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gold-gguk · 3 years

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《 Halloween in June 》

summary ↠ It’s been 6 months since you and Taehyung have made it official, and it’s been nothing but sarcastic roast sessions and the occasional binge of Criminal Minds on Netflix, but for the last of those glorious months, a rather strange arrival has made himself known to the closing baristas at your place of work. Which brings you to the newly normalized routine of your closing shifts: the weird guy (who wears demon horns?) is seen stalking the outside of the shop again, Taehyung specifically asks you not to work the shift alone, and you do exactly what you always do...work the shift alone.

genre ↠ angsty angst ooO

member ↠ kim taehyung

warnings ↠ physical violence | stalking

word count ↠ 5.1k

moodboard credit to @jiminspjm

"Don’t close by yourself tonight,Y/N. I mean it.”

The words of your boyfriend, Taehyung, sternly imparted by soft lips against your temple while you’d prepared to leave for work earlier today, are still ringing painfully around between your ears as you directly disobey him. You watch the new barista, whom you’ve just excused from the gruesomely slow shift, gather her belongings, clock out, and disappear into the caramelized evening with a resounding jangle of the door chimes.

Arching away the guilty prickles that slowly inch up your spine at the knowledge of what you’ve just done, you sigh inwardly, pursing your lips as you traipse back behind the bar to finish up the last of the menial cleaning tasks. Taehyung is fully aware of your nasty habit to send home the newer baristas a little early on particularly slow nights like this one which is exactly why he’s been blowing up your phone since you arrived, making calls every hour that you’ve been declining in the name of “busyness”, but really, you know that hearing his voice will only make you feel worse about sending Jess home when he specifically told you not to. If it weren’t so furiously endearing and didn’t make you feel a kind of protected that you’d never let him know you felt, you might think Taehyung was being a little more overbearing than he is.

Despite Taehyung’s wishes, there’s really no point to having two people on the clock when there have only been three customers in the last hour--one of which being the regular that resides in the back corner working on the next great American novel that he’s had half finished for about two years now. You and Jess, even with her distracted habits and scatterbrained nature, got miles ahead on the closing list, leaving you very little to do besides counting the money drawer, cleaning out the espresso ports, and locking up at the end of the night.

You regret these bulleted thoughts when a sharp buzz begins smarting against the glass at the top of the pastry case, your phone screen lighting up to reveal a candid frame of Taehyung’s squinted smile, his name shining like a beacon across the top. Even after half a year of that picture present in your phone, the reminder that the man whose image it bears is the one calling you still sends your nerves blazing--a fact you’ve had to endure Taehyung teasing you about on numerous occasions (though he would admit to the same).

Gripping your phone in your palm to cease the outright noise, you clench your jaw in preparation, letting your thumb hover over the green phone icon so long you have to rush to press down before the call times out.

“Hello?” you breathe into the receiver, the muffled sound of a Seinfeld rerun playing on the mounted TV above the coffee bar.

“Y/N! Hey,” Taehyung’s rasped resonance hurries back, slightly airy as if he’d been holding his breath before you answered. “How are things going? Is everything good there? I haven’t been able to get a hold of you all night.”

You sigh again, running a hand through the haphazardness of your hair as you lean against the pastry case, holding the phone closer to your ear. “I know, I’m sorry. Me and Jess were swamped trying to get ahead on the cleaning while we had time.” There is only a small bit of solace you find knowing it’s more of an omission than a lie.

“Swamped?” he repeats, voice almost unreadable. “Huh, well that’s nice. Every shift I worked last week totaled maybe 10 customers.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, shifting your weight. “Yeah, business isn’t the same in the summer,” you sigh, deftly avoiding the truth of your customer count.

“Quite the bummer,” Taehyung speaks in that way he does when he’s waiting for a laugh. One you can’t help but give if for no other reason than how stupid it was.

“Lame,” you chuckle, finding the feeling of the smile tugging against your lips rejuvenating.

“How’s Jess doing?” Taehyung’s next question sends your grin running back to its hiding place with its tail between its legs. You’d have to tread carefully.

“She’s...” you begin, trying your hardest to sound casual. “Ya know, good.”

Nailed it.

“Good? Hasn’t run the espresso machine without the espresso yet? Dropped any open milk jugs?”

You’re trying to read his tone, but he sounds naive to your “omissions” so far. “Nope, no messes, broken machinery, or third degree burns to speak of yet.”

He huffs idly. “It’s only a matter of time. I’ll make sure to warn her about the christening the espresso machine likes to give newcomers when I work with her next week.”

You manage to quirk a grin as you settle into the conversation. “I’m sure she’d be grateful to hear that from you.” It was no secret that Jess had a certain affinity for Tae and his boyish charm, always dropping soapy dishes and fumbling with change when he would walk into the shop. It was somewhat endearing.

“Hmm,” he hums idly before saying something that shoots an arrow into your stomach. “Why don’t you just give her the phone for a sec, and I’ll tell her now? No time like the present.”

Your muscles tense and eyes close, slowly recognizing the familiar color to his voice. He also dons it when he’s asking if you ate the leftovers that no one else but you and he have access to.

“How’d you know?” you breathe, defeated, lifting a hand to your face.

“You didn’t brag about how much more tip money you’re bringing home with all this ‘business’ you have,” he responds casually, and you can’t tell if you’re in trouble yet or not. “You never miss a chance to be the breadwinner.”

You chuckle lightly, cautiously, breath tense for the moments that follow. “I thought you might be...ya know, mad if I told you I was closing alone.”

“Again,” he corrects. “Closing alone again.”

“Again...” you amend, feeling like a child on the other side of a pointed finger. You might’ve been upset, annoyed, that Taehyung is parenting you if you hadn’t been the instigator, knowing exactly how to avoid his gentle wrath and still choosing to step in its way.

You hear an exasperated sigh seep through the phone, and you can almost see him, eyes closed, locks shaking back and forth, nose bridge pinched between his pointer and thumb. “Y/N,” he breathes. “Are you actively trying to make my hair fall out? Cause it sure feels that way. You can’t see, but I’m holding a few shiny, very luxuriously conditioned locks in my hand right now. They should not be in my hand right now.”

You know he’s scolding you, but his personality washes through the receiver and makes you smile--something you try to hide in your tone lest he turn into more of your father. “I promise your balding is the farthest thing from a priority, Tae.”

“Then why, why, do you insist on blatantly ignoring me every single time?” In the background of the call, you hear the soft click of a door being shut. The jangle of keys.

“Taehyung, please tell me you are not leaving the apartment right now.” You say instead of answering him, your own eyes closing.

“My hair is falling out, and you’re upset that I’m coming to see you? Your priorities really are out of whack.”

You sigh and laugh in tandem, your neck almost hurting as it tries to decide which side to commit to. Annoyed or humored. “Of course I’m not upset that you’re coming to see me. I just wish it wasn’t because you think I can’t handle myself by myself.” You begin idly tracing the frame of the register next to you, twisting the key in the cash drawer back and forth.

Another creak as Taehyung pushes through the front door of your apartment building, the sounds of passing cars whooshing through the background as he begins the trek further downtown. “Y/N, I promise I believe you are fully capable of handling yourself. It’s just with everything that’s been happening there lately...that maniac...” He trails off, breath tight. “Just humor me. I’m protective.”

You breathe slowly before answering with half a mind to roll your eyes at the fact that you almost did want to humor him. The maverick inside you fights lazily with your secret desire to be sheltered. Instead of giving in outright, you glance at the clock and make your escape for the time being with a curt, “I’ve gotta lock up. See you soon.”

