices, never really connected with him.

He was often driven to despair by such loneliness.

He never knew anyone else who felt this way. When people see other people, they start to act like dogs. Lin Yan raised a labrador who was always innocent and enthusiastic with his round eyes waiting for the owner to return home, more loyal than his own lover. He suddenly admired the ghost in front of him. No matter what reason he had for following him, destroying his life, or whether they really had a relationship, he had the courage to travel through hundreds of years and walk alone in this era that did not belong to him. Lin Yan wondered if he would be anxious when he walked through the tall buildings with billboards behind him. So. . . what was his motivation?

Lin Yan took out his cell phone to send a text message to Yin Zhou. Things had changed so fast. A few hours ago, he was shouting that he was going to kill the troublesome ghost, but now he was cradling him and watching the nightlife. The fluorescent light was dazzling in the dark. Just as he wrote out the fourth word, the screen was suddenly covered by someone's hand. Lin Yan pulled the hand away, but the ghost reluctantly covered the screen again, glowing light leaking through the gaps of his slender fingers. Lin Yan couldn't help but chuckle. He thought this ghost was very interesting. This child had a temper, so he locked the screen and coaxed him softly: "Stop, don't be angry." He pulled himself out of the ghost's arms and tugged on his sleeve cuff. The ghost obediently leaned over onto Lin Yan's chest, and Lin Yan slowly straightened out his hair with his fingers.

"There are still a few hours before dawn. I'll hold you until you fall asleep. Today, you were punished by the old monk." Lin Yan said. He could only breathe out a few times. Lin Yan shook his head at the misty figure in front of him, thinking about how he could pay for the sins he committed. He must find a way to break this ghost's obsession with the world and let him reincarnate in peace.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #english translation #yaoi novel

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squeeneyart · 4 years

Text

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 15

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger!

Everyone has some questions.

It’s been a long week.

“No! No, this isn’t okay!” Martin paced a few feet from the others.

Saha frowned. “We thought saying something might mess with how things worked normally-”

“So that makes it okay to not tell me at all? I could’ve disappeared completely!” Martin turned and pointed at Tim. “And you tricked me into doing it with all the ‘oh, aren’t you supposed to clean’ talk!”

Tim took a step back. “I thought we could pull you back before anything happened. You were walking slowly, but it all just-”

“Oh, yes, that makes me feel much better!”

Tim winced. Out of the three, guilt was the most plain on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“It was my idea,” Sasha interjected. “I convinced them this was the best way to get results in the time crunch we have. And I still think it was, for what it’s worth.”

Martin looked away from her, crossing his arms. “Good to know where we stand, then. Glad I could be a data point for you.”

Back by the couch, Jon said, “This is to help you. We had no intention of letting harm come to you-”

“Who said it didn’t?!”

For a minute the others said nothing. Martin filled the silence with large, shuddering breaths. That was a thought, wasn’t it?

Eventually, Jon rubbed the back of his hand and asked, “Are you… do you feel any different?”

“How should I know? Apparently this has been going on every week for months.” The final break in his voice was horribly audible. Martin laughed, dragging a hand down his face.

Months. How much time was wiped from his memory? Where had he been going? Were there other places he would’ve disappeared to if they hadn’t stopped him midway? God, his skull was splitting itself in two.

“You should sit back down.” Jon placed a hand on top of the couch, his brows knit together. “You’re right. We should have told you beforehand.”

Martin saw Jon’s sorry face and faltered despite himself. Still, he glowered. “Yeah. You should have.” Glancing at the other two, he retook his place on the couch and threaded his fingers together.

Sasha sighed. “I just thought it would be our last shot at finding something and getting more time. You need this figured out more than any of us.”

“Very convenient for you, then,” Martin spat, leaning his elbows onto his knees. He looked down at the scuffs on his boots. “I get it. It’s not okay, but I get it. Now I know… something?”

“We know more, certainly, though I can’t say it’s all that much.” Jon leaned back against his arm of the couch. “One moment you were walking up the steps, but then instead of turning you walked straight into the wall. Ten minutes pass, you come out and continue up as if you hadn’t noticed anything.”

“Which I didn’t, because I have no memory of any of it.” Martin rested his chin on his fist. “God, ten minutes.”

“You’re telling us,” Tim said, taking the other couch arm. “Listen, don’t think we weren’t freaking out the whole time.”

Martin snorted disdainfully. “Great. Clearly I’m in safe hands.”

“Hey, we really did try, but the wall was solid just as you went through it.” Sasha shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “My idea just needed more time for workshopping, time we don’t have.”

“Well, if this doesn’t get your boss invested, he definitely has something else going on,” Martin said. “Impossible spaces with invisible entrances that lure people in for a weekly cleaning can’t be that common.”

“You’d be surprised at how mundane impossible rooms can feel.” Jon tapped his knee. “But the lack of intent or memory on your part is too much to ignore, even if we leave out the, ah, contractual obligations.”

Martin accepted this with a tired nod. “Okay, so, what next? Do I just… I’m not going to have to try and go back in, am I?”

“Oh no, absolutely not,” Tim said. “That’s for later, when we hopefully have more time and resources. Trying to mess with the… the normal processes of this place, that’s something we aren’t going to try yet. Observation first, then theorizing, etcetera.”

Sasha hummed in agreement. “But we did discuss Naomi’s message before we came in today, and we all agreed that with her testimony it would be less of a risk to try the panel. With everyone present of course.”

Martin perked up. “Wait, really? Tim, you’re okay with this?”

“Not quite the word, but I’m leaning much more toward the ‘trapped person’ theory than my mimic idea. At the very least, I think…” Tim seemed to struggle for words, then set his jaw. “I think Naomi needs the truth.”

“The plan is to minimize the time spent communing with it,” Jon said, gathering his notes. “The yes-or-no method was a good start. We’ll see if it retained the echoed words and work from there, using questions we prepared ahead of time.”

Sasha chimed in. “We think alternating speakers will keep any side effects from getting to one person too quickly. There are also a few words we might attempt to, well, feed it, if necessary for communication.”

They continued half-explaining, half-talking to themselves. Martin got the impression that they were attempting to keep him present, as if zoning out was even an option for him anymore.

Soon enough, Jon’s hand was on the panel. Tim stood nearby and alternated between crossing his arms and flipping a pencil between his fingers. Sasha sat waiting in a chair with an old handheld camera (“Can’t put it on mobile recordings. Only ancient techniques allowed for this stuff”). Through the viewer, Jon and Tim were just in frame with the panel in the center.

Martin didn’t know what to do with himself and chose to keep his hands in his pockets and stand by Sasha.

“Let’s hope they wake up faster this time.” Jon waited for Sasha’s nod, then twisted the dial. A moment passed in the silence, and then-

“HELP?” Martin’s voice boomed, the edges of it rough and distorted, morphing the question into an unbearable scream. No one answered, the overwhelming sound bouncing around them with such force as to make Martin’s eardrums want to burst.

Again, as the reverberations began to wane, “PLEASE?”

Just as Martin could feel another boom coming, Jon gripped the panel and shouted, “Can you hear us?!”

And with that, no other outburst came. Jon’s voice echoed in that strange, elongated way until there was nothing left but the breaths Martin refused to release.

In Martin’s more true-to-life tone came a simple, “Yes.”

“Much better,” Jon gasped out. He straightened, making a show of brushing himself off. “We can get on with things, then, if you don’t mind.”

Picking up his notepad, Jon began, “We are researchers investigating on behalf of the current lighthouse employee with whom you recently made contact with. We believe we know your identity, but we would like to confirm some personal information as a precaution. Is that amenable?”

As they waited, Tim and Sasha composed themselves. Between this and Jon’s calm demeanor, Martin suddenly felt very silly about how quickly his conversation had spiraled into panic and confusion.

Actually, no, being stuffy and professional at a possible ghost was silly. Incredibly so, and the longer Martin watched the harder it became not to interrupt the process with snickering. Jon especially was making such a bold attempt to not only sound but look serious to a person who couldn’t see him.

“Yes.” Martin chose to believe the being was just as dumbfounded by how this was going so far.

“Excellent.” Jon then began to list numbers 0 to 9 in order, allowing each one to be fully absorbed by the lighthouse walls. “If you’ve got all that, can you please tell me the number of your mobile phone?”

Sure enough, Jon’s voice recited a series of numbers, familiar enough by now that Martin was convinced after only the second digit.

Tim slumped, though whether in relief or something else Martin couldn’t tell. “Well, sorry for making you wait, but you can’t judge us for being careful. We can’t talk for long periods of time for safety reasons, but we’ll try to get a lot out of this first go.”

Tim sifted through some of his notes as his echo faded. “Your vocabulary is limited, so for now we’ll stick to yes and no. First: are you in a location that can be described using words?”

“Yes. Quiet.”

“Okay.” Tim scratched the answer down. “So the place is quiet. Can you tell where we’re coming in from?”

There was a longer pause. “No. From? Up. Downstairs? Outside? Here.”

Sasha clicked her tongue. “Rules out a more physical location. Not surprising. As far as you can tell, do you have a physical body?”

“Half.” A moment, then quickly, “Now. Yes. From? This.”

Martin leaned back, his voice falling to a whisper. “He doesn’t mean like… this, does he?”

“If talking helps give him corporeality, it’s a good sign that he’s telling us up front,” Tim replied, his reassuring tone not quite matching the look on his face.

Martin spoke up, unable to stop himself. “Hi? Um, sorry for leaving you like that, but I’m not really a professional at this? Anyway, earlier today I learned that when I go upstairs for cleaning I unknowingly walk into a secret room? Do you know anything about that?”

“Yes. No. No. Me. Worry. Then?” After a few seconds, the thought continued, “No. Me. No. Me. Okay? NO. ME.”

From across the room, Tim dropped his pencil, letting it roll until it hit the wall. “He’s-”

“Yes, I understood,” Jon said, tapping his foot with a new energy. “You mean Naomi.”

“Yes. Naomi. Naomi. Okay? Worry?”

“Well, yeah, of course she’s worried!” Tim half-laughed out. “I mean, yes, she’s okay. We got a message from her yesterday. She’s the reason we ended up talking to you.”

“Okay.” The being who was almost certainly Evan Lukas paused. “Okay. Questions?”

The shift in mood caught Martin off-guard. Jon had started to pace. Sasha was scribbling something down with her free hand. Tim had changed gears entirely, scooping his pencil off the floor and flashing Martin a thumbs up.

It (probably, definitely) wasn’t a monster according to the professionals. This wasn’t part of the horror house that was his workplace. They were doing something.

Sasha remained seated, keeping the camera as steady as she could while flipping through her own notes. “Okay, so. Thank you for offering up extra confirmation. Back to a previous topic, the place on the stairs. Naomi mentioned experiencing the moment you went in. Did you ever attempt to go in with any sort of recording device?”

“No. Here. Before? Think. It.”

“Okay, safe to assume that’s all you know about that part. Would you say you ended up wherever you are by accident?”

“No.”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut. He had assumed as much, partially to take comfort in Evan’s fate not being a random happenstance of bizarre construction that could happen to him, but-

“Someone did this to you.” Sasha continued.

“Yes.”

Before responding, Sasha lowered the camera and switched it off. “Your family did this. I assume it was Peter.” The final word sank into the quiet.

“PETER.”

Everyone covered their ears as Sasha’s voice was thrown back, twisted and loud and furious. The table shook, papers scattering off its surface in the shockwave. Jon stumbled away from the panel and tripped backwards onto the floor. Shaking off the buzzing in his head, Martin hurried over to help him to his feet, Tim joining him a moment later.

Sasha walked to the panel and placed a hand on the dial. “Look, Evan? We will help you, but if you keep doing that we’re going to shut the channel off.”

“...From? Here?”

“Yes, that’s the plan. But you yelling is much louder for us and gets you nowhere. Save it for when you have someone worthwhile to scream at. Understand?”

“Soon. Please?” Martin’s voice implored, disjointed and quiet.

After being pulled to his feet, Jon legitimately brushed himself off and fixed his tie. “I’m not sure if time means much where you are, but yes. We will help you as soon as we can.”

“But,” Tim said, rubbing his temple. “We’ll probably need to break for now. Even without the shouting, something about this place messes with your head, and talking to you is no exception.”

As Tim spoke, Martin finally paid attention to the stabbing pain behind his eyes. “Ah, right, I forgot this was part of it.”

Predictably, Jon and Sasha just looked at the other two with concern. Jon cleared his throat. “Yes, perhaps now that we have a baseline of communication, it would be good for all of us to think about next steps.”

Tim nodded. “Evan? We’re going to turn the dial off for a while so the echoes don’t break our skulls open. Sit tight, and we’ll be back soon to cover what you remember, all right?”

“...Okay.”

And Tim turned the dial.

After all the excitement and goings-on, it was only ten in the morning by the time they made it downstairs.

For the sake of a complete observation, Martin finished his normal janitorial duties. The air was thick with tension as the others kept watch for changes in his demeanor or direction, but nothing happened. Before long he was stowing his supplies into the closet downstairs and collapsing onto his desk.

Tim leaned against the table. “If it makes you feel any better, we won’t tell if you slack off.”

“Yes, you’re all very good at not telling people things.”

“Hey, from now on it’s full disclosure. I promise, I’ll never let Sasha convince me of anything ever again.”

Sasha rolled her eyes and looked past Tim from the far end of the table. “I am sorry, whether or not you believe me. If something like that comes up again, we’ll find a way to handle it differently. But like you said, now you know.”

“Yeah. Now I know.”

Across from Tim, Jon sat at his laptop quietly typing away as the conversation unfolded around him. There was a twinge of irritation at the back of Martin’s mind, but his head was killing him and, well, there were more important things for all of them to be thinking about.

The numbers swam in front of Martin and he pushed the paperwork aside, folding his arms under his head. He probably wasn’t going to have his job much longer.

“So, once your day is about done and the headaches clear, we’ll check in with Evan and see if the sky is messed up. Two-for-one,” Tim said with little enthusiasm. “My bet is we’ll look out the window and see Simon Fairchild falling past us like a screaming ragdoll.”

At some point, Martin did just fall asleep at his desk. Every once in a while, he would wake up to see another hour had passed with the three researchers still seated at the table. He managed to stay up long enough to eat his lunch around noon, but after that he was out like a light. His cohorts may have been used to the sort of hours and excitement of the past week, but there never seemed to be enough sleep for him.

They were nice enough to leave him undisturbed.

“Sorry, let me see. You went to work that day. Peter was there, and at some point he took you upstairs for some reason?” Sasha said, writing something down.

“Yes. He. Needed. Something.” The mix of voices had an almost computer-like quality after a while now that they’d started getting proper sentences.

They’d been working for a bit, trying to fill in some word gaps while probing Evan’s memory. Martin and Tim sat on the couch, facing purposefully away from the windows. Sasha was back in her chair, while Jon stood nearby and kept an eye on the outside.

Martin’s shift had ended about ten minutes before. Apparently whatever it was the woman had alluded to, it was meant to be happening ‘later today’, but both up- and downstairs so far had been… nothing. The same gloomy sky down below, the same bright expanse up above. It was as normal as things could’ve been.

“And what was it he needed?”

“He. Needed. Me. Working. Upstairs? Something. Off. Smug. Bastard.”

“God, he is.” Martin chuckled. Did Evan count as a coworker? This felt like a coworker thing to talk about.

Sasha tapped her pen to paper. “Did he say anything else once you actually went upstairs? Anything about plans or reasoning?”

“Family? Disappointed. Normal. Stuff.”

“And then what happened? Were you pushed into something? Did you see anything before things changed?”

“No. Smug. Talking. Then. Here.”

“Were you facing the windows, or toward the panel?”

“Windows. Not. See. Panel.”

Martin would have to get home, soon. Should he have been running home the moment he had the chance to make sure his mother was all right? What if this thing happened while he was still at work? He should’ve called earlier that day, now that he was thinking about it, but now it was too late. He wasn’t about to walk downstairs alone for some privacy.

Would asking the others to come home with him after this be weird? Yes, that would be weird. He could text Tim if there was a problem. If it was big enough of an event, them being around wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway.

Would a timetable have been so terrible? A nice ‘Simon said look at the sky around noon-ish’?

As Tim and Sasha alternated with questions, Jon kept glancing out the window and clenching his jaw. Even if Martin was still miffed about that morning, the sight made his stomach twist in sympathy.

If Simon had some sort of plan, Martin wished he would get it over with already.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #evan lukas #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au #jonmartin

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fifteenleads · 3 years

Text

A YOI x Chrono Trigger AU fic from Ye Olde 2018-ish Era. Go figure.

I can’t even remember what the hell I titled this before. Welp.

Chapter One: “That’s a Nice Band-Aid, Darling.”

They say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and that a hero's adventure begins with a cliché-ass wake-up call - something like, "Good morning, Crono!," perhaps. How that even made it on to TV Tropes, Yuuri would never understand. But it is on TV Tropes, and he is in bed reading it.

He's glad his mother doesn't wake him up that way, at least. But then again, he's always up before five a.m. anyway. Sadly, the daily deliveries won't take care of themselves.

Yuuri glances at the time on his tablet. 4:59. Someone will come knocking in three, two, one --

"Yuuri! Get up!" Mari's voice is accompanied by three sharp raps on the door. "Go with dad to the plaza and help him set up!"

This is the part where the hero typically groans at being woken up before grudgingly getting themselves out of bed, but Yuuri Katsuki does not groan. He shouts back that he'll be down in a minute while looking for that darned sock that has gone missing now, of all times. Phichit would surely laugh hard at seeing his best friend hopping frantically on one foot while wearing a poodle-patterned sock. It'll probably go viral on Instagram, too, but that's pretty much a given already. Someone has to part the boy from his gadgets long-term after the Millenial Fair is over.

The minute is up, so Yuuri gives up and gets another sock from the drawer. It is patterned with the face of a silver-haired man surrounded by snowflakes. He has no idea how that found its way into his pile of clothing, but for now, mismatched socks are better than being late.

Yuuri makes his way downstairs and greets his mother, who is busy in the kitchen. Hiroko sends him off with an allowance of fifty kin and packed lunch for him and his father. He ignores Mari's snickering as she musses his hair while glancing at his feet.

The ride to the plaza is pretty short. It is already bustling with people even at such an early hour, all the sellers trying to outdo each other in showing off their wares. Yuuri chuckles as his father joins in the fray, calling out to everyone about the best katsudon in town. Everyone is excited for Hasetsu Kingdom's first Millenial Fair, and with it, the hopes for a thousand years more of peace and prosperity to come.

Toshiya leads the way to their assigned spot, a quaint little corner by the northern area of the square. The tent had already been set up the day before, so all that's left to do is to arrange the food and drinks before the first customers come in. Yuuri passively observes the hustle and bustle around them. Much energy is palpable in the air, and the excited hubbub only grows louder as the sun rises. Some stalls have weapons and armor, others exotic trinkets and accessories. He even spots a merchant selling animals. Phichit would probably want to pick up a new hamster on the way home later.

His eyes wander to the secluded area beyond the main square. Yuuri hoped Phichit's solo exhibit would be a success this time, too. His friend loved tinkering with machines since he was little, and it brought him and his family great fortune as he won scientific contests left and right. His magnum opus, a two-machine teleporter, had impressed the university professors and the panel of judges alike, earning him the highest thesis grade and the first prize for the National Physics Summit.

Yuuri's hand stills when his father calls his name. He had been adding portions of garnish to the newly-cut fried pork cutlets. He instinctively opens his mouth to apologize, but Toshiya immediately pats his back and pushes a one hundred-kin note into his hand. "I'll take care of the stall. You go have fun." He winks at his son mischievously, and Yuuri pushes down the growing blush creeping onto his cheeks.

"Th-Thanks, dad," he mumbles, bowing slightly before making his way to the northernmost part of the square. Phichit would probably be busy right now, but he would never refuse breakfast and morning coffee. It had been their time-honored tradition as college roommates, after all.

