thanks for the 1.4 k

anonymous asked:

Can u write jerejean where the trojans have an upcoming game against the ravens so a few select ravens who in particular have a bad history with jean show up to usc in their true cult fashion and try to psych him out in a way the trojans dont really understand but he (and jeremy) knows Exactly what they r talking about and when they leave he is just kind of stoic and scary looking and acts unaffected infront of his team but later when theyre alone jeremy comforts him and makes him feel better

I may have gotten carried away. I really liked this prompt lol. Thanks anon! It’s 1.4 k, so more is under the cut.

Warnings for mentions of sexual assault/slurs. Not graphic, but consistent with Jean’s past.

Jean wakes with a pounding headache behind his eye. It was most likely because he hadn’t slept all day, but no one needed to know that except him and his therapist. Tomorrow’s date on the calendar loomed the way a prisoner’s execution date might.

It was the day USC was scheduled to play the Ravens in a wildcard game before the playoffs. Jean had been mentally preparing for it for weeks, but as the date drew closer, his heart felt more and more constricted in his chest. The team noticed in the way he checked harder at practice and Jeremy had been sending him concerned looks all week, but they all knew better than to ask.

Jean sighs and unlocks his phone so he could make a call. He knocks his head against the headrest of his bed, but clicks call all the same.

He taps his foot impatiently as the phone rang. Just when he begins to hope that he wouldn’t pick up, he hears Kevin’s impatient voice go, “Jean? What’s going on?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if the Ravens’ schedule doesn’t run through his head every goddamn day.

Jean sighs. This was a wretched idea. “I have to play them tomorrow.” A beat of knowing silence passes before Jean follows up with, “How did you do it?”

He hears Kevin exhale and what he assumes is Kevin sitting down followed by, “It was the court. They couldn’t hurt me there.”

“They can always hurt you. You know that,” Jean deadpanned.

“And you know them. Beat them at their own game.”

“I didn’t call you to ask how to win a fucking game.”

“Then why did you call?”

Jean tries to remember a time when the sound of Kevin’s voice didn’t feel like salt in an open wound. “It’s not as though I have an abundance of other options.”

Kevin laughs humorlessly. Jean’s about to hang up when Kevin says, “I’m sorry I didn’t take you with me.”

Jean closes his eyes. “You’re really not.”

“I’ll see you at finals.”

He hears a click to signal that Kevin hung up. Jean realized that it was the closest to encouragement that he’d ever get from Kevin. It’s enough.

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the composer

↳ Y O O N G I  X   R E A D E R | violinist!AU - drabble (romance)
Word Count: 1.4 K
AN: thanks my sweetie for sending this because it immediately sparked this idea in my head and now I can’t get the image of a violinist Yoongi out of my brain, lol

