Genre: Fluff + Smut but mostly smut Rating: M Pairing: Namjoon x Reader Summary: You hate your best friend because she made you go camping. But you also love your best friend because she made you go camping.
Summary : You have one bad addiction. Jackson is an instructor in a center for people with health problems and bad mental state. How will the addiction acts upon the two of them ? Will your forsaken self be able to change your mental state ?
It’s a One-shot. Part two will be up very soon ;)
The street was crowded. Clouds were everywhere, like a ticking bomb over the salarymen’s heads. Seoul is a huge city. Each person is only a tiny little part of the human presence in the island. One’s goal is the same as his neighbors’. There’s only one within four millions of men, women.
No wonder you felt so empty.
It was 4 A.M, and you were trying to walk down the alley leading to your house (you weren’t sure if it was the good street though). Your evening had been calm and filled with clouded memories of countless glasses scattered around the bar of your brother’s pub. The sound of glass, and the noisy people around you, telling it was just okay to drink too much, since tomorrow you wouldn’t even remember a thing, and gather the courage to speak to the beautiful man watching you with deep, dark envy. Like a vivid dream printed in your mind, you could only remember some parts of that big, insane moment of your life. Another one.
Once the sun sets they turn the generator off and sit around the kitchen table in the dark. Scully lights a candle.
“Your instincts are good,” Skinner says approvingly. “Lay low after dark.”
“Why?” Will asks, cocking his head.
Skinner looks at them, then nods toward Will. “Maybe we should wait until…”
But Scully shakes her head. “This is his life now,” she says quietly. “He has the right to know.”
“They’re rounding people up,” Skinner says. “Saying it’s for public safety. It happens at night. Frankly, I assumed that’s what happened to you.”
“Not yet,” she says.
Skinner shakes his head, emphatic. “Not ever.” He glances over at Will, briefly. “You cannot let them take you.”
Scully echoes, “There are worse things than dying,” and Skinner gives her a hard look.
“I mean it, Dana.” The older man looks distinctly uncomfortable. He sets his glasses down on the table and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to decide where to start. Finally he says, “So where were you?”
“Driving,” Scully says. “Looking for my nephew. West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky…it’s all the same.” She swallows. “Empty. We stopped in dozens of towns and we can’t have seen more than a few hundred people.”
“The first wave of attacks had an extremely high casualty rate,” Skinner says gruffly. “I don’t have information for other cities — the president was keeping those numbers close to his chest — but in D.C., they estimated a forty percent casualty rate on the first day, and more than half of those were fatalities.”
Mulder shakes his head, disbelieving. “What could kill that many people?”
Skinner shrugs. “They were organized. Bombs, fires, coordinated shootings. And then — I assume you’ve seen victims of the disease. It’s highly contagious. It only took a few hours to blockade the cities, but people had already left. And within the cities…”
She looks at Skinner. “Are you—” she asks, and he nods shortly.
“Clean. I’m immune.” He raises an eyebrow. “As are you, I assume.”
“Scully?” Mulder asks.
She changes the subject. “What about the rest of the world? It can’t be like this everywhere.”
There’s a long pause. Skinner says, slowly, “The president…retaliated.”
He lets that sink in.
Will is the first one to speak. “Does he even know who attacked us?”
“Does it matter?” Skinner snaps. “Someone had to take the blame. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. They shut down the airports but people crossed borders on foot. The first cases of the disease appeared in Toronto, Vancouver, and Tijuana six hours after the attacks.”
“And where is the president?” Scully sneers the word.
Skinner waves his hand, dismissive. “Holed up in a bunker somewhere with a dozen men and the nuclear codes. No one is taking control of the situation, if that’s what you’re asking.” She can see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, hard. “We’re on our own.
Will says, "So this is it. The end of the world.” His voice is flat, affectless.
“Probably,” Skinner agrees, looking the boy in the eyes. “But we’re still here.” He looks to Mulder, and then to Scully. “The question is, what are we going to do now?”
My inner Romantic likes to match music with the weather, and so the other night walking to the local Dairy Queen, I put on Scriabin to match the light of the full moon. Again I’m hypnotized and drawn in by the weirdness and the ethereal sounds from his more “mystical” works. Here is the Poem of Fire, which in a way is essentially his second piano concerto. For orchestra, chorus, piano, and organ, this work is highly dissonant and revolves around his “mystic chord”, which opens the work and which Scriabin also referred to as the “Promethean chord” [A D♯ G C♯ F♯ B]. I can’t help but think of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, which is also rooted in a Promethean spirit. Perhaps this is Scriabin’s way of bringing a new language to music? That of atonality, but order in the supposed disorder? One fun fact is that this work also includes a clavier à lumières, or color organ, in the score. The color organ is an instrument Scriabin conceived specifically for this piece, and it is an organ that also shines light as it is played, and each light corresponds with a specific key, which was Scriabin’s way of trying to show the tone painting that he did when he wrote music, using colors as he could see them thanks to his chromesthesia [audio-visual synesthesia where he associates different pitches with different colors]. The work is a fantastic build up, and should be included in every list of “music to hear before you die”.