Yuuri stops by a mobile café and orders two tall hazelnut lattés and a baguette loaf. He is turning to leave with breakfast in hand when he bumps into the next person in line, spilling hot coffee over his white shirt. The other person, too, recoils in pain, reflexively putting a slender finger into his mouth to nurse it.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so, so sorry!" Yuuri exclaims, setting aside the food and drink and beginning to fuss over the man. He searches his bag for the small bottle of salve he always brings with him, and proceeds to apply a small amount over the man's injured finger, covering it with a band-aid afterwards.

The other man chuckles as he lets Yuuri take care of him. "It's quite all right," he assures airily, waving the bandaged hand with a smile. "I was also too close to you in line, as well." His blue eyes crinkle beautifully as he smiles, and Yuuri fights yet another blush from coloring his face. "I love this band-aid, though!" the man comments. "Where did you get it?"

"F-From the kids' section of the pharmacy," Yuuri admits, embarrassed. He just had to use that one by mistake instead of the flesh-tones ones, did he? Why now, of all times? "The poodle-patterned ones were part of a limited edition series."

"Nice!" the man exclaims in delight, scrutinizing the design closely. "Thank you so much for giving me this one. I love it!" He winks at Yuuri and places a light kiss over his own bandaged finger.

Yuuri wishes the ground would swallow him whole right this instant.

"U-Um, I think I'll get going now," he excuses himself, retrieving the coffee and bread from the counter. "My friend is waiting uphill. I'm so sorry again." Yuuri quickly nods his head and goes on his way, but the other man takes a long stride and ends up beside him, taking the baguette loaf out of his arms.

"It's okay, I'll help you," he offers happily as they ascend the stone steps. "I'm alone today, anyway." The man cradles the food with his left arm and extends his right hand out to Yuuri. "I'm Binktop, by the way. What's your name?"

For an instant, Yuuri is tempted to laugh out loud. The funny name hardly matches the man's regal appearance at all. He must be a foreigner, like the many others who have come to Hasetsu Kingom to join in the festivities. As a citizen of Hasetsu, therefore, he is to show this man the utmost respect and hospitality he deserves, funny names or not.

He shakes Binktop's hand, the cool skin sending small shivers down his spine. "I'm Yuuri. It's nice to meet you, Binktop."

"A pleasure." Binktop returns the handshake with a smile, and they continue going up the stairs. "So, Yuuri, are you also alone here today?"

"Our family actually has a food stall down at the main square, but my dad told me to enjoy myself today," Yuuri explains. "I'm on my way to see my friend, actually. He's an inventor."

Binktop's eyes widen and sparkle in delight, and he accidentally climbs two steps at once. "Wow! He must be really smart!"

"He is," Yuuri nods fondly in agreement. "Phichit has a solo exhibit today. This project won him first place at the National Physics Summit last month."

"That's amazing!" Binktop gushes in admiration, his silver bangs parting to reveal twinkling blue eyes. "I can't wait to meet him!" Yuuri smiles back proudly in response.

They reach the top of the stairs in a minute. The miniature square is cluttered with various machine parts and wires of different lengths and calibers. The two main pods have already been set in their positions, though not yet fully-assembled as Yuuri remembers them. It's definitely like Phichit to cram at the last minute.

The soft whirring noise dies down as the two approach the left pod, and a brown-skinned young man in a bandanna and overalls comes out to greet them. "Yuuri! You're here!"

Yuuri shrugs good-naturedly and hands Phichit the cup of coffee. "I'd love to hug you, but you're covered in oil and soot right now." He smiles widely at his best friend. "Good luck with your exhibit today!"

"Oh my gosh, thank you so much! You don't know how much I need it!" Phichit downs the coffee in an instant, breathing rapidly through his mouth afterwards to cool his tongue. "I heard the prince is coming with the royal delegation to watch my demonstration! I am so nervous!"

This time, Yuuri pats Phichit's shoulder encouragingly, not minding his hand blackening with soot afterwards. "You'll do well, Phichit! You've done this before; you can do it again."

"Good luck, Phichit!" Binktop adds, sending a friendly wink and a thumbs-up of his own. Phichit is surprised at the additional voice, and notices the other man for the first time. His nervous expression immediately changes to one of teasing, instantly directed at his friend. "Yuuri!" he whispers loudly. "Who's the hot guy?!"

"H-He's not - I mean -" Yuuri splutters, coughing into his hand to stop himself. He doesn't even bother hiding his obviously-reddened cheeks anymore; nothing ever escapes Phichit's notice, anyway. Tonight's phone call is going to be a long one.

When Yuuri has composed himself, he turns to Binktop. "Phichit, this is Binktop. I ran into him in the square today. Binktop, this is my friend, Phichit."

"Hi there!" Phichit merrily extends a hand to Binktop. "Phichit Chulanont, at your service!"

"Binktop," he introduces himself, shaking Phichit's hand. "Yuuri here has told me a lot about you."

"Hahaha, good things, I hope!" Phichit laughs, before shooting Yuuri an expectant glare. Yuuri grins back before taking another sip of coffee.

Phichit shows them around the workplace, pointing out the different parts of the invention and which part goes where. His black eyes shine brightly as he rambles in tech jargon while explaining the principle behind the teleporter. Binktop nods excitedly while asking questions, while Yuuri merely watches them interact. Despite his "nerdy glasses," as Phichit had christened them, he is not really into scientific stuff, having taken up a sports major in university.

"Sure thing! I was about to give this thing a test run, anyway." Phichit beckons Yuuri to come over. "Yuuri! Could you kindly step on the left pod? Binktop wants a demonstration."

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest, but knows better than to interrupt his friend when he is in scientist-mode. He may have also wanted to impress Binktop with his bravery, but he doesn't know it yet. Huffing, he finishes the rest of his coffee in one gulp and does as he is told.

Phichit flips the switch, and Yuuri almost loses his footing as he feels himself being sucked away into a vacuum space. Black, wavy lines fill his vision for a moment before everything around him returns to normal. He steps off the right pod and flashes the peace sign at Phichit and Binktop from across the square.

Binktop immediately makes a beeline for Yuuri and embraces him tightly, while Phichit pumps his fist in joy. "Wow, amazing!" he exclaims as he cups Yuuri's face. "You actually teleported!"

"That's how it's supposed to work," Yuuri answers matter-of-factly, but even he has an undeniably huge smile on his face. Phichit's exhibit is surely going to be a massive hit amongst the fair-goers.

"Can I give it a try, too?" Binktop asks Phichit excitedly, still not letting go of Yuuri. "It looks like so much fun!"

"Of course, Binktop!" Phichit laughs, gesturing at the left pod. "Anything for Yuuri's friend!"

Binktop lets out a whoop and disentangles himself from Yuuri. He lightly steps onto the left pod and runs a hand throuh his silver hair. "Watch me, Yuuri!" He sends a playful wink in Yuuri's direction before nodding at Phichit.

"All right, let's do this!" Phichit flips the switch again. Nothing happens at first, so he turns the machine off and on while observing the monitors. Worry begins to creep into his expression as he starts fiddling with the controls, but still, nothing happens.

A gasp from the left pod directs their attention to Binktop, whose pendant is glowing brightly from inside his shirt. It seems to be resonating with the core machine of the teleporter, from which ominous sparks begin to fly out. Phichit shouts at Binktop to get off the pod immediately, but Binktop hears it too late.

A large wormhole, unlike the one Yuuri had seen briefly while he teleported, opens up in the space behind Binktop and appears to be sucking him in. Trying his best to hold his ground, Binktop cries out for help as he extends his hand. In a panic, Yuuri runs up to the left pod and tries to grab him, but his whole body disappears in a flash of light, and the wormhole closes in an instant. Yuuri is left alone on the pod, Binktop's golden pendant in his hand.

Phichit is the first to regain his voice after a few minutes. "What the hell... This wasn't supposed to happen..." Yuuri turns to his friend, who is kneeling by the controllers in shock. Long tracks of tears have washed away the layers of soot on his face.

He runs down to embrace Phichit, who is now trembling in his friend's arms. "Yuuri, I'm so sorry! I really didn't mean for this to happen!"

Yuuri runs his hands over his friend's back, ignoring his own swimming vision and the violent hammering of his own heart in his chest. Now is not the time to deal with an impending anxiety attack - not when Phichit needs his help.

"Phichit. Look at me," he instructs calmly. "Breathe with me."

Together, they go through the motions, inhaling and exhaling deeply in unison. Most of the time, it was Phichit who did this for Yuuri when they were still in college together. It always helped calm Yuuri down after an attack, and Yuuri is more than glad to return the favor now. They cannot afford to be too calm, however - they still have to find out where the hell Binktop went.

Some day this is turning out to be. Yuuri swears never to get up before five a.m. ever again.

Phichit looks up at him and nods determinedly. Yuuri lets go of his friend as he begins to go over his notes. "Either the telepod malfunctioned, or something else did it," he thinks aloud to the clearing at large. "I'm suspecting your friend's pendant had an unusual reaction with the core interface, causing a ripple in the space-time fabric or something."

Yuuri gapes at Phichit incredulously. "You mean, like, time travel?!"

"I don't know yet." Phichit bites his lower lip in deep thought. "That wormhole could have led anywhere. It's too dangerous to try anything at this point."

"We have to bring Binktop back, Phichit! There's no time!"

"I know that!" Phichit snaps, rubbing a blackened hand on his temple at the sudden outburst. "It's not as easy as it seems. We have to find out how to open that wormhole, for starters. There must be something about that pendant."

Yuuri lifts the pendant in his hand against the daylight. It is a small, round, golden medallion with intricate rose patterns bordering its circumference, hanging from a simple chain. The pendant also seems to be pretty old but well-maintained. He briefly wonders where Binktop must have gotten such a valuable trinket and how much it must have cost, but pushes these thoughts out of his mind.

A tiny spark jumps out of the medallion, causing Yuuri to drop the pendant onto the left pod in surprise. Immediately, it causes another reaction, violent gusts of wind forming around them as the wormhole opens once more.

"Well," Phichit laughs brokenly, "that was easy enough!" With a hand shielding his face, he struggles to walk against the wind's direction and tries to pick up the pendant off the ground.

Yuuri has other ideas, however. He uses his stronger body to his advantage and overtakes Phichit in a second, picking up the pendant and wearing it around his neck.

"Yuuri! What are you doing?!" Phichit shouts in alarm. "Get off the pod now!"

To be honest, he has no idea what he is doing, either. His body is already protesting his sudden decision, his heart rate going up, his breathing more rapid, and his hands slippery with sweat. But above all, Yuuri feels that it's the right decision. It's more reckless than heroic, by all means, but nevertheless the right one, just the same.

"I'll bring Binktop back!" he shouts at his friend. "I'll get us back home, I promise!"

Again with the stupid promises, but Phichit seems to finally support his decision. He nods determinedly and hands Yuuri a long, steel wrench. "It's my favorite one! Bring it back safely, okay?"

"Thanks, Phichit! I will." Yuuri waves the wrench nervously as he steps into the closing wormhole.

"Be careful, Yuuri!" Phichit shouts after him. "I'll try to follow you as soon as I figure things out!"

A chuckle escapes Yuuri's lips. It's just like his friend to jump at the call. If anyone is more suited to be the hero of this story, it would definitely be Phichit, and Yuuri, as the dutiful friend, would support him all the way. Funny how things have turned out the other way around this time.

For now, he, Yuuri Katsuki, will be the hero of this story, and he swears on his life to bring Binktop back.

Yuuri raises a thumbs-up to the fading image of his friend, not caring if he doesn't see it. He lets the distortion fill his senses completely until the black nothingness consumes him and claims his consciousness.

#yuri!!! on ice #chrono trigger #alternate universe #fantasy #fanfic

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altarwaiting · 4 years

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How to gif without photoshop (second method)

Hello! A couple months ago I made a tutorial on how to gif without photoshop using the website ezgif. I got a really great response for it and received some requests for the other giffing program I use when I don’t have access to photoshop. The program is called instagiffer; this is a software so it needs to be downloaded but I have never had any trouble with my version.

Warning that this is VERY text and image heavy because I know how frustrating it can be when a tutorial feels like it’s skipping steps and I want this to be as clear as possible. Also please read this on desktop, tumblr mobile kills the quality of gifs inside text posts.

Please reblog if you found this helpful!

This is the video I will be giffing and here is the gif I will be making!

What you need:

Instagiffer

This program has been around since 2013 and I have used it since 2016. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been updated since 2016 and the download link on the official website is broken. That being said, there are a few other websites that still have a working download, which is what I linked to above.

ezgif

Although we aren’t going to use this website to make the gif, we are going to use it to add more color and brightness to the gif.

A video downloader

This is the video downloader I use but basically any youtube/video download website works. There are two ways to gif on instagiffer; using a video and using the built in screen recorder. I will show you how to use both.

A video to gif

This program is a lot more forgiving about video quality than ezgif is, but for best results 720p or 1080p is still the standard. Scenes with good lighting and bright colors turn out the best, but you can still make good looking gifs from darker or unsaturated scenes if you know what you’re doing.

1. Making a gif with a downloaded video

Step One: Getting the frames

First, you download the video you want to gif. Then you open up instagiffer and click on “load video.” Scroll down until you find the video you want to gif and click on it.

The video will appear on the screen in the right hand side. Go ahead and put “smoothness” up as high as it can go. This increases the frames per second and makes the gif look smoother. It also makes the gif longer, so you may have to bring it down later so it doesn’t go over tumblr’s size limit, but I always start as high as possible then work down.

Next, find the moment in the video you want to gif. You can either use the sliding bar or just type in the start time (you can use hours, minutes, seconds, and millisecond). You also want to put how long the clip you want to gif is. 3 seconds is the default but I usually bump it up to at least 4 (unless I know it’s a really short clip) just because it’s a lot easier to delete frames than add them.

If you do this, you’ll quickly realize your gif has extra frames that appear slightly before and slightly after the moment you want to gif. It’s really easy to get rid of those frames; just click on them until you only see the frames you want in the gif. Use the scroll bar at the bottom of the gif to move around the frames, and use it to make sure the only thing on screen is the clip you want included in the gif.

Step Two: Resize the gif, brighten the gif, change the speed and add captions

Now, it’s time to size, brighten, and color your gif! First look at the “frame size” option. Using the correct gif size for tumblr is one of the easiest ways to make sure the gif looks good. For gifs that take up a whole row, the size should be 540p wide. For two gifs in one row, the size is 268p each. For three gifs in one row, the sizes are 177p, 178p, and 177p in that order. Here is a visual of it. You can see what the width/height of the gif is in the bottom right hand corner of the gif screen. I am making this gif 268p. Get the frame size as close to the width you want as possible; right now, it is 269x151. To get it down to 268 exactly, go up to the top of the program, click on “frame” > “manual crop”. This little box will pop up. Just set the width to 268 and make sure the size is listed as 268 under the gif as well. The height can stay the same.

Keep quality up to 100 obviously. I almost always brighten by 2. Unless you’re giffing something with a huge spot of light, 2 is basically standard. Going up any higher usually makes the gif just look grainy, but if the scene is REALLY badly lit, you can go up to 3. Playback rate is usually -1, just to make the gif look smoother. Unless it’s a super long gif or a super short gif, I don’t mess with it further.

Captions are obviously optional but if you want to add one, click on “click here to add a new caption.” A box will pop up with options of how you want the text to look. I only use this to “caption” gifs (aka add dialogue). The settings I use are 12pt font, calibri, white, bold italic, bottom of gif, outline up to 3. You can also chose what frame you want the caption to start/end on if you want. Since this gif doesn’t have talking, I’m not going to include the caption in the final gif, but I wanted to show how to use this function.

Step Three: Color the gif

There are two parts to this. The first place I color the gif is on instagiffer, and then I use ezgif to add more effects. The second part is totally optional but they have more choices for coloring there.

Click on the “open effects panel”. A window will open showing what the gif currently looks like, along with a variety of filters you can use. Ignore how grainy it looks, it won’t look that way when it’s finished.

First thing is keep “enhance” up to 100. This is basically a sharpening function and without it the gif will get super blurry. There are a ton of filters you can play around with, but the only two I focus on usually are “color fade” and “colorize.” For color fade, I click it on and set it at 10. Obviously, if you’re trying to make a desaturated gifset, you can raise it up for a faded color effect, but I use it more for color balance than desaturation. Next click on colorize, and then color picker.

I almost always pick a light shade of blue, purple or pink; it brings out the color in the gif and tends to keep skin tones from being washed out. This is usually my default:

Then, I bring the “colorize” option down to 90 to increase the effects of shadows.

Last thing to do is click create gif! It’ll take a few seconds, especially for longer gifs, so be patient. ALSO there is a good chance you’re going to get a message saying something to the effect of “this gif is too big for tumblr’s photo limit.” Feel free to ignore that; the software being old means it still has the photo limit as 2gb when now it is 5-6gb so almost any gif you make will be considered “too big.”

Your gif now shows up in a preview tab! It should also show up as a file labeled “insta” on your desktop.

Here is the gif so far.

You can end here if you want. But when using instagiffer, I always go to ezgif to brighten up the colors further.

This part is basically the same as how you would color a gif you made in ezgif (see this tutorial) but I’ll quickly walk through what I do.

Go to ezgif.com/effects. Click chose file and upload your gif. First, you’re going to want to up the saturation, brightness, and contrast. You have to play around with these functions a lot because every scene is different, but in general, I have my saturation up pretty high and my brightness and contrast at at least 8. For a scene as dark and desaturated as this, I put saturation at 200, brightness at 12, and contrast at 16.

Afterwards, you want to go down to “color presets” and select “tint.” In my other tutorial, I recommended tinting with a light red or light blue, but for gifs made on instagiffer, I tend to use a light yellow/gold. I already tinted the gif purple in instagiffer so adding yellow in ezgif tends to balance it out. The shade I used for this gif is #fffcf0.

If the gif ends up looking too yellow, either decrease saturation, or click the “effects” button under the gif and add a layer of light purple to balance the colors more.

Your final gif should look like this.

2. Making a gif with the “capture screen” feature

This only changes the method of how you get gif frames. Everything related to resizing, coloring/effects, and adding captions is the same as above.

What if you don’t have a download of the thing you want to gif? The great thing about instagiffer is it has a built in screen recorder so you can gif any video you want, even if you can’t download it (or if you’re like me and don’t want to deal with downloading a 45 minute episode of something just to gif one scene).

To use this tool, click on the “capture screen” button on the top right corner next to “load video.” Then this screen will pop up.

You’re going to want to take this blue screen over to the screen you want to capture. I’m going to put it over the youtube video I am giffing. Adjust it so the only thing it’s focused on is the video and set the length in seconds. I usually set it for longer than the clip is just because it’s easier to remove extra frames than rerecord a scene. There is also sometimes a lag so starting it right before the scene you want to gif helps with that. For example, if the clip I’m giffing is 3 seconds long, I set it to 3.5. Then start running the video and click “start” on the screen!

Your frames will now show up on instagiffer. Everything is the same, except you can’t change the frame rate or timing. Go ahead and delete frames that you don’t need by clicking on them. After that, just use the same resizing, and coloring method I outlined above.

Some notes:

When using the video download option, the effects you use will save, as will the size of the gif. So if you gif one part of a video, then move the time stamp to another part, it will stay in whatever size you put the gif as. However, when using screen capture, you have to resize the gif and go to the effects menu each time because they reset after each use of the screen recorder.

You can also just paste a youtube link into the white bar at the top of instagiffer to gif it, but I’ve found that the quality is much better if you download or use the capture screen.

To crop a gif, move the red box around (just make sure it stays the right width size!)

If you are using the screen recorder and only want to record part of the video (like just a characters outfit) size the gif recorder so it’s just surrounding the part of the video you want to see.

I hope this made sense lol, it took me a few days to write it all so please let me know if you have questions or need anything clarified! Support me on Ko-Fi if you’d like and are able 💕💕💕

#gif tutorial #giffing tutorial #giffing #gifmaking #mine #my gifs #blood //#long post #@ anon hope this helps!

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millennialzadr · 5 years

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WHY I LOVE ZADR!!!

