#To be fair there's an awful lot here apparently

[flaskoflethe]

I may have played 100 hours of armored core 6 in the last two weeks. The worst part is I'm literally thinking how to phrase "it's not THAAAAAT good". Granted I have two components left to get, 11 s ranks, 1 ending...

[tj-crochets]

So moving means unpacking, and unpacking (for me) includes taking a look at some old notebooks to see what I wrote in them, which means I found my old notebook from the summer of 2014! Which is notable because I started learning to play all the instruments I play in 2013 (except ukulele, which I learned later), and in the summer of 2014 I apparently tried my hand at songwriting (I only have vague memories of this) and the most complete song I wrote was a song complaining about cheesy pickup lines, and I left myself enough notes that it’s still playable!! Even though me back then didn’t really know how to write that down!!!! All that to say, if you know any cheesy pickup lines, in any language*, please share them so I can add more verses to the song. The cheesier the better!  *I only speak English fluently but I know some Spanish and a tiny bit of French and if the pickup line is funny/cheesy enough I am totally willing to learn how to pronounce it 

[feeder86]

The Curse of Deansgate

An understudy for Chris Peterson? Most of Ned’s friends could not believe it. Nor could Ned, to be fair. The fact that Chris was even doing Broadway was almost just as unbelievable. Hollywood superstars, like him, rarely gave up the time for a twelve-week stint in a production like ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’. It was going to be, without a doubt, the hottest ticket in town.

Ned watched through some of Chris’ old movies before rehearsals began. He devoured them all: the romantic comedies, the science fiction classics, as well as the action hero thrillers where Chris’ shirt was pleasingly absent for multiple scenes. Ned swooned, still feeling unable to comprehend his good luck. He’d done the Broadway circuit for a few years now and was slowly building a name for himself. A major role in his last show had earned him the attention he craved within the industry, despite the show actually selling rather poorly. But Ned simply loved the theatre and couldn’t wait to see Chris in action on stage. He imagined that the guy would feel quite nervous performing to a large crowd every night, especially after exclusively working on movies for so many years. And, as his understudy, Ned would be sure to support him. He fantasised about them becoming best friends and forging a bond like no other. He felt the bubbling excitement in his stomach as the days ticked down, getting closer and closer to the beginning.

The media coverage was already everywhere, even before the two week rehearsal period. ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ was a rarely performed production due to the superstition surrounding its commercial failures in the past. Written in the early twentieth century, ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ had apparently never once completed a full run in any theatre; although Ned doubted that to be completely true. Like all superstitions, it made Ned laugh to think that the play would make the usually level-headed investors go weak at the knees; much like all the actors he had met over the years, too superstitious to utter the words ‘Macbeth’ on stage. But a ‘cursed’ play certainly made for an awful lot of clickbait; cleverly helping to fuel the audience’s anticipation, as well as the advanced ticket sales.

However, there was also another reason why the play was being discussed so much; one that Ned felt a little more nervous about. The director would be the incredibly talented Gordon Harrison; an absolute master; especially here on Broadway, crafting incredible productions over a career that spanned decades. He had once played the lead in ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ back when he was in his twenties, and was resurrecting it now, perhaps as a form of nostalgia for himself. However, if anyone was to meet Gordon, it might not have been his ingenious directing creativity that they first noticed. Gordon was known to be one of the largest men working in the industry; a ginormous gut and wide butt, weighing in at a waddling five hundred pounds or more. 

Ned was sure that many people had probably made fun of Gordon’s weight over the years, but none so publicly as Chris Peterson. It had apparently happened early on in Chris’ career, when he was still making a name for himself, playing a small role in one of Gordon’s rare movie productions. When asked what he thought of the renowned director, a young, pretty-boy Chris had been less than complimentary, remarking to a journalist about how grotesquely greedy and lazy the fat director was on set; rarely getting out of his reinforced chair to offer notes to the hardworking performers and crew surrounding him; also referring to him as just another ‘failed actor’ who had shifted to directing once his first career ended. They were throwaway comments, but even Ned remembered the media storm that inevitably came from it. 

Perhaps not for the right reasons, Chris Peterson undoubtedly became better known afterwards. He’d been remembered and picked for bad boy roles where a little edge to the character’s personality was definitely a requirement. From there, he’d only gone from strength to strength, after his management eventually taught him to hold his tongue a little more when it came to badmouthing people he had worked with. Now, the director’s offer of the lead role in this play had been widely seen as an olive branch to the handsome actor, as a way to leave the past behind them; one that had been graciously accepted by Chris’ management team who convinced him to sign up straight away. And so, for the first time ever, the money was pouring in from investors, hoping to get a slice of success as ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ was about to be performed to the public for the first time in thirty years.

Some men just had that aura about them. It was the thing Ned most remembered about Chris Peterson, the first time he strolled into the theatre. Like any Hollywood hunk, he was painfully handsome, not to mention stylish. But Chris was also incredibly tall and muscular, giving the perception that he could have turned his hand to any sport at all, had the acting career not worked out so well for him. Ned remembered how aroused he was, sitting in the wings, watching the final act, when Chris rehearsed the penultimate scene, completely shirtless: the broad back, the stunning chest, the insane six pack. Not that Ned was a stranger to the gym himself, it was pretty much given in his line of work, but there was just something so awe-inspiring about the physique of a true Hollywood leading man.

Unlike any other production Ned had ever been involved in, there were journalists waiting outside from day one of rehearsals. Gordon had made it clear that no one was to talk to them or pose for pictures, but that didn’t stop them shouting for attention each time the cast walked out. Usually they wanted to know about Chris, or about how Gordon was doing, working with a guy who had so badly insulted him almost ten years ago. If Ned had been allowed to answer them, he could have told them that, in fact, everything was absolutely fine. Ever the professional, a now twenty-seven year old Chris took to the theatre work with ease, and Gordon didn’t seem in the least bit resentful towards him at all. Perhaps that was the point. The reality was so fundamentally boring, keeping the air of mystery kept the media writing about the play and building that appetite for it.

As for Ned’s dreams of becoming best friends with Chris Peterson, well, that had always been unlikely. Although the man had learned all their names and was friendly enough, Chris kept himself to himself during break times and retained that Holwood mystique with the rest of the cast; continuing to be one of the only people Ned knew who could get away with wearing sunglasses indoors and still look sexy. But, in regards to being an understudy for him, Gordon had told Ned straight out that it was never going to happen. People were coming to this production to see Chris and that was exactly what they would get. It was the investors who had insisted on there being an understudy, just in case, but Ned was never going to actually get the chance to perform to an audience. He would simply stick to his significantly smaller role, dying before the end of the first act each and every night.

“Break a leg!” Ned smiled at Chris as the curtain was about to go up on their first night. He still got butterflies each time he had the opportunity to talk to the guy, even after the long rehearsals.

Chris smiled back, seeming as cool as could be; as if none of this phased him in the slightest. Then, with a final intake of breath, he stepped onto the stage, in front of a cheering crowd, surreptitiously dotted with some of New York’s harshest critics.

There was the strangest of feelings in the theatre that night; like an unheard frequency that was somehow ringing in the ears. Chris’ performance was powerful and moving; rising above anything they had witnessed in the rehearsals. Ned could already see the awards and accolades the Hollywood star was about to amass. The final act was a marvel, and Ned saw their large, oversized director sitting in an extra large chair on the front row, smiling with pride the entire time. When the final curtain fell, the audience rose to their feet, but Gordon remained seated. He looked pleased with himself, like he had just accomplished something he had been working towards for many, many years.

At the afterparty that evening, the excitement was electric. Everybody knew that the show was a hit; perhaps the biggest success they would ever be involved in; the pinnacle of their careers. Their director stood, having graciously acknowledged everyone in the cast and crew for all they had done, only leaving one final man to congratulate. He called Chris to stand beside him and slipped his big, heavy arm over the hunk’s broad shoulders.

“You’ve joined a very exclusive club this evening,” Gordon smiled. “There are very few ‘Gentlemen of Deansgate’ out there!” he nodded; acknowledging the fact that he too had once played the part, some twenty-five years ago. “You’re never going to be the same after this.” 

The grin on Gordon’s face was a little too perplexing for Ned. He couldn’t quite make it out. He held Chris’ stare for an almost uncomfortable time, until finally raising his glass and toasting the biggest Broadway smash in many, many years.

The reviews the next morning sang with praise, just as they had all expected. Ned poured over them all, hoping for even a brief mention of his own performance. Instead, Chris had stolen the show, and the promotional image of him in the final scene, shirtless and steamy, dominated much of the pages that were dedicated to the reviews. By lunchtime, Ned could recite almost all of them word for word. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one who had felt the curious atmosphere in the theatre that first night. Each review, every single one, seemed to comment on it in some form; like some magical awakening of acting greatness. Still, Ned cut every last one of them out, saving them all for his own personal scrapbook.

“Do me a favour,” Gordon insisted, raising his hand to get Ned’s attention as everyone else busied themselves backstage for the second night. “Drop these off with Chris, will you?” he insisted, thrusting a box of doughnuts towards Ned.

“What? Take them to his dressing room?” Ned asked, delighted and nervous about getting the opportunity to go and see Chris before the curtain went up. “Does he even eat doughnuts?”

Gordon chuckled. “Oh, he eats them alright!” he smirked, already waddling away to deal with something more pressing.

Ned held the large tray of doughnuts in his hands, feeling empowered, simply to go and see the star of the show before he went on stage. He raced along the corridor like a man on a mission and knocked firmly on the door until he heard Chris’ deep, masculine voice telling him to come inside.

Half dressed, Chris’ fine torso was on show as he collected all of his bits for the first act. Ned felt like he had entered at the absolute perfect time. “Um, Gordon sent these over,” he mumbled, trying to think straight and not stare too much at the gorgeous man in front of him. Just how many people would have paid serious cash to be standing exactly where he was right then?

“What are they? Doughnuts?” Chris asked, dropping his belt on the floor and heading straight over. He reached in and grabbed one with each hand, pushing one immediately into his mouth with the biggest bite Ned had ever seen. He moaned aloud and chewed quickly, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“I didn’t know you were so keen on doughnuts,” Ned chuckled awkwardly, simply standing there, holding the box, not knowing where he could put it down. Chris was still purposefully in front of him, seemingly getting ready to take another round.

Chris didn’t answer. He simply moaned as he gorged on doughnut after doughnut; not even caring that his mouth was now covered in sugar. Ned stood there, watching the car crash in slow motion as the entire box was devoured in less than three minutes flat.

“Fuck!” Chris chuckled, swallowing the last of it all. “I had no idea I could do that!” he smirked, turning to look at himself in the mirror, then laughing at how immediately bloated his stomach had become. “Bring me another one of those trays after the show and I’ll let you suck me off,” Chris suddenly declared, reaching his hand down to his crotch and readjusting the suddenly obvious erection that was pressing against his purposefully tight pants. 

“What?” Ned asked; his heart beating faster than ever before. Had he heard that right?

“Don’t act coy,” Chris shot back. “You heard me. I’ve seen the way you look at me. Bring me another tray of doughnuts after the show and I’ll let you suck me dry,” he repeated, reaching for Ned’s limp hand and placing it directly across to his boner. “Deal?” Chris asked, knowing that there was no way Ned would ever refuse him.

Ned left Chris’ dressing room almost shaking with elation. Was this really happening? The hottest, straight hunk in the world was going to let him go down on him after the show? Surely this was just a dream? 

With the first act soon over with, Ned snuck out to the doughnut place across the street and bought the exact same tray of treats that had been delivered earlier. He stood around, pretending to wait purposefully in the corridor, having concealed the order under a pile of clothes in his small, shared changing area. 

The next thing Ned knew, he was back on stage for the curtain call. He’d started to doubt himself; to dispute reality. He was going insane. Chris hadn’t really made such an advance on him, nor made the bizarre request! He was just slowly succumbing to madness. But as they all cheered their way off the stage, Ned felt a very firm hand on his shoulder and the Hollywood superstar bringing his mouth close to his ear, whispering. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

After the buzz of the first night, the second night always felt anticlimactic, with people darting off quickly after the show ended. Ned waited until there was a slight lull in the noisy corridor, until he stood outside Chris’ dressing room holding the doughnut tray, knocking until he heard the call for him to enter.

This time, Chris was sitting. already stroking himself in his chair; legs parted and pants removed, ready for Ned to do what he had come here for. Of course he had a large penis, Ned thought to himself, watching the sexy guy stroking it like he was filming a porn scene. 

“Give them to me!” Chris demanded, having eyes only for the tray that Ned was carrying. He reached out, ripped them from him and immediately began gorging, like he had before. Then, with only a nod of his head, he ordered Ned down to his crotch.

Slipping onto his knees, Ned could hardly believe what he was about to do; something he never imagined could be done. He started slowly, determined to get it exactly right; to give Chris as much pleasure as he could. If he delivered Chris the best blow job of his life, he would. He pursed his lips and worked his tongue to perfection, hearing Chris moan with pleasure as he pushed those doughnuts into his mouth. He felt the guy’s large, sticky, icing-covered hand press onto the top of his head, pushing him deeper into his crotch. Ned obliged, willing himself not to gag as his throat opened further. Then, absolute magic. He’d done it. He’d made the Hollywood superstar climax in what sounded like the most intense orgasm imaginable. 

Ned stood, feeling proud, looking down on the hunk slouched in the chair. The man was a mess, covered in icing and sugar all around his face; his toned stomach now bloated and hard. The man seemed dazed, either from the eating, or the intense relief of having ejaculated so forcefully. He sighed multiple times and began tapping his own face as if to bring himself back into reality. “Fuck! That was good!” the man growled, before sitting up and casually feeding himself the larger fragments of doughnut that had fallen onto his chest during his rampant gorging minutes earlier.

Grinning, Ned knew that this was a tale he would be able to recount for the rest of his life: the day he sucked off Chris Peterson in his dressing room!

“What are you doing this evening?” Chris asked, finally getting to his feet.

“Um, nothing much,” Ned replied, feeling the shadow of the large man cross over him.

“You know this city, don’t you?” Chris pondered. “You’re from here, aren’t you? You can take me out.”

“Yes,” Ned answered, without evening thinking; his heart almost leaping out of his chest. “But I wouldn’t know where to take a Hollywood star like you. We’d be harrassed by journalists the whole time if I took you to the bars I usually go to.”

“Then don’t take me to the bars,” Chris shot back. “Take me back to your place and order in.”

“You… you want to come back to my apartment?” Ned spluttered, overjoyed and simultaneously embarrassed by the thought of hosting Chris Peterson in the miniscule space he rented in the city. Still, he had kept the place fairly clean… Maybe Chris just wanted another opportunity for them to be alone together again.

“Is it far from here?” Chris asked, already gathering all that he needed and slipping a few items of clothing back on. 

“Not far,” Ned replied, realising that he didn’t really have a choice either way. “We can head out through the back and be there in five minutes.”

“Good,” the man nodded, already pushing Ned towards the door. “Lead on.”

Just over an hour later, Ned was accepting the second delivery at his apartment whilst Chris lounged on his couch, gorging himself on the pizzas that had arrived five minutes earlier. The moment he went back in, Chris dropped his greasy pizza down and made to grab the bag of Chinese food, not caring that the slice landed topside up on the couch, leaking the oily residue into the material. 

“I didn’t know that you were such a foodie,” Ned sighed, hoping that Chris’ hunger wasn’t going to get in the way of them having more fun later on. He ran to grab a cloth and began attempting to get the stain out.

Chris’s kisses were passionate and arousing after all the food. Ned had seen some bizarre Hollywood diets in his time, but this binge eating of Chris’ had bloated his stomach up like nothing he had ever known. He was gentle around the man in the bedroom, wondering whether he might throw up should things get a little energetic. Hosting a Hollywood superstar, making him climax in his very own apartment, it felt like a moment Ned had been waiting for his entire life; an experience he could boast about for years to come. Had Chris wanted to stay the night, Ned would have been more than delighted, but the man seemed restless and keen to get back to the hotel he was staying in, ordering himself a ride and bidding Ned a goodnight.

Gordon didn’t seem to care when Chris didn’t show in time for their pre-show meetings, rolling in with just enough time to get into costume and get on stage. For the first time, the backstage crew began to grumble about him, knowing that they were only one week in, with another eleven long weeks to go. But just as the lead actor had seemingly lost all passion for it, so had their esteemed director; no longer bothered by the silly little mistakes that were made by the lighting department on the fifth night, nor the fact that Chris had missed his cue several times by the start of week two.

On their opening night, the show had felt like a slick, well-oiled and ambitious machine. Now things were getting sloppy and haphazard. The excellent reviews of the previous week were being replaced by curious clippings in gossip columns about Chris’ amateurish performances. Not only that, but a rogue cell phone had snapped a picture of Chris during his shirtless scene looking significantly thicker than he had seemed in the promotional shots. Ned had seen it first hand as he continued to slip into Chris’ dressing room after a performance for some fun. He’d known that the make-up department had painted on a six-pack for the last three performances. However, nothing could mask the unmistakable width of Chris as he turned to his side; a distinct paunch starting to form. All of a sudden, that one picture seemed to be everywhere and all of the press interest in the play turned directly towards Chris’ weight gain.

“There’ll probably be more people trying to get pictures of you tomorrow,” Ned warned as he snuck into Chris’ dressing room and caught the guy gorging himself on a couple of boxes of cookies that had been left in there for him.

Chris scowled and nodded for Ned to lock the door behind him. “That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he grumbled, sliding down in his chair and pulling out his hardness for Ned to suck on as he ate.

Ned assumed the position, noticing the roll of stomach fat that was beginning to encircle Chris’ waist. His fingers slipped onto it as he took Chris’ hardness in his mouth, noticing the soft and doughy nature of it, slyly ruining the ultimate Hollywood sixpack. Ned knew he was in some way enabling Chris by not walking away and failing to challenge him on his eating but when else in his life was he going to have the chance to be with a global superstar like this?

With the doughnuts gone, Chris stood up and removed the last of his clothes, ready to fuck Ned over the table at the back of the room. Ned obliged, catching the view of Chris’ softer glutes in the mirror as they began kissing; the back fat standing out so much, the skin starting to roll. “Chris…” Ned started, knowing that he could no longer stay silent. “Don’t you think you need to do something about this?” he asked, pinching the actual lovehandles that had blossomed in just over a week.

“Do you want to get fucked, or not?” Chris growled back, clearly too consumed with arousal to think of anything else. Discussions about the guy’s weight were clearly off the table. Ned, lay across his table, spread his legs and allowed the horny glutton to at last get some exercise.

Their esteemed director seemed slightly different over the following days. Unlike Chis’ stomach, which seemed to grow more prominent each day, Gordon appeared to be deflating. His large gut didn’t seem quite so extreme as he strolled about at a faster pace, going from department to department. There was a twinkle in his eye as he saw Ned and a look that suggested that he knew exactly what went on between him and Chris behind the closed doors of the dressing room.

The man had rejected calls for the shirtless scene to be altered so that Chris could cover himself with a shirt, positively laughing at all the press that surrounded the hunk’s sudden gains. “All publicity is good publicity,” he grinned as if he hoped for a boost in ticket sales from it all; not that there was any need. The show had been booked out for weeks before they’d even started rehearsals. 

News outlets began reporting that Gordon had insisted Chris diet immediately and that he had threatened to kick him out from the show should he not comply. However, none of it was true. Of all the people working on that production, the director was the only one who was not in the least bit flustered by it all, even as Chris’ management seemed determined to find a way to get him out of the play and end this constant barrage of bad publicity. 

Ned felt it all very personally, having fallen for Chris during this strange period of his life. But with so much gossip and speculation flying around, how much longer could his fling with Chris stay a secret? A public ‘outting’ was absolutely the last thing either of them needed right then.

“Eight more weeks to go!” Gordon sang, almost tauntingly at them all as Chris stepped up behind the curtain, a rounded stomach pressing out, ready for the shirtless scene. Gordon appeared to wait, listening intently for the inevitable gasps of the stunned audience as the former hunk went out on stage. Then the director would chuckle to himself and stroll happily away.

Getting in to see Chris was becoming harder and harder. A team of people seemed to surround the man the entire time he was at the theatre; men and women who had been flown over from Hollywood to kick Chris into touch. None of it seemed to be working. Even under the strict eyes of his babysitters, Chris’ stomach seemed to be expanding daily. Tensions with the director seemed to flare up as Gordon failed time and time again to renegotiate the star’s watertight contract. The looming fear that the play would end hung like a dark cloud over all of them. As Chris’s belly blossomed into a small, stout and rounded beer gut, each of them looked at each other and sighed. Would this be their last show? How much longer could this insanity continue?

Like a petulant child, Chris appeared to detest all the fussing around him. Sometimes, at night, he would appear at Ned’s apartment, having snuck out undetected from his hotel. He’d order take-out, complain bitterly about his situation and completely fail to show any self-awareness of his own part in the evolving crisis that surrounded him; even as he gorged on pizza after pizza. He’d drawn Ned in, making him feel like the only one in the world who could sympathise with him; the one sane person in his life whilst all the madness threatened to consume him. Ned had been flattered. He felt special. And even though he could see the giant ball of stomach fat growing larger and larger; even as a double chin began to spread itself under Chris’s handsome face and his tight glutes softened with each passing day, Ned still fell for him and stayed up late into the night, pleasing him in any way he could.

It was week four when everything seemed to crash around them. Ned saw the news flash up on his cell phone before anyone at the play got in contact with him to let him know. Chris had left the production, paying a hefty, multi-million dollar fee for exiting early and ending the show.

“You’re up!” Gordon sang down the phone an hour or so later. “You’re my Gentleman of Deansgate!”

“But I thought…” Ned mumbled back; his head spinning.

“One last performance!” Gordon exclaimed excitedly. “Chris’ team were quite insistent upon it as they added a nice buffer into the cheque they signed this morning to get him out of his contract.”

“Why?” Ned asked, remembering how adamant Gordon had once been that he would never allow Ned to understudy for Chris. “What does it matter to them?”

“Just be here early,” Gordon replied, immediately ending the phone call.

Ned didn’t know how to feel. The last few weeks had been the strangest of his life. On the one hand, he felt elated that he was about to have the biggest career highlight to date, seeing his name appearing in the articles about Chris’ sudden departure as the Gordon’s team sent out their official press release about the final show. However, he also knew that he was unlikely to see Chris ever again. The media had already reported that he had left New York for his home in Los Angeles. Just like that, it was all over.

Gordon positively skipped about backstage, racing between the different departments. There was no denying that he had lost a significant amount of weight in the last few weeks and the spring in his step seemed to catch everyone off-guard. Everything had to be perfect once more and the sloppiness of the last few weeks had to end immediately. Yet, despite all the demands and high standards Gordon was insisting upon, there was still a smug, sickly grin plastered all over his face.

“He’s just had a massive payout from Chris’ people,” whispered one of the lighting guys as Ned watched the man with obvious confusion etched across his face. “I was here late last night when they were all negotiating.”

“Well, I expect it must be a relief for him now all the tickets will have to be refunded for the rest of the run,” Ned nodded.

“That stuff’s all covered,” the backstage man replied, shaking his head at Ned’s misunderstanding. “I mean Gordon himself. He’s just had over five million dollars from Chris to let him go early and to ensure there’s this last performance tonight.”

“They paid Gordon personally?” Ned asked. “But that makes no sense!”

Twenty minutes later and the crowds were starting to move into the theatre, bitterly disappointed that the main attraction for attending this play had inexplicably left the production. Ned had no doubt that he wouldn’t be able to please the audience, no matter what he did that night. Ned had braced himself for Gordon’s assertive approach to managing him, yet the man had barely uttered more than a few words. Despite micromanaging everyone else, as the new lead actor, Ned felt almost as if he was going into the whole thing blind. Gordon stood behind him as the music began to rumble into life, placing his hand on Ned’s shoulder just before his cue. The role had been Gordon’s once, many, many years ago. Perhaps he felt like he knew how Ned was feeling. “Welcome to the club,” he whispered, grinning excitedly and nudging Ned onto the stage.

