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#its funny to realize one day one way or another ill send my mother the last 'im home' message
spooky-activity · 3 years
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Just a little update on Cassandratopia 2: Electric Boogaloo (Or as it stands in my Google Docs folder rn, A Helping Hand). I’ll put it under the cut cuz it’s kinda long. 
I just wanted to say that I’m still planning on actually doing it, despite all evidence to the contrary lol 
I did Cassandratopia in a haze of graduating from college(where I was studying animation) and just having ended my first dnd campaign as a dungeon master (which went 3 years!). I was fishing around for internships, but since the pandemic had just kicked off I wasn’t having much luck. So I had a lot of creative energy that wasn’t getting channeled anywhere, and a lot of free time when I wasn’t applying to places. Which is how I did 4 pages a day several times per week. Which was insane. 
As it stands, I’m running 2 dnd campaigns(one meets weekly, the other every other week or so), and just scored a full-time internship at a video game company! The campaigns I’m running are a homebrew open world, which, for those of you who aren’t too familiar with dnd, is a metric fuckton of work to prep for each session because I have no idea what my insane friends and siblings are going to try and do every time we play. 
Anyways all this to say that my storytelling itch is kinda. Sufficiently getting scratched atm and I have a lot less free time. I’m still plucking away at the setting/refining the story of A Helping Hand, but it’s largely on the backburner. Cassandratopia was also, uh, like the first story I’ve ever told in any sort of format besides the give-and-take of dnd, so... I’m not used to having so much control over the narrative. Oddly. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a writer of stories; my main focus is character animation, so someone else is usually writing the stories I’m telling anyways, which is super cool with me. Honestly I’m surprising myself with how much I want to tell this story, which is why I’m still sure I’m doing it. Just. Slower. Than Cassandratopia got done. 
But I’ll share a bit of the lore I’ve been cooking up! Specifically about Zhan Tiri and The Drops. The story will be told in an extremely dnd type setting, because that’s the kind of narrative I’ve told before and am comfortable telling: hard magic rules, neat fights, scary monsters, a dash of eldritch horror, and huge emphasis being put on magical artifacts(kinda like in the show!). Here’s some stuff that’s basically locked-in. 
Zhan Tiri
Zhan Tiri is one of the many Demon Lords of the Abyss. She’s kind of a mashup of two of my favorite Demon Lords, Zuggtmoy, the Lady of Rot and Decay, and Pale Night, the Mother of Demons and Queen of the Night(with just a dash of Hannibal Lecter because who doesn’t like helpful, polite, manipulative-ass bitches lksjflkja;fj). Her domain sits almost exactly between the Sundrop and Moonstone, largely being the new growth that comes from death, and the endless cycle of life and death. Places where her influence is strongest includes the cracks in... Well anywhere really, from society to the planet’s shell, where metaphorical or physical rot could grow; musty, mostly ignored places where something could fester. Iconography related to her would include endless mazes, fungi, grasping skeletal hands, and rotting/blooming corpses. Her spores can animate corpses, which she likes to use as mindless minions when she doesn’t feel like sending one of her Acolytes. She shares a scrap of her power with those few mortals she likes. She appreciates ambition and the desire to Grow to be bigger than what you were to start with, as those are qualities she herself possesses. 
Incredibly intelligent and merciless to those she deems her enemies, her main thing is pulling the strings from the shadows and seeing just how far she can push people to act with as little prompting from her as possible. She does, however, have the power to kinda bulldoze her way through things if she needs to, but she doesn’t like to because where’s the fun in that? 
She first gained interest in the Material Plane when a Wizard with too much hubris from said Material Plane(Named Demanitus) contacted her trying to figure out more information about The Drops and how to control them. After indulging him for a bit, she started preparing to make a summer home on the Material Plane because it’s New and Fun here and Wow These Mortals are Really Fun to Mess With! And some of them she even genuinely liked! Demanitus then realized his mistake and locked her away in Pandemonium for what he hoped was forever, but turned out to be only around 1,000 years, due to the efforts of her followers. Her little stint in Pandemonium magnified the more... Chaotic aspects of her personality, so now she wants to cover the Material Plane in blooming mazes of fungal crops that she can break people with at her leisure. 
The Drops
The drops are two semi-sentient pieces of one original artifact, whose original purpose was to be a tool of creation for the gods. Which, through some great calamity(still deciding that one), got sundered and settled into the two basic aspects of creation: the nearly unlimited well of life-energy which organizes stardust into planets, cabbages, and kings, and the “you gotta crack a few eggs to get an omlette” destructive force which breaks down what the sundrop makes so that it can make more. 
The main goal of the drops is to reunite. I would want to as well if I was ripped in half! This manifests as a... General tug in the direction of the other drop. A desire in the host to Go That Way. It can be resisted, and even ignored for a bit, but it’s always there. Like being hungry if starving wasn’t a danger. Just a bit uncomfortable if you aren’t going That Way, but ignorable. 
Both drops generally try to be as helpful to their wielder as possible, as originally they were a tool of creation to the gods. They are innately obliging. They’re also REALLY UNSAFE FOR MORTALS TO BE MESSING WITH. The Sundrop is a little safer because the most it can do is kinda. Overcharge you into something distinctly not human but still alive, and King Fredrick was lucky he made the Sundrop into soup before giving it to Arianna. But King Edmund got his wholeass arm blasted off for touching the Moonstone. 
The Sundrop
Best I could whittle it down, the Sundrop has power over life energy, like the sun’s light. It also has power over the energy derived from geothermal activities, so deep sea creatures Are Not Immune To The Sundrop, which was a funny thought that crossed my mind that they could be, but that will likely never come up anyways salkdjf;ljsf It is, in its basest form, Growth and Progress. 
It’s a little sentient, but very much entrenches itself into whoever is holding it at the time. Like another mind looking through your eyes and seeing what you see/feeling what you feel while still retaining a bit of individuality from the host. It’s not... Parasitic because it’s in its nature to give, but it’s generally pretty firmly attached to whoever is holding it until they die( which isn’t usually for a WHILE. It ’infects’ a new host when one dies, usually a plant near their grave...) or until a solar eclipse. It wants what they want, but it’s very fussy so they have to ask it for power exactly correctly(like singing an incantation every time you want to heal someone, or doing a Ritual involving lots of very specific ingredients, Celestial Alignments, and Secret Words) or it won’t listen, like an orchid dying if the ph balance is off in the soil by a little bit. But it’s generally pretty intuitive to use, because it wants what you want and (as long as you ask right) is willing to help. 
Anyways basically under the influence of the Sundrop you get a few things: 
Basically limitless energy coursing through your body while you’re in a place with sunlight, which equates to rapid healing, mostly, because every cell in your body is being supercharged with free energy. Never getting exhausted in direct sunlight. (If Rapunzel lived in a place that was sunny 24/7 like near one of the poles she wouldn’t have to sleep like. until it started to get dark in the opposite half of the year. Then she’d have to sleep like a regular human being)
You stay at your prime, or if you are past it, revert to your prime. Someone who is holding the Sundrop, or who has regular access to the Sundrop’s magic can’t die of old age or illness. They have to be hurt beyond the Sundrop’s ability to heal or have it taken away from them. 
The ability to share this rapid healing with others (if you ask right)
The ability to freely draw on the raw, near-limitless energy of the sun to shape into things like cool-looking energy blasts (only if you ask right) 
The Moonstone
The moonstone has powers over varying levels of destruction: from destroying things by ripping them apart/ to Not Letting Things Be Destroyed(also known as protecting) by freezing them in indestructible rock. Like the moon, it can ‘reflect’ a bit of the sundrop’s power, so it can kinda provide energy, albeit a lot less than the sundrop can provide. It’s the inevitable march of The End of All Things, fertilizing the fields of time with the ashes of the old so the new can take root. 
The Moonstone is a bit more in the dark(pun intended hehe) when it comes to bonding with someone, it can only try to figure out what is going on based off the emotions of its wielder, and through anything directly touching the Black Rocks. Because of this it’s... Kinda dumb? It tries to do things to help(Like shooting red fear-rocks to try and scare away whatever must be scaring its wielder so badly) but often fails spectacularly at helping. 
Under the influence of the Moonstone you get: 
Mortals get Neat Body Armor that’s actually just you being turned into a rock! They are very fragile! They need to be protected! The best the Moonstone can do to try and preserve you is to Stop All Destruction by.. Pausing all bodily functions indefinitely. Rocks don’t need to eat, sleep, or breathe, and almost nothing can destroy you if you’re solid Black Rock. The weak reflection of the Sundrop’s energy keeps the host animated, but they’re not exactly alive anymore. Like cryostasis. Wounds (if any) acquired in this state won’t be a problem because they’re not messing anything up, because nothing is technically working in the first place, but they will be a problem when you’re not protected in this way anymore. It’s a cosmic ‘I’ll deal with that later’ button, essentially. 
Like the moon, the Moonstone can reflect the light of the sun. It uses its rock crystals to do so, which can even split the sun’s power into different shades, like a prism. Essentially, different colored rocks can mean new and exciting power sets. 
Blue Lightning! The Moonstone can reflect the Sundrop’s power, so it also has access to pure bursts of energy, even if it is weaker and colder. 
The Moonstone is very helpful, but usually has no idea what you want. ‘Asking’ the Moonstone for more control over its power in the same way you would Ask the Sundrop for more power reminds it of the perfect bond it used to share. The Moonstone’s incantation deepens the bond between wielder and Moonstone in such a way that it actually knows what you want from it, giving you near perfect control of its powers.
*This is kind of just a side note of the Drops: While the Moonstone is weaker than the Sundrop in an head-on fight, it could hold its own if it were on the defensive. Redirecting the power instead of trying to overpower and such.
** Cass made of rocks means I get to draw her skeleton :) not in every picture that would be fucking nuts and way too much work alskjdf;lkjs;fv
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oneweekoneband · 3 years
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her Nebraska (1982)
In July I flew to Massachusetts with a plague on, and I felt that it was wrong, but my mother had begged and I’d been out of work for months. Mornings there I ran in long, uneven ovals on the same roads I’d memorized in high school. There’s no sidewalks, but the few feet of dirt between the craggy pavement and the open mouths of the fields serve all right for a single body in motion. When a truck comes up close from behind, the ground shakes, and I step away bouncingly from the street toward thigh-high yellow weeds and grass, and keep going. I was slowly picking my way back in that dirt, sweat-slick from only a plodding couple of miles in peak summer heat, and sucking the wet cotton of my mask in between my teeth on every inhale, when Taylor Swift announced she was releasing a surprise album produced by the guy from The National. Not the guy from The National, like, the voice, but the guy from The National whose photo was circulated on Twitter earlier this year as some kind of antifa super soldier, which isn’t the case, but would’ve been rad. First, I stopped dead to send some outraged, misspelled text messages, and then I ran home faster than I’d moved in years.
Tall, blonde, patrician pop star Taylor Swift is to me something like a cross-between a wife and a boogeyman. Bound we’ve been since we were really children. Time and its changes haven’t rid me of her, and what’s worse is I have never quite been able to wish they would, though I claim as much all the time. Countless hours of my one wild and precious life have been spent on endlessly analyzing the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s music, the mind that made it, the real world events which influenced it. And though all the while I have known she is only a person, and that people, while each strange and lovely in their own ways, are, in the end, mostly dull, needful in just the regular manner, the fantasy is better, the sick dream of a megalomaniac songstress, curious, thrilling, probably evil, and I choose that. I don’t know Taylor Alison Swift, born to this world in, I presume, the usual way. But my Taylor Swift? I’m a renowned expert. I’ve always eaten up stories—movies, music, celebrity news, the one my grandfather tells about falling off his bike once in Ireland as a boy and his face “cracking open like an egg”—like a starved dog. I’m obsessive about my interests, but not inclined to intense fandom, and certainly not fandom in the mode of the stan. For one, I’m too self-absorbed. But caring intensely for a famous person is falling in love with a ghost, and that’s all right—I mean, what the hell? We’re here together just dying... Let’s enjoy—but is an affair best undertaken with the knowledge that everyone alive has their own complex interiority, as unruly as your own, and that you, a stranger, are not in any real way connected to the lawless, blurry middle of that celebrity, and will never be. It’s freeing and fun to know this. I mean, these people are basically in your employ. Glamorous dollhouse dwellers. Acknowledging that uncrossable distance allows for a different, healthier closeness of pure imagination. My feelings, then, can comfortably be at once both fiercely intense and entirely silly. I am a foremost scholar in the art of the Taylor Swift who exists in my head. The real person raised in Pennsylvania I don’t know at all. I have some conjectures on the matter, and, as with all my conjectures, every hackneyed theory, each picky little opinion, I’m sure they’re perfect, brilliant, just absolutely right, but that’s still all they are. Taylor Swift, figure of the cultural imagination, is the Jodie Comer to my Sandra Oh in Killing Eve, annoying and pretty in frills, taunting me endlessly and holding us trapped together in a dance of most enchanting death. But the real Taylor Swift has favorite bed sheets and a social security number and a British boyfriend, none of which I have any desire to know about, and if I saw her at a restaurant I’d politely avert my eyes before, yes, dive-bombing the group text. There’s nobody on Earth I’d stand in line to speak to, but then I’ve been speaking to a certain figment of Taylor Swift for nearly half my life.
I went to a Taylor Swift concert the night before I moved into college in 2009. My father’s work friend, firefighter by day, near professional gambler by night, got comped tickets to the Fearless Tour stop taking place at the nearby casino, and he let me have them as a reward, mainly, for happening to be seventeen. Live in-person and performed acoustically, “Fifteen” made me cry. A few years after that, in the thick, sticky part of my first post-college summer, I wrote approximately twenty-three million words about her in these very pages.  (”Pages”) At that point, Taylor’s most recent release was 2012’s Red, and the work I produced that long ago July about Taylor and her career, writing I was fairly pleased with at the time, feels now, besides just being extremely clearly written by a twenty-one year old, strange to me for the way it favors the sweet over the sour almost uniformly. There is a wholesome kind of ardor in that writing which maybe I’ve outgrown the ability to hold. Or maybe Taylor just proceeded to spend the next half a decade plus releasing one bad single after another, and it was taste—and trespasses against taste—and not some shift in my nature which altered the tenor of our bond. I have real love for my particular image, gleaned from public statements and published art, of smart, bizarre famous woman Taylor Swift, and I admire the bulk of her output very much. I’m just no longer so inclined to fawn. This is not to say I am here to offer a Taylor Swift hate screed. I couldn’t swing it, and, anyway, I’m not a pop feminist-for-hire circa 2010. But we’re older now. Things are different. At twenty-eight, twenty-nine this month—Taylor will, also this December, turn thirty-one—I regard Taylor Swift warily, like an ex with whom you have a tentative friendship, perpetually on the brink of falling one way or the other into hatred or delight, only to wobble back the opposite direction again at the slightest provocation, but still, despite best efforts, even, I regard her all the time. 
folklore was released at midnight on July 24th 2020, but I was at a cabin in rural Vermont without Internet or cell service. I drank Bud Light seltzers with my mother while watching the eerie pandemic return of Major League Baseball, and when I got into a strange bed there I stewed, knowing there were people out in the world all over who were hearing Taylor Swift songs I never had, and that this was a fundamental wrong, a disruption in the balance of the universe. I listened to it the next morning in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. 
And folklore is great. That’s the terrible thing. Slightly less great, maybe, than some people have insisted, tricked, I think, by just the pronounced shift in sound. But it’s great. A little gift I asked for a thousand times and was still surprised to get, like a wife who didn’t expect her henpecked husband to ever follow through and buy the paraffin wax hand bath as-see-on-TV. For years, I’ve been halfheartedly insisting that Taylor had a great album in her. I’d say it even, perhaps especially, while she stubbornly fed me gruel. Or worse, gruel with the occasional whiff of something better. With a ripe, little raspberry dropped into the slop. The bright, villainous thrill of “Getaway Car” made me believe Taylor, my Taylor, was in there somewhere under the lacquer of sequins and synth, which, while not objectionable by default, seemed a costume, and an ill-fitting one. The lived-in world of “Cornelia Street” made those old scars sting. That gay “Delicate” video. When she did “Call It What You Want” on SNL and played guitar while wearing an ugly sweater. If the abominable “ME!”, lead single off Lover, was the stick, 1989’s “Clean” was the carrot. I was Charlie Brown, and Taylor my Lucy, yanking the football back again and again. Over drinks I still yelled that Taylor Swift’s next album would be, “her Nebraska”, referring to my favorite Bruce Springsteen record, and learned to live with that egg on my face for good. I suppose I even came to like it. There was something inherently funny in taking up, like, “blind faith in the as of yet untapped greater artistic potential of massively wealthy and popular singer Taylor Swift” as my totally inane personal cause du jour, and eventually it was a bit, a gag I performed to be obstinate and didactic, but way down somewhere awful near my kidneys I meant it the whole while. And then she did it. A pandemic befell the world and amid a sea of human suffering Taylor Swift remembered she can write. She wrote, and with a massive, crucial assist from Aaron Dessner, whose music on this record is sometimes so beautiful it actually angers me, as the last thing I needed in already perilous times was to be made to try and marry my uniquely perverse emotional responses to beloved divorced dad band The National and fucking Taylor Swift,  she made an album which, if not her Nebraska, per se (I’ve come to realize that a major part of believing Taylor Swift will one day make an album I find as quietly devastating and gorgeous as Nebraska is knowing that no album will ever actually be Her Nebraska... That each will, rather, to me, be more and more evidence that it’s coming still, more proof that the limit is untouched, on and on ad infinitum, or at least until the seas take us into a place of salty peace.) is a shocking credit to all my hard-fought and deluded confidence. folklore is great. This fact has made me feel almost equally as disoriented from my understanding of the world as the time-melting COVID-19 lockdowns have, and it turned my Spotify year in review annual collective AI humiliation kink thing into a glaring indictment of my mental state, but still, I mean... It’s great.
In talking about folklore a bit this week, there are a number of specific topics I intend to cover—what a thrill it is to hear Taylor say “fuck”; Taylor’s terrifying birth chart; the astoundingly perfect bridge of “the last great american dynasty”; “because my ass is located at the back of my body”; the bit in last year’s “Lover” where deranged WASP Taylor Swift implies that to “leave the Christmas lights up til January” is some signifier of being a love-struck bohemian, when actually everyone who doesn’t employ domestic staff to take their lights down does this; how reputation is the best of the Taylor Swift records released in the latter half of the 2010s, actually, and the people who can’t see that are cowards—but intend mostly to let the muse move me where she will. Against the advice of my better angels, she—that tie-in marketing eldritch terror—always does.
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mor-rigan · 4 years
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An Alliance of Fire and Night
Its here! My ToG/ACoTaR crossover fan fiction!
I’m so excited to finally be able to start putting this story out and having people read it. I’m hoping for it to be a longer fic, so stay tuned! As for updates, I’m going to try to get new chapters up every week, if not sooner. I don’t live on Tumblr, so please have patience. Sometimes it will be longer than a week before I update. Thank you all for your understanding, and happy reading!
Tags: @viajandosinalas @dagypsygirl @aelin-godkiller @bookworm-lovemarvel @starrynightren @throne--of-sass @princess-of-eyllwe @shyvioletcat @badwolf084 @blades-are-for-skating-ya-dingus @smartass-mee @sassysaltysarcasticstupid @maadsrevolution @resignedcatservant @admantum (I’m sorry if I missed anyone else that wanted to be tagged!)
Chapter One
~ Aelin ~
Aelin Galathynius sat with her eyes closed in the gardens of her castle; her face was upturned to the rain. It ran down her forehead to pool in the corner of her eyes, then fall down her cheeks like tears. The queen was not sad, however, and when she got sick of the droplets, she would lift the water from her face with that kernel of water magic and flick it away.
It was a joyous day despite all that was going on and all she had to do. It was her and Rowan’s sixtieth wedding anniversary, and also the day they celebrated winning the war against Erawan and Maeve. It hadn’t been an easy road, and many rules were broken. Elena had defied those self-proclaimed gods all those years ago, so she had as well.
But that was a thought for later. Her mate was away hunting with the rest of the cadre while Lysandra planned the festivities. The rain had been unexpected but manageable. The ballroom in the Palace of Orynth was more than accommodating for the guests that would arrive, and Manon would arrive with her witchlings soon.
Not witchlings anymore, Aelin reminded herself. The Crochan and Crown Princesses of Adarlan, Asterin and Rhiannon, were approaching fifty years old. Gods, Aelin couldn’t believe she was almost eighty herself. Perhaps immortality would never fully sit right with her. Especially since she’s seen so many comrades - no, family - die over the years. Sam, Nehemia, Elide, Lorcan, Chaol, Yrene, Dorian, and so many more that worked to help her in the war.
Part of Aelin always hoped that her little group would live forever, but not everyone is blessed with immortality. Elide may have had witch blood in her veins, but it wasn’t enough to make her Settle. Lorcan had tied his life to hers, and they both passed from old age in the same year, four summers ago. Elide passed first, and Aelin truly believed that Lorcan died of a broken heart. The idea originally made her laugh, considering how cold the bastard once was.
Chaol and Yrene were only mortal. Yrene was the best healer both Adarlan and Terrasen had ever seen after Mab; and Lydia - Chaol and Yrene’s daughter - was doing her mother proud by carrying on her legacy. She even taught her son his grandmother’s magics. Chaol was a tough son of a bitch, Aelin knew for sure, and one of the best friends she ever had despite their rocky history. They both died peacefully in their sleep, slipping into the afterlife together because of their bond. Something, Aelin realized sometime later, she was grateful for. There was a time when she didn’t think any of them – regardless if they were fae or human – would see old age.
Dorian had been one of the hardest to come to terms with. Aelin had thought for sure he would Settle since he was Mala’s scion just as much as she was. But as time went on, there were no tell-tale signs of Settling, and his hair began to turn gray. Manon had become with child when Dorian was thirty, and he was able to give his daughters a full life before he passed just last year. Aelin teared up just remembering the last time she had seen him – so frail and delicate in old age despite still having the spark of the friend she always knew. He had been a good King of Adarlan and rebuilt his country’s legacy after his father destroyed it. When he finally passed from difficulties of illness, it had been a difficult time for everyone, but Manon took it the hardest.
The Crochan Queen went into recession, and only brief letters from her daughters gave peace of mind that the White Witch was alright. This celebration would be the first time since Dorian’s death that Aelin would talk to Manon or the witchlings in person. And she was honestly anticipating it. She admitted to herself often that she missed her ally and friend.
A sigh heaved Aelin’s shoulders at the same moment a pine-and-snow-scented breeze disturbed the rain. It was a different scent from Terrasen’s; something alive tethered it to her mate, as true as an actual rope. Aelin could follow that smell for miles and know Rowan would be waiting for her at the end of it.
The breeze seemed to say, Why are you sad, Fireheart?
Aelin tried to shake her mood off and changing the subject by sending a wave of heat dancing with sparks along that invisible rope in answer. I must truly be irresistible if you’re thinking of me even when hunting beings from the Rift.
You’re always on my mind, milady. That answering breeze had more of an icy bite to it, but Aelin blushed as she remembered the truly depraved things they did last night. They never needed an occasion to fuck each other until the early hours of morning, but there was something different when their anniversary came. Like a deep instinct that beckoned their bodies together.
I’m sure, Aelin sent back with flame instead of sparks, I’m surprised you can even walk.
Aelin could practically hear Rowan’s chuckle on the wind, as if he carried it directly to her. I should be saying that to you.
Indeed, Aelin closed her legs tighter together, and the hickeys on the inside of her thighs slightly throbbed. They were healing, but still prominent. They had been sore enough this morning that she opted to wear a flowing gown instead of a tunic and pants. Damn her king. Her wonderful lover of a mate.
Unable to help herself, she sent a bone-warming stream along the rope. A gentle, suggestive caress. Perhaps we can fit in a round two before the party tonight.
Oh no, my queen, Rowan replied instantly, With the things I want to do to you, I’ll need much longer than an hour. The wind he sent with that particular comment had her breasts tightening.
Fine, King, Aelin said back, that mated tether singing with heat and ice, I’ll be waiting here planning the party with Lysandra and the others. And though she was known for her sass and snark, after a heartbeat, the Heir of Fire sent another soothing flame down the bond. Be safe and return to me in one piece.
Always, Fireheart. Then the bond went silent.
It was likely almost noon, so the queen figured she should at least check on the progress of things. Hesitantly, Aelin rose from her spot and peered over her kingdom. Finally healing, it seemed, and the Kingsflame was still in full bloom even after all this time – showing the safety and prosperity her rule promised. It warmed her heart, and she could only hope that her uncle and her parents were proud of all that she had accomplished. She felt proud of herself, at least, given everything she had been through and everything she had sacrificed to get here.
Finally pulling herself from her thoughts, the queen made her way to the ballroom. As she traversed the palace, noises from the planning became louder. The union of their King and Queen was something all of Orynth celebrated. The night was celebrated as a liberation from darkness and a promise for a brighter future. It has already become a tradition that carried through a generation. Initially, people had even tried to bring gifts, but Aelin refused them after so long. She was grateful, but she wanted her people to care for themselves before her. Merciful and caring, but a leader, nonetheless.
Aelin finally reached the ballroom where most of the planning and decorating was occurring. She couldn’t spot Lysandra, but she knew the shifter was in here.
“Your Majesty!” A familiar voice called. Aelin’s head snapped to see a small, plump woman waving her hand at her. She couldn’t help but smile and stifle a giggle.
“Hi Loralei,” Aelin greeted through as the woman approached, “Did you need help with anything?” The queen honestly hated talking so formally, but she felt it odd to speak otherwise outside of her inner circle of family. Even though this woman may as well be her best friend with how many escapades she’s made to the kitchen for a late-night snack when Rowan was fast asleep. Though, she’d never tell Lysandra that.
“Not so much help as a confirmation,” Loralei said, “I pride myself in knowing your favorite foods at this point, but I just thought I would make sure.” The cook listed off the menu for the night, which only made Aelin’s near empty stomach gurgle. Gods, she was starving and hadn’t realized. Loralei could probably tell and beckoned for the queen lower.
Aelin stooped enough for the woman to whisper in her ear: “There’s leftover cinnamon bread in the kitchen. I’m sure no one would notice if you slipped a piece over the fire with some butter.” Aelin stood and received a wink from the cook, which made her smile. She could kiss this woman. Woman – a funny word to describe the girl Aelin had seen grow up from the time she was born, to then take her father’s place as the palace’s head cook.
“Thank you,” Aelin replied at last, “Everything sounds great. Just tell Rowan and the rest of those vultures that the hazelnut cake is reserved for the ladies.” They both shared a friendly laugh, then the cook was off to start and finish her duties. Aelin was off to find Lysandra.
* * *
~ Feyre ~
“Is there any news?”
The Inner Circle gathered in the House of Wind. Strange portals had started opening around Prythian, letting beasts as foul as the Attor back into the land. It wasn’t anything Rhys or the Inner Circle or even I couldn’t handle, but it was concerning. Cauldron knows what else may come out.
“None,” Amren said as she studied all of our faces, “From any of the other High Lords anyway. The rifts aren’t becoming more frequent, but they aren’t slowing down either. As for the Shadowsinger – he, Nesta, and the other Heir of Night are still dealing with a rift that was sighted near Illyria.”
The news wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst. I didn’t particularly like that Demetra was with them, but she was sixty years old this year – long since becoming a woman. As for the portals…Manageable. It was manageable for now. I just had to remind myself of that.
“Have you consulted the Book?” Rhys asked without missing a beat. Amren’s sharp eyes snapped to him. They were a dull gray color now, but her years alone held the power she needed to make anyone cower.
“I read that book cover to cover eighty years ago. Anything I can get out of it, I did when we fought Hybern.”
“That means there’s more,” Leirus spoke, “You read everything you could, which implies there is something you couldn’t.” Everyone’s attention was on him, but he did not balk – even from Amren. Something I’m sure he learned from his father, though he was probably just as nervous as the rest of us.
“Yes, Heir, there is more,” Amren admitted as she crossed her arms, “The rest of the text is in a language even older than me.”
Older than Amren – the only person we had that could remotely understand any ancient or otherworldly texts we encountered.
“There has to be someone,” I chimed in, “A historian, a librarian, someone who has the ability to read it.”
“Perhaps in the Prison, or maybe even Bryaxis, but none have interacted with him since the War,” Rhys said, and it went quiet for a moment. It was left unsaid, but I know at least Rhys thought of the Bone Carver or the Weaver – Stryga as she was named. But they were truly lost in the War. Bryaxis had merely taken an extended vacation it seemed.
“What if Bryaxis is the cause of the portals?” Leirus suggested. Cassian seemed to consider it for a moment but stayed silent.
“It’s possible, but the portals are appearing all over Prythian,” Rhys pointed to the blots of dark ink on a map where we had marked portal sightings, “If it were him – or one person – I would think that they would appear in a consistent location.”
“Unless he – or whoever – is doing this isn’t trying to open a portal to their home world, like we thought, but to bring something to us.” By the Mother, I saw so much of Rhys in our son. Not only from his appearance, but from the way he talked and took lead in trying times. It made me proud as his mother, but I worried all the same.