HEY GUYS WHASSUP? LMAO

So this is a whole ass giant long post of me absolutely spewing my feelings of love for ZADR, it was the very first thing I wrote when I made this blog and I think it’s a nice, positive thing for my fellow shippers to inhale and enjoy 👌👌

it was originally a reply to mitarashiart’s post about why HE loves ZADR (link in replies) but I decided to delete that and make my own post since MY WHOLE ENTIRE TEXT WALL WAS SHOWN IN THE REPLIES and drowned out anyone else who was trying to talk (thanks tumblr mobile u fuckin idiot)

I had also posted a summary of an AU that I’m working on in the original post, but decided to remove it since it just about doubled the length (I’m thinking about posting it separately along with the wips I’ve been putting together, we’ll see 👀)

But ANYWAY, here is about a million reasons why I think ZADR is the fucking best, so if you like reading gushy gay ship feelings, please enjoy ❤️❤️❤️

[Posted June 2019][WARNING, LONG ASS THOUGHT BARF]

SOOO, holy hell y’all my journey back into this fandom has been a wild and unique experience for me, i went from adding invader zim to my bookmarks on kisscartoon, rewatching the series, finding out theres a movie coming out, finding out there was a shitload of content i’d never seen before (commentaries, lost episode scripts and audios, panels, the COMIC, episodes i’d never seen because the dvd i used to watch was scratched!! and a FUCKLOAD of quality modern fan art like oh my GOD) and finally curiously googling ‘zadr’ (which i was way into when i was maybeee 13/14) to see if there was any interesting new art, and holy hell, mita (the artist above) singlehandedly THREW me down the hole into modern zadr hell, first with his absolutely stunning IZ art (all his art is dope tho check him out yo), then reading the above explanation put the final nail in the coffin like, 100%

so i wanted to add onto his post here on why this ship got me so fucked up, both for anyone who might be wondering why on earth i’m shipping two characters from a kid’s show (i’m very aware how weird that is at first glance trust me) and also so i can get some ideas down for possible future reference (will i ever draw them? maybe)

(first of all, a disclaimer, and this is not pleasant to write but it’s important to address for clarity’s sake: I have no interest in romantic or sexual relationships between minors, and do not ship zim and dib as they are presented canonically in the show (as children). what i’m interested in is the conceptualized relationship they may have as modern adults, and i view zadr more as taking the concepts of existing characters and experimenting with them with different interpretations, which i personally think is a constructive and fun creative outlet, especially if these characters hold personal significance for you (childhood faves of course). growing up together is an important facet of their relationship, and certainly they were important to each other even as children (see: mopiness of doom) but as an adult i’m personally curious about what kind of adults they might’ve become, and that’s the focus of my interest. i’ll still be reblogging regular IZ art because it’s dope but if you see shippy looking art of them as tiny lil beans its either friendship or chibis (and i personally headcanon zim as getting taller with dib but some people stick with his canonical height when drawing them as adults, which is super short. it still doesn’t mean he’s a kid). aaand i wish i didnt have to write this and it would just be obvious but we live in a sick sad world and it is sourced from a children’s cartoon so i feel its necessary. end of disclaimer)

NOW THAT THAT’S OUT OF THE WAY

- ok, first reason’s a bit obvious - the nostalgia. holy hell, the feeling of rediscovering a ship that was popular when i was a preteen during the mid 2000s and discovering a totally new perspective on it as an adult comes with an almost totally overwhelming sense of nostalgia and comfort, as well as inspiration!! the kind of art that seems so common for zadr, these sketch pages of scenes and expressions and visual gags where artists would just scribble every idea they had and LOVE doing it, this was exactly the kind of art that made me so passionate about drawing as a kid, and it still sparks such a powerful feeling of love and admiration for me to this day. fan content of iz and zadr is simultaneously achingly familiar and totally new and fascinating, and it just makes me SO damn happy to consume, it is most definitely my new comfort content. and just, GOD. THE ART!! SO GOOD. FUCK

- now for the characters themselves: for some reason i just really love the thought of a mid twenties, modern Dib?? lanky goth dork, disaster bi, depressed as shit, uses bad sweaters and memes to cope?? when i was a kid i didn’t even LIKE Dib, but now i totally sympathize with him! he’s just a hyper obsessive nerd wishing there was more to life than the situation he got stuck with, how wildly relatable. he was a pretty big asshole as a kid (even to people besides zim) but he was also totally isolated and constantly bullied, so there’s a lot of room for growth. i feel there’s a lot of juicy character development potential for that boy, and there’s always been a special place in my heart for characters who are totally sad and screwed and hopeless, but there’s one thing, or person, that means the world to them and could possibly save them…

- aliens. Zim. i love nonhuman characters, i love monsters, i love aliens, i love characters that don’t understand human shit (and thus have much less room for shame or fear bc theyre just totally oblivious the negatives of modern society) and need guidance (bonding!!) from their human. i also love morally grey characters and characters with skewed logic, they’re always really interesting, and Zim himself just has such a unique personality and set of mannerisms, he contradicts himself a lot and you can never quite expect how he’ll behave, and i love that in a character, it makes them super versatile and fun, especially since there’s so many different possibilities for their development. Also, Zim is a gremlin, a little shit, and a disaster. I also love those traits in a character. And don’t even get me started on his character design?? big sparkly eyes? expressive antennae? monster teeth? complimenting colors? he’s adorable.

- mutual obsession. for someone like Dib, who seems almost repulsed by how boring and slow the people around him are, Zim quite literally personifies Dib’s escapist fantasies, both as an inhuman entity from beyond the stars, and as a person who’s knowledge, charisma and mystery far exceeds that of anyone Dib has met in his entire life. (so basically what i’m saying is that for a shunned, jaded misanthropist, an actual alien is terribly alluring, even if said alien is dangerous, stupid, and possibly insane). not to mention Zim vindicates Dib’s entire life passion, the supernatural! Even when their relationship is totally negative, there is not a single inch of room for Dib to get tired of Zim. as mita explained, they validate each other. for Zim, WHO AGAIN, IS TOTALLY SHUNNED, ISOLATED, AND HATED BY EVERYONE HE KNOWS, Dib is the only person in the universe who gives a single shit about him!! he gives Zim credit as a threat, a capable invader, which if you ask me is the sole thing Zim is after (he’s hellbent on his mission because it would win him the approval of the tallest, all he’s ever wanted is recognition from the people he thinks so highly of). He literally gets depressed when Dib isn’t around to pay attention to him, not even the tallest were enough to motivate him before Dib came back. these two have no one and nothing without each other, and while lifelong nemeses is fine and dandy, i personally prefer friendship, affection and love, cause i’m a softie like that. how could they possibly get there after years of actively trying to kill each other?? well, i think under just the right circumstances it could become a possibility after a long, long time.

- growth. i. love. me. some. good. character growth. especially for characters with trauma/mental illness, bc again, relatable. these boys have issues, and as mita mentioned, their canon stories are actually INCREDIBLY sad! but the happy thought is, they could recover! they could help each other recover, for little reason other than the two are the only source of happiness for each other. now of course this also opens the gate for angst lovers, but at the same time offers potential for comforting, uplifting content of the boys supporting and inspiring each other, maybe even to the point of becoming happy and healthy enough to create the lives they want for themselves (as in appreciating life and doing things that make them actually happy instead of the delusions of grandeur they both sought when they were younger). gimme that positive shit and let the poor beans be happy щ(ಠ益ಠщ)

- LITTLE THINGS. LITTLE THINGS THAT ONLY COME WITH CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. WITH HUMAN/NONHUMAN. WITH THE SHOW’S WEIRD LOGIC. Zim being the person Dib knows best and vice versa. Zim having an involuntary respect/admiration for Dib because he’s tall. Learning each other’s needs, limits, and communication methods, both emotionally and biologically. Sensitive antennae. Affectionate bickering. Being less insecure bc your partner literally has no idea why you see your flaws as flaws. Laughing at the flaws they do notice because they make no sense. Zim only wanting to eat waffles and chow mein. Dib being forced to overcome his depression lethargy and stay hygienic/keep the apartment clean because Zim has a sharper sense of smell and is afraid of germs. Endless conversation about anything and everything because they’re from literally different worlds, and endless intrigue. TOUCHING. TALKING. DOING EVERYTHING LIKE ITS THE VERY FIRST TIME AND ALWAYS NEEDING THE OTHER TO GUIDE THEM. HOLY HELL THERE IS SO MUCH POSSIBILITY FOR TINY LITTLE MOMENTS THAT MEAN THE WORLD. FUCK. GOT ME FUCKED UP.

so that wraps up the why. fuck man. its just such a good ship. if you read this big ass text post, thank you for indulging me, i hope you enjoyed it! because i enjoy it very much 👀 so stick around if you’d like to for a shit load of IZ and zadr content on this blog, possibly (MAYBE) even from me!! come roll around in alien hell with me why dontcha ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ its a fun time! thanks for reading!!!

SO THAT’S MY MANIFESTO Y’ALL, FEEL FREE TO REPLY WITH YOUR OWN REASONS!! I WOULD LOVE FOR THIS POST TO JUST BECOME A BIG GIANT PILE OF LOVE AND YELLING!! GO NUTS! SCREAM ABOUT IT! INFODUMP! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT! I’LL READ EVERY LAST REPLY! Y’ALL DESERVE TO ENJOY YOUR SHIP BC IT’S LITERALLY THE FUCKING BEST!!! LOVE Y’ALL!!!!!!

#in this trying time of shippers being stressed over discourse #i offer a gift<3 because i love you guys #and we should spread the love #i want yall to go OFF #tell me every little fuckin thing about zadr that makes ur heart doki OK #LETS GO 👏👏👏#invader zim #zadr #text post #my post #long post

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goofnuggetkarlaa · 4 years

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Long OFA Quirk Theory Post, BNHA ch 257 Spoilers

Also I apologize now for anyone on mobile where the read more isn’t working properly and you have to scroll through this whole thing. It got way longer than I intended. I won’t be upset if you block me so you don’t have to see this post anymore lol

Alright so I was really hoping All Might would at least briefly say the quirks of the previous OFA holders he found (or have a quick panel showing them in the notebook or SOMETHING), but sadly we’re gonna have to wait a bit longer I guess...

However, he and Bakugou said the same thing: all of their quirks are relatively weak, since AFO was basically controlling the quirk world and taking all the strong quirks for himself or his “army”

It makes me curious though about how weak the quirks really are. Since idk about yall, but Black Whip seems to be an incredibly strong and versatile quirk (even taking into account that it was weaker back then compared to Midoriya using it now).

We also know that quirks in general get stronger the more generations go by (not just in OFA, we see this in the children the remedial course “fights”), so it makes sense that none of the quirks in OFA are particularly great compared to current times, given that quirks were still developing (tho... like I said before, I really doubt that’s the case. They may be physically weak quirks in combat, but I’m sure Midoriya will find a way to make them all incredibly op).

Another reason why I’m kinda doubting the legitimacy of the whole “they’re all weak quirks” thing is because of what AFO says about Nana. He calls her weak, a useless successor, etc. Now, I suppose having a quirk that lets you fly might seem like a weak quirk. It’s no muscle enhancer, explosions, lazer beams, etc. Though Nana herself was clearly ripped as all hell (like bro I’m so gay wtf)

Ahem, anyways, maybe he was just saying that to taunt All Might, to break his spirit or whatever. Typically evil villain stuff. But also... AFO doesn’t seem to be the type of guy to do that. To just call someone weak even if they weren’t. (altho he also uses a flying quirk, so make of that what you will) BUT ANYWAYS this just leads me to think her quirk was probably the “weakest” out of all the successors he had faced so far. I would probably think the same if the successor 2 people before her had something as interesting as Black Whips.

So what kind of quirks are they? Unfortunately my theories are only based off of their appearances, and AFO. I’ll mention the bit about AFO first, since it feels more solid than the bit about their appearances.

It’s a theory I’m kinda believing less and less with the information we’re being given, but I wonder if AFO could have taken their quirks before they died. Sort of like a way to taunt future holders. Like “haha look I’m using your master’s beloved quirk how does that make you feel.” And I mean, yeah, he can’t take OFA, that much has been established (altho that seems like it’s gonna change soon... hmmm shiggy what you up to?). But what about after they’ve passed OFA on to the next person? They still should have their original quirk, since OFA seems to work kinda like a copy-paste system. So would AFO be able to take it then?

I’ll use Nana as an example. In the short 2ish minute special, All Might Rising, we see Nana’s last fight against AFO. At this point, we know she must have passed the quirk on, because the last thing we really see is her pointing at All Might as Gran Torino carries him away. We don’t actually see her death. There could have been time for AFO to take her quirk. And we know he has some sort of flying quirk, Air Walk, which could have been hers (although we won’t know until the official translation comes out. However the current fan translations are calling Nana’s quirk stuff like Levitate or Hover)

Unfortunately that’s about where that bit of my theory comes to an end. With ch 257 saying the quirks are weak, I doubt AFO would have been using them in his fight with All Might. Gran Torino also mentions his quirks and fighting style were totally different from the last time 6 years ago, so that also kinda tears this theory apart. At least the bit where the quirks we got to see were any of the successors’. He still could have taken them and passed them on to the nomu while he waited for Shigaraki to be able to use them himself.

As for the appearances and quirks themselves... well, we really only have 2 that we can take a guess at. I know people have the time travel theory that Bakugou was the 2nd wielder, but I don’t like that one very much. But that’s a post for another time.

Also, from here it’s really just my opinions, and not a lot of solid or even jello-y theories. Like sand. It’s just a mess. Just a jumble of observations and ¯\_(:/)_/¯ materialized.

So here’s the closest thing to a full body shot we have of them, the 4th on the left and 6th on the right.

The first one I’m gonna talk about is the 4th holder.

The first thing I noticed are the two marks on his face. They don’t seem like scars or some other kind of injury. They’re not drawn lightly the way Midoriya’s or Todoroki’s scars are, they’re really dark and crisp. So I’m thinking either some kind of tattoo, or (more likely) something to do with their quirk. Sort of going with my AFO theory above, it reminded me a lot of the forced quirk activation quirk he was using, though looking further into his appearance, I don’t think that’s right.

He has very contradicting vibes in my opinion. His clothes make me think something to do with water or wind, or some sort of spiraling energy like Nejire’s. But based on his face, body, and stance, I would lean more towards a physical quirk. He seems like a solid dude. Originally, I had believed he had a wind type quirk (thinking about Inasa’s appearance, he felt similar somehow), but now that Nana’s quirk is confirmed to be some kind of flying ability, it feels like having a wind quirk (that could also theoretically make you fly) would erase the point of Nana’s, and I doubt Horikoshi would want Midoriya to have quirks similar to each other, thus limiting how badass he could be (and lets be honest, this is a shonen jump manga. protags gotta be as op as possible, especially in a series like this which just SCREAMS the very essence of shonen manga. not that I’m complaining btw, I love op characters)

So anyways, I’m currently at a loss for this guy, the only other hint I feel like we have for his quirk is the color associated with him in OFA, blue, which doesn’t help much, seeing how the 5th with Black Whip is red and Nana’s with flying is yellow(? can’t really remember)... None of it seems related

Which leaves us with the second wielder we know little about, the 6th user.

And let’s be honest, there isn’t much to work with here either. Since I just mentioned associated colors, I’ll just point out right away his color is a purplish-blue. So do with that what you will. (I’m going to get into it in a moment, but I theorize a mental/kinetic-type quirk for this guy. Purple is maybe associated a bit more with kinetic-type abilities? idk look at Shinsou)

Appearance-wise, I definitely get a more mental based quirk. He’s kinda small, seems reserved, so that’s just my gut feeling. You can see some bandages around his arms, though, which might mean... something? Perhaps it has to do with his quirk, maybe he just got injured (maybe he got injured because of his quirk..? hmmm)

Honestly, his appearance just reminds me of Kageyama from Haikyuu!!, so my brain keeps unhelpfully jumping back to that, making it hard to come up with good stuff for him. If I had to guess at random, I wanna say pyrokinesis. This is partially because of a long-winded, very very VERY unlikely theory that he could be related to Nana who could VERY UNLIKELY be related to Inko, so ya know, probably some big family tree of kinetic-type abilities (since, assuming AFO isn’t his dad, which is a theory I’m a big fan of, it would be possibly pretty emotional for Midoriya, seeing how it COULD have been his quirk if he were born with one, since it’s a good mix of his mom and dad’s quirks) The other reason is just cause I thought it’d be cool. lol.

Though to be fair, part of that “it would be cool” has to do with the idea of “how op can Midoriya get?” which involves having a large range of abilities to be able to be effective in any situation. so far he has super strength as the base of OFA (which is always good in a fist fight), restraining with Black Whip, and eventually mobility with Hover. It would make sense for him to also have more rescue-type abilities, seeing how so far most of his skills are geared towards fighting rather than saving, which is the opposite of Midoriya’s personality. So I thought of natural disasters: earthquakes, tsunamis, typhoons, floods, mudslides, and volcanoes are listed as common disasters in Japan, and fires are more-or-less common anywhere. So having an ability that would be beneficial in those situations would be ideal, such as pyrokinesis to stop a fire, or something like hydro/aquakinesis to rescue those in a flood/tsunami.

Sooooo tldr I have no idea what the fuck their quirks could be but I love to theorize random shit so please come talk to me because I’m bored and dying for more content so I’m doing all I can to keep sane while I continuously wait for more updates :)))))

also I’m sure my thoughts were all over the place and made no sense, I’m sorry, I really tried to rewrite stuff over and over to make sense, but I might have made it worse, so if you don’t understand something or think I missed something, please let me know. I probably either worded it strange, or thought of it and didn’t remember to include it. BUT IF YOU THINK OF SOMETHING I ACTUALLY DIDN’T I WOULD REALLY LOVE TO HEAR IT PLEASE!!! SO DON’T BE AFRAID TO CALL ME OUT ON SOMETHING! not if it’s about the time travel theory though, I’ve had enough of that right now lol

small edit: I went back to watch the movie again (in 4d this time) and realized I had messed up the colors of the AFO holders. Also, they appeared slightly different in each shot (in one, the 5th holder was pinkish purple, but another shot was a deep red?), so I’m basically ruling out that colors have any meaning at all. Not like I think they had much basis to begin with though...

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beccarooni · 4 years

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Prison Break

(The sequel to Alone is here! I had a few requests for there to be a part 2 to this, and with my christmas trade with @astrobruce coming up i figured what better way to wrap up the decade than with a prison break. Enjoy!)

He didn’t know how long they’d both been there. There was a lot about their current situation that he found he didn’t know, really. Their location, for a start. He couldn’t feel anything of the outside air, as if the sky itself had been closed off from him. Thor hadn’t felt like that since…well, since Odin had cast him out, really.

At least he knew Bruce was beside him. He couldn’t see the scientist - or his green companion, but being Asgardian had its privileges. The weather may have been barred from him, but Bruce’s breathing rang true in his ears if he wished to listen to it. The coolness of the metal against his cheek as he placed his ear to the wall, the soft tones of Bruce trying to talk to him - and his ability to talk back. It made the whole ordeal a lot less unbearable.

He was sure he would’ve been fine if it had been just that. Just a prison, a monitoring, nothing more. But of course, fate wasn’t so kind to him. Not when he woke one day from a sleep he didn’t remember entering, staring with abject horror at the machinery that was now lining his arms. Metal coils circling him like snakes, and he felt the freezing material of something against the back of his neck.

And Ross was there, standing in front of him, toying with some kind of activator in his hand.

Thor’s voice was hoarse, with disuse and something he’d swear wasn’t fear. It wasn’t. He was Thor, God of Thunder. And he was not scared of a man in a pressed suit with a trimmed mustache.

“I know you must feel very powerful with us being here,”

He nodded in the direction of where Bruce’s cell was, trying his best to picture him alive and well and not the cold, shaking figure that haunted his dreams in the few hours of sleep he’d been able to get.

“Very powerful, and very strong. But please, listen to me. This is a bad idea. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

He swallowed, taking a few steps towards the glass - or as many as his now limited mobility would allow.

“I don’t even know how these powers work - not really. I thought I did when I had mjolnir, but now I don’t, and I have no idea what’s going to happen if you press that button. You…You can’t do this.”

