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misterewrites · 3 years

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Intro Casey 101 (Mirror’s Edge)

Hello everyone, E hoping you are all doing good! Here it is! The next chapter of the side project that's now my second major one. Because I have a problem and cannot be stopped! Haha stay safe, wash your hands, wear your masks, keep yourself, your loved ones and each other safe, get the vaccine if you can and remember to take care of yourselves.

Feel free to share this with your friends, leave me comments, feedback, reblogs. every bit makes me happy and helps! Have a great week and stay safe! E is out!

If you want an easier time to read it or to read it from the beginning you can follow the link below. Tumblr hates links and will probably shadow block my tags but you know what? Tumblr hates me in general so oh well

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/78163523

Summary: Casey is the head of the local Neighborhood Watch (and by head, he means only employee) Whenever not helping his best friend take down corrupted, evil jerkbutts, he spends his time running, maintaining and helping the magical/supernatural residents of Willow's Brook. Life is never static but Casey sometimes wishes it was a little less hectic. Just because he can handle it doesn't mean he wants to.

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Willow Rook was a peaceful neighborhood suburb located on the outskirts of Newton Haven, just within the city’s boundaries. Rows of mismatched houses and apartments spread out across the maddening maze that was suburbia. Fernspeaker Drift park was nestled in the heart of the neighborhood, its magical and mundane flora bringing a peaceful harmonic nature to the urban sprawl of man. The towering skyscrapers of downtown could be seen far into the distance, a reminder to the residents the city was never too far away.

The sounds of children screaming and shouting is what awoke Casey. He let out an unhappy groan as he rose from the hard wooden desk he accidentally fell asleep on. He rubbed his aching jaw, trying to loosen it from the rough night he had.

“Fuck” He yawned groggily “I really need to have a pillow here or something.”

He ran his hand through his normally wavy dark brown hair as his sea green eyes glanced about his “office”.

Office was much too generous a word for what he worked out of: It was tiny bungalow with barely enough room for a desk and chair, a case file drawer and the tv that sat ontop of it. Casey mentally prepared himself as he pulled open the curtains and allowed natural light to hit his face.

“Ugggggggh” Casey shielded his eyes from the harsh gleam of the morning “Why must the sun punish me?”

Casey stretched the crick in his neck while keeping an eye on the outside world: The neighborhood was particularly lively today with people out and about. The elderly elf Mr. Thistlebush was complaining about something or another to his dwarfish neighbor Mrs. Boulderfist who politely nodded and humored the old elf. Evan Starsunder, a muscular orc with dark green skin, tipped his mail cap tiredly to everyone he passed as he made his way into his cozy abode for a well earned rest. The newly married halfing (similiar but legally distinct from hobbits) couple Mr. and Mrs. Tealeaf took a stroll across the grassy field where Casey’s office stood, hand in hand and very much the picturesque ideal of young love.

Casey opened the window to let everyone know he was open for business.

“Good morning Mister Remington!” Mr. Tealeaf waved with a smile.

“How are you doing this morning?” Mrs. Tealeaf asked, half curious and half cheerfully.

“Great!” Casey lied, trying to stifle a yawn “Just great. Keeping on eye on the neighborhood, same as usual.”

“Keep up the good work!”

“We appreciate everything you do for all of us!”

“You’re welcome!” he gave a halfhearted wave after the retreating couple.

He sighed, mindlessly fiddling with the engagement ring on his finger.

“I should take it off” Casey spoke to no one in particular “She probably isn’t wearing hers anymore. I shouldn’t give people the wrong idea. I should just take it off and that’ll be it. That’ll be it. Yep. One slip and….yeah.”

His voice trailed off as he was unable to finish the thought.

“CASE!” A voice shouted.

Casey leaned out and squinted, trying to see through the glare of the sunlight to find the person who demanded his attention.

“CASE!” The voice called out again, the blurry far off figure slowly shifting into a more recognizable shape.

Casey rolled his eyes “What is it Kay? I’m working!”

Kasey Remington or, as most people called her, Kay was Casey’s twin sister. Nearly identical face with the same wavy dark brown hair and sea green eyes except Kay had gotten their mother’s button nose out of the deal. Growing up, the twins often questioned why their parents had named them Casey with a C and Kasey with the K but the only response they ever gave was it was funny.

Well not to the twins but they were used to it by now.

Kasey, in her mommy cardigan and white blouse, flagged down her brother to come outside.

“Yeah I’m good up here.” Casey smiled from his slightly elevated position.

“You’re tall for like 5 minutes and you’re already being unbearable about it.” Kasey huffed, shooting her twin a stink eye.

Casey chuckled “Mad with power. Classic story troupes.”

“Cliche you mean.” Kasey laughed “Sorry to bother you but….did you sleep in your office again?”

Casey rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he realized he was still wearing his purple tank top and black basketball shorts from the other day.

“Umm well you see….”

“Is your office still a mess?”

Casey glanced at the half crumpled burger wrappers and scattered papers that littered every inch of desk.

“Pfft, no.”

“That’s a yes” Kasey replied with a knowing smirk “Case….”

Casey fiercely pointed at his twin “Don’t.”

“Case, you can’t keep…”

“Yes I can. Watch me.”

Kasey rolled her eyes “I have better things to do.”

Casey scrunched up his face with false hurt “Better than hanging out with your brother? Alright I see how it is. See if I get you anything for Christmas.”

“No! Not my possible Christmas presents!” Kasey fell to her knees dramatically “You monster! How could you do to this to me?”

“Like this.” Casey spoke with a grin, closing the window without another word.

And made his way out of the building a moment later. He offered a hand to his sister and the twins burst out with laughter as Casey helped Kasey to her feet.

“So what’s up Kay?” Casey asked with genuine interest “Where’s Chester?”

Kasey scratched her chin thoughtfully “He’s...got...a….little league game today.”

“Wooooow took you a full five seconds to remember what your kid’s up today.” Casey snickered “Finally stop signing him up for everything?”

“Ha flipping ha.” Kasey shook her head mockingly “It’s not my fault he wants to do any and everything. Besides it’s not the worst thing in the world to enable my son’s interests. I just wish he slowed down a bit.”

“True. Did you thank him for the house he made for me?”

“Yes and he said you’re welcome. Still got it?”

Casey scoffed as he pulled out his necklace: The simple shape of home clasped carefully onto his chain.

“As a cleric of the hearth nothing is more important than a family’s love.”

“Except” Kasey murmured softly “Maybe your fiancée?”

“Nope!” Casey threw his hands in the air and turned away from his sister “Not having this conversation. Byeeeee.”

“Case! Casey you’re acting like a child!”

“Would a child do this? Hey Seth!”

A gawky human teenager with dark black clothing and every skull accessory imaginable flinched uncomfortably at the sudden attention.

Casey nodded his head in confirmation “Yeah you! Curfew’s 2:30 A.M. The Hallow spell won’t work during the witching hour so I want you back here before 3. Got it?”

Seth gave a low mumble and wandered off as quickly as his legs could take him.

“Casey.” Kasey laced her voice with a firmness only a mother could muster.

“Whaaaaaat?” Casey whirled around irritated “Look I made my choice and she made hers and that’s it.”

Kasey raised an eyebrow “You two have been in love with each other since we were kids.”

“Don’t you…!”

“Case, why don’t you ask her again?”

Casey said nothing, opting to gesture to his office to answer his question. Written in bright white letters across the walls of the building were the words “Neighborhood Watch.”

Kasey rubbed her arm guiltily “Case…”

“You gonna take over?” Casey questioned, his voice soft but controlled “You gonna take over for mom? Cuz she retired and unless there’s someone running the watch, all of this...”

He motions to the families walking, playing, living their lives together in harmony. A magical community at peace.

“All this goes away. We’re going to have to move everyone into other magical neighborhoods and under their Neighborhood Watches. And that’s not fair to them.”

Kasey let out a sad sigh “It’s not fair to you.”

“I’m fine” Casey lied “I’m okay I promise. It’s for the best.”

Kasey shook her head “You can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me. See you for dinner?”

Casey hugged his twin tightly, pouring as much love as he could into the gesture.

“Of course. I’ll bring fries.”

Kasey made a face, playfully pushing him away “Would you bring something else, please?”

“Fine, mashed potatoes.”

“Ugh. Bye Case.”

“Bye Kay!”

Kasey eyed the engagement ring for a moment before taking her leave.

Casey ran his hands through his hair, wondering how much worse today could get.

He turned to make his way back to his office when he spotted a familiar face nearby.

His heart began to thunder loudly in his ears, the phantom sensation of lips pressed against his own ran chills down his spine while his cheeks flushed a bright red. His legs felt weak and butterflies filled his stomach as he took in the sight of Jaime casually walking down the street.

Jaime looked as beautiful as ever: Her long dark red hair was tied into a single braid that hung over her shoulder and shimmered in the soft glow of the morning. Her light brown eyes gleamed with a thoughtfully gaze as she looked at her phone. She was wearing his dark purple hoodie with dark blue jeans and sneakers. Her glasses were cutely askew and Casey felt the overwhelming urge to run over and fix them for her.

The engagement ring on his finger felt impossibly heavy yet light all at once.

He should talk to her. That was okay, right? To talk to someone he’s in love with and desperately wanted to be with. Did she want to talk to him? They left on decent terms. Well maybe. Hopefully. God what if she was mad at him? Or worse, hated him? She could never hate him that was silly. But perhaps she wasn’t ready to speak to him.

He knew he wasn’t ready.

Casey turned to Jaime’s direction then pulled away. He pivoted on his feet to face her again before glancing downwards towards the grass. His hands fidgeted uneasily as a shout threatened to spill out of his mouth.

Casey returned quickly to his office and shut close the window. Resisting the urge to stare at Jaime, he opted instead to reach for a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and began mindlessly scrawling upon its surface, drawing nothing in particular.

It was comical how automatic Casey’s responses became while he worked in this building: Upon hearing the knock at his door, he rose to his feet and opened it without a second thought.

Casey’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight of Jaime standing at the base of the steps from the bungalow. She smiled shyly, pushing up her glasses further up on the bridge of nose before giving a friendly wave. Her other hand was tucked deeply in the hoodie’s pocket.

“Hey sweetie” Jaime paused, pursing her lips for a moment “Case. How are you Case? Doing good Case? Can I stop now?”

Casey let out a genuine laugh “Hey swe….Jaime. You can stop. I’m good. I’m good. Good.”

He caught sight of his engagement ring gleaming in the sunlight. He quickly shoved it inside his pocket.

“That’s good. That’s good.” Jaime nodded “I’m glad to hear that.”

Casey caught her wandering glance across the office and quickly shifted his weight to block the view.

“So how’s the new job?” He crossed his arms in an clumsy fashion “Everything okay at the Grimoire?”

Jaime dug at the grass with her shoe “It’s good. Chaotic as usual but hey what do you expect for a magical library, right?”

The two chuckled together and locked eyes for a moment. As one they broke off their gaze, their cheeks slowly turning a pinkish hue.

Casey recovered first “How’s your brother? We talk but ever since last month he hasn’t recruited me to topple any corrupt bosses lately. I’m getting bored.”

“You sure you bored?” Jaime rolled her eyes “There’s no way the Neighborhood Watch is getting that soft.” “Haha I wish.”

An awkward silence fell over the couple as the realization of what subject they landed on washed over them.

“Finn’s good. Busy but good.” Jaime spoke with a fragile softness in her voice “You know my bro, always trying to save the world.”

“Right...”

Casey couldn’t help but noticed Jaime’s body language: She tucked both of her hands into the pockets, her frame shrunk like she was mentally kicking herself as she gawkily fidgeted back and forth.

“Hey.”

Jaime glanced upwards towards Casey, her light brown eyes shining brightly in the sun’s glow.

Casey could feel his heart ache with love and longing as he spoke simply “Don’t worry about it beautiful.”

Jaime said nothing. Instead, she closed the distance between them, gently cupping his cheek in her hand.

“Take care of yourself sweetie. Please. For me?”

Casey could feel his ache worsen but he just nodded, murmuring softly “For you.”

Jaime’s smile was sad but lovely. She pulled away slowly, allowing her fingers to linger for a moment.

“Bye for now Casey.”

“Bye Jaime.”

She left without another word and Casey felt exhaustion rush into every fiber of his body. He closed the door reluctantly and took a seat. He stared unhappily at the drawing of Jaime he hadn’t realized he’d be sketching.

“Fucking hell.”

He slumped deeper into his chair, feeling much too drained to face the rest of the day.

-----

“Shit, shit, shit” Seth muttered to himself as he raced through the night. The normally inviting, homely suburb was cold and distant: The shadows moved in eerie unnatural ways and once or twice Seth could soft pattering of paws follow closely behind. The modest homes and apartments were silent, basked in the darkness as they towered over him in silence.

“Just a cat” He mumbled to himself, glancing at his phone and wincing at the 3:30 AM it showed in a white font.

Seth entered Willow Rook proper and paled at the lack of comfort he normally felt in the air. Casey had warned him the Hallow spell, a powerful ward of holy magic that protected the neighborhood and hid it away from the world, would not work between 3 and 4 AM. Seth assumed he was merely attempting to scare him to return early. It never occurred to him that Casey was telling the truth.

Seth fumed silently “It’s fine. I’m late, it’s fine nothing followed me here and it’s fine.”

A chill ran down his spine as something rustled nearby. He whirled around in time to see something lunge straight for his chest.

He was ashamed how quickly he flinched, closing his eyes shut while raise his hands in a poor attempt to defend himself. He made quick prayer to whatever deity who happened to be on duty at the moment.

Something thudded against his chest. It didn’t stay long, instead quickly making its way up his shirt and tucked itself comfortably on his shoulder. It wasn’t too heavy but it was big whatever it was. Seth was surprised how warm and fluffy it was and swore it was purring in his ear.

He cracked open his eyes and found himself staring at an orange tabby cat: it was a fat cat with stripes of white and orange running down its body. Its dark green eyes stared curiously at him. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought it was asking him a question.

“Hey buddy” Seth breathed a sigh of relief, scratching the cat’s chin “What are you doing out here? Scaring the shit out of me?”

The cat pawed at his face rather roughly and with enough force to actually make him turn his head.

Seth felt the blood drain as he saw something approach in the shifting shadows: A monstrous thing, thin and skeletal. Its skin was a dark shade, almost as black as the darkness it blended in with. It crawled forward slowly on all fours, thick talons digging up and cutting through the pavement with ease. A bloody wrap covered its eyes and two thick, elongated fangs protruded from its lower jaw. The rest of its face was smooth and featureless.

The words died in Seth’s throat. The best he could do was a pathetic croaking noise he was grateful no one could hear in the dead night.

The creature tilted its head as if listening for any sign of its prey.

Seth couldn’t move, the fear gripping him tightly in its thrall. His breathing hitched and he could feel his body shake beyond his control as the creature inched closer and closer.

The cat leapt off his shoulder, silently landing onto the grass and bolting into the night.

Seth’s stomach churned and twisted anxiously as the creature stared in his direction, a growling rumble escaping its mouth. It let loose a maddening shriek, one that shook Seth’s very bones. It stood on its hind legs and grew to an inhuman height. Its mouth lowered, stretching impossibly wide as it leapt forward.

Seth felt cold and empty as the sight of the monster filled his sight. The fight ebbed out of him and left only an overwhelming sense of dread and finality.

This is how it ended.

It was an odd sensation to feel at the end: the warmth and glow of the sun at his back. Perhaps some higher being was taking mercy on him in his last moments on this plane of existence.

Wait, no the warmth was getting brighter and hotter. An unbearably stuffy and blazing with an intensity of a summer day that grew each passing moment.

Seth groaned, wincing in pain as a sudden flash of light zoomed past with incredible speed. It burned brightly, dispelling the silhouetted shadows with a burning flame despite it being no bigger than a baseball.

The creature reared back and thrashed about, too caught off guard by the sudden glow to realize it was coming straight for it. The orb collided with the creature’s chest and sunk deeply into its chest. The creature howled and buckled in pain, bending and twisting at unnatural angles.

The light faded and the orb with it but Seth could see the fist sized hole it had burned through the chest of the creature.

The creature weakly swayed, seemingly weakened by whatever hit it.

“Not in my neighborhood you punkass bitch.”

Seth weakly turned to find Casey standing there, the fat orange tabby at his feet. The head of the Neighborhood Watch finally changed his clothes: He wore a purple jacket with a black shirt that read “Neighborhood Watch” in faded white lettering. His gray sweats were wrinkled and his feet were adorned with two different sneakers. Outstretched in his hand like he had taken a swing at something was a glowing metal baseball bat that pulsed with radiant power.

“Casey, I…” Seth mumbled out but Casey motioned with his head.

“Go home kid. This ain’t the minor leagues.”

Seth was ashamed to say he ran, frantically and as fast as his sore legs could take him. Whatever just attacked him was out of his weight class.

Luckily Casey was in a league of his own.

The creature clicked its tongue unhappily as it moved uneasily on its hind legs. It bent and twisted its neck in a way that would’ve broken it if the creature had been human.

Casey rolled his eyes as he gripped the bat tightly in his hand “Drama queen much, aren’t you?

The creature said nothing. Instead it threw itself forward full force towards the cleric.

“Here we go.” Casey murmured tiredly as he drew his bat back.

The creature took a swipe at him but Casey already moved out of the way, dodging to the side and allowing the creature sail past him. It twisted its head around only to get a face full of metal: Casey’s swing caught the creature in the cheek and sent it reeling backwards.

The creature shrieked in pain as smoke curled off its face, the cheek swollen and charred an ashy black. It didn’t hesitate to attack once more: It stood up and tried to crush Casey under its full weight.

Casey just shoved the bat directly into the hole he made earlier.

The creature hissed and retreated away from the holy infused weapon. More smoke bellowed from the now enlarged hole.

Casey raised his bat threateningly “Go back to wherever the hell you came from or I will beat you out of existence you flipping abomination.”

If the creature understood the threat, it made no indication. Instead it doubled down on its poor choices.

It sat back on the balls of its feet, tensing its legs in preparation for a mighty leap.

Between helping the inhabitants of the neighborhood with their requests, talking to Jaime and frankly being awoken to a fucking demon attack at 3 am, Casey was just done with all yesterday and evidently today.

Casey’s hand glowed with a dazzling radiant light as he spokes the words of faith. Magic formed and condensed into a single ball of pure sun in his palm.

The creature sprinted forward, tearing up the grass underneath its feet while it desperately made one final dash towards the cleric.

Casey lobbed the ball high in the air and fell into a batter’s stance.

The orb hung in the air for a moment like a blazing sun then fell back to earth.

The creature leapt, talons aimed for Casey’s neck.

Casey let out a mighty swing. There was a loud crack as the bat made contact with the orb. The ball of light sped off and shoved itself down the creature’s throat. The bat follow through connected with the head of the creature and knocked it cleaned off.

The ball gleamed bright in the beast’s stomach before exploding outward like a supernova. The creature flaked away into blacken ash, head and all.

The gleam of light vanished and Casey found himself under the cover of night once more.

He wiped at his eyes tiredly as his phone beeped. He glanced at it to see it was now 4 in the morning.

There was a soft hum as the Hallow reactivated: the air shimmered with an unseen power and grew warm with comfort.

The ashes vanished without warning, the unholy remains cleansed by the sanctity of the neighborhood.

The cat drew closer to Casey, its eyes peering at him thoughtfully.

“Hey Julius” Casey greeted the cat politely “Long night?”

Orange Julius meowed in response.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on him. I knew he’d stay out late but hopefully he understands why we have a rather generous curfew.”

Orange Julius nodded.

“That’s been like what? The third demonic hell beast/ abomination this month. That’s a lot for a month.”

Orange Julius meowed in agreement.

Casey pursed his lips thoughtfully “Hey, did you see Finn?”

The cat tilted his head quizzically.

“I mean all this time you. He. Well you aren’t around whenever he comes by” Casey scratched his neck sheepish “You are his dad’s cat. You sure Fernspeaker wouldn’t want you to be with him?”

The cat paused for a moment before shaking his head.

“It’s not because Jaime’s folks adopted him after…..well that happened, is it?”

The cat pawed the grass below him.

“Right.” Casey nodded in understanding “Neighborhood’s your responsibility. I get that.”

Orange Julius meowed then vanished into the darkness.

Casey glanced at the statue of Fernspeaker that stood tall in the center of park. It had been erected the same time the park was named after him, both shortly after his and his wife’s death 22 years ago.

Fernspeaker Drift, Finnrick’s biological father, was once a powerful druid, deeply in tune with nature and a firm believer in helping others. This neighborhood was his passion project. The Neighborhood Watch was formed after his passing.

The Neighborhood Watch was created because of his passing. Nobody wanted a repeat of what happened all those years ago.

Finnrick told him it was okay for Casey to not to take the job but it felt like such a disrespect to let this whole place dissolve and scatter its residents.

Casey sighed and wandered back to his office. Office hours were closed but the Neighborhood Watch’s job was never done.

#original work #my story #original story #mirror's edge

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my2phetaliaheadcanons · 3 years

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2p Portugal

Name: Carlinhos Fernandes

Age: human 23, nation 1153

Height: 5’9.5

Weight: 153 lbs.

Appearance: Carlinhos has tanned skin, it is a beautiful dark olive color. Compared to his brother, he has darker brown eyes that show every emotion he is feeling. He has a longer ponytail than his 1p and it contains an obvious curl. Carlinhos like his brother is average in shape with more muscle. Though he is slimmer when compared to his brother.

Since this man likes to build, he wears clothing that hugs his body. That way nothing gets caught on a gear or on fire. He will wear things like cotton shirts that often have oil stains and a light jacket if the weather is cooler. His pants are jeans, mostly because they can deal with all the wear and tear. Carlinhos wears this type of outfit no matter if the event is formal or informal. If he is relaxing though, he is wearing basketball shorts and a tank top. For shoes, he wears boots or tennis shoes. He isn’t a fan of sandals, he is paranoid about getting his toes smashed.

Personality: He is a man of many faces. No matter what his mood is there is going to be some kind of face that comes with it. If he is annoyed with you imagine an over-exaggerated frown with narrowed eyes. It is funny to watch, but to be on the receiving end can lead to discomfort. Sometimes he does use his facial expression to convey warnings, and if you don’t understand them, that is on you.

He is very easy to annoy. One wrong comment or one wrong look can cause him to start plotting. Carlinhos takes his time to get revenge and sometimes a person can make amends before he acts. This is rare because most don't realize that he is plotting against them. Carlinhos’ planning involves creating a device just for his victim and then either setting it up in their homes or luring them into it.

This man was made to solve problems in a creative way. Things like Ruth Goldberg machines are his favorite, though anything traditional in terms of machines are out of his hands! Lock him in an escape room, he will be done in five minutes, because he can see the solutions no one else thought of. Some nations will employ him because of how easy it is for him to find those crazy solutions.

Dead: He’s had some close calls with his machines

Weapon: Ruth Goldberg machines and Carracks Black Sword

Family: Spain

ETC: Spain and Portugal have similar surnames. This was one way that was used to show they were related. The difference in spelling comes from the fact they were raised to speak different languages. Funny enough when they introduce each other, they will use their version of their surname. This caused fights when they were kids, but over the years it has evolved in a slug in the arm with an insult thrown in.

Portugal cannot build a traditional machine as stated, every time he has tried, it has blown up or caught on fire. He is very inventive in that he creates things that no one else would think of. He once built a steam-powered car, but he could not figure out how to build a normal car. Before Ruth Goldberg's machines were a thing, he was building them. Ruth’s Goldberg machines are found throughout his house and each one is set up in such a way that they reset themselves.

Though Spain and he were under Rome, Carlinhos was able to stay under the radar. He did this by showing off his intelligence and creative problem-solving. It spared him a lot of pain but caused him overwhelming mental pressure under the threat of torture if he didn't produce more devices. He also lost contact with his brother. This caused a division between them.

#2p hetalia #2p headcanons #charactersheet #2p portugal

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solaeter · 3 years

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Hello there, congrats on 100! 💞

I'll use the 🐧 emoji 💞 Gimme dat penguin :D

I'm genderfluid, a lesbian, INFJ (Very accurate) and Gemini.