If Ned could have found the words to describe the feeling as he acted on stage that night, his explanation would have been akin to the accounts of out-of-body experiences. It was as if he no longer needed to recall the lines of dialogue; like they simply flowed through his body. His movements did not feel like his own; his walk and stature had altered. It was as if he embodied the character and had no control over any of it at all. In the papers the next morning, they would criticise him for mimicking Chris’ performance to the very last detail, but in Ned’s mind, the only thing he had actually done was to step out onto that stage. Everything else had been autopilot.

Unlike the final show of every other production Ned had ever been in, the mood that night was too low to celebrate afterwards. People hugged backstage and collected all their things, knowing that they would not have an opportunity to do so at any other time. Meanwhile, after all the obligatory praise, Ned headed back into the main dressing room as if his mind had drifted below a dense fog. He simply sat in his chair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. What on earth had come over him?

Half an hour later, a drunken Gordon came skipping into the room, holding a glass of champagne for himself. “You did wonderfully!” he beamed at Ned, despite the fact that Ned had already been told that Gordon hadn’t seen a moment of it; too busy celebrating backstage. “And now, no one else will perform this play for many decades to come!” he beamed. “‘The Curse of Deansgate’ has struck again! An incomplete run, just like every other time it’s been attempted. No financial backers will go near it again,” he laughed, as if this had all been such a vast, cunning plan from the very beginning.

“Everything worked out pretty well for you, though,” Ned managed to utter, catching the scent of something sweet down the corridor and suddenly feeling remarkably hungry. 

“Even better than I expected,” Gordon nodded emphatically, running his hand down his surprisingly deflated gut. “But the curse has never been about financial ruin, has it?” he laughed. “The curse has always been something much more insidious. I taught that arrogant fuck a lesson and got a very decent payout at the same time.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror, seeming pleased with what he saw. “It’s been a very successful few weeks!”

“You never really did forgive Chris, did you?” Ned asked, feeling the strangest sense of familiarity with Gordon. The man’s last words to him before he had gone on stage had been to welcome him to the Deansgate ‘club’ and now that Ned was there, he felt as if he could ask Gordon anything and be told the exact truth.

Goron closed the door that he had been propping open with his large body and stepped inside so that he could not be overheard. “Of course not,” he laughed. “And you sealed your fate the moment you started sucking him off back here after each performance.” He looked down at Ned disapprovingly. “You’re a serious actor. You should have known better than that!” he scolded him. “Perhaps I should have fired you then and saved you from all this.”

Ned dropped his head. Gordon was certainly right there.

“I hadn’t ever planned to let you take the lead. But when Chris Peterson’s management figured things out, the opportunity to throw you under the bus was simply too easy.” He looked down at Ned with triumph dancing in his eyes. “Lay down with dogs and you get fleas.”

“What did they figure out?” Ned asked, having the strangest feeling that the way his mind was so clouded at that moment was all related to something much larger.

“Here,” Gordon grunted, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. “I’ve been told to give you this.”

An envelope was thrown into Ned’s lap without Gordon even making an effort to step forwards. Ned opened it up and found a plane ticket to Los Angeles, departing at 2.05am. 

“Lover Boy wants to see you!” Gordon explained, holding back a snarl.

Silently, Ned felt elated. From the moment he’d read that Chris had left New York, he had believed that their fling was over. Now he was realising that he hadn’t been forgotten after all. “Well, I guess there’s no point in sticking around here these next few days, anyway” he sighed, looking around the dressing room he would have to vacat shortly.

“No, I quite agree,” Gordon smirked. “I’ll message him to let him know that you’re on your way.” He placed his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Now that you’re the very latest Gentleman of Deansgate instead, I have a feeling that you’re about to meet the real Chris Peterson at long last…”

Ned felt eyes on him the entire time as he made his way to the airport and flew across the country, not really knowing what was going to happen when he finally arrived. In the arrivals lounge, a driver was waiting, holding up a banner with his name written across it. Ned’s only backpack was taken off his shoulders as he made his way to the expensive car that was to carry him away. 

They pulled up forty minutes later at the most obscene residence, overlooking the Hollywood hills. The whole residence seemed llavish beyond words. Unlike the chill of a New York winter, the sun shone gently on Ned’s face and he sighed in appreciation at his own good fortune.

A member of Chris’ extensive team came straight out to greet him, ushering him inside almost as if he was expecting a team of photographers to ambush them from the gates . Everywhere was pristine and surprisingly immaculate, from the large marble pillars to the extensive windows at the back of the property, overlooking an enormous swimming pool and the incredible view across the valley.

Ned sat down at the large breakfast bar in the kitchen, where pastries and snacks filled several plates for the members of Chris’ entourage. He was told to help himself whilst the man left the room to let Chris know that he had arrived. Whilst Ned ate, he heard the splash of someone emerging from the pool and suddenly saw the large, looming shape of Chris Peterson marching across the terrace towards the expansive kitchen. Dressed in only his swim shorts with a towel lazily draped over his shoulders, Chris moved with an assertive speed that Ned had not seen from him before; although, his fat stomach popped out in front of him, firm and rounded under his large pecs.

“Excellent!” Chris cheered, spotting Ned and striding straight over to place his hands on his secret lover’s shoulders as he ate. Chris’ strong fingers massaged Ned’s shoulders, not offering any other sign of affection, most likely because his team were all so close by. “Did anyone see him arriving?” Chris asked someone behind them.

“No, sir. It was all very fast and discreet,” replied a deep masculine voice.

“Good,” Chris replied, his hands massaging more softly now and leaning in to whisper into Ned’s ear. “I bet you’re hungry after all that travelling.”

Chris suddenly stood bolt upright and marched about once more, heading to the refrigerator and pulling out as many things as he could.

“Sir, sir…” counselled a woman from his staff. “You don’t need to do that. We’ve got this covered. You can head back to the pool. We’ll look after Ned.”

Chris looked across at Ned, as if calculating whether he could trust his entourage to do what they were promising. “Fine,” he spat, turning around and marching straight out, clearly in a mood about something. “But I need results. I need all of this mess sorting out now!”

Coming down from the high of his great performance the night before was almost impossible. Ned had hardly slept at all on the plane and he had the remarkable feeling of being almost drunk. Time seemed like nothing at all as Chris’ friendly team fussed around him. He was led out onto the terrace to watch Chris’ gruelling swimming training with his coach. Every now and then, the unnecessarily angry actor would call out to his team any time he looked up and saw that Ned wasn’t being looked after with something to eat or drink.

“You’ve got one fucking job!” he yelled from the pool, making them all rush about to serve Ned something else.

Ned was half asleep when he heard Chris’ voice mumbling around him. “Fucking wake him up then!” he ordered one of his team, before huffing and coming over himself. “Ned… Neddy…” he called out in a voice that was barely soothing. “It’s dinner time, buddy!”

Ned opened his eyes.

“He’s awake,” Chris nodded to two guys, who promptly lifted the back of Ned’s deckchair up so that he was sitting upright. “It’s time to eat now, buddy,” Chris explained to Ned, like he was a toddler, using the kindest voice he had heard from him all day. “Mmmm! Look at all this!” he cooed, as a perfect height table was rolled underneath the deck chair so that a table sat just in front of Ned, loaded with different items.

Overcome with hunger, Ned set to work without questioning any of it. Once food was in front of him, nothing else seemed to matter.

“Good. This is good,” Chris nodded again at his team, as he looked back and forth between them and Ned. “He seems to like this the best,” he pointed at one of the dishes, as if that was a cue for them to get more. 

Faced with so much food, Ned found it hard to concentrate. He was given large, chocolate flavoured drinks that were thick and almost difficult to swallow, however Chris seemed to nod his head in approval each time Ned managed to get one down.

Ned wished that everyone else would disappear. He felt so uncontrollably horny for Chris, yet there were always people around, making it impossible for them to come together. Something about the food seemed almost… erotic. He’d never felt this way before, nor eaten so much in only a few short hours; although he wasn’t quite sure how much that was.

As night time approached, Chris entered Ned’s bedroom carrying a large tray of doughnuts. “A little treat before bed!” he winked charmingly, throwing them down on the mattress.

Ned felt his body lunge for them and he began stuffing the first one into his mouth. Chris hopped on beside him, throwing his arm over Ned’s shoulders like they were old friends, rather than lovers.

“That fucking play, huh?” he grumbled to Ned as the guy ate. “Gordon did us both dirty with that one… and I had no fucking idea!” he laughed, like he had had some lucky escape. “That’s why it’s always important to have people looking out for you behind the scenes. That could have been the end of my whole career!”

Chris noticed a large piece of Ned’s third doughnut break off as the houseguest ate a little too fast. Chris picked it up, not caring about the sticky icing that had spread across the sheets, but keen that Ned should get it down him. 

“I’m afraid I’m not going to try and stop you eating, like you did with me.” He looked down at his own, stout gut and sighed. “Look at all this!” he complained, grabbing a large wedge of it. “How the hell did you ever let me fuck you, looking like this? It’s disgusting!”

“You’re beautiful,” Ned mumbled through a mouthful of food, spitting a little out.

Chris tutted and exhaled in frustration. “You’re wasting it!” he growled in annoyance. Getting more fed up when Ned tried to apologise and did the same thing again. “Look, just sit back a bit more and let me take care of this,” he insisted, handing Ned yet another doughnut and feeling his hand into the eager guy’s crotch, grabbing at the hardness, but not stroking until Ned started to eat. 

Ned had never known bliss like it: the tastes on his tongue and the pleasure down below. Each time he swallowed and opened his mouth to moan, in went a fresh doughnut. There were multiple points when he felt like he could have climaxed, yet Chris seemed to hold him back until the very last moment. He came, feeling like a strong jet had erupted from his groin, opening his eyes moments later to see Chris dropping the emptied doughnut tray onto the floor and wiping his hands on the bed sheets. “Was that nice?” he asked, returning to that slightly patronising tone.

Ned nodded, feeling utterly spent.

“Good,” Chris smiled. “Would you like the same again tomorrow?” Chris asked, like he was trying to bargain something out of Ned. So when Ned nodded, stuffed full of food and bloated, the man couldn’t help but chuckle, heading back to his own master suite.

Chris had lost weight. With all his training and determination, Ned had never seen a belly shrink so quickly. Yet, over the coming days, he felt an onslaught of fat begin to slide onto his own stomach, inflating it with softness in an unnaturally speedy manner. Sometimes he would wake from an afternoon nap to find a measuring tape had been wrapped around his arm or thigh, by a member of Chris’ staff; no one seeming in the least bit surprised at the sudden transformation, despite monitoring it closely.

Ned knew he should be paying more attention to his body. But food was everywhere and his brain felt like it was in such a fog. Dressed only in a pair of swim shorts, he couldn’t detect a stretching in his clothes, nor remember where he had even put his cell phone to communicate with the rest of the world outside of Chris’ incredible house. Nothing he seemed to do from that point on appeared to annoy Chris, with the man’s face lighting up each time he saw a shirtless Ned lazily trotting towards the breakfast bar to eat. The other staff were relaxing too, with fewer of them there in the day now. The ‘crisis mode’ of the previous week was now over. 

Chris lifted his arm and still felt a slight stubborn clinging of fat around his love handles. “Do you want some ice cream?” he asked Ned, as if this would somehow remedy the problem. Without waiting for an answer, he headed over to the freezer to fetch it and dumped the complete tub in front of Ned, along with a large spoon. 

Back Chris went to the mirror, turning and flexing, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Ned.

“It’s almost time for you to go home soon,” he smiled. “A couple more days and things should have worked themselves out.”

“I don’t think I want to go home,” Ned replied, feeling his heart sink.

Chris laughed and came over to pat his chubby friend on his back. “I know. I know,” he smiled. “But what am I supposed to do with you once I’m back to my old shape?” He looked down at Ned’s shirtless body and seemed to grimace at the rolls of fresh blubber along his side. “You’ll just be getting more and more out of shape and I don’t really want that hanging around outside by the pool.” He ruffled Ned’s hair playfully. “I’m sure you can understand that,” he laughed, pulling a fresh bottle of water out from the refrigerator and sliding a bowl of potato chips closer to Ned instead. Then, off he went onto the terrace, diving into his pool once more.

Ned didn’t see Chris after that. The guy had disappeared later that afternoon after a lucrative advertising deal had emerged. He read later on that Chris had claimed his appearance in the play had been caused by some form of abdominal distension, unrelated to weight gain. Several so-called ‘experts’ disputed that, but when the hunk reappeared in beach shots looking just as fit as ever only a few days later, all other explanations seemed to be implausible.

No such rapid recovery came for Ned, however. Once home, his ravenous appetite seemed to consume him and he was dropped by his agent only six months later after piling on a ridiculous amount of weight in that period. And, although he could never prove it, Ned always had a suspicion that Chris Peterson’s team had been at least partly behind his declining career; desperately wanting to reduce his influence after everything that had happened with their golden boy.

Ned’s handsome face seemed to bloat and his chiselled jawline was engulfed and framed by an unflattering amount of neck fat. His pecs drooped within a month and his stomach fat swelled into a giant ball of surprisingly squishy blubber. Pants were hard to come by, given how wide his rear had become after the first year. Ned found that he had to detach himself from his old life and form something new; taking inspiration from the only other man he had known to have gone through the same experience….

It was thirty years later when Ned sat in the same old theatre where they had performed ‘The Gentleman of Deansgate’ all those years ago. It had taken him decades to finance a new run and convince his investors. But, at long last, the show was ready to audition the lead roles. 

Years ago, after Ned had had time to think and understand it all, unemployed and gaining pounds and pounds of lard by the day, he wrote it all down; every last detail of that play he would one day hope to direct: the lighting, the sound, the timings, the instruments. He didn’t know which parts were important to whatever power fuelled the curse that he had lived with for so long; transforming him into the gluttonous man he had been all these years. Everything had to be perfect.

“I’m very grateful to you for coming all the way over here to audition,” Ned smiled at the handsome, young hopeful standing on the stage: the image of his beautiful father. 

“I’m very flattered that you wanted me,” the athletic twenty-seven year old replied. “I believe you were the understudy for my father when he performed here? It was his only Broadway appearance.”

“Yes, yes,” Ned nodded. “That seems like a lifetime ago!” he lied. “And I’m sure your father would be very proud to see you standing there now, ready to fill his shoes,” he smiled, pretending to be sorry that Chris Peterson’s drug-fuelled car crash had claimed his life five years earlier.

The audition went well; not that Ned had ever seriously considered anyone else for the role. Revenge could come in many forms, but few as sweet as this poor boy.

“I think this show is going to be a huge success!” Ned grinned, eyeing his new lead actor’s cute butt as he skipped out of the theatre having just signed a watertight contract. “I can’t wait to get started!”

[schoenpepper]

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty (Housewardens)

Intro: You're a wild little thing, aren't you? Let's see how the NRC dorm leaders deal with you, then.

Warnings: bad grammar, awful writing, not proofread, not much i think idk tell me if i should pop a warning somewhere, it's reaaally long

A/N: My goodbye gift before I die in college. Not that I'd be too busy though, my prof list isn't even complete yet. Hollywood lied to me about college it all sucks (not even started first day yet). Oh this was a request btw so I hope you like it anon. Even though I'm not sure I really followed through with the request I'm sorry.

Masterlist

Headcanon order (on the what he thinks of you part):

Fierce, reckless, territorial, soft to people close to you

You tried to tell Neige you weren’t interested in the National Arcane Academy Culture Fair, you really did. But your best friend is a lot less of a pushover than he seems to be, hanging onto your arm and pulling you right to the middle of the chaos. NRC is dark, dreary, and every corner seems to be black and covered with spiderwebs. Which, honestly, is quite the refreshing turn from the bright white glitter you’d gotten used to in RSA.

“Their science club is doing a cafe!”

The black-haired, starry-eyed boy points at a spot on the map. “It’s not too far from this place, maybe we can drop by and try out their treats.” he smiles happily. You look away (two years is not enough time to get used to the sparkles that magically appear whenever he beams) and sigh. “Where are the dwarves? Won’t they enjoy going to the cafe more than I would? I told you I was just fine sitting on a bench somewhere until the SDC.”

“Huh? Oh, you’re right. Where are they—” you pull him back as he turns, but not before he bumps into someone.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking…”

“Hm? It’s fine, oh hey, aren’t you that superstar on the news?”

The ginger is getting uncomfortably close to your friend’s personal space, so you get in front of Neige, shielding him from this nosy NRC student.

“Y/N!” Neige gives you a worried look, tugging on your sleeve, “I should apologize.”

“What? He said it’s fine already.”

“Ace, are you disturbing these visitors?”

At the sound of the new voice, the young man in front of you straightens up almost unnecessarily straight, back taut and expression nervous. A short student with strawberry red hair is accompanied by a tall student with glasses and green hair. The redhead seems very uptight, with the way he drags down this ‘Ace’ person to his level by the collar to chastise him from apparently ‘disturbing’ you. Neige waves from behind you, trying to stop them while making sure not to leave your circle of protection. “No, we bumped into him, it was my fault really.”

“Ah, I see,” he nods as he lets go of the other person’s collar, “my apologies that you had to see that shameful act. If you need anything, please let the culture fair committee members know, you will recognize them by this badge.”

“Cool, but we’re just going to the cafe. Thanks for the help, bye,” you cut the conversation short and pull Neige away.

“Y/N, that was very rude.”

You shrug, “What was I supposed to do? Didn’t you see that guy has an on and off switch for exploding like an active volcano? Did you want to be on the receiving end of his next outburst?”

“Don’t be so judgmental, Y/N, you barely know the person,” Neige sighs.

“I don’t need to know him.”

Exchange program:

It turns out that you did, in fact, need to know him. Neige somehow managed to convince you to sign up for an exchange student program between RSA and NRC, so you got sorted into Heartslabyul and the guy you insulted at the culture fair is now your housewarden.

Ace and Deuce are okay, if not a few cells short of a brain sometimes. You do enjoy getting caught up in their shenanigans whenever the dorm leader and his eight hundred something rules get a tad bit too stifling. At some point, their dumb (affectionate) tactics manage to work their way into your heart, so you begrudgingly call them friends.

You think Cater’s a good guy, if not a bit social-media-obsessed. You don’t mind having him nearby because he generally just chats about random things. As long as you manage to put up with him asking for a pic every once in a while, he’s not awful. Trey is a comforting presence. He may or may not have Pavlov’d you with the way he always has a sweet treat with him, making you calmer and more susceptible to behaving within his general vicinity.

Riddle is a whole ‘nother thing altogether; you make him mad. Er, madder than usual, at least. Something must be in the tea in Heartslabyul because you and the housewarden in the same room is a guarantee for a beheading. Usually you, but there have been a fair number of innocent victims who’d just happened to get caught up in your squabbles. Riddle is a flame and you’re a tankful of gasoline, always with a witty comeback or something else that’s sure to make every situation worse.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

Think a dry, wooden cottage smack dab in the middle of the woods and a wildfire. That’s how you and Riddle get along. You’re hot tempered; pot, meet kettle. You’re sarcastic and snippy, traits that he most certainly does not appreciate. Every time he’s lecturing you about something or the other, you speak. And every word that comes out of your mouth makes him want to collar you.

…Another one? How did his dorm somehow get stuck with the most ‘act first, think later’ individuals? You give Riddle a headache, but don’t worry, he’s all too used to it. He will bail you out of trouble and every stupid situation you find yourself in, but also, he will assign you a 5000 word apology essay each time he does.

Riddle gets it. It’s a sign of disrespect when people touch your things without your explicit consent, and he’d get mad too if it was him in that situation. Does, however, do a double-take when he sees you tackle someone to the ground after you hear them insult Neige, screaming something about “your people”. Turns a blind eye.

Since…since when have you and that duo been so close? He’s not mad (for once). But he does feel rather…upset. You’re always such a spiky individual, so to see you almost melting into the couch, head on Deuce’s lap as he patted your hair and legs over Ace’s, it’s almost surreal. He’s not angry, no, but then why does he still feel unhappy?

Love story climax:

“I just don’t understand. Why do I feel so uncomfortable when I see Y/N together with other people?”

Trey hums from where he’s standing in the kitchen, letting Riddle know that he’s listening while whipping the bowl of cream.

“You’re smart,” Trey chuckles, “you’ll figure it out.”

Riddle rolls his eyes and looks back down at the chopping board, cutting off the top of another strawberry. It wasn’t an illness, but maybe if he diagnosed it like one, he could arrive at a proper conclusion. He mentally retraces his steps and every unpleasant feeling that had welled up inside him. He feels okay, good maybe, when he sees you. He gets mad when you retort while he’s trying to discipline you, but even then, he seems to have started to find it rather…cute? And he gets unreasonably anxious when you’re so close to your friends.

…No. No. Absolutely not.

Riddle Rosehearts is not in love with you.

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

You still make him mad, but now instead of being collared, you just need to coax him a little and this strawberry shortcake is ready to fold like a collapsible tent. Make it up to him by being sweet and loving him lots, okay? If it’s to other people, he doesn’t really care as long as it doesn’t get violent. You are exempt from the apology letters though, congrats (he thinks that time writing them could be better spent with him).

Riddle probably needs heart medication at some point, you’re going to drive him either insane or to his inevitable death. He gets a lot more protective of you now because you’re his partner, but please please please at least try not to get hurt. Or try to consider if you might get hurt before doing something. Or how about this, you call him up before you make any decision at all?! Yeah. Heart attack.

Honestly, he probably doesn’t realize that you have a tendency to be overly possessive and territorial of him. Riddle isn’t exactly the type of guy to frequently get love confessions (he should be), you know? So the only time he nottices is when you catch him in the middle of equestrian club meetings or something, and he’s just a step too close to some newbie. Tells you to keep it down and assures you, his love for you is real and unchanging.

Happy guy. He thinks he’s silly when he gets so giddy at the smallest things you do, like kissing the back of his hand, but he can’t exactly stop the somersaults his heart does whenever you’re being so affectionate with him. Regardless, it’s quite rude to make public displays of affection, so be reserved and try to keep it all in private. Will blush at every little thing until like, two years into the relationship.

“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Neige’s words are cut short when you tackle the hyena beastman to the ground. He looks at you, horrified, and was likely about to chastise you before you pulled out a familiar leather wallet from the beastman’s pocket. “Thief,” you hiss, “you picked the wrong students to mess with.”

“Tsk, [laugh with me].”

The hyena rolls around and you’re unable to control your own movements, rolling with him. You’re lying on the ground when the magic snaps but he’s already running away, Neige’s wallet in hand. “Oh no you don’t!”

You weave through the crowd of students and booths, trying to keep your eyes trained on the mop of caramel hair that was zooming farther and farther away from you. You finally spot him by one of the stages, where he sprints by a tall lion beastman who catches him by the scruff of his neck like a kitten. You come to a stop, panting lightly as you glare at the lion beastman. “Is this guy a friend of yours? He has something of mine, so you better have him give it back quick or I’ll—”

“Ruggie,” The lion yawns, “no stealing during the culture fair.”

“Finders keepers!”

“Ruggie.”

“Fine.”

You get Neige’s wallet back and immediately turn tail and leave. These NRC students are freaks (no stealing during the culture fair? then it’s okay to steal any other time?).

Exchange program:

Something something it’s better to make friends than enemies. While not a saying you’ve ever given a fuck about before, it’s hard not to care when it led you to where you are now. Due to a mass voting in RSA for whoever to send to the exchange program, you’ve been bolted out as the sacrificial lamb (that’s what you get for always picking fights). Savanaclaw takes you in because you wrestle one of their dorm members to the ground on your very first day.

Jack Howl is probably one of the closest things you’ll see to another RSA student in this place. You get along well with him because he doesn’t take your quips at face value (or rather, he doesn’t care for your insults and dry sarcasm). Ruggie takes a bit more getting used to, but he’s a really cool dude when you manage to keep all your valuables away from arm’s reach.

And Leona…he’s like a stray cat. And you’re also a stray cat. And you’re in the same dark alley, coexisting together. You ignore each other most of the time unless the other gets a tad bit too close. It’s not too bad when the boundaries are in place.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

He’s too tired and sleepy most of the time to deal with your temper. Not as if you can do anything about it though, try as you might, you can never win against Leona. You can talk crap about how lazy he is or whatever, he doesn’t care, but whenever you even attempt to fight him you’re already subdued one way or another. Leona thinks you should pick and choose your battles well.