You end the call and replace your phone on the counter, moving to inform the great American author in the back that it was closing time. He gathers his things quickly, looking slightly deflated at whatever progress he had or hadn’t made during his time here, and disappears into the blackening night. With an empty store and slight prickle of annoyance rumbling in your stomach, you flip the locks closed on the front door, swiftly turn up the chairs onto the tables, and clean the final espresso port before clocking out.

Taehyung still isn’t here, but you aren’t surprised. Your apartment is a twenty minute walk from the shop and you’ve spent all of ten finishing up the quick close.

You gather your things in your arms and stand by the front window, taking only a moment to decide that you will meet Taehyung halfway home instead of sitting like a duck in the dark and empty space, knowing that your maverick is winning the fight now and you want to leave if for no other reason than to show Taehyung you really could handle yourself by yourself.

You take a step, backing away from the window with pursed lips. It isn’t even the length of an inhale after you turn your back, however, before a loud and raucous slam resounds throughout the shop. You freeze mid-step, shoulders tensing immediately and eyes wide as you slowly shift your gaze behind you, already knowing what you will find when it arrives.

There he is.

Party City devil horns pointed high. Halloween makeup smudged and unnerving across his wild face. Palms planted flat and tense against the thick glass of the window.

No one knows where he came from or why, only that a few weeks ago he made a claim on main street. A demon in human form hellbent on terrorizing the small businesses littering the downtown area in the dead of night. Somehow he was in perfect sync with the closing schedules, choosing the nights when you least expected him to appear without a warning to make himself very known and frighten the living fuck out of the witnesses.

He hasn’t hurt anyone...yet...mostly because everyone so far has been smart enough to stay out of his way. Make it home before he showed up, if you were lucky, or stay in a pair or group which he tended to keep his distance from for whatever reason. Everyone so far except for you. Of course.

Realizing you are still frozen and freaked, you turn your eyes to the basement door that you had been heading for in the first place--a less conspicuous way to exit and the way you had been hoping to take to avoid him altogether. He hasn’t shown up at all the last few closes you’ve done alone, and most of his appearances--besides the first time almost a month ago--you’ve only heard about from coworkers. Maybe that’s why the healthy dose of fear you are supposed to have was nowhere to be found tonight.

It sure as hell is here now. Too little too late.

All of a second has passed since you glanced away, but with a swift look back, your eyes come up empty of all things frightening which somehow frightens you all the more. Your breath quickens. Your saliva dries, sticking as you attempt to swallow without success.

“Ok, Y/N,” you self soothe, the weak sound you hear squeak from you not in the least bit convincing. “No need to freak out. You’re gonna be just fine. Composure. Composure.”

You swallow thickly once more and stand up straight. Maybe he’s gone? Maybe your presence is of no interest to him tonight? You try to assure yourself of these things as you slide to the basement door, glancing over your shoulder every other beat because of course you aren’t convinced. Is the basement the safest way? What if he’s waiting down there? What if that’s what he wants you think so you’ll walk right out the front door instead? Is it better to just stay put? Can he get inside?

Deciding it’s less likely he knows about the back exit and feeling too frazzled to stay, you hurry on. The sweat lacing your palm as it clamps around the brass door handle is thick, sliding somewhat as you turn and tug it open, closing it just as swiftly behind you. In the dimly light stairwell, you feel only slightly consoled.

It’s with haste now that you descend the rickety old wood and stumble across the dank room towards the hidden alley door, grappling with the key in your purse all the while in preparation for your speedy retreat. Taehyung has to be close -- and then a spike of fear because Taehyung is outside with him.

The basement door is opened and then closed, ushering you outside within the same moment, and as you shove the key into the lock, you fumble with your phone in your free hand, your nerves making it doubly hard to unlock it and redial your most recent contact.

“Hey, I’m almost there,” he answers immediately, sounding annoyingly clueless to the danger he so adamantly warned against. You feel almost hypocritical as you interrupt his, “Just another minute or-”

“Tae, turn around, please,” you hiss intensely, your eyes wild around you as you creep down the narrow alleyway, not sure if you should feel protected or trapped yet.

“Turn around? But I’m almost--” He pauses, confused. “Y/N what’s going on? Did you leave? Please tell me you’re still inside.”

“I-I-” you stutter, questioning if you want to explain your reasoning in this current moment. You are almost to the end of the ally and then it would be brightly lit streets and witnesses. Almost there.

“I’ll defend myself later,” you urge, realizing you are whispering. “Just turn around, please. I’ll meet you at the apartment.” You shake your head at yourself, upset for a random moment that you are so affected just by the sight of this human apparition. He hasn’t hurt anyone, you remind yourself.

And then suddenly you are on the ground, your phone scattering a few feet away from you. The muffled electronic questions of Taehyung are thin and blurry in the background. You realize your vision is swimming and lift a hand to your forehead where it comes away red and sticky, shining in your fuzzy view. The asphalt had hit you hard. Confusion quickly gives way to concern and then terror as you roll to your side, head pounding. The first clear thing that enters your vision is the double point of a pair of horns leering over you.

You think you scream, but can’t be sure. The sound melts into the night, as if it never happened, leaving you even more petrified than you thought possible. Voiceless.

You feel so helpless, bleary and bleeding, underneath the shadow of this terror, his face illuminated in the most horrifying of ways as the moonlight stripes over his dark and dreary makeup, lighting up half of his sickeningly joyed smile with flashes of silver fire.

Another silent scream.

He’s standing over your lower half, nothing in his hands to indicate he’d been the one to cause your stumble. Maybe one clumsy moment of fear has fated you to this. No one to blame but yourself.

He leans down, and your heart stops for a moment making breathing impossible. You try to discern if the liquid you feel on your cheek is a stream of thick tears or the blood from your forehead streaking down. Neither bring you any form of comfort or distraction from the hell spawn closing in on you. He speaks no words with the part of his sinister smile, just a ravenous snarl followed by a hyena-like chortle that tells you, “I’m having fun. Are you?”

You feel yourself attempt to move away from him, your palms scratching desperately against the black pavement beneath you, cutting and clawing your skin with a welcome pain that tries to convince you you have a chance. Only you don’t and he is on top of you again, this time reaching out, his grin deepening as his ink stained hands spread around your forearm, tugging hard.

You yelp, audibly this time, gathering just enough breath to plead, “No,” as the grimy feeling of his fingers spreads along your arm like poison. This only seems to please him further as he grips harder, pain igniting beneath his touch.

And in that moment, a moment that feels like eternity in slow motion, you want nothing more than to apologize to Taehyung. To tell him he was right and you’re sorry and you miss him and need him and want to be protected and will tell your maverick to move out for good if it means this second of pure terror will end. You close your eyes, certain now that the liquid on your cheeks is both blood and tears. Please let it end.

And it does.

The pain blooming along your arm subsides. The searing presence of him overtop of you is removed. You can breathe. You can move. You grasp at your chest, sucking in air like you’ve never drank a breath in your life. It’s only after multiple deep gulps of oxygen that the blurry noise in the background races to the forefront, clear and alarming.

“You fucking bastard! You sick fuck, don’t touch her!” Taehyung’s voice echos sharp and furious in your ears, and your eyes fly open to drink in the scene. He’s grappling with the demon, rolling him over as the devil fights with the growls and snarls of a wild animal, biting and gnashing his fangless teeth at Taehyung’s face before his hands are pinned on either side of him. The control only lasts a moment, though, as Tae’s anger gets the best of him and he releases one of his hands to throw a few heavy fisted punches against his target’s jaw.

The horned man’s head thrashes to the side with the force of the impact, and you know you should feel assuaged somewhat by the karma being dealt, but the way the man laughs through the pain puts your nerves on ice. You scrabble away in a moment of clarity and urgency towards your discarded phone, a slim crack racing along the screen. You fumble once more to unlock the device.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A calm voice questions in response to your dial, the juxtaposition almost enraging against the scene you’re helplessly witnessing.