I'm 5'2, blue eyes, fair skin, brown short hair (I get headaches if it's too long ;-;) and a curvy body type. My clothing style is a bit wacky, I sorta wear anything and don't match. If I had a NASA sweater I'd wear it all the time.

My dream job was to be an astronaut or something that deals with space entirely, but that got messed up in highschool. Hence why it’s a dream now :(. Now it’s to be an artist or writer because it’s one of the ways I know how to express myself.

I'm not comfortable with my own feelings so I have trouble expressing them, believing that if I do only bad things will open. I often stay trapped in my own thoughts. I'm very loyal, can be awkward in most situations(very uncomfortable in social situations), selfless and love to help people no matter what. Once I've opened up to anyone, I don't shut up and I love to goof around with them. I don't actually get mad, it's a hard emotion to get out of me. I love to write, draw, fold origami, play games and listen to music(any genre that isn't country). I enjoy space and looking at the stars, I can sit for hours talking about them. Scary movies, I LOVE watching them so much. I wish to travel the world but funds and a fear of heights stop me.

Things I don’t like..The one thing I can think of is when someone assumes something about me. I can get rather defensive over the assumption and cry about it later LOL. I’m also kinda a picky eater, but I’m willing to try new foods?

Thank you so much and congrats again lil monkey 💞

Jujutsu Kaisen Matchup Event | OPEN

Thank you so much for participating goober! ヾ(｡･ω･)ｼ

Out of everyone in Jujutsu Kaisen, I pair you with…

Yuki may ask everyone for their type, but you're just the type she loves! Appearances are the farthest thing from her mind, I imagine she actually meshes better with those who have good personalities and that aren't afraid to actually debate with her over various opinions. She'll enjoy your curves and make jokes that it's more to hold onto. And who cares about clothing style? Yuki values comfort and mobility over form and fashion.

Yuki is patient, so in the beginning when you're not very open, she'll respect your boundaries and gradually get to know you. Everything about you intrigued her, so she had all the time in the world for you.

Yuki is the outgoing one in your relationship. Despite being known as lazy, she'll show interest in whatever you're explaining and she'll help you achieve your goals that are within reason.

One thing Yuki really admires is how you're so calm. Sure being sensitive is one thing, but to see how hard it is to actually anger you, man she's totally smitten. Simply because she's just as calm and knows that if there is conflict down the road between you two, space, time and a little bit of communication will solve the issue sooner rather than later.

Yuki would also be very intrigued in your dreams of creative works. You draw? Let her see so she can admire and say you're one talented son of a bitch. Writing? Holy shit, she doesn't have time for that but she will commend you for enjoying it. Now letting her see is a different story but she won't pry too much if you get all shy. Origami? Yuki probably can't fold for shit and will absolutely be amazed and keep everything you make. Will even show it off to her pupil Todo just because.

Your desire to help everyone is very admirable, but Yuki will be your voice of reason. There are some who cannot be helped or will simply use you for their own benefit. Even if that means breaking you down. That's where Yuki comes in. She will protect you from those who dare bring you down. You're too precious to her and seeing you hurt, she simply won't accept it.

Yuki will carry any social outing, keeping you comfortable while she uses her cheerful personality to keep the air light and happy. You will never be forced into anything because no one should have to break their barriers unless absolutely necessary.

Yuki might be a tease, but that's just to see you flustered and won't press if it actually gets to you because she knows when to back off. She can't help but enjoy how your cute little cheeks burn when she showers you in tender words of love.

She loves to travel, so Yuki will definitely take you out to some sort of 'perfect' stargazing spot just to get a reaction from you. Seeing how your eyes light up and the general excitement course through you is all she needed. Now if there's anywhere you want to go and she's not completely busy, you can expect a trip down the road.

I imagine Yuki isn't really picky with food. As long as it's good she's happy. But if you go out, she'll keep in mind what you like and don't like. And if you want to branch out to try something new, she's quick to agree because life's all about taking chances and trying new things.

#🐧#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #100 follower event #jujutsu kaisen matchups #jjk matchup #jujutsu kaisen yuki #yuki tsukumo #jjk yuki #jujutsu kaisen yuki tsukumo #jjk yuki tsukumo #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jjk headcanons

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twilitty · 3 years

Text

Waiting pt.3

Waiting

@twilitty

part 3/?

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none

read this first! Edward explores what is causing his wife to act so detached.

Edward was paralyzed with fear. It was a similar feeling to when he watched himself nearly drain Bella of her blood after James had bitten her. The feeling when Jasper nearly attacked and killed her. It was the feeling of a broken man who has now broken another person. He was a porcelain doll with cracks along his figure, and the beautiful, fragile doll next to him gets knocked over by some force that he’s caused.

Bella has been acting differently, more than should be expected after beginning her new life. She’s been unusually distant, taking her vehicle to Port Angeles and not telling him why. She chooses to hunt on her own in the mornings, but Edward knows that she is not only hunting. He can smell her trail when he goes out later in the afternoon, she takes a long route and ends up by the stream bed. No blood along the trail at any point, no scent of an animal she’s killed.

When Nessie is asleep she hands her off to Edward or Rose. When Nessie wakes up she’ll play momentarily before claiming to have forgotten to do something. It’s as if she shows no interest in her daughter, and why? She had chosen to have this child, chosen the child's life over her own. And now she seems disinterested in every aspect of her life.

This burning, paralyzing fear is what pulled Edward out of his home that evening. Entrusting his daughter to her more than willing aunt and uncle, he went to the treaty line.

Standing at the edge now his thoughts run circles around his feelings, taunting him and scaring him. Telling him he’s an awful father and husband, that he made a mistake when he chose to pursue a future with Bella. But what about my daughter? Regardless of his feelings towards his wife, he has to agree that his daughter was the best possible outcome.

All he had wanted was a future with his love, a future where him and Bella could live in peace. And they were given a beautiful daughter, warm brown eyes and red unruly hair. If he had to choose to go back in time and remain away, could he? I can’t imagine a life without her, he thinks mourningly. His daughter is his whole life, he spends every moment he can with her, he enjoys nothing more than being a part of her life.

When she smiles at something he’s done it’s as though his heart will simply burst. He cannot abandon his daughter, there is no reality where he can imagine ever doing so. His wife may be unhappy now, she may be secretive and reclusive, but that is a worthy price for bringing him his beautiful daughter.

“What do you want, old man?” It’s Jacob Black, standing on the other side of the treaty line. He’s in what likely used to be jeans but are now sliced along the thighs unevenly creating an unflattering pair of shorts. His chest is bare, as it always seems to be, and his hair is braided in two strips that fall over his shoulders. He had gotten Edwards' text.

After the birth of Nessie, Bella had appointed Jacob as the godfather, which very few found endearing. This sentiment had brought Jacob closer to the Cullens, often he would be found running perimeter around the family home or bringing new toys and clothing to the little girl. He wears a necklace around his neck that she had assisted in making for him.

It’s a pink shoelace with orange, yellow, and red beads laced through it. It was part of an arts and crafts project Jacob had brought over. He wears it constantly. It’s long and hangs down over his stomach so that when he shifts he can still wear it as a wolf.

Now, Jacob plays with it absently as Edward regards him with pressed lips. “Alright, bloodsucker, let’s spit out your words,” Jacob thinks with little sympathy. It’s a major blow to the vampire's pride to even broach the topic with this man, and knowing that the entire pack will soon hear about it does little to ease his conflicting emotions.

“I would like to discuss Bella with you,” Edward says formally. Jacobs eyes trail over him lazily, as if looking to pick out his flaws and toss them back in his face. “She better not be pregnant again.” Edward chooses not to respond to this. Of course she isn’t, it isn’t possible.

Finally Jacob responds out loud, “You already married her, what more do you want?” A smirk spreads over his lips, “If you’re looking for a second wife I’ll happily offer up Leah.”

“I don’t want anything-”

“Right, right, you’re so selfless and holy and better-than-thou,” Jacob snorts which only adds to Edwards mounting anger. “Let’s get this over with, colonizer.” Edwards eyes roll back in his head, arms crossing over his chest.

“Please, try and take what I am telling you seriously,” he says a little too forcefully. He doesn’t want to argue with Jacob right now, he’s trying to have a civil discussion and instead Jacob is taunting him. Can this boy not take anything seriously?

“Fine.”

Edward gives him a curt nod, “Thank you.” With an awkward glance around the forest, Edward begins his speech. “I was not present when Bella was going through her troubling… phase,” he says the last word gingerly as if not wanting to awaken it from it’s sleep.

“Depression,” Jacob corrects mentally. Edward cringes at the word but continues as if nothing was thought.

“But I have seen its worst parts through the minds of others. I am worried she may not be as happy as she once was. I’m concerned.” The statement doesn’t phase Jacob physically or mentally, instead his thoughts remain strangely silent and he merely shifts his weight to the other foot. “I’m not sure what to do, she is away today and I thought about following her-”

“Are you an idiot? Did you spend the last three hundred years working towards your doctorate in the school of dumbasses?” Jacobs' tone is cruel, his facts incorrect, and his demeanor more than a little concerning. He’s on the defence, as if something Edwards said has offended him. “Sometimes I wish kicking your ass wouldn’t force your daughter into therapy.”

If anything his poor daughter will need therapy from the infinite amount of insults her godfather trades with her father.

“So I’m going to assume you don’t think following her to an unknown location is not a good idea?” It��s a rhetorical question and the century old vampire quickly continues on, “Need I remind you that the second she thought her mother was in trouble she offered herself up on a silver platter?”

What was supposed to be a civil conversation has instead turned into a nasty argument, and Edward isn’t sure what caused the change. “Need I remind you that if there weren’t any vampires that wouldn’t be a problem?” Jacob’s words hit too close to home and he notices this when Edward winces at the statement. “What? You feel guilty now?”

“Yes, yes, I feel guilty because she very clearly is not happy!” Now Edward is yelling, matching Jacobs energy and escalating the situation even more than need be. “Do you not think I wish I could intervene? I have been trying to discuss this with her, bring up speaking to psychologist-”

“She doesn’t need a psychologist, she needs a friend.” Edward wasn’t meant to hear the thought and quickly Jacobs' mind focuses on the necklace between his fingers, trying to avoid that line of thought. “This wood is so smooth…”

“She has Rose,” Edward sputters uselessly, pale hands coming up as if to grasp his wife’s mentally well-being out of the air. “She has Alice, she has Esme. Her and Emmett get along quite well-”

“And she has me,” Jacob says aloud. His tone is quiet, stating a fact and nothing more. He isn’t looking to antagonize Edward and is no longer defensive. “And I’m the only one her age. The only one who isn’t a vampire. The only one who isn’t part of the family she married into.” It’s like running into a brick wall, the reality of the situation hits Edward in the face and it’s all he can do to not falter backwards a step to try and right himself.

His fingers begin to twitch at his sides, eyes eerily still as his brain processes the plausibility of what Jacob Black just told him. “She’s lonely?” He says at last, the word breaking as it escapes his lips and crashing to the floor like a porcelain doll. His wife, the woman who told him she wanted to be a vampire, wanted to spend eternity with him, is lonely?

“She’s-” Jacobs cut off as a howl rings through the forest. The noise echoes off the trees around them, Edward reads it through the other man's mind. It’s his turn to run perimeter around the reservation. “I’ve gotta go.” He turns around and sprints off into the shadows of the forest. His steps quicken and then are replaced by the heavy thudding of four paws. The sound of the wolf running quickly escapes Edwards hearing distance and the forest remains silent.

The vampire stands alone in the forest, the canopy of trees above him cutting off the filtered sunlight of the dreary day. How could his wife be lonely? Didn’t she choose this life?

He feels some piece of information stuck in the back of his mind, just out of reach and he growls in frustration. This was his family, his life, his wife. And of course he didn’t have a clue on how to fix any of it.

How could he have allowed this to happen?

It’s a split second decision that sends him through the woods, angling towards the nearest city. He’s the fastest of his family, matching miles in seconds and never needing to slow down or catch his breath. He doesn’t even need to breathe. It’s a wondrous escape from the bindings of human life, being able to exercise his supernatural body to the full extent of its abilities. His strides quicken as he pushes them to go faster, his muscles pull and release in perfect harmony and work upon their own accord.

Bella had experienced this as a human, clutching onto his shoulders as he tore through the forest with her on his back. It was everything he had wanted. Showing the girl he loved most the side of him that no other human got to see. And she had loved him back. Had. Where are her feelings now?

He slows as he reaches the edge of the highway, it’s lanes converging into slower moving traffic as the city opens before him. Brick buildings stand at attention along main street, the exteriors primed for maximum tourist appeal. Old signs hang from stoops over the doorways, restaurants and gift shops alike. Edward already knows the exact route he had taken when Bella had come here as a human, when she was trapped in that alleyway- “But where would she be now?” He asks himself aloud.

She had driven here, not run as he had. He supposes he could look for her vehicle and then trace her scent to her current whereabouts, but then what? He finds her and approaches her, tells her that he’s been searching her down to confirm that she does in fact still love him? No, he can’t do that, he knows that. Jacob had told him specifically not to do what he is currently doing. Not to follow Bella, don’t act like an idiot.

Yet, here he is. Acting against his and Jacobs better judgement.

He had purposely not spoken to his wife about her trips to Port Angeles because he didn’t want her to feel like she had to ask permission to leave. He wanted her to develop a sense of self as a vampire, not rely on him to sustain her only. He had wanted her to explore her new senses and abilities. He thought everything was going so well. Perhaps Rosalie was right, Bella was better off as a human.

He steps out of the forest, grateful for the dim sky which clouded his skin. He walked aimlessly towards the main street, allowing his senses to take in all that is around him. He smells the fresh bread of the bakery across the road, the sickly sweet scent of melted ice cream sitting somewhere in a trashcan. He smells everything, but comes up without his wife. He hears the cars and the chattering of people as they go about their mindless, petty tasks, but his wife is not anywhere on this street.

He eventually finds her vehicle, a black suv with tinted windows. She had parked at the opposite end of the city, under the shade of a large pine and beside a public park. He sniffs the air experimentally, her scent is travelling in every direction, but the north trail into the park is more potent. She’s been here recently. He looks through her passenger side window, a box of tissues sits on the seat alongside an open glasses case. None of them wear glasses, and this discovery startles him a little.

He follows the trail north.

- let me know if you want to be tagged when i upload!-

@edwardsmate4ever

#twilight #new moon #eclipse #fanfic #twilight 2008 #twilight saga #twilight renassiance #edward cullen #bella cullen #bella swan #fanfiction #headcanon #head canon #hc

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booklover41802 · 4 years

Note

Could you do another one where Cardan forces Jude back to Elfhame? But this time it’s 5 years after her banishment and she‘a happily married with a child. And Cardan confronts her about this and it again leads to greater angst?

Angst is your request, angst is what I deliver :)

Thank you for the ask, love!

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Jude

At seven in the morning, all Jude wanted to do was snuggle into the sheets with her husband for an extra minute before the children woke up. However, her husband, Sam, was currently fast asleep, drool pooling out onto his pillow. She studied him, looking at his sleep mussed russet hair, and dark brown skin. He was perfect, save the drool dripping out of his mouth. With one finger Jude gently reached out to wipe it away, accidentally sticking her finger in his mouth as he shifted in his sleep. Sam’s chocolate brown eyes opened sleepily, amused at the predicament. “This wasn’t how I thought I’d start my morning, but I’m not complaining,” he murmured, proceeding to flick his tongue against her skin. Bastard. She hissed, quickly pulling her finger out before he got any more ideas. “There was drool seeping out of your mouth! I only intended to wipe it away as a courtesy gesture!” Huffing to herself, she promptly flipped over to the other side of the bed. Behind her she heard Sam chuckle, and then the sound of the mattress squeaking as he moved closer to her. His arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her close to him. Though they were both clothed, the embrace felt very intimate as he rested his chin on her head. “Mi corazón, have I told you lately how much I love you?” A grin slowly began to spread across Jude’s face. “And how much you need to shower?” And just like that, she scowled. As if knowing how her facial expression changed, his hands came up to run down her shoulders, lightly, sending pinpricks of ecstasy flowing through her. The gentle contact was her favorite part of the morning, when it was just Sam and Jude, and no children. “I jest, I jest! You smell heavenly.” Emphasizing his point, he inhaled near her hairline. “Just like wildflowers and sunshine.” His hands stopped near her elbows, drawing small circles round and round. Closing her eyes, she focused solely on Sam, wanting to enjoy every moment. “The sun doesn’t have a smell.” “Untrue, you are what I imagine the sun smells like. You are the center of my world. And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that you’re hot enough to be the sun.” Jude groaned and shoved herself out of his arms, glaring down at him. “That was the worst pick-up line I have ever heard.” “I don’t need to pick you up, you’re already mine.” He blew her a kiss. Rolling her eyes, Jude opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps outside of the bedroom. The door slowly opened up, revealing Jude’s three children, still in their night clothes, with wide eyes. Her eldest, Ronan, determined himself the leader to speak up. The twins, Sofia and Ava, huddled behind their elder brother, seemingly terrified of something. Before Ronan responded, Jude got a terrible feeling in her chest. A feeling that her past was coming back to haunt her. And that history was about to repeat itself. “Darlings, why do you look like deer caught in the headlights?” Her husband asked, now sitting up, throwing his legs over the side to go to their children. He was, thankfully, wearing pants. Jude was frozen in place, her mind racing as to how he had found them. How had he discovered where she lived? Vivi didn’t even know. “A strange man is at the door,” Ronan said in a hushed tone. It was Cardan. She knew it. It was too early for this shit. She uttered a string of curse words not meant for young ears.