Ross, for a moment, seemed to consider this. In the face of the unnatural, on the brink of accessing a raw force of nature, he did what any human would do. When faced with the passage to the northern seas, with the mountainous ice caps that loomed over ships and the biting wind that froze fingers and cracked skin - people had hesitated before drawing out the maps.

They’d considered the pros and the cons, used their heads, used caution.

Ross’s fingers wavered above the control panels, his face set in stone.

Thor shook his head mutely, the eloquent phrases and elaborate threats and ominous forebodings he’d picked up from a cave somewhere long ago boiling down into one word. One syllable.

“Please."

Ross frowned. The air was still.

Until he pressed down, and Thor’s world tilted in the corner of his vision, dissolving into a burning white that for a moment seemed suspended between the here and now. For a moment, nothing touched him. His body was not his own.

Until it was.

Until his soul was dragged, screaming back into his body, and he felt every jolt that ran through his veins.

Standing tall through that storm was a feat that none could have achieved. The strongest ships still stood a chance of sinking, the most hardened sailors could still drown when faced with cold waters.

Thor didn’t want to drown.

Not with Bruce on the other side of the wall. Not when their miraculous escape hadn’t happened yet, and he still had promises left to fulfil - tales of tea and warmth and some old sappy movie that he still needed to tell.

For a moment, the thought of it worked.

And then the pain redoubled, and he didn’t have moments anymore.

***

The grate was cold, and Bruce was panicking.

Of course, maybe it was a little late in the day to start panicking. Given that he was being held by General Ross who had made his plans to dissect him abundantly clear in the past. But, he’d always had Thor. His rage, his sorrow, his storms echoing off of the sides of the chamber. The creeping feeling of static that seemed to sink through his skin itself had always been there, right when he needed it.

And now it wasn’t.

He didn’t have the booming tones of his demi-god. His spaceman. He didn’t have anything to prove that he was even alive-

Bruce’s breath caught in a throat that was growing tighter by the minute, and for a few moments he teetered on the edge of the abyss, his mind reeling and the corners of his eyes growing wet and hot.

“No.”

He sniffed, wiping his face and attempting to set his features into something cold - something strong. Unbreakable.

‘Hulk, now’s the time. We can’t wait any longer - we’re leaving.’

The larger than life presence shrunk further into the back of his mind, but Bruce wasn’t giving up. Not now. He reached out, pressed at something until it was painful, grabbed the remnants of a flaming childhood by the shoulders and stared his giant in the eyes - metaphorically speaking, of course.

‘I know you’re cold. And I know you’re hurting, and I wish I could take that away from you. But Thor needs our help - he might be hurt, or scared, or…’

Bruce didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Hulk seemed to understand. The presence that had been retreating rapidly into the back of his mind froze, turned, metaphorical ears turned back to Bruce to listen.

‘Blondie not dead,’ Hulk mumbled, and Bruce caught the faintest of tremors in that cavern - deep voice.

‘No, I know. I’m sorry for scaring you.’

Bruce cradled his hand to his chest, tracing his thumb feather-light over the freshly made wounds - still glaring and red even under the shadow of artificial night.

‘But we have to help him. And I need you to get us out of here, big guy. You think you can do that for me?’

‘Hulk tired.’

‘I know.’ Bruce snapped, and immediately regretted it when the presence seemed to shrink away again. He sighed, shaking his head mutedly, his voice falling to softer tones.

‘I know, Hulk. And I promise after this is over, we can take a break. As long as we like. But I just need you to do this one thing for me’.

Hulk stilled for a moment, the corners of his mind growing quiet.

And then his bones began to ache, but for once, the familiar battle for dominance and control wasn’t being held. He stepped back, with a slow and careful breath, passing the torch over to the one thing strong enough to get them out of there.

‘You got this, big guy. Let’s go get our demigod back.’

‘And smash Ross.’

‘Yeah.’ Bruce felt himself grinning as he relinquished control of the wheel.

‘Smash Ross.’

***

And a few dark seconds later, Bruce was stumbling onto the floor, faced with a different problem. He hadn’t even gotten that much prompting - in fact, he’d been all for leaning into this more recent development when abruptly he’d been shoved back into reality, broken glass digging into the skin of his knees as his world reformed itself before his eyes.

‘Hulk? What the hell happened?’

‘Blondie wrong.’

‘What?’

Hulk made one final pushing motion, green eyes blinking away the last of the blurriness, leaving Bruce face to face with the problem.

Thor was standing in the center of the cell, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, the familiar ocean blue blocked out entirely by a pulsing glow of white.

Sparks of lightning flew from his body - a body that was bruised, broken, and teetering as if it was on the edge of collapse. Bruce wasn’t even sure what was holding Thor up at this point. If it was the electrodes that lined his demi-gods arms, or if it was the lightning - each fork forcing him ram-rod straight, suspended like a puppet from glowing strings.

“Thor?”

Bruce managed to croak out, taking one tentative step inward.

“Can you hear me?”

If he could, he made no sign of it. Just kept staring at that point in the ceiling - the only real movement being the occasional twitch of his hands.

A sharp jolt ran through Thor’s body as an arc of lightning surged, and for a moment, Bruce worried for the stability of the room. The electrodes buzzed, lights flickered, and it was then he remembered that scene on the bridge. The clouds darkening, the golden spires of Asgard being torn apart by an unnatural storm - that had been Thor.

It was difficult to remember that, sometimes. To look at the man who had spent 5 months marvelling over the invention of the frappuccino, who wore pyjama bottoms printed with the Hulk’s face, and see a storm of nature.

It made all the news reports seem somehow even more fake. He’d heard the words that they’d said about him, obviously. Bulletins that scrolled across screens, screaming of alien invasions and freak weather conditions and interdimensional conquerors.

Seeing Thor like that was hard.

Confronting the raw force of an elemental God was somehow even harder.

Because Thor was there. He was right in front of him, he was there.

But at the same time, he wasn’t.

This wasn’t Thor. Thor wasn’t an unfeeling storm, a force of destruction and only destruction. He’d always been so much more than what people expected him to be. A warrior, a prince, an Avenger. Throughout all of it he’d even managed to be a friend. And then something closer than that.

It may have been strange, but despite the pain of it all, Bruce was beginning to feel a little bit brave.

Thor was still in there. And someone needed to save him.

Bruce Banner tightened his jaw, stepping further into the eye of the storm.

Working in the fields he did, Bruce had learned a few things about routine, and it’s importance. About taking things slow - not lethargic, but slow. Careful. Following instructions, and biting back the panic that was threatening to boil over.

Bruce was a doctor, at the end of the day. He didn’t get those phd’s for nothing, after all.

And if treating Thor as a patient was what was going to get them through this, then that’s what he would do.

Carefully, Bruce walked forward. Carefully, he stepped over broken glass and warped metal, his eyes catching sight of the grate that connected the two cells together - burned beyond repair.

Carefully, Bruce raised his arms, cupping Thor’s face in his hands, looking for any sign of life within the burning lightning.

Looking for anything that could remind him of the man who had saved his life countless times, and who he’d like to say he’d saved in return.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just -”

Bruce was cut off by a yelp, as a stray spark of electricity shot up his arm. He stumbled backwards, Hulk rearing his head, and he felt his veins flush with green, but he needed control for this.

Hushing Hulk back down to the corner of his mind, Bruce cradled his injured arm, and began his journey again.

Calloused fingers brushed against the electrodes against Thor’s arms, cramped muscles strained as he brought himself to a tiptoe until the cold metal that had been fixed on to the back of Thor’s neck met his hand.

He frowned in sympathy, in anger, and a whole lot of emotions he didn’t necessarily recognise at the moment.

It shouldn’t have come to this. The negotiations should never have been able to reach this point - where strapping in a person, a friend, and harvesting their power was apparently an ok response. Bruce swore to himself that he would protect Thor, if he needed to.

And it was about damn time to start fulfilling that promise.

“So, I don’t know if you can hear me. Or if you’re even still in there. But, just in case you are, I need you to listen,”

Bruce swallowed nervously, fingers latching on to the cold, unfeeling metal, tightening round it until he couldn’t grip any further.

“You told me we were going to get out of here. That at the end of the day, we’d be at home, and things would be ok again. Now, I know you’re not a liar - at least, not to me. So I’m gonna hold you to that standard, and trust you not to kill me when I do this. Ok?”

Thor didn’t respond, but Bruce hoped that maybe it had helped.

If any of it had reached him, he’d count it as a success in this point. Because the universe couldn’t be that cruel, could it? It wouldn’t force a barrier between them, and break it down, only for there to be another one in place.

That couldn’t happen.

No, Thor could always hear him. It was a perk of being Asgardian. Thor would hear him, and Bruce could hear him, too.

He didn’t need a metal grate, or a buzzing of static to hear his spaceman.

The storm was alive. Thor was alive.

And they were getting out of here.

Bruce pulled, and the room was plunged into darkness.

***

Things got a little foggy, after that. He remembered a few details - a warm body falling against him not long after the power had given out. Heavy, with veins that still retained a faint blue-ish glow, but warm.

Hulk had taken over not long after that. Pulled the two of them out through the crumbling prison, and ok, maybe he’d smashed an office on the way.

Ross hadn’t been there. Part of him was disappointed, but another was relieved. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could hurt anymore people. And Hulk seemed to share the same sentiment. A sense of exhaustion, that made him more than a little worried. Because this had been too close. The danger just a little too real - and sure, flying robots and aliens were also very real.

But they’d faced those threats as a team.

The Avengers, Revengers, whoever - there’d always been someone watching someones back.

Here had been too vulnerable. For both of them.

Thor hadn’t woken up just yet, at least, not fully. He’d stirred briefly when they’d gotten to something resembling a safehouse, but he hadn’t been making much sense. Not according to Bruce, anyway.

Hulk seemed to understand more than he did. Which was weird, considering he hadn’t been there for most of it. Bruce was used to doing the comforting, the shushing, being the calming voice and the mediating opinion.

It was strange seeing Hulk do the same. Watching large green fingers brush through Thor’s hair, hearing low tones grumble words of reassurance.

It was nice. But strange.

Even stranger when Hulk had turned those words on Bruce, and insisted he get a proper nights rest.

‘Hulk keep watch. Banner sleep.’

Bruce had hesitated, feeling the overwhelming urge to fidget with his hands that only really resulted in Hulk twitching his fingers.

‘You’re sure you’re gonna be ok?’

‘Hulk fine. Banner sleep.’

‘Alright, but if you need anything -’

‘Banner sleep.’

‘Ok. But only for a bit.’

He paused, taking one last look through the small viewing window he was able to find.

Thor was asleep, too. Nestled in Hulk’s arms, face pressed somewhere between the crook of his elbow - thick, green skin stifling loud snores like the rolling of thunder.

‘Night, Hulk.’

‘Night, Banner.’

#thorbruce #thor #bruce banner #hulk #thorhulk #gammahammer #thunderscience #christmas exchange #fic sequel #fanfic #angst with a happy ending #thor!whump #thor whump

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thepencilnerd · 5 years

Text

Melophile | Part I

melo·phile- noun; a person with great love and affluent passion for music

➵ A piano major and a composition major collaborating for a final semester project. It seemed straightforward, right? But what if you were forced to pair up with the school’s most problematic genius, Min Yoongi? Add to that the fact that he absolutely hated your guts and you had the perfect recipe for disaster. How can someone you’ve never even met before despise you like a sworn enemy? Getting to know each other was hard enough, but what happens when the most beautiful, painful, and darkest secrets force the two of you to expose the thing you each guarded the most—your own emotions?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: AU! enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, slow-ish burn

➵ word count: 16k (sorry mobile readers)

➵ warnings: swearing, heavy angst, discussions of depression, rough sex, biting, marking, hair pulling, cumplay/eating, impreg kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), i’m screaming while writing these warnings

a/n: this was originally supposed to be a single post, but i’ve split it up into two. the second part can be found on my masterlist or under the #melophile ^^

Second, third, second, first, second, fourth—

“Again,” the voice snapped sternly.

Breathing deeply, you closed your eyes shut and clenched down on your teeth before playing again.

Second, third, second, first, second, third, fifth, fourth—

“Stop.” Letting out another sigh for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour, your professor took off his glasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t we call it a day?”

Biting down on your tongue, you gave a curt nod and agreed reluctantly. Glancing at the clock, you saw that it was already fifteen minutes before nine.

“An hour and fifteen minutes of dealing with my bullshit. A new record,” you scoffed silently to yourself.

You hesitantly thanked your professor before holding the door for him and seeing him out. Today was a rough day. The whoosh of the door escorted you back into the cold room as your legs carried you back to the grand piano. Your relationship with Professor Powell was—complicated—to say the least. Although he was like a father figure to you and was the one who gave you the opportunity to attend university in the first place, it was always difficult to maintain a healthy student-teacher relationship, especially in the field of the arts. Hungry and impatient to improve, it was the teacher’s responsibility to make sure that they pressured their students but also know their limits. Push too much and they’d suffer the possibility of a mental breakdown, but not enough and the years of time, work and patience would all be for nothing

Taking a few minutes to massage your cramping fingers and tender wrists, you couldn’t help but burn holes and glare at your own hands.

“Is it really that fucking hard to follow the stupid numbers written on the damn sheet music? Useless. Absolutely useless,” you swore.

After another minute of self-deprecating criticism and voiceless outrage, you felt your throat constrict as frustration welled up inside your chest as questions of your own purpose began to arise. What were you doing with your life? Was this stupid degree really worth it? How were you even going to get a job with a degree in music?

“Idiot...” You muttered to yourself but stared coldly at the wooden creature directly in front of you. Cracking your knuckles, you took in a deep breath, held it for two seconds, and exhaled as calmly as you could. Concentrating on the finger numbers scribbled down above the notes, you gulped in anticipation, determined to get the last line of the piece down by tonight. One more time.

You’d been here since lunch and even opted to skip dinner just to save an hour to practice. Your professor sometimes came in at random to help supplement your practice hours, but it almost always ended up with him leaving an hour later, equally frustrated at the level of progress you hadn’t accomplished. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t do well under pressure, but you understood where he was coming from. Playing was hard, but playing with an audience was even harder.

Playing the first few minutes of Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu had now become a breeze, but the last section was always the part where you couldn’t take it anymore. Your fingertips became sweatier than a marathon runner’s forehead, your hands cramped like divers who had the bends, and your wrists felt like they had brick blocks tied to them at the joint.

14 sheets, seven pages, 138 measures, sixteenths on the right hand, and triplets on the left. The pain, tireless hours of practice, and feeling of desperation in the pursuit of the perfect chance to play— all that for six minutes of pure, unadulterated beauty. The puzzle pieces that clicked together in perfect harmony. In that precise moment, it was pure bliss.

In that exact moment, it was just you and the music.

You couldn’t describe how free you felt when you played. Each time your fingertips pressed down on the weighted keys, the melodic sound that reverberated deeply and throughout the room was what you lived for. It was a last-minute whim decision when you chose piano as your major. Sure, you’d been playing it since you were a child and loved it more than anything else, but you secretly worried that they’d fear for your future. Understandable, considering their generalized opinions on art majors, but thankfully, they were nothing short of supportive.

Originally, you planned to get into the business trend like everyone else. Truth be told, you didn’t know what you wanted to be, and that scared you, so it seemed like a safe, cookie-cutter option. While your classmates stressed out about finals, entrance exams, extracurriculars, job hours, and college applications, you went through a phase of feeling adrift. Lost, confused, conflicted, and utterly desperate in search of what you wanted to pursue in life, your overwhelmed mind remembered that you actually played an instrument.

You would be lying if you said the idea initially didn’t terrify you. What would you do with a degree in the music field? Playing was always a self-satisfying activity rather than something you did for attention, so you had no desire to play for an audience, therefore, playing as an accompanist was out of the question. To add to it, you couldn’t compose new pieces to save your life, so being a producer was also checked off early. Then you came across the idea of being a music teacher, which for some blindly stupid reason, you didn’t think first. Money was never the ultimate goal for you, and the opportunity to share your passion and knowledge with others clicked with you instantly.

Getting admitted into one of the country’s best art universities was something that you never envisioned happening in your wildest dreams. The audition was the first time you had ever played for an actual audience, and to say it went perfectly would be a painfully embarrassing lie. It was also your first time playing a high-quality grand piano, which added to the already intense pressure. You remember all-too-clearly how your fingers fumbled over the glossy, attributed to how you weren’t used to the feel of the new model of instrument, and you even messed up on the middle section of the piece. However, somehow, through the unexplainable, miraculous, and impossible powers of the universe, the panel of professors saw something in you and admitted you on a partial scholarship.

That short-lived period was already four years ago, and you were now in your second year of your master’s degree in the school’s associated graduate school. One more year and you were ready to venture off into the world as an adult.

Shaking off the storm of flashbacks and anxiety of foreshadowing you didn’t have the capacity to deal with right now, you turned back to the crumpled pages in front of you. Starting from the very beginning, your fingers began carrying themselves across the keyboard, allowing your muscle memory to come in swifter than a lightning strike. Scanning over the tornado of notes with quick eyes, your heart began beating faster as a familiar ache began to spread throughout your fingers. Pushing through the middle measure before the end, you willed yourself to get it right this time.

Once the ending excerpt began, you begged your hands to hold on for another minute. That was all you needed. Just one more minute…

Before you knew it, you had already sped through the remaining bars of music and finally made it to the last line, slowing down the tempo and letting the last few notes reverberate as they faded to quiet nothingness.

You did it.

Shooting up from the crinkly leather seat, you hopped around like a sugar-high energizer bunny. You finally did it. Nine treacherous hours of fruitlessly pounding at the keys and nearly tearing your hair out, and you finally did it. Maybe it was the delirium from yesterday’s all-nighter or the hunger starting to kick in, but you suddenly felt a rush of blood make its way to your head, causing you to clutch your temple and hunch over the piano for support. Taking it as a signal from your body that it was on the brink of breaking down, you decided to call it a night.

Packing up your things, you bid one last farewell to the creaking percussion instrument before clicking off the lights and leaving the room.

It was always a breathtaking experience walking through campus. The rustic buildings, blooming plant life, bustling students, and even the poorly paved concrete sidewalk made it all the more like home. As a student in the art department of the school, the secondary campus was smaller but more well-spaced than the main campus. Rather than have a bundle of tightly-knit classrooms arranged directly next to each other, the arts campus consisted of three main buildings that were spaced far apart and divided by green lawns and tree-lined pathways.

You were so distracted by your dream-like trance, you didn’t realize that you were already five minutes late for your lecture. Murmuring a string of curse words at yourself, you nearly ran into a lamppost before dashing across the lawn to class.

In a record time of two minutes, you managed to make it to the front door of the lecture hall. Willing yourself to breathe rhythmically to slow down your racing heart and strained panting, you slowly opened the door to see that an exponentially large number of students were still shuffling into their seats. Thankfully, Professor Powell was also in the midst of organizing the scattered papers on his desk but noticed you poking your head through the cracked open door. Ushering you in with a collected welcome, you bowed your head in a silent nod of appreciation and scurried to the few remaining seats available.

Looking around the strangely crowded room, you saw that the usual number of 20 to 30 people was now a lump sum of about 40 people. You recognized about half of the ones as those who shared your major, but the remaining were complete strangers. A loud cough and clapping of hands silenced the chattering students, making everyone turned their attention to the front of the class.

“Thank you all for making it today,” he announced. “You may have noticed that—”

The sound of the door swinging open halted the professor’s words as a student waltzed in. Sporting a black hoodie with torn jeans to match, you could barely make out the few stray hairs of beige blonde hair that poked out from underneath. His piercing stare could practically be felt from a mile away, and he made no comment or apology for his late entrance. Not even giving a second look to Professor Powell, the blonde boy found himself an empty seat in the back of the class, causing everyone around him to shift uncomfortably. Tossing his backpack carelessly to the floor, his presence alone was threatening enough to send chills down your spine.

Clearing his throat, the professor composed his thoughts before resuming speaking. “As I was saying,” he hummed. “You may have noticed that today’s class is particularly ample and that there are a few faces that aren’t in this major.”