While Leona is a big believer of instincts, there’s a fine line between believing and charging in like a bull seeing red at the first tingle of a gut feeling. He’ll let out a sigh but still, he’ll fish you out of trouble and claim you’re bothering his naptime and he’ll totally leave you to fend for yourself the next time the consequences of your stupid actions find you (he will not).

He’s a lion, of course he’s territorial. So he understands your need to stake your claim on a certain place or item, as long as it’s not something he’d already claimed as his own. Leaves you about it. Territorial about people though? Same thing. Do as you will, he can’t muster the energy to care.

A low growl is emitted from his chest, pupils constricted into pinpricks, ears and tail stiff—Leona isn’t dumb. He knows that the instinctual actions of his body mean something, and in this case, it means he’s annoyed watching you be all buddy buddy with Ruggie. You, the little porcupine you are, laughing so easily with the guy you swore was your enemy, it makes him gnash his teeth in anger (envy).

Love story climax:

He can’t get you out of his head.

The few months you’ve been at NRC, you’ve started to become an existence that he didn’t mind constantly having around. He’d found you annoying at first, so why is it that now, just seeing you so happy with Ruggie is enough to drive him insane? He keeps his eyes closed but he can’t sleep. You’re still lingering in his vision, a hazy mirage by the moonlight of the savanna. Why can’t he stop thinking about you?

Why can’t he stop thinking about your hair and how soft it looked to touch? Why can’t he stop thinking about how incredible your skin would feel on his? Why can’t he stop thinking about your lips…?

Fuck.

Leona rolls over in his bed, burying his face in a pillow. Maybe if he suffocated to death he wouldn’t be haunted by thoughts of you. But, if you’re so willing to be close to Ruggie, why not Leona? He could be your…friend too. Do you already think of him as a friend? You tend to run to him with that stupid smile and chatter away even when he tells you to go away, is that a sign that you saw him as some sort of confidant? Whatever.

Leona’s not good with emotions, but he’s the farthest thing from a coward.

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

Okay wildfire, Leona likes it, but you need to tone it down a bit unless you want your ass handed back to you on a platter. No he’s not threatening you, it’s just that you should already know the folks in NRC aren’t scared of fights. No he doesn’t care that you’re not scared of fights. Stop picking fights. If you sass him back enough he will sling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

There’s a reason why he always has one hand on you, whether on your hip or the back of your neck. It’s not because he’s a clingy kitty (stop teasing, he’s not a cat!), rather, it’s so he can easily stop you when a situation arises and you decide on something he wishes you didn’t decide on. Now that you’re in a relationship, he’ll sit you down and start a long discussion on why you should learn to think before you act.

Let’s get something straight, you are part of his territory, not the other way around. He’s just as protective and possessive of you as you are to him, if not more, so pretty much everyone knows to book it when they see you two together. Any poor soul who has a crush on either of you quickly get the picture.

Tsk, you’re so clingy (affectionate). Unlike most guys on the list, Leona doesn’t give two shits about other people, ergo, he doesn’t care when you kiss or touch him in public. In fact, he encourages it. Go ahead, mark him up. But if he reciprocates, he’ll tell you he’s just doing what you’ve been doing, so you have no right to refuse.

You knew it was instantly trouble when the person he bumped into had all the tells of a bad mood. You push Neige behind you while he apologizes profusely to the stranger. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, I’m so sorry!” His words obviously went unheard because this annoyingly tall NRC student only grimaced, and you know from experience that when someone bares their teeth at you, it means they haven’t forgiven your pitiful apology.

“You can’t see where you’re going, hah, maybe I should squeeze you ‘til your eyes pop out? Maybe you’ll see it then?”

Let it be known that though you were half this asshole’s size, that did not mean you were going to take this lying down.

“Hey, back off. He said it was an accident.”

You feel Neige tugging on your sleeve. “Hey, Y/N let’s just—”

“I don’t care if it was an accident, I’m in a slump and you just made it worse, y’know?”

“Well I don’t care if you don’t care. You better back off before I take your slump and shove it down your stupid—”

Another unfamiliar figure approaches, this one shorter than the asshole, with purplish-white hair and glasses, yet somehow looking just as dangerous with the kind smile he has on. He gives the guy in front of you a very pissed-off look behind the carefully maintained grin. You think he might be trying to whisper, but it’s not very quiet.

“Floyd! I told you to sell the drinks while Jade and I are gone, what are you doing here?”

“Ehhh, but I didn’t feel like selling drinks.”

They’re gone before you even know what’s going on.

The interaction only cemented what you’d known before you even got here; everyone in NRC is a weirdo.

Exchange program:

Apparently, someone’s great idea for a prank is signing you up to be an exchange student to NRC. So, hurray.

You’re plopped into Octavinelle because the very reliable headmaster of NRC drew lots from some magical (rigged) thing. It doesn’t take you too long to realize that the quick-to-violence guy you’d met a little while back is one of the frontrunners of the dormitory. Thankfully, your second meeting has Floyd in a better mood than before, and he decides that you’re interesting before bestowing you your very own nickname; catfish. You do not appreciate it.

Jade is easy enough to get along with, you’ve discovered it’s good to just do as he says and as long as he has nothing to gain from it, he won’t torment you (too much). Though, he does make your hackles rise every once in a while because dear Seven he gives you the heebie-jeebies, even despite the perfectly polite thing he has going on.

Azul, it takes you way too long to befriend. He starts off avoiding you almost entirely, like you’re a contagious disease (if only you knew). You’re not the type to suck up to anyone, and definitely not the type to force close proximity with someone who seems to hate you, so you leave him alone. Eventually, one potion explosion, two torn contracts, and one messed up lounge later, you and Azul become acquaintances. Friends, maybe. Uh, tentatively.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

Azul thinks you’re unnecessarily high-strung. Well, where do you get the energy to always be so combative and hot-tempered? He’d rather stay away from people like you when business isn’t involved. He’s one to always keep calm and cool after all, he doesn’t think he’d get along with you at all.

Your tendency to act according to your nature and intuition and just general however you feel like acting, it’s an enigma for sure. Azul prefers a plan and at least three other backup plans, so you running headfirst into any situation makes him sigh and take another step back from you. Sevens know it might be contagious (does not call you stupid to your face, but to your back? Absolutely).

The first time he saw you almost bite Floyd’s head off for just touching your things without your permission, it was enough for him to put another strike on his record. Oh dear, you really are a handful, aren’t you? Does not realize your territorialism extends to people until Jade showed him what happened to the last student that tried messing with one of the dwarves.

Azul thinks he needs new glasses. Is that you? Looking so sweet and cuddly with your friends? Really? He gets flashbacks to when you almost scratched his eyes out that time he tried roping you into one of his contracts. Now seeing you all clingy with that celebrity, he feels…uncomfortable. It must be because you’re acting strange (he’s not jealous, thank you very much).

Love story climax:

“Yeah their food is crazy good,” you grin at Neige, helping him choose a few items on the menu, “as long as the bill is paid, at least.”

While Azul is flattered at your actions to recommend the Mostro Lounge to your closest friend who’d dropped by for a visit, there’s an annoying, itchy, gnawing feeling in one of his hearts that makes him unable to sit still. He pushes your original waiter aside and approaches your table with his little notepad, shooting you the most charming smile he’s able to give. He taps his pen against the paper to get your attention. “Y/N, I’m so glad to see you stop by again. I assume you’ll have the usual?”

“Oh, hey Azul,” he does not fail to notice the way your tone gets softer with him, “yes please. And can you add some other dishes for my friend here? Maybe two or three of your most popular ones, just so he can try them.”

Azul nods, jotting down your order. Then, he places a hand over his chest, grinning, “Of course, and just for you, it’s free of charge!”

It doesn’t take him long to confess now that he knows you like him too.

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

Thinks it’s hot 100%, he will die on this hill. While he still doesn’t appreciate you constantly getting into fights with other people, seeing you angry is so interesting to him. Also, you turn down the sarcasm with him, so he can fully enjoy seeing you tear someone a new one. Will not stop you unless it’s beginning to get physical.

His hair is about to turn white. Except, it’s already white. Anyway, the point is that you stress him out very much, as you being reckless means you tend to get into situations that isn’t in his Plan A. Or B. Or C. He bails you out of trouble with a calm smile and an eloquent speech, and it’s usually enough to resolve the situation. This doesn’t mean he likes you having virtually no self-control or self-reflection skills though, you’ll have to have a long talk with him (communication is key).

Azul thinks it’s cute when you let him pop your personal bubble, and he’s very happy to watch you try to pick a fight with anyone who gets too close to either you or him (keyword being try, he does his best to stop any actual fights from happening). He doesn’t mind you seeing him as part of your ‘territory’, as long as he gets something in return (and you don’t get too suffocating).

Watching you curl up into him whether in public or private gets him flustered, but especially in public. Angelfish, the big bad businessman has a reputation to uphold, you know? Still, he can’t find it in himself to push you off when you’re just so adorable like this, knowing how feisty you typically are. Do try to save it for private spaces though, he would also like to cling onto you shamelessly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to!”

Something is off about the person Neige bumped into. Call it a gut feeling, or maybe it was the way the brown haired student was instantly alert, sweeping the white haired boy to a ‘safer’ distance before deciding on whether or not it was worth it to actually face you and Neige. You’re not sure what exactly is wrong, but your intuition is saying that this is not the kind of person your all-too-naive friend is supposed to fraternize with.

“It’s fine.”

His answer is curt, and he steers the other boy away immediately. You share a look with Neige, when you click your tongue and pull him along to find a map.

“They seemed nice.”

You hope there will not come a day when your friend is at the mercy of people with bad intentions, as it is very likely that he’d be eaten alive. “They seemed like bad news. Everyone here seems like bad news.” You reply, finally finding the botanical gardens where the cafe had been set up. You sit across from Neige at a table where some student takes your orders. Neige asks for a caramel macchiato with extra caramel and some macarons, and you opt for something a little less diabetic. “Don’t say that, Y/N. They didn’t even do anything to us, even though I was at fault for bumping into them. Isn’t that nice?”

You roll your eyes, “It’s nice that they didn’t, what, beat us up? Have higher standards, LeBlanche.”

“They seem like they’d make for good friends, that’s all,” he laughs softly.

“You think that of everyone.”

“Maybe you should give it a try.”

Exchange program:

Neige’s great plan to get you more “accustomed” to people is to throw you to NRC in the school’s newly-cooked-up exchange student program. You can’t stop him, because he really is only thinking of the best for you, but it doesn’t mean you have to like it, right? You get put in Scarabia because they have a lot of room.

Jamil is…okay. He’s a lot of things, but mostly, he’s not someone you’d ever find back at RSA. He’s a stressed out nanny most of the time, but there are a few moments when he feels more morally gray than people should probably be.

Kalim, however, you get along with splendidly. With him as your housewarden, you almost feel like you’re back with your normal circle of friends. Except Kalim is like, horrendously richer than them (and a bit more airheaded, though you think that could still be debated).

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

Sorry, but most of your sarcasm is going to bounce right off Kalim’s head. He will not notice it unless you’re really blunt about it, in which case, why? It’s not easy to be mad at someone who’s so genuine all the time, and being unnecessarily mean to him is just, well, mean. It’s best to just go along with him. You can’t win against this type of person.

Twinning! No, seriously, you’re two cookies cut from the same dough, with the exact same cookie cutter. You and Kalim are exactly the same in this kind of thing, and it drives Jamil absolutely insane. Sorry to say but whatever trouble you stir up you’re going to have to face yourself; Kalim is no help, he rarely even has to face the consequences of his own actions, much less yours.

Kalim is the kind of guy to unintentionally get too close, like, all the time. No he doesn’t mean it, but it also doesn’t help when your instincts go nuts because he borrowed a pencil without asking. He does notice that you’re very protective of your stuff, but he doesn’t really notice what he does most of the time, though he tries to respect your boundaries. Does not notice it translates to people.

Oh hey! You’re hanging out with Neige, that’s so cool, can he come with? No…? You want some time with your friend because he’s only visiting for a short time? That’s cool…yeah, he can give you guys space. It’s not very often that the Al-Asim heir finds something that makes him feel disappointed or upset, but this is certainly one of them. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even know why.

Love story climax:

You’re such a sight to behold.

Kalim wonders if Neige knows how lucky he is, able to touch you and hug you like he does. You don’t even fight back, only returning the embrace with a smile. There’s a sharp pain in Kalim’s chest and he wonders what he has to do in order for you to let him that close. He’s your friend too, isn’t he? It’s…so unfair.

“Kalim?”

Jamil approaches him with a worried expression. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring at the fountain for a while.”

He sees the change in Jamil’s face when he notices that it’s you sitting by the fountain. “I see.” The words make Kalim laugh. He rests his elbows on the railing and leans forward, resting his chin on his palms. Of course, Jamil would know. Jamil would understand. Jamil can see the blooming feelings in his chest that he himself took far too long to get.

He wonders if you know.

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

Being in a relationship does not make Kalim able to detect sarcasm. If you ever try to sass him, he will take it at face value. Anyway, now that you’re this close, it’s easier to understand that with his background, Kalim has never wanted for anything, and no one ever really says no to him. He has a tendency to not hear what you’re saying sometimes, only believing in what he wants to hear. You’re going to need to find some time to discuss this with him.

The only way that this would differ from when you were just strangers/friends with Kalim, is that Jamil is now kind of obligated to help you out when you find yourself in situations you can’t (and likely don’t want to) talk your way out of. At some point he just hypnotizes you to stay out of trouble, at least for a weekend, so he can breathe. Between you and Kalim, he’s probably about to overblot again.

Are you jealous? Kalim laughs it off and hugs you, promising he only loves you and no one else! It’s unlikely he understands the nuances, but Jamil assures you it’s better that way. Your protectiveness goes a bit unnoticed, if only because he’s used to bodyguards and being protected, and it’s also very unlikely that he notices your possessiveness.

Kalim lives for displays of affection! Physical touch, gift giving, words of affirmation—his most fluent language is every love language ever. You want to hug in the middle of a crowd? Sure, he might lose you in the throng of people, after all. Want to kiss? Why not? Make sure not to miss his lips, okay? Private, public, with an audience or alone, Kalim will love you and he will do it in a way that you will never doubt his feelings for you.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t—oh! You’re one of Vil’s friends, right?” Neige holds out a hand to the purple-haired boy for a handshake while you look on with a raised brow. “Um, Epel, I think, is what he called you?”

This Epel kid puts on a smile and shakes Neige’s hand, but it’s easy to tell it’s fake. He’s looking around nervously, as if to ascertain that no one sees him holding hands with Neige, and he takes it back as quickly as he’d put it out. “Right, I need to go, it was nice seeing you,” Epel laughs awkwardly and attempts to leave. He’s rooted in place once his name is called out by someone tall, blonde, and annoyingly pretty. You know from watching your friend’s works that this is the person who often played his rival; Vil Schoenheit. He does not give you the impression that he considers Neige a friend the way that Neige sees him go be.

“Epel, it’s time to go back for rehearsals,” he snaps at the younger boy, before putting on a perfectly practiced smile as he turned to Neige, “apologies for the trouble, we’ll leave you be now.”

And they walk away.

Your friend next to you is waving happily while you cross your arms.

(Clearly, that pompous-looking peacock has something against Neige.)

“It’s a shame, I wanted to introduce you to Vil, but he seems very busy.”

You scoff lightly, but at the very least, you try to mask your distaste. There’s no need for you to tell him that Vil likely hates his guts and the very dirt he steps on, not unless the other makes a move on it. “I don’t need to know anyone here,” you roll your eyes and hold onto his wrist, pulling him away, “let’s just find that cafe. Botanical gardens, right?”

“Right!”

Exchange program:

Due to a few…accidents, the faculty members of RSA have chosen you to represent the school in an exchange student program (they want you shipped off to NRC, like, bad). Pomefiore is the very lucky winner of the “which dorm should this kid be in” raffle, which means hell for you.

Epel is surprisingly funny. He’s probably one of the prettiest people you’ve ever met (and RSA is filled with pretty boys), yet his natural way of doing things is so crude, for lack of a better word. He feels good to chill with, and escape from all the prissiness that the dorm (and its housewarden) has to offer. Rook, though, you stay far away from. Sometimes when you’re alone, you feel like someone is watching you. And it’s probably him.

If there was anyone in this entire school that you absolutely loathe, it’s the world-renowned model actor blah blah blah Vil. He cannot stand your flippant attitude and you cannot stand his everything.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

Vil does not know who Jesus Christ is, but I assure you that if he did, the name would be on his tongue 24/7. You don’t stand a chance in a verbal or physical fight with Vil, so you’ve learned to settle for making stupid comments behind his back. That he can still hear. He finds you very frustrating to work with, but he does love a challenge. You’ll learn to be more elegant by the time he’s done with you (you will not).

Part of the ‘does not give a fuck’ club. Whatever mess you find yourself in is your business, do you understand? He’s not one for spoon feeding, potato, so all your problems are your own to bear. Vil thinks that basing everything off intuition and instinct is straight up barbaric, but unfortunately for both you and him, you can’t be moved to Savanaclaw.

What are you, an animal? He can understand not wanting other people to touch your possessions, but must you hiss like some sort of raccoon? Fine, he’ll back off if he must. Your possessiveness of people doesn’t escape him, he just doesn’t think it’s any of his business. However, your actions now, in part, reflect Pomefiore which is under his rule and jurisdiction. Watch how you act.

It’s such an ugly feeling, and one that Vil refuses to define. And it’s Neige again, why is it always Neige? He knows you’re close but must you be that close? You’re always against people being in your ‘bubble’, so when he sees you all over that doe-eyed rival of his, it leaves him seething. Stop holding his hand, stop whispering so close to his ear, stop ignoring Vil…please…

Love story climax:

“Mira, Mira, who is the most beautiful of them all?”

Since he already knows the answer, why does he keep asking? Vil’s never pegged himself as a masochist. Then, what the hell is he doing to himself?

“Searching. The account with most comments tagged as beautiful, Neige LeBlanche.”

…Of course.

Why is it that Neige can get what he can’t have every single time? He works just as hard, doesn’t he? If not more. Neige is the protagonist, Vil is the antagonist. Neige is the hero, Vil is the villain. Neige is your best friend.

Who is Vil to you? Do you even think about him half the amount of times that he thinks of you? Is he a stranger? An acquaintance? A naggy dorm leader that you wish to avoid as much as possible?

He’s come second to your best friend one too many times.

He’s not giving up your heart, not to Neige, not to anyone.

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded from annoying (derogatory) to annoying (affectionate)! While he doesn’t enjoy your cattiness too much, Vil does like a bit of bite. He’ll indulge you just a little, everything’s fine in moderation, after all. Just make sure you know when to tone it down, darling.

Vil is a responsible person, and he expects you to be responsible too. If you pick a fight all on your own, he has no qualms letting you face the consequences by yourself. But he’s not heartless. If it really is too much for you to handle, or if it’s not your fault, he’s more than happy to help you mediate things (or beat someone up idk).

Jealousy isn’t pretty, but he rather likes the color on you. This man is beloved by literal millions so you’ll have a hard time keeping him all to yourself. But if it’s any consolation, his love is all yours, alright? Vil wouldn’t mind a possessive lover just as long as you know your place. If you think of him as part of your territory? Well, why not?

Vil Schoenheit has a reputation to keep. He can’t just let you do whatever; he’s a public figure. So all your lovey dovey-ing will have to wait until you and him are behind closed, locked, chained doors with shut windows covered by heavy curtains, do you understand? If you do, then feel free to adore him as much as you want to. He will return your affection in kind.

“I didn’t notice you there, sorry!”

“It’s fine…gosh these normies are so clumsy, can’t even walk without tripping over their own feet…though I guess I’m not one to talk.”

Your sense of hearing has an impeccable range, at least, more than enough to hear this walking matchstick’s grumbling that he’d likely meant to keep to himself. You glare at him and push Neige back, rolling up your sleeves. This guy might be tall, but he’ll bend to your level with a nice kick at the groin. “What’d you call my friend, you blue-raspberry-flavored lightstick?”

“Y/N, stop it!”

He squealed, seemingly panicking as he backed away. “What the, I say a few words and you pick a fight irl? That’s so lame.”

“I swear to the Seven if another stupid word leaves your—”

“Threat detected.”

A cute, blue-haired (blue-flamed?) robot kid is pointing some pretty big laser guns your way, so you’re forced to take a step back, watching him slowly lower them. “Hello, please refrain from threatening my big brother, or I’ll have to annihilate you.” The kid warns you with a chipper tone of voice, but he’s glaring at you harshly.

“Y/N,” Neige whispers, “let’s just go.”

You weigh your options and decide that, even though you can probably take that six-foot gremlin, it’s very unlikely you’ll come out unscathed with the adorable death machine in the mix. You send the man one last glare while your friend pulls you away from possible homicide.

Exchange program:

The greenhouse going up in flames was definitely not your fault. Uh, totally unrelated sentence aside, you’ve been chosen to represent RSA to go on an exchange student program to NRC. Because no one from Ignihyde was at the meeting (physically), they couldn’t exactly turn you down. Most people ignored the panicking tablet, anyway.

Ortho is a sweetheart, you’ve found, when you’re not threatening to de-ball his beloved older brother. But the catch is that you can’t spend much time with him without also spending time with Idia. Which, ew.

Your housewarden is someone you barely ever saw. But you’ve taken it upon yourself to annoy him as much as humanly possible (no you’re not petty who said that), so you usually camp outside his door to spook him from ever leaving. This escalates to occasional talks through the door, which turns into him slipping you a controller, to him realizing you can’t play if you don’t see the screen, to actually letting you hang out in his room.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

Make no mistake, Idia’s tongue is just as poisonous as yours, if not more. The combination usually leads to trash talk that once made Ortho splash the two of you with cold water. He thinks you’re funny, but you’re both petty so most verbal fights turn to you two swatting at each other like children.

Bro, don’t you have a strategy for every level? You can’t win if you just wing it all the time, y’know? Idia’s the type of gamer who spends several hours at a game’s wiki page just to find the best route to the finish line, so you being as you are kinda gives him a headache. And look, he’s not helping you out, okay? None of his business.

What…you chill in his room but don’t let him have some of your honey butter potato chips? That’s lame af, but like whatever. He notices the people thing when he sees you through one of the cameras (that he did not plant nuh uh) in school, about to commit murder because someone called Ortho things neither you nor Idia appreciate. Hey, he’s rooting for you.

It took him like three weeks just to be able to sit two meters away from you without you bitching about it, so Idia is, understandably, a bit peeved when he sees you practically when he finds you hugging Ortho. He shouldn’t be annoyed, it’s Ortho, for sevens’ sake! But it’s not like he can just stop feeling frustrated. He can’t stop feeling disappointed. He can’t stop feeling…wait, what is he feeling? Jealousy? No! Absolutely not!

Love story climax:

He has to look away when you turn your head, lest he get caught in the act of totally-not-staring. He tries to focus on the game and on the way his character is moving on the screen.

But why is it that he feels like it’s a waste of time?

He loves gaming! The online world is his passion, his everything. But when you’re sitting right beside him, he thinks he’d prefer to admire you, adore you, instead of beating his high score at Kingdom Odyssey: Rise of Dragonheart. He takes another peek at your pretty face, glowing by the light of the screen. Your features morph into one of excitement, and he feels his heart lightening too when he catches your bright smile.

“I won! You lost, suck it!”

He doesn’t even mind you gloating, because your smug smirk is just…

Ew. Gross. Blegh.

It’s like he got turned into a shoujo manga character right there. Idia turns back to the screen. “Dumb luck, noob. Next round it’s gg for you.”

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

He doesn’t fight with you as often…but he still fights with you. Nothing serious of course, but trolling each other has become as much of a love language as quality time is. Idia really does enjoy trash talking with you the most, if only because you turn it into a competition. When you lose, he makes you do something silly. Like uh, marrying his character in Sunfall Brookes…

Worry not! Idia, being the super awesome and totally cool genius he is, has whipped something up so that Ortho is behind you at every turn. He can’t support your stupidity irl most of the time, but having his little brother (who is fully equipped with deadly laser guns) back you up is probably good enough. So it’s fine, you’re fine, worse comes to worst Ortho’ll pick you up and fly you right back to your loving boyfriend (who may or may not be waiting to hear about your stupid actions).