“My boyfriend!” you cry. “He’s--the other man jumped me and--please help, I don’t know how long he can keep him down!”

“Please slow down, ma’am,” the voice urges, only a fraction more concerned than before. You have to remind yourself that it’s their job to stay calm when the other end of their line is anything but. “Where are you now?”

“Alley!” you answer desperately. “The alley behind the shops on main street! Please hurry!”

In front of you, where your eyes are still glued, Taehyung is flung to the side with a zealous convulsion from the demon beneath him. He smacks into the brick wall next to their writhing tussle with an oof before the man is clambering onto him like a beast, his face bruised and bloodied by Taehyung’s fists. Vengeful.

A shriek rips through you and the phone drops to the ground just as the 911 operator is mollifying, “Help is on the--”

“Taehyung!” you wrack, your head empty of anything but the sight of him bracing futilely against the claws the man is using to slash across Taehyung’s forearms and face. He is trying with everything in him to buck the devil from his chest, but he has him pinned good and shows no signs of relenting, practically foaming at the mouth with unfettered hate. And that face...the evil. The rage.

You don’t think. You don’t question your next move. You’re suddenly casting yourself from where you’d been crumpled on the asphalt, a shout that could’ve come from anyone but you tearing through your throat as you launch across the space between you and your attacker. Your hands feel the tattered fabric of the demon’s jacket before your brain catches up to you, nails digging into the flesh beneath it and you yank.

A confused grunt escapes who is now your victim as he topples backwards and away from Taehyung. “Get OFF!” you seethe, furious, terrified, and aflame with adrenaline as you tug with the strength of ten of you and slam the unaware man into the pavement. You give him no moment of respite before you’re the one in control, pinning his arms down with the weight of your knees and laying into him with all you’ve got. Your nails are just as effective as his were against Tae, if not more-so. Blood is slick in the gashes you leave against his cheeks, neck, collarbones, blazing red against his ruined makeup. The facade of the maniac is crumbling beneath you.

You see the wild anger give way to what resembles fear as he slowly realizes the mistake he has made. At least he’s sane enough for that.

Deep moans of anguish and pleading are flowing from him now, still no words, but you don’t need them to know you’re inflicting pain. Well deserved.

“Y/N! Y/N that’s enough!” Taehyung’s voice seeps into your red rage fueled tunnel, a light at the end that you’re not ready to reach. You feel the weight of his arms wrap themselves around your midsection, pulling with a force you can’t combat before you’re unfastened from the devil. He remains grounded. He doesn’t move to run or escape, instead rolling over with another moan as he covers his bleeding face with his hands. One of his horns has detached beside him. In the near distance, you register the sound of sirens.

“You got him, Y/N, you got him,” Tae hushes into your ear, still holding you tight against him. It’s not until he speaks that you realize you are still struggling to free yourself and return to your karmic retribution. “Relax, Y/N, we’re ok. You got him.”

It’s then that you hear yourself crying, your cheeks now completely doused in the sweat and tears of the passed moment. You’re shaking against Tae’s chest, and as he finally sets your feet back on the ground, you crumple in his arms, all the adrenaline rushing out of you quicker than you can adjust to. He catches you deftly, holding you upright as he turns you into him, hiding your face in the joint of his neck and shoulder as he sways back and forth, ushering a calming pattern against your back.

“The cops are here, Y/N,” he whispers, alerting you to the red and blue lights swimming a few yards away and the sound of car doors popping open. Questions shout their way down the alley towards you, but you don’t hear anything but noise. You breathe Taehyung’s scent in for all it’s worth.

“He’s right here, officer!” Tae speaks for you both, calling towards the coming aid. The sound of clattering footsteps rushes past you, and you hear the echoed moans of the man become more desperate as he’s lifted off the ground and cuffed with a comforting click before the horrid sound disappears away down the alley and into the back of a car. It’s not until that car has pulled away and sped off, your nightmare with it, that Taehyung gently pulls back, his hands coming to cup your trembling jaw. He lowers himself to look into your eyes with intense concern, searching you. The red and blue lights of the remaining cop car flash methodically behind him, and you can feel the lingering presence of another officer nearby, waiting to question you, you’re certain.

“You okay?” Tae softens. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I will be,” you assure him with some semblance of a smile. “You?” With a sense of normalcy returning to you, you bring your own hand to ghost against the scratch marks left in the perfect skin of his face. Taehyung tries not to flinch against the sting. You’re only pacified knowing you did much worse. “Look what he did to you...”

He mirrors your soft smile of reassurance. “I’ll be okay. It beats going bald.”

You’re surprised that you laugh, given the circumstances, but you’re grateful for it. The sound feels like a weight rolling away. You lift your hand further to tousle his very thick and secure locks. Taehyung sighs against your fingers. “Can we go home now?”

____________

“Ow.”

“Oh, sorry,” you smile apologetically as you dab the cotton ball softer against Taehyung’s skin. His eyes are closed, palms resting against your thighs as you both sit criss-cross-apple-sauce on the floor of your apartment bathroom. You’ve been tending to each other’s wounds for the past half hour after arriving home, but with every pat pat pat of rubbing alcohol and Neosporin across marred skin, you’re hit with a wash of guilt that began bubbling in your stomach the moment that cop car drove away.

You clear your throat and the lump in it. “Um, Tae...thanks again for dealing with the police afterwards.” You’ve thanked him five times already, but you can’t seem to satiate the guilty conscience living it up in your gut. “I don’t think I would’ve spoken coherently if I’d tried.”

He doesn’t call you out on the fifth repeat. He just sighs softly and smiles against your gentle cotton touch. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. I’m just glad you’re ok. Seeing you in that alley when I got there...” He trails and his smile tenses before he shakes it off, not wanting to add anymore weight to the night. “Well...it could’ve been a lot worse.” His hand tightens around the flesh of your thigh.

Your careful trail across his face slows to a stop. Taehyung opens his eyes to question you only to find your gaze fixed over a spot on the floor, eyes clouded.

“Y/N...” he whispers, reaching for your face.

“I’m sorry,” you rush, pushing his hand away. He stares at you, confused, hand frozen in midair. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault.” The lump in your throat won’t be swallowed away this time.

“Y/N, don’t--”

“No, Taehyung, it is,” You urge, your voice tightening as the prickle of heat ignites behind your eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong.” The warmth wells the more you try to contain it behind the brazen tone of your voice. “If I had just fucking listened to you, we wouldn’t be sitting here on the floor wiping blood off of each other’s faces. If I wasn’t so goddamn stubborn, I wouldn’t have had to cut into a lunatic in a middle of an alleyway. Tell me that’s not my fault, Taehyung.” There is no hope of hiding the tears now as they bubble and boil over and down your cheeks, stinging all over again. You’ve had enough crying for a lifetime tonight. “You can’t. You can’t tell me it’s not my fault because every time I look at your face--” You clasp his jaw between shaking hands. “--I know it is.”

You bite your trembling lower lip and let go of him, pressing the heel of your palms against your burning eyes. You want to hide, disappear, get swallowed up in this moment, almost ashamed to be sitting in front of him so freely. You want him to at least get mad at you. You deserve something.

Instead of any of that, though, you feel the warm and soothing trace of Taehyung’s fingers bloom around your wrists, peeling them away with gentle force until your rash red face, swollen with cuts and tears and splotches, is revealed to him. He takes both of your hands into one of his, his free palm coming to wipe away the waterfall streaming across your skin, and you can do nothing but squeeze the warmth of him like any second it’s going to disappear. Maybe that’s exactly what you deserve after what you caused tonight. The thought of it shreds you.

“Y/N,” he calls, and you meet his eyes for the first time, a fresh flow of waterworks exploding when you see the utterly pure sincerity he wears in his gaze. “Listen to me very carefully.” He leans forward, tugging you along until your foreheads rest gently together, his hand trailing to the back of your neck where he holds you secure. It’s still not close enough.