The students all looked around in unison, picking out the faces they could clearly recognize and ever-so-slightly frowning in confusion at the ones they didn’t. A wave of quiet murmurs spread across the entire room, causing Professor Powell’s hands to clap aloud once more in an attempt to gather everyone’s attention.

“If you’ll all direct to the syllabus being handed out to you, you will find the rubric of your semester final project,” he enunciated. As if by cue, the person directly in front of you passed you a thick stack of papers. Peeling a page from the mountain of sheets, your eyebrows cinched together at the bold text.

MUS302 Semester Final Project

GROUP ASSIGNMENT IN COLLABORATION WITH THE SCHOOL’S THEORY-COMPOSITION MAJORS.

PAIRS WILL BE ASSIGNED.

“Now,” his voice boomed. “I’m aware that we still have four months before final exams are administered, but since this is a special occasion, you may find the extra time useful.”

You couldn’t hold back the nasal ‘hmph’ that escaped your throat. This had to be a practical joke. Your professor was never one to assign group projects, and this was certainly something that had never been done once in the history of the entire school. What was different? Apparently, you weren’t the only one who was dumbfounded at the news. A hum of voices began to arise as all the kids in the classroom began whispering to each other, the pre-meditated gossip already spreading like wildfire.

“I know that group projects aren’t exactly a common occurrence in this class and a collaboration with a group of students in a different major has never been done before, but music does not discriminate.” His firm words seemed to silence the loudmouths, replacing their incessant chatter with a few awkward coughs.

“This project will be worth 65% of your final grade and will replace your usual paper-formatted exam. It is mandatory, there will be no excuses, makeups, grade curves or supplementary extra credit, and it will go on your permanent transcript.” Taking the silent air in the classroom as an indication of their understanding, he managed to force out a tight smile through his enunciated words.

“Alright then. I will be choosing your partners for you and there will be no switching. Complain and email me about it and it will result in an automatic fail.” Sensing his stern tone, no one dared utter as much as a single moan of disapproval.

Professor Powell had a reputation for being one of the strictest teachers in the entire school, and it didn’t come without a reason. Within the first week of the semester, nearly half of the students always dropped his class. Although the reasons ran few and far between the inflexible grade curve and his borderline terrifying aura, not a single person doubted his raw ability and talent in the field of music. He was a legend and to learn under him was an honor in and of itself.

You were eternally grateful that you were able to get on his good side from the first time you encountered him at your audition, but that didn’t stop him from pushing equally, if not, even harder, than the rest of his students. His ardent passion for music and methods of teaching were of a caliber you’d never witnessed before and from the moment you stepped inside his classroom, you knew he would ignite and fuel your love for music more than flaming embers themselves.

“I will call your names in pairs and you will come up, sign your names on this sheet, and collect your partner record sheets. On this sheet, you will write down the dates and hours in which you have spent working on the assignment together—” he emphasized, “—and the progress you have made if any. Details of the project will be explained once everyone is all paired up.”

He began calling out random names in couples of two. The process of walking down the tiered seating, awkwardly greeting each other, signing names, and trudging back to their seats became so repetitive, you didn’t even notice that your name wasn’t called.

The professor's voice boomed once more, snapping you out of your daze. “If you were not called, please come see me after class.” Instantly, the people who shared your classes all turned to face you like a stack of falling dominos. Was it really that obvious? You weren’t aware that anyone knew your name, let alone the fact that you even existed.

Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, you tried to ignore the feeling of burning stares as you listened intently to what Professor Powell had to say next. You even went as far as taking notes to try and distract yourself from the eyes that lingered.

“This project is all about vulnerability.” His choice of words was surprising. Rather than go with the trust and teamwork trope, he decided to play the liability card. “You and your partner will be responsible for constructing an entirely new piece that embodies your two souls as musicians.” The sudden and clearly obvious attempt at being dramatic caused a couple chuckles to erupt from the room, making the professor laugh lightly as well.

“The piece should be a mixture of classical piano and may or may not involve the use of the composition majors’ programs or software. The time limit is a maximum of six minutes and the bare minimum is two. The piece needs to be one that constitutes who you are as artists,” he articulated. “The audience needs to see—feel—who you are through the music. Your happiest and most beautiful memories, your deepest secrets, and even your most painful experiences. Therefore, this requires you to get to know each other not just as musicians and creators but as human beings. Everything needs to be laid out on the table.”

Holding his hands behind his back, he started pacing slowly across the classroom, intent on making sure that the class understood the magnitude of importance this project encompassed. “You will argue, laugh, smile, cry, and you may even want to tear each other’s throats out with your teeth like feral packs of starving wolves—but know this; no matter the journey or path you choose to venture on, I guarantee that you will all come out of this as stronger musicians and even better artists.”

Everyone was nose-deep in their notebooks, jotting down each and every single word that came out of the professor’s mouth in an effort that it would secure them a better grade. Of course, you knew better than anyone that success in this class was never shown—it was earned.

“The deadline is the same week as finals and each piece will be performed in the school’s concert hall.” Looking around at the already-tired and worn out students, he opted to be the bearer of good news for the day. “I’ll be nice and let you all out early today,” he chuckled. “Go on and—”

Even before he finished his sentence, everyone was scurrying out of the class like a pack of rabid wolves eager for a new hunt. Sighing in exhaustion from the night before, your eyes wandered around the vacant classroom and settled on the black hooded figure sat across the room. Startled to see that he was glaring at you, you started hiccuping. Picking up your bag, you panicked and hurried to the front of the classroom, remembering what your professor had said about not having your name called.

“Professor?” you peeped quietly, already anxious at what he was going to say.

Pausing the shuffling of his papers, he turned to face you. “Ah, _____,” he noted. Beckoning to someone behind you, you could only assume the worst as the sound of scuffling feet made its way to you. “You will be working with Yoongi for this project.”

An audible gulp escaped when you tried to swallow down your apprehension. Facing the figure that was now standing beside you, he had taken off his hood, leaving his messy beige blonde hair exposed in all its glory. Now that you were standing close to him, you even saw the glint of a small hoop earring when the sunlight bounced off of his ear. You forced out an apprehensive smile and held out your hand as a greeting. The passing silence gave you an opportunity to study his facial features as well. With smooth pale skin, angular cat-eyes, and a soft but chiseled face to tie it all together, it would be a sin to deny that he was indeed good looking.

‘Heartbreaker,’ you immediately thought.

“I’m _____,” you greeted as warmly as you could, given the tension in the air. Why was he acting like you’d just kidnapped and hopped past three state borders with his pet hamster? Exactly four seconds had passed, (yes, you counted) and he simply raised an eyebrow at your feeble attempt at a civilized handshake. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his hoodie, making you wonder if he was too lazy to pull them out or if he acted like this with the general population. To save your already-bruised ego, you opted to go for option C. Maybe his hands were cold.

Still quirking an eyebrow at your hand, you quickly lowered it, looping your finger under the strap of your backpack to hide your embarrassment. “I’m aware,” he commented dryly. Furrowing your brows slightly, you tried not to show your evident confusion. Had you two met before?

“Ahem. _____, I’d like to politely introduce you to Mr. Min Yoongi; your equal in my composition class,” the professor filled in, trying to ease the tension. “He is another one of the school’s prodigies and my star students, so I thought it’d be best if the two of you partnered together for this project. Seeing as you two excel greatly in your respective fields and are of the highest ranking in your major, it should be a breeze.” Professor Powell drawled out the last word, making you quirk your head. His tone was too sarcastic for your liking.

“Pleasure,” Yoongi said with a hoarse purr in his voice, lifting his chin as a makeshift nod of acknowledgment, you pressed your lips together tightly in response. He still had his hands tucked in his pockets. When you turned back to Professor Powell, he had already gathered his things and was waving goodbye, the closing whoosh of the door leaving you alone with the cold embodied demon of a boy. Great.

“Do you want to—” You tried to initiate a conversation but were cut off by his immediate words.

“Here’s my number. Text me when you want to work on the project. Don’t bother if it’s about anything else.” With a sullen and near spiteful tone, he handed you a torn piece of paper with a scribble of numbers on it. Just as you were about to ask him if he had time today, he was already out the door.

You scoffed. “What the hell is his problem?” you seethed. It wasn’t like you had crossed paths with him, nor were you aware of any instances in which you’d even met him. Hell, you didn’t even have any friends.

Examining the bundle of scribbles on the torn piece of paper, you begrudgingly added the number into your phone.

“Min...” You began typing but smirked when another nickname came into mind. “Min Salty.” Not the best nickname you could’ve come up with, but wasn’t any worse than his shitshow of an attitude. Raking your hands through your hair in sheer frustration, you told yourself to calm down and compose yourself. You had to push through for the project. This grade meant everything and you’d be damned if you let some jerkwad of a pre-pubescent boy mess it up for you.

Two weeks passed and you had yet to speak to Yoongi about the project. You could have messaged to him as soon as he gave you his number, but each time you typed up a text to send, it ended up being saved as a draft. Your pride mocked you, asking questions like, “Why hasn’t he texted you?” or “Why should you be the one to text first?” In reality, it didn’t matter who texted who and it was past the line of being childish. If that was the case, then why couldn’t you just press the stupid fucking send button?

In actuality, you were the least bit ashamed to admit that you were intimidated by him. Whenever you tried to approach him in the hallways during passing periods, you were met with a menacing glare that made you curl back into your shell like a hermit crab. On top of that, whenever you did manage to single him out in the crowded parts of the campus, he’d oh-so-conveniently start walking in the exact opposite direction, almost as if he was purposely avoiding you.

Then the fateful day came when you gathered all the courage you could muster and caught him strolling into the on-campus café. You had him cornered. Entering the comfy bistro, the familiar chime of bells and the warm scent of ground coffee welcomed you with open arms.

Searching through the crowded tables, your eyes landed on a single person sitting alone by the window booth. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Perching his hand under his chin while looking through the clear glass, his eyes bore the same expression as they did when you first met them; rigid and burning with intensity, yet lost and precarious. When he turned his head around, his stare widened for a moment when he noticed you. Quickly ducking down, you shifted your jaw and huffed. Did he think you were blind or something?

Puckering your lips, you marched over to the booth while feigning conviction in your walk. Fake it until you make it, right? At least, that’s what all the cool kids used to say...

“Hi,” you greeted as you sat down. Yoongi’s eyes refused to me yours and kept writing down notes, choosing to maintain his focus on his laptop screen. “Hey,” he replied curtly. Biting down on your lower lip, you pulled out your laptop and began talking about the project. It wasn’t worth it to pick a fight today. You had a project to start.

“So I was thinking—”

“I have to get to my next lecture,” he droned, voice completely null and void of any detectable honest emotion. “Text me later.” Jotting down something quickly in his notebook, he folded up his stuff and practically shoveled it into his bag before getting up and running off.

“But—” you sputtered. But of course, he was already out the door. Judging by his short paces and urgency to get as far away from you as possible, he was probably skittering halfway across the campus by now.

Clenching your jaw, you bit down as hard as you could on your teeth as if you were getting stitches without anesthesia. What the actual hell was his problem? Did you say something that offended him? Were you secretly the reincarnation of someone who murdered him in his past life? Then you found yourself asking the same question once again: Had you even met him before this semester?

Hunching over the table, your fist slammed down on the wooden surface, earning a few judgmental stares here and there from bystanders. Complain to the professor and get a fail. Partner with Min Yoongi and get a fail. “Work” with Min Yoongi and get a fail because the word itself would entail absolutely nothing, therefore, nothing would actually ever get done.

It was at that moment you realized that you were absolutely and royally fucked.

Another week passed and you were already past the point of giving up. You managed to catch Yoongi a few more times and have a 15-second conversation with him before he bullshitted that he had a lecture to go to.

Yoongi was intentionally avoiding you. The best part?

You hadn’t a single clue why. Even though it was pointless to mope around and sulk like a wilting houseplant, you still made it to your daily self-practice sessions. Strangely enough, your professor never made any well-timed entrances during the midst of your playing, making you wonder whether it was because of the project or if he was simply busy with other things.

After three weeks of stressing out over the project that you hadn’t even started yet, a night well-spent in the practice room seemed like the perfect way to blow off some steam. Sure, playing while you were at your happiest and most joyful was the most enjoyable experience, but grazing and striking down on the keys while you were holding something deep inside of you was something entirely different. It was almost an out-of-body release; physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Once you were trapped in the practice room for a couple of hours and finished pounding out your frustrations, (and hearing the growl of your stomach) your mind was exhausted and spent. You could’ve sworn that you heard a distant humming of music coming from the room next door, but maybe it was just your ears playing tricks on you. No one else was ever here at this hour...

When it didn’t fade after a couple seconds, you started to get creeped out. Poking your head through the crack of the door and into the dimly lit hallways, you looked left and right as you tried to find the source of the humming. Were the ceiling pipes leaking? A minute of trying to think of what the sound could be when a loud thump reverberated four doors down from yours.

Tip-toeing carefully to the slightly ajar door, you crinkled your face each time your shoes squeaked on the floor. Now that you were in front of the door, the humming and thumping wasn’t actually just white noise, but rather the sound of a melodic chorus playing from inside.

The euphonious sound of the piano and an added bass made your eyes drift shut, the harmony of the notes slowly lulling you into a trance of serene relaxation. You couldn’t hold back your curiosity any longer. Telling yourself you’d regret it later, you stood up from your hunched position and glanced through the clear pane of the door. Moonlight streaked into the enclosed space and onto the glossy shell of the piano, bouncing off and reflecting onto the face of a person.

Min Yoongi.

Your mouth parted in surprise. Why was he here this late? Did he compose this himself? Was this for the project? A plethora of questions suddenly plagued your mind—but the most prominent of all presented itself on a silver platter.

Why wasn’t he playing?

You narrowed your eyes and blinked forcefully, trying to see if your eyes were deceiving you. There was music playing and it was, in fact, coming from this exact room. However, his hands were resting comfortably on his lap and his eyes seemed to be staring with disdain at the instrument.

“It must be coming from the speakers...” you thought. “Of course, it’s coming from the speakers, you idiot...”

The music suddenly shifted in tone; the bass became heavier, the tempo quickened, and a synth pad followed an orchestra of strings. As the piano keys slowly thinned out into a hushed melody, it went from being the main instrument at the start of the piece to nothing more than background static.

With each passing section, the piece became darker as the once soothing melody became distressed and tortured. Yoongi was sitting as calmly as ever in the leather chair of the piano. Resting with a slight hunch in his back, his head was leaning to one side as he continued to stare ominously at the uncovered black and white keys.

When the piece reached the end of its crescendo, the tune ended abruptly without a brighter finishing section or lively coda. It was over. At the same moment, Yoongi’s blank gaze found its way to yours. He blinked out of his sullen daze and when your eyes met each other’s you could’ve sworn his eyes were watering. Remembering that your mouth was still parted, you clamped your jaw shut and widened your eyes. Then, without giving it a second thought, you sprinted down the hall and ran across the campus back to the dorms.

For the rest of the night, you couldn’t find it in yourself to fall asleep. Every fiber of your being tossed and turned throughout the night as your mind desperately tried to repress the question. Hours of sweating, shuffling around in the blankets, and a couple bathroom trips later, you kicked off the covers and placed your hand on your burning forehead. It was no use—the question burned a hole inside your heart like a raging fire that showed no signs of extinguishing.

What was Min Yoongi hiding?

Throughout your life, you hadn’t had the honor of meeting many people who had infuriated you half as much as Min Yoongi did. The end of another unproductive week was nearing and you had yet to start on the project. Enough was enough.

Throwing your things into your backpack, you thanked your teacher for the class and then proceeded to dash across the lawn to the Bungalow Building. Weeks of constantly trying to find Yoongi and catch him by the collar after class had left you with detailed knowledge of his schedule and classes. Others may call it stalking, but you preferred to call it chance determination.

Standing outside door 240, you stood anxiously on your heels while you waited for the students to pour out. When they did, you peeked in to see Yoongi slouched on his desk, clearly in no hurry judging by how sluggishly he was collecting his things. It was now or never.

Waving a small greeting and excusing yourself for entering the classroom, you gestured to Yoongi in the hopes that the professor would understand. Thankfully, she simply smiled in return and carried on with her business of gathering papers.

You practically skipped like a child to where he was sat, satisfied at the revelation that he had nowhere to run. Standing over his desk, you slammed your palms onto his table and made him jump at the sudden impact. His eyebrows turned into a questioning frown and he stared at you with a vacant expression.

“We’re working on the project today.” Stating your main point firmly, his mouth opened to say something, but you weren’t letting him win today.

“Don’t say that you have to get to a lecture because I know damn well that this was your last class for today. Professor Powell told me that you don’t work so you don’t exactly have a job that you need to go to, so you can cross that off of your excuse list, too,” you rambled.

His mouth was still parted open, but his face suddenly morphed into an awestruck smirk. Your heart was pouring out the never ending buckets of frustration and humiliation, and at this point, it was evident to you that your emotions had full control over your head.

“To add to that, our project is due in three months and we have spent the past month doing absolutely nothing, and I’m not sure about you, but I don’t exactly plan on failing this class because my asshole of a partner hates my guts for some godforsaken unknown reason.”

Taking a moment to take in a much-needed breath of air, Yoongi shut his mouth and nibbled on the inside of his cheek in order to hold back a cocky grin. Darting his tongue out to wet his lips, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and stood up, height now towering over you.

“I was going to say that I got started on the first subject,” he grinned with pure insolence saturating his voice. Studying your reaction with heavy eyes, he raised his eyebrow for a split second as arrogance practically seeped from every speck of his face.

His unintentional actions and fully intentional methods of provoking you all these weeks had indeed tested your patience, but also helped you grow a thick skin to rebuke his antics. All you could do was clench down on your jaw and compel yourself to grin.

“Off to the café then?” you offered, voice sounding a little too sweet for your own good. Shrugging nonchalantly, he trailed behind you as the two of you began en route to the place where you would hopefully manage to get something done. Strong emphasis on hopefully.

As you eyes grazed over the waves of notes, you could only bear an expression of awe and amazement; the chorus was breathtaking.

“You wrote this?” you coughed, nearly sputtering out your coffee.

Swishing his drink around his mouth carelessly, he gave you a curt nod.

“Why didn’t you–you should’ve called or—” Your brain was short circuiting like a cheap computer monitor as you tried to find the right words to say. “This is supposed to be a group project, we have—”

“I work better alone.” He stated it as if it were a fact that everyone with common sense knew by heart.

Gulping down another mouthful of your scorching hot drink, you told yourself that the burning sensation was just the liquid courage doing its work, gathering the confidence to carry on the conversation. “Is this what you were playing in the studio the other day?”

In the process of bringing the porcelain cup to his lips, he froze halfway. His Adam's apple bobbed and he licked his lips before setting the cup back down. “I wasn’t playing...” he replied quietly, staring at his hands that were now fumbling in his lap.

Tension immediately filled the air as you ran out of things to say. “Do you hate me?” you asked bluntly. Judging by the way his eyes shot up immediately and widened, you took it as a sign that he was taken aback by your straightforward and bold query.

“I—” he stuttered. “I don’t—”

Seeing the way his tongue tangled on his words made you let out an amused chuckle. It was the first time you’d witnessed his cool guy image crack. Gaining newfound confidence at the way he crumbled, you leaned forward and leaned your cheek against your hand, propping up your elbow.

“Why?” you asked simply. There had to be some kind of reason, right?

“I don’t hate you,” he answered firmly, his cold personality resurfacing once again. “Can we get back to the project now?”

Narrowing your eyes at his defensive attitude, you opted to go for your second icebreaker. “What were you doing alone in the studio that late?”

Yoongi’s eyes remained stone cold when he spoke. “What were you doing in the studio that late?” he retorted. His smart mouth made you want to wipe the table with his smirking face.

Deciding to drop the topic, you bit your tongue to told back the flurry of curse words that would definitely explode if you opened your mouth. “What do you want the theme for the piece to be?” Thinking quick on your feet, you remembered that you had an assignment to work on.

“Do you usually write—” you paused to try and think of a way to say it that wouldn’t offend him. “—mellow tempo songs?”

“If you’re asking if I only write depressing shit, the answer should be obvious,” he spat out harshly. You swore his mood changed quicker than the water pressure in your dorm shower.