While you do share your potato chips now, it seems to have become a bit more troublesome. Like, what do you mean does he love Moonkiss Eclipse the Magical Sparkle Girl more than you? Of course he loves you more (pssssst Ortho can you hide the body pillow before my s/o pops me into a body bag). Your main enemy will be the thousands of fictional characters that Idia loves, so good luck!

Idia’s not like, super great at public displays of affection. He’s not great in public, in general. Your clinginess and kisses and whatnot will have to wait until you’re back at either his or your room, ‘kay? It’s worth it though, you get to see a shy, blushy Idia with flaming pink hair.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“I AM FINE, HUMAN! YOU CANNOT INJURE ME WITH YOUR WEAK HUMAN BODY!”

Neige’s sheepish apology is met with a loud, annoying, obnoxious response. It makes you want to deck the green haired man in the face just for damaging your eardrums. “Hey, cut it out, will you? You���re loud,” you click your tongue, glaring at him, “and very annoying.”

“HOW DARE YOU CALL ME ANNOYING, HUMAN?! I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I, SEBEK ZIGVOLT, ONE OF MALLEUS-SAMA’S MOST LOYAL RETAINERS, AM A FIGURE OF—”

You figure you’re unlikely to get anything useful out of this student whose head seems very deep inside his own ass. Just as you’re planning your escape route (or how to get away with murder), a voice that successfully stops the blabber arrives.

“Sebek?” a beautiful horned fae intercedes from the sidelines, “I thought you were with Silver and Lilia.”

“MY LIEGE!”

This is probably your cue to leave.

With your hand wrapped around Neige’s wrist, you whisk him far far away from this school’s legion of freaks. As good as the eye candy (the horned fae) was, another word from the green weirdo is bound to have you arrested after socking him in the gut.

“Y/N? Where are we going?” Neige asks hesitantly.

“To the cafe,” you answer curtly, “then after that we’re going right back for your SDC practice, okay? I cannot stand one more second with all these NRC students around.”

Exchange program:

RSA held a very, very random name drawing for the exchange student program, and surprise, it’s you! And apparently, during a housewarden meeting, Diasomnia offered to be your dorm during your stay (no one needs to know Diasomnia’s housewarden wasn’t there).

You start sort-of acquaintances with Silver, but he’s actually an amazing antithesis to you. Since, you know, you’re always blazing in your fiery temper and he’s just…asleep. Maybe not antithesis. Anyway he’s a good friend.

Being in the same dorm as Sebek does not make you tolerate him more. In fact, you butt heads so much that Lilia’s assigned someone in Diasomnia to always be watching the two of you when in the same room. Lilia is cool, he’s cute, he’s super fun. You get along nicely with him once you’ve gotten used to being jumpscared.

Malleus, to be honest, you barely ever saw. He’s a bit stuck in his own world, and it’s not as if you cross paths often in your schedule. He’s more a bystander in your world before something (a fight with one of his retainers, you can guess which one) happens, and you finally manage to call him a ‘friend’.

What he thinks of you (before the relationship):

My, you’ve got quite some courage, saying those things in front of the Prince of Briar Valley. Malleus doesn’t mind though, in fact, he welcomes it. He sees it as a sign that you’re friends. After all, none too many would do as you do and sass him, saying such crude and bold words. As long as you don’t cross a line, the fae prince will smile with a ready retort in light fun.

He thinks your antics are amusing, to say the least. But you know that thing where his superiority complex kind of comes out every once in a while? Yeah, he sees you as entertaining. Kinda condescending. The good thing about this is that he doesn’t get mad at the situations you find yourself in, plus it only takes a snap of his fingers to clean up your mess. The bad thing is that you feel like half a court jester.

Malleus understands your natural instinct to claim some place and things as territory. He’s a dragon fae, after all, and those myths and legends of their greed do hold some degree of merit. This extends to people? How interesting. Watches on with amusement as you tackle a student to the ground for calling Lilia ‘weird’.

In all his years of living, this is the first time that anything has made him feel this way. There’s a bitter taste lingering on the back of his tongue, and neon green sparks curl and flicker around his fingers. It’s out of his control, he can’t help it; you’re so unbelievably unlike yourself right now it’s driving him insane. Why would you cuddle with Silver under a tree like this? Do you feel something for his knight? Thunder rumbles in the distance.

Love story climax:

“Beloved.”

The word is strange, weighing heavily on his lips. And yet, as he watches your sleeping figure, mind almost subconsciously erasing Silver from the picture, he finds it to be a word befitting of you. Lovely. “It will be dark soon,” Malleus whispers, and the prince is brought to his knees next to you if only so that you may hear his yearning, “it is best to return indoors and sleep there.”

Your eyes flutter open; you are a vision he cannot ever hope to erase from his mind.

“Sorry, I was,” you let out a soft yawn, stretching your limbs, “I got really tired from PE. Oh, I should wake up Silver.”

Malleus can’t help the lightning that zooms across his fingertips. You didn’t seem to notice the term he’d used for you, still addled from sleep. You’re focused on gently shaking his retainer awake.

It matters not, for you will be his soon enough.

(How could you ever hope to be more territorial than a dragon, dearest?)

What he thinks of you (in the relationship):

Being assertive and straightforward with your words is a great trait of rulers, beloved (yeah, in a relationship means he’s planning for marriage babe, keep up). Sass and sarcasm will have to be taken down a notch though, although he loves you, the faes in Briar Valley are old and not very accommodating of your hobby of wordplay. He does enjoy it, however, so feel free to speak as you wish when the two of you are alone.

In this kind of situation, he babies you a lot more. It’s not really condescension though, he believes that you can handle yourself especially since he now sees you as an equal. But Malleus is highly, if not overly, indulgent of the one he loves. Sees no need to change it unless something big happens. Is more liable to clean up after your messes, this time out of love.

Malleus thinks you’re so adorable when you’re jealous, with the way you get so fussy and protective over him. It’s not as if you really have a reason for jealousy, the prince is less ‘lusted after by many suitors’ and more feared. At least, that’s what he believes. So you only have Lilia and Silver to comfort you after a long day of fighting with his many many admirers.

Have a sense of decorum, dear, a public place is not suitable for displays of affection. Or so he says, but really, who is Malleus to stop you if you wish to be loving and sweet? He’ll melt faster than you can even say his name. He will have to hold back on reciprocating temporarily, but rest assured he has a mental tally and will be repaying you threefold once you’re in his private quarters.

[coraniaid]

It’s always very odd to me when I read criticism of A Song Of Ice And Fire online (by which I mainly mean: on Tumblr) which takes for granted that this is some sort of obsessively dark and edgy and mean-spirited fantasy, because ... that's not what the series is actually like at all?  

I mean, yes, some awful (and graphically described) stuff happens in these books, but this is at heart a deeply optimistic and almost embarrassingly romantic story, full of a very obvious sympathy and tenderness for the unhappy and the hurt and the powerless.  The weird gritty-for-the-sake-of-it books that the series's detractors describe wouldn't have recurring POV characters like Sansa Stark or Tyrion Lannister or Davos Seaworth or Samwell Tarly or Brienne of Tarth.  They certainly wouldn't obviously empathize with and respect these characters to the extent the actual books do.  They wouldn't be so obsessive about the importance of hope and kindness and understanding in an otherwise uncaring world.  Whenever the text suggests the world isn't fair or kind there's always an unspoken "but it should be,and I wish it was". You are clearly not meant to think that characters like Roose Bolton or Twyin Lannister are being held up as role models to emulate!

I mean, maybe the TV show is more like that -- I gave up on the show after only a couple of seasons, it was a terrible adaptation of the source material, even before the final season that everyone apparently hated -- but so much of the open disdain for ASOIAF I come across on here reads like the people writing the posts haven't even read a single one of the books. Yes, the popularity of ASOIAF inspired a lot of "dark" fantasy novels that actually are bleakly nihilistic and seem to revel in their characters meeting pointlessly sad and violent ends, but Martin's books are just not like that.

Yes, lots of the world-building for ASOIAF is patently ridiculous, and yes, key parts of the plot are just cribbed from the War of the Roses (or, rather, from historical novels like Sharon Penman's The Sunne in Splendour)  and yes, Martin has said some very stupid things in interviews while busy not writing the series.  And no, I'm not sure I could actually bring myself to recommend the books to anyone who's not read them before (especially when it's so unlikely that the series will ever be finished, let alone in a satisfying way).  I haven’t reread them myself in years.

But honestly, back when I was a quietly miserable teenager these books really meant a lot to me, in part because they are the opposite of the caricature often discussed online.  Yes, they acknowledged that sometimes the world was awful and unbearable.  It is!  But they also suggested that it was still important to try to be fair and kind and to appreciate the moments when things were better.  They are books about trying to do the right thing even when it’s so hard as to seem impossible and nobody else will even know that you tried, written in a way that takes for granted that “the right thing” is also the just and the optimistic and the quietly heroic thing; that doing the right thing when you afraid is more praiseworthy than never being afraid at all. And it is baffling to me how often I see people talking about them now who don't actually seem to have ever even skimmed them but are still vocally passionate in their hatred of something that, as they describe it, simply doesn't exist.

[lillotte17]

The Music Room

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS‼- Do Not Read unless you have completed the Dread Wolf's Regrets quest!!!!

AN: I have not finished the game, so I don't know if this will actually be part of my canon yet, but the world is currently awful and I...needed to be making something. But as I said: I have NOT finished the game yet, so if you leave a comment (pls and thank) do NOT write anything with spoilers in it!!!

Okay, on with the show!

~

Rill finds Inquisitor Lavellan sitting at the harpsichord in the music room. All of the other rooms at the Lighthouse had seemed barren when they had first started using it as their base, and even this one had apparently been used as some sort of storage space -there was an alarming amount of cheese for some reason- but the quiet here feels different in a way that is hard to quantify. Peaceful, as opposed to desolate. The light pouring through the windows is always bright in here. Always warm. The murals on the walls were still vivid when they came. Colorful and new. The most prominent one bears the symbol of the Inquisition flanked by howling wolves.

The woman contemplating it does not look like the fearsome hero who closed a hole in the sky and stopped the southern half of the world from falling into chaos, though. She looks small. And tired. And sad.

Rill clears her throat, feeling awkward.

“So. Not trying to complain or anything, but when you asked to come here, you did say that you could help by giving us insight into Solas’ history and his way of thinking and… Well. You were pretty quiet in there while we watched those memories.”

“I know,” Aili sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I knew some of it. Bits of things he told me himself. Things I figured out…afterwards. And I knew there would be more. More I didn’t know. He’s thousands of years old, so I knew that the story of his life would be more than what he had told me, but…”

“It’s a lot.” Rill hums in agreement.

“Bit of an understatement,” Aili snorts. Her gaze drifts down, and she runs her fingers over the instrument in front of her. “…I didn’t even know he played.”

“So, tell me what you do know,” Rill says, casually plopping down onto a nearby crate, “It’s probably more helpful than you think.”

“I know… I know that he hates tea.”

“Right. Noted. Probably shouldn’t offer him any of Lucanis’ coffee either, then.” Rill grins, folding her arms across her chest.

“Probably not,” Aili agrees, returning the smile faintly. “He has a sweet tooth, though. He loves books. Loves learning. And teaching, too. He was always happy to share stories about places he had been, or spirits he had talked to. He paints beautifully. And he sketches, too. He doesn’t laugh very often, but when he does, it’s…”

She trails off, her face creased with grief and faint traces of longing.

“I’m sorry.”  She says again.

Rill shakes her head at the apology but gives her a curious look afterwards.

“You said that Solas was important to you; I’m guessing you didn’t mean that you were just really good friends?”

Aili shrugs.

“I thought that we were…something.” She glances around the room again, eyes landing on the mural of the slain dragon and the mourning wolf above it. “Now I’m not sure if even that was true.”

“Is that something he would lie about?” Rill wonders, her eyebrows ticking upwards, “Because that would be some valuable insight. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to use seduction as a manipulation tactic, but he seems comfortable twisting the truth about everything else, so…”

Aili sits for a moment in silence, frowning in consideration before finally shaking her he in the negative.

“It’s… No.” She fumbles briefly. “I know that given…given everything we’ve seen, it might be hard to believe, but… He has a kind heart. Truly. He wants to do the right thing. He believes in justice, and he wants things to be fair. He wants to help people when he sees them suffering. And he blames himself when he can’t. He just…comes to the wrong conclusions, sometimes, and he struggles to ask for help when he needs it. He… There would be no reason to -no point- in lying about his feelings for me. I was already his friend, and I took his advice seriously. He had my ear and my protection. He wouldn’t get anything out of it unless his intention was to be needlessly cruel, and…he’s not like that. He isn’t.”

“Then why were you doubting that you had something?”

“It’s…complicated.” Aili sighs. “It’s about time, I think. Or at least, part of it is. He feels things deeply. Passionately. Even if you can’t tell which words he’s telling you are true, you can always tell when something matters to him. And this place… Mythal is everywhere. In every mural. In every room. Statues. Paintings. Symbols. Everything is about her. For her. Even now. Even after taking Flemeth’s power and essentially killing her himself. His love for her, whatever shape or form it might have had, has colored every aspect of his life since the beginning of the world. And compared to that…”

She taps a single key on the harpsichord, letting out a high clear note.

“Mythal is the All-Mother. The Protecter. The bright and beguiling moon. And I…I am barely a candle flame.”

“You’re the Inquisitor. The Savior of the South. People still call you the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ You disbanded the Inquisition, and still managed to bring enough people together to hold back the darkspawn hordes while I fight the gods up here in the North. I think you might be selling yourself a bit short.” Rill says with a curl of her lips, trying to be kind.

“There will always be heroes, just as there will always be despots. I’m hardly unique in that respect.” Aili replies, striking another key. “A puny mortal striking back at false gods probably reminded him of his own past. His own struggles. Maybe that was it. Maybe there’s even something about me that made him think of Mythal. I don’t know. I don’t know what he saw in me. Or thought he saw. But look around. There are a few Inquisition symbols in this room, but beyond that… There is no trace of me in this place. Nothing he held onto. Nothing he felt was worth keeping.” 

Rill frowns. Fidgeting with her hands. Itching to pull out a blade to play with, but uncertain if the move would been seen as a threat.

“Sorry.” She offers after a few moments of silence. “I try not to talk to him very often, for obvious reasons. It’s still a bit creepy, if I’m being honest. Even if I did, though, I don’t think his romantic life would be something he’d be keen to tell me about.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aili assures her with a smile that does not reach her eyes, “He wasn’t keen to tell me either.”

“The Fade’s a funny place, though,” Rill says, gesturing at their surroundings, “I’m not always sure which bits of the things we’ve found here are from Solas, and which things we brought along ourselves. Lucanis found a book he used to read as a kid. Harding says she can smell her mom’s cooking sometimes. Neve said she can hear the sea when she wakes up in the mornings. Things like that, you know?”

The Inquisitor nods.

“Not surprising, given the nature of this place and the person who built it.” Aili says. “This was a refuge. For spirits and slaves fleeing tyranny. And for Solas himself, too. It wants to be welcoming. It wants you to feel safe.”

“It was different when we got here, though.” Rill tells her. “Bit empty. Bit sad. Lonely, almost.”

“Sounds like Solas,” Aili sighs, something close to exasperated fondness.

“This room though…” Rill sits up straighter, turning her head to glance at the sunlight painting patterns on the already painted walls. “It was always like this. It may be small and tucked away, but it’s honestly one of my favorite places in the Lighthouse. It’s always a little warmer in here. The sun’s always shining through the windows. The quiet in here feels like…comfort. Like home.”

“I feel like you’re trying to lead me somewhere, but I’m not sure where it is,” Aili chuckles.

“Well, you said it yourself, didn’t you?” Rill grins back at her, “This is the only room with Inquisition symbols in it.”

Aili blinks. Makes a face.

“There are also murals of Mythal in here. Because she’s everywhere.”

It is Rill’s turn to sigh.

“Maybe she is. Maybe he couldn’t escape from her. Maybe he never will. What she did. What she made him do. What was done to her. But the library with all his memories of her is big and dark and gloomy. And the statues of her are stiff and aloof and cold. And the little room upstairs he shoved a cot into to sleep is…just depressing, really.”

 She catches the older woman’s gaze. Holds it.

“It’s called the Lighthouse, but the beacon at the top isn’t where the light is. It’s not in some huge memorial room dedicated to Mythal. It’s here. There’s a chair with your seal on it, almost waiting for you to sit and watch him play. There’s the paintings on the walls. There’s… Look, when did this become me telling you about the Dread Wolf’s heart?”

“I have no idea,” Aili laughs in earnest this time.

“Really though, this is a good room. I like to sit and read by the windows in here sometimes. The light in here always makes be think of summer afternoons. The air has a sweetness to it, too. Something flowery. Heather, maybe. Or Lavender.”

Aili starts, her eyes going wide.

“What’s wrong?” Rill asks.

“You said it smells like lavender in here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s…the soap I use. For my hair. I always have.”

“Well, there you have it!” Rill grins in triumph. “He kept your memory here. Away from his regrets. Somewhere bright and happy. Well…as happy as Solas gets, anyway. Not too bad for a candle flame, eh?”

Aili laughs again.

“Thank you, Rook.”

[howlingmod]

LIQUID SUNSHINE

summary - valk x reader , reader's also an idol .. smiles .. more valk pining than anything sorry

wc - i dunno ...

misc - very based on spltoon i wont even lie you are the ian bgm to his squid sistrs (< incomprehensible)

-Valk liked to keep a good eye on the music scene, seeing what everyone else was doing or if there were any new groups on the rise in crossroads- it's just exciting to him! He likes seeing how people innovate on trends and the styles that different artists bring to the table, and, from a business perspective, it's just good to know how the music scene's doing for flipside's sake ...

-He usually just kept an ear out on social media to see who everyone's talking about, and that's how he learned about you.

-You were a part of a band from one of the other regions, and apparently you guys were pretty popular there! He hadn't heard of you before, but it seems like you were just a well-kept secret, a hidden gem.

-It didn't take long for him to make plans to visit, see just how much of an idol you really were. He just wanted to make sure he got the full perspective, is all! (And, admittedly, he was just a little intrigued by some of the photos he seen ... he has eyes! Get off his case!)

-Needless to say, he was not disappointed. He made sure to visit when your band was supposed to be performing and he was decently surprised by the crowd that had formed. It was a smaller concert than he was used to (it's not easy being known by the grand majority of the inpherno ...), but everyone there seemed totally enthralled and happy to be there. You guys definitely had a big reputation for yourselves here, he was honestly a little sad it'd taken this long for him to find out about you guys ...

-Once the show was over, he made sure to try and talk to you all. He had to be careful about it, keeping his head down and sticking to the edges of the room, but he managed to get close without being recognized. After he quietly thanked the Heights for it being a night show (he wouldn't have been able to see the stage before getting someone shouting his name if it was daytime), he made his way over to you.

-You all seemed to be about even in popularity, none of you seeming particularly shafted or overhyped by your fans, but you'd been the one he heard about the most. (Though, that probably wasn't true. He probably heard about all of you the same amount and just paid the most attention when you were being focused on. Woops.) So, he figured it was only fair he tried talking to you.

The diguise he hastily threw together felt just a little silly now. Sure, it'd worked pretty well so far, but he was really starting to doubt that it would work up close like this. I mean, it's not exactly easy to hide horns like his and his fake voice-persona-mix was really starting to fall apart.

"Where'd you say you're from?" Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Crossroads, I just wanted to see one of your guys' shows in person, they seemed pretty fun from everything I saw online," he answered honestly, smiling in a gesture you returned with your own. "Aw! I really hope you liked it then, I hope we were worth the travel..." "Oh, for sure! You guys are super talented! You've got such a unique style, I can definitely see how you pull such a big crowd." Ok, maybe he was laying it on thick, but he was being genuine! He was impressed! Whatever! You laughed at that, shifting in place and glancing off to the side, face feeling warm. "Thank you, I'm just glad people like our work, we put a lot of effort into it." He hummed in response, a mix between acknowledgement and shared opinion. Clearly, even if you two had very different scenes, you were still pretty alike, at least in how you viewed your work. A silence fell after that, just barely ebbing into uncomfortable before he shot up. "Oh, I totally forgot!" He started fumbling for something in his bag before hastily pushing over a vinyl he'd got before heading over here and a market he'd thrown in his bag only a little shamefully, "Would you mind?" You smiled at him, gingerly taking it from his hands, "Not at all, who should I make this out to?" He blanched, biting the inside of his lip hard. He hadn't thought of a name, at all. He stammered, glancing around the room quickly for some answer. Pen was so boring, Poster was obviously a lie, and he's not even entertaining Chair. You snickered, just barely failing to bite it back, "I'll just keep it general." His eyes shot back to you, silently letting out the breath he'd been holding, "Yeah, that works. Thanks." You waved your hand dismissively, "It's nothing, don't sweat it." You handed the vinyl back over to him, meeting his gaze again. There was a glimmer of something he couldn't quite name, perhaps because he was a little distracted by just how pretty you looked in this lighting. Sure, you'd been killer on stage, but it was different seeing you up close like this. Maybe he should've invested in closer seats ... Before he could think to bite his tongue, he was talking again, "You ever think about collabs?"

-He had a different kind of pep in his step when he got back to crossroads. He seemed to be in a constant state of distraction, always thinking about something or other enough to risk walking into walls a few times now. Sometimes he'd say it was music, some bar that he was stuck on. Othertimes, he'd just shake his head and say 'nothing,' before going back to staring off into space. Dom could see right through it, and while he couldn't read his mind, he figured it probably had to do with that person he kept seeing on his phone.

-Valk wasn't sure of where to go from here. He'd seen one of your concerts, he'd talked to you, even figured out you guys were open to working with other artists! Curiosity satiated, right? So then why were you still taking up so much space in his mind, often entirely seperated from your band and music?

-Should he have asked for your number? No, that would've been creepy. He knows more than well how fans can be about that sort of thing. Should he have just told you who he was, then? Ugh, that sounded so full of himself. Flipside might be famous, but that doesn't give him a free friendship card for everyone ever. He was pulling his hair out trying to figure out what he was missing here, what misstep he'd taken, by the time another concert came up.

-This one was different, rather than being a concert he and Dom performed at exclusively, this one had people from all around inpherno perform. It was a big deal, one that he was usually giddy about for weeks before. Seems like he really had been awfully distracted with how it slipped his mind ...

-He didn't have much time to mourn, however, when he noticed your band's name was on the list.

Before the show, there was a red carpet sort of ordeal. Musicians would show up dressed to the nines, flaunting their identity and background through their dresswear for everyone to see. It gave the public some nice photos to look at and some introductions to lesser-known artists with some of the impromptu interviews that cropped up with all the paparazzi. Plus, it now gave Valk an opportunity to talk to you again. It was hard to pull off his usually casual and relaxed demeanor whenever he'd pass photographers by, not wanting to deal with some big ordeal if he looked as nervous as he felt. Maybe you'd already walked? Where would you be then? Heights, what if you'd all pulled out last minute? Maybe you wouldn't even wanna talk to him anyway, did you think he was overhyped? Ugh, that was a whole new thing to worry about. What if he came off as pushy?- Just as he started to spiral, he'd caught a glimpse of familiar horns. Quickly turning to look, he'd seen you standing off in one of the staff-only areas, seemingly fixing up your outfit with all the fluffing and smoothing you were doing. He started over, minding his pace enough to not run over and freak you out. Whatever planned conversation starter he had on his tongue fell flat when you'd looked back at him. Your stage-wear had been perfectly translated to the event, dressed up enough to draw the eye but still retaining your usual sense of style enough to not come off as tryhardy. In shorter terms, you were a showstopper, a heartthrob- if his own heart's aching, fast beat was anything to go off of. "You look nice," he managed lamely. You took the weak compliment in stride, smiling as your hands finally left your top alone, "Thanks! You don't look half bad yourself." He smiled back at you, noticably relaxing, "Are you nervous at all?" "I mean, a little, but I think everyone gets a little bit of stage fright," you hummed, "it's always a little nerve-wracking, you just get better at managing it." "Huh, yeah, I can see that.." "What about you, are you nervous at all?" You shot him a look then, smile just a tinge more wry this time around. He straighted back up, subconsciously shifting in place as he laughed. "Ah, well, a little. It's different performing in front of a more diverse crowd, usually you just have to worry about people who already like your genre, but here you've gotta think about the variety of tastes in the audience," he hummed, steadily growing more comfortable as he talked. He might not be the best at talking to people he wants to impress (when did he start wanting to impress you?), but he considered himself pretty strong in his business sense. The greater mechanisms of being a musician came to him easier than making connections beyong shared interest. You gave a little noise of acknowledgement in response, falling quiet as you thought over his words. He could just barely hear the distant white noise of crowds chattering a room over the buzzing lights in here, fixing his gaze on some scuff on the ground for fear of staring. You suddenly shot up as the silence began to drag on a moment too long, turning your head back to him, "I almost forgot. You asked me about collabs at my concert," you started shuffling around your [ purse / pockets ], "I don't know if you were offering or anything, but if you were ..." you trailed off, holding out a small slip of paper to him. He didn't respond for a few seconds, staring blankly at the paper in surprise. Eventually, he rembered how to move his arms and speak, reaching out to take the slip from you, carefully unfolding it to reveal digits. "You uh... recognized me then, I'm guessing." "You have a pretty memorable face." He sucked in a breath through his teeth, pointedly ignoring the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, "Ah."