The Inner Circle contemplated his suggestion with true possibility. He did have a point, but –
“Who would do that?” Mor asked what we were all thinking. And none of us knew. Unless a Hybern sympathizer was trying to spark a resurgence, there was no one we knew of who would ruin this time of peace.
Before more discussion could be had, the doors opened. Azriel, along with Nesta and Demetra, walked in. Their gates were tense – as one would be after a battle – but not urgent.
“How did it go?” I was the one to ask. Still, Cassian said nothing.
“The same as usual,” Demetra answered, “The portal was already closed by the time we got there, but the beasts were still in the area. Our shadows were able to scout them all out, and we exterminated them.”
Manageable, I heard in my mind. I looked to Rhys and his eyes softened, and I gave him a grateful smile.
But for how long? I didn’t have to ask it – everyone was already thinking it.
“None of them can – or would – talk,” Nesta added, “When interrogated, they only growled or made other animal noises. So, I doubt they’re intelligent beyond the desire to kill.” Azriel didn’t need to speak his confirmation, we all saw it in his face.
It went quiet again. Then: “What if we went into one? A portal, I mean.”
All of us visibly recoiled as Cassian made the suggestion. “Are you an idiot?” Amren demanded, “We speak of not even being able to understand their origins, but you want to walk into one without second thoughts?”
All of us seemed to be in agreeance. It would be suicidal to go through one of the portals with no understanding of them.
“Look, I know it’s not the best idea –”
“It isn’t an idea at all,” Mor snapped.
“But,” Cassian continued after giving the blonde female a pointed look, “I’ve been thinking that the portals aren’t coming from someone in Prythian at all. Beings from other worlds have been coming to Prythian for eons. Think of the Bone Carver, Bryaxis – hell, even Amren.”
“And look at those of us you mentioned,” the Second practically growled, “We were stuck here, never to return to our worlds because we did not know a way.”
“Besides,” this time, to my surprise, it was Azriel who spoke, “Even if we knew a way back, what good would going through one of the rifts do?”
“It could take the fight to whoever is causing this.” Cassian sounded sure – almost too sure. I caught Rhys’s eyes with my own, and they mirrored my concern.
“It isn’t an option. At least right now,” Rhys said. I couldn’t help the sinking in my stomach at the words right now. Like the suicide mission could be a possibility later on. “If we could find a way to open a portal home, then it’s a possibility. But for now, we deal with what is happening here. We protect our lands and people.”
We all looked to Cassian, and he nodded his understanding, thank the Mother. I felt the whole room relax just a bit more.
“Good,” Rhys continued, “Amren, continue with the Book. Have Elain help you search the library, as well.”
“I’ll help as well,” Leirus added, earning an acknowledging nod from Rhys.
“Azriel and Demetra: stay on portal duty. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to have your shadows out scouting.” A nod from our daughter and Azriel.
“Mor, if you could act as an ambassador for us. Just go to the other courts and see if you can find out anything more from the other High Lords. Try to access any archives they may have.” Mor nodded.
“The rest of us will act as protection. Nesta, if you could go back to Illyria and watch over things there – Feyre, Cassian, and I will handle here and anywhere else on the continent that needs help.”
With all of our duties assigned, the Inner Circle dispersed, leaving Rhys and I alone in the room. “Everyone seemed so quiet and grim. I don’t like it,” I admitted as I brought my arms around myself. I never like seeing my family so serious, especially Mor and Cassian. And for Cassian to suggest such a ludicrous idea…
“They’re all just tense, darling,” Rhys said. I felt a caress of night in my mind, settling my reeling thoughts, “We all are. But I promise it will sort out.”
I nodded this time, something I noticed a lot of during the meeting. None of us have anything left to say, I suppose, as we all knew the general problem. The portals started appearing months ago, and the beasts that came with them wrought havoc on anything they came in contact with. They were foul and vile creatures – a darkness that was near indescribable.
“You’re still thinking too much, my love,” Rhys said softly. His hands cupped my face, and I couldn’t help but to relax with him this close to me.
“How can I not? Our Court and our family are in danger.” I thought of our children, but Rhys already knew.
“Leirus and Demetra are young in terms of Fae, yes. But they are smart and powerful, just like all of us. We will still be here for them, just as they are here for us.”
I smiled and pressed my forehead to Rhys’s. “I know.”
Rhys tilted my head up and gave me a grin that still had my heart leaping, then he pressed his lips gently to mine. To soothe, not to arouse despite myself. Cauldron damn me. And Rhys knew, too, though he pulled away.
“Feyre, darling,” he teased, “Right now? In the middle of such turmoil on the continent?” I slapped his chest mockingly. He says that as if he didn’t have me screaming only last night. A wicked grin followed by a wink told me he knew exactly what I thought about. Bastard.
“You –” I didn’t get to finish my banter before a thundering boom shook the mountain. All of Velaris, it seemed. It had Rhys and I separating immediately, and both of our clothes were replaced with Illyrian armor and steel blades.
Darkness filled the sky as a vortex formed in the clouds. The darkness was forming from the center. A rift was forming right over Velaris.
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dotdotdottie · 4 years
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Cats and Dots || Dot & Luce
LOCATION: Ink Inc.
TIME:  Before Bea’s Death
@divineluce
Clicking on her “Bad Ass Bitches” playlist on Spotify, Luce set to work on fixing the absolute shitshow that was Dot’s tattoo. Not only was the placement bad, it looked like a drunk toddler had decided to go to town with a machine. Which is why she was more than happy to be working on it. Nothing was more interesting than fixing a bad tattoo and turning it into something worth showing off. “How the fuck did you wind up with this hot mess? And, you can’t fucking smack me for saying that because I’ll make it worse.” She grinned as she dipped the needles into ink and set to work, bobbing her head along to the beat of the pounding bassline. “Like, love is love, but christ.” She gestured to the god awful rainbow plastered on her hip. “The lines on this are hot garbage.”
The rainbow tattoo had been something Dot got in a frat house in her junior year of college. Her friend had ordered a tattoo gun off the internet and the ink had been sourced from somewhere she had no desire to examine. She didn’t regret the tattoo, it was a funny fucking story and she liked being a dumbass with a rainbow tattoo... But if she was going to make sure everyone going down on her knew she was pretty fucking gay, she wanted it to a nice rainbow. “I got it done by a coked-out frat named Braydon.” She had almost considered eating him afterward, but her colony would have been pissed. She wished she had done it. “I probably could have done it better myself, but it was kinda fun watching him struggle. Hope you know how to make it look less like an idiot did it. I don’t need people to focus on the rainbow when my snatch is out.”
Stories like this weren’t super surprising, especially not when it came to shit tattoos. Luce nodded as she filled in the stencil, a black cat whose body covered the majority of the rainbow. What bits it didn’t, she was planning on incorporating into a rainbow collar around its neck. And besides, even without the collar, it was still gonna be pretty gay. “You know, that doesn’t fucking surprise me in the slightest. Braydon,” She wiped away the excess ink, “Had awful goddamn hands. And, trust me. This is gonna be dope.” Luce grinned, “Definitely a pussy out kind of look.” She laughed. Given the fact she usually tattooed straight, toxic masculinity dudes all the time, it was a goddamn delight to be tattooing someone who wasn’t. And, Dot was cool enough. She was dating Blanche, which honestly sounded like a match made in chaotic heaven.
Listen, Dot didn’t love cats, but she would get one tattooed on her for a pussy joke. Most of her tattoos were jokes anyway. She knew plenty of people thought tattoos had to have meaning but she thought they just had to have a fun story and be cool to look at. “Oh trust me, I know Braydon’s hands were terrible. He’s one of those boys who think the clit is a suggestion instead of required.” She had slept with him a few days later simply because she had been bored out of her mind. “Can’t wait for the summer when I can show it off when I’m at the beach,” She cackled imagining the horrified faces of suburban mothers as they covered their kiddie’s eyes. She liked Luce and if she wasn’t with Blanche, she would have considered trying to smash, but for once Dot didn’t have the desire to cheat. “You got anything fucking weird tattooed on you?”
Letting out a low whistle, Luce shook her head. “Sounds about right. Boys are the fucking worst.” She said, remembering her ill-fated attempts at dating boys in high school. For the most part, they’d been boring and dumb and not terrible to hang out with. But, Jared, he was a fucking time. “Sounds like the dude I slept with back in the day. But, I gotta say, hats off to Jared. He did in fact, turn me gay.” She joked. That had been a hilarious thing for him to realize, when they ran into each other at a house party the year after they graduated. Specifically, when he found her fucking a girl on the side of his house. “Oh, it’ll be a look. And a damn good one at that.” She said as she finished up the tail of the cat. At Dot’s question, Luce laughed and nodded. “Of course I do. This is a good one,” She said and backed up to show Dot one of the tattoos on her ankle. At first glance, it was a normal anchor tattoo with a scroll script around it, the cliche every college girl got. But, the scroll read ‘Fuck your Anchor.’ “A tribute to all the stupid anchor tattoos I have to do.”
“Men are good for two things, paying us and looking pretty,” Dot said with a grin. There was a third, very important thing they were also good for, but she doubted that Luce shared her passion for sinking her fingers in the chests of frat boys and eating their hearts. “Speaking for the community, I thank Jared for his contribution. We’re glad to have such a hot gay with us.” Was she flirting? Yeah, but Dot didn’t think it was terrible to do so. It was a joke after all. She craned her neck a bit to see the progress and grinned, honestly, it looked fucking sick already. She couldn’t wait to show Blanche… And literally anyone else who was willing to look at it. She let out a cackle as she took in Luce’s tattoo. “Wow, what an icon. I hope you make sure everyone sees it when they ask for an anchor tattoo. You get a lot of those stupid mom heart ones?”
“You can say that again.” Luce laughed, thinking back to the random venmo that she’d gotten from Adam. As much of a big dumb frat boy he seemed, the dude was half-way decent. When he wasn’t talking about his crotch goblins or giving her stupid nicknames. That said, Dickcleaver Vural had a nice ring to it. “You’ve got that right. I am, in fact, a gift to the ladies and they-dies of White Crest.” Luce chuckled to herself as she filled in the body of the cat. Was she aware of the tone behind Dot’s words? Yeah, which is why she dug in just a little deeper with her needle. Not enough to blow out the ink, but just enough to remind Dot that she was, in fact, tattooing her. Besides, Luce was a lot of things, but she wasn’t the other woman type. “You know it. Oh, I’d be fucked if I did. Ulf would have my head on a spike if I went flashing that around.” She remarked as she looked at her handiwork. “Nah, most dudes have figured out those are out of style.”
Adam’s venmo had sent Dot into a cackling session that lasted for several minutes. She hadn’t expected anyone to actually send her money, but when she got the notification on her phone, Adam had gained a few brownie points. She gave Luce a mock salute,“Thank you for your service. You should be given a medal of honor.” Her eyes narrowed as the needle dug in deeper, sending a glare Luce’s way. She was pretty sure the tattoo artist was too practiced at this point to change pressure like that. Guess flirting, even jokingly, wasn’t allowed with Luce. “If Ulf doesn’t see it happen, what’s the harm? Some people wouldn’t even read it, I bet.” Even if they did read it, Dot was pretty sure some people would just get it anyway. She laughed,“That’s tragic. I love when I see them, it’s just so funny. Teasing guys about it is so fun.”
“Every lesbian who ever slept with a man should, honestly. Gold star lesbians, my ass. Give me a gold star for having to suffer through forty seconds of super sexy thrusting.” Luce grumbled as she wiped away the last of the excess black ink. Popping over the rainbow array of ink, she dipped her needles in to color after color, filling in the rainbow pattern on the cat’s collar. “The harm is when all the piss babies storm out or write bad Yelp reviews. I’m in customer service,” She pasted a fake smile on her face before rolling her eyes, “I gotta service the customer.” Arching an eyebrow at Dot’s words, Luce couldn’t resist the urge to snicker. “Well, I can tell you this, you can and should make fun of anyone who’s got a terrible tribal. God, 90’s and 2000’s tattooing was the worst.”
“Wow, he lasted a full forty seconds? You had a marathon runner. Most boys out there are one thrust wonders.” Dot loved moments like this where she just got to make fun of men as brutally as she wanted. So many people got uncomfortable when she talked about boys and her sexual experiences with them. “I’ll write you a five star Yelp after this. I’ll even include that I reccomend the lesbian artist.” It wouldn’t be the first time she wrote a long review just to praise a friend. She was great at acting like a Karen and if she used her real name, everyone thought she was seventy anyway. “I should make them tip me extra for making me witness their bad tattoos. At least my bad tattoos are covered up or I’m getting them fixed.”
“I was truly #blessed.” Luce said in a mocking voice, as she shut off her machine. “What got me was the fact he had the balls to ask, ‘was it good for you’? That was when I straight up told him I was pretty sure I preferred girls. Whoops.” She said as she wiped off the last of the ink and gestured for Dot to take a look at the tattoo in the mirror she had on the wall. “You better mention me, otherwise people will come in thinking it was Rory who did this sick pussy tat. God knows how the girls would react to that.” She snorted, amused at the other artist’s struggles with the fairer sex. “Honestly, they really should. And hey, you’re getting there.” She said as she tossed her gloves in the trash and began to clean up her station. “When are we gonna fix that jank ass dolphin tattoo of yours, huh?”
“‘Was it good for you?’ Well, bud, if I’m getting up to leave then I’m pretty sure it wasn’t good for me. Boys are fucking stupid,” Dot laughed. This is part of the reason she ate human boys, they were just so annoying. She stood, looking into the mirror with an almost feral grin. “This is fucking awesome.” Turning back to Luce she let out another half laugh,“Yeah I’ll make sure I tell them it was you. Try not to hit on all the hot ones I send your way.” Dot took out her phone to take a photo to send Blanche and a few of her old college buddies. Snorting, she shook her head,“The dolphin is staying as messed up as it is. It’s a Dot classic at this point.”
“Right? You’d think me grabbing my shorts and booking it out the door would have been a dead give away.” Luce said with a laugh as she grabbed the aftercare instructions pamphlet and stuffed it into a baggy with a little Ink Inc. sticker, some candy, and a few packets of Aquaphor. “I’m glad you like it.” She said as she held out the grab bag. “And, no promises on that.” Luce winked and shook her head as they walked out to the register. Setting the station up for her, Luce shook her head with a disappointed snap of her fingers. “Damn, and here I thought I might have a chance at getting you to rethink that. But, hey. You win some, you lose some.” As she leaned against the front desk, Luce glanced up at the clock. Dot was a dope lady, if chaotic. And, coming from her? That meant she was pretty much chaos incarnate. But, she was good company for a drink. “You wanna grab a drink? Celebrate your new art?”
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One Million In One Day | 7
 GOT7 SugarDaddy!Jackson Wang x Reader + Park Jinyoung x Reader | Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ? Characters: GOT7 Summary: His mother’s final wish is to see him be happy in a relationship, knowing that Jackson would be fine when she left him. But, damn, he didn’t have time for relationships, especially not since he was busy running his father’s billion dollar empire, thus the compromise: you. Word Count: 1k+ Warnings: Temper tantrums, stalking, TYPOS, etc.
Preview | Alternate Moodboard | Chapter 8 Teaser
A/N: I’m back after 2049 years. thank you for hanging in there uhm HAHHA
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You’ll never believe it, but it was a success.
I blew a million in twenty four hours, and it was mostly used up on buying unnecessarily expensive clothing for my family and friends, and family friends, and friend’s family, and family friend’s family, and friend’s family friends, and paying off debt.
Needless to say I have acquired many expensive things and bought so many things I’ve always wanted to buy. I ended up donating all the clothes I did not really particularly care for to a charity, and a few couple bucks as well.
Another needless thing to mention is that I have never thought impulse buying would be so stressful, yet oddly relaxing at the same time.
Today I drove to school with Mark, whose car I payed off by the way.
It was no big deal. It wasn’t like it was a Ferrari. It was a Ford he had initially bought anyway. Unrelated note, I even bought his dog a Gucci cape.
Nari also knows about my engagement because of how many things I brought home at once. I thought it would be bad if I told her, but oh my goodness she was probably too supportive over everything that was going on.]
The funny thing about today is that I don’t have pocket money.
Mark and I laughed about it so hard.
I’m not worried though. I bought food at home anyway, and can walk back from school or hitch another ride with Mark.
Mark and I walked to class together, and on our way I saw Jinyoung.
I called for him and waved my hands, ready to run up to him. When he didn’t react, I figured he couldn’t hear me, so I just jogged up to him, knowing Mark would follow anyway.
“Jinyoung-ah,” I called once I was in front of him. I was taken aback when he grunt and pushed past me. I knit my brows and went in front of him once more, raising my hands to my sides to block his path. “Jinyoung.”
He scoffed and rolled his eyes, placing his hand on my shoulder, pushing me away, “Don’t talk to me.”
I felt my stomach drop at his words. By then Mark was here, pulling a face out of confusion. “Ya, what’s up?”
Jinyoung whips his head back and snaps, “What’s up?! What’s up is that I can’t trust my friends because they lie to me and go behind my back.”
I pull my head back, “What? We don’t lie to you Jinyoung!”
“Ha!” Jinyoung heaves in annoyance, “That’s another lie!”
At this point, he’s practically fuming red with anger. Mark tries to make him calm down by placing a hand on his shoulder but this only makes Jinyoung snap and shove Mark off. “Don’t you two dare talk to me in class.”
I huffed and let him walk away. Mark and I turn to each other, “He couldn’t be talking about... the money, right?”
Mark knits his brows deeply and shakes his head, “I don’t think Jinyoung would be upset about something like that.” He turns to me, “What’d you do?”
I pull my head back, “What’d I do? What’d you do?”
“I don’t do anything, remember? I literally sleep all day everyday. You on the other hand have a sugar daddy,” Mark says, whispering the last words.
I give him a look and slap his arm, “Shut up, there is no way he knows about that.”
Mark shakes his head, “Whatever you say, darling.”
Gosh, I hate it when Mark starts making sense.
All throughout the class, I couldn’t focus on Mr. Choi talk about truth. Instead my eyes were basically burning a hole behind Jinyoung’s head. It didn’t mean he turned back at all however.
STFU TUAN: he’s ignoring my texts
I huff and turn to Mark who was across the room due to the fact we arrived late and there were no longer any seats.
I try to text Jinyoung as well.
My heart skips a beat when my phone vibrates, but alas, it’s only Mark sending me a picture of myself from across the room.
STFU TUAN: u are so whipped
STFU TUAN: i feel so bad
I roll my eyes and ignore his text.
STFU TUAN: don’T VISIBLY IGNORE ME TOO!!!
At this point, Mark is blowing up my phone with keyboard smash. I huff and roll my eyes. I should not have paid for his phone bill.
Once it gets too much, I decide to finally reply too him. I open my phone only to see that I received a text from another contact.
Jackson Wang: Are you available today for a date?
I turn to Jinyoung, and suddenly, everyone in the room is standing up as apparently class was over. I scramble to my feet and look to see if Jinyoung was still there, but knowing how he gets when he’s upset, I catch him when he’s almost bolted out of the door.
I huff and find Mark walking towards me.
“So what’s the plan?” Mark asks once he’s in front of me. I huff and turn to my phone when it vibrates again.
Jackson Wang: Are you busy?
“Who’s that?” Mark asks and I ignore him to reply.
Me: i still have classes
“Oh my gosh, is that sugar da--” “I told you just call him sugar!”
Mark’s eyes widen and then he gets all smug, “You slick.”
I roll my eyes.
Jackson Wang: What time to you finish?
Me: about two hours from now
Jackson Wang: ALright.
Jackson Wang: Meet me here *photo attached*
Jackson Wang: Or should  i pick you up?
Me: Its fine ill go by myself.
---
“Over here,” I hear a voice say when I enter the restaurant. Upon seeing a sharply dressed Jackson Wang smiling, I couldn’t help but smile back as I walked over to him. He stands from his seat by the window and greets me when I get close enough.
But the hug I was expecting, turned out to be a kiss on my cheek. I feel my cheeks burn slightly.
Jackson pulls away and smiles, “Sorry.” He speaks in a low voice, “I think there are a few people hanging out here, trying to make sure you’re my real girlfriend.”
I raise my brows and move my head slightly to turn back, but Jackson cuts me off my saying, “Dior looks good on you.”
I freeze upon hearing that and stutter, “How-how’d you--”
“You get used to it. Also, there’s a subtle logo around here?” Jackson says, rubbing his chest, which makes me mimic and realize he’s been looking at my-- “Have you eaten yet?” he asks, breaking my train of thought.
I look at him and expect him to speak again, but find myself trailing off a “No,” instead.”
“Oh you haven’t eaten lunch yet?”
He then escorts me to the counter side and we stand to look at the menu... I guess. Jackson has his arm over my shoulder. He leans in. I feel goose bumps form around me when I feel his breath against my neck. “Don’t be concerned about them though, they’re just sent by some nosy relatives or friends.”
Once he pulls away, I clear my throat and find myself turning to him. Once his eyes meet mine, thinking of him seeing my probably flushed face made me panic and hide it... on his chest.
Jackson chuckles, and decides to embrace me and coo, “So sweet.”
He sounds like a natural. He must’ve had tonnes of girlfriends... or tonnes of fake ones. I can’t help but feel all sour over that, which is why I pull back and turn to him, “I want some chicken.”
He nods, “Then chicken you shall have.”
After ordering, we go back to our seats and I get a picture of just how pretty this restaurant is. Jackson notices me looking around, and so he asks, “You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s so instagram aesthetic.”
He laughs a little too amused at that, and so I turn to him with a questioning look. Jackson smiles, “I’m glad you think so, because I’m just about to take millions of photos of you and post them on instagram.” With that said, he pulls out his phone, “Of course, it you don’t mind.”
I hesitate to answer but find myself thinking I probably don’t have a choice. I then nod and do a peace sign, which makes Jackson squeal in pleasure, “AH CUTE!”
Jackson then pulls out his phone and takes rapid-fire photos of me. The shutter on his phone goes off so many times, I got all flustered as I was only striking one pose.
“Should I...” I say, changing poses.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart.”
I turn to Jackson behind his phone and give a dumbfounded look, “You’re not helping.”
Jackson doesn’t care and continues taking photos. I purse my lips and raise my hands, “M’kay, that’s enough photos for now.”
Jackson chuckles then begins to shake his head with a pout, “Nuh-uh, we have to take a selca first.”
I raise my brows at him and he begins to walk over. He then bends down and puts his forehead against mine, free hand going to my neck. He gives a smile to the camera and says “selca!” I turn to his phone and find myself visibly uncomfortable.
I try to give a smile, but I end up screwing my eyes shut and breaking away with a nervous laugh.
Jackson straightens up at that and chuckles at my reaction, “Alright. That’s enough for now. Don’t want you turning into a tomato on me.”
After eating, Jackson and I decided to walk around, arm linked together.
“How did you get here?”
I turn to him to see him looking down on me. “Taxi,” I quickly reply and turn away.
Jackson nods, “You should buy a car after this.”
All at once, the anxiety of spending money comes back, and then I find myself thinking of Jinyoung. I sigh, “I can’t drive.”
Jackson nudges me slightly and gives an amused face, “I’ll teach you.”
I can’t help but smile at him and shrug, “Alright.”
Jackson feels victorious and agrees, “It’s a date.”
At this point, we end up in this pretty neighborhood with pretty front yards and pretty porches. I couldn’t help but audibly note on this, “Look at that pretty house!”
“You’re prettier.”
I snort and shove Jackson when he says this. He chuckles and sidesteps due to impact. And because we’ve broken away, I got to look back behind us. I noticed that there were a bunch of guys who I recognized where from the restaurant.
I tense and move back close to Jackson, “They’re following us.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t mind them. We’re not doing anything wrong, except probably being young and in loooove.”
I cringe at Jackson and pinch his side. Yet again he seems awfully amused with himself. “If this is what it’s like dating you, I’m glad I’m not.”
Jackson pouts out in a frown, “Meanie! Also too bad because we are dating.”
I narrow my eyes at him, “Yeah, yeah, only until you’re tired of me though.”
The man’s demeanor visibly shifts, “That’s... not a nice thing to say.”
For a moment we look at each other and stop our walking. I suddenly feel bad for saying such a thing, though it may be true. “I...” but Jackson’s screech of a laugh cuts me off short, “Your face!”
I let out a breath and contort into annoyance, “well harty-har-har.”
Jackson is still catching his breath when I start walking again.
“Hey hold on.” 
Once he catches up with me, he places his hand on my shoulder again, “So tell me about your day? Has it been good, I mean, beside going out on a date with me.”
I want to give a sassy reply, but when I think back at what happened with Jinyoung, I end up saying something else, “It’s bleh.”
The man frowns, “Why is that? Is business math killing you.”
I can’t help but chuckle, “No... it’s fine.”
“NOOO TELL ME!”
“Jackson, it really isn’t.”
“Tell me!” Jackson exclaims in a screamo voice and I turn to him with an annoyed expression, “Geez, fine. I had a fight with my best friend.”
“Hmmmm, is it... the Jinyoung guy.” Jackson says warily.
My heart skips for multiple reasons at the thought that he remembers that. I nod in reply.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Honestly, he’s probably just being a drama queen. It’s his specialty. Doesn’t mean I’m not concerned though. He just as an awful way of coping, and his temper doesn’t help with it.”
Jackson nods upon hearing this, “Well, don’t worry too much about him then. You said he does this a lot so I’m sure he’ll come around.”
I nod at his words and he give me another pout, “hey, don’t go frowning on me.”
I proceed to force a smile. Jackson coos at this and pinches my cheeks, “Aw sooooo cute!” He then looks far off behind me, “Hey, you want some ice cream.”
I perk up like a child on Christmas morning. He laughs as I nod with enthusiasm. I proceed to run off to the stand. Jackson takes an opportunity to take a photo of the incident. When I turn back and see what he is doing, I cover my face and yell behind my hands, “Stop it!”
Jackson laughs lowly and says to himself, “I really can’t.”
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Wanna see a teaser for chapter 8 cos i write v slow thank u for understanding that i just cannot do this on the regular lol asddffhekel
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drabblesanddreams · 5 years
Text
Old life, new world - Chuuya Nakahara x Reader
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Hey everyone, this is a commission that i wrote for the lovely @moonlittxger :) I hope you like the way it turned out! If anyone wishes for a commission please send me a pm and ill text back with more details :)
If you wish to support heres my Kofi
Word count: 2.3 K
TW: slight form of Self harm, depressing thoughts, angst, read at your own risk
Summary: When you get hit by a bus and end up in a new world, Chuuya is the one who saves you and over time you find your disdain for the man turn into something more warm and tender- a story over 6 months.
Six months
“Hey,”
Though the sudden greeting managed to break you out of the despairing thoughts that managed to fall one after another in the alignment of your mind, your body barely budged an inch. You slowly blinked, (E/C)’s becoming hazy once more as you lost yourself between the stone crevices of the prison wall and the deep, growing fissures of your own sanity.
You easily fell back into dwelling around the concept of what was now and what was then.
You replayed the facts over and over again in your head.
You had been struck by a bus, no one's fault but your own for rushing across the street without looking at all in upmost urgency so that you would make it to work on time and hopefully, avoid the wicked wrath of your boss.
You remember the hot rush of pain that flooded your senses and every nerve before blacking out, courtesy of your head hitting the asphalt.
When you woke up, you half-expected to be in a hospital room. But instead, you were back on the roads, lying on your back as your eyes became lost in the too-blue sky above. It was serene, peaceful even.
And then someone was honking for you to ‘get the fuck off the roads you dumbass!’
Reality slid back into place and you wondered what the hell just happened. But you didn’t have the time nor expense to be dwelling over it because one look at your watch, you blanched and realized you were late of work.
However, when you arrived at your workplace, your manager stared at you in pure confusion, wondering why you were trying to clock in. When you returned her comment with equal confusion, her eyebrows stitched together in annoyance as she pushed you out of the door muttering about “stupid brats and pulling their pranks again,”
Safe to say you were defiantly perplexed and thought to yourself that this must be her way of firing you.
It only got worse and more harrowing afterwards, for when you made your way back home you were stopped in place by the big blue sold! Sign outside your estate. When you tried phoning your mother about what was going on, your heart raced ever so quickly and nearly stopped in its thundering mission when you heard the voice on the other side, proclaiming that the number was disconnected and no longer in service.
Afterwards, you shut your eyes tightly and tugged hard at your head of hair, hoping to wake up from whatever the fuck was happening. You remember the emotions lurching throughout your body then. The tears that threatened to escape the corner of your eyes, the feeling that you were suffocating as if you couldn’t get enough air.
It wasn’t until you were walking in the dark of the city that you had no idea where to go or what to do. When an older gentleman had cornered you in an ally way, you completely freaked as he attempted to lay his hands on you. Until a moment of pure panic, something worse seemed to have happened.
A foreign pressure on your back, like you had an extension of some limbs. When you looked back, you felt like you were going to blank out, which you then did within the next thirty seconds.