“I just wanted to get to know you as a person. What kind of music you like to listen to, the genres you prefer to write—” you rambled nervously, trying to back up your earlier question.

Slamming down his cup onto the table, you were couldn’t tell what surprised you more—the fact that the cup didn’t shatter or that he was already ticked off. “How about you stop acting like you’re genuinely interested in getting to know me for the sake of a fucking project and focus on getting this shit done as soon as possible?” he hissed through a locked jaw.

You couldn’t hold back the nasal huff that came out. “I’m not—”

But before you could defend yourself, Yoongi had already collected all of his things and stood up. Gritting his teeth, you could practically smell the smoke coming off of his head.

“Practice room 2B at 3:00 tomorrow. Don’t be late.” With the meetup sounding more like a threat than anything, he turned away and strolled out without as much as a second glance.

For as long as you could remember, you’d always been a fighter. Hardheaded would be another word for it, but you were too stubborn to even admit that. When the teacher finished up summarizing the lecture and thanked the class for their attendance, your heart instantly felt heavier. Each step you took closer to the designated practice room felt like trekking in quicksand. Why did you always seem to suffocate at the thought of Yoongi?

Occupied by your racing thoughts, you were already at the front of the practice room. Cracking open the door, your eyes instantly landed on Yoongi. He was sitting in front of the piano with an unreadable expression. Sorrow? Pain? Anger? Today, he was wearing a graffiti patterned black hoodie—with the hood slung over his head, of course—and his signature distressed jeans.

Coughing lightly, your presence broke him out of his trance. Raising his head to you in the same half-ass nod he gave you at your first meeting, you brushed it off, grateful that he even acknowledged you at all.

Yoongi stood up and pulled out a separate chair, placing it beside the piano so that it was a healthy distance from you and the instrument. Thanking him silently for giving you the leather seat, he took out a few pages of blank sheet paper and placed it on top of his notebook.

“Do you want to play what you came up with?” he asked dryly, clearly already bored out of his mind. Clearing your throat out of habit, your hands started to fumble with each other as your nerves washed over you yet again.

“Here’s the thing...” you started, chuckling awkwardly. “I’m really bad at composing structured pieces?” The confession came out in the form of a question rather than a fact due to your high-pitched voice. It took you by surprise when he didn’t interrupt you this time around.

Assuming you weren’t finished with your statement, Yoongi kept his eyes glued on you with an eyebrow raised. God, you could practically drown yourself in the amount of hypercriticism he emitted.

“But I’m pretty sub-par at improvising,” you quickly said, hoping you would be able to make it at least two minutes without getting on his bad side today.

Leaning back into his chair, he set his notebook down and crossed his arms. “Go for it,” he exhaled, gesturing to the piano with a jut of his chin.

With cold hands, scratchy throat, a racing heart, and nerves that almost made you hiccup, your fingers touched the keys and instantly made you feel at ease. Closing your eyes, you stroked over the smoothly glazed plaques of wood and breathed in deeply, tuning out your surroundings like the flick of a light switch.

You started off with a soft waltz; simple, light, and sweet. The tune took you back to the days of your first piano lessons with your mother, the gentle melody making the memories of your carefree childhood resurface like swirls of smoke.

Improvising the second subject, you found yourself playing a much darker and somber chorus than you usually did. As you began pressing into the keys with an urgency you didn’t know you had, your memories became melancholy, bringing you to the times in high school; the long nights when you would walk through the empty field and think about what you wanted in life; the endless days when you felt lost; the feeling of emptiness that still lingered within you to this day.

“Everything needs to be laid out on the table,” you professor’s words echoed in your head like a broken record.

Coming to the end of the phrase, your mind wandered to the future, envisioning a life where you would not only be successful and make lots of money, but have a career in your field of passion; one where you could spread your love of music with others and maybe help them find themselves as well.

Transitioning smoothly into the familiar style you usually stuck with, the lighthearted song filled the room like morning fog. Soon enough, the piece came to an end, and you were left in the quiet space that was the studio. Your fingers still lingered on the keys, the tingling sensation of satisfaction and self-accomplishment lasting for only as short as the piece had gone by.

Finally pulling away from the keyboard, you turned your head to see Yoongi studying the piano with a half-lidded gaze. Snapping his head out of his trance-like state, he swallowed tentatively and nodded his head.

“You were right,” he started. “You are pretty sub-par at improv.”

You took slight offense to his harsh and judgmental tone, but when you the smirk creep up on the corner of his lip, you punched his shoulder jokingly.

“Ass...” you mumbled, making him let out a ghost of a chuckle as well in response. Raising his hands up in defense, he shrugged his shoulders and made a playful expression. Was it you or did his mood just do a full 180?

Looking down into your lap, you massaged your hands habitually, the remnants of tingling nerves and rushing adrenaline still coursing through your fingertips. Whenever you were around Yoongi, moments between speaking always felt like ominous intervals before the next argument or uneasy pauses filled with dread, but the previous five seconds was a scene you’d pay a million dollars to relive over and over again.

“So, what does the genius Min Yoongi have in mind for the finalized piece?” you wondered out loud, taking his momentary decent mood as an opportunity to spark up a civil conversation for once. Rubbing the back of his neck, he hung his head and stared at the ground awkwardly as his tongue prodded the inside of his cheek.

“That’s his thinking face…” you noted. For some reason, you had a gut feeling that you’d become well-acquainted with it by the end of the semester.

“Let’s just start from the beginning,” he replied, speaking more to himself than to you. Reorganizing the sheets of paper on his lap, he twirled his pencil in his hand and began scribbling down a series of notes. After a couple minutes of craning your neck at an uncomfortable angle to see what he was writing down, he placed the page onto the music rest in front of you.

Your jaw nearly unhinged from its socket.

Pointing at the fully marked sheet of paper, you were able to make out the sections of music you heard that night when he was alone in the practice room as well as parts of the improvised piece you had just played a mere few minutes ago.

“How the hell did you do that…” you spoke softly, staring in complete awe. Raising an eyebrow as if you had just asked what color grass was, it took him a few seconds before he comprehended your question.

“Oh. I’m pretty good at memorizing music,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Tucking your chin down and staring at him with an ‘are you being serious right now’ expression, your jaw was still agape. “Yoongi, you memorized and transcribed a piece that I practically pulled out of my ass and combined it with yours perfectly.”

When you tried to emphasize each word so that he would be able to understand your shell-shocked state, he just shrugged. You even counted the four words you dragged out on your fingers, but he could have cared less.

“Like I said,” he spoke with a pout. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But—" you stuttered.

Cracking his neck to stop you from blubbering any more nonsense, he pointed to the page in front of you. “Do you want to get this project started or what?” Nodding a little too enthusiastically for your own good, the two of you went to work on the piece.

Days blurred into weeks as you and Yoongi started to warm up to each other. Some days, you’d find yourselves getting overwhelmed by the blurred papers of notes and out-of-tune chords, and the only way you refrained from murdering each other was to take long breaks. Sometimes you’d talk and other times it’d just be five minutes of painful silence.

“It’s not right,” Yoongi huffed to himself. Running his hands through his hair, he slanted his head and scowled at the piano.

Freezing your hands and hovering over the keys you’d just played, you felt your mouth go chalky. “Are you– do you mean the chord or– the way I played it?” you squeaked, not entirely used to his unpredictable temper tantrums.

Waving his hands assuringly, he shook his head. “No, no, no, it’s not you,” he grumbled. “You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.”

Blinking at his suddenly gentle temperament and caring response, you sat still for a few more seconds while he paced around the room with his copy of notes in hand. Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you played from the beginning section of the excerpt, but rather than play the entire measure with the assigned minor chord, you switched a couple bars to their equivalent major key. This, in turn, caused the formerly sullen and melancholic tune to shift into a brighter and happier theme.

The slight change in scale made Yoongi’s ears perk up like a cat. Walking back over to where you were sat, he gestured with his hands in a circled scooping motion, urging you to repeat whatever you just did. Holding back a snort at his childish reaction, you shook your head and grinned as you replayed the excerpt.

Furrowing his brows in confusion, he looked at his sheets and at the keys you’d changed, moving back and forth between the keyboard and his notes. “Hmph...” he hummed against his throat. “Nice job.” Erasing a few of the notes and copying them down onto his paper, he tapped the sheet with the end of his pencil and waited for you to continue playing.

Nostrils flaring at the plain and seemingly backhanded compliment, you squinted your eyes and pushed out a forced toothless smile and accepted the recognition nonetheless.

“Yoongi?” Your voice came out hesitant.

Not looking up from the paper he was doodling on, he let out a faint 'hmph.’

“Why don’t you play?” The question came out in a whisper quiet enough not to disturb a sleeping baby.

Yoongi’s breath hitched in his throat immediately as he clenched his pen. Balling his other hand into a fist, his knuckles turned white at the sheer force, and his jaw muscles tensed with a ripple. Slamming his pen down, the crack of plastic could be heard throughout the room.

“I don’t play.” Although his answer was short and simple, his unnerving tone said otherwise.

“Bullshit,” you called out instantly. “Everyone in comp plays and you know the theory for it better than anyone.”

“Anymore,” he added, teeth gritting as his fist crumpled the piece of paper he was writing on.

“Why?” you asked mindlessly. He wasn’t getting away from you this easily. There had to be a reason.

“I just don’t, okay?!” he shouted all of a sudden. Shooting up from his seat, he lashed out at you with malice, hostility dripping like a deadly venom that had no antidote.

Collecting his things, he stomped out of the room and made sure to slam the door on his way out, leaving you alone in the room you had gotten too used to being by yourself in. Tears began to prickle your eyes but you swallowed them down along with the growing lump in your throat. You didn’t have a single reason to cry, let alone for him, so why did it seem like your emotions were betraying you?

Hiding in the alley next to the music building, Yoongi leaned against the cold brick wall for support. Breathing heavily, his throat was as dry as sandpaper and his tongue felt like it was superglued to the roof of his mouth, while his shaky hand was pressing on his chest, willing himself to calm down.

His pulse was racing faster than the engine of a sports car and it felt like his heart was pounding so hard against his ribcage that it was about to shatter. Each time he inhaled deeply, it was as if he didn’t have room to exhale and his lungs felt like they were balloons one single puff from bursting.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he counted backward from ten. The aching lump in his throat made its way up to his eyes as the budding tears made his eyes glassy.

“It’s not working,” he pointed out to himself. “Why isn’t it fucking working?”

The hands that were always buried inside his hoodie, still and unmoving were now shaking violently like drops of water on a burning hot and oiled pan. A gut-churning feeling began bubbling in his stomach as the visceral reaction at your statement triggered him into a full-blown panic attack.

“Just fucking breathe,” he panted, struggling to not choke between gulps of air.

Everything around him started to feel heavy as his limbs nearly collapsed under him like a row of dominoes. Bending down into a crouching position, he supported himself against the wall and tucked his head into his knees.

“It’s okay,” he told himself. “You’re okay.”

Squeezing his hands with a painful and near numbing amount of pressure, Yoongi took a few more deep breaths until his tears dried into stains on his cheeks.

Never again...

Slamming your fingers onto the chord, annoyance began to take over like a plague. This was the 44th time Yoongi had made you play the last segment of the piece. Forty. Fourth. He hadn’t asked you to, no, no no—he quote on quote “agitatedly requested” it.

“Yoongi,” you sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose as your elbows slammed onto the keys, producing a sickeningly unpleasant and revolting sound. For some reason, it actually made you feel relieved to hear a different sound that wasn’t the same set of chords that you’d been repeating or Yoongi’s incessant badgering.

“We’ve been trying to fix this for two hours straight and I’m sure nothing’s in need of fixing,” you reasoned. “Can we please just take a two-minute break?” Wincing unconsciously, your face contorted into a pained expression as you massaged your burning fingers and aching forearms.

There were three sections of the piece. Yoongi decided to construct the format based off of what a sonata would be; the exposition, development, and recapitulation. It was also fancy talk for a lively beginning, depressing middle, and a combined ending of the two.

If playing the 6-minute piece wasn’t torture enough, it was your genius idea to incorporate a thrilling finishing coda, which was basically a shitstorm of flying hands with steroid-filled trills, arpeggios, and staccatos. Therefore, it was safe to say that the last section of the entire piece was the most intense.

Although the test of stamina and muscle memory was also at play, Yoongi’s tastes in voicing certain keys and your style of playing couldn’t have been more different. You soon learned that his pieces required varieties of slow, soft and drawled out notes as well as hard and borderline violent slams of keys without any pedals. You also discovered that depending on the day, he was open to letting you have more creative freedom in playing with the tones and tempos, but today was not one of those days.

“Fine,” he grumbled, his voice making it evident that he hated nothing more than being hindered in his work process because of someone else’s problems.

Sighing in thanks, you spread your fingers apart into an outstretched position and accidentally cracked a few joints, hissing unexpectedly at the shooting pain that resulted from the action. Knitting his eyebrows into a quizzical frown, Yoongi sat down next to you without warning, startling you to scoot aside.

“Give me your hands,” he said. Guarding your hands close to your chest, you shot him a questioning stare before he rolled his eyes and grasped your wrist gently.

Letting out a pained yelp, you thought you saw his jaw clench in anger, but the facial tick disappeared as soon as it had appeared. Without saying anything, he began massaging your hands, relaxing your tense muscles.

Contorting your face at the soothing yet painful acupressure, you struggled to speak through the pain. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” His eyes remained on your hands, examining them while kneading them as if they were finely carved marble sculptures. Whenever you tried to pull your hands away, he tsked at you and kneaded extra firmly into a particularly sore spot.

After a couple moments of silence, Yoongi was the first to speak. “Does Powell know?” You tilted your head, confused at his question.

Sighing, he paused his calming rubbing and lifted your hand up and held it still. Your eyes widened. It was impossible.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you laughed dryly, playing it off as a misunderstanding.

There was no way he knew.

“_____—” he spoke softly but you were the one to cut him off this time. Snatching your hand away from him a little too harshly, you turned back to the pages laid in front of you.

“Let’s get back to the piece,” you warned. Your sudden frigid tone made Yoongi swallow uneasily. It was the first time you had spoken to him in that kind of manner and even he was taken aback. He didn’t want to make you feel any more exhausted than you already were so he dropped it.

There was absolutely no way that he knew anything.

The red lights of your alarm clock flashed 10:57 p.m. Safe in the comfort of your cruddy single-student dorm room, you were in the process of brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed.

Dancing and hopping around like a maniac to a random indie playlist, your hall mates were away for the week-long school break. You felt it’d be best if you stayed and indulged in the empty campus. It was only a week anyway and the next long break wasn’t until after finals. As a result, the entire block of your dorm was empty and unoccupied, and you were a very happy camper.

With hair was still damp from your shower and wrapped up into a bun, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be a dented mess by tomorrow. You almost swallowed the bubbles of toothpaste when you jumped along with the chorus of the song and the simultaneous buzz and ping of a notification sounded from your bed.

Tilting your head to one side, you contemplated who in the world would be texting you this late at night. Skipping in-beat with the music to your phone, your energetically bouncing shoulders slumped instantly when you read the text.

Min Salty: practice room 1A. i’m dying. [11:01]

You have got to be kidding. It was 11 o’clock on a Friday night and this lunatic was texting you to come and work on the piece? Wasn’t he away for break like everyone else? In the midst of typing out an excuse that you were sick, his name popped up on the screen in the form of a phone call.

Swiping the accept icon reluctantly, you managed to breathe into the microphone before his voice boomed through the speaker.

“Don’t try and bullshit anything, it’ll be quick,” he said bluntly. Did he plant a camera in your room or was he a psychic? “And bring an umbrella.”

With those two bored and uninterested sentences out of his mouth, he hung up on you with the bleep of the dial tone.

“Dick,” you swore. “Fucking dick.” If there was one thing that was certain, it was that your vocabulary had taken on an entirely new spectrum of colors since meeting Yoongi. Contemplating between nestling into the comfort of your warm bed and leaving him hanging, your inner empath wailed at the mere thought of it. It was raining cats and dogs and Yoongi was at the studio? Alone? Did he really not have anything else to do? Was he actually dying?

You groaned internally gave into the guilt that threatened to eat you alive. Throwing on a jacket over your jumper, you reconsidered whether you should put on a bra beforehand, but opted not to. Not only were you freshly showered and too lazy to take off and put on your clothes again, but Yoongi mentioned that it would be quick. Then again, he also said he’d work on the piece with you but we all know how long that ball took to get rolling. It’s not like he took an interest in you bare-faced or well-dressed anyway.

Forgetting that you broke the only umbrella you had last semester, you slung your hood over your face and crossed your arms around your body tightly. It had to be the one damned day it rained in February.

It took you two minutes to sprint from the dorms to the music building and you slipped twice on the wet concrete. You would’ve doubled over, too it if hadn’t been for the rusty lampposts, but regardless, you managed to make it to the building in one piece.

A dull, aching pain spread across the joints of your hands from being exposed to the howling wind and freezing cold drops of rain. Clenching your teeth in a pained grimace, you tucked your hands underneath your armpits in the hopes of keeping them covered until you went inside the studio. You really should’ve asked for mittens for Christmas.

Regret hit you when you realized that not wearing a thick coat might have been a mistake. Peeling the sopping wet jacket from your body, you wrung it out and shook it off, relieved that your sweater underneath was dry for the most part. It probably helped that you had a shirt on underneath, but it didn’t stop you from shivering when you walked into the practice room.

Yoongi was splayed across the couch inside. A couple of the practice rooms were large enough to hold a full-size piano as well as a couch for guests, and you wondered if they were that necessary or the school president was just that spendthrift.

Despite the freezing cold weather, he was still as fashionable as ever. Donning a thin white sweater and frayed black jeans, you scanned around the room to check if he had brought a jacket or coat or some sort. Your suspicions were confirmed when you spotted a bundle of black fabric too large to be a blanket but too small to be a single hoodie. Maybe it was oversized?

“You’re getting the carpet wet,” he mumbled, the throw of the couch wrapped around his body like a swaddle for a baby. His expression was colder than the air that nipped at your bare skin, but there was warmth there. Something you couldn’t grasp. Something flickering.

“I didn’t have an umbrella,” you quipped dryly. Tossing you a towel from thin air, you caught it before it managed to smack your face. Of course he’d aim it perfectly. Maybe he should’ve been a baseball pitcher. You gave him an odd look before trying to pat yourself dry, a fruitless endeavor really seeing as how drenched you were. “What do you want?”

Sitting up straight, he gestured to the unopened piano. “I wanted to hear you play.”

Slumping your neck forward and raising your brows, a scoff of amazement left your mouth. “Are you joking?”

He shook his head. “I was in my dorms alone and I was bored, so I figured why not pull your strings a little and have some fun while we’re at it.”

Your face froze in an expression of utter astonishment and disbelief. “That’s why you called me out in the middle of the night in the pouring rain? To play for you?” A puff of air made its way past your lips.

“And to work on a few details,” he tried to justify.

“This couldn’t have waited until, I don’t know—tomorrow?!” you shouted.

Raising the corner of his lip, he smirked. “I just wanted to talk,” he shrugged, feigning innocence. You wrapped the now-damp towel over your shoulders like a shawl. Seething with agitation, you sat down in front of the piano and took a long, deep breath.

“What would you like to talk about, Yoongi?” Speaking like an adult trying to control their temper while scolding to a child, the only reason you were sitting here was due to the fact that you refused to be near proximity of him. Also your dripping clothes were getting heavier by the minute. The cold wasn’t doing anything for your shivering stature, either.

“About you,” he answered, leaning back into the sofa.

Rolling your eyes, you sat with your hands tucked in between your thighs. They felt like blocks of ice. “If that’s all you called me out here for then I’d be happy to get back to you tomorrow over lunch.”

“Why haven’t you told Powell yet?” he asked frankly with an inquisitive stare.

Your teeth ground like gears in your mouth. “What’s there to tell him about?” you countered, trying to maintain collected.

Yoongi’s gaze darkened as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together in an intimidating manner. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t, frankly, and neither do you,” you corrected him with a stern voice.