“Was a single decision tonight made with any intention of purposefully putting someone in danger?”

The question gives you pause. You weren’t expecting it. “...No.”

“Then nothing--not a single thing--that happened to either of us was anyone’s fault. Do you hear me? You did nothing wrong.” His voice is like honey in your ears, his soft conviction so mesmerizing, you want to believe him. “Even had I known what would happen...I would’ve done it all over again for you. Never question that.”

You cry softly as you stare at him, utterly speechless as to how you deserved someone so full of kindness and goodwill. You don’t know if you’ll ever figure that one out.

He tips his head forward and attaches his lips to yours in a slow kiss, the feeling of it sending a wave of total calm and reassurance through you. When he pulls away, he pulls you with him until you are cradled against his chest, his legs walled around your form as you rock back and forth on the bathroom floor, surrounded by discarded cotton and open tubes of Neosporin.

“I love you,” you hear yourself whisper against him.

A content sigh from above you precedes lingering lips atop your head. “I love you,” he agrees. “More than you know.”

Through the fading sting of tears and freshly healing wounds, you really do believe him. And no amount of worry-fueled balding or strong-willed stubbornness will change that.

___________

ok, before you say, “devil horned man? really?” which many of you MAY HAVE already done I PROMISE YOU this plot was inspired by very true events at a very real job i had a while back, LEGIT someone like this exists, and i just ran with what I was given, ok thank yew.

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casuallyimagining · 3 years

Text

You and Me

Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: Yoongi has something he needs to ask you before the Grammys. Genre: slight angst, kind of fluffy at the end? Word Count: 1,865 Rating: T (there’s some swearing) Notes: Part of the Long Term Couples series. Read more here.

As he was leaving to go out to lunch with Namjoon and Jin, Yoongi told you that he had news he wanted to tell you when he got home. Which, of course, is possibly the worst thing to leave a person with.

What could he want to talk to you about?

You had a feeling you knew. Physical therapy had been progressing well for Yoongi, and while he still had a lot of healing to do, he was to the point where he could do almost all normal, daily tasks without help. He still had to wear his sling when he went out, and he was still in quite a bit of pain, but it was to the point where he would probably start back to work soon. And, of course, he would probably be moving back to the dorms again, and you would return to your lives pre-November.

Which meant you would go from seeing him literally all the time to only seeing him a few times a week--a return to taking him meals in your spare time, to sitting in the studio watching him work, to short dates to go grab coffee or a milkshake on his rare breaks. Thankfully, you had written the code for the Genius Lab down in your notes app, because after almost two and a half months of not using it, you weren’t confident that you remembered it.

Honestly, you weren’t sure if you could go back to sustaining yourself on text messages, and video calls, and brief, 15-minute meetings. Adjusting to him being there constantly--underfoot when you least expected him to be, but always there to lend an ear or a hand or just generally be there for you--had taken some time. Your routines had melded together so quickly, that having him wandering around your apartment at two in the afternoon was no more uncommon than you not being able to find a series to watch on Netflix. You knew it was coming eventually, but you weren’t sure you could stand the separation.

You would, though, for his sake. You would walk through fire for him.

And it would only be for a short time, right? He had promised you on Christmas. As soon as he was able, he was going to start moving out of the dorms and into his own apartment. He wanted you to join him, wanted you to move in with him. But you weren’t sure when that would be. He had never given you a timetable for when he expected to start moving. Which was fine, you supposed. He could take his time.

But the whole thing made you anxious, even though you knew it shouldn’t. What if he got too busy once he got back to normal life and forgot? What if he decided he wanted to stay at the dorms indefinitely? Worse, what if he changed his mind and he decided he did want to move, just not with you?

Your mind raced as you sat in your office at your piano, trying to lose yourself in the music. You wanted to believe that you had nothing to worry about, that even though things would change, you would continue to be a priority in Yoongi’s life, that you wouldn’t be taking a huge step backwards in your relationship. Somehow, you managed to distract yourself enough that you barely noticed you were playing “Spring Day” until you were almost done with the song.

You continued to play through some of the other songs you had memorized. Most of them, you noticed, were BTS--a strange side-effect of who you spent your time with and your students, the most prominent of which was, of course, Jimin.

As you played the final chord of “Black Swan,” the sound of gentle clapping made you jump, causing you to hit your knee on the bottom of your piano.

“Fuck,” you hissed, rubbing where the corner of the wood caught your leg. Now that you weren’t so surprised, you could see Yoongi standing in the doorway of your shared office, a look of concern barely masking his earlier amusement.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me come in,” he said softly. “I put some leftovers in the fridge, and Namjoon made us stop for hotteok on the way back, so that’s in there, too. Are you okay?” He crouched down beside you, his hand falling to your knee.

“Unsurprisingly, that is not the first time I’ve done that,” you said with a laugh. “I’m honestly kind of shocked there’s not some sort of dent in the wood.”

Yoongi offered you an amused smile. “Well I’m glad there’s no damage. To you or the piano.” He leaned in to kiss you as he stood, the action quick and easy--like he had done it a thousand times before--but contained no less love. “You’ve been holding out on me.” You could hear the mirth in his voice as he moved one of his paintings to pull the office chair closer to the piano.

You waved off his comment, shutting the lid on the keys of the piano. “I don’t take credit for the things Park Jimin forces me to memorize.”

“Maybe you should start.” He shrugged, and the two of you fell silent. After a moment, he wiped his hands on his thighs and looked at you, though dropped his gaze to his lap the second you made eye contact. “So, I was talking with Si-Hyuk-hyung, and he had some… news he wanted me to pass on.” You raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Was this what he was talking about before he left?

“News?” you question, trying to play it off like you hadn’t spent the past few hours in a downward spiral of anxiety. “About…?”

“He and I were talking about us.” Yoongi gestured to himself and then to you. “He asked me if we wanted to go public any time soon.”

Your eyes went wide. “I… what? Why?”

“He apparently talked to Jin, Namjoon, and Jungkook about it, too.” He shrugged. “Si-Hyuk-hyung didn’t say why, but we think it’s because of the Grammys.” When you continued to look confused, he elaborated. “I mean, that’s kind of the thing, right? If you win an award, you turn and hug the person you love and then you go to receive it?”

“Oh, so you’re expecting to win?” you teased, trying to pretend like your cheeks weren’t a little flushed.

“Well, I think…” he stammered. “I think we should be prepared. Just in case.”

“So what did you tell PD-nim?”

“I told him I would talk to you about it.” You hummed. “He said he’d leave it up to us, but he’d like at least three days’ notice so they can prepare a statement.”

You stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Of course you had thought about it, about what going public would do to your relationship. You had considered the potential hate from the fans you would receive, and the fact that your private life, no matter how hard you tried, would never be fully private after. You knew about the strain it could put on your relationship with Yoongi, about how the saesangs and the paparazzi drove a wedge between many idols--particularly male idols--and their significant others.

But at the same time, you wanted to be able to go out with Yoongi without having to constantly look over your shoulder, without having to worry about someone from Dispatch seeing, or a well-meaning fan posting on social media. You wanted to be able to go with Yoongi to events, to publicly support him at concerts.

You sighed and reached for his hand. “What do you think?”

“It’s what you want, jagi. My life won’t really change much,” he said, squeezing your hand.

“Yoongi, please.” You didn’t like how exasperated your voice sounded, but you could feel your anxiety starting to spike again. “I need to know what you’re thinking.”

“Honestly?” You nodded. “I don’t know. It actually kind of terrifies me.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve seen idols’ careers die when dating scandals come out. But at the same time, I want us to have a normal life.” You snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s very sudden,” you said softly, gripping his hand with both of yours. “The Grammys are in a few weeks. We’d have to do something in the next few days.”