Because there, on your back was a translucent pair of chrysanthemum blue wings, butterfly in shape.
The older man then growled at you, a ferocious sound from the bottom of his throat as he grabbed your head, muttering “ability user,” then smashed it against the ally-way wall.
Back in the prison cell, the wound on your head was now healed, and that’s how you figured your pair of wings came with the ability of slight regeneration. You didn’t forget the way your attacker muttered ability user like it was some sort of disease. He mentioned to his colleagues that they had to be very careful so that dammed detective agency didn’t figure out of their plans to traffic you out of the city.
You put two and two together afterwards and realized the exact sort of hell you were in. You hypothesized that you must’ve died, or must’ve ended up in one long, freakish dream.
For the first bit in the prison cell, you amused yourself half-heartedly by digging your nails into your palm, deep enough to draw blood and severe enough that your new-found abilities would take over and repair the torn skin, centimetre by centimetre in the expense of about a minute.
You were still trying to come to terms with the fact that you were never going to see your family again. The burden of this thought weighed on your soul like an anchor pulling down the mass of a ship.
“Hey,” he called out again this time more …  Get the fuck up, we’re leaving.”
This time you spared the stranger a glance.
He was flanked in black dress pants, a vest, and a long black coat. From underneath that black hat peaked out orange hair, long enough that it curled slightly around his pale neck. He was short, petit even as he buried his hands in the pocket of his trousers, scowling at you with disdain.
What a joke, Chuuya Nakahara was here.
You gazed up at him for a moment longer, a thousand questions billowing in your mind but instead you remained quiet.
He kicked the cell bars, now fully annoyed, “I said get the fuck up,” he ordered, and you snorted, rolling your eyes as you lolled your head over to him.
“Or what,” you couldn’t help but say sarcastically, “You’ll put me in prison?”
He huffed, drawing a key from his pocket and easily unlocking the chain door as he made his way over to you, harshly grabbing you by the arm and pulling you up. You did little to protest this, no longer finding the will to fight back any longer. You would accept whatever fate had in store for you with open arms.
“Haha, very funny smartass,” he rolled his eyes as he dragged you out of the prison cell and out the corridor.
As the both of you made your way down the corridor, you caught sight of some of the guards who had previously been tasked with watching over you, now on the ground and slouched over their stomachs, chin resting on their chests, sleeping away.
It then struck you with the harsh realization that these men weren’t sleeping, they were unconscious, you thought as you caught sight of a dribble of blood here and there.
“Wait,” you said, stopping in your tracks as your eyebrows furrowed. Chuuya stopped as well, looking at you in annoyance and he tugged at your arm, “I said wait.”
You examined him for a moment before voicing your thought out loud, “Are you…saving me?” you asked.
He snorted loudly, rolling his cerulean blue hues as he said, “Wow, princess you sure are a genius,” you scowled at this before harshly pulling your arm away from his grasp and crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes, Mori-san requested that we take you back and join the Port Mafia,” At this your eyes widened, and you gaped openly at him. The… Port Mafia?
“Hell fucking no am I joining the fucking mafia you short, ginger cussing asshole!” you proclaimed loudly as you took a step back, placing your hands on your hips.
-
2 months later, you were now under the ranks of the mafia. It was quite logical to join them, after all, you had absolutely no place to go.
Although the effects of depression never failed to take a hold of you, the thoughts of how worried your mom must be now that you had been missing for so long, you found yourself growing accustomed to your wings.
The healing bit was a perk too.
But over the two months you found yourself squabbling with Chuuya on a daily, the backbiting that occurred between you two was fierce, ever since you called him short.
“Are you done yet? Hurry the fuck up (Y/N) I don’t have all day!”
At Chuuya’s call you rolled your eyes as you searched around your room for your report, the one that the both of you had to report to Mori-sensei.
“I’m hurrying holy shit calm down!” you called back out to him through the door. You heard a bang on your door and didn’t doubt for a second that he must’ve kicked it again, hot-headed as he is.
You wondered just how much your poor door could take before it would cave into the splintering pieces of wood that barely managed to hold itself together.
Reaching under the covers of your bed, your hand grasped the file folder of your report and you pulled it out victoriously before making haste in sprinting across your room.
You pulled the door to your room open, meeting Chuuya’s eyes. What a pretty colour they were, even though you did hate the guy you could admit that he was…hot, for lack of a better term.
But you would never admit that out loud, so instead you thrust the folder into his arms, “Here.”
-
2 Months later
“Who the fuck did this?” Chuuya hissed at you though his actions didn’t carry the same malice as his words as he ran his thumb over the cut on your face.
“Fuck Chuuya I dunno, doesn’t matter though we gotta go,” you groaned at the pain in your body, slurring your words as the earth tilted down slightly. The slight sound of gunshots down the street sent your heart racing, the both of you had to scram before getting caught in the crossfire, otherwise, it’ll be too late.
You felt the brush of wind against your exposed shoulders as your wings stuttered for a moment before folding in back on themselves, too weak to have energy wasted on them folded out.
“C’mon,” he muttered and wrapped a hand around your shoulders and the other around your waist, hoisting you up.
You moaned in pain as you rested your head against his shoulder, already feeling the slow regenerating effect of your ability kicking in.
That day, you saw Chuuya look at you with something a bit different than the usually anger and hate…worry.
-
2 Months later- present
“No no no idiot, Baileys is the one you can eat with ice-cream and all that shit, Concha Toro is good for admiring its taste in just itself,”
You eyed Chuuya’s explanation of the two brands with faint interest from the couch, you laid your head down on the arm of his couch as you took in your explanation.
“So, which one are we drinking?” you asked. Ever since Chuuya had heard that the only wine you’ve had was from the grocery store, he freaked and demanded that he take upon the role to educate you on his hobby, which was, of course, drinking wine.
“Concha Toro,” he stated, walking over to you as he uncorked the bottle and filled the two glasses up. He handed you one and you gingerly got up as he sat next to you on the couch. You took a small sip of it before cringing, “It’s way too bitter,” you gagged and Chuuya rolled his eyes as he made for a reach for your glass
“No!” you stated in possessiveness as you brought the glass closer to your chest, “Mine,” he raised an eyebrow at your antics.
Soon, through the small, mindless chatter with Chuuya you found yourself finishing the glass and swiped Chuuya’s own, draining that as well.
“Oneeee more!” you begged holding out your glass. You felt fuzzy and light like you were drifting on a cloud.
“Hell no, you’re drunk already you lightweight,” he stated back in return and you pouted, swaying towards him on the couch, “Please?” you slurred.
He shook his head and just as you swayed a little too far, your body lurched forward and he caught you in his harms. You immediately wrapped your arms around him and giggled, “Okay, I think its time you go to bed,” he stated at your antics.
He hoisted the both of you up and you stumbled forward, “You know I died once?” you stated, referring to your accident with the bus that seemed a million years ago. “Uh huh,” he said obviously not believing you, “It’s true!”
He gently pulled you forward but it seems as if the alcohol was really hitting you as you could barely walk, “Fuck my life..” he muttered and you stared at him as he wrapped his arms under you, pulling you up so he could carry you bridal style.
He was so pretty, god, you might even want to kiss him if you didn’t hate him so much. Humming you asked, “Chuuya do you hate me?” he stopped in his tracks and looked at you. “What the hell? I may detest you, but I don’t hate you, princess,” he called out that nickname. Whenever he called you princess, it always infuriated you, but you always felt a rush of warmth in the pit of your belly.
Reaching your head up, you nuzzled his neck affectionately as you tenderly kissed the spot underneath his ear.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, and you tilted your head up as you took in the blush creeping up his pale cheeks, “Loving you,”
“Chuuya,” you said, “Let’s not hate each other anymore, ‘kay?” he looked at you and grunted in amusement.
“We can talk about this in the morning, now just go to bed dumbass,”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, I promise,”
Maybe with the promise of a new life, you’d be okay again, hopefully enough that you could find your way back home. 
But was losing everything newfound worth it?
You’ll just have to see.
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asoiafdrabbles · 4 years
Text
I.22
"I wished for a companion. A brother." 
Gen, Jon & Domeric (Jon fostered by the Boltons AU)
Jon crashed through the underbrush, cursing under his breath as his horse fought against him. Their journey by this point was supposed to be relaxed, but they'd been beset by bandits after he'd finally risked the roads again, and Jon knew enough to realize he couldn't fight them off on his own.
He'd lost some in the forest, using every trick he could remember from races with his siblings through the Wolfswood around Winterfell. There were only two on him, now, but his horse was lathered and he was wearying, he did not know how much longer he could do this.
They burst through the tree line into a clearing and there was a shout. He swiftly changed course, bringing his horse around. Men at arms, flying a pink banner. He'd made it further than he thought he had.
The bandits behind him tried to turn and run once they saw the new people, but were quickly brought down. A man shouted for Jon to stop and he did, watching them for any hostile move. There were at least a dozen, all on fresh looking horses, no matter how quick he was they'd run him down.
Reluctantly, he dismounted when asked, keeping his head down and his answers short.
"You're very good," a soft voice said, familiar somehow. "That accent almost sounds lowborn."
Jon gulped and glanced towards the speaker, flinching back when he met cold, pale eyes. Lord Roose Bolton. They'd never been directly introduced, but Jon had seen him a few times growing up, when he came to meet with his father at Winterfell. And from the look he was giving him, Jon was certain that despite his bastard status, Lord Bolton recognized him, too.
***
They took him back to the Dreadfort, Jon doing his best to keep his back straight, his head high, but he knew the stories about how that place got its name. And he knew plenty of rumors about Lord Bolton to make him worry just what fate could be waiting for him.
He was shown to a room, a bath prepared, and given fresh clothes that were fine quality, though ill-fitting. Then he was brought to Lord Bolton's solar, where a meal had been set out for him. He ate it gladly, hoping that guest rights might stop Lord Bolton from doing something awful to him.
"What were you doing on my lands, Jon Snow, all alone?"
Jon licked his lips and looked down at his plate, pushing the food around with his utensils. "I...got separated from the people I was with."
"And that's why you were pretending to my men that you were a peasant boy, I suppose."
He glanced at Lord Bolton, then away. The silence continued on, Lord Bolton did not seem to mind it, but it was becoming more and more oppressive for Jon.
"I left Winterfell alone," he finally blurted out.
Lord Bolton nodded. "I had assumed as much, given the contents of your bags."
Jon scowled down at his plate. Of course a lord would just search someone's possessions without their leave.
"Why are you running away from home?"
"I just...I had to."
"Not because you wanted to?"
Jon stiffened, then shook his head. "It wasn't...if I had stayed...." Despite his reasons for leaving, he couldn't bring himself to divulge Stark secrets to a Bolton, and eventually trailed off.
Lord Bolton didn't seem surprised by Jon's lack of explanation and once he'd finished eating, had a servant escort him back to his chambers.
The next morning, Lord Bolton called for Jon again, and this time started up a conversation seemingly unrelated to the previous one.
"Do you enjoy riding?"
"I...yes, my lord."
"And you appear to be quite gifted, if the way you were riding earlier is any indication."
Jon blinked. "...I suppose, my lord."
"My son's greatest passion is riding. His mother was a Ryswell, he inherited his skill from her. The Starks have also been known to breed riders, your aunt, Lyanna, was well-known for her abilities."
"I'm not a Stark, my lord."
Something flashed across Lord Bolton's face, but Jon couldn't identify it. "No. Your lord father would never allow one of his trueborn children onto my lands alone. Nor would he allow one to ward with my heir."
Jon frowned, sure he had heard wrong. "But...."
"I will send a raven to Lord Stark informing him of your presence here." He held up a hand before Jon could protest. "And, as you have made it quite clear you have no wish to return to Winterfell, I will offer you a place here. My son will return in a few days, his time with Lady Dustin has come to an end, and you appearing as you have, now, seems too fortuitous to pass up."
There had to be some angle, Jon realized, lords didn't simply invite bastards into their home. "You're just doing this...so your son has someone to ride with?" he asked, not hiding his skepticism.
Bolton gave him a look he decided might be amusement. "Among other reasons."
*** Jon spent his days bracing himself for what Domeric Bolton might be like, imagining a mini version of his father, just as cold and unusual. He had a lot of time for such thoughts, because while he was sent to lessons with the Maester and and training with the guards, he had no chores as he would at Winterfell.
When the Bolton heir finally arrived, he seemed surprisingly normal. He did ride well, Jon noticed, as he thought anyone with eyes could. But, unlike his father, there was something looser, more welcoming, about him.
When they were introduced, Jon realized that they still had the same cold, pale eyes and the worry that had been slowly dissipating was back in full force.
He didn't know what Lord Bolton was planning, but he was fairly sure he wouldn't like it.
***
If Domeric was like his father, he hid it well. He had clearly learned social graces elsewhere (from his deceased mother, Jon wondered, or the aunt he'd recently returned from?) and despite being a few years older than Jon, and trueborn at that, was surprisingly gracious.
He was, Jon realized not a fortnight or so into their acquaintance, used to be lonely at the Dreadfort.
Jon never found out what reply his father had given to Lord Bolton's initial raven, though the Maester had let slip that he'd been exchanging frequent ravens with Winterfell. His father was not particularly politically minded, but anyone could suspect that Jon was being kept as a hostage.
Which was why, many moons after he'd first come to the Dreadfort, he was surprised to find out that Domeric was going to squire in the Vale...and Jon was going with him.
"I...truly?"
"Is it so surprising? Your father squired in the Vale."
"My father was a trueborn son. I had thought...I had thought I'd end up at the Wall."
Domeric rarely displayed strong emotions, so the shock on his face was almost funny. "But...why would he send you to the Wall? He's the Lord of Winterfell and friend to the King, he could set you up with land, or have you legitimized, easily."
Jon cringed, imagining Lady Stark's reaction to that. "No, he can't. His wife, she would...." He shook his head, not bothering to continue.
Frowning in thought, Domeric let the matter drop. "I feel as though I should point out, a Bolton lecturing another person on what is normal behavior in a lord's household is...rare."
Chuckling at Domeric's rare jape, Jon let himself be distracted from thoughts of Lady Stark. "Where in the Vale did you say we were going?"
***
On their journey to meet Lord Redfort, Jon was suddenly hit with the fact he'd worked so hard in his earlier attempt to leave the North in secret only to now be leaving accompanied by a few dozen guards and the heir to the second most powerful House in the North.
When he pointed it out to Domeric one quiet night as they made camp, the other took time to think the information over, as was his habit. "In a way, I suppose we both were given something we wanted by my father. You wanted to escape Lord Stark's domain, for reasons someday you may divulge. I wished for a companion. A brother."
Jon looked over at him in the dim firelight, surprised that Domeric would admit something so personal. Then he realized, reluctantly, that the shouldn't be surprised at all.
The two of them got along well, and not only when riding horses. Neither of them were loud boys or felt any discomfort in sitting quietly by one another. While Jon was not particularly skilled at instruments, Domeric was patiently teaching him to play the harp, and enjoyed Jon singing in accompaniment when he played.
Domeric wasn't like Robb, Jon's closest blood brother. He was more like Jon himself. Guarded, quiet, careful--even if for different reasons. And unlike Robb, he had no one trying to keep him and Jon apart and Jon never felt the niggling resentment, the shameful envy, he did around his trueborn siblings.
"It's odd," Jon put in, finally, "how we ended up together. But...I'm glad we did."
That earned him a rare smile. "So am I."
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raendown · 5 years
Link
Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3984 Chapter: 7/? Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.
In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.
Follow the link or read it under the cut!
KO-FI and commission info in the header!
Chapter 7
As he had silently promised himself, Madara did think about what Susumu-sensei and Hashirama both said to him. The idea that one had to work to fall in love still baffled him, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to wrap his head around it, but one thing did stick out for him as only logical. If he wasn’t going to have a chance to achieve the happiness he should have been able to have in life then there was no point in making himself even more miserable than he needed to be. It would be best if he and Tobirama got along, at least.
Where he balked was having to make that first move himself. For all the unfairness he was already suffering he thought in this he should be allowed a bit of selfishness. Tobirama had grown up expecting this sort of misery so obviously he should be the one to make the first effort, not Madara who was still trying to get used to the fact that his life would always be empty of love.
The problem chased him around for several days and kept him just preoccupied enough not to think it was all that weird when he noticed his husband watching him a little too closely during meetings. Generally the two of them avoided looking at each other when at all possible so having Tobirama spend several days eyeing him contemplatively should have awakened suspicion or worry or some kind of self-preservation instinct. Madara’s only excuse was that Tobirama’s gaze seemed to have absolutely no ill intent, no dire under-handed plan with him as the target. All he did was stare with those pretty red eyes that any Uchiha would be jealous of.
Madara was ashamed to say that he didn’t fully register the anomaly until a bigger one came along when Tobirama approached him of his own free will while he was doing nothing more than sitting at the island in their kitchen with a mug of tea. Sudden movement in the corner of one eye sent him leaping right out of his own skin, mug falling on its side and sending tea rushing across the surface.
“Shit,” he growled quietly. “I thought you were gone.”
“Ah.” Tobirama blinked at the tea with the same old dead expression as always. Madara spun to reach for a towel but when he turned back Tobirama had one hand hovering over the spill and lit up with chakra. One twist of his fingers and the liquid followed where he beckoned it like he was some sort of water spirit, back in to the mug that he had already set back to rights.
Rather than thank him Madara grunted and pulled his tea closer to inspect it for any funny business. His husband watched him for a moment before sighing and looking away.
“I need to speak with you about something.” He looked up again at Tobirama’s voice.
“Those proposals I sent in yesterday are no longer up for debate,” Madara ground out, hackles up before anything else had been said. He was all ready to defend the papers he’d spent several weeks redrafting each time Tobirama brought up another point of contention during council meetings – but the subject was waved off with a quick swat of one pale hand.
“Not that.” If Madara didn’t know better he would have said by the shifting of weight and refusal to meet eyes that Tobirama was nervous. “As a…member of the clan I asked around and apparently overseeing the training of the younglings is your purview. Unexpected, I have to admit.”
“Okay…?”
Taking a deep breath and letting it back out in a rush, Tobirama raised his chin to look finally meet Madara’s gaze with an almost defiant expression. “I was going to do this anyway but Hashirama has been badgering me and there really is no point in pissing you off more if it isn’t necessary. I would like your…permission to train Uchiha Kagami. You seem close with the boy so he probably would have said something eventually anyway.”
Shrugging lightly as if to convince himself he didn’t care all that much, Tobirama looked away again, focusing out the window at the trees rustling in the wind. Madara stared.
“You want to train an Uchiha child?” he demanded. Tobirama gave him one sharp nod.
“Training the younglings has always been one of my duties. Or it was until I effectively left the clan. Kagami is…different from the other Uchiha that I have met. Affable.”
“Right.” Drumming his fingers in the island between them, Madara squinted. “There has to be more to it than that.”
He almost had a moment to feel smug for guessing right until the other man’s reluctant response took all the wind out of his sails – out of his lungs as well, leaving him feeling rather like he’d been punched in the gut.
“It was my thought that proving I can care for one of your children would endear me in some slight way to the others so they might not detest me quite so much. Earn their trust, so to speak.” Clearly forcing the words outs had cost him greatly but that was definitely not what Madara focused on. He was more stunned by the words themselves than the effort behind them.
“Wait, you think my clan hates you? All of them?”
To Tobirama’s credit, he refrained from snarkily pointing out that they were technically supposed to be his clan now as well. With a tight jaw and clenched fists he asked, “Don’t they? When I draw near they stop speaking. When I come around the corner they stop laughing, stop smiling. All signs of joy flee at first sight of me. To you they nod and smile and chatter. To me they bow and speak formally and then hurry away as quickly as they can. I think it’s more than clear that I am not welcome anywhere in this clan.”
Blinking slowly, Madara bit the inside of his cheek and wondered if perhaps the two of them were both doomed to misinterpret every social interaction they ever experienced. It would be ironic, if nothing else, for that to be their only commonality.
“My – our people do not hate you.”
“I’m sorry, did you listen to a word I just said?”
“They don’t!” Madara rolled his eyes. “If you had bothered to ask any of them they could have explained that they were trying to make you more comfortable!”
“By alienating me?” Tobirama gave him a dubious look.
Frustrated, Madara curled the fingers he had been drumming. “No! You’re always so…so…formal! Distant! They’re trying to act more appropriately to your station so they don’t insult you with frivolity!”
“Insult me with frivolity? They think I don’t want them to be happy?” By the end of his question Tobirama’s voice had trailed off and Madara was nearly shocked right out of his socks as he realized that his husband was actually saddened by the thought that others might be unhappy because of him. It was oddly human of him.
Slightly uncomfortable with this revelation, he brought his arms close to cross over his chest and muttered, “They’re perfectly happy; just a bit more restrained because they – and I, to be honest – thought you would prefer more formal interactions. They’re showing you respect.”
“I see. I had no idea that was the general opinion of me.”
“Well your general opinion was that they all hated you so it’s not like that’s much worse.”
Tobirama scowled but for once the expression seemed turned inwards at himself. “It baffled me that Kagami could be so different from the rest of his clan, so cheerful when everyone else who spoke to me seemed so insular.”
“Kagami is no different from the rest of us,” Madara snorted. “He’s just too enthusiastic to keep it in his head when his mother tells him to remember his manners.”
“I prefer him the way he is.” Tobirama shrugged.
“Do you?” Humming thoughtfully, Madara realized with no small amount of surprise that it seemed he hadn’t needed to make the first move after all. Susumu-sensei’s words bounced off each other inside his head for the thousandth time, echoed by Hashirama’s voice insisting that his little brother wasn’t actually a closed off robot, that he was somehow worth getting to know. Before he could stop himself Madara allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and asked, “Do you like kids or something?”
He wondered if it was the question itself or just the fact that he had asked it that gave Tobirama such a startled look on his face.
“Yes,” was his simple answer.
“Huh. I wouldn’t have expected that.”
“Why, because I am so cold and formal?” Tobirama ground out and Madara couldn’t really bring himself to be angry about it because yes, that was exactly why.
“It was a misconception,” he admitted instead. “One that you have now cleared up.”
Tobirama watched him carefully for a few moments, probably trying to determine whether or not he was being sincere, then finally nodded to close the subject. “Do I have your permission, then? To train Kagami as my own student? You have my word that he will receive my best efforts.”
For a second Madara hesitated, not sure how to voice his single protest without being insulting. Despite what it might look like to anyone observing them they were actually making more progress with each other in this single conversation than any they’d had before. Not a single intentional insult so far. He would call that progress!
“I can only see one difficulty, being that you are a water natured shinobi. Kagami is fire natured, like almost all Uchiha tend to be, and he will eventually need someone who can teach him the clan jutsu.”
Not looking the slightest put off, Tobirama hummed in thought. “I would ask that you simply teach me the clan jutsu but I’m entirely certain that would be breaking some sort of rule. Are spouses allowed to learn clan jutsu? I suppose if they are it would still require a level of trust which…does not exist here.” The simple hesitation at the end of his sentence was significant in some way, Madara was sure of that, but he would have to mull it over later. Something else required his attention first.
“How on earth would I teach them to you?” he asked. Had he not just said that he knew the man’s nature was water? Yet Tobirama only shrugged and casually rocked his world yet again with a single calmly spoken sentence.
“I can use all five nature releases,” he said, “so it wouldn’t be a problem for me to learn them.”
“You…what?”
Tilting his head, Tobirama drew his brows together in a contemplative frown. “I was given to believe that was fairly common within the Uchiha clan. Your dōjutsu allow you to instantly memorize and copy jutsu of any nature beyond kekkei genkai, correct?”
“Yes but – wait, how did you know that?”
“I…asked?”
Madara blinked. “Asked who? When? And why were you asking about our eyes?” Suspicion reared its head and Tobirama clearly knew the lines he was thinking along because contemplation quickly turned to confused offense.
“As soon as I learned that I was engaged to you I wished to know more. Was that not you who answered my letters?”
“What letters!?”
“I sent dozens of letters when I was told of our engagement! We were going to live together but we’d never met; I wanted to know you, to understand the people that I would be living among. I assumed it was you answering my questions.” He looked uncomfortable with the idea that he had been communicating with some unknown entity.
“No…I had no idea you ever sent anything.”
On his part Madara couldn’t decide which made him more uncomfortable. The fact that someone had been answering his mail without even informing him that it was there or the fact that someone had so easily sent confidential information about their clan’s most prized treasure – their own eyes – out in to the world in letters that could have fallen in to the hands of practically anyone without them even knowing.
He would have to look in to who did something so stupid. Izuna wouldn’t be the one. His brother was even more suspicious and protective of their clan secrets than Madara was. Susumu-sensei certainly knew how to imitate his style of writing but he couldn’t imagine how she would know he was receiving mail or how she would have been in the right place to intercept ‘dozens’ of letters without him noticing. Not to mention that she wouldn’t have any motive that he could think of to do that.
The only other person he could think of was his father but the old coot didn’t strike him as the type either. Unless…
“Were they sealed?” he asked with dread curling in his stomach.
“Yes. Every letter was sealed to open only if I penned the correct kanji on the outside. Why?”
“Mother fucker!” Madara looked around for something to hit but everything in range was breakable. “You were writing to my father. He’s never sent a letter he hasn’t sealed; it’s the only fūinjutsu he knows and he likes to show it off.”
Tobirama thought for a moment. “Your eyes can’t copy fūinjutsu?”
“No, they can’t.”
“Oh. I never thought to ask, I simply assumed. Although I suppose I can understand the logic of it if how your Sharingan works falls in to the theory I was able to cobble together from the sparse information I was allowed to know. Tell me, if you see someone release a jutsu but you don’t see the hand seals they used to activate it then can you still imitate it?”
Blinking even harder now Madara tried to follow yet another jump in topic. He was having a little trouble keeping up, answering out of reflex as he reeled along behind the other man and tried to figure out what they were really talking about. “Ah, no. We need to know how to use the jutsu of course.”
“Yes, of course. Excellent. So I was right then!”
“About what!?”
“That’s why you wouldn’t be able to learn fūinjutsu just by looking at a seal, even if your Sharingan were activated! Because you didn’t get to watch when it was originally laid!”
Madara wanted to respond somehow, never a fan of being left in the dust to feel like he was too stupid to follow a conversation, but he found it quite difficult to think past anything except the brilliant, lopsided grin splitting Tobirama’s face in half quite suddenly. In all the time since they had married he had yet to see the man smile even once. He was a vision. He was also apparently off on an excitable tangent with no intention of slowing down.
“So if you do see someone laying a seal would you be able to memorize it then? Or would fūinjutsu be different because it relies a little more heavily on the environment and the materials used rather than just the base chakra of the one who draws it?”
“I don’t…know.”
“Hmm. Something to test! Excellent! I’ll have to ask Kagami if he might help me record some results, he did express some interest in returning to the lab. Very interesting! I wonder if–”
As though entirely forgetting that they had been in the middle of a conversation, as if everything they had just been talking about was already erased from his mind, Tobirama spun on one heel and walked away muttering under his breath the whole time. Madara stood in the kitchen and watched the man turn left out of the doorway. Then ten seconds later he passed the doorway again in the opposite direction. Had he forgotten where he was going in his distraction?
It took a while for Madara to move again. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the afterimage of that incredible smile. More than human, more than just aesthetically appealing, he had looked happy. Now that was a word Madara had never thought he would ever associate with someone like Tobirama but there was no denying what he had seen. A small part of him wished he had taken the time to activate the Sharingan they had been talking about and demonstrate its memorizing prowess by imprinting that unexpected gift in to his memories forever.
The moment he realized where his thoughts were headed Madara scrambled up out of his seat. He didn’t even want to look at the clock as he snatched up his obi and made himself a little more presentable on the run. With how long they had stood there chatting it would be a miracle if he wasn’t late to work.
Most of the journey across the village passed him by in a blur of distracted thoughts, the majority of them centered around a husband he’d thought he had figured out. Evidently his sensei and Hashirama had both been right to tell him to look deeper. Well, to be fair, Hashirama was the only one who had insisted that there was anything deeper to look for. Susumu-sensei had mostly just told him to get his head out of his own self-centered ass.
Either way he was hardly about to rush off and tell either of them that they had been right. Surely they would figure that out on their own eventually – and then hopefully never bring it up to him again.
Not wanting to be caught showing up late by his father, Madara figured his best bet would be to slip in the window of his own office and threaten Hashirama in to silence about his untimely arrival. It seemed like such a great plan right up until the moment he was sitting astride the window sill with one foot still outside and both of his father’s eyes staring him down from the doorway. He was all too familiar with that fire and brimstone expression and for a single moment he considered spitting at the man’s feet in anger of his own. It was sad the way he was getting used to holding that hot ball of betrayal in his stomach when he met Tajima’s eyes. How dare he answer letters meant for someone else? And how dare he never deign to so much as mention them? He spent enough time reminding Madara how important it was that their marriage stay together, one would think he’d be the first to help them along with that.