Cardan

For the first time in five years, Cardan was about to see his wife. He nervously checked his reflection in the window, making sure his hair was perfect. This day would be perfect. Jude would return to Elfhame with him, and then they could rule together, as High King and Queen. Without his Jude, he was unbelievably lost. He couldn’t handle the pressures of court if she was not by his side. He had even brought a crown for her, as an apology. Cardan hoped she still loved him, otherwise this was about to be very awkward. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy who had answered the door. The boy resembled him, and around five years old. Was the boy… no that was impossible. It was only one time. It didn’t happen that fast. At least, that’s what he’d been told Cardan was spared from his thoughts as the front door opened, and Jude’s stormy face greeted him. She looked beautiful with her rumpled blouse, hastily thrown on bottoms and sleep mussed hair, exactly like the sun. Terrible and enthralling all at once, and if you got too close, you’d get burned. “What are you doing here, Cardan.” Behind her, three children gathered around her legs, and farther back in the room, he saw a man with a worried expression on his bland human face. “To see you, what other reason would I have for visiting the mortal lands.” There was a tug on the hem of his tunic. He looked down to see the boy looking up at him with wide, black eyes. His eyes. “Mister, are you a prince? I’ve read all about them in books and you have a crown.” Cardan smiled indulgently at the child. “Better than a Prince. I’m a King. Would you like to try my crown on?” “Yes!” “No, you will do no such thing, Ronan,” Jude snapped, pushing the kid behind her. As soon as the child’s name slipped out of Jude’s mouth, horror entered her expression. As if she didn’t want him to know. As if it was meant to be a secret. Taking a step closer, so they were mere inches apart, Cardan cocked his head, peering into Jude’s brown eyes, noticing how much older and wiser they seemed. And happier. “May I come in?” “Can he, mommy? Please?” Ronan begged behind them. Jude stared him straight in the face, unwilling to back down. It was just one of the many things he loved about her. “If I say I’m sorry, will you let me cross the threshold?” All emotion was wiped clean from her face at his words. “You destroyed my life, and you think saying sorry will fix it?” She breathed under her breath, so quiet he had to strain his ears, “No. You may not.” Her expression turned fierce, a mother bear protecting what she loved from an intruder. Him. The man he had seen in the shadows earlier now stepped forwards, placing a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Leave my wife alone, haven’t you done enough damage to her?” Wife. His wife. This was about to get interesting. Cardan flicked his gaze to Jude, noticing how she shut her eyes at her husband’s words. “Your wife? My, my, Jude, you’ve certainly been busy. And here I thought you already exchanged vows.” “Cardan, please-” “I thought you loved me.” There was silence now, from both of them. Jude merely opened the door wider, a defeated slump to her shoulders. The boy, Ronan, cheered when Cardan stepped over the threshold. “Jude, I don’t like this,” her husband said, in an annoyingly worried tone. Cardan smirked at the man, the man who dared called Jude his wife. “You don’t have to. You’ll be out of the picture soon enough.” Cardan looked around the home, noting the family portraits, the wedding photos, the warmth radiating out of the walls. It felt like a place where family didn’t stab each other in the back at the first opportunity. Literally. The man stepped in front of Jude, pushing her behind him, as though she needed protection. If anything, he was the one who needed protection. He was willing to bet the man didn’t know the half of Jude’s past. The bloodthirsty Queen who manipulated every situation to her advantage to gain more power, her ambitions flying higher with each passing day. “If you harm Jude, or my children, you will regret ever coming here.” His children, so there was no way that the boy was his. Cardan was oddly disappointed. “I’m leaving with Jude or I’m not leaving at all.” He turned his head towards his Jude. “Darling, won’t you come home with me?” He stretched out a hand to the woman who held the shambles of his heart. Jude crossed her arms. “I cannot. I’m banished, or have you forgotten that as you conveniently failed to remember how deeply you betrayed me at the first opportunity?” Here came the fun part, where he revealed everything in front of Jude’s husband. His lips stretched wide, teeth gleaming in the low lighting. “You seem to have forgotten the vows we exchanged, and how we consummated it that night.” Her husband looked on stonily. Cardan examined his nails. “Marriage to a King is no small thing, in fact, there’s a little thing that allows you to be elevated. You, my dearest Jude, are the Queen. Your bag of tricks finally ran out and I picked up the remnants. I learned from you, you see. You only need to be pardoned by the crown. With your marriage to me, you are Queen.” “If you’re a Queen, mommy, does that mean I’m a prince?” Ronan excitedly asked from his place beside Jude. Jude looked at Cardan with no emotion, stroking the top of her son’s head. “Yes, I suppose it does. Having a King and Queen for parents often does that.” “Yes! I can’t wait to tell the kids at school!” Cardan felt the blood drain from his face as his suspicions were confirmed. “Are-are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The kids seemed oblivious to all. “Ronan is your son. Ava and Sofia are not.” “Jude, is it wise to tell him that? Who knows what he’ll do with that information.” “Sam-” Jude started. “What is one child to me? I care nothing for him, only my Jude.” Sam snarled, getting right up in Cardan’s face. “Jude isn’t yours. She never was, and never will be. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you can leave my family alone.” The fool had no idea to whom he was speaking. He wondered just how much she had revealed to him. Surely she hadn’t told him everything. Jude didn’t let people in like that. Once she had let him in, and he had used the opportunity to show her they were evenly matched, mind-mind. Jude’s hand snaked around Sam’s arm, drawing him away from Cardan. “Sam, can you give us a moment alone, please.” Her husband looked into Jude’s face and found her pleading eyes looking back at him. He loosed a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “This wasn’t what I thought marriage would be like. Sofia, Ava, Ronan, come with me for a moment.” He left the room with the kids in tow and shut the door to a bedroom. Now it was just him and Jude. Endless words rose up between them, as though they were two figures on a broken bridge with Cardan trying to fix it, while Jude laughed at him. “Do you love him?” Silence greeted him. Only the children’s giggles from behind the door alerted Cardan that he was, not, in fact, in a graveyard. The silence was as haunting as a ghost’s final resting place. The way she stared at him, as if she didn’t know him, hurt Cardan more than he thought it would. Jealousy was a festering wound, the more you picked at it, the more it bled. “Yes, very much. While I’ve been away from Faerie, I never realized how different it was here. It was a shock to find that I quite liked the Mortal Lands and found no sorrow that I was to stay here. At first it seemed like a punishment, but now it has been a blessing.” Jude took on a love-struck expression that made Cardan sick to his stomach. “Did you ever love me?” He asked softly under his breath, daring to lightly run his fingers down her face. Her eyelids fluttered in response to his touch. Angling his head to study her, he wondered at how easily she could turn her emotions on and off like a lightswitch. “Love is a dangerous word.” Jude reached up and clutched his hand. At first, endearing, but as her grip began to tighten, Cardan knew he was about to see the wrath of Jude Durate. She opened her eyes, where he met only a razor sharp focus. “If I told you I only used you for power, what would you say? If I told you I loved you so much that I feared my heart would burst, what would you say?” His fingers strained to escape her iron-clad grip. Any harder and she would break his bones. “Does it matter what I felt? You certainly didn’t seem to take that into consideration when you humiliated me in front of the Court. What difference did it make to you, when you are the High King, and no one matters but you. Let me tell you this, I did love you. Once.” His fingers snapped. A broken cry escaped his lips, though she didn’t seem to hear it, not as she was lost in her passionate speech. As she raised up on her toes to whisper in his ear, Cardan wondered how he ever thought he could match her. “It was a mistake. You were my biggest mistake.” She released his hand and stepped back, arms crossed. Cardan staggered back, clutching his broken hand to his chest. “I still love you. All the stars have winked out in your absence, I beg you to return so that the shadows may disperse. You are the only source of light in my life. Please, return with me.” There was no emotion on her face, wiped clean like a blank canvas. “You have no one to blame but yourself.” The door cracked open and the twins bolted out, laughing as they proudly carried an object in their hands, staggering with the weight. It looked like… a sword. And not just any sword, Nightfell. Jude’s choice of weapon. Sam hurriedly dashed out behind them with a panicked expression on his face. “Ava! Sofia! What have I told you about playing with weapons? They’re too dangerous for young hands.” He plucked it from their hands, sighing as he went. As if realizing he had an audience, he looked up at the two of them, in close proximity, and he just looked… tired. Placing the sword out of reach from the twins, he slowly bent his head and swallowed. “Sam,” Jude whispered. Sam raised his head up and looked at Jude with a sad smile. “If you go with him, I understand why you would want to. He’s a Faerie in a magical land from fairytales, the place where you grew up. If you wish to go, I won’t stop you. After all, what can I offer you other than my heart? Do you not wish to be waited on hand and foot at a castle, versus working yourself to the bone in our small home?” Jude’s eyes began to water, and forgetting as though Cardan was even there, she rushed into Sam’s arms, burying herself against his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around her, his head resting on the top of her hair. “All I ever wanted was you. I love you. I’m not ever leaving, not for the memory of the childhood that scarred me in more ways than one.” She pulled back to look into his eyes. Cardan’s jealous heart rose up into his throat, red entering his vision. He was about to do something very stupid. “You are my home, no matter where we go. It is not Faerie, not anymore.” Cardan’s uninjured hand began to creep towards his jacket, where he stored a hidden dagger. A dagger that was sharp enough to pierce a heart. He’d been training with the Court of Shadows these past few years, and his aim was impeccable. So as the two lovers held each other in their arms, Cardan flung the knife as fast and as hard as he could for Sam’s chest. If he was gone, Jude would have no choice but to return with him. But Jude saw the knife coming. She flung herself in the path of the dagger, where it landed true, into her heart. Cardan’s world narrowed to the blood pouring out of her chest, staining the white blouse she had donned. Distantly he walked over to her in a trance, not seeing how her husband’s face went white with anger, nor the children screaming, drenched in their mother’s blood as they rushed around her. Sam gripped Cardan’s lapels with his hand, yelling in his face. Cardan didn’t hear him, his focus was on his darling Jude, bleeding out onto the floor. Cardan did the thing that was natural for him. He pulled another knife out and stabbed the man in the small of his back. If he was going to destroy himself, the other man was going with him. Sam slumped to the floor at Jude’s feet, his eyes glassy, unseeing. Already his hair was soaking up the blood pooling out from Jude. The children were crying, begging their father to wake up. Cardan had broken this family. He knelt next to Jude and held her icy-cold palm in his. Miraculously, she was still alive. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean- this wasn’t supposed to happen. We were going to be happy together. You and me, just like it’s always been. That’s all I wanted,” Cardan’s voice broke, tears now pouring out in great rivulets down his skin. With great difficulty, Jude opened her mouth. “You were never the villain in my story, Cardan. You have always held goodness in your heart. You must go on, as it seems that my tale has come to an end.” She stretched up her blood-stricken hand to his hair. “When we were younger, I fell in love with the boy who showed kindness in the smallest of ways. Though you say your heart is but embers, don’t let the light go out.” Her children were still crowded around their father, tears pouring down their little faces. “ All I ask is that you don’t bury me in Faerie. I want to be laid to rest next to my parents. And please, take care of my children. Don’t give them the childhood I had. Ronan is my legacy, as he is yours, and the heir to the Greenbriar throne.” Jude coughed, specks of red flying out. “Make sure they don’t forget me.” With trembling hands, Cardan moved his fingers to her face and cupped her cheek. “You’re not going to die. I-I can save you! Hold on!” He shoved every healing spell he knew into her chest, light wildly flaring out of his touch, not noticing how she had gone still, or the garden that had erupted under his touch, flowers of every kind sprouting up from the wood flooring. Before long, the house was overtaken by greenery and Jude’s final resting place was a garden of Cardan’s own creation. “Just… one… more. Stay with me!” Finally he looked at her, and saw the unnatural stillness of death. She was gone. His light died, as the darkness crept in once more. Jude Durate, High Queen of Elfhame, Queen of his heart, was dead. His darling Jude was gone, and it was his fault. He glanced over at her children who were looking at him with heartbroken expressions, like lost little lambs in a den of wolves. “Sorry doesn’t really help here, does it.” Cardan didn’t expect them to answer him, and they didn’t. “Come with me, and I will show you a place full of magic, where fairytales come to life. You can wear the finest clothing available, and sit on a throne. You will be elevated to royalty.” He offered them a hand, a hand still caked in their mother’s blood. Cautiously, but unsure of any other lifeline, and drawn in by his words, they took his hand. Biting back the terror and fear of what his life now meant, he brought Jude’s lifeless body with. Despite her words, Jude was to be buried at the Greenbriar mausoleum, where all the Queens before her dwelled. Against her final wishes perhaps, but he did not wish for her to be so far away. One final, selfish desire. Cardan brought the children to Jude’s old rooms at the palace, where he called for Tatterfell, who dressed and bathed the children. She promised to look after them while he went to give Jude a proper burial. Someone had cleaned her up, so that blood did not cake her skin, her clothing no longer torn. She was a Queen he could not reach, as she was lost to the void of the Afterlife, a star in the sky winking down at him. He placed her sword in her hands and as she was entombed, Cardan vowed to himself he would make Faerie a better place in Jude’s memory. From that day forward, it was decreed a crime against the crown to abuse mortals and glamour them against their will. Any found guilty immediately faced Cardan, where they met no mercy. The offenders were quickly put to death. No mortal would ever suffer the fate of Jude again. Every Sunday of the month, Cardan visited Jude, and told her everything she had missed. Every detail, no matter how small, echoed in the walls of the mausoleum. And as the years passed by, Cardan made sure Ronan, Sofia, and Ava were given the best treatment and education the crown could offer. He raised them as his own children, but never kept their past a secret. They knew Cardan had killed their parents. Sofia and Ava were willing to forgive Cardan as they got older, as they were much too young to fully remember. But Ronan was always distant. Some days he was warm and friendly towards him, others, an impassive stone. Cardan didn’t blame him. Cardan hated himself more than ever, and slowly let the grief devour him. He even refused to let his hand fully heal, as a reminder of the cost of jealousy. Though he was a just ruler to his subjects, he never let himself forget what he had done. He made sure Jude was never forgotten. Statues were erected in her honor, her would-be crown seated on the throne next to his, as a reminder that the Mortal Queen still lived. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ronan

Fifteen years after Jude’s death, his father sat in his room, looking into the flames of the fireplace with a blank expression. Ronan crouched in front of him, searching for the father who had raised him and given him a childhood away from the corruption of Court. But no matter how many times Ronan said his name, or pleaded with him, he would not rise. Under his breath he kept repeating, “Forgive me, my Darling Jude. Forgive me. I cannot forgive myself.” Again and again and again until his voice grew hoarse, but even then, he continued the mantra without pause, not even for food or water. Day by day he wasted away until he was a shell of who he used to be. He ignored all signs of life, until the last day, when four days had passed, and his father moved his gaze to Ronan. “You have her smile, and her kindness. I’m thankful I got to see them again.” Then promptly slumped in the chair, eyes looking forever towards the fire, begging for forgiveness. Suddenly Ronan was five years old again, and screaming for Sam and his mother to wake up. He saw the blood coating the walls of their small home, and the garden that had sprouted as Cardan attempted to save his mother. But here he was, aged twenty, and an orphan once again. Grief and guilt had killed as surely as a blade. Ronan was immediately declared the High King and took up his father’s mantle and legacy. He would never forget the man who read him stories long past his bedtime, nor the woman who taught him to never give up. His parents, the High King and Queen, left him a clear road to follow, and he took it, in their honor. Neither would ever be forgotten to the rot of time, he would make sure of it.

Tags: @illyrian-bookworm, @highladyofstoriesandmusic, @webcraft4eveh, @captainthefangirlofhp

#ask #thank you for the ask!#booklover41802 answer #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tcp #twk #qon #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #holly black #my writing

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talesofsonicasura · 3 years

Text

Thief's Ambition

Velvet Dilemma

Every thief needs the right tool for any sort of job. But what would happen if one of your resources isn't what they seem to be? Long post. Warning: Suicide Attempt, and mentions of abuse

They say reality and imagination are two sides of the same coin. Reality being ruled by laws and sciences to present what one calls 'normal', a limited perspective. Imagination however, is without restrictions if someone has the willpower to create or dream, limitless potential.

Information or to be specific, Digital Code' held both treats of reality and imagination. Rules to stabilize the unlimited potential of someone's creativity and what could be created is endless. Sometimes, one's design could break those boundaries. The results are determined by the creator. Whether it will lead to paradise or pure ruin. Only they can decide.

Le Blanc, a small but humble shop located in Yogenjaya, Japan. This cafe owned by Sojiro Sakura, is quite famous for their delicious curry, extraordinary coffee and friendly atmosphere. It is also the temporary home of a specific teenager. A young man whose choices can affect the world around him in large ripples. His name was Ren Amamiya.

The boy was around 15 years old, hair was a pitch black nest of curls, eyes a mysterious obsidian that shone brighter through the lens of his false glasses, a soft balance built with some growing muscle to his form, and stood about 5'7 in height. A pure black gakuran fitting snugly on the young man's body paired alongside black pants and nicely made boots as he carried his slightly large gray school bag over his shoulders.

His destination was Le Blanc, taking his time by walking down the sidewalk and glanced around to take in any important details. It didn't seem that anything would catch the boy's eyes since Yogenjaya was more of a rural area. That was until an abnormally tall structure crossed his line of sight.

Not too far from where he was, Ren could make what had to be a hotel. Around 5 stories in height and from how clean it seemed, the place was obviously new. Halfway down the large infrastructure was a soft magenta sign that read: Hotel Nexus. The name rings some bells in his head.

It was a new hotel that recently opened up before he came. Great service, fair prices and quite a selection of accommodations for anyone's price range. He heard some of the teachers and even students at his school raving about it.

Ren didn't really notice that he entered his destination until his nose was greeted to the bitter scent of coffee beans and spice of curry. His caretaker Sojiro Sakura, a rough looking older man with dark brown eyes, black hair in a man bun and beard, was in the middle of serving a few customers. Thus, the teen walked up to his room which was in actuality, a spacy attic.

Placing his bag on the bed, the raven was about to start on his homework when a voice spoke out. "Thy trickster." A soft, suave yet slightly distorted male's nearly made the boy jump if he didn't know who this voice belonged to. Not even the first few days in Tokyo did the teen come across the path of the supernatural.

"We need to have a discussion. Thee might have a problem." The voice explained much to Ren's utter confusion. If by instinct, the raven took off his glasses and held it out. Blue flames suddenly manifested on the frames, sparks spewing out to the attic floor in 5 different spots before the fire extinguished.

Each spark burned brighter as they grew in size but didn't spread across the wood surface like any normal fire. The smallest stood barely a foot in size while the largest being a shocking 15 ft all around. Suddenly, the fire sputtered out as five different creatures now sat before the young boy.

A large black horse that had two long teal horns, crimson eyes and white mane, a small brown haired pixie with butterfly wings wearing a blue one-piece and gloves, pink skinned imp with small wings and wore a belt with a large stinger positioned at an inappropriate place, and a jack-o-lantern headed creature wearing a dark blue robe, witch's hat, and white gloves holding a lantern.

The last being was not only large but vastly different from the others. Sitting slightly uncomfortable on the floor was a dapper gentleman-esque black and crimson demon.

Black leathery hide, pitch black mask for a face as fire highlighted the long spindly devil horns than just painting fiery eyes or the wicked smile, razor sharp black claws and angelic ebony wings that spawn from his lower back. The demon's clothing consisted of a black corset tuxedo held tight by red strings, white fancy cravat, a short crimson coat with long sleeves, collar and coattails, red armor mimicking dress pants covered the legs which ended with knife blade heels, and a tall black top hat stitched at the back with red strings.

Despite the five demons sitting before him, Ren wasn't afraid of their presence. After all, why would he be scared of his own Persona and one of the reasons he is still alive? From the information given by various sources, these beings were born from thoughts of man and assist those who awaken or earn their power.

His current Persona team consisted of Bicorn, Pixie, Incubus and Jack-o-Lantern. Ren couldn't forget his main Persona either, the one who answered his call and shared the same rebellion in his soul, Arsene. Seeing all five here meant there was something going on especially from the looks on their face.

Bicorn looked very irate, well, more than he usually was, Pixie was a mixture of concern and worry, Incubus had his arms crossed alongside a large scowl on his face and Jack-o-Lantern looked like he wanted to disappear. The only one who didn't seem upset was Ren's dapper devil, the flames of the mask were in a soft simmer, almost if he was sheepish. Things had to be wrong if the Legendary Phantom Thief didn't have his signature grin.

"Is everything ok? Arsene said you guys wanted to talk about something." The raven politely asked, it may not look like it but Ren did care for his Persona. Although, not all of them were on the same level as his rebel heart but… Out of the bunch, it was Incubus who spoke up.

"Here's the problem boss, none of us are getting fused!" And the teen's train of thought came to a stop like a broken record. "What?" The word just came out of his mouth as if he was on autopilot. Quite a reasonable reaction for when you considered Ren's current situation in full.

Stuck on probation in a foreign place, his future walking towards a foretold path of ruin, the twisted desires of his gym teacher manifesting as a cognitive place and these very creatures before him holding a key to his salvation. That also included fusing them to create a more powerful Persona.

"Normally we don't have any opinions when it comes to fusion. Previous Wild Cards before you had done the process thousands of times. However, this time there's two issues that we cannot accept! And no amount of bribery will change our opinion!" Bicorn huffed, scraping a hoof across the ground.

That actually convinced Ren even more to listen to their problem, especially when he considered the new information given. If there had been others like him, why wasn't he notified? And what was different about the process of Fusion if Persona used to not have an issue?

"Alright. Can you tell me these reasons for omitting fusion from the Velvet Room?" His inquiry seemed to relieve some of the tension for the group of Persona. The teen could only guess it must be rare for Wildcards to tend to their needs. Or it must have been quite a long time since a Persona User like him appeared.

"Sure dee-doo, bossman! First off is the Fusion Methods! Persona are fused in many different ways, some by dancing or even tarot cards. Executions aren't one of them. Despite some Persona being created from evil legends, the fusion tools were always humane and fair for all participants." Jack-o-Lantern spoke up, the fire in his lantern burning brighter with each word.

Ren easily agreed with that reason. His first time actually being able to use the Fusion was a very unsavory experience. At that time, he only had just Arsene and Pixie. To see Igor and his assistants unveil those large guillotines made him feel like he was back at that Palace thing.

Seeing shadows of people being tortured like slaves already made him a bit uncomfortable but the 'Fusion Tools' were enough to leave the room with a poker face just to hide a grimace. "Yeah, I can see your point. Don't know how a guillotine isn't even supposed to do that."

That also raised another question as he had a feeling what the second reason really was. Pixie only solidified that very thought. "Our second reason is the Velvet Room itself, to be precise, Igor himself. You see, out of many Personas, I am usually the one Wildcards tend to acquire first." A look of nostalgia sparked in her eyes.

"This means that I am often fused quite a lot so I've been around Igor. Despite looking a bit crooked, the man has an aura of a gentleman and has this mischievous but kind air around him. Something that makes the Velvet Room comfortable for both Persona and Wildcards but…" A nervous and saddened look was quick to mark the fairy's face.

"...that isn't the Igor we know. This one is cold and has this aura of cruelty hidden underneath. And it's not just him but both Velvet Room attendants feel off too. It's almost if both girls are like broken dolls, scraps of a toy remade into two different copies."

The room went silent for a bit as Ren processed all this information. Persona who's been summoned or recruited a lot, Veteran he'll call it, could feel when something is off with the Velvet Room. It would explain why Arsene didn't seem that bothered unlike the others, since he was new to the whole thing.

Now that the teen thought about it, Igor and his attendants seemed very quick to introduce the Fusion mechanic… too quick. If something was indeed wrong with the Velvet Room, then it would be best to limit his usage. Ren couldn't just stop using it altogether and none of them had issues with the Register/Summon option.

"Alright. I won't use the Velvet Room for fusion. If you guys think the place is off and Igor can't be trusted, then I'll trust your judgement. Problem is, how can I perform Fusions now?" The Persona he had now, excluding Arsene, can't really grow powerful enough to deal with any future Palaces.

Stronger Personas were needed if he was going to avoid this 'ruin'. His main Persona then spoke up. "How about you search for a mage? Thou passed one earlier today." Wait what? Ren looked at the Curse Type with a mixture of disbelief and surprise.

There's a mage, someone who practices actual magic, in bloody Tokyo. Pixie spoke upon her User's look of befuddlement. "Practicers of magic do exist, master Ren. They are rare and tend to stay hidden amongst the locals. You can easily guess why. Some even treat Fusing or Summoning Persona like an exam to know if one is ready for the next level of magic."

The raven haired teen let out an intrigue hum from the explanation. If he can find the mage Arsene sensed earlier then they should be able to help with his Fusion problem. "Where did you sense them anyway?"

Ren couldn't believe the stroke of luck he got. Apparently the person he was looking for happened to be in Yogenjaya, specifically the new Nexus Hotel. Once school was over for the day, he quickly made his way towards the place. It was honestly bigger in person than seeing it from Le Blanc.

Various trees with interwoven branches formed a path to the hotel similar to a green red carpet, two fountains paired with benches on each side of the fountain and the centerpiece was a peculiar statue. An 8 meter giant of scrap metal carefully melded together to form a lizardman wielding a large microphone stand like it was a guitar and on the plaque it stood on read: Welcome to Hotel Nexus.

There are even a few stalls set up for local vendors to rent and sell merchandise. 'This hotel feels like a homey place to stay in. No wonder a lot of people Shujin talk about it.' Ren thought while looking at the large statue with intrigue. He could see a lot of work was put into it from the V shape horns, beak like snout and even intricate design on the stand.

Even a non-artist can see all the work, effort and dedication put into it. "What do you mean it ain't for sale?!" A brutish shout immediately ripped the boy's attention. Obsidian eyes soon look at a scene forming to his side between a large portly man and someone around his age.

The girl had cyan hair with a silver frohawk at center, emerald green eyes bearing black v shaped marks underneath, and a thin elegantly curved body around 5'6 in height. Her clothing consisted of a black shirt, short red long sleeved jacket, dark blue cargo pants and white high tops.

What got Rens attention was the peculiar device hanging around her neck, it looked like one of those pocket pet toys but merged with a walkie talkie. Pure silver with red buttons and a black strap for string. She honestly looked very annoyed.

"It's like I said to your boss a million times before. Hotel Nexus isn't for sale! My family and I worked hard to make this place so no way in hell we're giving it up. I don't give a damn how high the food chain your boss is, the answer will be no!" Ren could practically feel the venom in her words from the fifteen distance.

Something that amused Arsene since the Curse Persona was laughing. 'It seems that fiery young lady is the mage that thou been looking for. Such strong rebellion radiating brilliantly alongside her magic.' The raven continued watching the scene unfold.

He had to agree with Arsene on the fiery term since the girl literally growled at the man before her. "Get outta here and tell your boss he can choke on his own balls!" The poor employee went running off in seconds with his tail between his legs. Adjusting his fake glasses, Ren decided to approach the cyanette once she took a few deep breaths.

Now that he was closer, the young man could see flecks of gold and silver in those emerald eyes as the girl saw him. "Hey there. Sorry if ya saw the commotion. I'm usually more professional but guys like that tend to grind my gears." She then put on a polite smile.

"My name is Hokuto...Shoutmon! One of the owners of Hotel Nexus. What can I do for you?" Ren couldn't lie, that was the oddest last name he heard in his life. Or the fact that her teeth were razor sharp just from the smile given. Knowing it was rude to stare, the raven haired teen spoke.

"My name is Ren and I happen to be new in the area. I was hoping you can answer a few questions for me." Best to have some honesty if he was going to even get the cyanette's trust. Hokuto merely kept a polite look on her face and stayed professional to even her posture.

"Sure, what questions do you have? Need any help finding a room or are you interested in renting a stand? Or is it more personal?" Childlike curiosity brimmed in the emerald eyes of the Nexus' heiress that made Arsene laugh in his human partner's head. 'Might as well answer her, dear Trickster. Can't keep a young lady waiting~'

Ignoring the obvious flirt, Ren decided to be a bit straight forward in his response. "Can you help me with a little school project of mine? I'm supposed to ask people a set of words and how they felt about each one for my psychology class." He even pulled up a pen and paper to make it more convincing.

If she was really a mage, then he had a feeling Hokuto would be more comfortable with masking a risky topic such as this. Plus one class did ask for a Do-Your-Own assignment for homework today. The Shoutmon woman tilted her head a bit, mild confusion crossed her face before shrugging. Didn't seem that bad to her so why not oblige the boy?

"Sure, I don't mind. It's honestly a bit refreshing but I get to choose a few words too. That way it'll be more like a game, and who knows, ya might get some extra credit." Ren nodded his head and had a smirk on his face from Hokuto's unexpected reply. He even had a good word to start with.

"Alright. My first word or to be precise, words is 'Velvet Room'." The cyanette hummed a bit hearing the word. An inquisitive look on her face as she mulled the two words over in her head a bit. It took a few more seconds before she gave an answer.

"Intrigue and wonderment comes to mind but oddly also caution. Something as fancy as 'Velvet Room' has to have something dark or sinister in the undertone. Kinda like the story of Hansel and Gretel with the witch's house being made of sweets." The teen and Persona understood the reason behind that, even if the 'caution' part sounded more instinctual.

Not everything that glitters gold meant was good. "Alright, my turn. The word I choose is Tamer." Hokuto said with a cheery tone. It was his turn to tilt his head at the suspicious pick. Being a Wildcard did fit with the word since Ren had to befriend or 'tame' multiple Persona than just one.

"Adventurous, enlightening and carefulness. Being a tamer means you are potentially risking your life at befriending a living creature that can do harm if you aren't careful. Achieving a bond is also a reward in itself from how much you learn and grow with the experience." The raven haired teen could feel the warmth of his Persona's happiness and admiration blanket his heart.

Hokuto also seemed really happy about his response too, almost if checking something off in her head. "That's one way to say it. Now it's your turn again." Ren already knew what he was going to ask for this round. "Okay. My next word is Persona with a capital P." The cyanette mulled over the peculiar word in her head.

Something about it felt odd, like a primal instinct of sorts but she couldn't really guess why. Placing a hand on her chin, the young woman gave the boy an answer. "Since it sounds like a living creature, I would say wonder and bewilderment. Unknown life tends to bring tons of questions alongside the possibilities of their uniqueness."

Ren hummed at the answer while writing it down on paper. He would admit that he didn't see the next word coming though. "Your next word is Digimon!" Confusion immediately covered the raven haired teen's face. Did he hear that right? Digimon? Was it short for something like 'Digital Monster'?

"Taking a random guess here but the only thing that comes to mind is curiosity. I've never heard of a term like Digimon before and it makes me wonder what the concept truly is. A game or maybe a brand series that's focus is around collectible creatures under the same name."