“I’ll tell him we’d like to wait, then.”

You hummed, tracing his hand with your index finger. “We’d be able to do it how we want?”

“That’s what Si-Hyuk-hyung said. I imagine there’s a limit, but I don’t think he’d lie about that.”

“How much of an advanced warning did he say he wanted?”

“Three days.”

Would it really be that bad? You weren’t a stranger to hate comments and wildly unfounded criticism, although not quite to the scale it might get to. Yoongi rarely looked at social media, unless he was posting a selca to Twitter. And what? You might have to private your Instagram? Delete your Twitter? Honestly, it might do you some good to get away from social media. You trusted Yoongi to not drop you the second things got tough, and there were six other members of BTS there to help lessen any damage his career might take. As long as the two of you could weather it together, you were confident that you could come out on the other side relatively unscathed.

“Fuck it.”

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes were wide.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.” You squeezed his hand, a small smile starting to form.

Yoongi’s eyes locked on yours. He was smiling, but you could see him hesitate. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Ask PD-nim if we can do something right before they send out their release. I think it’ll go over better coming from you.”

“You’re already planning this?” It wasn’t a question. He laughed, a sweet, gummy smile spreading across his face. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do this. I’ll text Si-Hyuk-hyung and let him know.”

You watched him slide his phone out of his pocket and unlock it. “Hey Yoon?” He hummed, continuing to type for a moment before looking up at you. “We’re gonna be okay no matter what, right? Still us?”

Yoongi pulled you to him as he stood up, his arms immediately wrapping around your back to hold you close. “Don’t be silly. Of course we will be.” You felt him sigh as he tucked his chin onto your shoulder. “I can’t promise that things won’t change, but we’ll be okay.”

You hugged him, your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too tightly on his bad one. This certainly hadn’t been where you were expecting the conversation to go when he walked out the door that morning, but you hoped he was right. Telling the fans was an important step to take--and an inevitable one, if you wanted your relationship to last. “You and me?” You pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes.

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours. “‘Till the end.”

Read more of the series here

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi #suga #min yoongi #bts suga x reader #bts suga #bts yoongi #bts yoongi x reader #thebtswritersclub

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

Text

Phoenix Protocol 05

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Dawnblade.

Previously

She doesn't actually get a free chance to see the Commander (in which he is also free for more than a polite greeting) for more than a week after attending his Titans’ workshop. Ikora sends her into the maw of Saturn, to experience the Tangled Shore. Her tasks include collecting Hive specimens and neutralizing priority targets.

It also includes seemingly endless combat. The Hive are relentless. In the shadow of the Dreadnought they fight the Scorn, pausing only to combine forces against her. There is no safe place, the further she tunnels into the caverns of festering husk and larvae, to heal should she need it. Her rift can still heal bullet holes, but not her charred arm in addition to them. Certainly even less under live fire.

She’s fought the Hive for centuries, it feels. Her sword is voracious enough that she feels comfortable cutting through them, for the most part. But their numbers are uncountable here. Where one falls, three take its place.

The result is slow-moving progress and several (very) desperate attempts to shield Ghost while he heals her failing body. Miyu returns to Ikora precisely ten days, three hours and four minutes after she'd been deployed. Ikora looks unimpressed.

Miyu is too groggy to give a damn, having had Ghost auto-pilot her return from the Shore just so she could actually sleep. While Guardians could exist without, sleep was essential to peak performance, and everyone knew it. She shifts uncomfortably in her Hive-ichar stained robes, waiting for Ikora to dismiss her so she can shower and sleep in her own bed.

Ikora does not do any of those things. Ikora instead determines that she should go to Mars, and assist with containing the Hive there.

“More Hive,” Miyu comments drollishly before she can help herself. It comes out in her featherlight voice though, so it doesn't sound so patronizing.

“Grey, the Hive -” Miyu clenches her fists, and Ghost's presence in her mind attempts to flood her with calm while Ikora speaks, “- want your Light. They are drawn to it. Your Light will protect itself, though you. Unfortunately that means putting yourself in harm's way, but for the greater good.”

Miyu sighs and nods. She knows this. She’s done research on the subject herself. Enough research for all of her lifetimes.

“Only for a few days,” Ikora tells her. “To give me time to see about other arrangements. Return to me at the end of the week.”

On Mars, she summons her sword. Her vision burns white - still a single candle. She cannot see, but the sword she's trying to throw is too heavy to lift with one arm - and the flames in her vision are hot agony as they consume. She blinks back to herself, her body ablaze. A Severing Knight slices her clean through. It's a mercy.

Ten hours later, it's a Hive Wizard who blasts her across Hellas Basin when she tries to call upon her abilities once more. She looks like a comet, a streaking, dying star. She wakes up with Ana Bray beside her, discussing something animatedly over quiet comms.

“Send her home, Anastasia.”

“Hey, I'm not about to argue with you on this one,” The Hunter shoots back quickly. “I know that worried-angry voice of yours.”

“You do,” He rumbles, “And yet you purposely ignore it when you defy me.”

She laughs nervously. “I mean, it's in the name of the greater good, Zavala -” Said Titan growls, just enough to be picked up over the line “- alright, fine,” The overzealous Hunter relents for once. There's a pause. Miyu can see the shadow of someone leaning over her through her closed eyelids. “I think she's waking up.”

There's a twitch between her palms that lets her know Ghost is cradled between her hands. She barely, gently, squeezes and releases him, groaning as she attempts to rise. Ana puts a hand behind her, to prevent her from falling back on what she assumes is supply crates.

“Easy,” The Hunter encourages. “That wasn't a good trip.”

Ghost flutters around her and nods. She blinks over to him and he twists anxiously, looking like he's about to speak.

“You’re coming back to the Tower,” Zavala's voice calls over the comms. “This is madness. If Ikora has an issue, I will address it myself.”

Ana flips the mute switch. “He's… really angry.” She flips it back.

“Commander-”

“That is an order.”

Miyu sighs. “Understood.”

“Report to me when you get settled,” Zavala instructs. “I will be waiting.”

He cuts the line after that. Miyu doesn't get a chance to thank Ana before she's brushed aside by some chattering of Rasputin that sounds apparently very important to the crypto-linguistic researcher. For the best. She feels like garbage, but at least Zavala made it sound like she might be able to change into something clean before parading through the Tower.

It's late when she takes the lift up to the top level of the Tower. She checks his post first, but he's gone. Ghost steers her toward the command centre next, looking for the frequency of the Commander's ghost in a wide, sweeping scan.

Her robes are clean, unremarkable ones, devoid of armor beneath. It is never too late for a fight, Shaxx would say, but she wants nothing more than a warm mug of tea and a good night's sleep. The command centre is mostly empty, so she realizes it must be later than she thought.

Zavala sits at the end of a long table, mug beside him and tablet propped up on a large palm. His eyes rise to meet her when she enters the room, and he motions to the seat beside him before finishing what he's doing.

She obliges him and sits quietly. Ghost appears in a flutter of sparks. “Ikora,” He says, minding his volume, “Received word that you returned early. She is unhappy-”

Miyu sighs. “Tell her I will see her in the-”

“That,” A serious voice calls from behind Zavala, “Is unnecessary. I'll have answers now.”

The Commander sets down his tablet, powering it down without looking. “I called her back,” Zavala says, turning in his chair. “Do you require her for a task?”

Ikora looks exasperated. “Her training is necessary, Zavala. What business-”

“Her training nearly saw her ghost razed by Splinter Knights. I am removing her from active duty.”

“Grey needs the exposure.” Ikora's golden gaze cants over the quiet Warlock.

