@cosimocontessina: “You’re right, I’m 100% in the wrong.The truth is I’m the one that’s not tough enough to be in here. I mean, watching the woman I love unarmed, locked up with all these murderers… it’s just too much for me.”
Anonymous requested: Jungkook/Reader + one of them has amnesia and how they deal with it Pairing: Jungkook | Reader Genre: Angst/Fluff Word Count: 11,663 Author’s Note: I made myself hurt writing the outline, which ended up quite long and intricate so I apologize. Title taken from Adam Levine’s “Lost Stars”—although I do prefer the Jungkook cover :3
Summary: In which you lose your memory in a car crash, and Jungkook desperately tries to keep both of your lives intertwined. This in itself proves to be a challenge, especially when you can only remember him as the idol you once adored from afar.
Jungkook never paid too much attention to those moments in life where he would figuratively hit the wall and knock the wind out of himself, until he gets the call from the hospital. And then he’s running, dashing fast and wild as quickly as his legs can take him, his mind clouded with so much fear, so much apprehension that even when he can no longer breathe he forces himself to keep running. He feels as if he might lose his mind, already grappling with deniability over his situation, the only thing that can remain consistent throughout his mind is you.
“Are you Jeon Jungkook, Y/N’s emergency contact?”
Jungkook stills, pausing in his momentary movement to wipe the sweat that has formed across his face in recovery from the intense dance practice session all the boys have just ended. “Uh, yes I am,” He answers, furrowing his eyebrows together at the seriousness of the situation, his disposition changing in such a drastic manner that all the other boys stop what they’re doing as well to watch the maknae. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m letting you know that Y/N was recently involved in a car accident and was rushed here under critical condition. She’s undergoing surgery now but—!”
“I’ll be right there,” Jungkook interrupts in a breath, the panicking settling in before the gravity of what has just happened to you really weighs in his mind. He doesn’t wait for the nurse on the other end of the line before he’s hanging up and pocketing his phone. His heart starts to race, making the blood pump quicker as air leaves and enters his lungs at an alarming quickened pace. “I have to go,” He relays to the guys, grabbing his jacket off the couch.
“Woah, woah, Jungkookie, what’s going on?” Jimin inquires, straightening from his seated position on the polished wooden floor. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not,” Jungkook says, desperately trying to pull himself from the conversation so he could make his way to the hospital. “Y/N got into a car accident. She’s in surgery right now, I have to go—I have to see how she’s doing.”
“Let me come with you,” Namjoon interjects, already joining Jungkook’s side, jacket on.
Jungkook runs a hand through his hair. “Whatever. I’m running, so keep up.”
Namjoon dismisses Jungkook’s words for stress as he merely nods, following the younger boy out of the studio and dashing down the street. The hospital you have been rushed to is nearby, thank god, only a few blocks away from where Jungkook stands, but it feels like miles stretched on for miles. He runs, runs, runs faster than his legs can possibly carry him, huffing and puffing but never quite moving fast enough.
Sam hasn’t been blackout drunk for a couple of years, not since the night that he got Dean back from demonhood and put away nearly an entire bottle of Jack. That time he woke up face down in his pillows, fully clothed with his dislocated shoulder shooting violent bolts of pain down his spine. This time, he comes to with the sky wheeling white above him, his clothes damp and his knees muddy and twigs and leaves in his hair. He sits up, hauls himself to his feet and staggers forward a dozen yards or so to emerge onto a jogging track, a woman in bright lycra thudding past with headphones in her ears. His legs are bruised and aching and his mind is… fuck, so foggy, a great roiling cloud of nothingness, and he has to stop thinking about that right fucking now if he wants to stay calm. He runs his hands through his hair, dislodging a beetle and a shower of debris, tries to straighten up his clothes. He finds his phone in his pocket, the screen shattered and dead. Great. But the next woman down the track has a guy alongside her, a personal trainer maybe, so Sam steps forward hoping that he won’t intimidate them both away.
“Hey,” he says, hoarse. “Can I – I’m sorry. Can I borrow your phone?”
At age 28
Emma Swan knows she hasn’t done many things right in her life but her son is
definitely in the ‘knocked it out of the part’ category.
She is not
sure how much credit she should be given though. She thinks she has raised
Henry well, better than she expected, certainly better than she thought she
would when she was doubting whether she should do it at all. But there’s only
so much positivity and imagination Emma could install in someone. And her kid
definitely surpassed her capacity for both.
the bright and joyful child that he is, Henry is absolutely obsessed with
A part of
Emma dreads every 1st of December just because she is sure one
morning she’ll wake up and find herself on the North Pole. So far she simply
finds herself in an apartment awash in the sounds of Christmas’s best hits. By
the end of the first week of that long-awaited month she lives among dwarves of
all materials and sizes, has gingerbread men and candy canes falling on her
every time she reaches for the cinnamon and is constantly illuminated in some
combination of red, green and gold.
developed such an affinity for the holiday with Emma’s
not-quite-a-Grinch-but-definite-Scroogy-undertones attitude, she will never
know. Mostly she likes to blame it on kindergarten and school teachers like Miss
Blanchard and Miss French. If she didn’t know better, she’d think them related
to Santa himself.
sweeps her along in his excitement like he always does and she has every bit of
space on the surface of their fridge covered in drawings of the two of them
building snowmen, hanging lights, reading by an imaginable fireplace that she
has promised herself to look for when their lease is up, decorating the
Christmas tree, baking cookies and every other cliché in the holiday book.
All of that
should explain why she is willing to do pretty much anything to make sure Henry
has whatever his pure, believing little heart wants for Christmas.
there are some things her son has without a doubt inherited from her. Like the
ability to make Emma’s life as difficult as possible.
kid and their awesome aunts and uncles are obsessed with superheroes and
everything to do with them, racing each other to buy comics, rubber hammers and
plastic light-sabers, ordering Marvel DVDs and booking tickets months in
advance, Emma Swan is standing in front of a shelf with heavy, leather-bound,
luxurious editions of New Tales From the
Old Forest and hoping beyond hope that Killian fucking Jones gets a new
book out before Christmas starts really breathing down her neck.