It was the only reasonable Ren could actually think of. He'd never heard of 'Digimon' before and would have done some research later on. The teen was ready to ask his final question when the sound of a ringtone went off. Hokuto had pulled out her phone, a look of mild horror crossing her face in seconds.

"Seriously?! I'm sorry but I have to cut this conversation short. Got to close off one of the guest bathrooms and call for a repairman!" She quickly turned on the heel of her feet before taking off into the hotel. All Ren could do was blink as his objective was now out of reach.

'An unfortunate setback. However, thou at least have the mademoiselle's location. We would just need to visit another time.' Arsene whispered in the raven's head, the young man let out a sigh. He'll have to make do with the Persona he had for now.

The next day… Ren was sitting in his seat like usual. Getting stared at by most of his classmates and teacher with the appeal of a convict. An irritating normal when you had your criminal record and reason for being transferred thrown out to the entire school as if it was a newspaper.

It also sucked that his teacher, Mr Uchimaru, was an asshole who likes to harass others when they answer one of his surprise questions wrong. Ryuji texting him in the middle of the class and Morgana talking in his bag either. Even if no one could understand the not-cat, they could still hear his meows.

His mind however went to a grinding halt upon the words of his classmates. "There's someone on the roof! Is she going to jump? Suzui Shiho?" Dread immediately filled his heart upon the name. Suzui Shiho was one of the upperclassmen who was being sexually harassed by his current target, the gym teacher Kamoshida.

He was out of his seat in seconds and ran straight for the hallway window for a better look. A better view was needed to see if it really was Shiho. Obsidian eyes widen in absolute horror upon the sight of the brown haired teenager standing at the ledge of the building.

'No… Dear god, please don't…!' The girl jumped off the roof, Ren's heart dropped to his stomach while his classmates screamed. Shiho was about to hit the ground when familiar light blue hair came into sight as someone caught her falling body in time. Ren immediately ran down the halls of the school, to get outside and see if his senpai was alright.

The teen caught sight of Hokuto Shoutmon holding the girl tight to her chest, Shiho was nuzzled into the hotel manager's neck in tears. "Shh. It's alright. Just let it all out. I don't know who hurt you but there are people in this world that still care about ya. Think about them, not ya tormentors."

Hokuto's strong upbeat voice was now a soft comforting whisper while she rubbed the suicidal girl's back gently. Emerald eyes looked into Ren's obsidian ones with mild surprise. It was probably the fact she didn't know he went to school here either.

"Shiho." The raven turned his head to see one of his classmates running towards the two girls. Ann Tamanaki, the platinum blonde girl with green eyes and her hair in two ponytails who was also Shiho's best friend by what he saw from their interactions. The hotel manager turned her head over to the blonde.

"I'm guessing you are a friend of hers? Do you know her parents' numbers? This poor girl needs all the support she can get right now and I need to call the suicide hotline. We were lucky enough that I was able to catch her in time." Hokuto let Ann hold Shiho but not before the pigtailed girl said a grateful teary 'Thank You'.

The cyanette then looked at Ren. "I don't know who broke that poor girl's will but I do know one thing. If that fucker shows their face, I'll do everything in my power to knock em off their pedestal. No one deserves this for another bastard's sick pleasure. They say eyes are the window to one's soul, her eyes are that of a victim on their last string."

Shiho's parents immediately came over along with an ambulance and a few cop cars to check on the frazzled brunette. Hokuto had left after they questioned her on how she even found Shiho. Apparently the hotel manager was heading towards one of the markets nearby, a coincidence that managed to save his classmate's life.

It also meant that Kamoshida needed to be dealt with before someone else breaks. There is the expulsion deadline too, since confronting the man in righteous anger was a dumb idea. Whatever the case, the perverted PE teacher needed his heart changed. And the only solution was the man's castle, nestled in the school's Metaverse.

The Metaverse was a physical plane created through the unconscious cognition of people, a place between reality and imagination. Palaces were an area created from the large distortion in a person's heart, something that reflected a dark mindset. Kamoshida's Palace was that of pure unadulterated lust.

A medieval castle filled with statues of himself or various girls around the skin that displayed their innocence in a perverse manner, echoes of male students were seen as slaves that were beaten meticulously, and the distorted version of Kamoshida flaunt through the castle as it's disgusting lustful king in nothing but a crown, heart shaped boxers and a fluffy red cape.

Through these halls was the key to stopping this man's twisted heart and the consequences to follow if they failed. Within one of the hallways, a large cluster of knights were gathered in a tizzy. Empty blue masks staring at a pile of molten gold, various statues of the Palace's Ruler melting into a golden soup in front of the culprit.

The suspect's body was shadowed by the large blaze behind them. "How dare you destroy the visage of our King Kamoshida?! You'll pay with your life wench!" One of the knights howled as all brandished their large blades. Feminine laughter came out of the figure alongside their appearance, emerald eyes glared down at the mass.

Ren was running as fast as he could, the teen helping a tired Ann with assistance from two others. The clothes the four of them wore were very different from what they wore in the real world, an attire created through the power of their Persona and rebellious souls.

The raven had a white domino mask bearing a black flare around the eyes, long black leather jacket paired alongside a bulletproof black vest, crimson gloves, black Italian leather pants, and black leather boots. Ann's entire was a full red leather blend suit that displayed her elegant lithe form, a red mask with cat ears, red stilettos and even a fake cat tail that seemed to move on its own.

Then there was Ryuji Sakamoto, a spiky blonde with brown eyes and Ren's first ally he made. His outfit was a metal skull shaped mask, a black suit bearing a metal spine plate along his back, red tie to a black bulletproof vest, black Italian leather boots and red gloves bearing metal knuckles.

Ren couldn't forget their odd party member Morgana either. A 1'6 ft tuxedo cat-like being with a form comparable to a bobblehead. Slightly large head with black fur on the top half of the head imitating a mask to the white bottom part, a yellow bandana scarf around the neck, a black body with white paws, white feet and white tip tail, and a brown fanny pack around the waist.

The two males were helping keep Ann steady, the platinum blonde was exhausted from summoning her main Persona. "We're almost at the exit, just need to go past this hanger." Morgana stated, his childlike male voice stern and strong. Smell of burning metal hit everyone's nose, all eyes were on the growing smoke that began to seep from an adjacent hallway.

"What the hell? Is someone else here because I don't think Kamoshida's knights are stupid to burn the castle to the ground?" The blonde was right but who was it. Getting into the Metaverse, much less a Palace, required the Metanav app. Without the mysterious phone app, no one could enter this place unless brought here by accident.

A familiar voice then reached Ren's ears. 'Thy Joker, that sounds like young Hokuto. It appears our acquaintance is making good on her threat to Madame Shiho's abuser.' Arsene spoke within the raven's head. It was an odd coincidence that the hotel manager was in the same corridor leading to the exit.

The group of four turned into the hall to see an army of Kamoshida's knights cornering Hokuto. None of them were blind to the gold statues of the Palace ruler burning behind the young woman, a sight that made Ren's main Persona purr in delight.

"Ain't that Shoutmon-san?! Did she get dragged in by accident like I did?!" Ann couldn't help the worried tone within her own voice. The not-cat of the group whistled at the destruction. "That girl isn't normal. It takes extreme heat to melt solid gold like that."

Ryuji guffawed at the amount of damage that the cyanette did by herself. "Talk about a one woman demolition crew! Maybe she can help us after we help her." The group was taken aback when Hokuto began to laugh at a guard's execution threat.

"A King you say?" The cyanette scoffed, her hand grasping the device around her neck. Morgana quickly notices the peculiar device. "I'm getting weird vibes from that gadget. Whatever it is, that thing is letting out a lot of power!" All three humans looked at their smaller teammate in surprise before facing Hokuto.

Something big was about to happen. "All I see is the evidence of a pervert who loves to harass those more innocent than him. It's time these trophies of sin burn and I'll light them ablaze with the fire of my soul!" A light purple aura circled around Hokuto's opposite hand.

The peculiar sparkled and moved in an inhuman but familiar to digital code if given a physical shape. The next words Hokuto said proved to Ren and his friends just how unique she was. "Let's do this Shoutmon! Biomerge!" Pure gold fire burst forth upon Hokuto swiping her hand across the device.

All of the guards had to jump back upon the massive blaze that now engulfed the teenage girl, her shadow growing amongst the wall of flame. For a second, the masked raven saw something familiar move within the fire. The visage of the Hotel Nexus Statue crossed Ren's mind.

"Hope you're ready!" Hokuto's voice boomed from the blaze but it was very off. There was a mechanical tone to it and all of Ren swore he heard another voice overlap, a scratchy, growlish young male one. A large gold armor leg and boot with a silver stripe going down the center alongside a back spike heel stepped out from the blaze.

What followed was a giant 16 ft armored beast, a golden dragon man that looked vaguely similar to the statue back at the hotel. Giant V shaped horns adorn the head alongside the golden tusk on the cheeks to form a pseudo helmet to the silver beak like muzzle of the dragon, a rounded chest plate that held two holes on opposite sides of the flat front, curved pauldrons leading to black wire hose that connected the slimmer arms bearing three fingered hands.

On the upper back was a helm very similar to the statue and that gold alloy went down the slim waist except for the silver circle on the stomach. And the part that showed this was once Hokuto was the bright emerald eyes burning with righteous fury.

"Cause OmniShoutmon is going to bring the house down!" Hokuto or OmniShoutmon bared her two fists in a boxer's stance as she let out a battlecry. Her eyes then flitted over the group of four, a look of surprise crossing the dragon's beakish muzzle. Something one of the guards noticed as he turned around to see the small group.

"The intruders are still here?! This rebellion will be squashed before it can grow!" Every knight began to shudder in an unnatural manner, their bodies immediately collapsing into streams of black and crimson shadow. The shadowy streams immediately rose up to form various Jack o' Lanterns, Incubus, Bicorn except for one.

One had transformed into a large knight in silver armor, ruby red angelic wings sprout from the back, their red skin face held a solemn stare as they held a large broadsword in front of them in a religious manner. Ren recognized that type of Shadow from a previous encounter, it was an Archangel.

"Mona and Skull, protect Ann!" With a flair, Ren pulled off his mask as blue flames swallowed it and Arsene materialized from the fire. The sight of the Curse Persona made a wild smirk run across OmniShoutmon's muzzle. "Knew there was something special about ya! Let's get to know each other after we toast these suckers with the melody of our burning souls!"

Orbs of pure sun yellow flame ignited the draconic being's claws, emerald eyes burning bright with something akin to passion. "Hard Rock Soul!" Both small suns doubled in size and with a howl OmniShoutmon tossed them with incredible force as if they were baseballs.

A large blast of fire exploded forth upon the two projectiles hitting one of the smaller Shadows, the intense heat burning groups of the ones that held no resistance to ash. Ren took the opportunity to strike the twisted monsters with their guard dropped by the blast.

His boot struck an Incubus from a high jump kick, he used the Shadow to spring towards a Jack O' Lantern stabbing his razor sharp straight into the pumpkin demon's skull. The raven then spun midair to send his hooked opponent straight into a small cluster of Pixies and quickly turned to a group of Bicorn.

"Eiha!" Red tinted black energy manifest between Arsene's claws, the Curse Persona morphing it into a short lance. The personification of the gentleman thief quickly threw into the head of one of the black stallions. The beast let out a painful neigh in response before exploding into a redfish black bonfire that grasped a few other Bicorns.

Some enemy Jack o' Lanterns lob multiple fireballs with a swing of lanterns, Pixies shot out bolts of lightning from their fingers and a herd of Bicorn went into a stampede covered in harsh wind magic. All of them were aiming for OmniShoutmon, who smiled maliciously at the attack.

"I am an inferno born of passion, baby!! You can't extinguish my soul that easily!" The draconic being leapt off the ground, arms spread out whilst her golden body flew through the air almost if riding on an invisible current. Hokuto swept past the lightning in a barrel roll, weaved through the onslaught of fireballs before going into a condor dive whilst bearing her horns.

"Mach Rush IV!" She picked up more speed as OmniShoutmon went straight to the herd of Bicorn with the intent to run them down. Looks of shock crossed the horn horses as every single one quickly found themselves bouncing off of the dragonoid then crash disgracefully to pieces. What was worse were their green horns easily shattered then sent off into rapid fire sharpnel, whatever wind magic on them now struck down multiple allies.

The only three non-combatants watched the scene in utter shock. "Holy shit! Hok- I mean OmniShoutmon completely wrecked that stampede like it was nothing!" Ryuji remembered how much of a pain those specific Shadows were but to see them being wiped out so quickly was insane.

"I think it's because of that weird armor all over her body. Doesn't seem like any kind of material that can be found in the Real World or even the Metaverse." The not-cat has seen very peculiar things in the metaphysical plane before but he didn't think whatever material that armor was made from one of them.

"It's not just that. Before she changed, she said 'Let's do this, Shoutmon.' What if Hokuto-san wasn't saying her last name but someone else's?" Ann's words hit her two companions like a truck. Joker had also caught what the platinum blonde and things started to click in his mind.

The thought swirled in his mind whilst sliding under the large blade aimed for his head from the boss Archangel. She wasn't really alone when they had conversed earlier. Hokuto had someone or something alongside her, a Persona perhaps? Could it be…?

Joker glanced at the once human, his eyes widened in mild horror when he saw the Archangel spread out their wings. A warning signal for a powerful attack. "Look out OmniShoutmon!" The dragonoid immediately spotted the aforementioned threat and her response was surprising.

OmniShoutmon stood her ground, a burning yellow aura burst from the brilliant gold armor. "Hamaon!" The angelic shadow pointed his blade at OmniShoutmon, a large blast of bright light erupted the steel straight at her. It was at this point that the observers realized an important detail about the former human's armor.

There was a purpose to those two holes on the chest. "Flamethrower, yeaah!!" Fire burst forth from the chest holes alongside OmniShoutmon's war cry, large golden streams that clashed with the blast of light. Both attacks struggled to swallow the other, a battle of attrition in physical form. Letting out a loud roar, the fire from OmniShoutmon doubled in size as she put more power into the attack.

In seconds did the two blazing streams engulf the light in its entirety before swallowing up the Archangel and their allies in a massive bonfire. With the last bits of fire out of her chest, OmniShoutmon fell to her knee panting roughly.

"*pant* Damn did that asshole have some power. Using Flamethrower like that just takes the air out of your lungs. *whistles*" The dragonoid pants, her eyes now settled on the group of familiar faces. Ren had run up to the former human with Arsene offering his hand so the Persona could help her up.

OmniShoutmon took the assistance without hesitation, a smile on her beak like muzzle. "Thanks big guy. I have a feeling you aren't a Digimon, but I do know that I like those knife heels." The Curse Persona raised a non-existent eyebrow before letting out a hearty laugh.

Ren couldn't help shaking his head albeit agreeing with the statement. That definitely solidified this was indeed Hokuto among some other things. "As much I love to continue this chat, I believe it's best to move it to outside the confines of this castle." Arsene's suggestion didn't go unnoticed to everyone.

It made no sense to stay any further in their current state, plus there were a lot of questions that needed to be answered about their draconic ally rather than just their next possible move. Ren did know one thing, he had a feeling his life was about to get flipped over once more. For good or bad was up to debate.

And that's it. Felt Digimon would suit more into this considering DNA Digivolution, Biomerge and Spirit Evolution is a thing. Hokuto's last name isn't Shoutmon if you hadn't noticed. Last name is undecided at the moment. I did add some personal headcanons than just giving the Persona actual personalities. Persona is in personality after all.

Until next time folks!

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brimstone-and-helianthus · 3 years

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exalted secret santa hell yeah

details below the cut!

The Phantom Apiarist, a No-Moon lunar. Caste/favored are intelligence, wits, appearance, and dexterity. He/they

I’m still trying to figure out a mortal name, but he was born in a group of villages in the southeast, where the riverland and forest begin to shift to mountains. His community worships a bee goddess, whose domain is fertility, community, and death. The Phantom Apiarist aspired to be a shaman under her guidance. Her tutelage culminated in the Heart Swarm, wherein he sacrificed his heart to show her devotion to her. After deeming it worthy, she placed a queen from her colony into his chest to start a new hive. This was his initiation into terrestrial sorcery. He’s really glad it worked, because if his goddess finds your heart lacking, she eats it and you die!

He is grateful for his Exaltation, but expects that Luna wants something in return, and is worried it would conflict with his own priorities. Which are keeping his home safe from an increasing number of raids and generally causing havoc to any Realm passersby. His control spell is blood lash, and his magic focuses on body transformations, insects, and necromancy. He has a fun thaumaturgy ritual where he tells bees secrets in exchange for their knowledge of the dead. His Tell is the beehive implanted in his chest. Where his sternum should be, you can see the nest and bees coming and going, which are his familiars. His anima banner is sweet-smelling honeycomb dripping blood and the feeling of a hot, oppressive summer’s day.

The closest real world ethnicity to match him would be North African, I’d say. His hair is very curly and goes past his shoulders. It’s normally pulled back with a few loose curls for flair. His eyes are dark, and he usually has at least a small smile on his face. He’s on the shorter side, and nothing really stands out regarding his physique. His moonsilver tattoos are the major veins and arteries of his body. His main colors are navy blue and forest green, with bits of red-orange accenting. He wears a large sun hat with flowers continuously blooming and dying on it.. I’m not good at coming up with clothes, but he tends to wear things that are sheer and flowy. Feel free to do whatever with them. He’s trans, and since exalting has given him a body he’s way more comfortable with, he is very excited about all the loose, open shirts he gets to wear now. I imagine a lot of plunging necklines revealing his beehive. His main weapon is a giant war fan with a honeycomb pattern.

The Bride Veiled in Ruin, a dusk abyssal. Melee supernal. She/her

The Bride Veiled in Ruin stands alone in the battlefield. Gore clings to the crevasses of her mighty pillar. Leftover sorcery evaporates like fog at sunrise, but a red mist settles over the quiet battlefield, reluctant to leave. She feels a sense of deja vu, one that she has felt many times before as she stood among the dead. Unlike these faint memories, the Bride feels like she’s winning.

What few memories she has come in fleeting glimpses such as these, spurred forth by a desire to recreate what little shreds of the past she has. But no matter how often she lifts her mighty pillar, she cannot fill the cavernous sense of loss deep in her gut. She cannot quench the sourceless rage, choking the life out of her words. Sorrow etches scars across her face so deep that mortal minds shatter upon its viewing.

The Bride meets her groom Death at the altar. She speaks her vows, and they are thus: “To love is to prostrate oneself and plead for mercy. Mercy is a spider web in a monsoon.” She lifts her veil, and she swings her mighty pillar, the Foundation of Your Undoing, and it is an act of love.

The Bride has a pretty Dark Souls aesthetic going on. She is a ten foot tall necromancer warrior from the north with a zombie Irish elk mount. Her main look is an extremely beat up chest plate/chainmail combo. She is never seen without her tattered embroidered veil, which is topped with a circlet of braided silver. Her face is pretty much indistinguishable, but you can still feel the intensity of her stare. Her color scheme is mostly white and grey, with occasional patches of rusty red, either from her aged armor itself or dried blood. She has two main weapons: a pretty nondescript soulsteel spear, and The Foundation of Your Undoing. The latter is a pillar ripped from the temple she was murdered at on her wedding day. It’s made of white jade, and the cracks are filled in with soulsteel. Her anima banner is a bloody mist and tolling bells, unseen and sonorous.

Nessiliphora, a fire aspect Dragon-Blooded. AKA Nessie the Loch Ness Mobster. Physical/Social focus. She/her. (picture courtesy of @mechanicalriddle)

Nessie is a recently exalted beastfolk from the southwest coast. After being kicked out of their ancestral waters, her family joined with the Lintha and transitioned from fishers/divers to pirates. Nessie exalted on her birthday, her transition to adulthood, when the Lintha demanded a child (hostage) to begin uniting her family more fully with Lintha ways. Nessie refused to let this happen, and in the ensuing battle, her houseboat was sunk, the fates of her family unknown, and Nessie on the run from pirates who don’t take too kindly to deserters. A suspicious old man comforted her and directed her to Gloam, which she is not trapped on, because no ships have left port in months. Nessie would like to reunite with her family, wipe out the Lintha, and become one of the most powerful pirate queens to ever live. But also be nicer than the Lintha? Can pirates be nice? She’s still trying to figure that out, she’s like, 21.

Nessiliphora is a crocodile/plesiosaur centaur. Her bottom half is crocodile, and she has a long neck for grappling. She looks southeast asian, with wavy black hair and cool-toned, medium brown skin. She likes jewelry, and she likes to look good. Her general color scheme is gold, red, and olive green. She likes clothes with patterns/embroidery/beading/something fun. Nessie’s main weapon is herself, and her hobbies include but are not limited to: wrestling, singing, and causing mischief.

#exalted #exalted secret santa

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ecoamerica · 25 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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Daniel Michaelson: The Adoption

I meant to write the baking-cookies drabble from Danny’s adoption stuff came out instead! Whoops. No warnings for this, beyond it being pretty bittersweet - takes place in the past, when Danny is five years old.

I’ll tag the usual people - even though this isn’t really whump. But it’s background for Danny!

@finder-of-rings, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @special-spicy-chicken

“He’s small,” The woman says, looking down at him, and Danny tries to straighten his back and make himself as tall as he possibly can. His hair sticks up a lot, which he has to hope helps at least a little. “Why is he so small? The papers I looked at said he’s five years old, has been since July.”

“He was born premature,” The social worker says without looking up from her paperwork.

She’d brought Danny a cheeseburger Happy Meal and he’d inhaled every single bite and licked all the salt off his fingers afterward, so happy to have enough food to feel full and not have to fight any of the other kids for a single bit of it. He was currently twisting back and forth the little arms of the plastic toy man that had been inside the box, making him fight an invisible bad guy that kept punching him but he couldn’t see it.

The toy man was from some movie, but it wasn’t out were Miss Karla could buy it yet, so he didn’t really know anything about it. Fighting an invisible bad guy seemed like the right thing to do with him.

Bam, Danny thought to himself, making a mean snarling face. Punch him, kick his head.

“He was born eight weeks early, according to medical records,” The social worker continues, giving a loose, casual shrug. “He spent three weeks in the NICU before he went to his first placement.” This social worker was a new one, way younger than the last social worker. She didn’t seem to like him very much, but actually Danny thought mostly she looked more tired than angry, so maybe she didn’t mind him like some of the others did.

The woman sitting at the table leans over, her voice pitched low, probably thinking Danny can’t hear her. Little pitchers have big ears, they said all the time at Kindergarten. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, other than adults said it to shut each other up when he was in the room. “Were there drug issues? We specified that we were not interested in taking on a greater than average amount of obligation-”

“He’s not a dog, Mrs. Michaelson,” The social worker says, looking up with the barest hint of an edge to her voice, and Danny fights back the tiniest little smile. It’s kind of nice, having one who sticks up for him. Usually they don’t. “But I understand what you’re trying to say, or at least what I hope you’re trying to say. Please understand that your guidelines were taken into account by the agency you contracted when they contacted us. Daniel was premature due to pregnancy-related complications with the mother, that’s all.”

“Complications? Does that mean there’s a family history of serious health concerns? Did his mother die?” The woman’s fingers stopped tapping again, and Danny looks back at his toy, but some of the shine has gone out of having a new thing (and Danny doesn’t exactly have a lot of things just for him), because he knows the answer to that question.

She gave me up.

The social worker’s eyes go to him, and Danny ignores her, setting his jaw in an angry, pouting line, and the invisible bad guy punched his toy until he died. Then he lived and got back up, but the dead part was pretty satisfying.

The social worker looks back at the pretty woman in the nice clothes and jewelry and sighs, a little sadly. “No, she didn’t. She chose to, um, to place him with state care.”

“Do you know why she chose to-”

“She was thirteen years old, Mrs. Michaelson,” The social worker says quietly, so quietly Danny almost misses it. Thirteen isn’t very old, he thinks. One of his foster brothers, Craig, is thirteen, and he’s not even in high school yet. Danny could count to thirteen easily and without even needing help when he was four years old, so he knows it can’t be a very high number. That makes him think. If he’s five years old and his real mother was thirteen years old, then thirteen plus five is… Danny counts on his fingers, trying to remember.