Zavala bristles before the thought occurs to Ikora's exhausted subordinate. “Her name is Miyu, and she needs time to heal.”

Miyu's hands twitch under the table. Ghost looks at her before regarding the other two Guardians. The tension is palpable between them.

“You are an expert on Dawnblades, are you?”

“No,” Zavala concedes, “But-”

“But nothing,” Ikora snips. “Grey,” She says, the moniker acidic on her tongue, “You will return to Mars.”

Miyu does not move, even before Ghost tells her to stay silent through their neural link. This is not about her, he imparts to his charge, not really.

“No,” Zavala refutes. “She will not.”

Ikora snarls at that, and the hungry-angry-cold ripple of her power is felt by everyone in the room. She reigns it in seconds later. “Is she allowed in the Crucible, then? Or is that too much for her, too?” Cold eyes slide over the Awoken Warlock's face, her posture bowed. “Think of how it must sound to her, listening to us quarrel. What an impact you're making, Zavala.” Her patronizing tone is honeyed and that much more rage inducing.

Zavala clenches his fists. “If you desire it, she will report to the Crucible at first light,” He tells Ikora. “You may otherwise proceed how you wish, but any missions - recon or otherwise - will be approved by me.”

Ikora whirls around and stalks away. She does not dignify him with a response.

When it's just the two of them, Zavala reclines in his chair with a restrained sigh. Miyu purposely looks away, despite straightening her posture.

After some time, he speaks. “What happened today,” Zavala says, “I don't believe it was benefiting you. I am sure Ikora has your best interests at heart, however…”

“Sending her to Mars was foolish,” Ghost chimes, hovering over the desk.

When that brings the Commander's gaze upon her, Miyu blushes.

“What do you think?” He asks her, slowly. His bright eyes search her face. “Everyone else has spoken. What say you?”

Miyu chances a look into his luminous glowing eyes. She sighs. “I think-” She grimaces. “I do not wish to make things worse between you and Ikora.”

“Nevermind that,” Zavala replies. His voice is stern. “You are the one who does not feel like yourself. What do you need?”

Ghost blinks over at her. She sighs and rises to her feet. Her quiet voice carries well in the silence. She paces, speaking, “I'm not sure, but… Can we go elsewhere? There is something that happened, during the training… and on Mars and I... I would like to discuss it with you.”

The Commander's brow furrows, but he acquiesces, rising to his feet. “Lead the way.”

#commander zavala #oc: miyu #zavala x oc #zavala x female guardian #destiny fanfiction #collection: phoenix protocol

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styomi · 6 years

Text

Fifteen study dates | 15-day prompt challenge | Sweet Pea/OC | Day 7

AN: I realized that I skipped updating yesterday, so two chapters today! I was tired as heck because of overtime xD Looking forward to hearing what you guys think :D

Info:

Fandom: Riverdale Pairing: Sweet Pea/OC Rating: T Word count: 1893 Chapter count: 7/15

Master of procrastination and his jailer

From the first day of studying with Sweet Pea, and occasionally his friends, Ruby knew that it was going to be a steep way up towards good grades. While she certainly didn’t have too much trouble completing her workload, her study buddy had issues. More specifically, procrastination and attention span issues. Sweet Pea was the undeniable king of getting distracted. A notification on his social media, a text from Fangs or a phone call from FP were somehow always a first priority. And, when there weren’t any distractions like that, he made himself busy by bothering her. He loved playing with her hair, lazily braiding it into weird dreadlock-like lines that Ruby didn’t have the heart to tell him took her hours and tonnes of conditioner to get rid of. And, when it wasn’t her hair, it was something else. Doodling, playing with his rings, searching for interesting tattoos online, twirling his pencil or clicking his pen. Sweet Pea was an annoying mess of a master procrastinator.

But, what Ruby hadn’t been privy to was the information that he actually didn’t understand half of the material. Most specifically, the physics material. She wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t pay attention in class or because he simply didn’t get the tasks, but Ruby knew that more than seventy percent of his work was always wrong. So, she made it her own, personal goal to get him to pass physics without him noticing how much she was trying.

The first step had been roping Sweet Pea into a study session every day except the weekend. Ruby had managed that easily enough. Promises of alone time in her room or doing something he wanted when they were done got the biker to eagerly oblige. The next task on Ruby’s list had been getting Sweet Pea to actually study during those sessions. He was like a small child, constantly distracted and pulling her attention away from the material. So, she set up an odd reward system, which she didn’t voice to the boy, instead only acted upon it. Ruby would hold his hand, kiss him, sit on his lap or even go a little further when he did a good job in order to encourage him. When she got to her third step, the actual testing, the teen realized her mistake.

Sweet Pea spent the first half of the practice exam trying. His hand kept going to his hair, messing it up when he didn’t understand something or hit a wall. He kept scratching out his answer and progress, before going back to the top and trying again. However, by the time Sweet Pea started the second half of the practice test, Ruby could clearly see that he’d given up. A small curse here and there, a shrug before writing down the answer and not even bothering with his calculator were all setting off alarms in her head.

“Is it too difficult?” Ruby finally asked when she’d finished her own test, sitting still and watching the biker struggle for the last half an hour or so.

“It’s fine,” Sweet Pea countered, eyes not leaving the page. “Just like at school.” Ruby saw him scratch out an answer and write another one.

“Then, what’s wrong?” She asked. Sweet Pea sighed, his head rising and eyes meeting hers.

“I’m just stupid for this school shit, cupcake,” the biker shrugged like the words meant nothing, but Ruby could see the way his fingers were clenched around his pen. “Sorry to disappoint your dreams of me being some kind of hidden, dyslexic genius underneath all the leather and Serpents pride.” Sweet Pea’s grin pissed Ruby off to no end.

“Give me your test,” she held her hand out, waiting, tone icy. Sweet Pea obliged soundlessly. “Now, get your butt over here and listen to my explanation or we’re going to have an issue.” The chair rolled over, crackling along the old floor of Ruby’s room. She grabbed the armrest, making Sweet Pea lean back slightly. He knew her pissed mode was on. “Listen to me. You’re not stupid, Sweet Pea,” he huffed, making Ruby smack his arm with the back of her hand. “You’re not. Otherwise, FP and Tall Boy wouldn’t be grooming you to take over as second-in-command.” His dark eyes met her pale ones, reluctantly shifting to the side.

“Whatever you say.” Do you really think so, he was asking. She knew. Ruby knew Sweet Pea better than he thought.

“I know I’m right,” she adamantly told him. “Now, just like you listen to them when they’re teaching you the ropes of gang bullcrap,” when he opened his mouth to correct her, Ruby put her finger up readily. “No, that I don’t want to know. But, just like you listen to them, you listen to me,” he didn’t reply and Ruby frowned. “Are we on the same page here? Do you want to pass this?”

“Yes.” Sweet Pea grumbled.

“Good,” Ruby smiled. “No more texting in class and you pay attention. You also have to stop procrastinating when we’re studying.”

“Alright, Miyagi,” He was grinning at her. “Lay it on me.” And Ruby took up her red pen, getting started on his test.

Toni and Fangs picked up Sweet Pea on Monday at his locker, the tall biker looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. The purple haired Serpent gave him a once-over before leaning on the wall and smirking.

“Ruby riding you hard?” She caused Fangs to choke on his coffee and attempt to prevent it from spilling out of his mouth and all over his travel mug and front.

“You have no idea,” Sweet Pea groaned, making his two friends stare in shock. “She’s an absolute beast! I think I’ve studied this weekend more than ever in my life. Please hide me or something if she comes looking.” The two bikers exchanged glances.

“Sure, because your tall ass is easy to hide.” Toni shook her head.

“C’mon, man, can’t be that bad having a study session with a girl?” Fangs tried to diffuse the situation. But, Sweet Pea turned to him with a clear face of absolute misery.