But the moment passed and Madara schooled himself in to a carefully blank expression. Nothing good would come of yelling at his father for something that happened months ago and he knew damn well he would never get the apology he wanted. The best thing right now was to redirect the anger he was already being faced with. It was always better to just get the truth over with when Tajima brought out that particular pinched expression. Across the room Hashirama kept his eyes on his own work and tried not to look like he was cowering while Madara brought his second foot in to the office.
“I apologize father,” he mumbled, not actually sorry at all. “I was speaking with Tobirama and we simply lost track of time.”
“Speaking with your husband?” Tajima lifted one eyebrow and Madara hesitated. He would be the first to admit that it sounded unlike him but it was the truth!
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll let it pass this once. Finally a little effort; I would hate to discourage such behavior.” With a warning look that he would not be so lenient if this happened again, Tajima dropped a handful of scrolls in his inbox, demanded they be looked over by the end of the day, and then left.
Madara slumped down in to his chair with legs that felt like jelly. A smiling husband and a lenient father, what other surprises would he have to deal with before noon?
While he tried to convince his heart to stop racing Hashirama was just peeking up from his own space across the room. If he’d been watching for it he would have seen the worrisome grin spreading across his friend’s face, not nearly as attractive as his brother’s and generally the herald to much more chaos. Probably. Madara was actually a little worried about what Tobirama had wandered off to do.
“Sooooo…” Hashirama appeared at his side like a ghost and Madara startled violently for the second time that morning.
“What?”
“You were chatting with your husband were you?” the man grinned at him, leaning down to rest both elbows on the desk so he could drop his head in both palms. “Things are improving then?”
“It was one conversation,” Madara snarled.
He shoved the unwanted elbows off his work surface and reached for the scrolls his father had dropped off for him but Hashirama was far from deterred. A second later it was an unwanted rump planting itself across the spot he was about to fill with parchment and important duties.
“Tell me everything! One conversation can pave the way for many more! You’ve been having such a hard time with all of this, can’t I be happy for you that it looks like things are finally on the up?”
“Would you go away and let me work?”
“Come on! Please? Just tell me what you two were talking about!”
“Ugh!” Madara rubbed and the bridge of his noise impatiently. “He wants to train a student. That’s it. Now will you screw off? You heard my father, I have to get these done by the end of the day and I already had a full plate!” There really was no point in starting a discussion about the whole letter fiasco right now. Maybe his friend would have some insights in to that but that was best left for later; they were supposed to be working right now.
Hashirama didn’t protest when he was pushed off the desk again but he did make soft little cooing noises as though his brother taking on a new student was the cutest thing ever. Which didn’t make a lot of sense. Hadn’t Tobirama mentioned that training the younglings had been one of his duties before their clans moved here and he was married off to someone else? Madara wondered vaguely who had taken up that duty in his absence. Overseeing the new fighters was his own responsibility as well, technically, but he had taken to delegating that task to others since discovering early on that he was a shitty teacher.
Despite his insistence that he had a lot of work to do Madara found it difficult to concentrate with so many new thoughts about Tobirama bouncing off each other inside his head. It had never occurred to him that anyone could misconstrue a bit of polite behavior as hatred but now that it had been pointed out he could see how being treated differently by an entire clan might give that impression. Between that, the shock of having him ask to personally train little Kagami – when had they even met? – and the curious offhand statement about some kind of lab, Madara despaired of the idea that he would be able to accomplish even half of what he needed to get done that day.
For once, however, his thoughts of Tobirama were not filled with anger or grumbling about how much he hated the man. It wasn’t much progress yet but he had to admit that even a small step was big for them. Perhaps it was a little early to say for sure but Hashirama might have actually been correct for once. Things might finally be on their way up.
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soybeantree · 5 years
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blossom 
pairing: mark x reader  genre/warning: singleparent!reader, teacher!mark; some soft shit word count: 7k description: soft mark as your son’s teacher. a/n:  buckle in buttercups
“Do you ever feel like your life is spiraling down a black hole headed nowhere?” “No. Is that an adult thing?”
 The young boy sitting across the table from you asks, pausing in his breakfast consumption. Sighing, you put down your spoon and shake your head. “No, I think it’s a me thing. Your mom is a mess. Have I apologized to you lately that you ended up with me as a mom?” The young boy chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re a great mom and a beautiful mess.” He says as he stands up and clears his dishes, heading for the sink. “I’m a blessed mess.” You call over your shoulder as you stand up. “It’s the only way I could end up with a kid like you.” You add as you follow your son’s example and place your dishes in the sink. As you start to rinse them off, you catch sight of the clock. “Oh, shhh-It’s time to go!” You save yourself, shooting your son a smile. The kid shakes his head. “Swear jar.” “I didn’t say it.” “Swear jar.” His arms cross his chest, and his feet stand firm. Your cause is lost. “Fine. Go grab your jacket and backpack. And hurry about it!” You call as he disappears into his room. Heading towards the annoyingly large glass jar which sits in the far corner of your living, you dump all of your change into it. The jar is nearly full, and the sight makes you cringe. The past few weeks at work have been stressful, leading to your statement at breakfast and the full jar. While you hope the trend won’t continue, reality leads you to believe otherwise. You do need to find a better outlet for your stress though, or you’re going to end up broke. “Mom!” “Coming.” You rush to the entryway, slipping on shoes before dashing out the door your son is so kindly holding open. His school is close by, the reason you chose the apartment. He insists that being ten he is old enough to walk to school by himself. You insist that being twenty-eight you are not old enough for him to walk to school on his own. You plan on living a long and healthy life, and if something happens to him, you’ll either end up dead from grief or in jail for vengeance. So the two of you walk to school together. These couple minutes are sacred to you. With all the stress and demands of work, time with your son is scarce, so you take advantage of every minute you have. “Alright, what do I need to know about this coming week?” You ask as you head down the street. Your son walks silently beside you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “What is it?” You ask at his hesitation. “We are currently in a full honesty, no judgment zone. Didn’t you see the sign we just passed?” You gesture over your shoulder to the non-existent sign behind you. He cracks a smile and shakes his head. “There was no sign mom.” “Okay, but my point still stands.” Taking a deep breath, he starts. “I want to make a deal with you.” His eyes dart to yours, and you nod urging him to continue. “If you say yes, you can take back all the money in the swear jar.” The money in the swear jar is designated for charity. You two had come up with this deal when he was in first grade and was sent to the principle’s office for swearing in class. You had been mortified but were even more mortified when you realized it was your fault. That day you had told him that swearing in school was not okay and promised that you would stop swearing, and that ff he caught you swearing, then you would put all the change in your wallet into the swear jar. Once it was full, you would take all the money and donate it to the charity of his choice. While you hadn’t been able to keep your promise as diligently as you would have liked, you two had donated quite a bit to charities. “Kid, that money-” He holds up his hand though, and you zip your lips. It’s his time to talk. “At the end of the month, we’re going to have a choir concert.” Everything within you plummets as your mind follows the path he’s laying out. “Minnie’s mom was supposed to help with the costumes and the set, but she broke her arm and can’t. Mr. Mark can’t do it all by himself, and he asked if any other parent’s might be able to help. I know you’re busy with work, but no other parent’s can help and if Mr. Mark doesn’t get any help then we can’t do the concert and-and…” His shoulders heave, and his eyes start to glisten, and you stare back at him helpless. Ever since that first day when the doctor placed this tiny bundle in your arms, you’ve been helpless whenever you look in those eyes. “Okay.” “Okay? You’ll do it!” He bounces on his feet, smiling up at you so brightly, and you know if you could you would give this kid the world. “Yes, yes, I’ll do it.” “Mr. Mark will be so happy.” He beams as he starts to skip down the street. “Mhm.” You nod as you follow him at a more moderate pace. Mr. Mark. Mark Tuan was your son’s first grade teacher, the one who had sent him to the office for swearing. He was there when you came to pick him up. Your son had been in tears. He hadn’t realized what he said was a bad word. Mommy said it all the time. He didn’t want to be a bad kid. Mark had sat beside him, telling him that just because he said a bad word didn’t mean that he was a bad kid. People made mistakes. He just needed to learn from his mistake, so that way he didn’t make them again. Standing down the hall watching the interaction, your mind was a war of emotions, the chief being mortification. You were mortified that you were teaching your son to cuss; that because of you, he felt this way about himself; and that Mark witnessed it all. The second emotion was gratitude. You were grateful that Mark was the one who witnessed it, that he would sit with your son and comfort him, and that he had somehow found a way back into your life. Fate is funny, you think as you give your son a kiss and send him off to school. While the goodbye embarrasses him as it would any ten year old boy, he lets you do it every morning. Because, as he has told you so many times, his love for you is greater than any embarrassment. You hope it’s something he learned from you. That cussing isn’t the only thing you’ve taught him.  Your love for him is greater than any embarrassment. You wish it was the same for your family. Heading towards the nearby bus stop, your mind wanders through old memories. You were young when you had your son. Fresh out of high school, you found out you were pregnant. You were unwed and unemployed with only your family to lean on, except you couldn’t. They wouldn’t let you. Coming back from another unsuccessful job hunt, you had found a suitcase on your parent’s doorstep with all your clothes in it. Your father wasn’t pleased with what had happened you could tell that by his stony silence and your mother was always looking away when you entered a room, but they were your parents. They should love you more than any embarrassment. You had stood on their doorstep, pounding on the door and screeching until night fell. But the door never opened. They probably weren’t even home. They had kicked you out and fled. You collapsed against the door, staring at the sliver of moon which hung in the sky. That’s when Mark came. You had known Mark your whole life. He lived down the street from you and was by far the coolest kid on the street. All the boys wanted to be his friend and all the girls wanted to be his girl-friend. He was your first crush and your first love. Being two years older than you, he had already gone off to college. So when he came and crouched down in front of you, you were shocked to see him. He had undoubtedly heard you screaming, the whole neighborhood had, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t ask about it or offer any false words of hope. Instead, he held out a hand and asked if you wanted to grab something to eat. As you board the bus, you smile at the memory. His face had shone with kindness, but all you wanted was to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone and stop trying to be nice. With him there, you couldn’t curl up in a little ball and cease existing. But you said none of that. You couldn’t. While the thing inside you was probably no bigger than a grain of rice, it needed you. Without you, it couldn’t survive, and you refused to abandon it. Your love for it would be greater than any embarrassment. So you took Mark’s hand and let him pull you up. He grabbed your suitcase and, with his hand still wrapped around yours, started walking down the street. He did all the talking which was shocking because he never talked. Mark was always the quiet, mysterious type, but tonight he was a fountain of words. He told you about how he was studying to be a teacher and about his roommate Jinyoung who was also pursuing education. The two of you headed to a local restaurant, and over a steaming bowl of soup, he continued to speak. Eventually, you started talking too and joking. He never asked about the pregnancy or made any comments about it. For one night, you were able to just be you. After dinner, he offered you his sister’s room for the night. Being older than him, she had already moved out. Hesitant, you declined, but he assured you his parents wouldn’t mind. Having no other options, you relented and agreed. His parents didn’t mind. They welcomed you in with open arms, showing you the spare room. A towel lay folded neatly on the bed with little bottles of shampoo and soap. After a warm shower, you laid down and fell asleep instantly. The next morning, you woke before any of them. During your shower the night before, you had accepted the truth. The life you had lived before came to an end when the second pink line appeared. Your parents made it very clear you no longer had a place here, and you couldn’t live of the Tuan’s kindness forever. Before they could wake and talk you out of your decision, you left with only a note to thank them for their kindness. Life was hell after that. Working, raising a kid, and putting yourself through college, you wonder how you did it. There were lots of tears and sleepless nights, but you survived. After all your hard work, you were able to land a good job and send your son to a good school. He loved his school, especially his teacher Mr. Mark. It wasn’t until that first parent-teacher conference that you realized Mr. Mark was your Mark. That had been a fun night, followed by more fun nights. Over the school year at different functions, you and Mark had filled each other in on those years since you left. He regaled you with the tales of him and his friends, and you allowed him a glimpse of your hell. Feelings you had thought long dead floated to the surface. They weren’t the same though. The infatuation of a young girl had matured into respect and appreciation and desire. For a time, you entertained your childhood fantasies. Then your son swore. Standing there watching Mark comfort him, you were thrown back to that day on your parents doorstep. After all those years and all that hell, you were still the same girl who needed Mark to step in and help her up. You couldn’t face him after that. The feelings which had surfaced, you forced back down. Your son graduated to second grade and your interactions with Mark dwindled until your son decided to join the school choir. For years, the school choir had been run by a kind old man who had lost his hearing at some point during his tenure. No one had the heart to tell him though. But, before your son’s third grade, the old man announced that that year would be his last. Mark, a music minor, was unanimously elected as his successor, and your son was one of the first kids to sign up the next year. Now, you see Mark on a weekly basis. Thus far you have successfully limited your interactions to polite greetings and small talk. Stepping off the bus, you acknowledge that moving forward this will no longer be the case. The two of you will be working closely until the concert. The feelings you sunk, stir at the prospect, but you force them to still. Mark has always been a pleasant fantasy, but you live in the real world and have dealt with too much shit to indulge in fantasies.
Later that week, you sit hunched over a sewing machine as you curse under your breath. The damn bobbin keeps messing up, and if you have to re-thread the needle one more time, you’re likely to shove the whole thing off the table. Believing the school would have adequate equipment for the task at hand, you left your beautifully functioning sewing machine at home. The mistake would not be repeated again. Next time, you would bring it. 
Needle re-threaded, you run the cloth through the machine, only to hear the whir and feel the tell-tale tug. Before the machine can meet the floor, long hands pull it out of your reach. Glancing up, you find Mark standing above you. A smile tugs at his lips, but he forces them to still. He wants to appear serious. “Would you be able to help me with the set pieces? I’ve finished cutting them out. I just need someone a little more artistic to paint them.” Sewing had offered you the opportunity to distance yourself from Mark, but if you spend any more time with that machine, you’ll end up owing the school a new machine. Maybe that’s what you should do with the swear jar money this time around. You muse, chuckling to yourself. “What?” Mark’s eyes catch yours. “Nothing, I was just- it’s nothing. I’ll just get started on those set pieces.” You stand heading over to the cut-outs. The less talking you do the easier all of this will be. You grab a nearby paint brush and bucket and begin outlining the branches. Mark settles next to a fence as an uncomfortable silence falls. “Do you mind if I put on some music?” Mark’s voice breaks the silence. Your brush streaks across the tree leaving an ugly stain. You hadn’t expected him to speak. Determined to escape the awkwardness, you had filled your mind with everything you had to do for work. “No, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat. “It’s fine.” Music starts as you try to fix your mistake. The two of you continue to work, as the music pushes the silence back. However, the awkwardness remains and grows worse as the night drags on. You continually check your phone, hoping hours have ticked by. But only minutes have passed. “Mom!” Your sons voice enters the room, and you glance up from the bush you’re working on. A relieved smiled slips on your face. Today’s torture is coming to an end. “Hey, sweetie. How was studying at Minnie’s?” You ask as you start to gather up the brushes and paint. Not able to physically help with the concert, Minnie’s mom had offered to watch your son while you worked. “I finished all my homework.” He beams. “You did? Good job, kiddo.” “Yes…” A glint appears in his eyes. Pushing off the floor, you cross your arms and nod for him to continue. “Since I finished all my homework, I was wondering if we could go and get some ice cream.” He fixes you with those eyes, and you tell yourself that he earned a treat. You’re not being a pushover. “Okay,” He fist bumps the air before you can finish, “We can get ice cream.” You chuckle as he proceeds to do the dorky victory dance he learned from you. “But first, help me clean up. We don’t want to leave this mess for Mr. Mark.” “Oh, Mr. Mark,” he turns to his teacher, “do you want to get ice cream with us?” The invitation should have been obvious. You should have waited to agree until after you left. Now the invitation hangs in the air, and you can’t face Mark. You can barely face your son for fear he will read too much in your expression. Smoothing your face, you turn to Mark with a simple smile. “You’re more than welcome to come with us.” “Sure, I can always eat ice cream.” He returns the smile. Drawing on a strength you didn’t even know you possessed, you manage to keep the smile on your face and nod. With the three of you working together, you finish the clean up in minutes. Down the street from the school is a local ice cream shop which has been run by the same family for generations. Here you three head for the promised treat. Your son is quick to order chocolate fudge, requesting a second scoop when he thinks you’re not paying attention. He receives one scoop with sprinkles. You request the more moderate vanilla. Mark completes the trio with cookies ‘n cream. Outside the shop, benches and tables sit clustered around a little wishing well. Your son plops onto a chair, and you settle on the bench across from him, failing to realize your mistake until Mark exits the shop with his cone in hand. The cluster your son has chosen only has the chair he occupies and the bench under you, leaving the only available seat beside you. Glancing at your son, you find that glint in his eye as he slowly licks away at his ice cream. “Do you mind?” Mark asks gesturing to the accursed spot. You shake your head scooting over until the arm rest bites into your side. Mark lowers himself, careful to keep an arms width of distance between you two. “Mr. Mark?” Your son asks. Mark motions for him to continue. “Did you really know my mom when she was little?” Sputtering turns to coughing as you choke on your ice cream. Mark pats you gently on the back, but you wave him off. “Sorry.” You cough. “Wrong pipe.” “Ummm…” Mark glances at you, but you wave him off again as you regain your breath. “Uh, yes. We grew up in the same neighborhood.” He turns his attention to your son. “What was mom like when she was little?” “We didn’t know-” “She was very independent,” He cuts you off, “like she is now.” “Really? How so?” “There’s one thing I remember from when we were really young. She would wander away from her house all the time, and the whole neighborhood would know when it happened because her mom would rush out of the house screaming. Everyone would start looking for her, and she would be somewhere different every time. When she finally returned home, her mom would rage at her.” “Mom!” Your son accuses. “And you won’t even let me walk to school by myself.” “Do as I say not as I do. Have you ever heard that expression?” You defend your protectiveness. “I was lucky that nothing happened to me.” Mark clears his throat before taking another bite of ice cream. You eye him. “What?” “You weren’t always lucky.” He mumbles, but you still hear him. At your bewildered expression, Mark continues more clearly. “There was one time I saw you wandering, and there was this guy. He made me feel uneasy, so I went and got my dad. And he reported the man to the police.” The knowledge sends a chill racing down your spine, and you stare at him horrified. “After that, I would always keep an eye on your door, and if you ever went wandering I would follow behind.” “You did?” Clearing his throat, he nods, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. “So you were my mom’s guardian angel?” Mark chuckles. “I wouldn’t say that. I was just worried something might happen.” His focus goes to his ice cream as he continues to chip away at it. You stare at him and then a crack in the sidewalk until your ice cream drips onto your hand. Cursing in your head, you lick up the mess and make quick work of the frozen treat and cone. Your son works more slowly, that glint in his eye ever present, so you hurry him along and excuse yourself from the situation. You need to get home before any other secrets come to light.
At work the next week, you sit through yet another meeting. This one thankfully marks the end of the project you’ve been slaving over for the past month. You wish your boss would show his gratitude for your teams hard work, by not having a meeting. Glancing at your co-workers, you can tell they are of the same mind set. Your boss does end the meeting earlier than usual though which everyone applauds. 
As you gather your things and prepare to return to your desk, you hear your name called. Your boss stands on the other side of the room a smile on his face. That smile sends your stomach plummeting. It means more work for you. With this project completed, you had hoped you would receive a reprieve from your overloaded schedule, but you seem to be luckless.
“I’m sorry sir, could you repeat that?” He chuckles at your bewilderment. “I want you to head our new office.” “If I’m not mistaken, that office is in a different country.” He nods. “Of course the promotion comes with a move, but the company would assist with your relocation, and you would be allotted a housing stipend.” The offer is an honor, recognition for all the work you’ve put in. Everyone knew about the new office opening, and the office gossip had all been supposition about who would helm it. You had never given consideration to the idea that it would be you. While work can be exhausting, you are content where you are, and you believed the company was content to keep you where you are. “This is a big change, sir. Could I have some time to think about it?” “Of course, we don’t have to announce anything for another two weeks. Take your time think it over, but I’m sure you’ll find the benefits outweigh any minor inconveniences you face now.” His smile broadens as you nod. Exiting his office, you find your co-workers packing up and saying their farewells. A glance at the clock confirms that the workday has come to an end. You breath a sigh of relief. After that bombshell, you wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything. Grabbing your own bag, you head out of the building to your bus stop. The bus ride home is spent in silence. You watch the world pass by, but notice nothing as your mind weighs the benefits against the “minor inconveniences”. While your boss saw them as minor, you did not see them the same way. Moving meant leaving the apartment you had worked for years to be able to afford. It meant tearing your son from his school and his friends. It meant uprooting the life you had worked so hard to achieve. Did the benefits really outweigh what you would have to give up? You would have a new apartment, probably better than the one you had now, but it wouldn’t be the apartment that you had walked by every day for three years, promising yourself that one day you would live there. Your son would make new friends. The new city would have a good school, maybe a better one than he went to now, but Mark wouldn’t be there. That last thought stills you, and you almost miss your stop. Hoping off the buss, you start towards the school, but the familiar path is a blur as you try to rid Mark from your mind. He doesn’t fit into any of your plans and isn’t one of the “minor inconveniences”. Your relationship with Mark ends at the school gate. As you approach that gate, you find your son standing there talking with Minnie and a few of his other friends. When he notices you, he says his goodbyes and heads towards you. “How about a hug today, kiddo?” You hold your arms open wide, and after a moments hesitation, he walks into them. Squeezing him tight, you breath deeply. “You know I’m the only kid my age whose mom still hugs him?” He mumbles into your shoulder. “That’s either because they don’t want to be hugged or because their moms don’t love them as much as I love you.” You reply, releasing him. He gives you a look, causing you to chuckle. “I was thinking BBQ for dinner tonight. What do you think?” “Really? Yes! Let’s go!” He starts off down the street before you can change your mind.
Sitting at the table waiting for the waitress to bring your drinks, you prepare yourself for the coming conversation. This move will affect him just as much as it affects you. He has a right to know what’s coming and to add his input. 
“Mom, what is it?” His question startles you and draws your attention to him. “What?” “You keep staring at nothing and sighing, and you said we could have BBQ tonight. Something is going on.” Your poker face never was the greatest. Nodding, you begin. “I’ve got some good news, but it could also be bad news.” He nods for you to continue. “My boss called me into his office today to offer me a promotion.” His eyes go wide, and he beams at you. “That’s awesome, mom! You’re the best worker at the company. You deserve a promotion. Why is that bad news?” “The promotion means we have to move.” “Where?” “Another country.” Silence. He stares at you, the joy from moments before washed away by this revelation. “Sweetie-” “Mom, we can’t move to another country. What about my friends and my school and our apartment, and everyone here. We can’t leave all of that.” His voice is a squeak, evidencing the boy he still is. He stares at you with those eyes, and you feel your inside crumble. “I know we would have to give up a lot, and I know that would be hard. But, there are a lot of good things that would come with the new job and the move. We would find you a new school, and you can make new friends. I would be making more money which means that we would be able to do more fun things like go on vacations and adventures.” “Would you be working as much?” You’d be working more. The answer shows on you face. He snorts, crossing his arms. “We won’t be going on any adventures. You’ll be too busy working, and I’ll be home alone with no friends.” “Kiddo, you’ll make-” His glare cuts you off. He’s angry, and he has every right to be. “I think we should both give this some serious thought, and then we can talk about it again.” His response is a huff.
Working with your sewing machine is a relief. If you had to struggle with the demon school machine, you would have gone on a rampage. The promotion has been dominating your thoughts, robbing you of sleep and leaving you peevish. You’ve weighed the pros and cons a thousand times and come to no satisfactory conclusion. Your son is firm in his resolution to stay and refusing to speak to you which irritates your aggravated state. You’re a toe stub away from a full melt down. 
A knock, knock on your work table draws your eyes to Mark who is standing above you with a two steaming mugs in his hand. “Tea?” He offers. While you should say “no” and return to your work because being around Mark isn’t helping your situation, you straighten, stretching the muscles in your back, and reach for the mug. The warmth spreads through your aching fingers, and you sigh as you breath in the tea’s earthy smell. The steam caresses your face, relaxing the muscles. “Thank you.” You mumble as you bring the mug to your lips. “You know even Okoye needed the help of the Dora Milaje when she took on Killmonger.” He states as he perches on the edge of the table. You snort, nearly spilling tea down your front. “What?” “Okoye is the greatest warrior Wakanda has, but she was still able to accept the help of her fellow warriors.” He says, taking a sip from his own mug. “I’m sorry. Are you using a Black Panther analogy to tell me that it’s okay to accept help?” You raise an eyebrow at Mark as you lean back in your chair. Mark smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “It got you to smile didn’t it?” The smile, he referenced, thins to a line, but you can’t keep the edges from tugging upward. “So it at least accomplished one of it’s tasks.” “And the other was to get me to accept help?” “To let you know that you can.” His eyes hold yours, and you feel yourself falling back through time to that day on your parent’s doorstep. The last day you had accepted anyone’s help. “Are you offering again?” Your eyes fall from him as you set the mug on the table, your fingers fiddling with it’s handle. “I’ve never stopped.” His voice is light, and you can hear the smile in it. But the words lay heavy on your shoulders. “Mark-” But you don’t know what to say after that. Does he want you to apologize? Do you want to accept his help? You don’t even know what you want?   “I hear congratulations are in order.” He says sparing you from your unfinished thought. “What?” “Your son told me that you’ve been offered a promotion.” Mark explains. The action shouldn’t surprise you. Your son has been attached to Mark since his first day of school. He’s the first solid male figure in his life. “What else did he say?” Mark pauses, his eyes drifting to a corner of the room. “You said it was okay to accept your help, Mark.” You don’t look at him as you speak, and the words burn on the way out. But you say them in the hopes of alleviating your ever mounting stress. “He won’t talk to me. I’d like to know how he’s feeling.” “He doesn’t want to move. He’s afraid he’ll be alone because he won’t have any friends and you’ll be too busy to spend time with him.” Your son is shy. A truth which you have buried as you’ve contemplated your decision. His fear is well-founded, and it rips at your chest. “You don’t think I should take it.” The irritation that’s been gnawing at you bleeds into your words, turning them from a question to an accusation. Mark holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and with a simple smile says, “I think you should do what you think is right.” He relaxes his arms, folding his hands on his lap. His smile and demeanor fit his words, supporting them, but his eyes don’t. His smile doesn’t reach them and an emotion resides in them which sets your heart racing. The emotions which you have been suppressing for years burst forth, and you find yourself asking, “How do you feel about this, Mark?” The question encompasses more than this moment and this decision. The question goes back years to when you were kids growing up in the same neighborhood. You ask him how he feels, but really you want to know why he followed you all those days, why he offered you a hand and a place to stay, why he was with your son at the principle’s office, and why he keeps showing up in your life. “I don’t want you to go.” The answer is simple and soft. No loud declaration or demand. “What?” “I’ve never wanted you to go, but I understand that just because I want you to stay doesn’t mean you should.” He smiles, shattering everything inside of you. “Why?” The question is pointless and self-serving, but you have to know, want to hear him say it. “Because I love you. I have since that first day I followed you on your wanderings.” Tears leak from your eyes, evidence of your wreckage within. “I-I...” You stutter as your brain shifts through the rubble for a response. “I have to go.” You stand up, grab your bag, and run like you did back then like you always do.
“It’s time to go.” Your son informs you. They’re the only words he’s spoken to you in the last week.
You catch his eyes in the bathroom mirror and give him a smile as you nod. “I’ll be ready in just a minute.” His lips remain a thin line as he turns and heads for the door. A sigh forces the air from your chest and slumps your shoulders. After a final check of your make-up, you head out of the bathroom and towards the front door where your son is waiting. He fixes his eyes on  the door as he waits for you to slip on your shoes, and he is out the door the second they are on. He keeps two steps ahead of you the whole way to the school. “How much longer do you plan to keep this up? If we move, are you never going to speak to me again?” “You’re going to take the job.” He whirls around to face you with tears welling in his eyes. Clearing your throat, you respond, “I didn’t say that. I just wanted to know.” “If I say ‘yes’, can we stay here?” Hope has replaced the tears, and you find it wrenches your heart more. “We should hurry. I don’t want you to be late.” You start to walk again, and your son plods along behind you.
The concert is beautiful. The costumes, the set, the singing. Everything turned out perfectly. But you notice none of it. Your attention is split between your son who whispers and giggles with his friends during each song break and Mark who directs the boys with a patient smile. 