[sunboki]

— START TO FINISH a Han Jisung fiction

🧸 : Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. enemies to lovers, forced friendship, friends to lovers, angst, fluff

WORD COUNT. 6.2k ☆ 31 minute read

WARNINGS. lots of cursing, underage drinking(reader & han are 18, legal drinking age in korea is 19), making up, reader punches someone

AUG'S NOTES. i know i know, after so long the fic is finally here!(thank goodness) and i just remembered how @geneziesm was excited for this back in.. february?? so apologies for the wait sweetness, hope you don’t mind that i changed our love interest from changbin to jisung :’) btw, the cabin they’re staying in looks like this

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. From start to finish. That’s how you ended things with Han Jisung, starting with your fist balled up and ending with a slam right to his cheek. Or so you hoped. “I mean, they’re just kids, what could they do?” Was what both of your parents said as they spoke over the phone without you knowing. Without either of you knowing you learned later on, luggage in hand as you stared at the dangling road sign beside the cabin’s entrance. Gangwon Cabin, the place you’d be occupying with Han Jisung, your mortal enemy, for two months. It could be worse.. right? No. This was the worst it could be.

or alternatively :

Two months ago you were certain you’d hate Han Jisung forever, but what about now?

You’re. Fucking. Kidding me.

"You take one step into this room and I cut off every limb attached to your body, understood?" Is what you hissed at the boy who looked too smug standing in front of you.

"Awe, aren’t you just the sweetest?"

"Better yet, I could cut off your tongue."

"The more the merrier." He stuck out his tongue connivingly, earning a hard slam of the door right in the face.

You don’t care if you have to slam that door a billion more times to escape from him, you’d do it in a heartbeat.

Your only priority for these two months? Avoid Han Jisung at all costs.

Han Jisung is the boy that ate sand as a kid. You’re sure of it.

You’ve convinced yourself he somehow ate enough sand to where it creeped up into his brain and made him into a complete asshole for the rest of his life. A shame, really.

You didn’t know if that was true or not —though you wouldn’t be surprised if it was— but the theory served as a decent explanation of why he acted like an absolute piece of shit… For the most part.

Honestly, the hatred was sort of mutual. If you define mutual as in unspoken glares across the classroom and his malice-filled smile glittering right back at you, then yeah, mutual.

Starting from the moment you stepped into Mr. Jeong’s class and took your seat beside him, a blazing electric bolt strung itself between you two. And despite being unsure why, the bolt grew stronger without sign of stopping, alighting hatred and dislike.

Was it fair carrying the burning grudge? Not at all, but if Han Jisung kept egging you on like he always did, it would stay that way.

Except what was once anger noticed by only you quickly escalated into heated, gas-lit arguments the entire school heard—because Han Jisung found the perfect timing every time. Heavy on the sarcasm.

Best example? You had utterly bombed your chemistry midterm, one you tirelessly studied for as well when a shadow loomed over your desk belonging to none other than the Devil’s offspring himself (if you guessed anyone other than Han Jisung, you’re dead wrong).

"I wouldn’t recommend crying in class, but that grade is pretty shitty so if you need a shoulder, I've gotcha sweetheart." He cockily pats his shoulder while sending you a wink, and you couldn’t believe someone would so blatantly ask for a broken nose, yet here you are.

Trust that your list of reasons to plan a burial for the seat-mate goes on as long as you breathe.

And apparently, whatever chemical reaction you’d fucked up during the exam turned out to be highly explosive on a Friday afternoon, unfortunately without the addition of Han’s broken nose. You were close though.

That day he picked. Picked and picked and picked enough that your fist found itself smashed against his jaw, the boy’s hand immediately coming up to shield the wound. Instantaneously, the classroom became noiseless apart from the sound of blood pumping in your ears and Jisung’s heavy breathing.

"Han Jisung, Ln Yn, go to the office. Now!" Mr. Jeong called from the doorway, noticeably out of breath from his brambled hair and glasses askew upon his nose.

The customary lecture about how you should "never resort to violence" was nothing new for the both of you, Counselor Kim’s furious tapping of her foot reflecting the glare she burned your way. From the other side of the room Han sat on the patient-bed, a bandage sized to his cheek covering where you’d unapologetically swung all your frustration. You had zero remorse and would continue to have zero remorse. Forever.

"For the love of god what are you two standing there for?! Apologize. This. Instant!" And with the final crack in her flaming attitude she stomped out the door, fanatically shaking her head with dismay.

Ravaging every advantage, you sauntered towards the boy, releasing a heavy sigh just to announce your 'sincerity' first and foremost. Now was prime time to sugar him up, and you’d be sure not to take it for granted.

Stepping forward, you lift your head to deliver a faux smile.

"I’m so sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you leading up to this, especially after punching you in a spot that won’t heal for a long time because you never deserved that and most definitely did nothing wrong." Delighted to finally be pushing his buttons just as he did yours, you plaster the most guilty expression you can manage, voice dripping with lies.

Jisung breathes a rather bored sigh.

"Nice try."

Geesh, he’s exasperating. Take a hit for once, why don’t you.

"You want me to pray for your forgiveness or what?" Managing to omit the derogatory nickname attached to your sentence, you spare a hasty glance at Ms. Choi, the nurse who every other male at the school had a crush on. She types into her laptop at an alarming pace—fortunately either ignoring or oblivious to your brewing cat-fight.

The boredom appears to leave him instantly for a reason you couldn’t guess. Regardless, you knew it meant bad news.

Exasperating. He is unbearably exasperating.

"'Didn’t think you were that in love with me, but no. I want you to give me a kiss," Using the hand he’d previously ran through his hair, he pointed to his cheek. "Right here."

Is no one else hearing this? He’s not serious .. right? And why are your hands sweaty?

"Bullshit."

Aha, there’s the usual Oxford graduate vocabulary. Let’s hope Ms. Choi didn’t hear anything.

"Sadly. Worth a try though." Jisung deflates, swinging his legs around aimlessly. He’s daring from a point you can’t figure out. His inability to piss you off is easy to discover, but there’s something else there—a word your finger keeps skipping over.

Then suddenly, in the midst of observing your lost-in-thought expression, he piques with realization. By the time you notice, all your earlier remorse voluntarily throws itself out the window. Not that there was any remorse anyway. Definitely.

"Wait- don’t tell me you’re actually going to apologize, hold on I need to record this—"

"SHUT UP! I’m leaving, have a good evening Ms. Choi." The poor woman jumped out of her skin, shakily bowing farewell as you stormed from the infirmary, seething rage billowing out both ears.

Your walk home lasted much longer than usual, probably because you didn’t even want to step foot on the property; wanted to savor every moment of fresh air before seeing your parents in their fury glittering glory.

Unbeknownst to you, they’d already gotten the call—four hours ago, to be exact. Though you didn’t realize that’s how long you’d been procrastinating, and neither did Han Jisung, who was doing the same thing.

Except while you walked around killing time, he occupied a swing at the old neighborhood playground, humming a tune to himself.

So as you turned the corner, the last person you expected to be there was there, seeming quite aloof as he gazed off into the distance.

"What’re you doing?"

You swore he leaped a solid foot into the air, hand frantically clutched to his chest as if you were the doctor telling him he wasn’t allowed to jack off anymore.

"Jesus! You scared me. I should ask you the same thing," Han grumbled, lips pulled into a taut pout.

This momentary peacefulness, or whatever isn’t hostility occupying the space between you is gross considering you’d socked him mere hours earlier, still able to make out the light bruising scattered along his jaw.

You kick off some of the mulch lingering atop your shoelaces. "Procrastinating going home, you?"

Laughing bitterly, Han settles back into the swing. "I guess that’s something we can agree on," He says, causing you to sort of falter.

Sadness lingers in his tone and you can’t decipher it, not when your average Han Jisung would be rearing to tease you. Instead, he remains quiet enough that when your phone buzzes in your pocket, you flinch.

"I’ve gotta go. This is the eighteenth time she’s called, I wish I was joking." You breathe through your nose, staring at your mom’s number flickering atop the screen.

Why you even dismissed yourself you don’t know. It was Han Jisung, why did you bother? You should’ve acted spiteful and left him at that. But you couldn’t. Not when he seemed so.. miserable. You staved down the gnawing guilt.

"What color do you want to wear in your casket, I’ll be sure to tell your parents."

Well there goes any chance of being nice.

"I hate you," You automatically snarl, spewing those words as if they had no weight anymore.

Looks like everything is back to normal, for now.

Currently standing at the doorstep, you thought back to all the excuses you’d used in the past and which one seemed suitable this time around. Which one would, hopefully, secure your life for another day.

There’s the truly heroic "he was insulting you guys! Saying you didn’t raise me right!" that would earn a bit of sympathy, or maybe you could even go bigger and say he was threatening to rob you and— the door opened. Shit.

"Come in! Tell me about your day at school." Your mother, strangely enough, smiled.

Okay. What the fuck is going on. Where’s the berating and disowning threat, seriously.

"Aren’t you mad?" You skittishly ask, only receiving a swift jerk of her head signaling for you to come in.

Hence, you tentatively, like an ax would strike you at any moment, obediently tip-toe into the living room, glancing around cautiously.

She finds her spot on the couch beside your dad and you nonchalantly shift a good distance from the two, just to be safe.

Who knows, perhaps they’d planned collaborative man-slaughter.

"Oh no, we’re livid, but we talked about it and have a fantastic idea that we’re sure will help!" Help what, you’re not sure. All you know is that this cannot possibly end well. 

Your ungodly hour wake up was the first unfortunate event, basically being shoved into the car to who knows where and before you knew it, the sunlight illuminating the road in front of you became shrouded with shadows of tall alpines looming overhead. They spared no hint as to what their "fantastic idea" was yesterday, so the jury ruling your case as a third-degree murder was only something you could wonder from the backseat. Something you could wonder for a long, long time.

Thankfully, decades later, the vehicle eventually came to a halt and your parents wasted no time shoving you just as easily as they did into the car, outside of the car. Adjusting to the brightness, you find yourself facing a building only definable as a cabin from the wooden exterior and forest surroundings.

A creative collaborative homicide, definitely.

"We’re here~" Your mom calls from the passenger seat, helping unload stuffed suitcases from the trunk.

Suitcases. Lovely.

Alright, staying here for a while doesn’t sound too bad aside from the feeding yourself part. Yogiyo Food Delivery could find their way here, surely. You’d just have to give a generous tip, that’s all.

Clapping her hands together a little too excitedly, the woman pats your shoulder, gesturing to the abundant amount of luggage your dad heaved to the entrance, or wherever the rickety door leads.

Hold on, whose car is that parked beside yours?

Almost like she read your mind, her brows lift cartoonishly as you follow the click of a car door opening in unison.

"Oh! Right! Now we wanted to make sure this would be beneficial for both of you, so we invited Han’s parents to have him stay with you for these two months!"

Haha.

You’re dreaming. This is all a dream. Because Han Jisung did not just get out of that Kia, and she did not just say two months.

Automatically, your hands fly into the air, willing to battle your way out of this one if that’s what it takes.

"You’re leaving me here? Are you serious-what’re you-Hey! Don’t drive away!" Before you can open your mouth the two cars back out of the dirt road without so much as a goodbye to the children they’d utterly abandoned, might you add the children that wanted nothing more than to bury each other a day ago.

And so, the two months of summer hell began.

..Albeit, out of all your troubles, the scenery wasn’t too hellish opposed to the internal screaming echoing around your skull.

Instead, serene, comfortable sound consumed the wilderness surrounding the cabin, filling your ears with the hum of evening birdsong and water trickling from the river below. At least that part was tolerable.

You perch on the edge of the railing and listen, trying to distract yourself from your mind for a moment—allowing you to bask in a billion thoughts you wished to drown out.

Han had already gone inside without even a hello (not that you expected one), seeming to feel the same amount of hopelessness as you did after hearing your fate. Peaceful, until the creaking patio door opening rips every inch of calmness right out of your grasp.

"The view is nice, isn’t it."

Stop it. Stop talking like we’re friends. It’s not normal. We are not normal.

The sensible part of your mind tells you this is how people that don’t go for the throat talk, but you can’t convince yourself to communicate like that. Not with your history, not now.

"Nice without you interrupting me." Your grip tightened on the fence supporting you, refusing to even spare him a glance in fear of watching disappointment flood his frontal. You’d stab a stake through your chest before succumbing to him, before sympathizing his feelings.

"I’m going inside," you mouth, quickly slipping past him through the half-open door without another word.

Unforgiving. You are both very unforgiving. Or maybe it’s you, unable to forget about your grievances, unable to let go. For a second—closing the door behind you—you fear you’ll never be able to let go.

Radio silence inhabits the aged home, and you both hurry off to separate sides to digest everything’s awfulness in your own, unique ways. Han resorts to strumming the acoustic guitar he’d stuffed in his bag before leaving Seoul, and you, well, you cope, furiously pacing the room until exhaustion overtakes your limbs and you pitifully flop onto the floor.

The suitcases will have to rot outside tonight because leaving this spot, no less passing by the living area, meant Han Jisung exposure, the last thing your sour mood needed. You rationalize—you really do—but fleeting thoughts and whatever keeps itching your leg steal your chance of thinking positively.

Wait.

Alternatively, during what he assumes to be your sulking-about-how-life-isn’t-fair session, Han’s daily mug of coffee (the one he’d missed out on due to being forced up at the asscrack of dawn) was cut short thanks to a shrill scream. He hurriedly placed his beverage on the counter, racing to where you stood glued to the wall of the hallway, finger shakily pointing to a bug crawling along the floor.

Mischievously, Han crossed his arms over his chest, surveying the chaos that could ensue with a simple request. This was already off to a great start.

Why not get his fair share? Toying with you was way too fun after all.

"Y’know, there’s a great way to deal with this." He takes his last swig of caffeine while you basically crawl into your skin, impossibly backing up further from the skittering insect.

"And what would that be?"

Rookie mistake. He can tell you’re aware of exactly what he’s going to say next, already two steps behind him before you realize you can do anything about it. What to choose, what to choose.

Then, Ding! A marvelous idea strikes.

"I’ve always imagined the nickname Sungie would sound cute coming from you," he sings, dreadful anticipation vividly apparent. He’s having a blast.

Wrinkling your nose, your glare radiates nothing but red-hot animosity, patience walking a thin wire. Han loves every bit of it.

"What the hell are you talking abou—"

"You might wanna say it, that beetle is getting closer," He says, voice laced with devilish intent.

Unfortunately for you, life and death were the only ways to get through this. Naturally, you leaned closer to choosing death for the sake of your reputation, but life had to be an asshole and shatter your ego into a billion tiny pieces last minute.

"FUCK- Sungie- kill it now!" You shout, releasing a very frustrated scream you’re certain could’ve topped Regina George’s.

Beneficial? She called this beneficial?

"I knew it’d be cute,” He snickered, instantly covering the god-forbidden demon with his empty cup and grinning up at you with crescent moon eyes as if he hadn’t brutally manipulated your terror seconds before.

You hate him. Hate him hate him hate him.

God. You wanted to cry.

. ..

Jisung would’ve loved to see your reaction if he caused a ruckus so early, but he was being nice this morning, carefully traveling around the kitchen island to fill his thermos with water when he dropped the metal bottle and the loudest, most blaring screech echoed around the entire house.

Truthfully, it was an accident. Truthfully.

You wouldn’t believe him.

Not even a minute later, low and behold, the adorable grumpiness identified as you peeked out from a blanket burrito, noticeably seething from your bedroom door.

"It’s five in the morning you lunatic, what is so important that you’re leaving at five in the morning," you grumble, instinctively pulling your blanket tighter when he approached.

"You really want me to stay with you that badly, honey? All you had to do was ask~" You tiredly push away his kissy face leering close, clad in pajamas and not quite awake enough to put up with him.

He twirls the keys, stopping to dramatically blow you a kiss in the process.

"'M going on a run, don’t miss me too much,” Jisung waved, and with the click of the door closing behind him, he’s gone to who knows where.

His cockiness makes you roll your eyes as you begin whipping up some form of breakfast to satiate your stomachs complaints, knowing your chances of going back to bed were slim to nothing due to being woken up so mercilessly.

If he dropped what sounded to be a iron pipe to wake you up, thinking about what his next "alarm clock" would be gives you goosebumps. Yep. No going back to sleep for you.

Except the minute hand ticks by, and what used to be a short run turns into an uneasy feeling by the time the third hour rolls around.

Three hours and twenty minutes.. Three hours and thirty minutes.. Three hours and forty minutes..

Screw it, you’ll go looking for him.

"Jisung? Jisung, where are you!" Your shouting has to have echoed around the entirety of Gangwon at this point, stopping to catch your breath on the side of the never ending dirt pathway. Miles and miles you scour, gradually reaching a bench covered by a willow tree where you slump down, enjoying the swift moment of rest.

What you hadn’t expected enjoying your much needed break was to find the exact boy you were searching for, lying fast asleep in the shade.

Covering your mouth to mute your gasp, a string of mumbled curses fall off your tongue as you get up from your spot and hesitantly approach the sleeping beauty.

Oh so slowly you sit down in the grass, paying attention not to make too much noise from the crunchy leaves.

"It’s not fair that you’re pretty even when napping," You mutter, infatuated by his mesmerizing looks that seem to glow in the minimal light emerald leaves reflect.

That is, before his eyelashes dust and you noisily rush to your feet, flushing pink at an alarming pace. The prince-like beings' cheeks puff, blinking rapidly to clear the sleepy haze.

"Huh? Y/n, when did you get here? You’re red; are you okay—"

"Yeah. C’mon." You speed-walked ahead despite Jisung calling out for you to slow down, terrified he’d seen you or, worse, heard the things you’d said.

He stalls to pick up something and you experimentally glance back, noting a green color visible through the plastic bag he held. What’s inside is only recognizable by the clinking of glass colliding together.

"Did.. did you- is that…" Words pour without making sense, squinting accusingly at the bit of a label you can see reading "Chum Churum Soju."

Your bewilderment keeps you planted to the ground, scrolling through your mental list of possibilities explaining why it couldn’t be alcohol. And suddenly you genuinely question if Han’s delinquency appeared outside of school as well.

Surely, because the smirk painting his features when he caught sight of your shocked expression left no room to wonder.

"Won't it be fun?" He shakes the bag. "We’re irresponsible highschoolers anyways, and the grandma working there said it has the best flavor this time of year."

So that’s how he managed to get by without an ID. Of course.

Problem? One, you’re underage. Two, who knows if someone found out. Three, you had no goddamn clue what you were like drunk, and the last thing you wanted to happen was a detrimental mistake under the influence with Jisung. Everything about this foreshadowed disaster, how he couldn’t figure that part out was beyond you.

Or maybe he wanted disaster to strike, maybe it was all a part of his plan, the cherry on top to ruin your life permanently.

Yeah, you’re not letting even a drop enter your system.

"Aigoo— don’t cry," Han whines, obviously a bit tipsy, though compared to you who’s almost completely wasted (rocking back and forth while spilling nonsense to nobody in particular), he’s basically sober.

It was an accident, you swear. You couldn’t help it, he called you a coward and dared you to a drinking contest that put your precious pride on the line—leading into this shithole of a situation in the first place. Backing down meant ultimate defeat, and knowing you had at least three more weeks stuck here narrowed down the last option available.

"'M not crying asshat.." You sob, hand feebly hitting the table in a pitiful show of aggression. Your brain is fuzzy and everything feels so weird and dizzying. Then you feel it.

Oh no. Word vomit. You can’t stop it.

"I just don’t think it’s fair, Jisung," You blurt, Han blinking tiredly upon hearing his name. "You have such a pretty face for such an awful person."

You’re babbling now, blurily viewing multiple emotions unfold prior to opening his mouth. You guess in some way he heard what you said below the willow tree, even as a drunk confession.

"You.. You think I have a pretty face?" Though seconds after he finishes speaking you lean across the table to press your index against his lips, the boy’s eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"Shut uppp, I don’t wanna hear your voice, ever." Interrupting the question, you wobble to your feet, grip fumbling on the chilled door knob before blindly plowing into the room and collapsing on your mattress.

Meanwhile, Jisung attempts to stop you. Keyword: attempts. He does, almost there, and then the carpet trips him somehow (his own way of pretending he didn’t slip over nothing) and he’s kissing the floor, exhaustion immediately numbing his entire alcohol-ridden body till he succumbs to oh so welcoming sleep.

Gasping awake, a rampaging headache greets his skull, unevenly carrying himself to grab a barely there cup of water that’ll hopefully ease some tension. He assumes this must be a hangover, and man, it’s more of a pain than he thought.

The Jisung back in Seoul wouldn’t be able to fathom getting drunk at noon before ending up here, a place that was certainly not home. Well, the Jisung back in Seoul wouldn’t be able to fathom getting drunk at noon along with waking up on the floor, being stuck in this place with you, and an entire collection of things he couldn't name off the top of his head.

Being completely honest, he’s amazed he hadn’t slept the rest of the day and night after earlier, filled with crude small talk and stolen alcohol sipped from styrofoam cups. And you calling him pretty, that too.

Said styrofoam cups scatter in disarray all over the floor, evidence of how drunk you’d both got that painted quite an impressively messy picture.

There’s not much to see staring through the fogged window; Gangwon’s relentless humidity leading to a nearly impossible view of the lake outside. Though he doesn’t mind. In fact, knowing that no one can find him here, you and him, isn’t too bad. No teachers looming over him, nor were his parents reprimanding him for grades slightly below perfect.

Although in the midst of his headspace, a floorboard creaks exceptionally loud and you stand, rocking back and forth on your heels and gazing at him through half-lidded eyes he can’t quite read. What he distinctly spotted, however, was the smile casually gracing your lips. A dreamy, loopy smile that told him something wasn’t exactly normal.

"Sungie.."

Han cranes to hear what you say, bewildered by the nickname you swore to never utter. Were you still drunk? You had to be, or you wouldn’t have approached him with open arms like that to bury your head into his chest where he feared you’d hear his hammering heartbeat—frozen stiff as a board with your arms wrapped around him.

"Are.. are you still drunk?" Han timidly asks and you absentmindedly groan before your movement stops, the boy doing a double take in case you managed to pass out buried in his clothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he pulled you off of him, body curled in disgust due to the saliva staining his t-shirt where your face had been.

Yep. You had fully passed out while hugging him.

"Wow, how much did you have to drink again?" Laughing to himself, he struggles guiding you to the couch to sit down without stumbling over each other.

Propping a pillow behind your head, the boy hesitates, feeling a sort of déjà vu he can’t make sense of. Though quickly enough, he shakes off the phenomenon and begins raising up, but a softness threading through his fingers stops him in his tracks for a second time, and he has to blink multiple times to register what was happening.

Although appearing passed out still, your hand found its way to reach for his, holding onto his pinky so lightly, so carefully. The boy's heart pounded, collecting all of his self control to refrain from making decisions he'd regret.