“You really don’t think I know?” he scoffed, narrowing his eyes like freshly sharpened daggers. Standing up, he took slow and deliberate steps to where you were sat and cocked his head sideways as he scoffed. Was he being serious right now?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” you repeated robotically, growing increasingly irked at him boring into you like this. Shaking your head in the realization that you didn’t have to deal with this bullshit, you picked up your jacket and stood up to leave. Maybe you’d be in the mood to deal with his antics tomorrow, but today, you were a ticking timebomb.

Spotting the fire he had set ablaze from a mile away, he spun you around by your shoulder and lifted your hand up so that it was the only wall separating both of your faces.

“You really don’t think I know?” he whispered through a clenched jaw.

Tensing your eyes into a glare, your nostrils practically blew off jets of steam as you yanked it down to your side. “Fuck off,” you mumbled. Stomping back to the door, the click of the knob was the thing that completely set Yoongi off.

“What’s going to happen to prodigy _____ when her professor finds out that she has RA?” he sighed, clicking his tongue pitifully between his teeth.

He knows.

With fists balled painfully tight, you felt your body temperature rising by the second. “Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, restraining yourself through tightly clenched teeth. If you bit down any harder, you were sure to hear the crunch of your enamel as if they were a mouthful of potato chips.

“Rheumatoid arthritis at 22,” he enunciated, articulating the medical term around his tongue as to poke fun at a sleeping bear. “What a shame...”

“Oh yeah?” you scoffed, reclaiming your position directly in front of him as you were now drunk with rage, delirium taking over all the common sense you had left. “What about you? Composition major Min Yoongi who doesn’t even play the fucking piano anymore and stays locked up in his studio like the banished Hunchback of Notre Dame? God knows why, huh?”

Running his tongue over his teeth, his smirk now resembled a snarl of frenzy and hysteria. “You want to talk about me?” Pulling down his sleeves angrily and lifting up his arms, you could barely make out the scattered patches of raised skin on the tops of his hands. The lines you assumed to be veins were too light in color and instead textured in the form of scratches, trailing all the way down to his forearms, finishing at his elbows. Looking closely, you could see clearly that they weren’t veins or patches of tanned skin at all—they were scars.

“Picture this: college Yoongi walking to the bus stop after finishing his 8-hour shift. Little did the gullible bastard know that some sugar daddy decided to take a little joyride in the dead of night with two bottles of whiskey in his system.” His deadly bitter tone made goosebumps prickle across your skin.

“Flash forward to half-an-hour later when his professor, of all people, found him knocked out cold in the middle of the street. When Yoongi got admitted into the ER, you know what the doctors said?” he chuckled drunkenly, hands that were balled in fists a mere three seconds ago now hung loosely by his sides.

Huffing briefly, his voice choked as it shifted to one filled with anguish. “We’re terribly sorry, but when he landed after being struck by the collision, his arms absorbed the initial impact and his radial nerve suffered extensive damage. Post-recovery, he may no longer be able to coordinate certain muscles in his hands and fingers.”

It was as if he’d memorized and repeated the post-op summary to himself far long after the accident occurred and it was engraved into his mind like a curse; one he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

You could only stare at his face with a parted mouth, unable to move a single inch.

“It’s actually hilarious if you think about it,” he snorted. “Two of the school’s prodigies dealing with secrets that are big enough to eat away at you like a disease. But it’s not like my life was as nice as yours before I got here, isn’t that right, princess?”

Furrowing your brows as your face morphed into one of pure confusion, you were taken aback at the sudden assumption. “What?”

“Come on,” he grinned malignantly. “Full scholarship, easy money, probably equally supportive and gushy parents, Goody Two Shoes in all of her classes—sounds like a textbook prude in my book.”

“My life—” you choked through a bitter laugh. “I don’t– I am not—” Bile rose in your throat as Yoongi began barking insults at you like an assailant. Sympathy quickly evolved into apathy at the change in direction of the conversation. What point was he trying to make?

Throwing his head back, he burst into a forced fit of wry laughter. “Everything in your life must be fucking perfect, princess.”

“Don’t call me that...” you said through clenched teeth, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the malicious grin that was coating his face. You were trying so hard to feel bad for him after what he’d just told you, but his abusive indignities made it all the more difficult.

Craning his head to one side, Yoongi stared at you with a raised brow, his pearly white teeth peeking through the cocky grin you wanted to slap off more than anything. “My bad, did I press a button?”

“Shut up.” You repeated the response like a mantra in your head, praying that if you said it enough times, it’d come true.

“It’s all beaming white diamonds and unicorns hopping over rainbows for Princess _____, isn’t it?” he seethed, laughter painfully sarcastic.

What the hell was he on?

“I have worked my ass off for everything in my life up until this point you unbelievably cocky, arrogant, narcissistic prick!” you exploded, words unfurling angrily like the tail of a seething dragon. “If you think I was handed the opportunities that I’ve been given on a silver platter, then you could not be more wrong.”

“And now it’s just a couple doctors appointments and a written diagnosis away from being taken away from you, isn’t that right, princess?” he butted in with a satisfied grin.

“Shut the fuck up,” you said louder this time. Blood rushed to your cheeks as you started to feel your nails dig into your palms, almost drawing blood. With white knuckles and a frantically pounding heartbeat, you were two breaths away from throwing a right hook at Yoongi’s pretentious face.

“What the hell is your problem, Yoongi? Is that why you called me here? To chew me out? Annoy me? Berate me? Or does your inner sadist just want to watch me burn because of how bitter you are from the past?” Your voice was an octave away from shouting but his stone-cold expression gave no leeway as to what his intentions were. “Fine. Fine. Just ignore me like you always do because hell if I know what I did wrong!”

The muscles of his jaw tensed again as he parted his lips to speak. “You must be so happy with what you have, princess...” His voice grew timid and hushed at these words but his message was as evident as ever.

“Stop calling me that.” Each word came out through pursed lips and clamped teeth. Leaning into you so that he was directly in your line of vision, his lip curled into a smirk and his eyes flaunted a veil of malicious intent.

“Make me,” he snarled. Never in your life had two words made you more furious than at that exact moment.

“Fuck you, Yoongi,” you spat out, face just centimeters away from his. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, I really am, okay? But you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me, so stop acting like you’re the only one who’s been hurt in the past.”

Moving closer to you in response, you felt his hot breath fan over your lips, making you lean back instinctively.

“I’m not hurt,” he pointed out with venom dripping from his voice. Leaning towards the shell of your ear, his exhaling breath tickled your neck.

“I’m broken, _____...” Yoongi growled your name like a wild animal; vehement, primal, starved and circling his prey. Licking his lips, he edged closer to you with each breath until your back was pressed into the wall. Shoving his chest harshly, his hands came up to slam against the wall behind you, caging you in; you were right where he wanted you.

“Move,” you demanded. Pushing him away again, you were stopped when he grabbed you by the wrist and brought you closer to him, your bodies now pressed dangerously close to each other.

Not having the time to curse at him, your thoughts were halted halfway when he wrapped his free arm around your waist and held you even tighter than before. You didn’t think there was any space left to move any closer to each other, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Glaring at him with nothing but hatred and blind rage, you noticed that his pupils were completely blown with lust. The once brown eyes were now obsidian black as you felt them stare through you like a crystal clear lens.

Whether it was a whirlwind of poor judgment, lack of rational decision-making skills, loss of sanity or a deadly concoction of all three, it didn’t matter because in the blink of an eye, Yoongi’s mouth collided against yours in a frenzied kiss.

Locking his lips onto yours, you couldn’t hold back the audible gasp that escaped. He gripped both of your wrists and pinned them back against the wall and used your moment of surprise to begin exploring your mouth with his tongue.

Caught in the heat of the moment and enraged with sexual tension, you found yourself doing the one thing you swore you’d never do in a million years—you were kissing him back. In a battle of colliding teeth and tangled tongues, your body suddenly rushed with lustful desire you had never felt before.

He gripped your wrists tighter when you tried pulling them down, seeing it as an attempt at asserting control; the thing both of you craved above everything else. He could tell that you were holding back and took it in his best interest to coax you by tugging on your lower lip with his teeth, knowing damn well that they were raw from your habit of biting on them.

Whimpering unconsciously, you felt him smirk against your lips. Another breathless gasp escaped when you hoisted you up by your thighs and carried you to the couch. Your hands were finally free from his grasp, allowing you to tangle your fists into his hair while you locked lips again and tug—hard.

Determined to put up a fight, he let out a gravelly groan against your lips, refusing to submit to your attacks. This time, it was you that grinned. When he pulled away from you for a second to take off his shirt, you found yourself gawking at his body. Yoongi wasn’t on the bodybuilder side of the muscular spectrum, but he was built; the perfect combination of his lean figure and perfectly proportioned muscles almost made you drool.

Swallowing your bubbling excitement, you reached down to the hem of your shirt to mirror his actions but he stopped you. Tearing them away from your shirt, he resumed kissed you hungrily, taking the time to pay attention to your now-red and throbbing lips.

You leaned back and went back to raking your hands through his hair as he started placing wet open-mouthed kisses on your neck, sucking bright burgundy bruises into your skin before trailing down to your throat. With his elbows bracing his body weight, Yoongi rubbed his growing arousal over your center, rolling his tongue across his lip when he felt your heat even through the thick fabric of his jeans.

Nibbling on the junction between your collarbone and pulse point, you inhaled sharply when his teeth grated cruelly against the delicate surface. If anything, the pain made you shiver with pleasure and the sudden sensation caused the heat between your legs to throb with anticipation.

Soon enough, his hands had made their way down to your jeans and were swiftly undoing the buttons and zipper. He grumbled in dissatisfaction when he had to pull away from your lips to try and find the metal clasp, making you giggle in amusement at his concentrated pouty face. The abruptly forceful tug that came from him pulling your pants down your thighs made you scoot down the couch, causing another breathy chuckle to emit from your chest.

With two more pulls, your jeans were tossed haphazardly across the room and strewn lazily on the chair along with Yoongi’s shirt. Reaching for you again, he laced his fingers through yours and brought his face close, breath fanning against your lips teasingly.

“I need you to beg, _____.” You couldn’t filter out how he said your name with an alluringly throaty voice. For what, to take your shirt off? With the same piercing gaze, you couldn’t do anything except breathe heavily. Moving back down to your legs, he repeated the same process of biting and sucking deep purple marks into your thighs, leaving a pattern of blossoming bruises to admire later.

His painstakingly slow but calculated steps made your body writhe in frustration. Your temperature was beginning to rise, making the loose sweater you were wearing stick to your body. It felt like you were sweating bullets. Looking down at Yoongi, you almost jumped when you saw that his eyes were already locked on yours with a shit-eating grin. Studying your tense face with his dark eyes, he continued leaving marks along your thighs and hipbones.

The cheeky fucker was teasing you.

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you swore, pressing your hand against your forehead and shutting your eyes in annoyance. “You win, just fucking do something—anything, God.”

Not wasting another second, he ripped your underwear off and balled it in his fist before tossing it into the pile across the room. Before the cold air got a chance to hit your skin, he delved facefirst into your dripping core, lapping at your pussy as if it was his last meal. You try to contain your moans by cupping one hand over your mouth and using the other to grip the cushion for support, but he guides the one holding back your pleasurable sounds to his hair, clenching it tightly in a silent plea for you to grip harder.

Switching between delicate, broad licks across your entire slit and teasing strokes with the flat-edge of his tongue, you almost screamed when he sucked harshly on your clit, causing you to jolt.

“Fuck—my shirt, Yoongi,” you beg, desperate to pry the clinging fabric off of your sweaty body. It felt like you were being suffocated and you couldn’t tell whether you were lightheaded from the stuffiness of the room or Yoongi’s unforgiving tongue.

“Busy,” he replied, voice coming out muffled because he refused to pull away from your cunt. Hurrying to strip down, you were grateful you decided to forgo a bra earlier.

Your topless state forced Yoongi to direct his attention back up to your body. Licking his lips ardently, you felt yourself gush at the view; your wetness coated his lips and cheeks and glistened down his chin in a sight that was so wrong but felt so right. Diving back into your throbbing core, you felt your body hum with pleasure, the buzz of your orgasm nearing at just an arm’s length away.

Yoongi sensed this by the way you were grinding into his face to gain more friction. Locking his hands around your thighs, he lapped mercilessly at your swollen lips. All rational thoughts flew out the window when he finally slid two of his long fingers into your tight heat and accompanied the deep pumps with torturous sucks. Within moments, your body exploded into a euphoric release of moans and pants as you rolled yourself against his mouth.

When he pulled away on the verge of overstimulation, your hands were still tangled in his blonde tresses. Rather than continue pulling at his roots, however, your fingertips stroked the length of his hair softly, rewarding him for bringing you to your release. Wiping his face with his fingers, your eyes widened when he popped them into his mouth and sucked off what remained—all while keeping his eyes glued on you.

Moving back up to kiss you, you moaned into him when you tasted yourself all over his mouth. Swirling his tongue around yours, Yoongi was deliberate in making sure that you’d taste your release off of him, determined to let you know that he was the only one who would ever be able to make you feel this good.

“I need you, _____,” he murmured into your ear. “Please...” Yoongi spoke breathlessly, the lines of control and carnal need smudging together in a blur of lust and yearning as he tried to control himself.

Still breathing heavily under his caged hold, your heart was still hammering against your chest at a million miles a minute. “Pill,” you replied in a rushed tone, an urgency of longing and eagerness engulf you.

Fumbling with his jeans, Yoongi swore at the metal-ringed belt he decided to wear today. Your shoulders shook slightly as you tried to hold back a giggle. Who knew that the big bad wolf was also the biggest dork in the bedroom? He finally freed himself from his jeans, pulling them along with his boxers down his thighs and causing his muscles to flex with the slightest movement he made.

You found yourself licking your lips at his fully exposed state; the dim lights made his svelte body all the more defined, accentuating the V-line of his abdomen that led to his immaculate member. You weren’t one to go down on your partners for your own pleasure, but something about Yoongi made you want to consume him. Just as you were about to sit up, he read your mind like an open book.

Hovering over you, his lips connected with yours again and pressed you back into the sofa. “Next time,” he assured. “I need you now.” The utter desperation laced in his voice made you whimper against his mouth.

Reaching down stealthily, you gripped him gently and began pumping his hard length with slow, teasing strokes, grinning in satisfaction when he fluttered his eyes shut and moaned at the contact. Spreading the dripping bead of precum over his sensitive slit with your thumb, it took everything you had not to take advantage of his submissive state and blow him. God, you wanted him in your mouth so badly...

Cupping your face with his hands with haste, he kissed you sloppily before guiding his cock into your entrance. Rubbing over your slit with the newly formed bead of arousal that coated his tip, Yoongi’s sense of need grew dangerously desperate; he hadn’t even started and already he didn’t want it to end. Unable to cage your own temptation any longer, you grabbed him by his hips and urged him forward, making him enter you in one swift thrust.

The sudden linking of your two bodies made both of you groan in unison. He was bigger than you thought. The delicious sensation of feeling full and one with Yoongi was already a lot for you to handle—how would you feel once he actually started moving? Reading your expression, he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t read before kissing you again. You needed him to move so fucking bad. Voicing your thoughts physically, you lifted your hips up in the hopes that he would get the message.

After a moment of resistance, he couldn’t contain himself. Pulling out all the way, he bottomed out completely, repeating the action as he began moving against your body with even-timed thrusts. You threw your head back in pleasure at the senses that were being stimulated; the feel of him inside you, the smell of his shampoo and light cologne, the plushness of his lips, the rough texture of his hair, the sounds of your combined moans, and the undeniable feeling of finally being connected.

Every few seconds, he gave you a particularly harsh thrust, making you cup a hand over your mouth to mute your sobs of intense pleasure, but of course, Yoongi absolutely despised it. How dare you silence your melodic moans that he was hellbent on making you produce? Tearing your hand away from your mouth, he laced his fingers through yours and held your throat securely with his other hand, not applying any pressure just yet.

“I need to hear your moans, _____,” he panted heavily, an idle grin grazing over his face as he began pounding into you harder, only choosing to tighten his grip around your throat when your mouth parted in a gasp.

There was your name again. And that word: need. Not want, but need.

Gasping at his stark change of pace, your head lifted off of the cushion, making his hands tense around your throat. “Fuck, Yoongi,” you sputtered out, determined to hold back your moans for as long as you could.

Seeing this, Yoongi’s jaw clenched. Pulling his fingers off of your throat and away from your hands, he cupped your breasts with his large hands and kept his grip firm, refusing to do anything more than that. Two could play at that game.

“Please, _____,” he pleaded, pausing his thrusts and changing to grind painfully slow into you while pinching your nipples between his fingers. Biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin, it was evident that it was pure torture for him and that your pride would be the death of both of you.

Lacing your fingers through his disheveled hair gently, you kissed him deeply, wordlessly telling him that you needed him just as badly—if not, more—than he needed you.

It didn’t take Yoongi more than a second to pick up his relentless thrusts again, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow. You could already tell you weren’t going to be able to walk anytime soon. As you grew tighter around him with each thrust, the two of you became a panting mess of animalistic moans.

Your hands were either clawing red stripes down his bare back or tugging at his hair, while his hands switched off between massaging your breasts and playing with your nipples to holding you by your hips to drill into you harder. When you tugged him down by his hair to your lips, you left a trail of blooming marks along his throat, mirroring the exact same ones he made sure to leave on you. Finalizing your masterpiece by licking a stripe up the side of his pulse point, he grunted into the crook of your neck, snapping his hips instinctually at the fervent sensation.

Clamping his teeth down on your neck, your core clenched around him immediately, digging crescents into his biceps with your nails to grip onto whatever sanity you had left. Releasing your breast and replacing it with his warm mouth, his hand moved down to rub quick circles on your clit, making you scream with pleasure. Thank God for soundproof walls.

“Yoongi—” you sputtered, no longer able to form coherent words.

Switching to the other breast, he sucked at the neglected nipple and swirled his tongue around the bud tantalizingly, begging you to cum.

“Cum for me, _____,” he ordered. And with a single word, you gasped sharply as you erupted into a surge of pure bliss. Sheer ecstasy overtook your senses like a high you couldn’t get enough of. The satisfying heat of your release spread from your lower abdomen to your panting chest, rising up to form the post-orgasm glow on your face that had Yoongi under your spell.

“_____,” he moaned deeply. His eyes were screwed shut in utter bliss as his thrusts became uneven and urgent, signaling his release. The fact that you were still clenching around him made him let out muffled whimpers into your neck and the vibrations of his throaty gasps made you hum in delight.

“Cum for me, Yoongi,” you edged, repeating the words that he spoke mere moments ago while holding him close. On the brink of overstimulation, he bared his mouth in a silent hiss and snapped his hips into you roughly before letting out a guttural groan, burying himself hilt deep. His cock throbbed against your cunt as he came deep inside of you, releasing strings of warmth that coated your walls completely. While still buried inside your heat, he rolled his hips against yours, wanting nothing more than to push his release deep into you so that you knew you were his.

Your insides clenched tightly when his cum dripped out. Pressing a final kiss to your raw lips, his member twitched a few more times before he pulled out slowly, making sure that as much of his seed remained inside of you as possible. Feeling it flow down your ass, you weren’t able to hold back the moan that came when you felt Yoongi collect it with his fingers and push it back inside of you. Your sensitive state caused you to arch your back and prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as he started pumping his fingers.

“Yoongi—” you hummed, rolling your head back as he concentrated on cleaning up your dripping center. Scissoring your combined releases in between his two fingers, he pulled them out slowly, making a string of wetness trail from his fingertips to your cunt. Popping them into his mouth, your jaw dropped as he sucked off the mixture from his fingers deliciously, smirking at your reaction. Right when you were about to comment on his actions, he buried his fingers knuckle-deep back inside you and curled them sinfully, making your breath hitch in your throat.

This time when he pulled out, you grabbed his wrist and guided his sticky fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the unholy essence and humming at the oddly satisfying taste. Yoongi’s eyes remained fixed on you as his tongue darted out to lick off the remaining wetness from his lower lip, desperately wanting to taste whatever remained of your combined highs as possible.