Since the night he confessed, you have kept your distance from him, not even helping with the final set up for the concert. Mark never texted or called about your absence. He allowed you your space like he always does. Staring at the most important person in your life and the person who has always been beside you, you make your decision. The weight which has rested on your shoulders since your boss offered you the promotion lifts instantly. You exhale all the stress and smile as you sit back and enjoy the rest of the concert. When the last song is sung and the children take their bows, you stand up and applaud with the rest of the parents. Your son finds you in the crowd. His smile pushes his cheeks into his eyes, and he practically glows with pride. But all too soon, memory returns, and he whips his attention from you. You continue to applaud though until the children take their final bow and exit the stage. Leaving your seat, you head back stage to share your decision with your son. Before you can reach him though, you run into Mark. He freezes when he sees you, and you mirror the behavior. Clearing his throat, he nods to you and continues on his way. “Mark.” He stops. “Can I talk to you?” He turns his eyes finding yours. The way he looks at you stills your heart and stops your breath. He’s searching, and you wonder what he sees. Whatever he saw causes him to nod again as he walks towards you. He leads you to a small alcove which allows you both a modicum of privacy. Standing a few feet apart, Mark starts talking, “If this is about what I said the other night, I want to-” You hold up a hand stopping him. “I’m sorry.” You apologize, staring him straight in the eyes though your mind screams in protest. “I’m sorry I ran then and that I ran all those years ago. I tell myself that I’m strong and independent but most of the time I’m just scared. And I act out of fear. Even as I say all of this to you, I’m scared,” you release a shuddering breath but continue, “but I’m tired of letting my fear control me. I love you too, Mark. I’ve loved you since before I can remember.” The truth flies from your lips leaving you with only fear as you study Mark’s face. He smiles, not big and bright but small and sad. Watching him, your heart plummets. “What I said that night is the truth. I love you, but I know that just because I love you doesn’t mean I can stop you from doing what is best for you.” You blink as your mind works to unravel the meaning behind his words. His response was unexpected and unwanted. Searching his eyes, realization strikes. “The job. You’re talking about the job.” You chuckle to yourself which furrows Mark’s brow. “I’m not taking the job, Mark.” “If it’s because of me…” You both know the end of the sentence. You smile up at him, and yours is big and bright. “It’s not because of you. Well, it’s not fully because of you.” Your smile eases as sensibility asserts itself. “I would be lying if I said you didn’t play into my decision. “The truth is it really is an incredible job. It comes with more money and more opportunities. And for those reasons, I’d be a fool not to take it. But it also comes with more hours and more traveling which means less time I get to spend with my son. You pause, your eyes becoming unfocused as your mind travels back to your early years. “When he was little, and I was putting myself through that hell; I told myself it’ll be worth it. If I work hard now and put in the hours, when he’s older I won’t have to. I can have time with my son.” Glancing back up at Mark, you continue, “If I take this job, I’ll have lied to myself all those years. I only have so much time before my son goes off to live his own life. I want to spend all the time I can with him until that day. “After that day,” you shrug your shoulder, “I’ll take a job with money and opportunities and hours and traveling. So I guess, I’m not saying no. I’m saying not now.” “Not now.” Mark nods with a true smile. “Not now.” You repeat returning his smile. “So what happens now then?” “I wouldn’t be opposed to dinner.” You cock a brow. “I also like movies. Video games occasionally. They’re really good stress relievers.” Mark snorts and nods. “I’m free for dinner most nights. And I also like movies and video games.” “Do I get to go to dinner and the movies and play video games too?” Both of your heads turn to face your son who stands in front of the alcove, smiling up at you two with his hands clasped behind his back, a familiar glint in his eye. “How long have you been there?” You ask. “Long enough to know that you two love each other and we’re not moving.” He smiles up at you. You’re caught between wanting to scold him and wanting to laugh. “And you didn’t think you should announce your presence?” “No.” Mark laughs, and you glare at him, but he continues. Shaking your head, you rub your eyes. “I’m hungry. Are you both hungry?” Glancing between the two, you find them both agreeing. “Good. Then let’s go to dinner, and we can talk about all of this there.” Your son smiles wide and heads for the door. As you start to follow him, you feel a hand slip into yours. Mark meets your eyes and offers you a simple smile. You return the smile and fall into step with him as you two head after your son.
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ingenves · 5 years
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     ok its ya girl back at it, same deal ! if u wanna plot just HMU or LIKE THIS and i’ll come to you ! wes is my father & u can peep his pinterest board HERE !
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     ⌈ chris pine, cismale, he/him ⌋ hey, is it WESLEY BIGELOW that you’re looking for? you know, the THIRTY-SIX year old CARPENTER. typically i see them hanging around GRISTOL DOCKS so you could try there! i hear they’ve been in living in PRINCETOWN for THIRTY-SIX YEARS. gristol wouldn’t be the same without them, right? anyway, whenever i see them they make me think of waking up before dawn, an old rowboat sitting in still water & a kitchen full of fresh produce.
tw: car accident & illness 
this mans has lived in town his entire life!!! his parents, william and rose bigelow owned a historic farm . willy & rose were high school sweethearts, a shotgun wedding joining them together after rose ended up pregnant with their first child at the age of 19. while rose’s parents were furious with their daughter for being so reckless, william’s father was more than happy to offer them a place to stay and lend a hand taking care of the baby that would soon be on the way.
despite the circumstances, wes was never treated as an accident or a mistake. he grew up in his grandpa’s farmhouse with a loving family. the bigelow family followed some pretty traditional gender roles. wes’ dad and his grandpa would wake at the crack of dawn and work out in the field until sunset while his mother hung around the house to take care of him, doing laundry, making dinner, taking him to the park, everything.
from a young age he was encouraged to help out on the farm but being the mama’s boy he was, he was far more eager to help his mom out with the cooking and the laundry. he was close with his grandfather as well, the two always working on little projects together like building a tree house, birdhouses, his own bee house………………….a lot of houses
but wes was never rly close with his father. william wasn’t much of an emotional or talkative guy, usually just sitting there in stern silence and working the day away. a bit of a scary guy despite not ever doing anything scary?? he’s just an ominous guy that doesn’t rly seem impressed by anything so wes never rly knew where he stood u know.
the one time wes ever really felt close to his father was when they would take little weekend fishing trips together, even though they didn’t really speak. just the fact that william took his time to teach wes how to do everything and didn’t get mad or frustrated when he lost a lure or let a fish go by accident was enough to like…..send the message. that was his way of showing his love u know.
the second bigelow child was welcomed when wes was a kid and while at first he was jealous that his new baby sister was getting all the attention, having a baby around the house was kind of fun. she’d make funny faces and funny noises and he grew to love her pretty quickly. he used to always say that his baby sister was the best thing that happened to him. when she got older, he taught her how to make mud pies and how to play pranks on grandpa who was a rly good sport, all things considered.
car accident & death tw !! the winter of ‘94 would prove to be the worst winter of wes’ entire life. on the way back home to pick up a christmas tree from a nearby farm, the family’s old pick up hit a patch of black ice and ended up flipped into a ditch. it was a bad wreck. luckily his grandpa and sister were safe at home during the time of the crash, but wes and his parents weren’t so lucky, his mother being the unluckiest of the bunch. they were stranded in the middle of the road for two hours before anyone showed up for help and by the time they arrived, it was too late for rose, who got the worst of the injuries. doa at the hospital while wes and his dad walked away with mostly minor injuries. that year, there was no christmas tree and no presents. christmas dinner was replaced with takeout and no one said a word.
illness & death tw !! not long after rose passed away, grandpa bigelow got some bad news. lung cancer that no one really saw coming. just a few months after the diagnosis they were having another funeral for another member of the bigelow clan.
it was a tough year, but they got through it. wes did his job to step up and do all the things his dad couldn’t do; all the things his mother taught him. he expected all of it to make his dad more closed off but it had the reverse effect and for the first time in his entire life, wes and his father had heart to heart conversations.
jump forward to high school and things finally felt like they were back to normal. william wasn’t dating yet but he wasn’t being all that anti-social, either.
wes discovered quickly he was the kind of person that other people liked and he was quite popular??? he made good grades, played football, dating the coolest girl in school (in his own opinion ofc), everything kind of fell into place for him in high school
and then after high school he…………didn’t rly know what to do asdj;fdksgfkdlj he never went to college and decided work around town doing odd jobs and saving some money so he could go off and travel and live his life as a young person craving adventure.
he was gone for abt a year or so before coming back home & he’s just been here ever since, doin his thing
started working with a family friend in his shop, doing what he loved and building things n working with his hands u know and hasn’t stopped doing what he loves ever since
he owns his own shop now & builds custom furniture 
the….personality section has Arrived
he’s quite the Charming guy but he talks WAY too much
definitely the kind of guy who will just…..talk about himself non-stop without even realizing it ?? he needs to get his Ego in check even after all these years smh
buT he’s very good at making conversation and is rly a friendly guy!!!! will talk and joke with anyone just because……why not ?? it makes his day when ppl talk to him so he will talk to u even if u dont feel the same way
highkey the kind of person to start up a random conversation w a stranger in the grocery story just because
lowkey uncomfortable with feelings and still isn’t super great at expressing emotions and his thoughts but ya boi is trying his best
but he’s rly good at picking up on signals. he can’t express his own emotions but he’s like….pretty in tune with other ppl
a very platonically affectionate guy. loves hugging his buddies and telling them how much he loves & appreciates them
and now for the lil extra tidbits
he’s got two dogs. a german shepherd named mulder & a pomeranian named scully sfddgfhgfg and he strategically uses his dogs to flirt w ladies when they’re out on a walk LMAO
he’s got a 6 year old daughter named aspen with a woman he is no longer dating ( im prob gna put this as a wc on the main so if u want this....hmu???? ) but they are still v close and spend a lot of time together & he loves aspen more than anything :’)
he’s very much a Dad. dad jokes all the time. endless shitty puns for everyonE
the man loves a turtleneck. he can’t keep his hands off a good ass sweater u know ??
he loves to cook and is v good at it, since he’s been cooking his entire life. he is the self-proclaimed kind of bbq and honestly???? he’s always throwing lil bbq parties & they are a hit :/  u know he be winning contests w his grilling bro
obviously.........a handyman. the house he lives in now, he built himself after tearing down the old on.  he built himself a nice big deck and everything so he can have a nice place to host bbqs and everyone will come compliment him on hard work and enjoy his fantastic recipes
he runs his own business building & selling furniture!!!! need a shelf installed??? give him a call. dog chewed up ur table leg??? give him a call. house burned down???? give him a call he’ll build u a new one.
what’s better than this ??????????? guys bein dudes
he rly likes going to the movies. lowkey loves disney but pretends he only cares bc his daughter likes it but……….u know he knows the words to every song
tragically heterosexual ://///////
he loves strong coffee & he loves beer & occasionally he loves a good book & a nice game of chess
did i mention he is such a dad bc………..he is such a dad
someone hold his rough sandpaper ass hands
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j-exclamationmark-l · 5 years
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"I'm going to live doing what I love." Why this Visual Kei band is turning to Youtube.
Kujou Takemasa + 83 fans
youtube
Hello everyone! I'm the guitarist of a Visual Kei band called Kiryu, my name is Kujou Takemasa. Today, I'd like to talk about our transition to Youtube.
Hey, Youtube. I'm Kujou Takemasa of Kiryu. Today, I wanted to talk about something serious in this video. I'd be happy if you listened until the end.
First of all, I think there are a lot of people who don't know who I am. So, I'll give you a brief description.
In 2007, Kiryu was formed. From 2008, I decided to never take this mask off in public. Having made that decision... In 2009, we joined our current record label, B.P.Records, and then... [too fast for me to understand]
Well, the people who watch this video may think that life and everything have been smooth sailing, (I'm doing my best!!)
WHY IS THIS VIDEO ONLY ABOUT YOU BRAGGING SHADDUP\(^o^)/SHADDUP\(^o^)/ SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP There might be people who think that (↑) way, too.
WELL! What I wanted to talk about Is that we're still in the middle of our dream.
I guess, what I'm trying to say is, this is what I wanted to talk about. Kiryu, you know, has sort of been around for over ten years now... It's such a small world, but for Visual Kei, especially compared to the early days, people have become so kind. This is kind of an old story, but actually... in the beginning... The people around us were all cold. Well, no, I guess "cold" isn't the right word... It's more like just no one would talk to us. Well, in the beginning, since we formed, there was no reason to. It's kind of obvious that people weren't interested in talking to us. You know. Of course, in the beginning, we didn't have a lot of fans, and the people we looked up to said things like YOU'LL NEVER MAKE IT. YOU'RE GONNA DISBAND SOON. Right to our faces (don't look at my face) TODAY PEOPLE FROM THE RECORD LABEL 〇×■ are going to come watch us! This is our chaaaaaaaaaance! We were so happy, but when they saw our shows... I guess we weren't good. They didn't even talk to us, I mean, like we were nothing. They just left. Well, recently, I haven't even really talked to the others, but. Kiryu is still doing its best!!!
We're in the middle of things... But... I... I've thought a lot About giving up before. I felt strongest about disbanding back in 2011, during our Mugen Houyou tour. My mother fell ill. And at that time My father said, "Just quit your stupid little band," As tears coursed down his face. That was the first time I'd ever seen him cry. And even a happy-go-lucky guy like myself Felt those words resounding in my heart. I was really troubled... Even so, when we had a show, As the hours ticked by, Our fans... I realized how many people were waiting for us. So I asked If I quit, What would the others do? And the staff Everyone thought about it. But... in the end... It was all a mess inside my head. Even now, I still think about it. But now, In regards to our fans, Well, in regards to anyone... It's just not a good topic for discussion. But at that time, I wasn't really good at keeping it in. So, with those feelings in my heart, I turned toward our Mugen Houyou tour. I always wondered what I should do. I asked myself over and over, Ugh, it's so Visual Kei... But really, back then. That's when it happened. On March 11, 2011, The Great Tohoku Earthquake happened. I think it's still left lasting impressions on everyone. And on that day, we were in Fukuoka On our one-man tour. We weren't directly affected by it But back then, we didn't know right away If Japan would be alright. We ended our one-man tour in Fukuoka We didn't have a meeting, but Together, we all got dinner. And we ate, and talked about what we knew, We ate, Returned to the hotel, And... was it before I fell asleep? I was honestly just shocked... I didn't know what would happen... Well... I mean, that's true of everyone, right? Right away, Kiryu held an emergency meeting. Would we be continuing Kiryu even after our tour? Would we quit? We were in our own worlds, Following a feeling of reclusion after the earthquake, And even the other musicians around us Were announcing that they were going to be pausing activities, tours, events. And so, the conclusion we reached Was that we'd continue. When we announced it, there was some resistance. Of course... It was devastating. I don't mean everyone But even amongst our fans, There were people who didn't understand our decision. Until the day before, the ones who told us that they loved us Were suddenly saying, "What?! You don't understand anything!! Shut up!! Die!!" There were so many voices. But we, as we were, with feelings of guilt as we continued activities, We wondered what we were living for. We decided we'd continue activities. Even just a little, A concept band like us, Wanted to give others a reason to live. So, with that thought in mind, We decided that guilt was the wrong thing to feel here, And we were very firm in our decision. But Many people Told us to die Every single day. If I'm being honest... It was hard... Every moment, fan mail was coming, causing my phone to go off ceaselessly. In a single day, the most messages I received was about 2,000. All of them telling me to die. Well, like I said, I was also worried about my family. And during all that... Every minute, every second... All these people...? From people I knew to people I didn't Kept telling me "Die, die, die, die." I felt like giving up... And eventually... "What the hell?" And then, I began to look forward to the first show we'd perform since we decided we'd continue activities. I'll never, ever forget... It was at Matsuyama Salon Kitty. The pre-sold tickets were already sold out. I guess, in terms of sales, that was good. I thought no one would come after all... Even so! Even if it was just five or ten who showed up after all For those who came to see us, we'd put on the best damn show we could. We were very resolute. And we took the stage, And our opening special effects rang out, We entered the stage. And... Everyone came. Everyone was there after all. I thought no one would come. I mean Right before we performed, I really thought I was gonna cry. I mean How do I explain? I don't even know. I felt just overwhelmed with that feeling of not knowing. You guys... To be honest, All the members, All five of us, Thought you guys hated us. But we realized at that moment That as a band, We were supporting people. That was what we wanted to do. But on the other hand, We also realized, We were being supported by you. I was so lost as to what to do about my family... And I wanted to quit sometimes... But when I saw things like that I realized That feeling just flew away. And so When my feelings of quitting flew away I wanted to share my thoughts with the help of the other members of Kiryu And from that Our song Kyousei was born.
[Snippet of Kyousei]
What saved hypocrisy Was the filth that hid away the weak points But hypocrisy tried to run away From the weakness that couldn't face the filth
There's no such thing as a "right" answer Therefore there is also no "incorrect" answer I looked out at the end of the cycle of death and rebirth And saw the path I should follow
Do you hear me crying out? The words have yet to take shape in my voice... I may scream myself hoarse, and my life may wither away, but There's something I need to say...
I've gotten a little off-topic, but We saw the the results of trying our very hardest. In every live house in every region, From high-up people in other companies, And from other members of other bands, And from those who looked up to us. And now, there are many fans who support us. I want veeeeerrrry much To send you happiness every single day. Thank you. However... Looking at it from another angle, I can feel a bit of unease. As a band, Kiryu has been able to continue together for over ten years. That's no small thing. We're a band that's played at Budoukan, And, I've heard us called... Influential!? Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe once or twice. But... Naturally... Even if I throw in a joke or two I think you get what I'm saying. I mean, it's not really, you know, like I hate it or anything. But I really feel uneasy. Even so, we're still selling I'm not really self-conscious of that. And being called a leading figure in Visual Kei Is still hard to imagine. We have so many role models who are flourishing And those above us all laugh, "Who are these youngsters here?"... I mean, I think. When I look at the world, Well, no, if I just look at Japan, Yeah. People who know of Kiryu Are definitely outnumbered by people who don't know us. When I look up, The limits are endless... However, From where we're standing right now, Kind of feels like we're still only standing on a monkey’s hill in a zoo. We're not just going to lie back and relax. We're still young! So we're going to do our best! PLEASE LET US DO OUR BEST! Well, even if I think that... I'm going to tell you what I really want. Someday, I want to go on an arena tour. Someday, I want to go on a dome tour. I still don't feel like stopping quite yet. I don't want to stop now. So I still want this and that...! Someday...! Even if I say that, I don't really like it. Ahhh, I don't really know what to do. Well, after today, What do I want to say to so many different people? When I think about that What we all thought Is that we should turn to YouTube. Whether it's something funny, or just anything Anything that we get the notion to do. It'll be fine if we just do it all the time. Right now, in this world, I think YouTube is my best chance To convey to you my feelings. So, when I thought, Ahh, what do I want to film?! Videos where I try playing the guitar... I mean, I've done that before... Then, maybe I should try singing~ I thought [clip of Takemasa singing, "Dooo yuuu heah me grying out?"] Ugh, if I do just that, you'll never hear my cry! IfiguredthatfirstofallIshouldjustlayallthisoutforyou When I thought of it like that, I mean, Visual Kei needs a certain amount of charisma... Visual Kei can't exist without being beautiful!! I mean, people will certainly think that. YouTube isn't so nice! I mean, if you don't post a new video every day, it's no good, right? It might be like that. Of course, we aren't actual YouTubers. Our real job is being musicians, And we'll live making music. This is how we're thinking of continuing. If we thought of throwing music away entirely That would be like throwing the cart in front of the horse, you know. So of course, While I do band stuff, Uploading YouTube videos By myself, Just me, Every day... Nooo... I can't do it... I think they'd all come out kind of half-baked, And I don't really want to do something only half-assed. So when I thought that, What I realized was I HAVE FWIENDS!! I HAVE EVEWYWAN!!!! \(^o^)/\(^o^)/ \(^o^)/\(^o^)/ \(^o^)/\(^o^)/ \(^o^)/\(^o^)/ \(^o^)/\(^o^)/ That's what I realized. Our record label, B.P.Records, Even more than just Kiryu, has so many friends. Kiryu, Royz, Codomo Dragon, Hertz We all possess the same will, all 18 of us. So, because of that... Sorry if it sounds like I'm just bragging about my friends, If we put our strength together, I think we can do it. I think we can really make a funny, interesting channel. If we can get our videos seen, And it might be difficult... But if we can do it... If everyone in our own bands can continue their activities without breaking their paces, If we do our best, We can show you all kinds of funny things. And so, talking about Kiryu, We're going to do all the same things as before, We've hit kind of an unrefined place, I mean, I am a masochist, after all, But, I want to try hard! Even harder than before! I've done a lot of crazy things I've been on tour in 47 different prefectures on one-man tours... Four times! So from now on We're going to keep on walking! And so, I'm going to keep on Holding the words of others in high regard Holding the lives of others in high regard. As we put all our energy into continuing our musical activities, We're going to do our best to upload things to YouTube. We want to show you what we're like in real life. And so While we keep music as our full-time job I think the way you look at Our lyrics and words And when we talk during our lives shows Will change drastically. And so I think it will help deepen your bond with our music. Put simply, I think it's awesome! Really, truly, All I want is for our music to resound with you. So, with that in mind, We are going to make YouTube videos. This might have become sort of a fumbling video But even so, I think I was able to get a lot across. There may be people who look down on this But even so, I'm going to do my best to upload And I did my best to decide what to do. And to those of you Who are hoping to see your favorite member appear, Please wait patiently. And finally, from this damned mask to you, Thank you so much for watching to the very end. We're going to change Visual Kei!
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Yearning
Hey there honey bees, here’s today’s short for MC dealing with shaving in the Sengoku. Dis one is for Mitsuhide. Hope you like it! 
Question for the peanut gallery...who do you wanna see next? Message me! send in an ask...I”m going to do them all eventually but thought I’d see what the people want (^.^)v
My other Ikesen works are hanging on my page. Click Master List to see them all conveniently compiled in one place!
Much love,
Admin T~
[YN]
Usually you felt better after a meeting or a meal surrounded by your new Sengoku family. They had done a great job of helping you acclimate to the time period and you would never be able to thank them for that, never; but sometimes you still just missed home. Certain aspects stuck out, like the immediate forms of communication, photos, endless libraries of information and piano music all at your fingertips, running water, soap...the little things like the woosh of traffic as you walked on busy sidewalks, the ding every time someone entered a convenience store, the clicking of your coworkers diligently typing away as they worked toward a deadline, the soft thunk of a lock when you came home from work, the sound of zippers, hell you’d even kill for some velcro if it would help you feel better; but you didn’t and couldn’t. So here you were stuck knowing that you would feel just as terrible if you were back in the present without all of them, but still wishing it wasn’t quite so hard some days. There had to be something to help add a semblance of futuristic normalcy back into your daily life. Anything.
“That’s it!”
[Mitsuhide]
The first few times I saw them carrying the bucket up to their room I thought nothing of it. Maybe they were just doing a bit of extra cleaning, or it had to deal with something they were sewing. For about a month I had been purposefully cutting holes along the bottom edge of my haori, in an attempt to see what there were using it for, but to no avail.
When that didn’t work I tried teasing it out of them, but they weren’t having any of it. With each passing encounter the bucket of water became a normal oddity. I had decided that the next time I saw it I would not hesitate. I was just going to barge in.
I had planned for the worst, but no part of me was prepared to see them sitting on their writing table, feet dipped in the bucket running the edge of the blade up their legs. Mild annoyance sat in their normally cheerful features as they looked over at me from the corner of their eyes.
“Why do you even knock if you’re not going to wait for an answer?” they sighed
[YN]
Thanks to your own ingenuity you had devised a makeshift razor and had taken to keeping your legs and underarms pretty neat. Making time at least once a week to collect a bucket of water and bring it back to your room to shave in peace. It wasn’t like anyone would notice, seeing as you were pretty much always in a kimono, but something about it helped you feel normal, like you weren’t totally removed from everything you grew up with.
You had been successful at avoiding the warlords so far, but you must have looked shifty because he had been following you around asking about your bucket all day and now you weren’t even halfway through your right leg when there was a knock on you door and Mitsuhide slid it open. There was no time to even try to hide what you were doing, not to mention if you had it would have just added to you looking suspect.
“Why do you even knock if you’re not going to wait for an answer?”
“My apologies.” He may have apologized but why didn’t you believe it…
“So then what can I help you with? Need me to patch your haori...again?”
“No, not this time.” he paused, for a second you thought he looked nervous but it passed as he continued “Might I inquire what you’re up to?”
[Mitsuhide]
Shave? I knew most people did it on occasion to keep unruly facial hair in check, but I had never considered it a possibility elsewhere.
“Why would you go to such lengths to have the legs of a small child?”
Apparently that was a thorny subject. My attempt at messing with them had ill-intended effects, unlike their normal reaction of sputtering or turning bright red only to talk themselves into another set up, they glared.
“Funny...if you don’t need anything you should try that wonderful humor on Hideyoshi. I’m sure it would be equally rewarding for you.” they suggested
“I have an equally entertaining idea.” to which they raised an eyebrow at me “Just hear this one out. You tell me why you’re shaving and I wont tell Hideyoshi I saw you sitting in your room playing with a knife.”
“...”
There was a long pause before the gave in and looked me directly in the eyes.
“To feel normal.” they said
And all of a sudden I regretted it, there was a look on their face, I was filled with an emotion I try hard to keep in check, I sat on the tatami by their bucket.
“Nothing about you has ever been normal.” they paused only for a moment before continuing on up their leg “you are quite possibly the only person I’ve ever met to request more work. You routinely yell at the lord-liege who employs you.”
“He deserves it, usually...”
“Agreed, but you don’t see anyone else doing that. You talk freely to everyone, and show all of your emotions plainly on your face. You’re not normal but that’s not a bad thing. How would this make you feel normal, and why would you ever want to be?”
[YN]
Yikes...a child, really? I know it’s uncommon but was that completely necessary? You shot a look his way, you really didn’t feel like dealing with his toying today...you felt homesick enough already. If that’s how he was going to be it may be time to suggest he take his leave.
“Funny...if you don’t need anything you should try that wonderful humor on Hideyoshi. I’m sure it would be equally rewarding for you.”
“I have an equally entertaining idea.” you paused knowing if you didn’t you would definitely cut yourself when Mitsuhide's ‘idea’ reared its ugly head “Just hear this one out. You tell me why you’re shaving and I wont tell Hideyoshi I saw you sitting in your room playing with a knife.”
Was he really threatening to tell on you just to get the information he wanted? Yes...yes he was. You didn’t need to ask aloud because the look on his face said it all. Figuring it was better to just come out and say it then deal with mother hen you looked at him.
“To feel normal…” you didn’t sugar coat it, or try to hide how you were feeling under a smile, if he really wanted to know you’d tell him...what he did with the information was up to him. 
He responded rather cautiously...picking his words and you decided you must be dreaming because he had just paid you a very solid compliment. You could tell he wasn’t teasing, if he was he would have stayed closer to the door to ensure an exit.
By the time he was through attempting to make you feel better you had finished your legs. Running the sand you had been collecting from the lake shore over your wet legs to exfoliate, you covered them with clay from the riverbed. You told him about how this helps ease your homesickness, why it may be odd to them but it had a funny way of making you feel just a tad better. After you washed it off you took to drying your now smooth legs which was when he reached over and slowly ran a hand up your shin all the way to your knee.
[Mitsuhide]
“Where I come from, it’s a social norm. When I found myself feeling homesick missing things I would never be able to get here I tried brainstorming all the different things this time has to offer and how I could use them to ebb these feelings” she looked thoughtful as she spoke.
“So you decided this was the best way to do that?”
“Mmmh, it was part of a routine; Something I did so frequently I didn’t realize it’s impact until recently. Personally I used to shave my legs once a week...armpits ever three days or so. In the winter all bets were off but that’s just because it’s cold and I wanted to hibernate anyway.” they giggled but their eyes were still distant thinking about times past.
“There’s no showers here, the closest thing would be a waterfall and I’m not exactly brave enough to stand under one of those naked...There are no cars, no switch locks, and no phones, this was the best solution I had. A bit of futuristic pampering.”
It was interesting, a wave of emotion came over me and, with what I would try to play off as intrigue, I reached over and ran my hand up their leg. It was different but not in a bad way, stopping at their knee. Skin as cool as fresh silk from the water now bloomed with heat where I rested my hand.
“See, doesn’t that feel nice? Now imagine it against new fabric or fresh bed sheets.” They were smiling again. Good.
“Only if I can imagine you in both?” Flushing red with the reaction I loved so much, they bat my hand away averting their gaze.
“Maybe...but only if you ask nicely.”
tagging @little-mini-me-world because always :) and @forallyourikemensengokuneeds because it involves her best ikemen Mitsu
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chailatterambles · 6 years
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Rightful Heir to the Serpent Throne// Sweet Pea Imagine// Ch.3
A/N: Thank-you so much for the love guys. Here is Ch.3. I love feedback so feel free to send me messages or leave comments. My goal is to have Ch.4 up before Christmas. Lots of love guys! 
Warnings: Language. Suggestions of Abandonment.
Word Count: 2.4k
Part 1  / Part 2 
Synopsis: Serena is 16 years old and daughter to Rascal Jones, FP’s deceased older brother and fellow Serpent. She grew up on the Southside until her father died in a motorcycle accident. Her mother remarried a doctor and Serena was moved to the Northside at just 11 years old. 5 years and a messy divorce have passed and she is back on the Southside with her mom and younger sister. Can Serena pick up where her life left off? Will she be accepted back by her friends? And how will a certain tall dark and handsome serpent change her life?