"Stop. We can’t." Sentence trembling on his tongue, he steadily pulled away, nearly wincing when you shifted slightly.

You were only dreaming, you never would have done this if you were awake, he reminded himself, glancing back to where you lie once more as if you’d magically spring up and announce your undying love for him. Did he want that to happen? No, he’s just joking, just a joke. Right.

It hurts, he can’t name why.

He prays you don’t remember.

"Please tell me why it’s so freaking cold in the middle of July," You mumble to nobody, spotting your cell mate’s cabin mate’s backside crouched over the fire pit. What he busied himself doing you couldn't guess, unpredictably unpredictable.

Curiously, you shuffle to the window, observing the charcoal he added before flicking the lighter and setting the lumber ablaze, flames licking at the dark sky above. Starting at age ten you learned curiosity killed the cat, but never did you think it killed humans as well. That was, prior to Jisung noticing you watching him. Astonishingly, however, he motioned for you to come out, refraining from the average jerk behavior on this occasion.

Unpredictably unpredictable, like you said.

"Have you given up yet? Hating me, I mean." Appearing beside the lawn chair you had cozied into, he tossed a few additional branches into the brewing flames, dropping down to warm his hands. Apparently, you don’t remember. Only Jisung would realize that.

"You talk about it like it’s a choice." Stuffing your hands inside your coat pockets, you avoid him per routine. Confidence comes easier that way, especially with him—someone you’re weak for.

You’d never admit that.

"It’s not?"

Your tongue pokes at the flesh of your cheek, ticked.

"You don’t seem to understand the hell I go through every day I come to school. Han Jisung, you give me every reason to hate you," You state coldly, fists clenching and unclenching where he can’t see.

This argument is fearful. You both glare at anything but each other, turning away from mere face-to-face contact in fear you’d apologize. Jisung is always first to look, first to try understanding.

Those times are never noticed by you, someone who doesn’t give in.

"But we're not in school anymore; we’re free in a cabin in the middle of Gangwon. So could you at least pretend to not hate me?" He looks. Looks at each minuscule twitch of your mouth, the soft cupid's bow perfectly carving your lips. Han scolds himself. He gets lost in you sometimes, a habit. Times that he’s glad you avoid him, unlike now, desperately needing you to see.

"Pretend? Did you say pretend? You’re fucking insane thinking I can just pretend nothing has happened. You think I can walk away from all this like it’s nothing, because I'm nice and sweet and do anything for anybody? You’re heartless, Jisung."

The boy hastily clutched onto the sleeve of your puffer jacket as you got up, fanning flames revealing your broken expression.

You shakily inhale, tears unconsciously slipping down your cheeks. This is the last thing you wanted, to end up crying in front of him. But here you are, walls crumbling down.

"Stop trying to make us right when we’ll lead to a bad ending."

You tremble and his grip loosens automatically, lingering there.

"Look at me."

"Let me go."

"Look at me, please."

You foolishly look like he did. Look and note how deep the pools of dusky caramel dancing in his eyes are. Look and pinpoint the mole residing on the right side of his face, effortlessly close to pretty pink lips. Look and admire the sweet curve of his eyes complimented by the shape of his brows, furrowed with sadness that match the tone you’d heard that day you found him on the swing.

You curse your hiccuping, delving into the softness of his palm while his thumb delicately swipes your tears. He’s warm. Han Jisung, though you never thought you’d say it, is warm to the touch.

"We’re not leading to a bad ending, Y/n. You want a bad ending because of what I’ve done, so you can feel like your anger is justified. This is my fault, and I’ll take responsibility, so give me a chance to fix it and quit burdening yourself because of my mistakes, okay?" He tips his head, tenderly caressing the delicate tear-stained skin beneath your lower lashes.

Today, tonight, everything you ever believed about Han Jisung was proven wrong.

His perception and his kindness, which you didn’t even know existed, forged through the surface and tore your heart in halves. He’d revealed himself to you and in actuality, he always had; you just closed your eyes.

But today, tonight, he didn’t let you close them; he held them open to see him, see his apology, see his acceptance—and it gave you no choice but to comply, to nod your head and trust him, something you’d never done before.

You take a seat again, yet the stifling company isn't stifling anymore, and a sensation akin to relief floods the brisk air surrounding Gangwon cabin. He brings you tissues and you say thank you, it’s new. He smiles and you smile back, it’s new as well.

You’ve never liked things you were unfamiliar with, but this is okay.

For once, being around Han Jisung feels okay.

"..Did it hurt?"

He blinked, fixating you with a confused stare.

"When I punched you, did it hurt?"

Slowly, his mouth stretched into a grin, chuckling. That’s new too, you think you like it the most so far.

"Like a bitch."

. ..

You’d say your relationship evened out, not finding an incessant need to respond with something even nastier. It was weird at first, coexisting and all. Weird being so friendly, despite the annoying banter paying occasional visits.

Better, better this way.

The moon rose up high in the sky only to settle, and you’d periodically climb to the top of the house in a way Jisung had taught you, hand placed on your back reassuringly as you climbed the cob-web infested windowsill up to the roof. You’d also say that gesture didn’t affect you. You lied.

Nonetheless, the rooftop "dates" helped you appreciate how bright and brilliant the twinkling balls of fire were after being pulled out here where artificial light is infinitely scarce compared to Seoul’s amusement park of electricity.

"That," Jisung points, finger drawing an imaginary line connecting specific stars lighting up the sky. "Is the constellation Cygnus, it’s Greek for swan. When I studied in Malaysia there was a great hill to stargaze, that’s where I learned about them."

You nod, savoring the otherworldly view paired with his voice.

Comfort. He’s comfortable telling you about himself. Your heart feels happy.

"I always thought Lyra and Cygnus would make a good couple," he says, beats of a silence passing before you burst into a fit of giggles, the boy raising up to lean on his elbow appearing quite offended.

A constellation? He thinks constellations would make good couples?

Han Jisung is full of surprises.

"Yah I’m serious! They’d be perfect together! It’d be romantic and sweet and— you’re mean." He whined playfully, suppressing his own laughter noticing how hard you were trying not to laugh.

Quietness, silence if you must, replaces the once child-like conversation. Not the I’m-counting-the-seconds-to-your-funeral type silence that occurred daily prior to your campfire crying/make-up session, but a calm silence.

"Could you imagine what the kids back home would say?" He breathes his words airily whilst admiring your eyes staring up at the sky—twinkling. To him, those eyes hold the galaxy in them. Eyes that weren’t introduced to him until recently, on a night he’s certain he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

"We’re not home, we’re free, like you said." You don’t glance at him and ironically, he can’t stop gazing at you. You move and he watches, enraptured by this. Whatever this may be.

Ah, he’s staring again. Lost in you again.

Abruptly, your dramatic sputtering successfully pulled his head out of the clouds, splatters of water began to dapple your once dry bodies. But as you prepare to ease down and go inside, he lightly grabs your wrist with a sweet look, convincing you, if only for a few minutes, to stay.

"You’re crazy, Jisung." You laugh, expression breaking into the most breathtaking beam Han had ever seen. If someone were to take a picture of Jisung right now, he’s certain his irises would be heart-shaped. And in that moment he swore he’d never fallen in love harder before. Falling in love he’d write about on pages of a journal, photograph with his polaroid back home. Falling in love soaked with rain on the roof of a cabin, stargazing without clocks to tell you what time it is.

You’re drenched, he’s soaked. He wants to kiss you, you want to kiss him. Then you remember you’re still learning this entire "normal people" concept and he’s supposed to tread carefully when it comes to you, but everything fits so well and your lips sort of connect and you can’t let go.

He wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

Your hands in his hair, his cupping your face, head tilted to gain easier access while leaning against his side. Endlessly close.

Han is like spring, like daffodils blooming their hidden colors deep in a field. You might get frustrated searching, but once you find and pluck the flower from long stalks of grass, its petals will shine eternally.

Rain is pouring, pelting his already messy overalls and leaving strands of ash blond stuck to his forehead, lips pulled so high up he can’t think straight.

He smiles and you do too and things feel right, righter than they had in a long time.

Young kids sure act stupid when you leave them alone for too long.

He wouldn’t take it back for the world.

.. .

"Ready to go?" Referring to the doorway, he waited for you by the door, brown hues carrying emotion you chose not to acknowledge.

"Yeah, um, get home safe and text me sometime, whenever you’re not busy, I mean." He nods a response, stupidly happy face earning your harmless scowl in the process of helping push your luggage through the door.

Different. Remarkably different from how things were before. Two months ago you would’ve hated this, hated anything to do with him.

Different, it was different now. Better, better this way, like during stargazing.

He turned left and you turned right, opposite directions towards where your parents stood, towards the cars that would travel far from here. You’d drive, drive and drive back to Seoul carrying new feelings and new conversation, new love.

And from a peculiar standpoint, Gangwon Cabin was your start to finish with Han Jisung. Starting with a punch to the face and ending in a way you could never have imagined that one summer in high school.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @ren0325 @lix-ables @babrieeee @azurez @soobnny @weird-bookworm @q1sng @telesvng @ren0325 @hello-stranger24

[strawberrymilk-sunshine]

Don't ever scare me like that again...

Ahhhhh I'm having Floyd angst thoughts and need everyone to see them

Warning(s): mentions of drowning, reader almost dies, general angst (with a happy ending though :) )

Of course dating Floyd Leech was hard sometimes. He has little-to-no self control, is prone to mood swings, and will straight-up not do things if he views them as boring.

But despite that, you love him. He's wonderful, even if he does sometimes ask rather... morbid... questions about humans.

He gave you the best hugs when you were sad. It was very comforting. He was the first person you'd go to when you were panicking.

One night, as the two of you were cuddling in bed, Floyd asked you something you didn't expect.

"Hey, Shrimpy... what does it feel like to drown...?"

"Huh? What brought this on all of the sudden?" You asked.

"I'm just wondering." Floyd responded. "Y'know, since I'm a merman, I can never know what that feels like... so... what does it feel like?"

"Well, I've never experienced it before, but from what I've heard it's... scary. And painful, too." You explain. "At first you try to hold your breath... and when that fails, the water rushes into your nose and mouth as you try to breathe... there's a really bad burning feeling in your chest when the water enters your lungs. Besides that, though, it's kinda peaceful." You explained.

"So... you're in pain when drowning...?"

"Yeah, apparently it hurts a lot."

Floyd suddenly tightened his grip on you. As if something was threatening to take you away from him.

"Can I tell you something...?" He whispered. "I... drowned a human once. Accidentally. When I was a child, waaaaaaay before I knew that humans can't breathe underwater." He sighed. "Life under the sea is rough. The child mortality rate is waaaaay higher than it is on land. Jade and I had a buncha other siblings when we were hatched, but by the time we were four, it was only us two left. Not to mention that the two of us weren't even given proper names until we were six years old." Floyd explained to you, pausing for a moment before continuing. "I was a bit desperate for any kind of interaction as a child... and one day, I met a human... and one day, I wanted to show him the world under the sea. Mom was horrified when she saw me dragging a dead human around with me, haha... that night we had land meat for dinner, and I never really pieced together what it was until recently."

"You... killed someone...?" You asked, unsettled.

"Please don't hate me, Shrimpy..." He buried his face in your chest. "I don't want you to hate me. The truth is, I'm scared of you disappearing. I know I was just a stupid kid who didn't know humans could drown, but... what if something happens to you? What if it slips my mind that humans can't breathe water, and you're... gone...? Forever...?"

"Aw, you really care about me, huh?" You sweetly asked. His grip on you tightened again, not enough to hurt, but noticably tighter than before. "Well don't worry. I'll never disappear, I promise."

"I'll never disappear, I promise."

You can't just break your promise like this! You can't, it's just not fair!

He could feel your grip on his shoulders loosening as he swam as fast as he possibly could towards the shore.

"Floyd... I-I'm cold..." You managed to say.

He didn't know what to say to you. What can he do to comfort you in what might be your last moments? Say everything will be fine? Just lie to you?

"Just hang on, ok? I'll get you to shore, and I'll get a nice warm blanket for you, ok Shrimpy~?"

"A-a-alright..." He could feel you trembling and shivering from how cold the water was to you. Your breathing was slowing.

When he reached the shore, you were clearly not doing well.

"Wake up, Shrimpy!" He demanded. "We're here, we made our way to the shore, ok?? So wake up! Don't you dare freeze, (Y/N)! It's not even that cold! S-so you can't freeze, you can't die!!"

You reached up, and placed your hand on his slimy wet face.

"I... l-love you..."

That's the last thing you remember from that night.

You wake up to the harsh lights and undeniable smell of a hospital.

"You're awake!"

Floyd kissed you on the lips the moment he realized you were alive.

"I'm so glad you're ok, Shrimpy..." He squeezed you tightly, but of course making sure he didn't hurt you. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, got it...?"

"Got it..." You laughed to yourself under your breath.

"Don't laugh. I was seriously worried for you, Shrimpy...!" He told you. "You could've died, you know that? You were really close to freezing to death."

"Yeah, I know." You returned his hug, your arms still slightly trembling.

The two of you sat there in silence, jusr sort of holding onto each other.

"Hey, Floyd?"

"Hm?"

"...thanks for saving me." You whispered to him.

Floyd didn't respond, but you could tell he was content with how this all turned out.

[itsonlytext]

Until We Fall Asleep · you both let go (one)

Sherlock wasn't letting go, he had been pushed away. The man John was looking at was nothing more than a shadow.

this story is set right after 'the lying detective'. sherlock recovers. he and john finally sort themselves out. so here's a deal for you in which i hope you find fair:

i give you: angst, fluff (mainly rosie fluff i love rosie), characters steering through the currents of grief and guilt, a whole load of complicated feelings, and then a happy ending (woo!) in about ten chapters.

in return for: a kitkat maybe

sounds like a bargain but i never have been good at haggling so i wouldn't know. read a bit of the first chapter down below if you're miraculously still interested.

HISTORY OF BIPOLAR & obsessive compulsive disorder, schizophrenia and progressive aphasia; that’s what Mycroft told him.

It was a horrific lot and yet wasn’t all that much of a surprise, he could have said that his wretched and mangled family line consisted of brutal mental illnesses from the ripe age of seven, for he’d seen it, experienced it - Uncle Rudy was a prime example of it all (a Christmas visit never was anything but a blur of bitter beer and sloppy arguments).

But it was in a living room, Mycroft’s living room, where he was being warned about the risks of their ancestors’ genes - of all the damage that their lineage of traits could potentially inflict upon Mummy and Daddy and how they meticulously planned on avoiding any undignified deaths in the family.

He never lingered in Mycroft’s house, let alone his living room if he could help it.

The closeness of it all made it seem much more personal, he thought unnervingly. Felt more like confrontation. Therapy. He barely made an effort to listen because he knew that Mycroft wasn’t really telling him about their parents at all (if he was, they’d have been in the cold confines of Diogenes instead, pouring over classified files and cold-hearted assessments). No, this was a more gentle approach, much more gentle than Mycroft was usually inclined to offer; he was being warned .

This is what will happen to you, too, Sherlock. You’re getting older. It’s inevitable.

Get out of my head, Mycroft. It’s bad enough that I currently have to deal with you in person, too.

Then start listening to me in the present. Besides, in here, I am you. You are arguing with yourself . I see one of our family illnesses has already passed unto you.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

Mycroft leaned back into his armchair and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Sherlock pursed his lips diffidently, careful not to strain his chest as he turned to face the fire in an attempt to numb his skin with the roaring heat. There was a residual tingling of pain that sparked through his aching limbs. He wasn’t supposed to unnecessarily be out of 221B yet, the doctor had told him that just yesterday with a brow so stern that Sherlock actually considered heeding it for a moment.

Apparently Mycroft’s living room was an exception to this.

“I know what you’re doing,” he muttered with a groan. He shifted uncomfortably in the armchair. Why must Mycroft insist on having such awful furniture? To shoo away visitors? Ensure that they don’t stay for too long? It was most definitely working, Sherlock thought, as a dull, aching pain radiated down his spine. (Though perhaps he may be biased.) Regardless, he thought, Mycroft needed to renovate immediately and if he wasn’t the one to do it, it was imminent that he needed to fire whoever it was that flicked through a dated catalogue and picked out the ugliest and nauseating brown furniture set.

“Doing what?” his brother tilted his head, running a hand along his textured armrest with a smile. A smile that Sherlock had over the years deduced meant, I am silently patronising you but, if you continue with this foolishness, I will have you hanged. Unfortunately, Sherlock had never actively witnessed Mycroft reach that state with anyone yet, and he wasn’t quite in the mood to today.

“You’re not really telling me about our parents at all,” he said plainly. “Are you.”

“Aren’t I?”

He inhaled. “Three weeks ago, I overdosed and was beaten within an inch of my life which then resulted in double renal failure, malnourishment, a fractured rib, and being forced into a geriatric prison three times a week. Do not test me, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.. It is–”

“Besides, I already know all of this. Why are you telling me now?”

There was a pause. Mycroft shifted again - he clearly despised the armchair. So why did he keep it then? Ah, Sherlock realised. Must have been inherited from some great, ugly aunt who had participated in the French colonisation somehow. Familial consequences. Fitting deduction for the topic at hand, he thought. Mycroft  crossed one leg over the other with a strange, uneasy twist in his face. He seemed to be putting in a great deal of effort to conceal his.. anger? Concern? (Mycroft’s full of that.) Hurt? Sherlock couldn’t tell.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me you’re sick. Are you?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Pulled his lips into a thin smile. “No.”

“Shame.”

His older brother sighed annoyedly, his face twisting back into the {anger/concern/hurt} within seconds. He hesitated, bringing his hands together in some sort of protective shield. “We would like you to get tested.”

It was silent.

read the rest of and get more details about 'until we fall asleep - chapter one' on ao3 here.

ouuuuuu suspense i am so evil

in my evil and destructive era wya

tags: @nathan-no@helloliriels@dragonnan@strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked@meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes @gaypiningshit @johnlocky @a-victorian-girl @astudyinlaura @discordantwords @calaisreno let me know if you'd like to be added to this list.

[frozenjokes]

worst scarian ever. the redscape is cute though

Mumbo was acting.. strangely.

Now, Grian’s sense of perception was definitely warped, he was quite aware of that; he knew he had something to prove. After the mortifying ordeal of Mumbo finding out about the first murder attempt- which- how in the HELL did he not know?? Is violent stabbing and screaming a friendly mermaid gesture?? Whatever, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Actually, yes it did matter, because mortifying was not nearly a strong enough word to even scratch the surface of how agonizing the following conversation was. Grian would truly rather peel off all his skin and dive into a pool of salt than give Mumbo the play by play (through Etho) of how exactly that had gone down, as if Mumbo wasn’t THERE, as if Mumbo hadn’t BIT HIM- If Mumbo didn’t think Grian was trying to kill him, then WHY-

It. Didn’t. Matter. But yes, Grian did feel as if he had a little something to make up for, so he’d spent an awful lot of time at the cove for the past couple days, today being number three. Scar had something come up at work, so it was really the perfect opportunity for Grian to be here alone with Mumbo. Well. And Etho, who had decided to hang around apparently, but really Etho had so little of a presence that Grian tended to forget he was there unless Mumbo asked for translation help, but those moments were few and far between given that Grian and Mumbo weren’t really talking.. Hell, Etho talked to Mumbo more than Grian did, but in fairness there was no language barrier and they kind of seemed to be getting along and Etho never tried to kill Mumbo so that probably helped make things less awkward.

Grian was fishing. He always fished, it wasn’t weird for him and Mumbo to not interact for hours at a time. It was normal. Normal. Felt bad though. Didn’t feel good at all! Especially when Mumbo was making some sort of shrine for Scar.

At first, Grian had thought it was some sort of act of spite. He’d come around the day after the disaster to see a small but certainly noticeable pile of colorful and/or oddly shaped pebbles on the beach; anyone would have been curious! But when Grian had gone to check it out, Mumbo had burst onto the shore (which was TERRIFYING by the way, Mumbo was massive and fucking fast, like getting rushed by an alligator), not hissing, but looking defensive regardless, fins and hair on end, you know. Enough to get Grian to shuffle back, that was for sure.

“Gift. Scar.” That’s what he’d said. Mumbo had said it quite a few times actually, as if Grian wouldn’t have understood, and you know, all of the everything combined, Grian was feeling a little bit insecure. He backed off, of course, Mumbo obviously didn’t want him to mess with it. He gave Mumbo some space, considered leaving altogether, though, since he was already kicking himself for not bringing some sort of peace offering, he decided to stay and fish and hopefully catch something good to (waste) give away instead of sell. And that was a good decision! Since fishing here pretty much sucked, Grian got to sit with his casted lines for a good while, relax a bit, come to realize Mumbo hadn’t deviated from his normal behavior (staring, menacingly), and take a deep breath, knowing this was probably fine.

Mumbo was more active without a broken tail, but he seemed to be enjoying Grian’s company, at least as much as usual. At Grian’s first catch, he had a question, pulling Etho out of a bush to have it answered and subsequently scaring the shit out of Grian- he hadn’t even realized Etho was there- it’s not like he said hello! But Mumbo had wanted to know what Grian did with the fish if he wasn’t going to eat them, which was a fair question, and Grian couldn’t help his amusement wondering how long Mumbo had been curious; curious enough to drag a very whiny Etho from his hidey hole, clearly.

Grian had told him, but Etho abandoned ship once Mumbo started asking questions about money and unemployment and capitalism, and they had swam off together, Grian left unable to give his gift.

Though, in between bothering Etho and staring unblinkingly at Grian, Mumbo was also going back and forth from the shore, depositing new rocks in his pile. He seemed to spend hours just sifting through pebbles near the water line, which he didn’t need to break eye contact with Grian to do by the way (scary), finding something satisfactory, then dropping it with the others. Grian had thought it might be a passive aggressive act- after all, Mumbo didn’t stop staring at him most of the time he was looking through rocks, but this idea was cemented for him when he stopped fishing to ask Etho, and without missing a beat,

“Yeah, he probably hates you.”

Grian had not felt very good about himself on the drive home that day.

But that didn’t exactly feel right. It felt right when Grian was hating himself on the drive home, and it felt right when Grian spent the next few hours self righteously angry despite it all. How was he supposed to know mermaids were sentient! Technically he was just doing his job! Fishing! And the medical bills from that bite injury had torn through his savings- insurance was a bitch right now- he really needed to find a job, and it’d have to be minimum wage if he couldn’t get his act together yesterday, but-

And it had felt right when Grian was laying in bed, wide awake in a spiral of doom, wondering where the fuck his life had taken him, what he was even doing, the time he was wasting, the people he was hurting. The type of soul sucking avalanche of self-loathing and despair, the kind that knocks you face flat, that waits until you’re on your hands and knees to slam back down, shattering against your head, your back, your knees, everything you need to have a hope of standing. The hopeless helplessness that makes you angry, that gets you into trouble, that has you saying things you don’t mean, throwing fists you can’t force yourself to want to stop.

(The kind of feeling that beats you down, spurs you on to make mistakes, gets you arrested, and if things couldn’t possibly get more miserable, your good friend has to pick you up, pay your bail, and bring you home. Stay the night when he doesn’t trust you to be alone, but you can’t tell him how it all went wrong, because you’re still upset about a boy, and that’s pathetic, isn’t it? It’s all you think about when you’re drunk, you worthless load of horseshit. You just have to talk to him, but you can’t, you can’t do it, because whatever you have now, it’s less terrifying than what could be, even if every snide word stings like hooks under your skin. “You have a lot going on,” Jimmy says, and maybe it’s true, but you’re still upset about a boy.)

But the next day, when Grian was feeling normal, Pissy Petty Mumbo definitely didn’t seem correct. For one, Mumbo was so confident? He wasn’t acting angry at all, and with everything that had happened between them, it was becoming increasingly clear that misunderstandings were going to happen and holding grudges was more than useless. Mumbo seemed content, if not a little awkward, but despite his protectiveness of the pebble pile, Grian just didn’t get the sense there was anything spiteful about it.

Etho, on the other hand, was a lot more.. edgy. Grian wasn’t really sure he’d ever seen Etho be relaxed, but this was different, his fins flattening at the mere mention of of the rocks, glancing left, generally acting quite twitchy- Grian wasn’t sure what was up with him, but he was pretty sure Etho wouldn’t be so affected if Mumbo was just being petty to a guy he didn’t even particularly like (which Grian also felt normal about).