“You try it.” He spoke with conviction. “She won’t let me step out of line, like some military camp. I need Ruby-free time.”

“Then you’d better start running now,” Toni remarked, nodding her head at something behind Sweet Pea. “Here comes your jailer.”

“Shit.” Sweet Pea tried to grab the right books and close his locker but didn’t make it. Ruby had already bounded over to him with a cheerful smile on her face.

“Morning, everyone,” she greeted, the two Serpents returning the gesture. “Sweet Pea.” Her hand extended expectantly. With a groan, the tall biker fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. A piece of paper was placed in its spot. “Study hard!” With that, Ruby bounded off again. Sweet Pea slumped against his locker. Toni’s eyebrows rose while Fangs’ smile widened to an impossible size.

“Oh, wait! I have something!” He cheerfully said, digging out his own phone and searching before playing a soundtrack. A whip swishing through the air and cracking sounded out in the busy hallway, making Toni lose her cool. The girl barely managed to stay upright against the wall.

“Ha ha.” Sweet Pea glared at Fangs. “Laugh it up until she sees your grades.” Fangs paled.

Sweet Pea found focusing in class much easier without his phone. While his hand did constantly go to his pocket on impulse when he got bored, only to find it empty and have a small heart attack, he kept his eyes on the board and his notebook filled with lines of examples and explanations. And, Ruby’s little notes also helped. She kept passing him small pieces of paper whenever they saw each other, each spelling out a little encouragement in her writing. Some were quotes, others were her own words of praise at how he had done well in class and the last kind, his favorite, were promises of rewards which he would get for his efforts.

So, the tall biker did his best. He actually sat in his chair, for once, instead of on his desk, in physics and wrote down problem after problem. When the exam came, he didn’t find it a head-scratcher, as usual. Instead, Sweet Pea turned his paper in less than thirty minutes after it had been handed out to him by the teacher, surprising everyone. He even got permission to leave the classroom early, which made Toni and Fangs gape after his retreating form. Ruby found him that day, after finishing her own test, by his locker.

“Hey.” She greeted in a soft tone, the hallway still empty because class was in session.

“Hey.” Sweet Pea shot back halfheartedly, expecting a reprimand for leaving early. However, Ruby surprised him, yet again. She took his hands gently, interlocking their fingers and standing on her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“I knew you could do it.” She whispered against his skin, their breath mingling.

“I had plenty of help and a merciless jailer.” Sweet Pea joked, taking her bottom lip in between his teeth gently and pulling a bit. Ruby groaned and her arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer to her. He loved the way she pressed the whole length of her body against his, a rare show of intimacy in a public place.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” The girl asked between kisses, which became longer and more heated with each passing moment.

“Fangs has a new ringtone for you now,” Sweet Pea told her, pulling his head back a bit to see her reaction. “It’s a whipping sound.” Ruby lost it, giggling against him, her forehead hitting his chest.

“Alright, I was pretty bad,” She concluded with a sigh. “Here.” Sweet Pea felt her slide his cellphone into his back pocket, where he normally kept it, coping a feel along the way.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one squeezing your ass, tater tot?” He cheekily commented, their heated mood from before gone. They were back to their usual teasing push and pull. Ruby didn’t reply, though. In fact, her face was as red as a tomato and she was staring at the contents of his locker.

“You kept them?” There were two dozen small papers there, carefully left beside his books and notebooks. All the encouragement she’d written for him along the way.

“Of course, I did.” Sweet Pea shot back, watching the way she hid her face from him. He actually had her embarrassed, for once.

“Throw them out, stupid!” Ruby tried to take the notes, but Sweet Pea slammed his locker shut with a smirk.

“No, they’re mine now. I decide what to do with them,” he told her smugly when he saw her incredulous expression and red cheeks. “Besides, isn’t it your ongoing theory that I’m not stupid?”

“I take that back, you’re stupid and you’re a jerk!” She was already planning to get his locker combination somehow, he knew.

“No take backsies.” The comment earned him a slap across the chest. Sweet Pea laughed and leaned in, kissing Ruby one last time before pulling her towards the cafeteria, ignoring her grumbling about revenge and never doing anything nice for him ever again.

That’s all folks!

Taglist (still open): @enticinghell

You can find the previous parts here:

Day 1: A way to memorize Day 2: How to prepare for a study date (?) like a proper gentleman Day 3: With proper motivation, anything is possible Day 4: PG13 PDA sugar can be good motivation Day 5: Autumn time is picnic time Day 6: It’s best when we can compete Day 8: Take me anywhere, everywhere, away from here Day 9: Dirty French for beginners Day 10: I need… sleep?… no, you… Day 11: Delirium Day 12: Stay still for me Day 13: Debate? Apparently, a turn-on Day 14: Two-seater and Chinese Day 15: Unintentional intentions

Let me know how you liked it :D

#styomi #writing #fanfiction #riverdale oc #riverdale #riverdale aesthetic #riverdale drabble #sweet pea #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea oc #sweet pea drabble #sweet pea aesthetic #ruby wolfe aesthetic #ruby wolfe #bansheehime #study date prompts #fifteen day challenge #romantic prompts

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celticmythpodshow · 5 years

Text

Another Writer's Journey

Please accept my apologies for writing about myself. I generally try and avoid this as I feel I am nowhere near as important as the stories I tell (and those that we tell as far as the Celtic Myth Podshow is concerned). That having been said, let's plunge on in!

When I moved from Primary School to Secondary school (after the now legendary 11+ examination), one of my favourite lessons was the English class. At 11 years old I was far too young to understand much about Grammar or story/poem analysis, but I loved the act of creation involved in summoning imagery and meaning from words. Plain and simple words that when strung together could create pictures in my mind and feelings in my chest.

One memory that sticks in my mind as significant because it told me, even at that tender age that I had an intense desire to write, was a class exercise that progressed over an entire term. We were each asked to write a single-page, short and concise story and then read it to the entire class. I was in heaven! I wrote an adventure story involving a dangerous trek in the jungle and eventual possible rescue. My story stretched the limits of our allotted time as I had filled well over a dozen pages of the small A5 exercise books that we used to be given at school. After I had finished - I don't remember exactly what the teacher said - my fellow class-mates were asked to give their feedback to the teacher and they all asked for more detail about my story and for the tale to be completed. The teacher, perhaps bowing to popular pressure, asked me to complete the story and for the next couple of weeks I wrote continuing episodes and read each out in turn to the class. The joy I felt in entertaining my peers with my my writing is a joy that has never left me. To give pleasure with mere words is something that can never be underestimated.

As my relationships with my school-mates developed, I played many games and don't remember writing much other that the allocated tasks that we were all set. Our play-ground games however were rapidly becoming increasingly complex. A small group of my intimate inmates decided to each take on the role of a particular leader/hero/ruler on a planet in some imaginary Science Fiction universe that we had decided upon. My own planet of bio-mechanical inhabitants acquired technical drawings of the transport system within its major cities, biological descriptions of the alien inhabitants (vaguely resembling cones on wheels as I recall!) and each city having its own history mapped out. Hours and hours of work. It never got used in our games of course, but for me the creation of back-story was as essential as the game itself.

Writing after Leaving School?

As my school-years were coming to an end, my close-knit circle of buddies discovered the very first 3 volume box-set of an imported game from America, ridiculously named "Dungeons & Dragons". The game was what later came to be known as a 'role-playing game' with one person acting as a story-teller come referee come guide and the other players taking on a role of a character within a Fantasy-based universe.

The big difference between this and other traditional methods of story-telling was that the actions that the players decided to take determined the future course of events within the story. The Fantasy universe moulded itself around us as we played. We were living in the story! I had come home! What an amazing discovery.