His lips pressed firmly onto yours the moment after your tongue traced a circle around your lips, the earlier battle of clashing teeth and tongues now soft and nurturing; a complete change of mood from earlier.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he chuckled with lips still connected to yours. Smiling against his mouth, you stroked his cheek softly, scooting over as he made room for himself beside you. Reaching over the edge of the couch, Yoongi grabbed the large throw blanket and draped it over your bodies and snuggled into you like a pillow. He wrapped his arms around your body and nuzzled his nose into you while he began placing soft kisses along the valley of your breasts.

Cradling his head tenderly, you ran your fingers through Yoongi’s tousled hair and felt his breaths become calm and even, the soothing action lulling him into a deep slumber. Slowly but surely, you too felt your eyelids droop as the weight of sleep consumed you.

The morning after trope was always a fun story to tell. A gigantic yawn spilled from your mouth as you stretched out your arms like old tree limbs. When your fingertips brushed the cold surface of a wooden headboard, your eyes flew wide open and you sat up like a shot fired from a cannon. Blood rushed to your head immediately as rays of sunlight blinded you, making you scrunch your entire face and smack your hand against your temple.

Your mouth felt dry as a chalky taste coated your tongue, becoming more apparent now that you were fully awake. What time was it? What happened last night? When did you buy black pajamas? Why was it so goddamn sunny?

Groaning, you cocked your head side to side to stretch your cramped neck, probably from sleeping in a position that had you ready to be shipped to Costa Rica. Feeling around the small twin-sized bed, a large puffy white linen blanket covered your body and you looked around to see that you were in one of the dorm rooms.

Minimally decorated and tidy, the only thing that seemed to distinguish the room from an IKEA display was the disarray of papers scattered across the desk and the uncovered digital piano that was set up next to it.

A rustling beside you made you jolt in surprise and clutch the blanket over your body tightly. With eyes the opened to the size of flying saucers, you stretched your neck over the bundled lump of the blanket and could only make out the fuzzy cap of blonde hair. As if your timing couldn’t get any better, a hand suddenly reached from under the crumpled fabric and grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you back down into the warm sheets. Landing on the mattress with a soft thump, your eyes came face-to-face with none other than the sleeping giant himself.

You got into an argument yesterday.

With Min Yoongi.

You had sex last night. In the practice room.

With Min Yoongi.

And you were now wide awake and sharing a bed.

With Min Yoongi.

As if life couldn’t get any better, the slight rustle of sheets beside you slapped you back into reality.

This time, you had nowhere to escape.

you know where to find part 2 ;)

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squeeneyart · 4 years

Text

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 11

AO3

Beta read by @thesnadger!

Martin wants to do the right thing.

It's time to make some phone calls.

Martin resigned himself to a day of catch up. The recent circumstances hadn’t been the most conducive to completing his work tasks, but he was employed for the time being. He would wait for the right time to reopen the can of worms upstairs and in the meantime double down on the figures in front of him. The others went to work as well, going through the records they recovered from the library and verifying some information from the storage house.

After some time, he heard Sasha ask, “Martin? This place used to be a bigger fishing town, right? Before the Lukases showed up.”

Martin thought for a moment. “I don’t think it was that great to begin with? I’m sure they didn’t help, but the problem started long before I was born. There may be some people old enough to remember when things were a bit better, but it’s always been a shaky business despite the proximity to the sea.” He paused, then asked, “Is there a reason you’re looking into this? Doesn’t sound very ghost-related.”

Sasha tapped her pen on the table. “It helps to get a timeline of major events. Even if there are coincidences, a broader historical picture often helps with places where the phenomena are… far reaching.”

“What, did the lighthouse eat all the fish?” Martin laughed, but it quickly died as he continued to think about it. “...Could it do that?”

“Doubtful,” Jon said, keeping his eyes glued to his laptop. “It’s possible the family saw an existing, natural decline in job prospects and swooped in to create an even bigger vacuum they could then fill. Nothing supernatural, just horrid people finding a good opportunity.”

Tim snorted. “While they just so happened to buy and operate a possessed lighthouse?”

Jon looked over his screen. “People can have multiple motivations. For example, Peter Lukas apparently enjoys boating and taking the possessions of others for the fun of it. The two aren’t necessarily related.” His eyes dropped back to his task.

“Fair enough. Maybe someone in the family won it in a bet, then? Swiped it from some evil lighthouse keeper.” Tim wiggled his fingers.

Martin laughed silently through his nose and went back to work, assuming his part of the conversation was completed. If he’d learned anything from the situation earlier that morning, it was to quit before weird personal details about his deadbeat fisherman dad came out and ruined the mood.

The three continued to debate possible motivations and causes, eventually trailing off and lapsing into a focused silence. The scratches of pen on paper mingled with the tapping of the keyboard. It created an arrangement that echoed over itself in a round, filling the space and tunneling upward along the staircase. Despite himself, Martin strained to hear anything that felt out of place, but he could feel no intent in the repetition. It was loud, but it was the normal, unnerving loud he’d become accustomed to over the last few months.

There wouldn’t be anything, as long as he kept the dial in the correct position. Not anything he could perceive, anyway. Were they listening, even if they couldn’t stockpile his words? Were they seething at his decision? Were they-

Martin gritted his teeth, willing himself to focus on the page in front of him. The group would call Naomi soon, and if she responded they would be one step closer to confirming his suspicions. For the time being, he would sit with his churning insides and wait.

Relief came at eleven with his lunch hour, which the others were considerate enough to wait for. He barely tasted the sandwich he’d thrown together that morning. There was a heightened atmosphere spread across him and the others, a buzz of excitement. After hours of necessary but tedious paperwork and discussion, it was time again for action.

Sasha dialed the number and waited, drumming her fingers on a pad of paper in front of her. “Available number,” she mouthed, giving a thumbs up. A few seconds passed, and she frowned and ended the call. “But, of course, it is no longer her number. I would change mine too, if people were tailing me.”

They all slumped in their chairs and braced themselves for a long, slow afternoon as Sasha looked at her pad of paper and dialed the first number on the list of many, many Naomi Hernes.

Some answered with varying levels of politeness, mostly responding with “never heard of the place” or “the name doesn’t ring any bells”. Otherwise, she left a short, scripted voicemail giving little information other than Evan’s name in hopes that Naomi would take the bait. She kept their institute out of it entirely.

When asked why, Sasha explained that this part of the investigation would have to be off record. Evidently, the Magnus Institute encouraged thorough research until it involved digging into its own benefactors. Unless they discovered a lead that didn’t implicate the Lukas family, they would be on their own.

The minutes ticked on, dragging more and more with the lack of success. After thirty minutes of fruitless calls, Sasha said, “It may take a while. We don’t know her schedule or if she’s even on this list. I was able to go off her last recorded location, but that’s about it.” Sasha leaned back in her chair, stretching her shoulders.

Jon pulled his laptop back in front of him. “We’ll need to give her time. If she’s aware of the Lukases keeping tabs on her, she’ll probably be wary of us. Keep going through the list. Tim and I will continue with the rest.”

Martin sat around for the rest of his lunch hour, losing hope with each passing call. He ought to have considered how long it could take to reach her, or that she might not answer at all. Why would she? What reason did she really have to trust a bunch of strangers?

He looked down at his phone, mindlessly flipping between apps before settling on his notes. Under Naomi’s old number was the one for Evan’s mobile, locked safely away in the storage house. Running his thumb up and down the side of his phone, he peeked up at the others through his bangs.

“I know we’re waiting to hear back from Naomi, but-” They looked at him, and he swallowed hard. “We know who it probably is, right? We have something he would know, and we could even-”

“Sorry, Martin, but that’s a big ‘no’ from me,” Tim said, crossing his arms. “If it’s him, he can wait a bit longer. If it’s not, then there could be something bad on the other side that we’re not ready to deal with, something that might even pretend to be him given the opportunity.”

There was an edge to his voice that made Martin shrink sheepishly in his seat. Tim’s face grew soft. “You want to help. I get it, but we should play it safe for now. Once we’re certain of the situation, we’ll do the heroic thing and release his trapped soul or get him out of the sound booth he’s locked himself in or whatever it is that needs to be done.”

Martin nodded glumly and looked back at his phone. After a moment, a notification popped up on the screen.

Tim: and if we get him out and hes as hot as they say he was, then who knows ;)

All the tension in Martin’s shoulders was released with a high-pitched snicker that his hand failed to stifle. The other two turned their gazes on him. Martin’s ears turned beet red at the attention he’d brought upon himself. Jon shot a suspicious glance at Tim, whose broad smile denied nothing.

By twenty minutes to four, there had been no sign of the person they were hoping for, ignoring one response by someone who thought they were being hilarious. Martin had only one task remaining before it was time to leave, and once his things were carefully packed away he walked over to the stairs and placed a hand on the rail. From behind him came the sound of chairs squeaking against hard tile.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the three had all risen from their seats and were shooting surprised looks at each other.

Martin sighed. “I’m just going up for my normal work stuff. I won’t be touching anything I’m not supposed to.” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but if he’d wanted to do anything there in secret, which he didn’t, there was no point in doing so when other people in the building could hear every amplified word.

“Well, I’ll be coming up anyway. Might as well get a better look at what buttons you’re pressing.” Tim jogged over, waving a hand at the other two dismissively and calling over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Keep an ear on the phone and text us if something comes up.” Jon and Sasha, who’d clearly been about to walk over and join them, sat down despite their visible apprehension. Tim started up the stairs, leaving Martin to trail behind.

Before long, Tim began to rely more and more on the handrail to keep his balance. About halfway up the stairs, he held up a hand for Martin to stop and dropped his head.

“Okay,” he said, flexing his grip on the rail. He took a moment to breath. “Okay, I’m good. Damn this place, though.”

When they reached the top, Tim faced the stairs and, at a regular speaking volume, said, “Hello? Tim Stoker to Boss Man.” He waited, then checked his phone. “Huh. Guess sound does have limits in this place. Good to know.” Tim smiled at Martin. “Let’s see those switches, then.”

Martin could see that Tim’s eye was just as drawn to the dial as Martin’s as they approached the panel. Martin slowed down his process, taking care to show Tim what he was doing with the different buttons and knobs, and Tim seemed to be taking notes on his phone.

“If it would help, I have a list of everything I do up here on my desk. My handwriting isn’t the best, but it’s legible.” Martin continued to complete the steps without thinking, allowing muscle memory to take over. “Not that I’ve looked at it super recently. I also have the version in my work contract? But that would have to wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Tim nodded, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Sounds like a plan. Who knows, maybe there’s a hidden ‘I cede my right to file a claim against any injury due to imprisoned spirits’ clause or something in the fine print.” Martin laughed weakly but said nothing. Leaning on the side of the panel, Tim looked at him. “You really think it’s the guy? Evan?”

Martin’s finger slipped, missing a button entirely. “...Yeah. I can’t think of anything else it could be? And I get it, there are some things I don’t know about-”

“Lots of things, actually. Look,” Tim stood up straight, crossing his arms. “I’m not usually the lecturing type, but you seem like a well-meaning guy, and this thing could very well be taking that from your voice and turning it back on you.” There was an unmistakable discomfort, though Tim was doing his best to look authoritative. “You’re not used to this stuff, but most of it ends up being not so nice.”

Resuming his task, Martin looked down and asked, “Have you ever… studied something like that?”

From the corner of Martin’s eye, he could see Tim shift a bit and lean against the panel again. “They’re something I’ve worked on, yeah.”

After a final flip of a switch, Martin looked back at Tim whose gaze was firmly centered on the window. Martin rolled his fingertips on the surface of the panel. “Any personal experiences or advice? For my benefit?”

Tim took some time to think, and without taking his eyes from the window responded, “If you can shut them up, make sure they stay that way.” Tim let out a breath through his nose. “And if someone’s got by one, chances are they won’t be kept alive. Once a copy is made, there’s no reason to keep the original.”

The bitter twinge in Tim’s voice warned against the questions forming on the tip of Martin’s tongue. If Tim was talking from experience, the specifics were none of Martin’s business.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Tim shook his head. “So, since I was the one who turned the dial, do me a favor and keep away from it?” When Martin nodded in agreement, Tim uncrossed his arms and pushed himself off the panel. “Good. It’s a deal then. Now, when we get back down, we can pretend to have had a riveting talk about how fish hate your town.”

Once they were back on the main floor, disappointment washed over Martin. “Was it too much to expect anything back so soon?” He looked through his bag, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“You get used to it.” Sasha paused from collecting some papers to watch him sulk in his corner. “Can’t tell you how many follow-up calls I’ve made that led to nothing.”

“Or all the numbers we’ve gotten that were for takeout places,” Jon grumbled.

“I dunno, I’ve been pretty lucky with numbers.” Tim winked at Sasha, who shoved some of the papers into his arms.

Martin smiled, though Tim’s comment reeked of forced levity. He zipped up his bag and walked to the door. “Let me know if anything comes up?”

“Of course.” Jon pushed himself out of his chair and walked at a brisk pace to meet him. “Could I have a word with you, before you head home?” He opened the door and gestured outside.

“Oh. Sure?” He avoided Tim’s very pointed eye contact and walked through the door. Jon followed behind with his arms wrapped around himself, his thin, long-sleeved shirt doing nothing for him in the cold. “Do you need to-”

“I’ll be back inside in a moment.” His stubbornness did nothing to protect him from the shivers. “About tonight.”

With all excitement and distraction gone, the weight that had been balancing precariously in Martin’s chest dropped to his stomach like a lead ball. “Is there a way to make this not horrible?”

Jon frowned. “I don’t know the full circumstances, but ultimately, I believe you’ll be doing the right thing.” He placed a tentative hand on Martin’s shoulder and gave it a stiff pat. He immediately retracted his hand and wrapped it back around himself, keeping his eyes on anything but Martin. “You know her better than I do. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

Martin clung to that confidence and the feeling of pressure from Jon’s hand. “Okay...” He took a large breath. “Okay. I should get going then. No point in putting it off.”

Jon nodded his head and hurried back inside, leaving Martin to walk home with more courage than he’d managed to gather for himself. As the sun drifted closer to its exit, Martin latched onto that little encouragement and thought of what to say.

“Hi, Mum. I found your skin? No, that sounds weird-”

“I know there are things I don’t understand, but-”

“Mum, I found this in the attic. I know it’s yours. Do you want to-”

“A guy from work said to give you this? Wait, no-”

And so he continued, muttering under his breath all the ways he could broach the subject without it being a complete disaster.

This could change things.

Would she scream? He’d never heard her truly scream. It wasn’t her way, but this could unlock something so much worse than he’d known. How dare he bring this to her if she’d hidden it for a good reason? That seemed a likely reaction.

Would she talk to him about her time in the water? Would she reminisce about a time before things went wrong, when he would watch her from the porch? Too hopeful to consider, but nice to think about.

Perhaps she would tell him to return it to the attic, and it would never be spoken of again. Things would be as they always were, just with a new secret to hang over them both. Another weight on their shoulders, another little barrier keeping them from being anything but what they had been for decades now.

Jon had said it would be the right thing to do. He would know about these things more than Martin, right? His word had to be worth something. No matter how she might react, this had to happen sooner or later.

The walk home sped past like nothing. The front door was before him, and then closed behind, and he felt more than ever like he was on a track, being moved from place to place without any consultation of his will. The night proceeded like clockwork, dinner prepared and completed with only his voice and the occasional terse response from his mother for filler noise. It wasn’t yet time.

The fog had rolled in thick as evening turned to night, and they looked out into it from the front porch, her breaths steady and bracing. Through his barely open eyes, Martin saw a hint of rolling waves before the salt brought out the tears and washed away his vision.

He walked his mother back inside and helped her prepare for bed. Once she was settled against the headboard, Martin coughed and began in a low, gentle tone. “Mum. Can I talk to you about something?”

She frowned, tired contempt rippling across her face. “Must you now? You’ve had all night to talk.”

Martin clenched and unclenched his teeth. “It’s important. Please, it’s...it’s about something I found in the attic.”

His mother froze, her hand gripping the quilt on her lap. Annoyance gave way to a wide, blank stare that brushed just over his shoulder. “I did not ask you to retrieve anything from there.”

Martin shrank back. “Yes, I know. I just went up to make sure there hadn’t been a-any issues with the roof after some of the rain recently since we keep some things in storage up there, and I wanted t-”

“Bring it to me. Now.” Her voice was quiet, almost too quiet for him to hear.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Martin stood too quickly, grabbing the rickety bedside table for balance and causing a loud thump as one of its legs slammed into the ground. The dim lamp on top of it wobbled, creating unnerving shadows on the walls. He winced. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”

He left the room and let himself breathe. Okay, he thought, this was a good thing. He walked up the stairs two at a time with his long legs, speeding down the hall while keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. She wanted him to bring it to her. He would do as she ordered. Everything would be okay, he told himself, ignoring the strange sinking feeling in his gut.

It was where he’d left it, folded loosely in the corner to avoid any possible creasing. It pressed heavily into his hands, and he brushed off a little more dust as he walked back down the stairs. At his mother’s door, he paused and adjusted it one more time to a position he felt was the most dignified. Then, he entered the room.

She was looking out her window, through the misted glass and into the fog that surrounded their home. Her hands were limp over the quilt, one placed gently on top of the other. When the door clicked shut behind him, there was an almost imperceptible turn of her head, though he couldn’t see anything but her clenched jaw.

“Mum? I’ve brought it. Do you want me to place it on the bed? I-”

His mother turned to face him fully, and as her eyes locked onto him a torrent of pure fury slammed into his chest. He stumbled, the selkie skin almost escaping his large, clumsy hands.

“Give it to me.” Her rasping voice made Martin’s throat hurt, and her neck seemed to throb with effort. When he failed to move his legs, she forced out, “now, you stupid man!”

He tripped forward, and when he was within reach she snatched the skin from him. She clasped it to her chest just as Jon had that morning, with the same smoothing motion over its surface. Unsure of what to say, he became a statue. Every muffled intake of air burned down into his chest.

Taking in a shuddering breath, his mother whispered, “Leave.”

“What?” There was a painful crack in his voice.

“Leave me alone.”

The only thing he could see were his own near-faded footsteps as he climbed up the cliff side, the fog doing well to obscure the surrounding foliage.

He needed to be out of the damned fog. That’s why he’d fled the house, and the beach, and the crashing waves. That’s all it was down there, a house adrift in grey nothing, and he was too loud of a presence to truly give her solitude with his tramping feet on the floorboards upstairs.

It was past sundown when he reached the end of his climb, and the corner lights looked as much as they had the night before. As they had on any other night he’d spent wandering the dark, emptying streets. Pulling his coat more tightly around himself, Martin marched forward, drawn to the only other place to which he had a key.

He looked up before he could think too hard about it, and the sky bore down on him until all he could do was fall back into the gaping pit waiting just behind his heel. Had it felt like this before? Yes, it had, hadn’t it? A giant emptiness in the ground waiting to swallow him whole, and as he had seen it, so from it the vertigo had come. Only now it was polite enough to slow down and let him see the horror below.

He woke up on the ground with a groan, just outside of the florist shop. It was closed for the night, and there was no one inside or out to stare as he lifted himself out of a puddle, the arm of his coat soaked through with water. He was halfway through trying to regain some semblance of focus when he realized his glasses had fallen from his nose and were now lying on the ground beside him.

Relieved that his impaired vision was no worse than usual, he reached over to pick up his glasses. As he did so, he glimpsed at the water’s surface, and for just a moment the blurry vision of his face looked just enough like someone else. He gasped, snatching his glasses and scrambling to sit on the curb.

She’d never called Martin that. She’d had other ways of showing her frustration with him, but that… that had been for someone else. Of course. He hadn’t even thought to warn her of his re-entry, so he had gone into her room and with just that lamp by her bed the doorway must’ve been so dark-

The pounding in his head grew more fervent, and he curled into himself until he faced the ground, head between his knees. As the minutes crawled by, the pain began to subside, and eventually he was able to stand, even if there was a slight shake to his legs.

“Twenty years and still you don’t learn.”

He continued without reason, thankful for the empty road ahead, his arm going cold in its dripping sleeve.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au #jonmartin

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