If it’s ten eleven twelve thirteen… then it’s fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen… eighteen.

That would make his real mom eighteen.

Danny sits back, proud of himself for doing the counting all in his head and on his fingers, without having to ask the grown-ups, who were still talking about him like he couldn’t hear them.

Most grown-ups did.

“You can understand,” His social worker was saying, “Why a thirteen-year-old might make such a choice with even the healthiest baby. The home life was... not ideal.”

“I can understand.” The woman’s mouth purses a little, like she has a bite of food in her mouth she doesn’t like. “Poor thing. But you’re sure he’s healthy?”

The social worker shrugs. “He could use more time out in the sun and probably someone who lets him play outside more often, but… he’s healthy enough. He measured between 6th and 13th percentile straight through from birth until now, and his growth is steady. Honestly, ma’am, with a decent enough food intake he’d probably grow faster and catch right up. But...”

The social worker waves her hand around the house they’re sitting in, a vague gesture that means nothing to Danny - but the woman sitting at the table nods very seriously, and so Danny tries to look serious, too.

The woman raises an eyebrow and looks around the dining room. The large table has enough chairs for twelve people to sit, and Danny is unlucky number thirteen - the youngest - so he was used to sitting at the card table off in the corner, where he sat now, swinging his legs in the folding chair and making the toy man run across the table and dive-bomb towards the floor.

When he makes the little exploding sound, the woman sitting at the table - she has pretty brown skin and black hair, and funny honey-colored eyes - smiles at him, and he smiles right back at her. She has a really, really pretty smile - warm and nice.

His foster mother is nowhere to be seen - Miss Carla didn’t really like talking to his social worker anyway, and she had been furious to hear about the rich lady coming to look at Danny, which… Danny didn’t really get, since getting adopted was a good thing.

Then again, Miss Carla didn’t exactly like him very much. Danny had a mouth, Miss Carla said all the time, and Danny would just grin at her with all his teeth inside that mouth.

Then he called her whatever names the older boys had taught him, only he got in trouble because the words were different when the older boys said them, for some reason.

His social worker had told him this lady and her husband had chosen him straight away after seeing his photo, and so he had combed his own red hair this morning nice and careful (no one else ever did) and dressed in his absolute best clothing - his favorite blue T-shirt and his good brown pants, his Sunday pants.

He wasn’t sure if the lady at the table had noticed, but he was sort of hoping so.

“How are his academics?” The lady at the table asks, glancing over at him again. He smiles brightly at her, trying to get her to smile again - he’s pretty sure she likes him. He’s little, and he’d heard Miss Carla say that little kids get adopted faster.

His biggest foster brothers probably won’t, he thinks, if that’s true. They’re both big and mean, and they look older than they really are. Parents won’t want them, even if Miss Carla likes them the best because they act like her.

“I’m in kindergarten,” Danny speaks up, holding the little toy man in his hands, nervously twisting at his arms again. His voice is high and clear, and he swings his legs a little harder where he sits. “I have lots of good days on my take-home sheets. More good than bad, Miss Carla says.”

“That’s right, Daniel, you do,” His social worker replies, and she smiles at him, finally - a thin and tired smile - as she flips through the paperwork she brought with her in a big folder with his name on it and his photo paperclipped to the outside. “Daniel’s in his first year at public school,” She says to the lady at the table. “He’s in a class of 25-”

“My God.” The woman at the table puts a hand up to her chest. “We’re looking at an exclusive Montessori for our little boy with an average class size of eight - I showed you his photo, the three-year-old. Obviously Daniel would also attend, I’ve already ensured him a spot should we bring him home, I’m good friends with the director. I just cannot imagine attempting to corral so many five year olds-”

“Most of them are already six, actually - Daniel is the third-youngest in his class. In any case, based on his school reports, he excels at academics and struggles with focus, sitting still, and social interactions. Makes sense for the age and his current… ah, situation.” The social worker looks at him again, and Danny sits himself up just a little straighter, making the toy man wave his little movable arm at her.

The smile this time is less tired, and more real.

“Does he do well with younger children?” The woman at the table asks. “I mentioned our other son - he’s just turning three. Any aggression would be absolutely unacceptable-”

“He loves younger children actually - his last placement was with a foster home that had very young babies and toddlers other than him, about a year ago for three months, and his foster parents reported that he was very gentle and loving with the younger children. I’ve been told he changed diapers, watched the younger ones, and was very good at comforting younger children at night.”

Well, Danny thinks to himself, nobody else woke up as fast as I did, so...

“Ryan doesn’t wear diapers any longer, so we’re not worried about that, but… why was he moved, if he was so good with them?”

Danny looked down at the floor, because he knew the answer to this question, too.

Because she was growing a new baby and there wasn’t any room anymore.

“His previous foster mother became pregnant,” The social worker says brusquely, waving one hand in a dismissive way. “All the foster children in that home were moved to new placements at the couples’ request.”

“That must have been hard on the children,” The lady says, and her voice changes a little. It’s softer, but angrier at the same time. “They must have bonded. The young ones bond so quickly-”

The social worker shrugs. “It’s not uncommon. Daniel had some… difficulty adjusting here, but he’s doing well now.”

“Difficulty?”

“It’s all in the paperwork,” The social worker replies, looking uneasily over at Danny again, who only stares back at her with his best totally-blank ‘I wasn’t listening’ face, even though he absolutely was. “He had conflicts with his new foster brothers, missed the little ones. Struggled with the change in schedules and rules. That happens with every new move, learning a whole new household.”

“So… when he moved, he doesn’t see the other children any longer?”

The social worker blinks, surprised by this line of questioning. “Ah, no. He has no further contact with them, that would be… incredibly difficult to put together, considering he’s not related to any of the other foster children. It really isn’t an uncommon situation, kids in the system tend to adapt really quickly to the loss of foster siblings.”

The lady at the table’s mouth thins, just a little. Danny watches, fascinated, at the way her honey eyes shift, and for a second he sees them flash a really pretty purple. Then the color was gone, before he even blinked.

The social worker isn’t looking up, and didn’t see it, and honestly maybe Danny just made it up. He did that sometimes.

“If we come to a decision in favor of bringing him home,” The lady at the table says, her voice firm and warm and calm, “It should be with the understanding that it will be permanent. I dislike the idea of such a young child being moved around so often, that cannot be healthy.”

“It’s not, Mrs. Michaelson, but that’s the system we work with.” The social worker sighs. “Daniel, will you come over here for a second? Mrs. Michaelson wants to speak with you.”

Mrs. Michaelson hadn’t said any such thing, but Danny shrugs and nods, hopping off the chair to walk over to her, tilting his head and looking up and up and up at her pretty eyes. No purple at all.

“Hi,” He says, politely. “You can just say Danny. I don’t really like Daniel.”

The woman - Mrs. Michaelson - nods, slowly, thoughtfully, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “He really is exactly what we had in mind when we began discussing bringing a child home for-... to be a sibling for Ryan,” Mrs. Michaelson says, her voice softer and more gentle now that he stood right there with her. She turns her eyes back to Danny and leans down to get a little closer to him. “I have a little boy named Ryan at my house. Do you think you could be nice to him?”

“Oh, sure,” Danny replies, nodding, because that’s what he’s supposed to say. And he really does like the littler kids - he’s small and littler kids don’t pick on him like all the big kids do. “I always think it’s fun to play big brother. Is your house very big? Would I share with him?”

“Share?” Mrs. Michaelson cocked her head, and it was like Miss Carla’s cockatoo in its cage, and Danny giggled a little. She smiled at the sound. “Oh, like a bedroom? No, darling, you would have your own room, of course you would.”

“Then I think I could be a good big brother,” Danny says, with a grave and thoughtful voice he thought sounded very grown-up. He was rewarded with another smile. Mrs. Michaelson looks him over one more time, taking in his skinny arms and the freckles scattered across his face and the rest of him darkened by the time he spent just sitting outside in the sun.

“He really does fit the profile we were hoping for exactly,” Mrs. Michaelson says, but her voice is very quiet and she seems to be talking more to herself than Danny or even the social worker. “They’re looking for Ryan, but that hair, those freckles… that’s what they think they need to look for, isn’t it? They think we’ re meant to be Irish, but oh no, we’ll fool them, won’t we? We always have...”

“Huh?” Danny cocks his head right back at her, and she laughs, a brilliant, sparkling sound that he loves already.

“I’m sorry, what?” The social worker asks, looking up.

“Oh, nothing,” Mrs. Michaelson says breezily. “Just muttering to myself. I don’t need to speak with Patrick about this, I’ve already decided. We’ll move forward with the adoption immediately.” The social worker smiles, and the two women begin to speak in low tones, throwing words and terms and stuff back and forth Danny hadn’t heard before and doesn’t know. He steps a little closer, and a little closer still.

Danny blinks.

He blinks again.

“The what?”

The two women turn to look down at him.

“Oh,” The social worker says, surprised. “Daniel. Mrs. Michaelson would like to consider adopting you. Would you like to go stay with her and see how it works out?”

“Go stay? For real?” Danny’s heart starts to beat fast inside of him, like when he stands up in front of music class to sing. He smiles, and he clutches onto the little toy man as tightly as he can. “For really real?”

Mrs. Michaelson laughs again, and he hopes she will laugh like that for him a lot when he goes to her house. “For really real,” She says with a nod, and leans over to tap the end of his nose with one finger.

“I, I, I’ll go get my things! I don’t have a lot of things, but I do have, I have a little dog I carry around his name is, um, his name is Scruff and he has a collar but I can get him and I have some clothes-” Danny starts to turn, only for both women to laugh.

He stops and looks back at them, suddenly embarrassed, his face burning bright red under his freckles, feeling his lower lip stick out all on its own. Miss Carla is always telling him to pout less, but he can’t stop, it’s not his fault, the lip just does that.

“Oh,” He says, and feels a wave of hurt and mad. “Oh, it was a joke. I thought you meant for really real.”

The social worker is the first to understand, and her expression goes serious and thoughtful. “Daniel, we’re not laughing because it was a joke. It’s not, Mrs. Michaelson really does want to bring you home to meet her little boy.”

“I do,” Mrs. Michaelson says. “As soon as I can. We were only laughing because you were so excited - and it can’t happen right away, it takes a little while. The agency has already put everything in motion, of course,” She says sidelong to the social worker. “It’s just a matter of getting all the right papers to the right people.”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll take you home, Daniel,” Mrs. Michaelson says to him, and bops him on the nose again. He hates when his foster brothers do this - they always flick the end of his nose and make it hurt - but he kind of likes it, from her.

“Yeah? Not a joke?” Danny’s head goes back up, and he searches both of their faces for signs it’s still just a mean joke, like when Conrad apologizes and then smacks his head again and he didn’t mean the apology at all. “For really really real?”

“Not a joke,” Mrs. Michaelson says, and there’s a sweet little smile on her face as she puts her hand out, littlest finger crooked. “Pinkie swear.”

Danny puts his hand up, too, and he hopes that she understands how much it really means when you say you pinkie swear a thing, because that means you have to do it.

“For really really really really real,” He says, seriously. “You have to mean it or you shouldn’t say it.”

“I mean it,” Mrs. Michaelson says softly. “I really, really mean it. Don’t worry, Danny. I’m going to bring you home to stay with us, and you’ll be just like another son. My little boy Ryan is going to love you. He’s always asking for a brother.”

“Are you going to love me?”

The question startles the two women, who blink down at him in unison.

Then Mrs. Michaelson leans over to tuck a curly bit of bright red hair behind one ear, and smile. “I’m sure I will.”

#Daniel Michaelson's story #not whump #but from a whump story #tiny child danny #corrine michaelson is a bad mom #but he really thought she'd be a great one #poor guy #whump #fiction #daniel michaelson is a tall smol bean #but he used to be a very tiny one #tw: depictions of less than ideal foster care

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destroyyourbinder · 4 years

Text

the day i was a man

In the summer of 2019, I decided to fully shave my head into a buzzcut, something I had never done before. I had a lot of feelings emerge and re-emerge at the time. While I was still visibly female in my day to day life- something that felt uniquely frightening given the utter dykeyness of my haircut- I accidentally discovered one day in August that my haircut could allow me to pass as male. While I had deliberately tried to “pass” in an earlier life, at the height of experiencing gender dysphoria, I was never taken to be a man except by chance (such as from behind or from afar). So potentially being able to pass as male was a new and disorienting experience, one I felt compelled to explore out of multiply perverse kinds of curiosity. As a context note: I mention my partner frequently in this piece, who has detransitioned from her transition from female to male, but chooses to handle her situation through continuing to pass as male at work and in public. Her experiences unavoidably framed my experience trying to pass for a day, and this experiment changed permanently how I see both her passing persona and the public presentation of female transgender people. If you can pull it off, and perhaps even if you can’t (a different, but also nervewracking experience), I recommend women try this at least once, especially if you claim to understand the experiences of transgender female people. It is a female experience to which there are truly few comparisons, and to which even the majority of living gender non-conforming lesbians cannot relate. Having largely recovered from gender dysphoria, I cannot imagine having to permanently live my life this way nor finding it affirming to do so, and I am disturbed that this experience was one I once aspired to and envied. However, I am glad I had it, and I plan to try again sometime in this upcoming summer when I can cut my hair without freezing. My partner now knows I did this, and I am especially curious what it might be like being seen together.

I wrote this the day I chose to do this experiment. My goal was to take public transportation to a shopping center so I could check out some shoes I was considering buying. The first part (in present tense) I wrote before leaving the house and while dressed in preparation, the second part (in past tense) was written after I returned, using my memories of the experience. It has been mildly edited for readability and to include a few details and pieces of context.

----

I am scared of what happens not if I pass but if I don’t pass. In trying to become a man I have become a woman I am afraid of and afraid for. It’s often the same thing when you are a woman watching women. I am having trouble breathing under three sports bras when I usually wear none. My chest is flat unless I actually stand up straight and proud. I have to be ashamed to become a man, although they say men are confident and becoming one will make you so. I debate whether or not to put some kind of fake dick in my pants, although I doubt that will do anything, and I shudder to think what will happen if I do and it doesn’t work. Being a woman with a dick stuffed in your pants: at best I’m pathetic, at worst I am a monster.

I don’t know how to explain this to my girlfriend. I don’t know how to explain that I had to do this, at least once. I don’t know how to explain to her something she already knows.

I wonder if I’ve been watching too many music videos. I wonder if this is about sex. I don’t know how I can wash our dishes while being a man, but I decide I should try before I try something bold like letting people look at me.

The danger of not passing is violence. The danger internally is that it would be deserved. I realize there’s no real way to justify wanting to do this, nonetheless actually doing it. I think wanting to transition is sublimated fear. I wonder if this will help me with my social anxiety, because this fucking sucks. This is not the exposure therapy the doctor ordered. It feels familiar to be ashamed of myself and hold my body this way, like an old chair molding around my butt, like stepping into old shoes. Dykes go to the outdoor store but do bulldykes go there? I realize I don’t know anything about bulldykes. I understand why so many trans people are so preoccupied with being fake vs. real, false vs. genuine. There is something intrinsically very fake about passing. You are faking the other sex. Of course you feel fake. It is a pretense. It feels very odd to pretend so seriously, so people pretend that they are not pretending after all. I am fixated on the small things all over again. I find myself wondering when I tie my girlfriend’s boots to my feet whether or not men have ankles like mine. My laces are too wide at the bottom, too small at the top. I worry that this will lead me to be discovered or worse, mocked. I know this is absurd but in this state I don’t feel like I can take any chances, like I would even know what chances to take. When I went to get the bus I thought I saw my coworker. It ended up not being her, but I crossed the street and circled back because I didn’t want her to see me so strange, doing something so weird and incomprehensible. I understand now why people change towns, friends, abandon their family. This is difficult to explain, even if you say you are “trans”. It doesn’t make sense, fundamentally, to anyone with a grounding in their body. The bus driver was a big black woman, serious face, tattoos. I think she was a dyke. I got the sense she was looking at me out of the side of her eye when I got on the bus, but that might be paranoia. I didn’t know because I didn’t want to look her in the face too hard. I get why my girlfriend’s so avoidant in public. You don’t want people to know what you’re doing, you don’t want people to see your face. It’s real hard to know what emotion to put on there when you’re a dude. It’s real scary to not have the barrier of a woman’s smile or laugh anymore. It almost feels nice to not have to do it, but how do you handle anything? I’m the type of woman who’s been able to get away with this gender weirdo shit throughout my life because I gave an oh-shucks smile at the end of it, that little woman’s laugh that means I’m not a threat, not serious, not anything at all. When you’re “a man” you can’t do that anymore. You’re naked under six layers of clothes. When you can’t do that anymore you’ve got nothing except sheer bravado and nothing to back it up. What if it doesn’t work, what if you suddenly become the type of girl who doesn’t smile? I get why my girlfriend doesn’t look anybody in the face, even though she looks real fucking shifty sometimes. You can’t look a man in the face and not be able to back it up. Men are like reactive dogs. They’ll get fucked up if you look them in the eye. On the bus I realized all of the sudden even though I’ve read a billion passing guides, and I’ve stared down dudes real jealous my whole life I do not know how a man sits. I had fixated so much on the legs and where they go that I didn’t know what they did with hands, elbows; how do you look out the window if you’re a guy? What do you look at? I snatched glances at the dude up front, an ambiguously brown teen who could probably pass as white in the right places but not the wrong ones, a dude with a big mop of floppy curly dark hair and what looked like a serious case of apathy. He was scrolling on his phone, and I could see the divots of acne scars forming on the side of his face. Guy didn’t look like he could grow a lot of facial hair but probably made up for it with encyclopedic knowledge of Fortnite or some shit. I knew he had a life, but he seemed like most men, kind of constitutionally dull. He wasn’t looking at anything, really, I guess only kids and women really look at stuff. Which made it hard to do the whole clandestine observation thing, I decided, a guy who looks at stuff is not really a dude. I tried to look kinda dumb and wasn’t sure where my jaw should go. The girlfriend does this thing sometimes with her mouth that makes me cringe when she does it at home. Sometimes she phases in and out of her passing persona if she’s talking about work or feeling threatened for whatever reason, if she’s in a different place and time than the place and time where she’s home and a wife and all that. She does a little underbite, doing that thing that internet FTMs do in the pictures they take; I figured she learned to do it like a little bird puffs itself up, it makes her little head look bigger and squarer. I tried to do it when out and about; my teeth don’t fit together that way. I’m sure I looked like a moron. But men do dumb shit all the time.

I transferred to the train, and when I got off at the station I ended up walking kinda the wrong way for a while. I imagined all the people in the cars staring at me. I hate walking on the sidewalks along highways and strip malls. I dunno if they look, and if they do, what they see. I was real nervous but I figured I didn’t know any of them anyway and made it into the shopping center where the store was. It occurred to me that if this was an adventure it was quite a stupid one, but it was an adventure nonetheless, complete with the actual lack of excitement and the actual presence of fear. I had never been in this particular store before and everything was displayed so tastefully. I was dismayed to notice the presence of a million salespeople, and realized I didn’t fucking know which gender of shoe I even wanted to try to look at because I didn’t know how I was coming across. I was not going to be a dude who asks for women’s shoes, a.k.a. a woman who’s obviously doing something real weird asking for women’s shoes nonetheless. And at this store you gotta ask for the shoes, and I didn’t want to use my voice because I’m pretty sure I’m obviously female by voice. So I just stared awkwardly at the shoes, mostly, I checked the prices and the clearance racks, and they were too expensive anyway. At one point I realized I was looking at the women’s shoes (which seemed like a huge fucking big deal) and I went to cross over to the men’s shoes, there was a group of bros standing in front of the men’s shoe wall and they parted like the red sea when I went over. I think this was passing because frankly I’ve never had men ever get out of my fucking way. I ended up circling around the store and leaving because no way was I going to afford any of the shit in there, and they didn’t even have very many shoes of the kind I was looking for. I went into the chain pet store next door and wandered around in there. There was a young person working the register who was a young lesbian or a trans kid or something. Every time I saw a woman I felt guilty, it was real weird to be separated so much from women. I had thoughts of jumping out, you know, and saying “boo”, following a woman a bit too close to see what would happen, even though I knew that would be real fucking mean. But it would be the test. See how women react to you: are you still a woman yet? What happens when you’re not a women to women anymore? It seems real fucking lonely. I was already lonely, and it had been maybe three hours. Men are real rude to other men. Some old white sales guy was like,“excuse me”, real curt and direct in a way I’d never got before, not gentle but not with the contempt-force they use towards a fucked up woman. It was empty of all the shit I’d learned to expect. How men deal with the emptiness I don’t know. They must fill it with all sorts of nonsense just to pass the time, just for kicks, is that why they want to hit each other and fuck things? There was a little girl with her family outside the stores, she had a floppy autistic hand and was wearing cargo shorts, I wished her luck inside my head but couldn’t smile at her and my heart broke.

I walked around and tried to find the other location of a store I used to work at. I knew it was around there somewhere but couldn’t find where the building was. My stomach was grumbling and it occurred to me that if I needed to use a bathroom I’d be screwed. Even if I was still plausibly visibly female I was female in the way that’d get me bathroom trouble, and I wasn’t quite dudely enough to stride into the men’s. The store I used to work at had gender neutral bathrooms, and I realized a hell of a lot of trans people must be in a huge pickle all the time. I understand the bathroom resentment even if trans people project their validation shit onto it. It’s easier to believe you’re being invalidated than that you’re scared because you’re doing something real weird and you’re in hiding all the time. I don’t know how people live like this full time. There’s got to be a lot of grief, nihilism, resignation when you finally make it so you can’t go back. The tension’s unbearable: I imagine a lot of trans people think that the tension will be resolved if they make themselves undiscoverable, if they just push themselves more towards perceptibly male.

The sports bras were hurting me. It was hard to walk so much in this get up. I found I was breathing with my mouth open a lot to get enough air, and the word “mouthbreather” kept occurring to me. I realized the shit that I had to knock out of me as an autistic woman was double-edged as someone trying to pass. A lot of it actually helped, a healthy and hamhanded disrespect/disregard for etiquette is very male, but I realized I was still real weird with weird motivations and weird in ways that would make me stick out even as a dude. I understood why the girlfriend has a persona-- she says he’s some nobody, a stoner dude, a guy who doesn’t have all that much to say and of course it’s kinda stupid if he did-- to cover the incongruities. Before I got back on the train there was this young black woman with a swagger, wearing what looked like men’s pants, wandering around the platform. I figured the universe was fucking testing me today because she might be gay too. She was talking on her phone in a video chat, getting way too close to the edge. She wobbled over the edge a couple times, then decided to sit on the fucking platform with her legs out over the tracks . Some shady white guy wearing gloves was doing some weird shit with the ticket machines, a lot of coins were coming out and he was rustling around. I figured he had some kinda scheme and decided to leave him very alone because I didn’t know how the fuck I was supposed to react as a fellow guy if he wanted something from me. The woman didn’t look up when the train coming the opposite way signaled, and I got scared I was gonna have to drag her off the tracks, like maybe she wasn’t doing good and she was gonna try something. I realized I didn’t want to die as a man, didn’t want that woman to be saved by me as a man, what if they called up my girlfriend and said I was some dude, what if she found me in three sports bras and three shirts in the hospital, what would everyone think. Swagger gal jumped the hell out of her skin and scooted away when our train was coming, so I didn’t have to worry about it. When I got on some family plopped down in front of me, and I felt that grief again. If I was a man I couldn’t look at kids with the same gentleness, there was no solidarity with the mom and her weariness, I couldn’t take the load on my hips alongside her. I didn’t want to do this any more. I had planned to catch the bus on my way back but the bus wasn’t going to come for a while. I decided to walk from my home train station and see if I could catch my girlfriend at work but realized I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t know who I was, walking through the dark back into the neighborhood. I peeked into a dark bar with sports on the televisions, a lot of normal heterosexuals doing their thing. But back on the main drag it was trendier heterosexuals everywhere. I stopped beside a dark park to take off two of the bras and tucked them in my pockets. I had no idea what the fuck I looked like when I was walking somewhere more familiar, didn’t know where to put my chin, didn’t know whether I was incongruent, incomprehensible, or I was just myself. My clothes were all mine except the beanie and the boots. It was nothing crazy but I felt crazy, I felt split in two, schizophrenic in the old-school definition way. If my coworkers saw me they’d know me, but maybe I wouldn’t know me in return. When I got to my girlfriend’s workplace I realized she wasn’t in the building; she had stepped across the street to take a break and get some air. I don’t think she recognized me coming across the street. I felt all fucked up for a long hot second until she broke into a smile. I couldn’t tell if she was astonished I was out and about in the area at that hour or that that body was me. I wandered on home, got an Arizona iced tea, went up to the corner pharmacy all weird in the head and high on drag to get some mascara to see if I could make me a beard someday. The people at the pharmacy usually know me, and I didn’t want to be some weirdo who was trying to be a guy in front of them. The guy who I think’s a manager was around, then a barely-outta-adolescence woman with a bob of orange hair and strange makeup and a big old nose ring. These days they make eyebrow mascara, in each brand there were a million different kinds. Who knew, and who knew it cost 12 bucks for a little tube. I went around the corner feeling lucky: there was some in the clearance section. Why someone like me’d buy mascara for your eyebrows, who knows. I was titillated by the tiny brushes. The young woman at the counter wanted to talk to me about my nose ring, hers was only a tad bigger, and she told me she must’ve hit a nerve when she stretched. Her piercings were nice, I was happy to have a conversation with a woman as a woman of some sort even though she was a different kind of woman all in all. When the wall comes down it’s terrible. I can’t imagine that wall all the time and what that must do to women behind it.