After a couple of hours at the graveyard, Sawyer and I headed back. FP offered to walk us home, but I assured him we would be fine. Sawyer’s small hands were shoved into her pockets, with Rascal tucked under her arm. She jumped from puddle to puddle, enjoying what was left over from the rainfall this morning. She gasped when she saw a puddle the size of a small pond. She threw her arms forward and lunged into the puddle. Water sprayed all different directions, including onto me.
“Watch it kid.” I laughed. She turned her head to look at my giving me a devilish smirk. She lifted her foot ready to do it again. Her eyes never left my face, waiting to see if I would stop her. I rolled my eyes and gestured for her to proceed. She giggled excitedly and begun stomping her feet repeatedly into the wet mess. Her clothes became quickly drenched. Sawyer stepped out of the puddle and stuck her hand out for me to take. I grasped her hand in mine and we continued on our way.
The sky above had begun to grow slightly darker as the day faded away. It was never a good idea to walk around the South side after dark. I sped up my pace a little bit and dragged Sawyer with me. Her little legs picked up speed, but I could tell she was struggling.
“Slow down DeeDee, I can’t go that fast.” She huffed between breaths. I sighed and slowed down. We were only a few minutes from home anyways.
“I know you can handle yourself and all, but there aren’t a lot of lunch trays out here yenno.” I heard his voice come from behind me. A shiver ran down my spine and I turned slowly as he approached me. He dark hair was a mess upon his head and he was wearing a small grin on his lips. I smiled back at him,
“I am not just handy with lunch trays. I can turn other things into weapons if need be.” I challenged. Sweet Pea crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Is that so?” he replied. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my hand.
“DeeDee it’s cold, can we go?” Sawyer whined. I went to reply when a chuckle interrupted me. My head snapped back to him and I realized he was on the verge of losing it. My eyes narrowed,
“What’s so damn funny?”
“DeeDee?” he said using his arm to cover his mouth. He took a breath and composed himself, but his grin never faltered.
“You’re a lot less threatening with a name like DeeDee.” He said.
“Ya, alright Sw-eet Pea.” I said empathising his obviously ironic name. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Touche.” Was all he said. Sawyer walked around me, so she was directly in front of me. She reached her hand out and tugged on Sweet Pea’s jacket. He glanced down at her and crouched so he was eye level to her.
“You never asked my name. That’s not very nice.” She pouted. I smiled widely at both of them. Sweet Pea glanced back up at me looking for help. I shrugged and gestured down to the determined little girl. He looked back at her and smiled,
“You’re so right. I’m sorry.” He stuck his hand out for her,
“I am Sweet Pea, what’s your name?” Sawyer’s face lit up and she grabbed his large hand in both of hers shaking it wildly.
“I’m Sawyer.” I watched the scene in front of me in awe. Who knew someone who looked so scary would have such a soft spot for little kids? Sawyer spoke up,
“Mr. Pea, are you going to walk with us home?” she asked tilting her head. My eyes went wide. Damn, my little sister is the best wing woman ever. Sweet Pea looked up at me and raised and eyebrow. I nodded, and he stood up.
“Sure kid, ill walk with you guys.” He said nonchalantly. Sawyer clapped and grabbed Sweet Pea’s hand. She dragged him towards the direction of our house. He went along with her but turned to look at me pleading. I simply laughed and shrugged,
“Lead the way, Mr. Pea” I laughed. Sweet Pea groaned and continued to be dragged by tiny girl.
-
The house was dark, signaling my mom still had not returned. Sawyer turned to Sweet Pea,
“Have dinner with us!” she all but yelled. He stared at her in shock, but smiled.
“You’re sure a demanding kid.” He chuckled. Sawyer simply smiled,
“Well I knew DeeDee wasn’t going to ask. She is wayyyy to nervous.” Her finger tapped her chin and she looked between me and Sweet Pea and then her face lit up,
“She probably thinks you’re cute.” My mouth fell open as I stared at my sister. Sweet Pea threw his head back and laughed. Traitor. Betrayed by my own flesh and blood.
“Sawyer!” I whined. She looked at me and shrugged,
“What? You keep staring at him.” My face must have been the color of a tomato. If she was not my sister I may have already killed her. I looked at Sweet Pea who was watching me with a cocky smile. Great. His ego did not need this.
I silently walked to the front door and unlocked it. Sawyer ran inside as I began turning on all the lights. She went straight to her room. Smart move considering I might strangle her later. Sweet Pea followed behind me into the kitchen. My face was still red, so I started collecting things to prepare dinner. I mumbled something about him sitting wherever. I could not look at him right now. However, I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I became very self-conscious about everything I was doing. There was silence, then I head the kitchen chair slide against the floor and felt a presence behind me.
“You need help with anything-” he bent close to my ear “DeeDee.” I could hear the smile in his voice. I turned around slowly to look him in the eyes. They were a deep brown. I could easily get lost in those eyes. I was also very aware of how close he was standing to me, and that his arms had me trapped. One on either side of me. I took a breath,
“You could set the table.” I said just above a whisper. He nodded and moved away. I let out my breath and turned back to dinner.
Sweet Pea set the table and I dished out the dinner. I called Sawyer and she came bounding down the hallway. She climbed up onto the chair between me and Sweet Pea. Sawyer looked at the empty chair across the table,
“DeeDee where’s mama?” she asked curiously. I felt my face fall slightly.
“She’s still out of town. I’m sure she will be back soon. Eat up kay?” she nodded at me and dug into her food. I glanced at Sweet Pea and he was giving me an unreadable expression. I tore my eyes away from his and started on my own dinner.
After dinner, Sweet Pea helped me clean up and i put Sawyer in front of the TV to watch cartoons. She seemed content enough. Sweet Pea gestured to the door and I followed him outside. I stood by the window, so I could keep an eye on Sawyer. Sweet Pea lit a cigarette and took a long drag. I felt super awkward. I have known this guy for a day and he had already watched me get into a fight, flirted with me and now eaten dinner with me. I turned to look at him,
“I uh…I’m sorry.” I said. He looked at me confused.
“For what?” he asked taking another drag of his cigarette. I shrugged.
“I don’t know. You watched me fight someone, walked me home and now my little sister trapped you into having dinner with us. You haven’t even known me a full day.” I took a breath,
“I’m just sorry if today has been weird.” I gave him a small smile. He finished his cigarette and ground it into the dirt with his boot. He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the house.
“Trust me, ive had weirder days.” He grinned.
“Besides, Toni talks about you a lot so I kind of felt like I already knew you before today.” He said reassuring me. I looked at him,
“Thanks.” I felt myself get a little bolder.
“It was actually nice having extra company. Today is always a hard day.” I looked down at my feet and pushed them into the dirt.
“Today is the anniversary of my Dad’s death, so it is usually a really shitty day.” I continued looking at my feet. He pushed off from the house and walked closer to me.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard losing a parent.” his voice said somberly. I looked up into his eyes. He was staring directly at me.
“If you ever need to talk or anything I can be a pretty good listener.” He said slightly sheepish. His hand was rubbing the back of his neck. I smiled brightly at him,
“Thank-you, that actually means a lot to me.” I said genuinely. Instantly, his demeaner changed back into its usual cocky self and he grinned,
“Does that mean I can get your number?” I grinned back at him.
“If you want my number then you have to do one thing.” I said challenging him. I pressed myself slightly up against his chest and laid my hand on his jacket. I stretched myself up on my toes and put my mouth to his ear,
“You have to put Sawyer to bed.” He let out a loud laugh and I shoved him playfully. He looked through the window and then back to me grinning.
“You have a deal, DeeDee.”
­­­­­­­­­­­­­­-
After that night, Sweet Pea and I texted back and forth. We would chat idly at school amongst the Serpents.  Occasionally, he would send me that smirk that made my knees week, but I really didn’t know much about him. I opened-up to him about my family, but never revealed who my dad was. He knew my mom was never home and that I cared for Sawyer, with help from FP. A few times Sweet Pea came over to help me look after Sawyer, but he still never opened-up to me.
One night at dinner with FP, I figured I would try and probe for information. I was pushing my Chinese food around with my chopsticks, head propped on my hand, elbow on the table. I glanced at FP who was scarfing his food down. Sawyer was babbling to Rascal and trying to feed him some sweet and sour pork. I cleared my throat, which caused FP to pause his on inhaling his food,
“FP, what do you think of Sweet Pea?” I asked casually, continuing to play with my food. He swallowed his food and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“He’s a nice kid, loyal to the Serpents.” he replied. Not the answer I wanted. I rephrased my question,
“Yeah…What do you know about him? Does he have like, siblings or anything?” I asked setting my chopsticks down on the warn table. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His eyes were on the floor and I could tell he was thinking hard. He gave a small shrug and looked at me,
“Well, I know both his parents aren’t around. Not really sure where they are, but he lives with his grandma.” He smiled to himself and gave a light chuckle,
“She’s a firecracker that one. Names Rose I think. Pretty sure she has taken care of Sweet Pea since he was a lil kid.” He glanced at my face trying to read my expression,
“Why the interest kid?” I shrugged my shoulders and leaned both of my elbows on the table.
“No reason. Me and him have just been talking and stuff. He doesn’t talk much about himself so I was just curious.” FP nodded and started to go back to his food, when a little voice piped up,
“Plus, she likes him.” I heard Sawyer giggle. My eyes glared in her direction. This kid was walking on thin ice. FP’s mouth twitched up into a sly smirk.
“I don’t like him Sawyer, he’s a friend.” I huffed folding my arms over my chest.
“Sureeeee.” She dragged out. My face was twisted into a scowl and I was hoping she could feel my annoyance from my side of the table. She stuck her tongue out at me. I heard FP begin to laugh, but immediately covered it with a cough, the smirk never leaving his face. I threw my hands up in defeat and fell back against my chair. I needed to change the subject, fast. I turned my head to FP,
“So, FP where’s my dear cousin? I miss that goof’s face.” I smiled. FP’s smirk faded.
“He uh, doesn’t live here anymore. He was living at the drive-in for awhile, but he’s with Andrew’s now.” He said. I could hear the hint of sadness in his voice. He would never admit it, but he missed Jughead. I gave him a sad smile. Sawyer put her hand on his arm and looked up at him,
“We will live with you Uncle FP.” She gave him a wide smile, which he returned. I swear this kid could cure diseases just with that smile. FP scooped her up and placed her in his lap, facing me.
“Thanks for the offer kiddo, but your mama would miss ya.” I went to agree, but Sawyer beat me.
“Not really, mommy doesn’t come home really.” She said sadly. FP’s eyes shot me a look.
“What doe she mean?” he asked carefully. I felt like the walls were closing in on me, ready to trap me in my chair. My finger nails were digging into my jeans, trying to claw away the panic that was building in my chest. Breathe. I took a deep breath and lifted my eyes to meet FP’s
“Mom hasn’t been home in about two weeks. I don’t think she is coming back.”
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hekate1308 · 6 years
Text
Call Of Nature
More siren!Cas AU because I love this series. Enjoy!
Sam has grown used to being whisked away in order to deal with legal monster problems, while always feeling slightly queasy afterwards. True, Dean and Cas are still careful not to drag him into too many monster adventures; but he likes to think they have found a balance of sorts.
It seems, however, that his colleagues have not.
One day he returns from lunch and finds the other junior lawyers engrossed in conversation with...
He sighs. “Crowley?”
The demon turns around and grins. “Moose. Long time no see.”
It’s a lie. Sam had dinner with Dean and Cas two days ago and of course he showed up because he inevitably does.
“What is it this time?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic. We do pay for your services, you know.”
They do indeed, and rather handsomely at that. Plus, Sam’s boss has already decided they should try and get into this new niche now that monsters are recognised citizens who have basic rights.
“I know” he acquiesces. “Let’s go.”
Crowley says goodbye to the others – going so far as to kiss Becca’s hand – and transports him and Sam to his mother’s hut.
He’s still not quite sure how a witch gave birth to a demon, and has decided that he’d rather not know.
“Samuel. Good of you to drop by.”
“Rowena –“
“She hexed me!”
Oh dear. Sam can see why Rowena wanted a lawyer present. The man in front of him looks angry, and well, the history of people being accused of using witchcraft to harm others...
“Freaking Hell, are you just going to show up with more people now? I suppose you’re a demon too –“
“No, actually. Sam Winchester,  I’m a lawyer –“
“Excellent, I could use one.”
“I’m her to represent Ms. MacLEod.”
Rowena grins. “He is indeed.”
“What? She’s the one who hexed me!”
“I did nothing of the kind, you stupid little man. You have a cold.”
“For the last two weeks! And you were there when I picked my car up from the siren’s fuck toys shop.”
Sam stiffens. “I’m sorry?”
“You know, the one the siren keeps ensnared.”
“I assure you, my brother-in-law is doing no such thing.”
The man sneers. “Of course. You’re one of them.”
“Alright”.
Sam turns to look at Crowley. His eyes are red, and there’s something feral in his voice and pose, as if he’s about to attack.
A part of him would actually let him.
“Crowley, how about you wait outside?” he suggests. “It might be best for us all –“
“He’s right” Rowena agrees. “Why don’t you check up on Dean and Cas, let them know Sam’s here.”
For a second, Sam thinks he’ll refuse, but then his eyes slowly turn back to green and he nods.
“I would advise you” he addresses their visitor right before he vanishes, “To be very careful”.
At least he’s gone the next second. Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He’s noticed Crowley becoming more and more protective of them all for a while now. Donna’s selkie boyfriend thinks it’s got to do with his soul becoming “lighter” due to Cas and Dean’s influence, but he has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
Sam turns back to the man. “Now, Mr. –“
In the end, he manages to calm the man down and send him on his way, but it was a close call.
Rowena is thankful enough, gifting him with a few teabags, “Just drink this when you get a cold. You know – to do the opposite of what this idiot thinks I did.”
He nods and leaves. Sam’s tempted to check in on Dean and Cas, but he can’t deny that he’s still slightly nervous around Crowley – somewhat nice or not, he’s still a demon – and so he doesn’t.
Sam probably should be delighted that Crowley for once hasn’t appeared to drag him away (despite Dean’s assurances that it will eventually happen he hasn’t yet grown comfortable with being beamed around).
Instead, he warily studies the demon standing in front of him. There’s something different about him, but Sam can’t put his finger on it.
He looks... tired. Do demons get tired? He has no idea. Sure, he and Dean talk during their weekly lunches, and he comes ti visit him and his husband and occasionally helps out when there’s trouble in suburbia, but Dean usually spares him the details.
“Hello, Sam.”
That’s... strange. No Moose or funny – well, what Crowley considers funny – comment? “Crowley.”
“I was wondering if I might consult you in your professional capacity.”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to set up my will.”
That’s... even stranger. Demons can’t die, can they?
“Just a precaution” he adds in his abrupt manner, and Sam doesn’t stop and think because he doesn’t know him as well as Dean or Cas.
He will admit he’s somewhat touched that Crowley demands most of his estate be given to his brother and brother-in-law.
When he learns how high a sum this actually includes, he has to sit down.
In the next few weeks, nothing changes much; and then suddenly Dean acts weird during their lunch, barely answering Sam’s questions, clearly distracted, and...
If he didn’t know any better he’d think he was mad at him.
“Dean? Is everything alright? Did I do anything?”
He looks at him. “You could have told us, that’s all. Don’t get me wrong, I get the lawyer client privilege, but he’s our friend and it was somewhat of a punch in the gut when he told us, we all thought he’d be around for – “
“Dean, tell you what?”
He stares at him. “You don’t know? Sam, you wrote the guy’s will!”
“Yes and?”
Dean is silent for a moment, then he says quickly, as if ripping off a band-aid, “Crowley’s dying.”
“Oh.” Sam doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know –“
“Me neither” Dean says bitterly, “But apparently, there’s exactly one illness that demons can catch – and guess what. It only happens very rarely, but when it does, it’s because they’ve been hanging around humans for too long, with too little contact with their own kind.”
Oh no. If Sam knows his better, and he believes he’s come to know him again rather well – “Dean, this is not your fault.”
He chuckles. “Don’t I know it. Thing is, Crowley’s sickness needs decades to develop – he said he’s known for quite some time that he was in danger. But tell that demon to socialize, and –“
“Dean” Sam interrupts him, “He’s at your place all the damn time.”
“With other demons, remember what I said?”
Sam nods. “And there’s – nothing to be done?”
“One thing” Dean says slowly. “But it’s difficult.”
He doesn’t elaborate through the whole meal.
Late, back at his place – and it only now occurs to Sam that Dean has yet to see his apartment – he considers what he’s learned, and what this means for Dean, Cas and their little monster community.
From what he’s seen, Crowley holds a place of respect among them, and he’s considered a close friend by his brother. That alone would be enough to make Sam care, and so he resolves to visit Rowena. It can’t be easy for her, but she knows a lot about magical medicine. Perhaps she knows more about this cure Dean is reluctant to speak of.
He doesn’t tell his brother that he’ll go to her hut in the woods.
She greets him as always; there’s no grief or worry in her face or her words, and Sam almost thinks Dean is mistaken until she says, “Are you here about my son’s will?”
“No” he answers. “But Dean mentioned a remedy, and...”
“Ah. Samuel, are you certain?”
“Certain of what?”
She points at a chair in front of her and he sits down. “There’s a reason your brother hasn’t told you everything. It’s the same he hasn’t been to your apartment yet, even though he’d like to see where you live, why your contact even now consists of only small, shared moments in two hugely different lives.”
“I don’t –“
“Samuel.”
When she looks up from the herbs she’s been mixing, he’s glad he’s sitting down; otherwise he’d take a step back. For the first time, he can truly feel the power of a centuries-old witch. “Magic and nature are intertwined; and while you cannot completely have one without the other, you can place yourself firmly on one side. Humans – most of them, including you – they prefer the softer parts of nature, the one they can explain using physics. Not magic that is older than the ground they walk on. When a human joins us – have you ever thought it is a coincidence that so many magical creatures are drawn to Dean, even if he’s among other humans?”
Sam swallows. “So if I learn too much –“
“Exactly. When Dean told me you accepted him and his lifestyle, I assumed you’d be more curious, come over more often. I thought you had already chosen this.”
“But can’t I –“
“Are you about to ask me if you can have your cake and eat it too while my son is –“ she breaks off.
“Of course not. I’m sorry” Sam says honestly.
She nods. “I think you should talk to Dean. Crowley told him everything. Not that I am surprised.”
There is a sombre mood hanging over the neighbourhood this evening, and if Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say, that the air around Crowley’s house is darker than –
Who is he kidding. He does know better, and this must be another way for magic itself to mourn for one of its own.
Dean opens the door. “Sammy, didn’t expect you on this fine evening –“
“I spoke to Rowena” he says quickly.
Dean’s face falls. “I didn’t think _”
“Of course you didn’t. Dean, please, I need to know what’s going on.”
“It’s just not fair” Dean insists, “This is a life and death situation, how does this –“
“Let him come in first, my love” Cas says gently, stepping up to him. “He needs to make a decision tonight.”
Sam swallows.
“So it’s a blood ritual? That’s all it is?”
“No, Sammy” Dean replies. “Yes, don’t get me wrong, it involves the blood of two related humans voluntarily given. But it’s not as easy as forcing it down Crowley’s throat and hoping for the best. You heard Rowena; with this you’d tip your scales down on the magical side. And it’s very very hard to reverse that.”
“And? I did choose to get to know you, too...” Sam trails off as he realizes.
Yes, he has allowed Dean back into his life; but he’s never invited him or his husband over, he’s never really spent more than a day with them, he’s skirted the border when what he really needed to do was to either retreat or jump right in.
“Did you –“
Dean smiles weakly. “I fell in love with a magical creature, Sam. My entry into this world... it happened gradually. This is one big leap we’re asking you to take for someone you don’t even know that well.”
“But I am doing it for someone I know well. I’m doing it for you.”
“And for that, you will live with bogey men? Dragons? Pixies?”
“All of that, Dean. Yes. Rowena is right; you either have to fully accept this life, or you have to step back. I am not going to step back.”
Dean studies his face, then draws him into a tight hug. “Thanks, Sammy.”
Rowena arrives immediately after Dean has called her; she doesn’t thank them, but there’s a contentment in her expression Sam has never seen before.
“You do realize” she explains as she draws their blood, “That does will not only take you on our side of nature, but you two and your respective spouses will also be considered part of mine and my son’s family?”
“Fine by us” Dean says after he’s shared a glance with Cas.
Sam smiles. He’s made his decision. “I’m good.”
Rowena is the one to bring the drink to Crowley. The next morning – Sam, Dean and Cas are having breakfast – Crowley, as brash, as healthy, as annoying as ever, surprises them with croissants straight from Paris.
When he comes home to find a hobglobin going through his sock drawer, Sam grins.
Some decisions are best made in haste, it seems.
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jimlingss · 6 years
Text
Beyond Reach [2]
Chapters 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 (Finale) Words: 10.6k Genre: Angst, Grim Reaper!Au, Ghost!Au Summary: If someone could see what you could, they’d pass out. But you don't blame them. Who would ever expect for a ghost, a priestess and a grim reaper to be together - much less be rescuing others. Warnings: Death and murder.
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“Leave.”
The salt is hurled near his form, whipping against the cobblestone path. Namjoon throws his head back and chuckles, a laugh that isn’t bone chilling like you expected it to be. “You can’t dispel me with salt or any of your sacred charms. I’m not a demon.”
Your eyes are frigid, expression impassive. The voice that commands the being is in a lower timber. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”
Namjoon takes four strides and you can sense the aura of death, the scent of ash plunging into your nose. Hoseok inhales sharply, ready to attack as the Grim Reaper’s finger emerges from his sleeve. But the cloaked man simply pokes you in the shoulder with a mischievous smirk. “I can’t take him against his will if that’s what you’re worried about….”
You make a movement to smack his hand away but he withdraws before you can. “Don’t touch me.” Namjoon finds amusement in the situation. Of the few priestesses he knows or knew, you’re the definitely the farthest from being irrationally kind or altruistic. You’re a rather cold soul.
He sighs and inclines to the side, looking over to the spirit. “What are you going to do? Are you going to keep wandering? There’s a place where you need to be. A place where you belong and it’s not here anymore.” Namjoon then shifts to you. “Are you going to let him haunt you?”
“It’s none of your business.”
You turn to walk away from the two, ignoring what’s unravelling. Hoseok quickly meets your pace, blocking your way, only for you to walk through his form.
“Help me.” He pleads after you. “I don’t remember anything….I-I don’t know who I am. I can’t leave yet. Please.”
There’s silence. You ignore him. There’s a prayer murmured under your breath, hoping that the ghost will evaporate, that he’ll disappear and leave you alone. There’s no reason for him to be here.
“Please, help me!” The ghost’s eyes catch the wooden talismen tied to your skirt, ink marked with your name. He freezes- “Y/N.”
You halt in your own steps, the falter with your legs. And you crane your neck around. “What do you want from me?”
“Help me.” He crumbles to the ground, holding his face within his hands. “I need my memories. I need them. I can’t go on like this.”
“I can’t give you back your memories.” Your tongue is bitter. “It’s not within my abilities.”
Hoseok’s lips fall into a straight line. He pulls up his head, looking at you. Your shadow looms over him, the sunlight piercing into your backside. “I-”
“If you want my help, I don’t know if I can give it to you. But if you need a place to stay until you figure out why you’re here, then you can stay at this place.”
“Ignorant humans…” Namjoon mumbles. He sends you a scowl and before Hoseok can become afraid of what he’ll do next, the Reaper grabs his cloak and whirls it around, vanishing in a black shadow.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t say those words.” You walk away. “It’s not something I want to do.”
You’ve always been able to see ghosts since you were born. Even when you opened your eyes for the first time, you could make out vague shadows over your mother’s shoulder, voices that sang and cursed. The other children never played with you, parents and teachers that spoke ill of you, rumours that stained your family name into madness. You were outcasted, all from a gift that you never asked for. No less than a curse.
“This is a beautiful place.” Hoseok marvels at the traditional home, slipping all over the mat floors and poking his head through the sliding panel doors. He’s in absolute amazement, running around, walking through the walls and into every room. With the spirit wandering in your home, it’s less quiet than it used to be.
“What’s your name?”
“Hoseok.”
There’s a long silence as the birds chirp. The trees rustle, leaves twirling downwards in spirals. The breeze ruffles through your hair, kisses your cheeks in a shade of rose and he longs the ability to feel it against his own skin.
“Hoseok.” You breathe through your nose, closing your eyes. It rolls off your tongue slowly, savouring each syllable. “Funny name.”
He lifts a brow, “Is it?”
“The characters of your name.” Your finger draws it out in the air. “It means ‘bestowed sign’. Like a gift, an honour or a present.”
“Well, am I a gift?” He decides to be cheerful, lolling his head to one side and staring at you. Yet, you do not smile. You don’t crack even a little bit.
“Hardly.” You move away from him and Hoseok wonders what it’ll take for him to remove your barriers.
“Y/N. You’re a strange girl.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
The ghost stays by your side, sticking like gum. He’s a cheerful aura, unlike what horror movies depict of being haunted. He isn’t like the mean spirits that chase you, the ones that seeped into your dreams for giggles. He doesn’t wail or cry awfully, doesn’t try to damn and try to curse you.
When you catch his eye, Hoseok grins like he’s still full of life.
“Do you remember anything yet?”
Then his smile falls and he racks his brain into pieces. It hurts. And he’s even more frustrated why he can’t remember. “No.”
The ghost doesn’t need sleep anymore. Even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to. His mind is consumed with fog, trying to pick up pieces but each time he comes out empty. They’re not reachable. Yes, he’s thankful for being with you. You gave him a place to stay...but he’s still lost.
Hoseok is still running aimlessly.
“Isn’t there any way that you can help me remember?”
“No.”
The thin mattress is rolled out on the floor and you’re tucked in with a blanket up to your chin, ready for slumber to murmur its lullaby. Hoseok is leaning against the wall, your merciless syllable crippling his hope.
“Where did you wake up?”
“In the middle of nowhere. On top of rubble.” Hoseok hums gently while trying to hide his distressed expression, “you can ask me anything you want.”
“Then…” There’s a slight pause. “How did you get here?”
“I’m not sure. I just kept on running. I ran..and ran... and this is where my legs took me.” It’s his turn to ask questions and he shuffles closer, speculating what it would be like if he could feel your body heat or breath fan across his cheeks. “Have you always been able to see ghosts?”
“Always.” You turn away from him, letting him stare at your backside. “Ever since I was born. It’s in my blood. Apparently my mother could too but my grandma...not so much. It might skip two or three generations…”
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead.” You keep speaking before he can interrupt, “don’t apologize or tell me you feel guilty for asking. It’s a fact. There’s nothing to be sad about.”
Hoseok frowns, almost appalled at how apathetic you are to things. He wonders why you’re like this. What happened to you that made you so cold….heartless.
“Is it scary to see ghosts?” He shifts to another subject, aware that you want him to. It’s a dumb question but a light hearted one. “I can’t imagine being able to see spirits.”
It’s horrifying.
You don’t respond and for a second, he believes that you’ve fallen asleep. After a full minute and listening carefully to your even breaths, he decides to walk around the area, unaware that you’re still wide awake.
The place is serene without city lights or street noises. He can focus on the whistling wind playing its melody between the forest trees, can try to count the stars in the moonlit sky, can hop along rooftops without making noise. He doesn’t stray far from where you are. Hoseok can go anywhere he wishes but where is he suppose to go?
Who am I? What kind of person am I? How did I die? Where am I from? Where will I go?
Hoseok agonizingly pulls apart his head, begging some deity out there to restore his memories.
He wonders if he ever took life for granted. As he strolls on the streets, past the statues and wells, killing the time he no longer has - he wonders if he took walks like this when he was still alive. If he was able to breathe in the air and feel chills run up his spine. If he ever enjoyed the moment and saw the world around him. Did he really live at all?
The questions plague him, making him obsess, bringing doubts to why he’s still here. He fears for his past, his future, to the place that he’ll be taken. There is no peace in his heart nor his soul. He can barely even believe that he’s dead.
The minute dawn sparks, Hoseok retreats back into your room.
“Y/N.” He would nudge you if his skin wouldn’t pass through yours. “Y/N.”
When you peel an eye open, you question why there’s a ghost in your bedroom. “What?” Why he’s still here.
“It’s morning. Rise and shine!”
You’re living a nightmare.
“Good morning.” Your grandmother tilts her head, squinting her eyes. You greet her a ‘good morning’ back and when you sit down at the table, Hoseok plops beside you.
You don’t really notice her pupils staring inquisitively. You’re too distracted listening to Hoseok, how he longs for a taste, questioning if he ate well while he was still alive. Instead, he coaxes you to eat it for him...having every bite that he wished he could have...pointing out all the dishes and watching you chew, imagining if it was himself.
“You’re eating well today.” Your grandmother comments. “Did something good happen?”
“Not particularly.”
You’re in the storage room, keeping track of all the items inside in case something’s gone amiss. It’s always the same. Nothing changes. This place doesn’t need you. But it’s still one of your many duties of the day. Hoseok is accompanying you, humming and looking at all the antique objects and the spines lining the bookshelves. You’re dressed in the usual attire of white jacket and red skirt, a clipboard in your hands.