On day two, there were fish on the pile. Mumbo had seemed really disappointed when Scar hadn’t shown up by Grian’s side (Grian had a lot to feel normal about lately), and even tried asked where he was, which, took a bit of back and forth for Grian to understand, but he hoped ‘Money,’ a new word Mumbo had learned yesterday, would be answer enough.

It proved not to be when Mumbo went to Etho, asking him why Grian sold Scar and what that meant, and Etho cackled loud enough to startle the birds above from their perches. After Grian pestered Etho for a translation, Mumbo swam off to who knows where, and Etho escaped from Grian in a similar fashion, though instead of going deep, he simply waited until Grian started fishing, emerging afterwards to steal fish off Mumbo’s pile.

“I don’t think those are for you,” Grian called, but Etho didn’t look back, only giving Grian a short flick of his tail.

“They’ll go to waste if they just sit in the sun all day. Mumbo won’t notice.” Given that Etho took and subsequently tore into every fish on the mound, Grian doubted that.

“The pile looks like it’s doubled overnight. Did Mumbo even sleep? What’s with this, anyway?”

Etho’s fins lowered, twitching as he cast Grian a cautious glance, “A petty gesture, probably.”

“He’s real committed, isn’t he? This feels like overkill.”

“This is perfectly normal behavior.”

“Didn’t you say if mermaids don’t care for each other they just don’t interact anymore? Mumbo isn’t avoiding me. Why would he make some sort of grand gesture just to get back at me?”

“Maybe you and Scar have infected him with whatever virus makes you all nasty and hormonal, don’t think too hard about it.”

“Hormonal?”

Etho was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that.”

“Does it not? Why do mermaids do that then,” Grian gestured vaguely to the pile, as well as the fish Etho was devouring off of it, “Never seen that before. Feels excessive, doesn’t it? Mumbo already gave us his gift, didn’t he? What’s the deal? Do you know? Does it have something to do with what you said when-“

“I was very clear and it has nothing to do with that.” Etho spoke so fast that Grian could hardly process one word after the other, but he didn’t get the chance when Mumbo suddenly breached the surface, furiously whistling something sharper than Grian had ever heard it. Etho shot up, then immediately retreated (unsuccessfully).

Grian watched the two of them flail around in the water for a while, just to make sure there was no blood, then returned to his fishing, mildly amused.. and then a little disturbed. What exactly had Etho said to Mumbo while trying to communicate Scar’s message? It wasn’t meant to mean anything, that was just Scar being Scar, verbal affirmations and all that. Even if Etho had successfully delivered the message, did Mumbo understand? Though, given how weird Etho was acting, he probably didn’t say exactly what he had intended. Why didn’t he just clear the air? Was he embarrassed or something? That didn’t feel like a good enough excuse.

Someone should do something about this. Before it went too far, of course. Poor Mumbo was being completely misled! (Don’tthinkoftheimplicationsDon’tthinkoftheimplicationsDon’tthinkoftheimplications)

Though, given that Mumbo was protective of his gift pile and Etho had already ticked him off today, Grian wasn’t trying to get chased around as well. He would simply wait until tomorrow to tell Mumbo that Scar didn’t love him.

And so here he was, tomorrow! Standing right next to Mumbo’s pile (which had grown threefold since yesterday) with the mermaid’s rapt attention, though, maybe those flicking fins were more a sign of irritation.

“Grian, no.” Hm. Definitely irritation. But Mumbo clearly didn’t feel the need to come out of the water, so Grian felt secure for now.

“Mumbo, Scar doesn’t love you.”

Mumbo stared, blankly.

“Scar doesn’t love you.”

“Gift, Scar.”

“No, he doesn’t love you. Stop trying to court him.”

“Stop,” Mumbo repeated the word, mulling it over like it was something he recognized, “Stop Grian.”

“I’m not after your rock pile, Mumbo! Scar doesn’t love you! You can not mermaid date him because he’s not mermaid interested! He’s actually just flat out not interested, but we don’t have to get into that. Well. Actually, that might not even be true, but I’m not getting into it right now because I know Etho is hiding around here somewhere.” Grian paused. “Etho! Get out here and tell Mumbo that Scar doesn’t love him!”

No response. Not that Grian expected one. God, why was Etho so weird and stubborn!

“Grian,” Mumbo got his attention, but whistled something when Grian turned his head before continuing in English, “Annoying.”

Grian gaped. Surely Mumbo didn’t know what that meant. Well. Maybe. His extremely pleased looking body language said otherwise. “Who taught you that!?” Well Grian knew, didn’t he. “ETHO! If you don’t tell Mumbo right now that Scar doesn’t love him I swear-“

“I tried,” Etho said meekly and Grian hardly heard him, though given the other was so quiet, Grian still wasn’t sure where he was hiding, “No use, I’ll only make it worse.”

“What did you tell him!?”

“I told him Scar likes cool rocks..”

“Why did you tell him that!?”

“He asked!”

Mumbo couldn’t have looked more delighted if he tried, twirling in little circles where he stood in the water, probably assuming Grian and Etho were arguing about the newly learned word, though, Grian would be hard pressed to be mad when Mumbo was making trills like that. God, despite how terrifying Mumbo was 90% of the time, that particular noise was so damn cute, like it wasn’t coming from a ten foot long sea monster.

Grian huffed, definitive, “I’m calling Scar. Actually, no I’m not. You’re calling Scar. Etho, call Scar.”

Grian heard rustling in the brush, though still no sign of Etho. “I am not doing that. No way.”

“Yes you are!”

“I’m not.”

“You- where are you?”

“Do you want to get bit, Grian?”

“Do you want to pay my hospital bills?”

“I feel no remorse, and you can’t prove it was me.”

Grian groaned, making sure he was extra loud and extra obnoxious so Etho would know he was not happy, however, this didn’t seem to convince Etho to pick up his phone. “Fine then! I’ll do it,” he huffed shortly. Etho did not grace him with a response. This sucked. Etho sucked. Why did the only mermaid-human half hybrid on the planet have to be such- so- difficult! Grian didn’t want to call Scar! But he would. Someone had to clear this up! Eugh, service out here was so spotty.

Grian fiddled with his phone until he landed on Scar’s number, having to call a couple times to even get ahold of Scar; turns out when someone says they’re busy with a work issue, they’re actually busy-

“Hello there, G! What’s up?” Scar sounded a bit out of breath, but there was no urging to his tone, no rushing Grian into saying what he needed to say so Scar could get back to work. He was always like that, Scar was. Always making time for anyone that approached him, friend or otherwise. There were no hints of bitterness to his voice today either; maybe Scar was too winded to remember his dead set promise to be unbearable. Well, Grian knew he was busy, so he wasn’t going to waste time with formalities.

“Scar, Mumbo thinks you’re in love with him and’s trying to court you with a massive pile of colorful rocks and various other gifts. Etho must have mistranslated something the other day, or Mumbo got confused, I don’t know, but Etho refuses to clear this up! If you have a spare hour after work- I don’t know, you’re just better at talking to Mumbo than I am. You might be able to fix this.”

“Oh! How- Where did he get that from?” Scar laughed, not sounding nearly as distressed as Grian felt, “Wow! That’s crazy! That’s really cool! You think he’s interested?”

“I- Scar- I mean, yes, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to mess around with his feelings if you’re not.”

“I might be! You said he’s getting me a bunch of cool rocks? I love cool rocks! I bet there’s all sorts of crazy ones down deeper in the lake that we can’t reach, don’t you think so? Do you have a picture? Oh, actually, don’t send me a picture, I want to be surprised! I don’t know when I’ll make it over, but it might be late, so don’t wait for me!”

Grian gaped at his phone, unable to speak as Scar rambled on, only interrupting when he regained his tongue, “Wh- What do you mean you might be interested?”

“Uh, Grian,” Scar laughed like it was obvious, in that tone that Grian couldn’t stand, “That’s like, the coolest thing in the world. You’re telling me you wouldn’t be interested? One, Mumbo is awesome! I love Mumbo! Two, you wouldn’t want to kiss a mermaid? Seriously? I don’t think so!”

“Scar!” Scar seemed to think Grian’s grand exclamation was quite funny, and Grian’s head could only spin while Scar laughed. “Scar! We- Mumbo- How do we even know he has lips! Do they- I doubt they even do kissing, and with the mustache- his hair is sharp! There’s no way that would be at all pleasant!”

“Grian, Grian, you’re thinking too literally.”

“You said you wanted to kiss Mumbo!”

“I did not say that. However, I would if I was at least 80% sure he wouldn’t eat my face. With teeth, I mean. Fierce, isn’t he? Are you really telling me you’ve never fantasized about kissing a mermaid, come on, G. You’re a whole fisherman! Hmm.. I wonder how this would work? A relationship, I mean. I guess I could ask Etho. What do you think a mermaid date is like?”

“What- What does being a fisherman have anything to do with-“

“Oh,” Scar interrupted him, almost dreamy sounding, “The pulling on your line to mess with you, stealing your catch, getting you all worked up until you make the mistake of marching right into the water to give him a piece of your mind! He catches you off guard then, rears up, traps you right where you stand, talking to you all smug, he might even threaten to eat you, but you’re witty, you can talk yourself out of this, and also you’re both pretty into this-“

“Okay, enough of that, enough-“

“His hands are in your hair, yanking your head back and exposing your neck, and you’re scared, but at the same time, he’s looking at you and you’re looking back and suddenly being so helpless in his arms is feeling a lot more heated-“

“SCAR!”

Scar laughed, full and infuriatingly delightful, only stopping once he caught his breath, sighing deeply, “I love when you get like this, silly thing. Alright, I do have to skedaddle now, I’ll see you later?”

Grian’s mouth dried, physically unable to respond.

“Grian,” Scar hummed, voice dropping to something more serious, while simultaneously carrying no weight at all, “I’ll see you later?”

“I- Sure. Maybe,” was all he could manage. ‘Probably not’ was left unsaid.

“Great! Bye bye then!” Scar’s cheerful lilt returned, wasting no time before he hung up, leaving Grian in a silence that couldn’t be anything else but completely baffled. Fucking. Uagh. Scar. Unbelievable. Unbelievable! Grian was not seeing him later, at the beach or anywhere else. Insufferable!

***

Mumbo wasn’t sure what the humans were doing on the shore, but he didn’t like it. It was late, much later than they usually lingered, but Mumbo had been so excited that Scar had stopped by, wondering if Grian had asked him to carve out a little time for Mumbo in the later day. Etho had said something cryptic that made this seem like the case, but then again, with Etho you could never be sure.

It was great at the start! Scar had been delighted to see him and impossibly overjoyed by all the nice rocks Mumbo had gathered. Mumbo wasn’t exactly sure what qualified as a ‘cool rock’ to a human, so he’d brought together all sorts of shapes and colors and sizes, and studied Scar intensely as the human sifted through the collection, noticing how he favored the smaller ones, as well as the kinds that shimmered or were a particularly vibrant color. But all in all, Mumbo was extremely pleased when Scar was preoccupied until dusk, though he seemed mostly uninterested in the fish Mumbo had caught for him, which was a shame. Etho had said as much after stealing time and time again, but someone had to feed the human! The two of them hardly ate anything at all, especially Grian, he was so small.. Speaking of Etho actually, Mumbo had offered to hunt for them as well, but every time they outright refused, preferring to take from Scar’s offering instead, the bastard.

Mumbo had actually asked Etho for advice, needling for information on what human relationships were like, but they were supremely unhelpful, saying all sorts of contradictory things in regards to how Scar felt about Mumbo. And maybe that wasn’t their fault; the more Mumbo spoke with Etho, the more the two of them came across concepts Etho struggled to translate, but sometimes it was difficult to parse between Etho just being cryptic on purpose or a message being distorted by translation issues. Etho sure didn't clarify!

When the sun was setting and the two humans started to act oddly on the shore, Etho had abandoned ship altogether, retreating for the first time from his spot on land into deeper water. Mumbo had tried to ask them what the humans were doing; were they fighting-? This looked different than a normal human fight.. Etho had only mentioned something about a fight for dominance and the two humans being abnormal and privacy, those two have no concept of privacy, so really, Mumbo was left with more questions than answers. But Etho clearly hadn’t thought the humans needed to be stopped, Etho just didn’t want to be present, though Mumbo didn’t consider them to be the responsible type.. He figured he should at least supervise.

The humans kind of looked like they were tearing at each other’s faces..? That couldn’t be right, there was no blood, but they were quite focused on the task at hand, which in Mumbo’s opinion, looked anything but friendly. He supposed if this was some sort of contest between the two of them, it wasn’t meant to be friendly at all, but the idea conflicted with the way they were touching each other, light and gentle and- oh, no, nevermind, they were not being gentle anymore. If humans only had better defenses, Grian certainly wouldn’t be able to pull on Scar’s hair like that! Truly, humans were evolutionarily challenged.

“Mumbo’s watching,” Mumbo perked up when Grian said his name, though neither of them were paying him any mind regardless.

“Does that bother you?” Scar asked, and he looked pleased? Maybe? Was he winning? Grian certainly didn’t look happy.

“Yes. And I’m cold, so let’s take this elsewhere. Your car.”

“Why not your car?” Scar said, seemingly just to be contrary, and Grian snorted.

“If we’re doing anything, it will be in your car. That’s that.”

“God, you’re bossy.”

“And you’re needy.”

“Maybe..” Scar trailed off, pressing his forehead to Grian’s in a tender looking gesture before standing up and sending the other human toppling into the sand, “I’ll be waiting, then! Have fun hauling all your shit to your car. Fishing good today?”

“No.” Grian huffed, brushing away sand.

“It never is,” Scar mused, looking content as he made toward his comparatively much smaller bag. Mumbo was pleased to see them stop fighting, and even more pleased that Scar accepted so many of the rocks Mumbo found, taking them with him as he walked into the brush. But Scar did turn around before he left, smiling at Mumbo before giving a simple wave of his hand. Mumbo returned the gesture, though it felt odd on his limbs. But regardless of any awkwardness, he saw joy in Scar’s expression, which lit something similar in Mumbo’s own heart. How easy it was to please Scar, wasn’t it. How good it felt regardless. Maybe Mumbo could say concretely that he liked Scar; perhaps relationships were meant to be shared with those who made your fins flutter. Hopefully Grian didn’t kill Scar in a show of dominance or whatever before Mumbo could explore this further.

[lemon-natalia]

Nona the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 13

given how John seems to have co-opted a lot of Christian imagery i have a feeling ‘Our Lady of the Passion’ would not be incredibly pleased to find out where her name comes from originally

they’re going to go visit a mysterious ‘her’ in a hospital room - perhaps it’s Gideon’s body, given that her corpse was in BoE possession last we saw it in As Yet Unsent. speaking of, given that Gideon apparently looks a lot like Wake with the hair and all (bar her eyes), i wonder if anyone in BoE is aware of/suspects at least half of her parentage at all

oh wow its Captain Deuteros!! i feel bad for Judith, i keep forgetting she exists. and she's being very badly affected by the RB, although to be fair there aren’t a lot of necromancers around to compare her behaviour to right now 

and Judith’s got some impressively opaque and confusing ranting going on right now. i feel like i’m in Harrow’s weird mindscape with the messages from Wake all over again 

oh Judith does not seem to be doing well at all, even bar the RB inducing madness, she’s clearly got a lot of grief going on 

‘the grey water’ what Judith is saying here is very interesting, this really makes me think of all the salt water references connected to Alecto. and there’s also a repetition of the colour green for some reason

‘It was all kind of weird, in my opinion’ me and you both Nona

even though Corona has joined BoE, she does still have some level of loyalty to Ianthe, even though they’re on two opposing sides of a war (which Ianthe is possibly not actually aware of?? unclear). although that is also assuming that Corona’s joining of BoE is genuine and not some kind of front 

it does kind of feel like there is some level of coercion from BoE to Corona? but even though there was obvious tension between them at the meeting, Corona’s actually remarkably high up & involved in BoE already for someone who is also royalty in the Houses 

and Corona’s talking about wanting Cam and Pal to forgive her for … something mysterious? something to do with how BoE betrayed them? there’s an awful lot being said under the surface here 

‘The Captain didn’t say anything when you came into the room. She only screamed’ well shit. that’s certainly something, and probably to do with how Nona has some kind of connection to the RB

[still-a-morosexual-help]

Part 2 of this (diavolo & lucifer being very gay in canon) because I ran out of space in the first one

1. The entire Devildom thinks Diavolo & Lucifer are dating/in love;

2. It just sounds cute okay

3. Diavolo apparently notices when Lucifer's pupil dilates by 2mm 😐

4. Diavolo probably has a 500pg book about how great Lucifer is

5. Remember how much Diavolo gushed about Lucifer's butler uniform, took a lot of pictures of it etc? Apparently he saved that uniform or had a new one made, then took the first chance he saw

6. Cottagecore?

7. Diavolo finds Lucifer sneezing cute😬

8. Diavolo prioritises Lucifer over everything, even his own kingdom & the way Simeon keeps poking at it & Diavolo keep avoiding directly answering him + Simeon later teases Lucifer about Diavolo liking him in S3👀

9. The snow sculpture which looked incredibly realistic and had absolutely nothing to do with Christmas

Can't have more screenshots so here's some important conversation word for word:

10. Diavolo, after meeting Lucifer for the first time, Lucifer tries his best to act like an ass to make Diavolo hate him but Diavolo still treats him kindly. Lucifer despises Diavolo at the moment because he's a Demon who according to Lucifer & the Celestial Realm can't even have a "well-ordered society". Diavolo somehow in a single night manages to form a crack in Lucifer's prejudices & make him doubt his Father who he holds in very high esteem. Diavolo also uses chess to prove his point about creating peace and a balance between the three worlds. This is the conversation that follows:

Lucifer (an angel): I see. ...Diavolo. Your strategy truly is fascinating. Do you think we could get together sometime? I'd like to learn more about it.

Diavolo: Are you talking about chess now? Or the nature of our relationship?

Lucifer: Heh...

^The ambiguity Lucifer uses when talking gives that old queer feeling of: Our relationship (whatever it may be) is very forbidden and anyone catching wind of it will be bad so for plausible deniability I'm going to tie the true meaning of this conversation to something more innocuous

11. Conversation they have after this^ flashback/particular conversation:

Diavolo: ...That's when you finally held out your hand to me, and we shook. The way you radiated charm as you smiled at me. I still remember it like it was yesterday. When I saw the look on your face I was convinced. You were fair and righteous, someone who would be able to lend an ear to anyone, to listen to what they had to say. Someone who had a truly beautiful spirit.

In other words Diavolo has the worst case of rose-tinted glasses, specially considering Lucifer was choking Mammon & trying to rip his arm of while Diavolo said all this.

12. Diavolo (in demon form): Back when he was an angel, he was so divine, so awe-inspiring that it was intimidating. But now he's attractive in a different sort of way. He draws your eye toward him and then doesn't let go. He truly is worthy of the moniker "Morning Star"! Even steeped in the darkness of the Devildom, he shines just as brilliantly as ever!

Lucifer (in demon form), blushing: ...Diavolo, could we change the subject, please?

Lucifer (in demon form): I've told you that it embarrasses me when you shower me with such excessive praise in public.

Diavolo (in demon form): Afterall you're already beautiful enough as it is!

a.) This is Gomez Addams level of devoted jfc

b ) Diavolo was straight up reciting poetry at one point

c.)......What's with "in public"....so it's fine in private?

d.) Diavolo gushing about Lucifer has the same energy as Mammon gushing about MC

e.) What do I have to do for someone to be this in to me?

13. Diavolo has multiple copies of Lucifer in a swimsuit saved in different places (not the swimsuit he wears around MC & his brothers btw but the one he wears around Diavolo which is actually just trunks and & an open hoodie/shirt)

14. Diavolo might actually have a whole file of rare pictures of Lucifer? He's got the butler ones, the swimsuit ones and the candid glasses one that he threatened some poor guy to delete after saving a copy for himself

15. The ship in a bottle that Diavolo gave Lucifer, that he loves so much he keeps it in a place where he can always see it

16. Lucifer: No, that scream was far too vile to have come from Diavolo.

....so you know what he sounds like when he screams and you think it sounds good...?🤨

17. Diavolo gives a flustered Lucifer a piggyback ride around RAD

[cryscendo]

Kurtbastian + a kiss to prove you don’t have feelings for them 👀

(except we all know it's a lie there's totally feelings there)

i saw this prompt and my mind starting thinking about the potential of dalton era kurtbastian……. i MAY have gotten a little carried away with it, but i hope you love it <3

Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Sebastian Smythe (+ platonic Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson)

Word Count: 1599

Rating: T

if you would like to send me a prompt, check out the prompt list here!

fic can be read under the cut <3

“God, he’s the worst, isn’t he?” Kurt muttered in mild irritation. He and Blaine were sitting in one of Dalton’s many study rooms, going over their… English homework? Or was it History? Well, considering they were discussing The Grapes of Wrath, he supposed it could be either. But it didn’t matter, because he could hardly focus on the assignment in front of him anyway.

“Oh, c’mon Kurt, he’s not that bad,” Blaine argued and it was in one of those moments that Kurt greatly questioned his friend’s sanity.

“Are you kidding? We’re talking about the same guy here, right?”

Blaine laughed, nodding. “Yes, we’re both talking about Sebastian,” he replied and even the guy’s name alone put Kurt on edge. Kurt’s transfer to Dalton had been generally pretty breezy. For the most part, the guys here were kind and accepting. Apparently Dalton Academy was serious about their ‘zero tolerance policy’.

But then there was Sebastian, who stood to be an outlier in terms of Kurt maintaining his peace. He was insufferable, to say the least. And it’s made so much worse given that he has chosen to target Kurt specifically. Kurt wasn’t sure if it was because he was the new kid or what, but Sebastian seemed to go out of his way to irritate Kurt. It wasn’t like he felt threatened by Sebastian, — this was hardly a Dave Karofsky situation — but he could most definitely attest that Sebastian was a consistent annoyance.

“I just don’t get how you can tolerate him,” Kurt went on, and Blaine rested his chin in his hand, listening patiently to Kurt’s rant with an amused grin. “Ever since I transferred here, he’s been antagonizing me. Like doesn’t he have anything better to do than exist like a gnat in my ear?”

Kurt could see it clear as day in Blaine’s poorly suppressed grin; he had something that he clearly wanted to say, but just wasn’t. Well, Kurt wasn’t really all too fond of being out of the loop, so to speak.

Kurt gave Blaine a look of suspicion. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Blaine replied, attempting to disguise his expression by taking a sip of his coffee.

Kurt wasn’t buying it, though. “No, what’s so funny? Is there some joke I’m not in on?”

Blaine paused for a moment, contemplating speaking up again. Finally, though, he sets his coffee cup back down on the table and holds his hands out in front of himself defensively. As if Kurt is some kind of threat. “Okay, if I say this, you can’t bite my head off about it. That fair?”

Well, Kurt didn’t exactly love the implications of that. But he liked being in the dark about things even less, so with some reservations, he released a sigh and shrugged. “Fine. What’s such a big deal that you don’t wanna say it? I promise I’ll be nice.”

“Well, I just noticed that any time you like a guy, you start talking about him a lot. I mean, that’s how you were with that Sam guy from your old school.” Kurt felt heat rise to his cheeks at Blaine’s accusation. He wanted to protest because he didn’t really think he had talked about Sam that much, but he decided to keep his mouth shut as Blaine continued. “And, y’know, you do talk about Sebastian an awful lot so could it be possible that you maybe have a bit of a… crush on him?”

That… truly stunned Kurt. What was Blaine thinking? Sure, he talked about Sebastian a lot but it wasn’t like that. His friend has really, truly gone off the deep end. “Are you serious?”

“Hey, I’m just thinking aloud here! I could be completely wrong, I get that. But you have to admit that he does stay on your mind a lot.”

“I can’t believe you would even suggest something like that,” Kurt responded in disbelief. “I have not, nor would I ever, have a crush on him.”

“A crush oh who, Kurt?” A voice that Kurt is unfortunately painfully familiar with cut in. Kurt and Blaine both turned towards the doorway to find Sebastian standing there, snarky expression and all. Then, with complete and utter audacity, he came in and sat down in one of the empty seats at Kurt and Blaine’s table.