#writings

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cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

fox rain | three

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. namjoon) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid namjoon is (oh and like... ant gambling rings??) → words: 15.7K → a/n: this is late by a month and my whole life is a joke. i hope this makes you laugh bc i made namjoon extra dumb for y’all (for no extra charge. suck it, chipotle.) also: check bio for other chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | three | next • —

“This can’t be my fucking life. Can it?” you say to your own reflection, curtains of despair dripping from every inch of your visage. Your reflection stares back, the same dead eyes twitching imperceptibly from the lack of caffeine in your system. At this point, you wouldn’t be sane enough to be surprised if your parallel self would reply, perhaps with some scathing remark about how you were slowly losing your grip on your life. Not that it would be unwarranted, anyway.

After Hoseok’s explosion the other day, your weekend doesn’t exactly feel as exciting as it usually is. Of course, your mood is still a vast improvement from last week when you were out of commission for most it after your mental breakdown. Although, it doesn’t erase the fact that you’re still knee deep in shit and that you have no idea how you’re going to face Hoseok and Jimin the following Monday.

Damn. You could really use some coffee.

The day seems to be in much better spirits than you, and it would be a waste not to let the universe’s good mood try to make you feel better as well. There is a coffee shop just a block away, and maybe you could take a walk in the sunshine afterwards to help relax the dread consistently knocking at the back of your mind. It’s a little bit optimistic, but it’ll have to do.

Shrugging on a thin cardigan over some other semi-decent clothes, you step out of your stuffy apartment with a spring in your step. You didn’t bother with any of your usual morning ritual, seeing as how you don’t plan on meeting with anyone you know from university anyway. So what if your landlady Mrs. Park sees the bird’s nest on top of your head? Who is she going to tell? Her gang of old auntie friends all hate you already for wearing a “TRANS RIGHTS” shirt in front of them, so it’s not like you’re vying for their acceptance.

Other than your less than friendly neighborhood aunties, there are better old people to hang around anyway. Nearby the coffee shop, there is a senior home where you used to volunteer during your spare time until your other commitments forced you to give up your spot to some other benevolent soul. Since you have been meaning to visit the grandmas and grandpas there when you got some free time, you suppose it would be nice to talk to kind ol’ Ms. Kim today and listen to her recount her many youthful adventures (which is, more often than not, a euphemism for her various sexcapades in the 70s.)

The senior home is closer to your home than the coffee shop, so you choose to stop and gaze at the plain-looking white building with its neatly trimmed bushes and white picket fence. It looks out of place in the neighborhood, with its very suburban and Americana design, but you know it is only because the owner of the establishment had gotten her inspiration from Forrest Gump. She has a crush on young Tom Hanks, and you honestly can’t blame her for it; that man… he is a Man, with a capital M.

You’re in the middle of debating whether you should buy your coffee first before visiting the seniors when you hear a distant shout coming from within the house. Alarmed, you take a step back, almost falling on your ass and onto the sidewalk. You pause, tilting your head to try and peak over the fence and through the large windows that showed the reception area within. You recognize Hana, the receptionist, sitting by her desk in her usual green scrubs, her head bowed over a book as if the sound had not fazed her in the slightest.

“Am I crazy? Am I starting to hear things?” You wonder aloud, still staring at the innocent-looking home. Has the universe had enough with your lacklustre existence that it has caused you to hear nonsense? Is this only the beginning of your slow descent into madness?

You don’t have to fret over your sanity for too long because moments later, the shout repeats itself. Like the previous one, this one sounds just as pained and anguished, though you aren’t sure if it was a male or female who had screamed. For all you knew, the person might have either stubbed their toe or gotten a knife stabbed through their chest; it’s not like you spend time distinguishing the subtle nuances of tormented screams. However, you are more certain now that it had come from within the home, even though Hana has yet to react to the chilling noise. She flips to the next page, tired eyes squinting at the small text.

You are stuck at an impasse: do you go inside the home despite the possible danger of entering a secret cannabilist society of which your acquaintance has been initiated to, or do you turn around and go home where it is 100% more likely for you to survive the next 24 hours?

The choice becomes apparent to you, however, when a tall, lanky boy bursts out of one of the doors behind the receptionist, with his arms piled to the ceiling with dinner plates on the cusp of making their way to the floor. Even through the window and behind a fence, you can tell that he is in dire need of help, which Hana does not seem likely to extend. The mess of legs makes a beautiful display of himself, his lower limbs flapping about aimlessly as his body contorts to try and keep himself and the plates balanced.

Finally, after what feels like hours of torture watching the poor volunteer make a fool of himself, he manages to steady himself, his legs crossed together like he’s trying to hold in his piss. Carefully, he squats down, placing the plates on the floor in front of the receptionist desk. For a moment, you feel as though you should be applauding, for whatever reason.

Now without dishes obscuring his face, you can make out the identity of the flailing giraffe man. He turns, fingers combing through his distinctly colored hair––

Oh god. It’s him. You gotta get out of there, fast, before he recognizes you. Maybe if you run quickly enough, then maybe he won’t notice you when he looks out the window around.

“Ha,” the universe laughs, clapping their asscheeks to the rhythm of Ludacris’ Move Bitch Get Out Da Way™️ with a smirk. “Cute of you to think your life isn’t basically a 20-year long trainwreck in motion.”

Inevitably he turns around, his eyes immediately locking on your face despite being half-concealed by the fence. He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish until he lights up, recognition flooding his features. Even though you cannot hear him clearly, you just know that he said something stupid, judging by the way Hana has finally looked up from her book to stare at him weirdly.

Please don’t come out and greet me. Please just let me wave at you awkwardly and for you to stay where you are. Please don’t go out and talk to me––

Your prayers go unanswered once more as he sidesteps the wall of plates, his hip just barely grazing it and almost causing it to tumble down. The pile sways precariously from left to right, miraculously staying put as he rushes out to greet you. You can only imagine the mess he’d have to clean up if it did, shards of cheap porcelain left behind in his awkward, fumbling wake.

Luckily (or unluckily for you), he makes it out of the senior home in one piece. He crosses the short path to the fence in two inhumanly long strides, slamming the fence door open with a wide swing. It smacks loudly against the railing, the hinges making a pained groan as it looks to be at the inch of its life––literally. You vaguely remember replacing the screws on it just before you left over six months ago… Surely you hadn’t done such a shoddy job? Although, you know that simply can’t be true. After all, you’re dealing with none other than destruction incarnate himself, Kim––

“Y/N!” Namjoon greets happily, his dimples deeper than you remember. You swallow heavily, trying your best not to sweat under his overly enthusiastic gaze. God, you should’ve gone straight to the coffee shop when you had the chance.

Nothing like facing disaster head-on, as they say. “Hey,” you reply half-heartedly, though the walking inflatable tube man doesn’t seem to mind your lacklustre mood. He grasps your hands for a shake, swinging your entire body up and down with the care of a man who does not know his own strength. You, his unfortunate victim, are left to suffer through his artery-bursting grip.

“Oh god, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Not that I’m not normally happy to see you at university, but––” He speaks so quickly that it’s hard to keep track of the specific contents of his sentences, so you can only hope that your unenthused nods will be enough to placate the bumbling buffoon. You resign yourself to a fate similar to the bobbleheads on the dashboards of those white suburban soccer moms.

“Wait, hold on.” What on earth..? You are full on gaping at the piece of work on top of his head, not even pretending to be polite as you try to process what is in front of you. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

You know from old Facebook photos that Namjoon has natural black locks, though you can’t say that his wacky hairstyles were also inborn. Ever since you have known him, he has always dyed his hair a sandy brown color, complimenting his tan skin. Now, however…

“You mean the weird blue streaks?” Namjoon says, rubbing a few strands thoughtfully. His hair is a walking disaster, and this is coming from someone who has seen what Kim Seokjin has done to his clients. (There’s a reason his Yelp reviews are terrible… He deserves negative stars, if you’re being honest.)

“Did you lose a dare or something?”

“Uh… Kind of?” He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I had meant to change my hair color to something more exciting, so I asked the kids at the daycare and they suggested blue. Problem is, the seniors said they preferred my brown hair but I already promised the kids so… Here we fucking are,” he says in one breath, appearing as though what he said was obvious.

“So your solution was to compromise… by coloring half your hair blue, like some botched version of Death the Kid?”

“Exactly!” He beams, glad that you understand him perfectly.

Oh my god… He’s… No words are coming to you right now, but you get the picture.

The thing about Kim Namjoon is… he’s not… bad. Or dumb, for that matter.

Okay, not the best compliment out there, but it’s true. You’ve known for as long as you’ve been a university student, and your first meeting is certainly one for the books. You wouldn’t exactly consider him a “friend,” and an acquaintance is a bit of a stretch on most days, but he’s a nice guy. He’s eccentric in the most positive way, and not at all in the same chaotic and evil way that Seokjin is (for which you are thankful for.) It has always been a bit tricky to get close with him, as his head is always so far up in his work that it almost feels like he’s being reclusive on purpose.

If you ignore the fact that he has that odd propensity to volunteer himself in any job on the face of the earth (with him being unqualified 9 times out of 10), it is easy to see why people think so highly of him.

He is a scholarship student with a 4.0 GPA, is the youngest candidate to ever receive the university president’s yearly public commendation, and has already released two reputable mixtapes with high praise from critics nationwide. He’s nothing if not a prodigy, and he’s amassed a hefty following for his accomplishments. As a music major yourself, it’s hard not to be a little starstruck with him if you’re being honest.

Most of all, you remember the first song that you had ever heard from him: Moonchild. You still can’t quite believe he let you hear one of his many masterpieces when the two of you had just been total strangers. The lyrics had been so heartfelt, so intimate, that you felt as if you were intruding on his personal space or something. But he had let you listen, let you take a peek at what goes on inside that nebulous brain of his. When he does things like that, it makes it easy to understand why people might think your love poem might be about him. He’s just so… easy to admire.

The poem isn’t about him, but. It could have been, in some other life. (Or maybe it is.)

(Was.)

(Will?)

Regardless, you still have to convince him otherwise. You just simply aren’t ready for that type of development, much less with him. Despite all his good sides.

Thus, Kim Namjoon leaves you at a standstill. Why do you feel so fucking weird about harboring this idol crush on him? How can he be so dumb and so smart at the same time? He has blue fucking hair for crying out loud! He’s causing you cognitive dissonance just by existing, and it’s giving your meagre amount of brain cells a workout.

Oh shit, have you been ignoring him? You were totally zoning out this entire time, haven’t you?

Somewhere around the time you were having your mini mental breakdown, Namjoon’s mouth had stopped moving, giving you an expectant look. Oh shit. He probably asked you something. Embarrassed and unwilling to give away that you had not processed even a single word out of his mouth, you nod and give him an approximation of what you assume is a friendly smile.

For a second, you think that you might have gotten away with it when Namjoon’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. He grabs you by the shoulder and envelops you in an chokehold-like embrace. You let out a wheeze, clawing at his biceps with your remaining strength to try and prevent your untimely death due to asphyxiation. “Namjoon..?”

He lets out a shriek at a higher octave than you thought a man of his size was capable of. Somewhere out there, a dog probably perks up at the supersonic sound. “Y/N, I knew I could count on you! Thank you so much for agreeing to help me with the elders for Zombie Tea Time!”

Now that caught your attention. You pause in your squirming to fix him with a confused expression. “I’m… I’m sorry? What did you say?”

His smile never falters. He presses his cheek against yours, rubbing it happily with a hum. In any other scenario, you might have fainted from how adorable he was being, but seeing as how all your blood is still trapped in your upper extremities from his vice hug, it is difficult enough trying to remember how to stay alive.

“Every Saturday, the senior home hosts this event called Zombie Tea Time where the old people all get to have their faces painted with fake blood and all the volunteers have to pretend to be innocent civilians trying to get away from them!”

The more Namjoon speaks, the more you feel your sanity dripping out of your ass like diarrhea. “Ex. Excuse me? Say that again?”

“Yeah, it’s a new thing the volunteers are trying out this month,” Namjoon says, finally (finally) releasing you from his hug. You don’t know if your flushed cheeks are from embarrassment or a stroke. “Like I said, we’re a bit shorthanded today, so I’ve had to wash the plates from breakfast AND pretend to get eaten by senile zombies. It’s… a lot.”

“Oh, I can tell.” You grimace, patting him on the shoulder empathetically. You freeze. “Wait. So that’s why you were screaming a while ago?”

“Huh?” Namjoon pauses, before his face does something funny where it looks like he’s either going to sneeze or take a shit. Thankfully he does neither, but instead reaches his hand around his back like he has an itch he needs to scratch. He makes a pained yelp, plucking something out from his asscheeks and pulling out what appears to be––

You stare at the object in his palm. “Are those… dentures?”

“Hmm…” Namjoon stares at it, too tired to be disgusted. He just nods his head sagely. “Must’ve been when I was too slow to dodge Mister Lee’s lunge. I was beginning to wonder why my ass felt like it was being eaten out.”

“Please, never say that sentence to me ever again.”

“Yea,” he agrees, sighing faintly. He pockets the teeth much to your horror, patting it gently like he hadn’t just placed a pair of dentures in his fucking scrubs. He dusts off his hands, his lips pursed so that his dimples stand prominently on display. You barely contain yourself from sinking your finger right into their hypnotizing abysses.

He looks at you hopefully. “So… Uh. You said you’ll help me?”

Oh right. You fucking said you’d help him fend off a hoard of virulent old people in face paint.

You look to the right, where the coffee shop is just within sight. Sweet, sweet caffeine, tantalizing you with its saccharine presence, dangling its wretchedly addictive power over your head. If you breathe deeply enough, you think you can smell the coffee beans from here.

You turn back to Namjoon, and you can physically feel the weight of his hopeful gaze on your shoulders. Your defenses have never crumbled so quickly in your life. Fuck him and his stupidly handsome ass.

You sigh, resigning your fate to eternally being whipped for a pair of pretty long legs and size B man titties. “Let’s fucking do this, I guess.” Easier said than done, but you already have one foot in elephant shit, so might as well submerge your whole body as well.

You follow Namjoon closely, having to take two extra steps for every one step that he takes. He crosses the reception area quickly, sending energetic finger guns at Hana which unsurprisingly goes unrequited. You take the more inconspicuous route and wave shyly at her, intimidated by her even after you have long since stopped working here. She levels you with one of her infamous hundred yard stares, lips turned downwards as she appraises you.

“You’ve decided to come back?” she asks, leaning back on her chair with a huff.

Namjoon is in the midst of trying to once again carry all the plates in his Play-Doh arms, so you’re a bit distracted when you shake your head in response. “Uh. N-no, Namjoon just asked me to help with the dishes, that’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” Hana says, no trace of disappointment in her voice whatsoever. She returns to her book, buzzing open the double doors to let the two of you pass. She flicks her hand lazily at the commotion happening behind her. “Better hurry back in there. The seniors are getting antsy.”

The doors open automatically, and you almost topple over when you are immediately bombarded with the terrifying symphony of old people hollering obscenities at frantic volunteers trying desperately to get away from their gnarled clutches. The hoard hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, and you fear to wonder what type of horrors that you will have to face once you step through those doors. You absolutely refuse to die on this hill, not when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet.

“I don’t think we’ll die,” Namjoon says, as if he can read your mind. You look at him skeptically.

“You think?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t promise we’ll come out of this unscathed, though.”

He takes a tentative step forward, the pile of dishes wobbling dangerously on their perch. You are quick to steady the leaning tower of Disa(ster), managing to transfer half of it into your own arms. You grunt, adjusting your stance so that you do not accidentally lose your grip. “Dude. How the hell did you get all those plates out here in the first place?”

Namjoon stands up straighter, the weight significantly easier for him to manage now. He smiles cherubically back at you, eyes crinkling cutely. “Oh, I was literally on survival mode and trying to stop lil Mrs. Sun from gnawing my leg off. The elders can smell fear you see, so they were definitely going to climb on top of me like World War Z and probably kill me.” He pauses, deep in thought. “Although, I think I dropped a plate or two while I was escaping, so watch your step!”

He says all of that with the same eagerness as man who is about to do something crazy, like jump out of a plane or walk a tightrope over a 100 ft canyon. Though, you have to admit that this entire scenario feels like it is on the same calibre.

“Is it me, or are the old people here 10 times crazier than I remember when I volunteered here?”

“You used to work here?” Namjoon says, amazed. “Oh, I didn’t know that! I only started a week ago when some other person resigned due to mental health issues or something.”

“You sure that this place isn’t the cause of their mental decline?” You say it like a joke, though you mean it seriously. Maybe the universe had been looking out for you when decided to get out of this place.

“Hmm… Maybe. Although, we only received this shipment of old people fairly recently.”

Pause. Rewind. “S-shipment?” you repeat, staring at him wildly.

Like the lovable airhead that he is, Namjoon fails to notice your astonishment and instead takes the first brave step forward through the double doors. He tilts his head towards the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him. The plates rattle dangerously from his movements. “C’mon, we gotta get these plates cleaned before the lunch crew comes to take over their shifts!”

Walking to the kitchen is easier than you thought, especially after you take into account the fact that all the old people completely ignored you and chose to only attack Namjoon, for whatever reason. You like to think that it is because the seniors still remember you back when you were still volunteering here and that they hold some semblance of endearment for you, but Namjoon begs to differ. In fact, he screams out his hypothesis as to why you have been left unharmed, all while two older women climb his back like demented crabs.

“Y/N! I think they can’t attack you because you’re in civilian clothes! They only attack scrubs!” Namjoon says, swatting away one of the women off his back with a surprisingly coordinated headbutt. She shrieks as she falls, landing on all four legs like a cat would do. She hisses lowly at you, before scuttling off to somewhere unseen.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” you wince, watching Namjoon unsuccessfully trying to spin quick enough to dislodge the remaining senior.

Namjoon perks up when he catches a glimpse of his attacker’s face, giggling and appearing as if he isn’t currently being assailed by a senior citizen. “Oh, Ms. Kim! I didn’t see you there. I love the zombie make-up you got going. Who helped you?” He looks at you, as if imploring you to compliment her as well.

“Uh. Yes. You’re looking very… yellow.”

Ms. Kim snarls, baring her teeth. “It’s the jaundice,” she says.

Not wanting to stand in that hallway any longer, you carefully place the plates back on the floor before you gently unclamp the old lady’s talons from Namjoon’s poor biceps. You wince, feeling the length of her nails and knowing that Namjoon is going to have some nasty scars.

You tell him so, but he only shakes his head. “Nah? I think they’d be pretty neat! Battle scars are cool right?”

You grimace at him. “If that’s… what you think, then sure.”

After grabbing your plates and hurrying after him before the elders make note of Namjoon’s survival, the two of you share a sigh of relief as you both slowly start piling them into the dishwasher. The task is menial and repetitive, and despite what Namjoon’s earlier chattiness might have suggested, he is quiet while he works. The silence is not as awkward as you feared, and honestly the peace is a welcome respite after all the chaos that you had to endure in such a short period of time. Although, silence has never been a good friend to your overworked mind, as it allowed you to stew inside your own head for much too long––and you have found in your 20 years of existence that it is probably for the best that you are not left without external stimulation for too long.

But here you are, forced to do exactly that. You would have engaged in some conversation with Namjoon to stop yourself from getting in over your head, but you are afraid of what sort of embarrassing topics might spew out of your mouth if you do. Heaven forbid that you start geeking out on him about your unhealthy obsession of collecting miniature glass horse figurines––that is a secret best kept between yourself and the tentacle monster under your bed.

You begin reflecting on the events from the past two weeks, replaying them second by agonizing second and ruminating on the state that your pitiful young adult life has become. The more you allow these memories to simmer, the more you slowly realize the weight of the accumulated stress that has long since made you hunch over like a goblin.

Hoseok and Jimin’s argument comes to the forefront of your mind, the unexpected heat coming from both of them confusing you to no end. You still don’t know the source of their ire towards one another, but what baffles you the most is how you could have missed it in the first place. Sure, you had thought they were at least more than acquaintances; one does not simply challenge a near stranger to a dance off in the middle of a library three times a week, for more than two months and counting. Friends might have been a stretch, though you can’t say you’re familiar with how their schedules look like outside your tutoring sessions together.

The question is though… should you interfere? Normally, you would have stayed far away from anyone else’s drama––you just aren’t the type of person to stick their noses in other people’s business. Yet somehow, you feel as if your poem was the catalyst to this violent chain reaction, that you have inadvertently caused the foundation of a precarious building to explode and bring the whole thing crashing down. To think that your silly love poem for a boy who hardly knows that you exist has become the center of so many people’s lives… the entire thing is giving you a headache.

Speaking of headaches… you should probably confront Namjoon about the poem as well. It is probably best that you plan your approach better this time, seeing as how your two previous attempts have been anything but stellar. Namjoon can’t be that difficult to convince, right? And even if he does see right through you, he doesn’t seem like the type of person who would laugh cruelly at you in the event that he figures out that you are the author. Not like Seokjin, at least. Luckily no one is like Seokjin, the fucking rat bastard that he is.

(In the distance, Seokjin has the sudden animalistic urge to slip anthrax in your milk tea the next time he sees you.)

You glance at Namjoon from the corner of your eye, definitely not ogling the way his arms flex as he loads the final couple of plates. The breath catches in your throat when you realize that some time while you were busy swimming in your junkyard of a brain, he had rolled up his sleeves up to his forearms, displaying his god-like veins for the eyes of the deplorable (you) to feast upon.

Your mouth feels dry, even though other parts of you feel more moist than you remember. Oh god, now is not the time to remember how hot this fucking nerd is.

Despite the fact that your biological clock is screaming “HORNY HOUR” at your monkey brain, Namjoon continues to be thankfully unaware of your internal panic. He closes the dishwasher door shut, clicking it on with a relieved sigh. He gives you a megawatt smile and makes your heart leap into a somersault, probably knocking around some vital organs along the way.

“Thanks so much for the help, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it without you!” he cheers, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You wheeze under the impact, waving away his concern despite feeling like your lungs have probably slipped out of your asshole.

“It’s no problem, Namjoon…” you sigh, gazing sadly as Namjoon begins to do a final sweep of the kitchen before inevitably going to sign off for the day. You know your window of opportunity has already closed, and if you had not spent so much time staring at his beautiful man tiddies, you are sure you could have been a little more productive with him. Curse him and his damn chest.

But now, at least you’ll have more time to think of how to approach him and bring up the poem when you aren’t, like, seriously decaffeinated and on the cusp of a heart attack. You are about to bid him farewell with your tail between your legs when his hands cup your cheeks, catching you off guard.