It wasn't long before I, myself, took on the part of the Dungeon Master (as the referee was called) and was creating my own interactive stories with a group of players. My own game had maps (based on hex-paper) that were filled in as the players explored the world I had created plastered all over one wall of my very small flat and the remaining space in my flat taken up with as many chairs as I could fill into the space. At one stage, our story had over ten people meeting weekly to continue their adventures and the whole story arc carried on for over a year.

That was something that required almost constant attention and a vast amount of time and energy to complete. Something that I would never advise anyone of even half-sane mind to contemplate doing!

Turning to Myths & Legends

Coming into my early 20's, my daily reading consumption increased and although I didn't put pen to parer at this time not only did my love of fiction grow and evolve but my love of mythological and religious stories also grew. My interests spread into a more academic and factual direction in order to find out where these stories came from and to seek answers as to why some versions of the same story were different and why there were similarities between stories from widely different cultures around the world. This was a long time before I discovered Joseph Campbell! My love of story, mythology and comparative religion eventually lead me to study ritual and magic - which, in my opinion, is yet another variety of living story. But that is really a different tale that I shall save for another day.

One of my greatest loves from my first days at Secondary schools was Tolkien's Lord of the Rings and the whole Middle-Earth mythos. To be fair, it is a love that I carry with me to this day. Back in 1977, I found the Silmarillion to be hard reading at my first attempt, but I fast grew to love it. In particular, the Song of Creation found in the first part, Ainulindalë, tells of the creation of Eä, the "world that is" struck a deeply resonant chord within my soul.

What happened next is something that I look back on with great awe and wonder. Without realising it, my next actions were to act as a prelude to the type of story-telling that I was to take up again 30 years later! I recorded myself reading the Ainulindalë accompanied by music by Tangerine Dream (I think the album was Phaedra) and loved every minute.

It was only when I listened to the cassette recording that I was over-whelmed and the hairs on my arms stood up and my heart raced with some form of excitement that I had never felt before. Something magical had happened. When I was reading about the Horns of Ulmo, resounding in the Deep Waters, there were horn blasts in the music. So much synchronicity happened in this reading whose true significance I missed at the time. This was something unique and wonderful. But hey-ho! - I was 18 years old, and forgot all about it in the rush of rapidly expanding teenage hormones in the following months.

Time for a Quick Break

Let's take a small break in the narrative here, while I grab a glass of water, you get to wonder what on earth you are doing wasting your time reading the drivel that I have written and I skip forward in time. As we go, we can jump over several failed attempts at both fiction and non-fiction writing, and arrive at the point in my life where my long-suffering wife (the gorgeous Ruthie) and I decide to start a podcast about Celtic Mythology. The Celtic Myth Podshow was born at Imbolc, 2008 - it seemed to us a suitable birthing time. Reading the complex Irish myths out aloud seemed to us an excellent way of learning them, understanding them and perhaps help other people out with the same tasks. It was only natural that eventually we would want to cover all the stories of the Celts that we could find.

For two years, I scripted the ideas we came up with and along with friends and family we recorded and released shows every fortnight. There was no way in this or any other universe that we could maintain this pace and were it not for my becoming seriously ill and requiring major surgery due to Cancer at the end of 2009, I think I/we would have burned out and never carried on making any shows or telling any more stories.

Health is something that when you are healthy you can often take for granted. I certainly did. Without it, each physical movement initially and later any focus or concentration became something that rapidly drained my energy. I learned about Spoon Theory very quickly indeed. Google it - it's worth it.

Life events (family, career, housing, finances etc.) began to overtake us in 2015-2016, and the rate at which we could produce shows dwindled as more and more of our focus and attention had to be placed on far more immediate concerns. I think we only managed to get out one show in 2016 and another in 2017. Early in 2017, I discovered that I had Leukemia and we were again forced to focus on health and the need to rapidly find a new home.

Patience, Pacing and Priorities

It is strange that no matter how important your writing is to you, or how much you value your creative work and no matter how much pleasure you get from seeing or hearing the joy that other people have from hearing or reading your work, there is no way that the inspiration will flow when your life's basics are under threat. I thought that writing and creating would be a great distraction form the more serious problems in our lives. I was, however, totally wrong. It just wouldn't happen. It took time - a long time - for me to even begin to accept this. Starting a new podcast, Celtic Tomes, was my refusal to accept that I could do nothing creative during this time. Eventually this podcast too had to come to a halt as life's needs escalated. This was a frustrating time that I am glad we seem to have passed through. It is over and I hope I have learned some very important lessons about patience, pacing and the priorities in our lives.

At the height of the Summer heatwave in this year (2018), we moved and began to unpack and settle. I could feel the relaxation beginning to seep into my bones. Despite the mountains of boxes around me, the presence of inspiration began to make itself felt.

For me, inspiration works in a very strange and yet defined way. It seems I have to make space in my life and my head, start the process off by moving a little way towards an idea and then whatever it is that comes from outside of myself, from the wider universe, from the Realms of the Fae or the Gods or whatever (be it Awen or Imbas or just plain Inspiration), I begin to feel its breath rushing into me towards a new creation. They say the word 'inspiration' comes from from the Proto-Indo-European root *en "in" + spirare "to breathe". Breathing in the Spirit of creation from the cosmos perhaps? It is interesting that the word 'spirit' also has the same roots....

Flexing My Muscles (as if!)

I felt I needed to flex my writing muscles again. "If you don't use it, you lose it" is a common expression, but I am not sure it means you forget how to write, but I think it may mean you lose contact with that flow of "spirit" or whatever that brings a creation into life and full being. I had been listening to podcasts about the Craft of Writing for some time and as October was approaching, I began to hear more and more about NaNoWriMo. NaNoWriMo stands for the "National Novel Writing Month" and it always takes place during the 30 days of November. In this time you do your best to write 50,000 words to create a novel (novella perhaps?). Success or failure is not strictly the main goal. The main goal of #NaNoWriMo is to get you writing.

So I made a decision to write a novel. Research and preparation of that novel has been one of the most enjoyable and rewarding pastimes that I have encountered in the last few years and I am incredibly excited to start writing on November 1st. My novel is going to be a ghost story set in the middle of a disaster zone at a place I know well in Hastings - the town where I was born.

It's only 10 days away now and I find myself 'itchy' to start writing. As I can't start on my novel until November, I found my mind drifting to other projects. Perhaps I could start thinking about the next book for the Celtic Tomes? So, I totaled the votes cast for the next book and started some preparation. Fantastic!

And yet, still the Universe had not finished with me.

Unfinished Business

Last week, I woke up wondering where my work period that day could be directed, opened my laptop and found myself opening up the Script for the Branwen story! The Second Branch of the Mabinogion is the next story to be told in our main podcast, the Celtic Myth Podshow, and the script is about half-way completed and stands at about 22,000 words. I found myself re-reading and editing what I had already written, suddenly aware that I was mentally preparing myself to finish the script. I sent my prayers of thanks up to the Gods or whoever was helping me with the inspiration and went to bed a very happy Gary.

A few days later, the realities of the situation began to sink into my dense, Neanderthal brow and I realised that if I were to avoid the same burn-out problems that I had hit before then I would have to heed the lessons of Pacing that I had tried to learn previously. I would have to take things very slowly indeed. I would have to work in tune with Life and not separate from it.

November is, for me, fully booked with NaNoWriMo and Life events, but after that, in the New Year, I can turn my attention back to the Branwen story and do some editing of my novel, some recording for Celtic Tomes and any other project that leaps into my mind. The important thing I have to remember, and I really must drive this home into my thickest of heads, is that I can only focus fully on one major project at a time. To do otherwise would be to tread, stagger and eventually fall on the stony path to a barren plain where nothing gets written.

Thank you for listening to the story so far.

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#celtic myth #podcast #mythology #celts

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