And you’re too concentrated to realize when the man spins and stares at you.
Without thinking, his fingertips move to gently brush away the strand of hair in front of your face. But then his hand moves right through your skin. You immediately look up at him, not flinching like you usually would had it been someone else. “Right. Sorry.” He nervously scratches the back of his head. “I forgot I can’t touch you.”
There’s a silence. “...It’s okay.”
The ghost doesn’t say anything as he guides you outside to the main courtyard. You muster up strength, turning around to him but then-
The wind chimes ring.
“Help me.” A woman stands at the entrance. Her face is pasty and devoid of colour, contrasting against the long, jet-black strands of her hair that blows with the sudden wind. She looks straight at you with an expression of pain and desperation. “You can help me, right?”
Hoseok instinctively jumps to protect you, shielding you away by moving in front and jutting out his arm. The young woman ignores him. “I-I’ve been searching for you.” Her voice is husky, raspy and she lurches forward. “Help me!”
At your motionless state, the ghost’s pleas turn into resentful demands. “Help me or I’ll hurt you!”
“This girl is already being haunted. By me!” Hoseok shouts, clenching his jaw at her close proximity. “Go find someone else!”
“Help me!” It screeches in a horrific voice. “Help me!” A gust of wind begins to pick up speed, bending the air in a tornado. The ribbon in your hair rips away at the intensity. Hoseok looks around helplessly, not knowing what to do. “Help me!”
“Stop it!”
You walk away, pretending that it doesn’t exist. That you can’t see it. Like you’re every other normal human on this planet.
The cement walls of the old buildings begin to shake. Crows caw in the distance, the forest taking on a dark and ominous glow. “Help me!” She knows you can see her. The girl is full of anger, her eyes coated with rage. Branches snap off and begin to fling towards you, destruction at the mercy of her wrath. Hoseok fights against the blasting wind, shrieking through his teeth as he tries to attack the ghost. “H E L P M E !”
You can’t move.
And you can see it. It’s your curse. Beneath the fury and violence, you can perceive the sadness. You can feel her anguish, misery; the suffering that lays within each teardrop. It’s suffocating and pitiful, making you want to rip out your own heart with your bare hands, slump onto your knees as you condemn the Heavens of their cruelty.
You know this regret.
“Why is no one being obedient?” An exploding voice booms over the clouded sky, making one think that it was God himself. The Grim Reaper appears, the physical matter of his form assembling together from nothing. He sighs exhaustingly, a tone of absolute irritation, “why do you all keep running away?!”
Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the woman’s throat. Instantly, the winds die down. The debris that whirled around your figure plunges to the dirt. Hoseok stands without cowering.
“Help me! I was killed!” The woman cries out to you as the Reaper struggles to pull her away. She slips through his grasps and traps the opportunity, racing up to you, trying to hold onto your shoulders but her hands pass through your flesh. “Please! Please!” She screams in your face, becoming violent. “I was killed!”
Hoseok tries to pry the woman off. You stop him with your sharp tone, “I won’t help you.”
The ghost roars in a thousand different voices, threatening to make your ears bleed.
“Follow the Reaper. Go to the world where you belong. It’s not here anymore.”
Namjoon smirks at your reply, the woman sobs, Hoseok is sick. If you had told him those very words yourself, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done.
“I can’t!” The woman crumbles underneath your stare. “I can’t go!”
Your eyes are icy, lips moving on your expressionless face. “What do you want me to do for you then?”
“Find the murderer before-” She bows at your feet. “-I make my brother into a murderer!”
“Naive.” Namjoon mutters again and shakes his head. “You are so naive.”
All three of you are seated around the low table while you’re directly across from the young woman who appears no more than college age. She’s calmer than she was before, preparing to do whatever it takes to fulfill her last wishes.
You ignore the two men, the Reaper in disapproval and Hoseok who looks on in worry. “What’s your name?”
“Kyungi. Min Kyungi.” She braces herself. “I’ve been wandering for an entire year.”
Hoseok can’t bear to think how she managed to do such a thing, how she didn’t get driven insane from being alone and invisible. He’s been a ghost for less than a week and he can’t begin to imagine what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t run into you. On the other hand, Namjoon is brooding in the corner. He wonders how a ghost slipped through the Reapers’ fingers for such an extended amount of time.
“I’ve been searching for you. They say you can help those who have passed. Is it true?”
You remain solemn, not answering. “Tell me what you know.”
“I know who I am...who is important to me.” The woman furrows her brows and she shuts her lids tight. “But I can’t remember who killed me.”
“How?!” Hoseok practically lunges over the table to grab the ghost. “How do you remember?”
“I-” She is frightened, withdrawing back. “I just do. It’s been such a long time that it came back to me.”
He withers, having hoped that there was some sort of secret. The ghost sits back down, Namjoon observes curiously and you resume.
“Are you sure you were murdered?”
“I’m sure. It’s without a doubt.” Kyungi’s irises bore into yours, the sincerity of her answer washing away any hesitation. “I can remember feeling pain and lying on the ground. It was nighttime and there was a shadow overtop of me.” Slowly, her hand travels up to her chest and she winces, “I can still feel it.” The cruel sensation of being stabbed...
“I need to find out who murdered me before my brother does. He’s going to kill them.”
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If it wasn’t for the curse that you had - would you be living a peaceful life? Would the dead not keep chasing you for your aid? The aid that you’ve never wanted to give in the first place.
You hate to involve yourself in things that don’t matter to you. You hate it.
“That’s him.” The ghost indicates the boy around your age, fiddling with his keys in front of a shabby apartment. His dark bangs are covering his forehead, a scowl on his face that ruins the softer features. He’s pale but not in a sickly way, moreso like he hasn’t been able to sleep, like insomnia runs the course of his life. The darkened bags beneath his hollow eyes proves it so.
“He’s my brother.”
You walk up to the unsuspecting man whose pupils immediately narrow in at you.
“What’s the plan?” Namjoon, behind you, scoffs at the girl. “Confront your brother and then what?”
“He has to know something…” She sighs out, tapping her foot in impatience.
Hoseok remains quiet. He stands beside you. “What do you want from me?” The boy turns and speaks in a chilling voice, “Is there something you need? I’m sorry but I’m not interested.”
When you don’t shy away, he looks at you again. “If there isn’t anything important, leave. You’re standing on my property.” He turns away, eventually shoving the right key through the hole. The knob turns and you’re at a complete loss of words. Hoseok is relieved, ready to pull you back. It’s not like you haven’t tried. Now you can go home, be safe and sound…
But you reach out your hand, grabbing his wrist before he can shut the door in your face.
“Min Yoongi.” You call his name in a commanding tone. The ghost of his sibling is singing curses of him in your ear. “I know your sister.”
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It’s easier than you predict to enter his abode. After responding to a few of his questions which his sister gives you the answers to, Yoongi even lets you enter her room and look through her belongings.
“She was suppose to give me something…” You fib without wasting a second, peeling open notebooks and shoving materials onto the floor in front of the ghost.
He studies you carefully with his eyes. “A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”
You’ve claimed that you were an old friend, someone who had moved away and recently came back. It’s an easy lie. One that explains why he doesn’t recognize you and why you don’t know the details of her life.
Namjoon is seated on the window sill, bored out of his mind as he stares out at the poorer area. He finds it amusing how some people live luxuriously while others meagerly manage to scrape by. Though no matter how much someone suffers or flaunts their wealth, everyone ends up in the identical way. Their bodies in the ground. Their soul brought to judgement.
Hoseok is again by your side, the two of you on the floor and flipping through the photo album together. Yoongi is tiredly leaning on the doorframe, watching you and unaware of the three others. His sister is scanning through her belongings, trying to get any clues she can or piece together what could’ve happened.
“I can’t find anything.” She slumps down. The woman had tried before, though with her inability to touch objects, it became difficult. With you here, it’s of no help either. “Ask him what he might know.”
“Your sister is beautiful.”
You mean it with all of your sincerity, running the tips of your fingers over a picture. In the photograph, the drained man in front of you is not exhausted at all. Rather, he’s smiling brightly with his gums. His sister’s head is tilted against his and she, herself, looks joyous with her eyes crinkled. Anyone could guess that they were close siblings.
“She is.”
Kyungi is slightly confused by your words. She can feel the genuinity and is thankful but becomes overwhelmed when her brother admits it. The same younger brother who would playfully insult her as ‘unattractive’ and ‘ugly’ and never once paid her any compliments when she tried to fish for them.
“She was loud and messy.” He sadly smiles in reminiscence. “But she was always kind.”
To see her brother in such a way, in shambles and wholly broken - it hurts. It pains her more than the dull ache within her chest that reminds her of how she was brutally slaughtered.
“How?” You finally look up to meet Yoongi’s eyes. And you speak slowly not to reopen the wounds that have never really closed. “How did it happen?”
Yoongi doesn’t say a single word. The side of his lips drop into a straight line and his mouth twitches. His expression hardens. The walls that had faltered for a split second, build right back up again, not allowing you or anyone in.
You didn’t expect him to give an answer. If a stranger had asked you, you would’ve never said anything either. He turns around to leave and as you’re closing the album, a polaroid falls out and flutters to the floor. “Who is this?”
His eyes flicker solemnly to the snapshot of her sister and the man grinning together. “It was her boyfriend, Seungjae.” When you place it onto the empty desk, Kyungi is left staring at it. “Are you hungry?”
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“Did you eat my takeout?” She stamps her feet, throwing the fridge door closed.
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did! You brat.” Kyungi rips away his headphones, flinging it onto the couch.
“What the fuc-”
“How many times have I told you to not to?!”
Yoongi struggles against his sister’s strength, the two of them in a merciless brawl before breaking out into giggles. “I hate you!” He’s sure the landlady will come knocking on their door any second now for noise complaints.
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It’s quiet. Yoongi’s eyes trail over the couch and the fridge’s momentum causes it to shut.
“This is dangerous.” Hoseok grits his teeth. “If he’s going to be a murderer like you say he is, then why are you putting Y/N in danger? Are you even thinking about her? Or remotely considering her safety?”
She scoffs, “he isn’t a wild animal. My brother isn’t going to attack her without reason.” Kyungi snaps at him. “We just need to find out who killed me before he does.”
“Was there anything strange before she passed?” You inquire of Yoongi, pushing to find as much information and as quickly as possible. “Did she go anywhere?”
“Why?” Yoongi cocks up his eyebrow. “Is there a reason you need to know?”
He’s already avoided the subject once before. There really isn’t any reason for you to know.
“She’s my friend.” You keep pressing on, disregarding his emotions. “I want the truth.”
“I don’t know. I really wish I did.”
“Y/N.” Kyungi’s eyes light up, having not realized and she catches your attention. “His room.”
You excuse yourself to the bathroom, the bandwagon of three following you closely. Yoongi’s bedroom door is locked when you try to slip in and his sister thinks for a moment before directing you to a spare key in a separate drawer; there in case someone becomes locked in.
When the door cracks open, your breath is held within your throat.
“This is rather excessive.” Namjoon chuckles, taking in the surroundings.
The walls are covered in black and white, newspaper clippings wrapping the spaces until there isn’t an inch of plain wall paint in sight. You see red; threaded string pinned into places, connected with other documents tacked onto pin boards and red streaks of markers circling locations across the map. Calendars and documents that are a year old fill every crevice. The curtains are closed, the room casted in dark shadows. The bed is unmade, stacks of paper lining the floor, police reports to civilian witnesses. Every piece of evidence that could be gathered is within this very room, an artwork of obsession - a crime scene in itself.
“What has he done?” The ghost murmurs out in horror, appalled of how consumed Yoongi is about finding out the truth. The truth to her death. “He’s really going to kill whoever killed me...”
“Y/N. We need to leave.” Hoseok curls up his fist, frustrated that he can’t throw you over his shoulder and burst you out of this apartment. He feels nauseous at the image of you becoming harmed, of him being helpless to save you. “We should go. Y/N! Are you listening to me?!”
“What are you doing here?”
It’s a bone chilling voice that speaks. One that rivals the own Reaper’s.
Yoongi is standing at the doorway, looking straight at you. “Get out.” He grabs the collar of your shirt, throwing you out the room. You cry out as your back slams into the wall. “Get out!”
“Don’t touch her!” Hoseok screams at the top of his lungs, the glass of the window shaking. Yoongi doesn’t hear him. “Don’t touch her.” Your ghost says it again, tearfully and his voice choking. The human still cannot hear or see him. “Don’t touch her.”
Kyungi is weeping, a horrendous wail sounding from her lips. She reaches out her hand to grab her brother’s but her fingers pass through his. “You idiot. You stupid idiot.”
Namjoon is watching silently.
“Your sister-” You spit it out before it’s too late. “-her last wish is to make sure that you’re okay.”
“Tell him-” She hiccups and turns to you with tears dripping down her cheeks. “Tell him that he shouldn’t be li-living like...this. H-He’s a brat and he can’t take care of himself.”
“She told me that you’re a brat and you can’t take care of yourself.” The moment it falls from your lips, something in his eyes light and he looks at you in misery, eyes clouding up with water. “She wants the best for you.”
“And what do you want from me?” Yoongi whispers it out, the barriers still separating the two of you. He’s never stopped his suspicions but after going over the case multiple times and having no new leads, Yoongi has a feeling that you know something more.
“Let me stay.”
Yoongi shuts his door. He leaves you be, standing in the middle of the hallway, unaware of the three others.
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He never comes out of his room. Never faces you to apologize for his actions, lets you apologize for the intrusion.
You use the phone to call your grandmother, letting her know where you are and how you’ll be spending the night somewhere else. She questions your vague answers, but ultimately sighs and hangs up afterwards. Kyungi grants you allowance to use her bed to sleep in, stating that she has no concern since she’s dead after all.
“I’m going to sleep.” You knock on the surface of the wooden door. “If you need anything..”
Yoongi makes no sound but then-
Sobbing.
You lay your ear on the door, listening carefully to how he weeps. How he’s hyperventilating, whimpering into his covers, the muffled sound still travelling through the cracks of the wall and the spaces of the frames. It hurts to hear him on the other side, suffering by himself, alone.
It’s all too familiar.
“Yoongi?”
“I’m fine!” He shouts at you. “Go away!”
Kyungi nods at you in reassurance. She looks off at the door and walks through the walls.
You retreat back into the bedroom with Hoseok following you. He perches himself on top of the desk, swinging his legs back and forth. He makes an effort to comfort you. “Do you think I was murdered too? But I don’t really feel anything...and I don’t feel angry. So that can’t be it, right?”
“You’ll probably be able to figure more out with time.”
“Hopefully.” He tilts his head, smiling warmly of how you tuck the covers up to your chin. It must be a habit of yours. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“I’m not a reckless person. I don’t feel the dark aura I’ve seen in bad people in him. If I sensed danger, I would’ve fled a long time ago.”
“If something happens to you…” I can’t protect you.
“Nothing will happen to me.” Even if it did- “It’ll be okay.”
The Grim Reaper is becoming impatient.
Sure, he’s not really restricted by the concept of time. He’s neither dead nor alive. But his work involves those who are restricted by time. As he loiters around, investing himself in this drama that’s playing in front of his eyes, the death list is becoming longer and longer. He has souls to take. He has other ghosts to god forsakenly chase down. He can practically hear Jackson’s voice ring inside his head - “We have one job, Namjoon. We have one. job. We have to do it.”.
Namjoon wonders if his Reaper friend is actually speaking inside his head.
“I’m not going to rush you.” He says the moment Kyungi leaves her brother’s bedroom. The man is leaning against the wall, his black cloak draping on the floor. “We know what happened the last time I tried to…” He had to chase her down for a good day and a half. “But can you give me an approximation of when you’ll be done?”
“Pft.” She reaches over with a grin, flicking the Reaper on his forehead with the snap of her fingers.
Namjoon is stunned, hand slowly reaching up to the wound as she withdraws. No one’s ever done something like that before. “Why don’t you just take me now?”
“You know I can’t do that.” He rolls his eyes and then pushes himself off, cowering over her. Namjoon’s a lot taller than she is, the Min family never being gifted in height. If he really wanted to, he could probably prop his chin on top of her head.
His voice lowers an octave, “Are you not scared of me?”
“Why would I be scared of a brat, like you?” She smirks, stepping even closer to him until both their cold, lifeless bodies are pressed against each other. “If anything, you should be afraid of me.”
The Reaper laughs, genuinely tipping his head back to let a stream of bubbling chuckles leave his mouth. “One of these days, I’m going to put you where you belong.”
“Hopefully that day comes soon.” Kyungi smiles at him. “Put in a good word for me when I’m being judged and shit, will you?”
“I’m not one to make any promises.” He grabs his cloak and vanishes in a black cloud that immediately evaporates. Namjoon’s voice lingers in the air. A soft- “Maybe.”
“Always one for the dramatics...aren’t you?” She laughs to herself, walking through the walls to the tiny balcony. Dusk has fallen and the chaotic world has slipped into their slumber. Ghosts have always been more attracted to the night, the serenity that brings itself when the moon appears in the sky and those who are alive aren’t too busy to merely pass by them.
Hoseok appears a few minutes later. “Y/N’s asleep.” She hums in approval, soaking in the small neighborhood before her, the place where she used to live. “How does it feel to be back?”
“Good.” She replies with a nostalgic smile. “It’s home.”
All around the woman, flashbacks are being played. She can see her form and her brother’s moving around her, a mosaic of motions and colours, the different memories being repeated. Her mind plays it back like a video camera tape, the time they moved into this place together, bickering on who will get the bigger bedroom.
“Why do you get it?” Yoongi whines in exasperation. His friends have always called him aloof and ‘hardcore’ but those words never fail to make her laugh. He’s the opposite of those things.
“Because I’m older than you!”
“That means nothing!”
“It means I’ve eaten more bowls of rice, I’ve lived more years, I have more knowledge.”
“Should I buy you a cane?!” He shouts in irritation. “Actually, it’s no wonder! You have so many wrinkles so that explains it. Have you looked at a mirror recently?!”
“We’re cut from the same cloth if you didn’t realize!”
Kyungi can envision the time he’s brought food home for her, how they watched their favourite television show late at night in the dark, how she burnt breakfast one morning but still made his ungrateful ass eat it. She can visualize how the pair of them split chores on a Sunday afternoon, how they both blasted different music in their rooms to try to piss the other one off, how the landlady came to berate them and they complained about her behind her back when she left.
It’s all the mundane yet simple things that she misses the most.
“It’s good to be back.” Kyungi whispers it into the air. “I’m home.”
“What kind of person was my sister?”
Yoongi asks you this question the next morning, the two of you across from each other at the table. There was nothing in his cupboards but cereal and nothing in his fridge but some milk. Hence, now your cornflakes were drowning in some half-spoiled and lumpy substance.
He’s calmer today, appearing like he was able to have some better rest last night. His left cheek is full of food, eyes rounded as they innocently stare up at you. You think he looks better like this, not filled with melancholy or animosity.
“Easy to anger.” You answered so quickly without thought but all of them are of the sincerest form. Yoongi laughs. “She won’t rest until she completes what she wants. Tenacious.”
“You must know her well.”
“Hey.” Kyungi stamps her feet and crosses her arm with a huff. “Are you two having fun insulting me?”
“Compassionate. Hard on the surface but vulnerable underneath.” You meet Yoongi’s dark brown eyes and he stares back at you. “The two of you are a lot alike.”
“You barely know me.” His irises slowly skims upwards. “But you think so?” The boy across from you smiles to himself, sealing it away as a compliment. “It would be nice to be a fraction of what she was.”
His sister’s smile falls and she comes closer to her brother. A gentle murmur streams from her parted lips, “idiot.”
“She loves her brother the most.” You tell him and he doesn’t say any more, finishing his breakfast quickly. He takes your bowl and does the dishes. In the mundane action, with soap studs all over his hands, Yoongi turns around and sees you lingering in the living room, looking at all the knickknacks. An inch of him becomes thankful that he isn’t so alone anymore.
“There’s nothing in the fridge…” Yoongi clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m going to go grocery shopping for a bit.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“No, it’s fine.” He waves his hand and shoves them in his pockets, slipping on his shoes. “I won’t take long...so...wait for me.”
When Yoongi leaves, Hoseok and Kyungi walk through the walls. You immediately dig for the key, now relocated and hidden beneath the couch. The bedroom door opens and you delve in.
“The murder happened at night.” Hoseok reads off the pin board. “The estimated time of death is around 10 pm. At the corner street, a block away from here.”
“No one found the body until two hours later. A mother was throwing away her garbage when she discovered the body. In her reports, she didn’t hear any screaming, nothing.” You’re scouring through the tens of stacks of paper, trying to piece together what could’ve happened before Yoongi returns.
“A kitchen knife…” Kyungi runs her fingers over the photograph of the bloody weapon. The next photo is a snapshot of her body lying on the concrete, a pool of crimson blood surrounding her and soaking into her clothing. Her chest is slashed, a disgusting wound leaving its mark and her eyes are still open lifelessly. It’s appalling to see her own self in such a way. Nauseating.
“Death from ten stab wounds in the abdomen.”
“The police closed my case as an accident.” A deep frowns mars her face and she reaches down to hold the paper, only for the item to pass through her skin. “H...how?”
“Try to remember what happened to you.”
The girl shuts her eyes tight, attempting to solve the puzzle before her. It’s an illusion, one that seems distant. Someone is following her…..their face hidden by their hood in the darkness of the night. “I told you it’s-” She shouts something at the figure, the yellow lamp post casting a glow on her form. Then in the next moment, she’s laying on the ground….the pain dulling her senses….the shadow looming over top of her. It’s-
“I can’t remember.” The wailing ghost grabs fistfuls of her hair, collapsing in screeches. “WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER?!” She pounds her own head with her fist, inflicting wounds that she cannot feel. “WHY?!”
The anger of the spirit ripples through the air, the knee-high piles of documents scatter around in a typhoon. The glass of the window trembles, the light hanging from the ceiling twirls like a merry-go-round. You grunt, feeling the strain of her emotions plunge you into your own despair.
“Stop it.” Hoseok grabs her wrist, blocking her from causing more destruction. Yet, he understands this pain all too well. Almost like he’s staring into a mirror. “Stop it! This won’t help your brother at all. Your brother, Yoongi.”
Upon hearing his name, it dies down. The papers fall, the glass stops shaking from its window pane. She hyperventilates to compose herself, shattering into another cry. You’re in your own turmoil, repressing the tears that threaten to mark down your cheeks. Hoseok swallows hard, gaze pinned on you. As you regain your own composure, your eyes land on a page at your feet.
And the page has a hundred other copies, all in different ink and sizes, written at different times, words filling from corner to corner. It’s scribbled on roughly, with the rage and fury possible from the tip of a pen to ripped paper. They all read: ‘WHO IS THE MURDERER?’
One sheet is filled with red ‘WHO?’’s and another is with ‘MURDERER’ filling every space, the ink bleeding to the sides. You reach down to the paper, Hoseok following you with his orbs and Kyungi as distraught as you are.
You curse yourself for what you’ve gotten yourself into. Your eyes have been the bane of your existence.
“Didn’t I tell you not to go into my room?” Yoongi is leaning against the doorway, plastic bag in his hand. He sighs as you crane your neck to look at him, the page of erratic writing still within your hands. He smiles at the mess in his room. “You really don’t listen, do you?”
“Don’t.”
“What?” The bag slips through his hand.
“Don’t kill whoever might’ve hurt your sister.” You stand up, facing the man. “Don’t become a murderer.”
He grits his teeth and then laughs in your face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” His voice is of ice, merciless and defensive. He has succumbed to his wrath, consumed with vengeance. The obsession of seeking the truth has gone too far. “You can’t just show up out of the blue and tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“This is not who. you. are.”
“You don’t know who I am! And you don’t know what my sister would’ve wanted!” His curled fist smashed against the wall, pummeling his fingers black and blue. The movement startles you but you don’t budge. “Stop trying to act like you understand, like you know an ounce of what’s going on.”
“You’re wrong! I don’t want this!” Kyungi screams back at her younger brother-
“I don’t want to make you into a murderer!”
Hoseok is at a loss, unable to make an escape for you. “Y/N.” He’s unable to solve the confrontation. “Y/N. Let’s go home. Y/N?” He is helpless.
“If you get blood on your hands and you spend the rest of your life locked up in a cell, how will your sister be able to rest then? Yoongi. This isn’t what she wants. She doesn’t want any of this. She wants you to live.”
“Leave.” Yoongi hauls you up, gently pushing you out of his bedroom with enough force to make you move but not enough for it to hurt. “You should go.”
He places your shoes outside and secures his hands on your shoulders. “You shouldn’t come back here.” Then, he forces you outside and slams the door closed.
For the first few minutes, you stay outside his door, ignoring the neighbors that send odd looks and speculating if it’s some sort of lover’s quarrel. It’s Kyungi’s willpower that seeps into your own blood, her strong emotions igniting yours and creating a determination that’s not your own.
“I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I should’ve realized how stubborn he is. I should’ve known. I dragged you into this. I’m sorry.”
You tried. It was an attempt to save a soul that was still alive, to keep it from dying, from being stained with hatred. But it’s not your responsibility. You don’t know these people.
Kyungi is left in front of the house as you walk away.
“Do you think you could’ve done something?” Hoseok is mindlessly asking you, the two of you walking back as the evening begins to set in.
“I don’t know.” You shrug, focusing onwards. “He didn’t want my help. There was no way to convince him. He would’ve done it no matter what I would’ve said. You can change someone’s will when they’ve already made a resolute decision.”
The ghost wonders what will happen between the siblings, if Yoongi will really commit the greatest sin and be taken away, if Kyungi will be able to rest peacefully. Then his mind wanders to you. “Why did you agree to help me?”
“Should I not have?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” He inhales a sharp breath. “It’s just...you’ve agreed to help me but what about them?”
“He doesn’t want my help.” You emphasize your point, repeating it again in a little bit of irritation. You’re not angry at Hoseok. It’s perhaps your own guilt. The damned moral obligation you feel.
The curse.
“But Kyungi does.”
You stop walking, your heel digging into the concrete. He turns around to stare at you. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be safe.” He responds without hesitation. “And I want you to do what you want to do. Not what you think you need to.”
“And what if I don’t know what I want?”
Hoseok smiles, his lips splitting to beam at you. You ponder how he can manage to remain so carefree at the same time as being distraught and lost. “I’ll still be here with you.”
This time, Hoseok isn't running by himself. You’re with him.
You race back with him, printing your footsteps back into the ground where you’ve left them before. The area returns, falling into place. Nighttime finally arrives and Hoseok laughs in glee, watching the stars wash over the sky, like a child spreading their blanket in a single throw. You don’t know what you’re doing, why you’re being so irresponsible, plunging back into the ocean of despair and problems that aren’t even yours. All you do know is that it feels right.
The side of your lip discreetly tugs upwards.
The happiness, however, is short lived. Like all beautiful things, it is fleeting. It slips from your fingertips before you can linger, before you can appreciate it for all its worth. Only later will you come to realize how you’ve taken the moment for granted. For now, your intuition sings once more. It causes goosebumps to raise all over your arms and across your skin. Your brain cries out to you and when you turn your head slightly….a shadow is trailing behind you.
It isn’t a spirit. And it carries the dark aura of bloodied hands….
“What’s wrong?” Hoseok immediately picks up on the shift and change of mood. You’ve stopped running a long time ago, catching your breath and taking steady paces. “Y/N.”
You quicken your steps, panting as you decide to twist into the left alleyway. The dirt roads are void of people, the homes dark. There’s no one around, nothing but the yellow glow of the lamp posts. The bus stop is still ten minutes ahead and blocks away. You accept your instincts, allowing them to carry your legs elsewhere instead of straight ahead.
“There’s someone.” You gasp out as you start a jogging pace. Hoseok whips his head around and his jaw clenches.
The stranger with the hidden face is hot on your heels, no longer caring to be concealed. He approaches closer and closer, duplicating your running speed.
You recoil in fear, making several other turns. Images of the worst cases begin to play in your head. As your bottom lip trembles and your knees weaken, Hoseok’s had enough.
The steel utility post curves with his temper. Hoseok is helpless. The shadow breathes down your neck. The ghost spins around with a shout. At the exact time, you collide into a body. A scream unleashes from the depths of your throat. “It’s me. It’s just me.”
“Y/N.” He latches onto you, holding you securely and you peel back your lids, searching the face that belongs to the familiar voice. “I was looking for you. W-What’s wrong?”
The man’s eyes sweep behind you, darting onto the dark figure. His lips twitch and he lets you go. The stranger begins to run away and Yoongi chases him. “Yoongi!”
He doesn’t listen and he pursues the unknown person, hunting them down. He tears through the roads and streets, twisting through alleyways. The other person is hyperventilating, ready to give out and as Yoongi’s hands lurch out to grab them by their collar, they turn again. When Yoongi follows, the road is void. No one’s there. They’ve vanished.