You splutter incomprehensibly, arms flapping about like a fish out of water. “Wha––?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention! After my hours here at the senior home, I have the afternoon shift at the daycare center near our university and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

If Namjoon’s cool, large hands holding your face like a delicate flower had caught you off guard, then his sudden invitation only exacerbated the furious blush blooming across your neck like a rash.

So what do you say?

“Meep,” is what you say, like the verbose poet that you are. Y/N, renowned campus poet, has the vocabulary of a five year old.

“Is that a yes?” Namjoon smiles, letting go off you in favor of looping his gangly arms around your waist. Another unflattering noise escapes your throat at his proximity and his firmness. “That’s so great! The kids love seeing new faces, and I bet they’d love to have a pretty girl around instead of plain ol�� me all the time!”

You gape at him. Did he just say…

“P-pretty?”

“Yea, sure!” Namjoon says, his stupid grin still on his stupidly handsome face. He does not appear to be embarrassed at all by his brazenness, which is starting to make you think he is either a well-seasoned flirt or just plain oblivious to the implications of his own words. Knowing him, you wouldn’t put it past him that the latter might be the reason.

Compliments and unintentional flirting aside, you really did not feel up to another harrowing experience with Namjoon at one of his other volunteering stunts. You are but a woman in clown shoes, and even the most seasoned clowns must have their rest.

“Listen, Namjoon… I don’t think I can go with you. I have to go, uh,” you pause, your hamster brain working a mile a minute. “Water… my dog? No, I mean… feed my plant.” You cringe, mentally slapping yourself.

Namjoon, the sneaky bastard, hits you with his strongest and most potent puppy dog eyes in his arsenal. It was super effective! “Please, Y/N? I won’t take too much of your time! Just play with the kids for two hours and I promise to leave you alone!”

C’mon, Y/N. Focus. Are you the type of woman to break down her defenses for the wilful fancies of any man? You’re made of stronger stuff than this. Surely you can look him in the eye and tell him straight to his face that you would prefer to go home and rest on this beautiful Saturday than go frolicking with a bunch of snot-nosed children––

“Oh, sure. Why the hell not?” you say, like the dumb fucking idiot that you are.

Namjoon’s dimples deepen even further. You glare menacingly at them, knowing full well that they were entirely the cause of your weakness.

“Thank you so much, Y/N! The kids will really appreciate your presence! C’mon, we haven’t got time to lose!”

Namjoon does not even give you the time to fully comprehend your own pitiful existence before he nearly tugs your arm out of its socket as he maneuvers you to the local daycare just a few minutes away from the senior home. You don’t get to say your farewells to any of the seniors or your old work colleagues, but it might be for the best… You will need all the sanity left in your body to survive the rest of the day with Namjoon.

On the bright side, that means you’ll have the chance to talk to him about the poem, though you’re still hesitant to do so with how badly your previous stunts had ended up. But then again, when else would you get another good opportunity to talk to your crush acquaintance about this? You suppose you’ll just have to wait and see what happens next, and hope for the best.

You have been at the daycare for almost three hours now, and there are still no signs of you ever bringing up the poem. You might as well sign your last will and testament with the macaroni art supplies currently decorating your body, making you look like a morbid pasta dish monster from hell. You hope to god that the sticky stuff all over your skin is just cheese… White, rubbery scented cheese…

“Ain’t this fun?” Namjoon calls out from somewhere, presumably under the mass of ten or so toddlers all climbing him like a tree. You are caught in a state of déjà vu as the children start feasting upon any exposed areas of skin that their kid-sized incisors can find.

You just wanted to talk about the fucking poem for fuck’s sake! Instead, you have to deal with thirty 2-foot children and one 6-foot manchild during one of your only free days in a week.

A miniature demon tugs your sleeve, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Namjoon’s slow demise. You bend down to the little gremlin’s height, mouth twitching upwards in what you hope is a somewhat decent smile. Judging by the kid’s unimpressed face, you doubt it.

“Yes?”

“Miss Y/N? Can you tell your boyfriend that Jake peed in the ballpit again? Aera slipped on the puddle and now she’s crying and disturbing the younger kids.”

Record scratch, freeze frame. Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. Out of all the things the kid had said, you are sure that his implication that you were Namjoon’s girlfriend should not have been on the top of your list of priorities, and yet here you are, your cheeks as flushed as a baboon’s ass.

“He’s not––We’re not––” you stammer, waving your hands as you try to explain to this unenthused six year old that what she said was entirely impossible. “Namjoon is just a friend!”

You turn to look for the man in question, desperate for him to back you up when you realize he is no longer there. Confused, you leave the huffing child in search for him. You leave the main playroom and search the nearby nurseries, the kitchen, the bathroom… all of them with no Namjoon in sight. Just so you can cover all your bases, you decide to check one of the supply closets too, not really expecting to find anything except––

“Namjoon? What the fu––fudge?” You quickly correct yourself, noticing that not only is Kim Namjoon inside the cramped broom closet, but he is also surrounded by five other children huddled around what appears to be a series of tupperwares connected together by plastic straws.

Namjoon hastens a glance at you, before refocusing his attention back onto what he deems to be more important. He nudges his shoulder against the smallest of the bunch, stage whispering into her ear. “Jihyo, did you bet the three lollipops on Ant #3?”

Jihyo shakes her head, looking mildly offended. “Oppa, do you think I’m dumb? I bet all of my chocolate bars on Ant #6.”

Namjoon whistles lowly, impressed. “All-in? You’re one smart lady.”

You clear your throat. “Namjoon.”

Namjoon has the audacity to hold a finger up to silence you. “Give me a sec… Okay, Seungcheol. You said ten hard candies for Ant #2?”

“Namjoon. Are you seriously running a gambling ring in a daycare?”

He peers up at you, smiling sheepishly. “I’m, uh… Teaching them about capitalism.” He deposits the candy bets into his pocket before starting the timer on his phone. The children begin to cheer raucously, little fists pumping up as they watch their bets race towards a slice of cake.

“I can’t believe this,” you groan, wanting nothing more than the earth to swallow you whole.

Eventually, Namjoon exits the closet, gently closing the door. The shouts of the children become muted immediately. When you gaze inquisitively at him, all he does is shrug his shoulders. “What? Secret clubs allow people to explore their interests.”

At this point, you don’t really want to argue anymore. And so, the hectic day goes by, full of running after the children and occasionally having to reel Namjoon in when he does something bordering on negligence. The parents slowly start filtering in by five in the afternoon, most of whom pat Namjoon affectionately on the back and thanking him for his stellar daycare service.

“Oh, Namjoon! My little Jihyo absolutely adores you! She hardly wants to leave whenever I come to pick her up.” Jihyo’s mother smiles, slipping a small tip into Namjoon’s waiting palm. The little shit pockets it, bowing graciously at her.

“All in a day’s work, madame. I just love children, you know?” he says, sighing dramatically.

From behind her mother, Jihyo gorges herself on her prize winnings, shoving a whole packet of M&M’s into her mouth. She swallows them quickly when her mother turns to bring her home.

“I hate this,” you say to yourself, smiling through the pain.

“Oh, before I forget!” Jihyo’s mother dashes back inside, startling you. She approaches you, grasping your hands in hers and shaking it wildly until you can hear your joints pop out of their sockets. “Your name is Y/N right? Thank you for taking care of Namjoon, too. It’s so nice to see that he’s finally snagged a girl as pretty as you.”

It is a testament to how dead inside you truly are by how nonplussed you are by their unfounded accusation. At this point, they could congratulate you on your recent engagement to Namjoon and you probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Thanks.” All in a day’s work of being a madman’s little bitch for the day.

After the last child is taken away, your Saturday finally ends. There had been no poem discussion and no progress made; only your respect from one of your long-time crushes being whittled away like the soaps on those ASMR channels until you are left with useless cubes of Irish Spring scented granules.

On your way home, you pass by Seokjin sitting languidly on the bench outside the coffee shop that you had originally intended to go to this morning. The closed sign greets you impetuously, and your wounds are salted further by the sheer presence of the most annoying man on the planet.

Seokjin sips on his venti iced Americano, Gucci sunglasses tipped downward on his nose. An odd, high pitched windshield wiper sound escapes his lips, and you belatedly realize that he must be his version of laughter. “Y/N. So nice to see you. I’m guessing that you just came out of a… fishy affair?”

You grind your teeth, flexing forward with the intent of hitting the rat bastard. Fish crackers fall out of your hair in clumps from your movement. “I’ll eat your toes if you say another word about this.”

You say that, but you know that there will be photos of you out on Facebook by the time your head meets your pillow for the night, as you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter go off as you limp sadly back home.

The following Monday, you resolve to talk to Namjoon during your History of Music class together.

Now normally, you would never subject yourself to sitting near Namjoon in class. No, it is not because of your debilitating crush, nor his eccentric personality, nor something unexpected like insanely toxic body odor (which he does not have, by the way. He always smells alarmingly like cotton candy.) In fact, nobody likes to sit near Namjoon, made apparent by the two row radius of empty chairs around him. As much as everyone adores and idolizes him for his talent, no one can stand his propensity to overachieve like the infuriating know-it-all that he is. His hand is perpetually up in the air, begging to be picked for recitation, always with something profound to say.

“Sir, I don’t think your notes are correct. From my research, that type of music would not have existed until the 1600s––”

“Namjoon,” your professor seethes, Powerpoint clicker clutched tightly in his fists. His left eyebrow twitches concerningly as he tries to calm his breathing. “I would prefer it greatly if you do not question the actual expert in this area, is that okay with you?”

Yeah. He is definitely not someone you’d want to sit beside.

Though, he really makes it hard not to want to be around him. Despite all the imperfect parts of his personality, Namjoon always looks like the cover model of what a perfect college boyfriend should dress like. Terrible dyejob aside, his hair is slicked back in a fashionable way, revealing his beautiful forehead for all of humanity to behold. He is wearing a fitted graphic tee under a denim jacket, with loose brown slacks that look good on his endlessly long legs. To top it off, his signature wire-frame glasses sit daintily on his nose, making him appear as smart as he is.

You are suddenly reminded of the true scale of your crush on him as sweat begins to build on your neck and down your backside. How the hell are you going to approach him now that you are perfectly aware of how good he looks? It is people like Kim Namjoon that remind you of this universal truth: attractive people only exist to cause the less fortunate to forget how to use their basic motor skills.

Focus. Remember how much of a crackhead he was last Saturday? Okay, retain that information. Remember how fucking stupid he is, and this will be much easier on your heart and your loins.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way to where he is seated, right at the front of the class. It is a long way down the auditorium to where he is, and you can feel the stares of a few of your classmates as you make the treacherous journey right into the proverbial lion’s maw. You do your best to ignore them, quietly sliding up next to him and waiting for him to notice your presence.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that he is jotting something frantically on a notebook, a mess of words in more languages than you can speak decorating every available space on the smooth white pages. At the top of the paper, you can see what might be a tentative title for a song, perhaps? You can’t be too entirely sure, as Namjoon is part of so many clubs and organizations that he might as well be writing next week’s lunch menu for the cafeteria.

(Highly doubtful as Namjoon has a reputation for allowing inflammable things to catch on fire, but you wouldn’t put it past him to at least try and apply for a culinary position.)

It seems that Namjoon is too immersed in his writing to greet you himself, so you have to be the one to steel yourself and strike a conversation with him instead.

“Uh. Hey… Namjoon?” Smooth like butter. Seokjin would be proud.

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He keeps scribbling along, humming something indistinct under his breath.

You clear your throat. “Namjoon?”

No response. Again, “Hello?” You wave a hand in front of his face. His blinking slows for a second, but he continues to ignore you.

Starting to get pissed off, you huff quietly to yourself before bringing your palm backwards and slapping him upside the head. “HEY PANINI HEAD! YOU FUCKING IN THERE OR WHAT?”

That manages to bring him out of his headspace, thankfully. “Huzzat?” Namjoon jumps, cradling the back of his neck gingerly as he stares at you, confused. Recognition filters through his eyes as he realizes belatedly what had just happened. He blushes slightly. “Oops.”

“Oops is right. Were you really going to ignore me for the rest of the class if I hadn’t slapped you?”

Namjoon shrugs, grinning in that cute goofy way that he does. “Sorry. ‘M not used to people sitting beside me, is all. Glad to have a friend in this class though! Have you always been in this class?”

“Yea, but I usually sit in the back.”

Namjoon nods, turning back to his notebook. “Sorry for ignoring you. I really didn’t mean it. When I’m in the middle of writing, it’s kind of hard to get me out of my own brain. Plus, this draft is due in two weeks and I’ve scrapped three pages worth of lyrics already… I’m kind of in a panic right now.”

You peek over his arm, trying your best to decipher some of his words. Your interest is piqued, always having wanted to see his draft notebook ever since that first time he showed you Moonchild almost a year ago. “Lungs have capsized… I am drowning in my own body… Wow, those are some dark stuff.”

“You think so?” Namjoon squints at his own messy handwriting. “I got inspired by the fish in the aquarium I volunteer in. I’m actually excited to go back there, because I want to play it for the fish and see if they like it.”

“Isn’t it better to play it at the daycare of senior home so you can actually get… human feedback?”

Namjoon gasps, hand to his heart, offended. “How dare you assume that fish can’t give quality feedback!”

“Right,” you cough, raising your hands in defeat. How dare you, indeed. “Sorry.”

Namjoon sniffs, closing his notebook just as the professor walks in to start the class. “You better be. The fishies get really offended when people say stuff like that.”

The professor begins the moment he sets down his things, so you know you won’t have time to bring up the poem, not when Namjoon is already starting to fall into his overachieving know-it-all student persona. You tap him lightly on the shoulder, gaining his attention.

“Hey, I have to ask you something later after class. Will you stay behind for a few moments?”

“Sure,” Namjoon replies cheerily, flipping on his laptop to start taking down notes. He stops in his tracks before gazing warily at you. “Hold on. If this is about the fishies again…”

You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, so you sigh instead. “No, Namjoon. This isn’t about the fishies.”

Appeased, Namjoon returns to listening attentively to the professor drone on about dead musicians and their impact on musical culture. You hardly take any notes, still nervous about talking to Namjoon about the poem. What would be the best way to approach the subject, you wonder? Your previous attempts with Seokjin and Hoseok had featured a lot of yelling and arguing, and you would prefer not to leave a bad impression on Namjoon of all people. Additionally, you don’t want to know what arguing with Namjoon would entail, because you have a strong feeling that any debate with him will only leave you second guessing your entire existence with how good he is at flipping the subject. Or, you could always kick him in the knees, but that would be like overpowering a baby––you’d be a monster for taking advantage of him.

The short one hour lecture flies by quicker than you would like. To your surprise, Namjoon only interrupts the professor twice, so you suppose that’s a win for everyone else.

“Alright class. Please remember that the research paper regarding 17th century music is due on the Friday before your break,” your professor says. He points a stern look at all of you, and maybe you’re imagining it, but somehow you feel like he pauses just a second longer when he passes his gaze over you. “And please, try not to send your paper to the entire student body to air your secret little crushes like a bunch of lovestruck idiots.”

Your ears turn an unflattering shade of red as most of the students chuckle at his little joke, all of them probably not knowing that the lovestruck idiot was just a few seats away.

“C’mon, Namjoon.” You sigh, shrugging on your backpack as you wait for him to finish packing up. Namjoon watches you curiously, brows furrowed.

“You seem dejected. Are you having trouble with class? Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“N-not… not really,” you say, shaking your head. “Can we talk about this outside? People for the next class are starting to come in.”

Namjoon follows you dutifully from behind, and you can hear him bid his farewells to a few giggling freshmen as the two of you exit the lecture hall. They coo openly in his presence, with one of them bold enough to compliment his fairly generous bosom, her fingers twitching as if she is only one push away from grabbing them by the fistful.

You walk towards the small cafe near the entrance of the building, grabbing one of the empty chairs and gesturing for Namjoon to sit across from you. He does as you say, confusion still gracing his handsome features.

“So, will you tell me why you’ve called me out here now?” Namjoon asks. Before you can respond, however, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a half squished sandwich. He offers you the less crushed half, like the gentleman that he is, but you find it hard to accept when you feel like your stomach is turning inside out with nerves.

“Umm… How do I say this…” You groan, leg bouncing so incessantly that the poor table begins to shake. Namjoon doesn’t even try to stop his other sandwich half from sliding over, instead giving you a concerned glance.

Fuck it. Better to rip the band-aid off in one swoop, right?

“Y/N––?”

“Namjoon, are you aware that people think someone wrote a stupid love poem about you?”

His previously open mouth clamps shut, then. He stares at you in confusion, a dollop of mayonnaise hanging off his jutting chin. “What?”

Panicking slightly, you’re quick to continue your train of thought, probably to your own detriment. “NOT that the poem is about you, by the way. Well, it could be? No? I DIDN’T WRITE IT!” Pause for heavy breathing. “A-anyway, that’s not the point… I just wanted to ask if you were… umm… aware of it. Yeah. That’s it.”

Ohhhh my god. You stupid idiot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you fucking stupid piece of shit ass tit fuck what other swear words are there oh yeah FUCK!!!

In the midst of your personal mental beatdown, you fail to see Namjoon’s genuine look of confusion, his head tilted to the side as he watches your face turn red. He chews on his sandwich thoughtfully. “Uh? No? I’m not aware? I really have no idea what you are talking about, Y/N.”

You finally stop swearing at yourself. “Wait, really?”

Namjoon nods his head. “Really. What poem are you talking about?”

“Please tell me you’re joking. I don’t really like being teased; I get enough of that from Seokjin.”

“No, I’m serious!” Namjoon raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t joke about something that is clearly giving you distress.”

“It’s not causing me distress!” You screech back, voice cracking from your tone going up a pitch. You clear your throat. “Um. Wait. So that means you haven’t heard about the huge rumor going around about a love poem being about you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lips pursed. “Not a clue. Am I supposed to?”

Huh. You stare at the imbecile before you, his previously handsome looks starting to look less appealing by the minute. Is this shithead for real? Did you really spend hours worrying over how you would approach him about the poem, only to find out that he has no clue what you’re talking about? Like, how is it even possible for him not to know? You can’t even spend a minute doing anything without someone bringing up that stupid mistake of a poem. How the hell did you ever have a crush on him?

“Pardon? Did you say crush something?”

“Oh shit,” you curse, slapping a palm to your mouth. Did you fucking say that out loud?

“Sorry,” Namjoon swallows thickly, a large bite of his sandwich visibly going down his gullet. “I was chewing too loudly so I didn’t hear you properly.”

You heave a sigh of relief. Okay, maybe being an idiot has its benefits.

“It’s fine. It wasn’t anything important,” you say, already arranging your things to get up and leave. If Namjoon is oblivious to all the poem shenanigans that have been circling campus, then who are you to inform him? All you can hope now is that he remains ignorant of the poem at all, and chalk it up as a success in your book. It’s not like he’s going to be curious to find out more anyway––

“Wait! Don’t go! You’ve piqued my interest now. I wanna know what you were talking about,” Namjoon pipes up, leaning his lanky body sidewards so as to block you from leaving. You halt in your movements, surprised by his sudden inquiry.

Sweat starts to form in the middle of your back at his earnest curiosity. “I––it’s nothing, Namjoon. I was just messing with you. Don’t worry about it.” You laugh nervously.

“I don’t think you were?” Namjoon rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t have been so adamant to call me out here just to be joking.”

“Listen, I really have to go. I have another class soon and I wanna grab lunch before I––”

“You said something about a poem.” He remains undeterred, pulling out his phone. “And it’s about me? Well, not about me, if that’s what you’re saying…”

“Hold up!” You snatch his phone out of his hands, holding it behind you to keep it from his reach. Even though you know his inquisitiveness is not his fault, it doesn’t stop you from wanting to punch him square in his cute little nose. Hell, you don’t recall wanting to fight anyone as much as you do right now.

(Seokjin sneezes somewhere in the distance, feeling offended for whatever reason. “Y/N should only be punching me,” he thinks to himself as he dumps way too much purple dye on this poor lady’s head.)

“Why are you being so weird right now? Give me back my phone!” He pouts at you, not at all knowing that your resolve is already quickly crumbling before him.

“I…” You gulp, foot tapping restlessly as you try to think of what to do. “Okay. Fine, I’ll show you the poem. Just… don’t read too deeply into it, okay? It’s just a stupid thing that got too many people excited over nothing.”

“Sure,” Namjoon nods his head, acquiescing quickly. “I don’t really like paying attention to much of the rumors and trends that happen on campus. I just want to see what this poem is all about.”

“Just… don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, returning his phone to him. You direct him to the university confessions group page, watching as his fingers fumbled with his keyboard. Eventually, he gets to the post (pinned to the top, forever mocking you for your stupidity) and reads the short piece in record time.

There is a pause where neither of you speak. You know he has finished reading it from the way he has started to scroll down to the comments, though he quickly jumps back to the top when you glare at him to stop. He leans back into his chair, closing his phone and stares at you expressionlessly.

You click your nails across the coffee shop table as you observe him suspiciously, his lack of response making you more nervous. “Well?”

The left side of his mouth quirks up––but not in a way that might suggest glee or satisfaction––and he stays frozen like that for a bit. You have the sudden urge to wave your hand in front of him to check if he’s fine, and being the type of person to submit to your urges, you do as you please.

Thankfully, he snaps out of it, blinking quickly as if he’s forgotten that you were there. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. The poem, uh… How do I put it…”

“What?” What on earth could he have a problem with? Does he genuinely think the poem might be about him? “If you’re starting to think that the poem may be about you––”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Namjoon opens his phone again, peering at the poem questioningly. “I was just going to say that this poem is a lot less impressive than you were hyping it up to be.”

Excuse me??????? He did not fucking just say that.

“You did not just fucking say that,” you verbalize, glowering at him. You can feel the fumes start to steam out of your ears, but Namjoon remains oblivious (as per usual) to your emotions. He just hums, shrugging his shoulders with his nose upturned in the air, as if he had just smelled something horrible.

“It’s just… the meter is all messed up… Like, I’m all about free verse or whatever, but I can tell the author is trying waaaay too hard to keep whatever rhythm they had going on in the first verse.” He scrolls through the poem some more, before stopping somewhere in the middle. He shows you one of your favorite verses with a look of something akin to disdain. “And what’s up with all the moon references? That theme is so overused.”

“YOUR MIXTAPE LITERALLY HAS A SONG CALLED MOONCHILD! THAT’S WHY PEOPLE THINK THE POEM IS ABOUT YOU!” You explode, spittle flying everywhere from the force of your shout. A group of freshmen sitting nearby jump up in surprise, though most of the older, more dead-eyed college students do not even bat an eye at your spectacle. This university is full of cuckoos, is what they are probably thinking.

The biggest cuckoo of them all looks at you defensively, frowning somewhat irritably. Namjoon continues, “Yeah, but I used the moon in my song in a classy way! I would be offended if someone would write this poem for me after being inspired by my song.”

Is it possible for blood to boil inside your veins? Because you’re really starting to feel heat trail up your back up to your neck, causing you to see nothing but red and the tantalizing vision of your hands around his neck. Easy, Y/N. You can’t afford anger management therapy; you have a tuition to pay.

In all seriousness though, you cannot take this any longer. You have suffered long enough while having to follow Namjoon around like a bitch for two days, and if karma still wants to use the strap on you, then she’s going to have to do it some other day because you cannot physically stand being around Namjoon for another ten seconds if you can help it. And this is coming from someone who is around Kim Seokjin at least twice a week, so it is obvious that your patience and sanity is truly at its limit.

“I’m done.” You are barely able to keep yourself from slamming your head against the table. Instead, you stand up hastily, chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. You shoulder your bag quickly, waving at him without even turning to face him. The sooner you get away from him, the better. “You can think what you want. Just live your life, man. I’m done.”

“Okay? Well, have a nice day, Y/N!” Namjoon calls out a cheery goodbye, though his tone obviously still sounds confused even as you walk further and further away from him, a trainwreck of a human being. You resolve to yourself to call Hana the next morning to ask her to slip some opened sweets into his jean pocket so the ants at the daycare might climb out of their shelter to bite him in the balls.

How did you ever have a crush on that bastard? I guess that mystery will have to remain… unsolved.