“Nobody,” Kurt said immediately. He really did not need Sebastian to be here right now. Of all the examples of the worst possible timing, this has got to be a top contender in the ranking. “Nobody worth mentioning, anyway.”

“Oh c’mon, Hummel, I don’t believe that. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Don’t you have a line of grown men on Facebook offering to be your sugar daddy for the low, low price of one sad handjob a week and no less than five weekly texts offering them ‘the boyfriend experience’? You must be far too busy to be spending your time here with us.”

“Ah, unfortunately, they couldn’t meet my rates,” Sebastian countered Kurt’s insult easily, letting the words roll off him without care. “But hey, no worries, I gave them your information. I know you could use the money. DaddyDom69 seemed particularly interested.”

“What are you doing here, Sebastian?” Kurt questioned, unimpressed.

“Well, I was here to visit with my old pal, Blaine, but then I heard that the great Kurt Hummel has a crush and realized I had to get more details on that! So, who is he?”

It was then that Kurt looked over at Blaine, shooting him a look that was a mixture of apprehension and frustration. Because this was Blaine’s fault. This entire discussion wouldn’t be happening if Blaine hadn’t insinuated that Kurt had a crush.

Apparently, the look that they shared was enough to tip Sebastian off. Either that, or he’s just such a narcissist that he believed that everything revolved around him. Regardless, he lets out a mocking gasp, bringing his hand to his chest as if pretending to be shocked. “Oh my, is it me? Kurt, I’m flattered, you could’ve just said that!”

“Never, not even in your wildest dreams, would I ever have a crush on you. Trust and believe.” Kurt spoke in such a way that he hoped left no room for argument. However, it seems like with Sebastian, there’s always room for argument.

“Yeah? Then prove it,” Sebastian challenged.

“How would I even do that?”

Sebastian’s smirk turned conspiratorial. “Kiss me. If it’s not a crush then nothing would happen, right?”

Immediately, Kurt could sense Blaine’s tension beside him. Blaine knew about Kurt’s history of being kissed in ways that nobody else did. It was sweet that he cared so much, but this was pretty much his fault to begin with.

“You must be joking,” Kurt said after some time.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Well he looked like a joke, that’s for sure. But that also wasn’t the question. And sure, he could end this. He could just say that he’s done entertaining this, but wouldn’t that be just the same as admitting guilt?

“Sure, fine, let’s do it.”

“Uh, Kurt,” Blaine began to cut in, “you don’t have to do that. Don’t feel pressured.”

“I don’t.” Well, he does a little bit. But he’s not going to say that. “Like Sebastian said, if it’s not a crush, it’s not like anything would happen anyway.” He scooted his chair closer to Sebastian and briefly caught a glimpse of a guilty looking Blaine out of the corner of his eye. Blaine didn’t need to feel guilty, at the end of the day, this was Kurt’s choice. “So… let’s do it.”

Sebastian readjusted in his chair. “I’m ready when you are, Hummel.”

So the ball was in his court. That’s fine. He could do this. It’s just Sebastian. No big deal. He’s never willingly kissed another man before, but it was fine.

Kurt leaned in, and before he could possibly talk himself out of it, he pressed his mouth to Sebastian’s. He didn’t know what he was doing really, but Sebastian didn’t seem to complain. In fact, he all but leaned into the kiss, carding a hand through Kurt’s hair in an act of unusual tenderness from the boy. It lingered for a bit longer than anticipated and—

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Kurt pulled away from Sebastian, trying not to come off as alarmed. He stood abruptly, and had two pairs of eyes locked on him. Wide, concerned ones from Blaine, and inquisitive, searching ones from Sebastian. God, Kurt hoped he didn’t find whatever he was looking for.

He knew his face must be hot from nerves. That, and the fact that he just found the kiss with Sebastian to be… pleasant? That was not supposed to happen.

Kurt cleared his throat anxiously. “See. Nothing. Just like I said.” He haphazardly picked up his belongings as he continued. “Well, I’d hate to leave so soon, but it’s getting late and my dad’s going to be expecting me for dinner. Bye.”

And with that, he rushed out of the room, not willing to be under the scrutiny of his best friend and his rival any longer.

It wasn’t until later that night when he received a few texts. One of them made his heart skip a beat. The one from Blaine was expected. It was an apology and it read Kurt, I am so sorry that happened. I shouldn’t have said anything, please don’t be mad at me.

But the other text; that one, Kurt could never have anticipated.

From Sebastian: Hey, Kurt. You wouldn’t happen to be doing anything this weekend, are you?

[antianakin]

@assaultmech71 I'm putting this in a separate post because it IS a little off topic and that particular post is becoming fairly long and unwieldy as it is.

Part of my dislike of Luxsoka (and Lux in general) stems from my dislike of the episode he's introduced in. Heroes on Both Sides is supposed to show us that there's genuinely good people with legitimate grievances on the Separatist side and that Ahsoka is like... being kind-of ignorant by assuming all of the Separatists are evil assholes. However this is done SO SO BADLY the entire way through. I've talked about Mina Bonteri's whole sob story about her husband on some sort of base that got attacked by the clones and how unbelievable it is that the clones apparently just attacked an innocent base full of innocent people or something. There's NO WAY that Mina's husband wasn't involved in something either war-related or just sketchy and evil.

Lux on the other hand is sitting there being paralleled with Ahsoka where they're supposed to recognize that their lack of knowledge of the other side has caused them to be a little prejudiced towards each other. But while Lux has never actually met any Jedi and is making his entire opinion based on a lot of propaganda, Ahsoka HAS met Separatists, they just come in the form of military generals usually. Lux I think specifies "any Separatists who AREN'T military leaders" which is pretty unfair because those military personnel are STILL military leaders and effectively Ahsoka's counterpoint within the Separatist organization. Ahsoka has seen these people who claim to fight on behalf of the Separatist government do some absolutely heinous shit to actual innocent civilians (she's there for the incident with the Lurmens, the Blue Shadow Virus, Ryloth, and the Holocron Heist arc at this point). Ahsoka has genuine evidence to believe that the Separatists are, at best, ignorant of what's being done in their name, and at worst complicit in these actions being perpetrated by their military. Ahsoka isn't naive or ignorant the way Lux is, it's not a fair comparison. So their entire connection here is based on what amounts to a lie.

Lux also literally gives Ahsoka a once over when she bandies his own words back at him and asks him if she looks evil, which is juvenile and gross. And yes, he IS juvenile and Ahsoka does call him out on it a little, but still. It's not exactly a GREAT first impression here.

So basically a large part of the reason I hate him is because his entire introduction is just really really stupid and he represents this radically unfair perspective on the Jedi at this point just to make a point that isn't even ENTIRELY true.

Then we come to their second meeting where the whole episode ends with them saying they were a "good team" except that Lux fucks up approximately 20 different times and Ahsoka has to keep saving his ass and doing all the work. And Lux also betrays her like 4-5 separate times, he slaps her ass and acts like a misogynist to keep up an act with DEATH WATCH, apparently doesn't know or just doesn't care that Death Watch are literal terrorists, and is just overall completely awful and useless the whole time. They're not a good team, he's just a massive fuck up with delusions of grandeur who Ahsoka has to keep bailing out of danger over and over again.

He's better by their third meeting during the Onderon arc, but by then whatever feelings he may have had for Ahsoka seem to have faded and he's got a new girlfriend he's focused on and Ahsoka ultimately lets him go. But she's also JEALOUS of Steela for a while and it's impossible to figure out what she's even jealous OF. Like babygirl, I'm so frustrated with you right now, but you can STILL do better than Lux Bonteri. At least she decides to just move on by the end and we never see him again.

So yeah, Lux is a terrible person, a terrible love interest for Ahsoka, and Luxsoka is a fuck awful ship and I'm just so glad it got abandoned before it actually went anywhere and never came back.

[redflagshipwriter]

Reassembly 4

ch1 ch2 ch3

Kon and Peter: clown to clown communication commences.

New York had some massive craft stores. Peter had to direct Kon to one, which was fair but nerve wracking since he didn't actually know for sure it existed here. 

Luckily it did. 

Kon’s stepdad must have been loaded, or maybe Kon didn’t understand finances the same way that Peter did. He loaded up a cart with everything that Peter pointed out. He got two pairs of sewing scissors, which was a wild decision Peter could barely wrap his mind around. Was Kon planning to cut with both hands at one time, or for buddy crafting sessions? Those things were like fifty dollars a pop!

Some consultation with the staff helped them get metal decorative bits and three different sturdy mesh fabrics, one of which had glitter on it. They were all black. Peter eyed Kon for that, kinda impressed by the commitment to an aesthetic. Kon was like a little kid in the store, rolling down aisles on the back of the cart and tossing everything in without even checking prices. Peter found himself caught up in the euphoria and talking waaaay too much shit about projects he wanted to do, despite knowing he definitely couldn’t afford it. He really shouldn’t have. But Kon actually seemed interested when Peter talked about his design for a spidersuit- in a subtle way! And Kon just wheeled back to the big section and started trying to talk him around on the merits of red and blue tinted leather instead of athletic fabric.

It was funny, so he went along with it. And then Kon tipped the entire rolls into the cart and went in search of thread to match.

Peter stared at the back of his head for a long moment processing. Was he for real?

“Hey, I didn’t mean today,” Peter said, scrubbing a hand through his hair and trying to sound casual. “I don’t have any cash with me. I mean, I’ve got some, but not like that much-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Kon interrupted. His voice was a little weird. Almost short. Like he really didn’t want to talk about money. “I have that covered. Luther pays for whatever I want as long as I keep in contact.”

“...Okay, thank you,” Peter said, because that seemed like a great minefield to stay out of. He mentally reclassified Luther to an estranged and possibly financially abusive Dad, not a Stepdad. “Hey, if we’re sewing leather, I don’t think we can do that by hand. You want to look at the machines?”

Two industrial sewing machines and a serger later, Peter desperately and unsucessfully tried to talk Kon down from buying his very own bedazzler. He slouched behind Kon in the checkout line, wondering if this was just the kind of mistake a man had to make for himself. No way was he actually going to get enough use to make it worthwhile, right? Right?

The total made Peter feel kind of green. Kon paid for it all with a swipe and not so much as a blink. Then he bundled up all the bags and hefted them with no apparent effort. 

“Hey, let me help,” Peter protested, strategically snagging a couple. They had two sewing machines for jiminy cricket’s sake, that had to be heavy for a normal guy. 

A moment too late, he realized that Kon was a big strong guy who lifted a lot of weights. He’d probably deliberately taken the heavy bags because he had good reason to think he was stronger than Peter. Aw, fiddlesticks. Should he pretend this was heavy? Had he just given too much away? Kon seemed like a nice guy but Peter really didn’t know-

Kon just let the bags go with a bemused smile and a, “Thanks, dude.” He appeared to have not a single thought about the situation as he started walking to the door. 

Good. He didn’t know that these were like, heavy. It must be nice to be a big strong guy.

Ah, well. Peter trotted after him.

His day had gone off the rails. The library was open now for sure. He had planned to be there by now, refreshing his website design skills. Maybe he’d gotten an email back about a possible job. He really should check-

But it was only one day at the absolute most, Peter justified to himself. And it was really really nice to feel normal again and do something impulsive but harmless with another teenager.

They wound up in an unsettlingly clean, empty apartment. Kon carelessly threw their loot on a pure white rug and walked in without kicking his shoes off. He pulled off his leather jacket and threw it at the couch without looking in a show of coordination that Peter could respect.

Peter shucked his tennis shoes carefully and lined them up against the wall before he ventured in. Kon was already opening up the fridge and pulling out cans. He threw one to Peter. 

Peter caught it without a thought and then blinked at it. Carbonated juice? Weird, but probably good. He said, “Thanks, man,” as he cracked it open. He took a sip and made a face. It was good, but very weird. He looked at it again and noticed that it was also somehow a yogurt drink. Fruit carbonated yogurt was a concept that he had not encountered before. 

‘Don’t be a dork. It’s probably a rich person thing.’

Kon perked up like a dog hearing a car approach. “I have to-” He gave Peter a distracted smile. “I’ll be right back. I have to do something. Could you uh, entertain yourself? Maybe set up our stuff?” He was already edging to the door.

Peter shrugged, confused at the sudden turnaround but amiable. “Okay, I’ll wait,” he agreed easily. 

Kon was gone so fast that Peter almost thought there was something supernatural about it. He shut the door, bemused.

And he did what he said. He cut off tags and threw away packaging. He plugged in the machines and set them up, one on the desk and one on the table. He mused that the apartment was furnished like a fancy hotel room. He sat down on the sofa to wait. 

It took a while. He couldn’t track the time without turning on the evil janitor phone, but Peter was pretty sure that at least like, ten minutes passed. He shifted uncomfortably. Was this weird? 

Kon was awfully casual about leaving someone he’d just met in his space. Peter didn’t mind, exactly. He knew that Kon wasn’t dangerous to him because his spider sense hadn’t gone off at all. But Kon didn’t know that! Didn’t he, like, know about stranger danger? Objectively, Peter could be a pretty dangerous person. Not by temperament, but still…

He sat there for a while and worried about Kon’s self preservation skills. After that, he ended up just getting started on his spidersuit.

Frankly, the leather idea was… Well. He had to rethink some of his concepts, that was for sure. It was easy to make a spandex suit. The hardest part of that was dealing with the endless teasing from Mr. Stark. But leather didn’t have the same stretchiness to it. So he sketched out a few ideas, tossing out numbers and proportions and trying to figure out how much he needed around each joint to accommodate his spidery range of motion. 

And then he remembered that he uh, was doing this with another person present. 

The jumpsuit thing? It made sense when he was wearing Stark tech. There was a big benefit to having no seams. But there was a reason that his first ever suit had actually been in two pieces: that was how normal people dressed. 

‘I can’t exactly tell Kon that I’m a misplaced superhero.’ Peter choked down a laugh and borrowed the leather jacket off of the couch. It would work as a pattern.

He traced the main pieces onto the scrap material they’d gotten. It was a real pain in the ass to do without cutting the clothes apart, but he had a pretty good understanding of how a 3 dimensional object was made from a bent 2 dimensional object and figured out something that he was mostly confident was accurate enough.

Peter put his hands on his hips and looked at his tracing victoriously. Then he frowned. He looked at the jacket again.

Aww, man. He sadly started drawing another line, a couple inches inside the first one.

Kon was big, okay? Kon was a big strong jacked guy! Peter was pretty jacked for his size, too, shoulders way bigger than his waist. But he was uh, just built smaller. The shape would work for Peter, but the size was going to be way off if he just replicated the pattern. He bit his lip as he worked.

“What are you doing?”

Peter jumped four feet straight up in the air and flipped onto the couch. He landed in a spidery crouch on the balls of his feet with both hands splayed down for balance. 

He stared at Kon with wide eyes. Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh fuck.

Kon laughed. “Sorry, did I startle you?” He draped himself over the couch backwards, head pointing towards the floor and knees over the backrest. The smell of smoke wafted over.

…smoke? What had he been doing?

“Yeah, sorry,” Peter said slowly. 

‘Did he- he didn’t notice that wasn’t normal? Or maybe that’s something normal humans can do here. I mean, Kon can fly!’

Holy shit, he was in the clear.

“I was going to cut myself a jacket pattern,” Peter explained. He got back off his crouch on the sofa cushion. He tried to be as normal as possible about it. Wow, he was killing this. “I used yours to make a pattern, hope that’s okay. I didn’t mark it up or anything.”

“It’s cool,” Kon assured. He tilted his jaw upwards so that he was watching Peter upside down. “Sorry about how long I was gone. I got caught up helping my neighbor’s cat.”

“...With a fire?” Peter asked before he’d thought about it.

Kon frowned at him. 

“I mean, you smell a little smoky,” Peter demurred. 

The other guy laughed nervously. “Yeah, my neighbor is a bad cook.”

Peter nodded and accepted that. He knew all about bad cooks. “Do you cook?” he wondered. “I’m not great, honestly, but I can do a few things.”

Kon perked up again- and wow, this guy was like the world’s largest, most handsome golden retriever sometimes. “Cooking? I ordered everything in- can you show me?” His eyes sparkled like he had never before considered that he could cook for himself. 

Wow. Peter smiled, but he silently judged Kon’s parents. Why didn’t he have any practical life skills? “Yeah, of course. What do you have for groceries? Your parents won’t mind if we cook?” He started cutting out his pattern pieces in the test fabric. He had 5 main ones- two sleeves, a back panel, and two front pieces. Shit, he’d need to get a zipper, wouldn’t he?

Kon snorted and let his head fall back and hit the bottom of the sofa. “I live alone,” he said. “No one is going to even notice.”

“...How old are you?” Peter asked.

“Two,” Kon lied blithely. 

Peter made an aahhhh of comprehension. Fair enough. “I would have guessed like, 17,” he said.

“Is that how old you are?” 

“...Yes,” Peter lied, remembering that’s what his ID said now. He finished cutting out the back panel and put it aside.

Kon flipped himself up and back onto his feet. “Cool. I’m like, 16,” he said. “Basically.”

…That was a weird thing to say, but Peter noted it. Maybe he meant he was 15 going on 16. That would actually make them the same age.

“Are you from here?” Peter decided to move the conversation into more neutral territory. “I am, I’m from Queens.”

“Baller,” Kon said. “Nah, I’m from Hawaii. I recently moved to the mainland. I still have a place back there, but I have some things to do over here and they’re always kinda last minute, you know?” He scrunched up his face. “Flying over everytime someone has an errand gets kinda tedious.”

“That’s true,” Peter agreed. 

Kon seemed to brighten. “Plus, my friends are here.”

“That makes a big difference.” Peter smiled at him, genuinely happy for the dude. Maybe he had a shit time at his high school in Hawaii. Maybe he got bullied for being too big and handsome and friendly. “Hey, did you think about how you want to add the mesh to your jacket? It is this jacket you wanna alter, right?”

“I want to replace the back panel,” Kon said instantly. “Like, the seams and structure are the leather, and then the back is see through. Wouldn’t that look so fucking cool?”

“It would look cool,” Peter had to admit. It was the kind of look he wouldn’t go for, personally, but he might if he had traps like Kon. Still, he had to check. “You don’t use this for protection, right?”

Kon stared at him blankly.

“Like, for riding a motorcycle or something?” Peter prodded. Wow, he felt awkward. This was dumb. Kon wasn’t actually a 2 year old with no life experience. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“No, but why would that matter?” Kon asked slowly.

Peter felt his shoulders ride up, like he could turtle away from the conversation “Uhhh, well the mesh isn’t going to be as strong as the leather. Obviously. So if you fell, you might get more scratched up. That’s all.” 

God, why did he talk? Why did he ever talk?

“Ohh,” Kon said. Then he huffed out a laugh. “Nah, that’s not an issue for me. I’m tougher than that. Also, I don’t ride a bike.”

“You don’t do anything dangerous, then,” Peter confirmed with some relief. “Cool. So, I was thinking that we should leave a bit of the leather to attach the mesh to. Gimme? Thanks.” He took the jacket. He barely noticed that Kon was giving him a really weird look. “So, if it was my project, I would cut out a rectangle…. Well, it curves by the neck, but still. I would cut out the leather, leaving like an inch beside each seam. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.” Kon took the jacket back and picked up one of the sets of scissors. He played with the scissors for a moment, opening and closing them at high speed. “Vroom vroom, let’s go.” He flung himself onto the floor, back pressed to the sofa, and started cutting.

…Peter took a moment to hope that he hadn’t given advice that would ruin Kon’s jacket. He went back to his project until Kon said, “I’m done. What’s next?”

“Which mesh do you want?” Peter asked. Then he sucked in a break. “Ah, fuck.” 

“What?” Kon was standing so fast that Peter didn’t actually see him move. He looked tense and ready for action.

Peter didn’t notice. He was pressing his thumb and forefinger on either side of his nose and wondering why he was such a dummy all the time. “We need to wash the fabric first,” he said apologetically. “Obviously not the leather. But the mesh needs to be washed. Where’s your washer?”

He gathered up the fabric and followed Kon’s instructions. Kon trailed behind, obviously curious. “Why do we need to wash it?” he asked.

“Uh, it’s never been washed before, right?” Peter explained. He shoved the fabric inside and started looking for detergent. “Usually fabric shrinks when you wash it for the first time. So if you cut it first, sew it in place, and then eventually wash it, it’ll shrink and like, warp, and ruin your stuff.” He grimaced at the memory. Kon had bought the supplies like the cost was nothing, but Peter remembered vividly the crushing disappointment and pain of accidentally ruining something he’d made. Fabric wasn’t expensive, but it was expensive when you didn’t have money.

‘I just lucked into this,’ Peter thought, and felt guilty. ‘I’m going to be able to have a spidersuit just because I happened to meet Kon and he was nice enough to spend money on me. Am I taking advantage of him?’

He put the detergent into the load and started the washer. Man… He needed to make sure he was a really good friend to Kon. Because that’s what this actually was, wasn’t it? Kon had immediately started hanging out with him and bought him things because he was lonely. He was trying to get a friend. It was kinda like Mr. Stark, except less pathetic, because Kon wasn’t a super rich superhero with awesome super friends who could just tell them he needed help. Kon was a teenager who lived on his own and had an estranged Dad and maybe like, no one else in his life. Did he even go to school? Was whatever was going on with him even legal?

“...Do you want to get started on lunch?” Peter suggested. He was hungry, but that wasn’t why he asked. They had time to kill and he wasn’t going to make Kon watch him work on the spidersuit. 

“Yeah! What do you want to make?” Kon followed him back to the kitchen and watched with a sort of pleasant curiosity as Peter checked the fridge and cupboards. Literally the only things sitting out on his countertop were a bottle of dish soap and a sponge. That was it.

The fridge had canned drinks and take out leftovers in it. The cupboards had two cups, one of which was storage for a fork, spoon, knife, and pair of chopsticks. 

Peter gave Kon a strained smile and bent to check the lower cupboards.

They were empty and eerily clean. There weren’t even any cleaners in there, so that was wild. “Kon,” he started, and then didn’t know where to go with it. “Do you own a pot or pan?”

“No, why?” Kon cocked his head at him. He honestly seemed just curious and not a bit embarrassed. “Should I?”

“...We need one to cook in,” Peter said. And a few other things. Did– did Kon not own any plates, either? 

‘I guess he wouldn’t need one if he gets take out and uses the containers all the time,’ Peter rationalized. ‘But who lives like that? Why didn’t someone teach him how to live like a person?’

And who was cleaning this place? It hadn’t seemed so weird when he entered. But now that he knew Kon lived alone, this was just bizarre. If Kon wasn’t living with a neatfreak parent and he didn’t own anything but dish soap, how was his apartment so clean? Did he have a maid service or something?

Kon was way weirder than Mr. Stark. Peter gave his new friend a queasy smile when he realized that. Man, this guy needed help. “So, if we don’t wanna do takeout, we need to go shopping,” Peter said. That was an understatement. “A pan, a couple of plates, and groceries.”

Kon pulled the wallet out of his back pocket and waved it around. “That’s fine. Lexy has it covered.”

‘Lexy? Not Luther? Is Lexy his stepmom or something? Or is that a nickname?’

Normally, Peter would feel bad about spending someone else’s money. But this time he felt a kind of vicious satisfaction in the idea of running up this dude’s credit cards. Wherever Kon’s Dad was, he was a dick and he owed his kid some vegetables and a frying pan. “Yeah, okay. Do you have reusable bags we should grab on our way out?”

“I don’t think so. What are those?” Kon asked.

“...We’ll buy some,” Peter decided. “They’re usually made of canvas or something. It’s so that you don’t have to buy the one use plastic bags all the time. Let’s go.”

“Cool.”

Kon in the group chat: guys I have made a CIVILIAN FRIEND. 

Bart: neato im happy for u!

Cassie: big if true

Tim: What’s his ssn i just wanna check something

Kon: I don’t think he knows I'm a superhero. It’s nice, but is that weird?

Cassie: probably because you’re not famous enough yet sorry

Tim: get gud

Bart: get good

Kon: fuck u guys. I’m undercover. I’m being so normal.