A single red glove is on the ground, dropped from their pocket.  
“Yoongi.” You meet him halfway, the point of where you’re going after him and where he begins walking back. The man’s dark locks are sticking to his forehead, his expression impassive and skin glowing with the yellow light cascading down. He’s in nothing but a hoodie and sweatpants, sandals on his feet.
“I’m sorry.” He downcasts his head. “I-......I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.” You mean it to both men - him and the ghost who’s behind you. Hoseok is condemning himself of his uselessness, a reminder that he doesn’t belong in your world, the universe of the living. At such a time where you needed him most, he was powerless.
Yoongi takes you back to his place, the pair of you deciding that venturing out again would be reckless. He’s in the kitchen fixing up some dinner, Hoseok is out on the balcony to have some time by himself, brooding about whatever it is. He simply gave you a strained smile.
“Don’t apologize.” You say to Kyungi right as she opens her mouth. The both of you are in her bedroom, sitting together. You hate hearing things that won’t change what’s happened.
“Thank you for coming back.”
“You should thank Hoseok.” Your hands are folded in your lap, the shaking that’s eased away. “He’s the one who changed my mind.”
“I will then.” She hesitates before asking you the next question. “Namjoon. Is he back yet?”
“No. Are you worried that he’ll take you?”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” The side of her lips tug. “There’s still things I need to do here. He can’t take me away against my will. My regrets anchor me down…...do you know what they are, Y/N?”
“It’s a regret that has yet to be done.” Kyungi smiles to herself, one that’s sorrowful and not of mirth. “I’m going to turn my brother into a murderer. I’m going to ruin his life after my own is gone.”
“You don’t understand.” Yoongi tells you in anger. He’s across from you at the table, his brows furrowed deeply. The man takes a deep breath, anguish taking control of his trembling hands that he attempts to hide. “Do you really think…” Yoongi whispers to you quietly, “do you really think I want to kill?”
“I have no other choice. This is the only way my sister can rest in peace.”
“It isn’t.” The person in front of you is consumed by his own ire, not stopping until vengeance has been sought out. “Your sister doesn’t want this.”
“I have to.” He clenches his jaw, echoing it once more. “I have to.”
“I’m leaving. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” His older sister is standing by the door, securing her coat buttons and slipping on her shoes. When she hears no response, she whips her head back around to her brother’s backside. He’s crouched over, eyes focused on the screen of his laptop and concentrating on his work.
“Are you not even going to look at me one last time, Yoongi?”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He ignores her.
“Psh.” She opens the door, stopping halfway. “You never look at me when I’m leaving.”
Yoongi makes no movement. He grabs his headphones, putting them on his head and blocking out the noise. He doesn’t spare a single glance.
Kyungi scoffs and smiles to herself. She walks away without waiting. The door shuts moments later. The sound echoing through the empty home.
Then, Yoongi turns around and takes off his headphones. His eyes linger at the doorway and he wonders if he should go after her. If he should say goodbye properly.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop her from leaving. The Grim Reaper is watching. Another regret is born into the world.
It’s been three days and two nights. Yoongi is far from changing his mind but you’ve managed to break down the barriers he was using to defend himself.
“I’m going out for a bit.” Yoongi smiles at you kindly as he slips on his shoes. It’s a scene that morbidly mirrors his memories. “Don’t wait for me. It might take awhile until I come back.”
Kyungi is leaning against the wall in her bedroom. Her eyes are trained on the polaroid on her desk, the snapshot of her boyfriend and her gleefully smiling together. She’s seen him once or twice, followed him to find clues but he was living as unwell as Yoongi was. Her intuition tells her she doesn’t really love him and she wonders why it’s the case. Kyungi simply doesn’t find it in herself to yearn for the man within the picture. And there’s something more about it that she can’t quite decipher...
The ghost trails over to her belongings, searching with her pupils but still nothing comes when she racks her brain and pulls apart the memories. With a heaving sigh, the woman pulls herself up and walks out to where you are. She immediately frowns, “Where’s Yoongi?”
“He left.” You move to prepare dinner in advance. Yoongi didn’t buy many groceries but it’s a step up from those empty cupboards and desolate fridge shelves. Kyungi makes no remark and there’s a long silence. You shift around, following her line of sight, landing on the glove that’s on the table. She’s quiet, mind working a mile.
She stares at the glove. Her frown deepening. It’s the glove that fell from the stranger’s pocket.
The very same glove that she has in her room.
“Follow him, Y/N!” Her sudden shout startles Hoseok and he’s about to call to you. But then he sees the flash of expressions wash across your features, dread and horror. The emotion of the spirit seeps into you. The curse of empathy. Without needing more to be said, you understand.
Her atrocious wail provokes your wobbling knees to move.
“He’s going to kill him!”
She remembers. The illusion that was distant comes barrelling towards her, slapping her across the face. From the morning that she left - “Are you not even going to look at me one last time, Yoongi?” - until the very end. She remembers it all.
“Left!” The ghost chases after you, screaming out the directions. You’re back in the alleyways, the dirt roads and coiling streets, the sidewalks that are empty of people. “To the right!” And you’re sprinting with Hoseok beside you, no words being spoken from his quivering lips.
Don’t do this. He knows he was the one to persuade you to return but- I don’t want you to get hurt. Hoseok condemns himself. Please. If only he wasn’t dead. Y/N. The best he can do is join your side, pray to the merciful Heavens that nothing will happen, denounce himself of his own uselessness. Y/N!
Kyungi recalls the night like the back of her hand. The face that was hidden beneath the hood. The darkness of the night. “I told you it’s over!” Her shout and the blade that was uncovered by the angered man, the tears of the desperate man, the person whom she used to love.
You slam your body against the wooden door, the surface flying off the hinges immediately with the poverty-stricken home. Your legs stumble but you catch yourself, hyperventilating your breaths. “Yoongi.”
The ghost can feel the knife cutting into her skin, the emotion of betrayal and agony bleeding across her flesh, seeping into her clothes. It’s the dulling pain that sends her senses to sleep, a stifling shout stuck at the back of her throat as she gasps. The man is horrified himself, letting go of the weapon. She falls backwards onto the ground, her vision blurring as her head smashes into the dirt. The shadow looms over top of her. It’s...
Seungjae. Her ex-boyfriend.
And now the same man is battered blue, his nose broken and flowing out crimson, cowering in the corner in fetal position, bringing up his shaking arms to defend his head. Yoongi’s own lip is split, the boy smirking and letting a broken chuckle leave his mouth. A knife is grasped within his bleeding fists.
“Yoongi.” His own shadow is looming over top of the other, eyes clouded and consumed with wrath, ready to stab the man’s abdomen in a million different angles, the same way his sister was slaughtered.
“I-I didn’t do it!” Seungjae trembles profusively, crying out loud. “I didn’t kill her! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I didn’t! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” He’s shaking his head, repeating it over and over again, more to himself than to the younger brother. “That wasn’t me!”
“Yoongi.” Kyungi forward, the calmest you’ve ever seen her. “Stop this.”
“Yoongi. Stop this.” You duplicate her words, a messenger for the dead. A vessel to be used, a bridge that fills the gaps of both worlds. It’s all you’ll ever be.
The boy doesn’t listen to you.
“Mom and dad didn’t die for you to become a murderer. You promised me. You promised that things would work out, that it would be okay, that you would be okay. Did you forget? Min Yoongi, did you forget already?!”
When it recites back from your own mouth, his neck slowly cranes to you and his orbs flicker. “How did you know about that?” A muscle in his cheek twitches. His grip on the knife tightens.
“Five years ago, they passed away in an accident. When you went to cry alone at the hospital stairwell, I found you and we cried together. You told me that it was only us two left, that we only had each other. And you told me that you loved me. That I was the best sister you could ever wish for.” You whisper it out, speaking what’s being screamed by the dead woman beside you. “Do you remember? Do you remember how I told you that I wanted to hear you say it again? You never said it though. Yoongi...”
“H-how do you know that?”
His arm drops. A droplet trickles from his eye to mark down his cheek, dripping off his chin. “How?”
“Your sister is standing with me. She’s right here.”
Yoongi doesn’t know if he can believe you. It’s ridiculous. But everything you’ve said - there’s no way someone other than his sister could know…..
You whip your head over to the man in the corner and he weeps harder when you point your finger at him. “How dare you? Do you know what you’ve done to me? You’re a pathetic liar.” The man with the broken nose and his left eye swollen to the point where he can’t open it, breaks down. His saliva from his mouth mixes with the dripping blood and he shifts his heavy body to kneel. “And I feel even more pathetic that I ever loved you.”
“I-I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His forehead meets the floorboards and he opens up his palms as if to repent for his sins. “I-I kille...d…. you. I killed you. Kyungi, I’m sorry.”
“Live.” Your voice booms, carrying the weight of Heaven itself. This time it’s on your own accord. “Live and suffer from the consequences. Dying is too easy.”
You gaze back into Yoongi’s eyes, “don’t stain your hands with blood. Kyungi doesn’t want that for you.”
The handle of the knife slips through his fingers. Seungjae continues to profess his sins, tumbling over his own tongue, crying out for mercy. There are sirens in the distance.
The dawn offers a new beginning. It’s a new start. You’ve always felt this way when you watched the sky reconstruct into shades of blue to tangerine, watch the beams pierce through the clouds. “What are you going to do now?”
The police had taken Seungjae away in handcuffs. The man never stopped professing his sins, wailing out what he’s done, perhaps in fear of the ghost or because he sincerely feels guilt.
They filled reports, asking you and Yoongi questions until the pair of you were let go several hours later. But the questions never stopped, at least not from the boy whom you’ve gotten to know for the past few days. He’s learnt of your abilities, the spiritual connections you’ve had since birth and how your eyes are able to perceive those alive and dead.
“You should come back when things get better.” Determination is set within his expression. “I’m going to make things better. A job, a better place. I’m going to live. I’m going to make her proud.”
“I’ve always been proud.”
You repeat her and a genuine smile forms on his lips, one that’s not held back nor full of melancholy. The two siblings truly look at peace.
“Really now?” He tips his head to one side. “So she doesn’t mind if I stay unemployed?”
“I never said that!”
His grin widens and he presses his lips together, downcasting his head. “Ask her what death is like. Is it painful? Was she scared?”
“It’s nothing you have to worry about any time soon.” Your eyes travel to the space next to him and he follows, looking at the empty air. “Focus on your work first, idiot.”
Yoongi laughs and then grows solemn again. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing you have to apologize for.”
“I love you.” He holds back his tears. “My stupid older sister….I love you.”
“I love you too, brat.” She scoffs and she blinks hard. “Don’t turn so sappy on me. I didn’t ask for any of these emotions.”
“Do you regret it?” He wonders why she’s been held back, why she couldn’t go to where she needed to go. “Kyungi...is there something that you regret?”
As she gazes upon her best friend and sibling, she smiles softly. “Not anymore.”
Yoongi crumbles to his knees and begins to mourn the death of his sister. Rightfully and for the last time. He allows the salt tears to flow down his face, grieving for his best friend and childhood companion, the person who has never failed him. His voice threatens to give out as he wails and shakes. His sister looks at him with a smile, whispering underneath her breath, “crybaby.” And you lower yourself, wrapping your arms around his shoulder.
Hoseok is watching and he can feel it too. He can recognize the feeling of this pain, the overwhelming sensation of grief and anguish. He isn’t sure where it’s from. His memories are empty. His dead heart simply lurches out at you.
The Grim Reaper taps his foot at the scene. “Are you done?” He’s impatient, restless.
Kyungi rolls her eyes and grins at his abrupt appearance. “Can you be a little more sympathetic?”
“I’m not human. I don’t feel.” He says and fiddles with his black cape. “I’m neither dead nor alive.”
The ghost has no response for him. She merely gazes out at the horizon and taps her chin. “There’s something not right.” When she looks at Namjoon again, her smile is dazzling. “And this time I know what it is.”
It’s one last thing.
“This is what I needed to do.” The polaroid on the desk had reminded Kyungi of the reason why she left that day. “It wasn’t to find the murderer. I needed to give him this.”
Yoongi receives a picture frame. When he turns it over, he finds a photograph of their family. A silly snapshot with wide smiles, something the two kids had managed to convince their parents to take rather than the serious photo. Now, it’s a captured picture where the deceased can be remembered, where they can continue to live on in.
Yoongi cries again and when his older sister lifts out her hands to embrace her brother, her skin passes through his flesh. “I’ll miss you.” She withdraws her arm, looping it through Namjoon’s.
“Thank you for all you’ve done. There are no words I can use to express how grateful I am. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
You bid her farewell. “Take care of yourself.”
Her eyes are still pinned on Yoongi’s as she walks to the other side. Namjoon takes her and two voices bantering back and forth soon fade away. You comfort Yoongi, running a hand over his back and telling him that his sister has finally reached her peace.
Hoseok wonders if he will ever one day have the strength to leave you too.
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ewalsh-at-k · 6 years
Text
Preschool Promises
An Emily AU where she not only lives, but gets to go home with Scully because they deserve to be a family. Just a fluffy, yet somewhat angsty fic inspired by Halloween and featuring Mulder’s relationship with Emily.
[I am not a writer, and I used no Beta for this, so all mistakes or weird grammar choices are my own fault. I use a lot of run-on sentences and commas (I am way more comfortable writing in German weirdly enough) and a lot of adjectives. This is my first fic and I’m still a Baby Phile, so I apologize if anything is glaringly out of character.]
Thank you to @frangipanidownunder for not only filling my Anon prompt with the cutest and fluffiest Halloween story about Emily picking out a Halloween costume with Mulder, but for also encouraging me to fill my own prompt as well. (I didn’t actually make it to the Halloween store in my fic, but it felt right where it ended.)
Happy Halloween :) 
Emily Scully was wearing pink and blue sneakers with velcro on the front. Now, pink wasn’t a color she usually chose, but these sneakers lit up when she jumped up and down, and Matilda had purple ones with sparkles, but Mommy couldn't find purple ones with sparkles, in fact, she couldn't find purple ones that lit up anywhere, so Emily had to choose from the pink ones, or the boy ones with cars instead of butterflies [butterflies, in Emily's opinion, are much cooler].
[It should be known that Scully did, in fact, find the purple ones with sparkles, but not only did she find them to be completely hideous, she also wanted to encourage Emily to be independent in her choices, and not choose something purely because someone else had it.]
Emily particularly loved the butterflies on her shoes because when you turned off all of the lights and made the shoes light up, she could make the butterflies fly around in the dark. [Truth be told this was wayyy more fun to do at night after Mommy tucked her in and read her 3 whole stories.]
Unfortunately, Mommy was very smart (she's a medical doctor), and she somehow figured out Emily wasn't actually sleeping. How, Emily did not know. She had all the lights off and she only giggled a little bit, but Mommy found out, and therefore the butterflies had to go sleep in their own bed on the mat by the door. Emily said they could move the mat into her room so they could have sleepovers, and although Mommy had that twinkling look in her eye (that made her look extra pretty in Emily's expert opinion), she said "Not on a school night little Lady".
So instead, Emily gets to wear her butterfly-encrusted sneakers to preschool and make them light up as much as she wants by stomping her little feet on the ground (during recess and playtime of course) or while sitting on this plastic chair in the hallway after school has ended. While the chair underneath her is an okay blue color, it wasn’t the most comfortable seating to Emily. She would rather be curled up on the couch at Mommy’s apartment watching cartoons or even on the floor behind the coffee table while working on a puzzle, but Mrs. Quinn said she had to sit in “this very chair here” while she went to “call Dr. Scully” and “remind her preschool ended at 3:00pm sharp.”
Mommy was late. Emily didn't know how late, but the only other kid still at preschool was Jacob Fuller, and his mommy taught in one of the big-kid classrooms, so he got to stay later and sit at one of the tables and color pictures and eat snacks. Emily wished she had a snack, but Mommy didn't pack her one because Mommy wasn't supposed to be late today. No, Mommy was supposed to pick Emily up at 3:00pm sharp and take her shopping. And not just any shopping, no, very special important shopping. Today Mommy is taking Emily to the very special important store to pick out a costume for Halloween! Except not right now, cause right now Emily is sitting on this very stupid ugly blue chair in the hallway waiting for Mommy to show up, and she doesn't even have a snack. Jacob has apple slices with peanut butter and an animal coloring book and he doesn’t even have to sit in a stupid blue chair!
Stomp. Stomp! Go Emily's feet. And blinkety blink go the butterflies on her shoes. Entranced by the tiny lights in her footwear (how they get lights so little inside shoes Emily does not know), Emily raises one leg higher than the other, then drops it back down just as fast. Kick, kick, swing, swing. Emily pumps her legs as fast as she can and watches the miniature winged creatures move through the air. If she squints her eyes enough, she can almost see their glittery wings beat in time with her movements as they fly--no dance, through the air.
Flap flap. Flutter, flutter, flutter. Around and around, up and down the butterflies glide, hovering just above the ground before zipping back up in the air. As if a single touch, even the briefest brush with the scuffed tile would break the spell currently captivating the young child. Kick, kick go the legs. Whoosh, whoosh go the shoes on a seemingly endless cycle…
Mulder walks into the brick building with more than a hint of trepidation. Following a rather frantic phone call from Scully in which she managed to detail the no less than 24 things that had gone wrong since they parted ways at approximately 9:36 in the morning, in under 3 minutes, she finally got around to explaining her reasoning for this call: namely to ask Mulder a favor in regards to a certain strawberry-blonde four year old. Now, after driving at a legally ambiguous speed limit to pick up a car seat from Scully's vehicle (as there was no way in hell she was about to let him go without, even as the clock's minute hand ticked further and further away from the 12), and being caught up in standstill traffic due to an accident, Mulder has finally reached his destination; a mere 43 minutes late.  
To be perfectly honest, Mulder doesn't consider this to be such a horrible faux-pas; other parents (well, adults or stand-in chauffeurs in his case) must hit traffic jams and have work conflicts too, but to hear Scully's rants about the straight-laced ruler of Emily's preschool world (Mrs. Quill? Mrs. Quick?), as he so often does these days (not that he minds really; Scully could talk about her mother's latest knitting pattern for hours on end and he would be just as content to listen to the sound of her lilting voice, but he digresses), it seems as though this tyrannical leader views tardiness as one of the cardinal sins. Mulder had often questioned why Scully chose to continue sending Emily to such an institution if she, his rule-following, report-writing, authority-pleasing, ever-punctual partner had so many issues with a teacher there, but of course she had an excellent reason.
[Apparently this particular school and its educators were well-versed in some new-age teaching philosophy that stressed social interaction and community-building on top of its normal arts and academics. The program was predominantly aimed at families with only-children or children who showed some difficulty at adapting to the social life of a new school and environment.]
Emily's unexpected orphaned state and subsequent adoption, followed by a rather swift cross-country move, during which she somehow seemed to be miraculously cured of all illness (something to delve into another time) left the young girl with nightmares and a penchant for appearing almost mute at times. Scully was understandably worried, and after a rather extensive interview process and two well-deserved letters of recommendation (she's not the spooky one, is she?), Emily Scully became one of the 14 new pupils to grace Mrs. Quinn's (that's her name!) classroom.
Currently, Mulder is walking down a well-light, brightly decorated, primary-colored hallway in search of Emily's classroom. The very nice woman in the front office spent a little more time than he expected checking his I.D. against the list of approved adults who may pick up Emily Scully; of which there are only four: Scully, Mulder, Mrs. Scully, and a trustworthy babysitter (vetted by the Lone Gunmen, of course). While Mulder would normally appreciate the level of care given towards ensuring the young students' safety, he is also very aware of each minute passing, and with it, the level of patience seeping out of Mrs. Quinn's countenance (or so he assumes).
Mulder's stride becomes a little quicker every step he takes. He credits it partially to his current tardiness, and partially towards his own uncomfortable memories of his youth. Thankfully he was already out of elementary school when Samantha disappeared, but a vivid memory of visiting the open house for her 2nd grade classroom comes rushing to the forefront of his mind, and the ensuing constricting pain in his chest makes him stop and rest for a moment against one of the bulletin boards that line the hallway. Pushing away from the construction paper laden surface after a far too brief moment, and only barely tearing one of the toothy, orange jack-o'-lanterns smiling, or perhaps sneering up at him from the wall below, Mulder progresses on shaky legs towards a drinking fountain that, in his opinion, must have been created with ants in mind, not 6 foot tall FBI agents. Twenty seconds of surprisingly cold water later, Mulder is once more making the trek towards the preschool and kindergarten classrooms. This time he keeps his eyes trained on the floor in front of him, counting out the repetitive pattern in the blue and cream tiles underneath his feet instead of focusing on his surroundings. As a result, it is not Mulder who first realizes he has finally reached the correct wing.
Fox. Mommy's friend Fox who works in the downstairs with her is here. Fox, who makes funny faces and pretends to be sleeping standing up when Mommy isn't looking. Not Mr. Fox, just Fox. Emily thinks Fox is a funny name because it's also an animal. It's like if her name was Bunny or Kitty. Also, Emily has seen foxes in books before, and foxes have red hair, but Fox, Mommy's friend Fox, has brown hair, not red hair like Mommy, not even almost red hair like Emily has according to her Nana, no, Fox just has boring brown hair. So Emily is still not entirely convinced his name is really Fox, but he always makes a face when she calls him by that name, and his silly faces always make her giggle, so she says his name a lot sometimes. Mommy calls him "Muller" (but with a 'd' in the middle), but Nana says that's just Mommy's special name for Fox, like how he calls Mommy "Scully" and not Mommy or Dana or Doctor.
Fox is here, and for a moment, all Emily wants to do is show him how fast she can move her feet, and see if he can see the butterflies' flapping wings. [Emily overheard Mommy say once that Fox was really good at seeing things that weren't there.] But then Emily realizes that Fox is here all by himself, and not with Mommy. Mommy is not behind Fox and Emily leans as far out of her chair as she dares to look around the corner, but she can't see Mommy anywhere, nor can she hear the sound of Mommy's shoes as they click-clack, click-clack, click-clack down the hallway. It is with this realization that a tiny amount of despair slowly begins to creep into the young child's expression.
Abruptly, Emily's thoughts are torn away from after-school snacks, butterflies, and foxes, and in their place is the recognition that Mommy is not picking her up today. But Mommy has to pick her up to take her to the very special important Halloween store today. She promised Emily just that this morning as she helped her put on her very favorite new shoes for school.
"Mommy promised. Mommy promised and she's not here" is all that Emily is capable of thinking at this very moment.
It doesn't take long for the tears to set in.
Mulder looks up just in time to see the progression from well-behaved preschooler to rapidly-escalating-temper-tantrum-waiting-to-happen. The current onslaught of emotion in this normally docile little girl is not only surprising, but also rather alarming to Mulder.
[Mulder would like it known that he likes children as a whole. He likes their uninhibited imagination and ability to believe with their whole being. He likes their lack of filter and their delight when he treats them as equals, as tiny adults, and not as infantile creatures. He does not like to see them upset or crying, and he especially can't stand it when he has no idea as to the reasoning behind their unexpected change in behavior. As a psychologist, of course he finds it all a bit fascinating, but as an unofficial guardian of the child before him, he feels like an utter failure of a human being.]
In an effort to forestall what seems like the inevitable, Mulder drops to his haunches and pulls out the big guns: his "Mr. 'Tato Face". A mouthful of air, a raised set of eyebrows, and a slight crossing of his eyes accompanied with a tilting of the head never fail to bring about a look of at least faint amusement. Except today. Today, Mulder sees in her eyes, he could hold his breath until his face began to take on a purple hue, and Emily would still not be swayed.
Expelling the trapped air rather audibly, Mulder allows himself a moment to survey the situation. He's a trained profiler; a well-educated FBI agent with years of field experience under his belt. Surely identifying whatever Emily is currently finding so distressing should be a piece of cake, right? Apparently distraction is not going to work this time. Mulder settles into his perched position even more and tries a new tactic.
"Hey kiddo" he starts ever so gently, "Want to tell me what's going on?"
The hope that a direct approach might reduce the production of tears is immediately squashed. As if summoned by Poseidon himself, Mulder watches with a growing horror as the liquid in the child's eyes increases exponentially; threatening to demolish the delicate balance of surface tension, and unleash a tidal wave of judgement and failure down the child's already wobbling cheeks.
Mulder realizes in that instant that if there ever was a time for his "panic face" this very moment would, in fact, be it.
"Emily, Em, hey now, none of that." Mulder attempts to soothe the child, to no avail. He is about to either give up or give in when from around the corner strides none other than the formidable Mrs. Quinn.
"Oh! Mr. Mul-der is it?" Inquires the teacher with an odd emphasis on the first syllable of his preferred name. "How kind of you to show up. Of course it is no problem for another approved guardian to pick a student up from school, but it is always preferable when one is still punctual."
Wanting to avoid any more criticism and hoping to quell the mounting eruption of Mt. Saint Emily until they exit the school, if possible, Mulder scoops the preschooler up into his arms with a hurried litany of "Yes, thank you…wont' happen again…Sorry, kind of on a time crunch, gotta go. Great to see you again!"
With a backwards wave of his free arm and a quick turn to snatch up the backpack sitting next to the row of plastic chairs, Mulder uses every inch of his long, runner's legs to put as much distance between himself and the austere educator he has just stunned into silence.
Two turns down the hallway and one back-track when reaching a dead end leads Mulder and his precious cargo back into second grade territory. The surprise of sudden movement and change in altitude has passed, and with every step the small weight in Mulder's arms wiggles and squirms more and more. Resigning himself to the idea that they are not going to make it to the car in time, Mulder sets Emily back down on her feet and fixes a steady look of perfected seriousness onto her doleful gaze.
"OK Em, are you ready to tell me what's wrong? I can't fix it if you don't tell me what happened. Did you have a bad day at school?" Mulder can't possibly imagine what scenario might have led to this level of upset, but he has learned there is often more than meets the eye.
"Mah--" Emily's breathing is shaky at best. "Mom-my was 'spost--sposed to take me t-t-t-to, to the v-verry p-poh-por…"
One gasp of inhalation turns into two, into three and suddenly the hallway (this stupid hallway) is filled with a cacophony of wet stutters and hiccupy breaths.
"Shhh, shhh. Deep breaths Em. Emily! I need you to take a deep a breath for me. Good girl, another one. There you go, one more. Alright, now what was Mommy supposed to do?"
Emily inhales long and deeply, like a pitcher winding up in preparation for a fastball.
"Take me to the very 'portant special Hallo-weeen storrrre! But she's late and she's not coming and she promised and I didn’t get a snack and you don't even have red hair!" The last sentence all but runs together and ends on a rather high-pitched whine.
Choosing to leave the comment about his hair for another time, Mulder latches onto the more obvious issues: a hungry child and a broken promise. Emily is crying in earnest now, and the panicky inhalations have returned, so Mulder carefully guides her over to the ant-sized drinking fountain.
After a few slurps of the cold, crisp water and a firm, but light back-rub, Emily is rubbing her nose as those tortuous tears once more fill her eyes, but this time they stay there, right on the threshold of spilling over, like a dam at the top of a waterfall.
Using a voice that he hopes is construed as coaxing and comforting, Mulder murmurs "Hey Em" then a pause as he contemplates the best way to diffuse his ticking time bomb; "I know you were expecting Scul-Mommy to pick you up today, and she's very sad that she couldn't be here, but now you've got two options: I can take you home to make dinner and wait until Mommy gets home from work and you can pick out a Halloween costume tomorrow, or, I can take you to find a costume right now, any costume you want, and we can grab a snack on the way. What do you think? It's your choice."
Emily peers up at Mulder with those too-wide eyes for a moment longer, and Mulder identifies the moment when she comprehends what he has just proposed.
It would be comical if it were any other little girl. If it were any other child than this little Scully girl; Scully's own little girl, whose happiness and health he'll work to protect and ensure until the end of his days. Instead, it was times like these that Mulder was painfully aware that Emily was Dana Scully's daughter. It seemed like it must be a Scully trait to be on the verge of hysterics only to calm down in the blink of an eye and consider something rationally. Mulder watches still and silent as Emily takes a couple of deep, hitching breaths before glancing back up at him with those vast, watery, blue orbs (also inherited from her mother), and awaits her response.
After what feels like an eternity, Emily adds an expertly placed pout to her already devastating array of facial expressions, and asks in what must be the smallest voice possible: "Any costume I want? And a snack?"
As Mulder half-sits, half-crouches awkwardly on the cracked tiles of this elementary school's floor, he is extremely conscious of the fact that he would just about promise this child anything in order to make it out of the building without looking like the world's biggest asshole who made the four year old cry. His response, therefore, is a rather knee-jerking "Yes, anything you want" without even a thought towards the possible wishes of his partner. In all honesty, Mulder is unable to recall whether or not Scully ever actually gave him an opinion in regards to an appropriate costume for her child. (There's a good chance she did, or at least would have, had she not been under an inordinate amount of stress at work.) And now, with this new promise in place, there is a clear, physical difference in Emily's demeanor: gone are the crocodile tears threatening to overflow, and in their place is the possibility of a quickly blossoming smile.
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