Unluckily, your mood does not improve after lunch, nor do you calm down after your next class either. In fact, you are still steaming when you arrive to your tutoring session with Hoseok, so much so that you have completely forgotten to be worried about him after the events of last Friday.

(Record scratch, freeze frame. Pause. What the hell happened last Friday again? Your overworked brain cells can only handle one stressful event at a time, so you suppose that problem with Hoseok and Jimin will have to be solved another day.)

Hoseok, the caring boy that he is, also forgets to retain his moodiness from Friday’s argument when he spots you looking like you were about to pop a blood vessel at any moment.

Hoseok sits hesitantly in front of you, even placing his textbooks gently onto the table as if any sudden sounds might cause you to self-combust and splatter your guts all over the library floor. The only thing really keeping you from doing exactly that is because you wouldn’t want poor Jungkook the library assistant to have to clean up your mess.

“Umm… Hey, Y/N. You okay? You look kind of… red.” Hoseok says carefully, smile twitching on his face.

The suddenness at which you slam your hands on the table causes not only Hoseok, but also Jungkook who is three whole bookshelves away, to jump up in surprise. The former makes a terrified scream to accompany his leap into the air, staring at your frantically with his fists held up in defense.

“AHH? Y/N, what’s going on––”

“SHUT UP!” You point a finger menacingly at him, making him shriek once more. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding audibly. “YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT, HOSEOK? I’LL WRITE THE NICEST POEM IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR YOU, OKAY? YOU DESERVE IT! FUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE THINKS! I’M A GOOD WRITER AND NOTHING KIM NAMJOON SAYS WILL CHANGE THAT!”

Hoseok’s mouth opens, agape. He doesn’t know how to respond, not quite understanding what you were saying in the first place. A lot of angry words spilled from your lips in such a short amount of time, and Hoseok was more impressed with your flow than anything. Were you a rapper, by any chance?

Unaware of Hoseok’s musings, you huff loudly to yourself, slamming open your lecture notes and shoving them aggressively towards him. “ALSO, I TOOK THE LIBERTY OF WRITING A REVIEWER FOR YOUR MIDTERM! PLEASE READ THROUGH THEM IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS!”

“Umm… Thanks?” Hoseok says, not really sure which part of your loud declarations he is specifically thanking you for. He sneaks a glance at the front desk, thankful that it is only meek little Jungkook in charge today and not the cranky older librarian who already has a personal vendetta against you and your tutoring group for being public nuisances (not that she was unjustly pointing fingers, of course).

Your mental collapse aside, the rest of his tutoring session goes smoothly, with Hoseok still walking on eggshells around you just in case you might feel like exploding again. You know, for fun or something. Although, he does end up asking if he can leave a few minutes early, saying something about a paper due at the end of the week. The excuse doesn’t make you bat an eye until Jimin arrives for his own session, his grin faltering when he sees his hyung not there to greet him with their usual dance battle in the library.

“Ah… Guess Hoseok-hyung really is still mad over what happened…” Jimin sighs, slumping into his chair. He thumbs his textbook thoughtfully, tongue sticking out like a puppy.

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon,” you say hopefully, though your heart isn’t quite in it either. Coughing awkwardly, you pluck his textbook out of his hands, desperate to talk about something else other than your crumbling interpersonal relationships. You pause at the page, however, before staring incredulously back at Jimin.

“Jimin.”

“Hmm?” Jimin is still listless, head pillowed by his arms on the table. “What?”

“This is a book on differential calculus. I’m supposed to teach you about writing academic essays.”

“Oh yeah,” Jimin sighs, closing his eyes. “I stole that book from some freshman on the way here. The English textbook I usually bring is with Taehyung right now.”

You pause. Actually, now that you think about it… “Jimin, do you actually even go to this university? What the hell is your major, even?”

“Wha-?” Jimin yawns, fanning his mouth with his hand. He blinks sleepily at you with a big, doofy grin. “Sorry, I played MapleStory for hours last night and I haven’t gotten much sleep. Can I just sleep during this session? I’ll still pay you or whatever…” he trails off, stretching like a cat under a patch of sunlight. Before you know it, the soft sound of Jimin’s snoring fills the silence.

Thankfully, Monday ends without much more commotion. You may have come out of this experience a little bit more broken inside, but hey! That’s what character development is all about, babey. You are just glad that Tuesdays are usually your quietest days, as you only have two classes to worry about. It is also one of the days when you have Creative Writing with Sera, who usually manages to rope you in to get greasy fast food after class. Despite the traumatic experience that particular class has indirectly inflicted upon you, your usual zeal and excitement does not diminish in the slightest. After all, writing will always be your first love, so there isn’t any way some silly poem mishap will make you detest it.

Hopefully nothing else will go wrong, because you aren’t so sure your sanity can take much more of a pounding.

(Fwip. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of karma putting on her strap.)

“Alright class, see you guys on Thursday. Don’t forget that we have a quiz at the beginning of class on Thursday, so please don’t be late.” Professor Puth says, his eyelids blinking out of sync. You hate to be someone who assumes what other people do during their off days as it is none of your business, though the perpetual cloud of marijuana that clings around him can only do so much to mask what his recreational activities might be.

“Dude, I think Prof Puth is finding Nirvana soon,” Sera says loudly, earning the giggles of a few classmates nearby.

“I’d be surprised if he could even find the exit of this building,” you snort, just as the man in question trips over air and nearly faceplants on the ground. Like the model students that you are, you both pretend to be busy doing something else, leaving some other poor soul to help your professor.

Two girls that you vaguely remember from somewhere approach Professor Puth. They are quick to help him straighten up, if his groaning and gasping are anything to go by. He thanks them gruffly and waves them off, but the girls seem adamant to stay put.

“Professor, I have a question…” One of the girls asks, nervously tugging on her ponytail. Her friend giggles surreptitiously beside her, urging her to continue. Their odd demeanor causes signals to go off in your brain, telling you to stop and listen. You tug on Sera’s hand, halting her from leaving.

“Wait. I wanna hear what they’re gonna ask,” you mutter, ignoring Sera’s complaints about being hungry. She can wait for her McNuggets for another five minutes, no matter how much she pretends that she’s starving. You had seen her eat two whole burritos before coming into class today.

Professor Puth raises his brow. “Yes? What do you need?”

“We were just wondering if you could… tell us anything about the identity of the author from that poem?” The girl manages to get all of it out in a rush, cheeks flushed as her friend nods fervently beside her.

“Yea, Prof! We’ve been dying to know! The suspense is killing us, knowing that the mystery author is in one of your classes!” The other girl continues, glittery excitement practically exuding out of her in waves.

Professor Puth sighs, leaning heavily on his desk. He appears about as done as you feel. “Listen… You can badger me all you want, but there’s no way I can tell you. Privacy laws prevent us from sharing information like that without prior consent, even though that student in question might have accidentally sent her assignment to the entire school.” You might be imagining it, but you think Professor Puth points you with a knowing look. You gulp, hastily bowing your head and pretending to fiddle with your phone.

“Aww, Prof! It’s been days and the university hasn’t shut up about it! Surely one of the theories on who the author and muse are must be true, right? You can tell us that, at least.”

You can’t bear to keep listening any longer, though Sera has started to become more interested in the conversation as it progressed. “Wait, wait… I wanna hear the Prof’s opinion,” she says, grinning despite your nails digging crescents into her arm as you try to pull her away.

“No can do! Remember, I have your freshman Halloween pictures saved on a harddrive, and you wouldn’t want me to accidentally send that to the entire student body as well, would you?”

That manages to snap her out of it. Quickly, the two of you leave the lecture hall and away from possible discovery by your poem-frenzied classmates. You are also relieved to be able to breathe in fresh air once more, after being stuck in that class surrounded by liberal art students for two hours. You always do feel a little bit more relaxed after class with Puth, although that might just be from all the secondhand drug use.

Perhaps the fumes really did dull your reflexes, as it takes a while before you realize that Sera has been nudging your shoulder.

When you finally glanced at her, there is a sneaky grin on her face: never a good sign. “So,” she begins, a singsong quality in her voice

After having been her friend for long enough, you have become adept at telling what Sera is going to say next. Call it intuition or whatever, but you like to think of it is a self-defense mechanism. As much as she is your friend, she does love digging into your personal life like it is the cover story of some shitty tabloid. You have to prepare yourself to be interrogated.

“You’re going to ask about the poem, aren’t you?”

Sera rolls her eyes, like you shouldn’t have even asked. “Duh, of course I am. What else would I want to talk about?”

You shrug your shoulders, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you could have asked ‘Hey, Y/N! How’s your mom been? Have you been eating and drinking well?’ You know, like a normal person.”

“Well, firstable, your mom is literally my friend on Facebook and I saw her go out to that bougie high tea place with Jennie’s mom the other day, so I know she’s fine,” Sera says as the two of you round a corner, heading closer to the parking lot where her car is. “And secondable, you don’t fucking drink water, because you like pretending to be a dehydrated piece of jerky.”

“I just like drinking apple juice, okay? Water is weird,” you say defensively, kicking a pebble as you walk.

“Nah, you’re weird,” Sera counters, ever the creative debater. She remains undeterred, however. “So. Any updates on the poem situation or am I going to have tickle the details out of you?”

You groan, pushing her away from your sensitive sides. “Please don’t… I have no upper body strength and I won’t be able to push you off!”

“That’s the point.” Sera laughs, pinching your cheek. She snatches her hand away, only narrowly escapes getting bitten by you. “Why don’t we skip my torture methods then and go straight to the juicy bits? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!”

“What if nothing has happened since I last saw you?” You grumble, miffed that she really isn’t letting it go. You just want to have one relaxing day, is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is. Relaxation is a rare commodity these days. Sera snorts, patting you condescendingly on the back. “Nonsense. You’ve got that post-mental breakdown glow around you. You look absolutely radiant with stress!”

The conversations pauses for a bit when you make it to the parking lot. You don’t have to walk too far, as her car is parked relatively close to the exit, which is just another display of how lucky Sera often is in comparison to you. While your unfortunate plebeian ass is busy drowning in shit, Sera is off somewhere aboard a yacht, getting a massage from some Instagram thot.

She hops into the driver’s seat, waiting for you to put your seatbelt on before backing out with one hand on the wheel. “McDonalds?” she asks, though it is pretty much a given that is where you are going. The last time you both tried diverging from your usual hang out spot, you got intense food poisoning from eating at Chipotle. Sera came out completely fine though, that lucky bitch.

She continues her questions on the drive there, and you relent by telling her most of what has happened to you over the past few days. You gloss over the argument between Hoseok and Jimin, not really wanting their spat to suddenly go viral on Facebook as well. Everything else, however––

“Wait, so you talked to Kim Namjoon? The Kim Namjoon? The Namjoon that you had an embarrassing crush on during our first year?” Sera laughs maniacally, almost driving off into the wrong lane. Luckily, you are quick to latch onto the wheel, saving the two of you from becoming roadkill.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, but Y/N! That’s literally so fucking funny!” Sera’s laughter has simmered to a giggle, despite the fact that she is still trying (and failing) to furtively glance your way when you hit a stoplight. “Is he like how you remember? God, do you remember how you were after you first met him? All starstruck because your senpai showed you a draft of his single? ‘Oh, Sera! He has the most amaaaazing flow! I’m going to suck his di––’”

“Shut up!” You whine, slapping her in embarrassment. “Believe me, that crush has died, along with any respect I may have had for him. Men are scum, and I’m going to only date girls from now on.”

“Fine by me! More dick to suck for me, I guess.” Sera teases, whistling innocently. Bold of her to assume that there is any innocent or pure bone in her body; you’ve seen her thirst tweets and no amount of holy water can cure the disease that your vision must have sustained.

“I just want the rumors to die down… It would make my life way more bearable.” You murmur to yourself, sliding down your seat.

Sera is silent for a while. The McDonalds is just within sight, so Sera waits until she has finished parking before she turns to face you fully, uncanny sincerity in her expression. It unnerves you how serious she is, not when you know that this is the same girl who would snort sugar packets if you bet her $5. She places her hands on your shoulder, fixing you with a meaningful look.

“Listen, Y/N. I know all of this is tough right now, but I’m sure it’s going to be alright, okay? The rumor is going to die down soon enough, and everything will be back to normal. Stay strong for now.” Her voice is soothing, sympathy dripping from every word. As mortifying as it is to admit, the tears flow down your cheek effortlessly; perhaps it is the consequence of having to bear this burden on your own for so long without anyone actually telling you that it’s going to be alright.

“Thanks… I think I needed that,” you say after a while, sniffling just a bit. Sera grins fondly at you, wiping your tears.

“No need to thank me. I may be a chaotic shithead, but I’m also your friend.” She unbuckles her seatbelt, gesturing for you to do the same. “C’mon, let’s go in. I’ll even share my nuggets with you.”

Despite her best efforts at comfort, you still feel a little bummed. You allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for a bit, as McDonalds is a prime location to feel shitty about your life choices anyway. The heart attack inducing food, the barely hygienic facilities, the minimum wage high school employees… Nothing else screamed “I’d rather be dead but it could also be worse” quite like Mickey D’s often did.

You wait by one of the booths while Sera goes off to order for the both of you, leaving you with her phone and other belongings. She promises to let you eat four out of the twenty nugget pieces, which is asking a lot considering who you are dealing with. Sera could probably eat sixty nuggets if she so desired, but only stops herself so she can be physically well enough to continue being a thot. Chasing men all day requires physical fitness, or so she says.

When you go to place her things on the other side of the booth, you notice that Sera had accidentally left her phone unlocked. You can see that she had been previously looking at one of those popular forum sites for your university, where most of her repertoire of gossip is usually sourced from. You aren’t usually the type to frequent those types of pages, with good reason too. That exact forum is the reason of your current stress, where your most private thoughts and feelings were revealed for all to see. Any sort of positive opinion you might have had for that site was immediately dashed the moment that cursed poem was released into the wild.

It kind of pisses you off that Sera still uses that forum despite knowing how much anxiety it has caused you, but then again, there is only so much you can expect from her. Her appetite for drama and chaos is her way of life, her only other hobby aside from writing. You also vaguely recall her saying that she gathers inspiration for her short stories from some of the more outrageous posts made by your fellow schoolmates.

In the end, curiosity gets the best of you as you stare at the open webpage, tantalizing despite the murkiness that lies within. Oh, lighten up. It’s just a confessions page… Besides, you also kind of want to see what people are saying about your poem, and whether the commotion might have died even slightly over time. (Unlikely, but you remain hopeful.)

“Let’s see,” you murmur to yourself, sneaking glances at the counter to see if Sera is close to ordering. She appears to still be next in line to order, so that might give you enough time to read a few of the comments on the post. It doesn’t take you long to find the original post either, since Sera seems to have been perusing the same thing just beforehand.

“Typical Sera... Sympathetic in the streets, a nosey bitch in the sheets.” You snort, scrolling quickly through the comment section. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, except for a few overenthusiastic responses from a couple of people who have bombarded the forum so much that it takes you a few moments to navigate past their thread. You catch a few words here and there, mostly the names of the seven possible muses and not so much the names of any of the possible authors. Honestly, you are more than happy with these turn of events, perfectly content as long as your identity never sees the day where it becomes associated with that disaster piece.

You sort the comments by popularity, wanting to know what everyone’s biggest guesses are. You want to remain hopeful, but as the results start to load, the wave of nausea that suddenly hits you may have been the first warning signal that you should probably stop before you read something that you will regret.

posted by u/SeokjinGod [3d ago]:

[+103, -4] i’m really hoping that kim seokjin is the muse of the poem!! has anyone seen the ads for the new play he’s staring in? he totally looks like the lead actor in a romantic comedy ^^

➾ [+54, -69] psh. that idiot, the muse? PLEASE anyone who has ever worked for kim seokjin KNOWS that it’s physically impossible to form a human connection with that man

➾ [+2, -1] lol seconded

posted by u/namuwuchild [1d ago]:

[+88, -3] WAIT why am i not seeing kim namjoon’s name more often T_T he deserves more love!! stream moonchild or else i’ll bite your ankles

➾ [+1, -6] lol i miss when namjoon used to do actual hiphop… fucking hippie dippie go fuck a tree and some crabs while you’re at it

You sneak a look over your shoulder. Sera is at the front of the line, reciting her orders while the harried employee has to quickly punch in the inordinate amount of food items. Okay… While no one’s looking, time to downvote a couple of these and maybe report some of these assholes… No way in hell are you letting anyone think Moonlight Sonata is about either of those Kim idiots. You would honestly rather out yourself than let anyone think they are worthy of such public displays of love and humiliation.

You are just about to close Sera’s phone and vow never to set foot on social media ever again when the next post catches your eye––the first one where you actually see your name. In fact, your name is generously sprinkled a number of times in this one specific thread.

“Wait a second…” You squint at the top of the thread, reading out the username of the original poster. Is that… Is that your name?!

“User Y/NKook… Oh my god!” You shriek loudly, almost dropping the phone from your sweaty palms. It must be the same person who had organized that merchandise booth in the cafeteria the other week! The number of upvotes on the post isn’t making you feel any better.

posted by u/Y/NKook [3h ago]:

[+98, -5] idk why you noobs are even trying… intellectuals KNOW that y/nkook is real and i won’t take no for an answer… give me my childhood friends to lovers fic RIGHT NOW because this slowburn has been going on for years now and i can’t stand it!!!

➾ [+11, -0] omg op do you know them personally?? how’d you know that they were childhood friends?? i go to the same drama class as y/n and jungkook but they never sit together… are you sure it’s them??

➾ [+20, -1] of course!! they’re even neighbors… besides, haven’t you heard what his nickname is? his friends call him moon eyes for a reason! they say that y/n is the one who gave him that name ^^

You feel your eye twitch, disbelief flooding your senses. Why is this weirdo shipping you with Jungkook? You guys haven’t even spoken properly since elementary school… How does this dude know who you are? Are you being stalked? You whirl your head around, scanning the restaurant for any suspicious people who may or may not be following you. Is this what celebrities feel like when they get shipped with their friends? You feel a sudden surge of respect for them, unable to grasp the situation that you are in. God, you really hope Jungkook hasn’t read any of these.

You go to switch Sera’s phone off, feeling less accomplished than ever before. Maybe it is best to save yourself the anxiety of seeing your world fall apart and try to delude yourself into thinking that the past two weeks have never happened at all. However, there is a certain appeal to reading things that you know you should not, like watching a car crash and unable to look away. The urge to keep scrolling and gaze upon your own personal hell is hard to stop when you have already gained momentum.

“One last post, then I’m done…” You are hard set on that promise, not wanting your apprehension to destroy your peaceful afternoon completely. The next post on the forum greets you with a high upvote number, sending a lick of fear to run down your spine at what you might find. Please don��t be about Y/NKook, you pray helplessly. Little did you know, there are worse things to worry about other than being shipped with your friends.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [1h ago]:

[+154, -5] hey guys i’m back again with another update! so i’ve managed to shorten the list a bit since last time i posted, and i’m 100% certain that kim seokjin is not the muse! sorry, gamers… our prince is in another castle it seems. worry not, though! that only helps our search better and shortens the list. on the other hand, the authors list has also been edited! turns out that neither jodi nor melody is the author, as they both submitted poems about something else. if you are interested to see the updated lists for both muse and author, please head to my profile and look for the original post titled “Mystery Moon Author & Their Mystery Muse” :-)

You have never clicked on a profile as quickly as you did in that moment. Not even a notification from UberEats could make you move that fast.

Lo and behold, the post that started it all is right at the top of the user’s profile, with the significantly shorter list that they had promised. Sweat begins to build on your temples when you realize that the authors list has decreased to seven names, with your name still obstinately sitting at the end of the lines. When will your suffering end?

There is still something that doesn’t sit right with you, however. As you peruse this user’s profile some more, you feel as if there is something weird about it that you can’t quite place. You never did like using this forum, so maybe you are just not used to the layout of the website? What is it about this user’s profile that is making your stomach coil with nerves?

Wait a second… Why is there an edit button beside their profile picture?

“Y/N! I’m back! Sorry for taking so long; I think I ordered too much again. You’re fine with BBQ sauce on your nuggs, right? That’s all I asked for––” Sera had been happily chirping away, sliding into the bench across from you before finally noticing your stoney face. She pats her face, rubbing her cheeks in confusion. “What? Do I have something on me?”

“How fucking dare you!” You hiss, slamming her phone on the table. Unfortunately, you had accidentally locked the phone in your anger, showing only a black screen.

Sera flinches backwards, bewildered. Her eyes flick to the screen and then to you. “Huh? I thought you liked BBQ sauce on your nuggs? I mean, I can ask for sweet and sour sauce if you want…”

“Unlock your phone right now and explain to me why you have triceratops’ profile logged in.”

Your words begin to click in Sera’s mind. Her face grows pale, her body unconsciously sliding further into the booth to hide from your glare. “U-uh… Haha, what on earth are you talking about..?”

“Don’t even try to lie, Sera. I saw everything, and I honestly don’t know if I’m madder that you betrayed me or that I was stupid enough to believe that you were my friend.”

Sera splutters incomprehensibly at first, waving her arms in panic as she tries to save her ass. “I––! You––! It wasn’t like I––”

You lean forward, peering at her coldly. “Oh yeah? What wasn’t it like? It wasn’t like we were friends?”

“No, of course not! I mean,” she backtracks, tongue-tied. “We are friends! It’s just… I made that post before I knew you were the author and I originally sent the poem to just a couple of people because I was so impressed, and I just wanted to––”

“Hold on,” you interrupt, holding up a finger. She squeaks, staring at you fearfully as you slowly get up to your feet. You cry out, “You were also the one who released my fucking poem to the world?!”

“Anna ou––” Sera whimpers, slapping her palm to her mouth. She lowers it, whispering ruefully. “I… didn’t mean to say that…”

“Oh, so you were meaning to lie to me even more?” You seethe, ready to burst into flames.

The poor McDonalds employee who had come to deliver your order to your table seems too frightened to approach the two of you, her arms shaking both with fear and the weight of five orders of 20 piece chicken nuggets. “Uh, is this a bad time?” The girl asks, eyes darting away from your heated glare.

Instead of answering, you grab the tray from her hands and dump the contents on the table. Sera squawks pitifully when a few of the nuggets fall to the ground, though she absolutely yells when you start chucking them at her head like tiny oily cannonballs.

“What the fuck––Dude stop!” Sera has her arms up in defense, shielding her face from your fiery attack. The sound of you ripping open a BBQ sauce packet has her straightening up, however. “No, not the BBQ sauce! Anything but that!”

“Give me one reason why I should show you mercy.” Your hand is poised to pour the sticky sauce all over her white Valentino bag, ready at a moment’s notice.

“Please, Y/N! I’m really sorry!” Sera jumps out of the booth, and goes on her knees. She clasps her hands together, shaking them frantically. “I really didn’t know it was you at first!”

“Well then, why didn’t you fucking take the post down the moment you did know it was me? I thought you were my friend!” You clench your fist around the BBQ sauce packet, causing some of it to spill onto her bag. She makes a desperate noise.

“I just… I like the attention?” She knows this is the wrong answer, judging by your unimpressed expression. She sighs heavily, head bowed in shame. “Look, I’ll fix this, alright? I genuinely didn’t do this wanting to hurt you… I just got so caught up in the clout that I didn’t really think about what would happen if you found out!”

“‘If’ I found out, huh…” You echo, more disappointed than angry now. You slump back into your chair, taking care to grab the napkins and cleaning the sticky mess on your skin as best as you can. “You really were going to continue doing this for as long as it took, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.” Her voice is soft, repentant. It doesn’t do much for your sympathy, however.

“Fuck you, honestly. If you really are sorry, you’ll fix this mess as soon as possible.”

You reach for your bag, your movements jostling a few more nuggets to tumble to the floor. You don’t bother saying goodbye, not wanting to see if Sera is doing her Crying Face Emoji impression to try and soften you up. Not this time. This time… you don’t think your feelings can recover after this.

You have read enough stories about heartbreak and longing, but you don’t think any of them top the experience of losing a friend you realize you never even had.

The next morning, there is a new post on the forum from user triceratops.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [0s ago]:

[+0, -0] Hello, friends. I think I’ve found the author.

It’s Lee Sera.

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