treblecleftherandom said:Yoongi x Reader: The Composer

Originally posted by talk-me-down-troye


His shoes slither on the wooden floor, his steps the only audible sound in the empty theatre as he drags himself on the stage, the lights so dim it’s almost impossible to make out the outline of the stairs. He knows the way up there by heart, too far accustomed to the solitude he always seeks and desperately needs in order for music to flow out of his fingers and release all the emotions he doesn’t know how to voice elseways.
His eyes close as soon as the willow cold surface of his violin finds its place in the crook of his neck, the instrument his sole companion in these hours of serenity before the theatre fills with people ready to witness the show the company has worked so hard for.
His insides twitch as the bow glides against the chords, a little twist of his wrist and the music start flowing naturally, filling the space all around him, speaking volumes about his jumbled thoughts, his anxiety slowly slithering away with each sound he creates.
Before he knows it, behind his closed lids, the image of his unrivaled muse appears in front of him: the curve of your inarched body, the long lashes that touch the soft skin under your closed eyes, the little tilt of your mouth as you indulge into a smirk, teasing him to no end.
He releases the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, the music still coming to life without him being able to make a notice of the notes that hurtle after one another, the melody foreign to his ears and yet, somehow, very familiar to his heart.
It has always been you and the feelings you’re capable to spawn in his otherwise rotted soul: the core of his music, of every one of his compositions. Without his muse, he’s pure nothing, not even the simplest melody comes to life without you in his thoughts and he would know since he tried so hard, with every ounce of his being, to unhitch his inner melody from your presence. There’s not music in him if you’re not there and it’s been like this since the very first time his eyes landed on your frail figure. He doesn’t know how he was able to create before he met you but Lord knows, he’s no longer able to do so. Maybe it’s because you’re the very air he breaths, the very blood that pumps in his veins, the essence that nourishes his every move and he no longer exists as his own person now that you took over every inch of his being.
His eyes open, his lips slightly parted as he recalls the softness of your rosy mouth under his thumb and, just as a phantom of his fantasy, there you are, taunting him with your very presence, a nymph came to make his desires even more prominent and uncontrollable. His body always aches in your absence, every fiber of his frame longing for your touch whenever you’re not there to provide just that, his existence lived only in the function of your presence.
Your smile is all he’s able to see, his heart instantly picking up speed as you cross the stage, your lean silhouette wrapped in a tiny pink leotard perfectly matched with the soft transparent skirt that shifts with your every move.
It’s a tacit accord you two have, or to be more exact a never addressed routine you have fallen into: he’d be playing his violin in the empty theatre, seeking for the inspiration to make his music live, and you’d dance to his melodies to warm up your muscles fore the final rehearsal before the show. The first time it happened, long before you’d fell into each other’s embrace, you were both surprised, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy it somehow created – you dancing freely to what his heart had to say – but then it became a habit, something you’d both looked forward to as it started to represent the only way you’d be able to communicate without any filter.
Min Yoongi’s reputation precedes him everywhere he goes: the cold and heartless young composer whose walls are so high and impermeable many wonder if he really has a soul, hidden in there. He’s ruthless, stoic in his beliefs, often rude but very very talented. He can’t afford the distraction, he can’t afford to show a crack in his façade that will reveal to the world how very human he is. He’s simply too young to be the head of a company and the respect that should come with the power he was given, is only really obtainable if he hides everything good he has to offer.
His cold calculating persona is all everyone always sees. Everyone except you, the one and only able to bring him to his knees and make his guard down enough for you to shatter him into million pieces.
The music stops flowing, his arms now limb against his sides, his gaze so intense on you your insides stir at the thought of what may be running in his mind. Even though he claims otherwise, up to this day, you’ve never truly been able to read behind his expressionless face.
He lets the violin down, gently, and approaches you slowly, not a single word escaping his beautiful mouth as he does so.
His hands find their way along your face, the tenderness in his touch making every fiber of your being tremble. You hate how easily he can get to you, you hate how poor of control you have over your own body when it’s being held with such care by the one and only Min Yoongi.
A sigh escapes your mouth as he brushes his nose against yours, his eyes closing shut as his lips touch yours in a chaste kiss. Your perfume invades his nostrils, the softness of your skin warming up his entire body, the minty taste of your mouth making him slightly dizzy as each sense gets overpowered by your presence.
His mouth opens, his tongue licking your bottom lip into a simple request and you happily comply, welcoming the passionate kiss that comes right after.
Even when he kisses you like this, deep and passionate, his arms remain gentle almost as if he was handling the finest china there ever was, afraid that his simple touches could turn you into dust.
The way he sighs in the kiss, full of contentment, resembles your own sense of satisfaction, your body no longer aching for his presence as it was before. You’re not sure if it’s natural to miss somebody’s touch to this extent by you do, oh you do. There’s not a single waking moment you don’t think about Min Yoongi and the way he looks at you, touches you, or even talks to you. Your undeniable and uncontrollable love for him scares you for this is the first time you ever loved with such an intensity and you, who always claimed you’d always put yourself first even in a relationship, don’t even know where the borders between your bodies abide.
“Yoongi” you whisper, against his lips, as rationality rushes back in, “The others will be here soon”, you add, much to your woe, your eyes opening to look at his soft expression slowly hardening as he gathers back his composure. 
He lets go of you so quickly it looks like your skin scorched him - your insides knotting together as always when his limbs are no longer attached to your own - and he hums in agreement, the frustration visible in the corner of his lips as he steps backwards.
His eyes are still firmly in your own before he resolves on turning his back on you, disappearing in the darkness of the backstage to regain his demeanor.
That’s where he belongs: away from prying eyes, his face only to be revealed if the public asks so at the end of the show, his presence no longer considered necessary once he has composed and written the story the public so longer awaits to witness and admire. His life is lived in the dark, under the lie he has no emotions whatsoever, and yet he would not change a single detail of it because, at the end of the day, he has all he could wish for: his muse and the music she’s able to concoct inside of him.


⇢ the fic I won’t write game ⇠

hello beautiful people! since I just hit 1.4 k followers on here (which is actually insane and i cant believe more than one person follows me tbh haha) i decided to give back to my amazing followers with something more unique than a follow forever or blog rates! basically i will be doing portrait drawings of some of my followers to show you how much i appreciate you guys! click keep reading to see the rules and other information! (ps thank you so much for 1.4 k

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