#and it was turning out so terrible but i think i managed to salvage some of it 🤣 it's fine even if it's a mess i love him always

[bittersweetresilience]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FELIX

someone put on the birthday music. huh? you can't decide?

[damn-stark]

Chapter 3 My iron lung

Chapter 3 of Sinnerwoman

A/N- Jun-ho reunion and the games!! Are you excited? cause I am!

Warning- ANGST!! Some fluff. Weapons, blood, violence and death. Suggested self harm. Spoilers for the show!

Pairing- Hwang Jun-ho x fem!reader

Episode- 2x02, 2x03 & (only part of) 2x04

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

——

Like a rebellious teenager craving chaos, you recklessly seek warmth in the fire that eats away at the painted picture of the man who called himself your father, feeling no remorse. It doesn’t eat away at you the way the fire ravenously consumes your father’s face. Angry-made tears well in your eyes, threatening to snuff the fire out, but it's quickly forgotten as a bitter coldness riddles you and keeps you from shedding a single tear.

Now you understand why some people find fire so beautiful, it’s merciless and destructive, leaving no way to salvage what was lost. It almost feels liberating seeing the flames leave no trace of your father's face on the family portrait. It tempts you to set the entire apartment ablaze, but alas, Jun-ho is here and you don’t want the fire to take him from you.

Which is why with that thought in mind, before the fire can jump to some other part of the house or eat away at the rest of the portrait, you splash water on the fire to put it out, polluting the air with smoke, and leaving a small pile of ash on the ground. Meanwhile, in the background you finally hear rustling before the sound of soft footsteps touches the ground, confirming that Jun-ho is awake.

There’s no need to look back or fill the silence with a question, you weren’t a decorated detective for nothing. You know he’s awake and trying to sneak over to you, so you hang your family portrait back over the fireplace and then look down at the contained fire as you take a deep breath and then show Jun-ho that he is not dreaming.

You stand there across from him, captivated, eyes softening as you take in every detail of each other's faces, and feel at a loss for words just like when you first met. Only this time you aren’t two strangers in the same rookie class, your souls are intertwined and share an epic past.

“Jun-ho,” you greet with bliss you can’t contain as you finally get to say his name to him and not torment your heart thinking about it over and over again.

“You,” he says breathlessly and drops every ounce of hostility to try and approach you with overwhelming relief, but just as he attempts to get closer, he also stops and bewilderment takes over the bliss that had once controlled his features.

“The man you were helping, Seong Gi-hun has re-entered the games,” you share instead of addressing the elephant in the room as if that is what he demands an explanation from. “Your team is alive but their pursuit was stopped by pink guards.”

The multitude of emotions and questions all flash in Jun-ho’s eyes, leaving him speechless.

“You…” you continue to fill the silence as you avert your gaze to avoid looking at the emotions cascading through him. “Look thinner.”

Your eyes flicker up and you note his difference once again; the exhaustion, the solemn in his dark eyes, and the definition of his face as he doesn’t carry the same weight. You also notice he looks older, but no amount of time has chipped away at how handsome he is. He’s just as beautiful if not even more so than the last time.

“You were missing for three years,” he finally manages to overcome his shock and finds his ability to speak. “I thought you were missing.”

You immediately drop your eyes to the floor out of shame as if a magnet had forced them to look down. “I disappeared,” you mumble.

Jun-ho scoffs and you hear him take a couple of footsteps back before he raises his voice. “I’ve been searching for you. I thought something terrible happened.”

“Jun-ho, we don’t have time—”

“We don’t have time?” He says back what you told him before he shouts. “I thought you were dead! How can you stand there and act like you didn’t completely turn my life upside down by making me believe something terrible happened to you!”

You begin to nervously rub your thigh and offer him the only words that feel right and are right. “I’m sorry, Jun-ho. I’m so sorry.”

He scoffs with frustration and you hear him turn away, so you slowly scale your eyes up and watch him try and process what’s unfolding before him, but you also mean what you told him so you go on as he processes. “I need to make this quick, okay, so listen. Whatever questions you have about my disappearance, shelve them for now. Please.”

He doesn’t answer, nor does he turn so you continue without even attempting to approach him. “Do you remember how I told you about my past? About the family that adopted me soon after I escaped North Korea? Well, my father. My adoptive father was one of the investors of the games as well as one of the men that helped the man who created them.”

Jun-ho goes rigid for a brief moment before he slowly turns and faces you with more shell-shock disbelief. “No,” he gasps.

You ignore his comment and continue to share a part of your past that he didn’t know. All he knew was that your family was rich, that’s all, but now he’ll learn it all. “He was The Front Man for a time, and I…didn’t know why he would leave home. Not until I was much older. And when I knew I would accompany him to the Island.”

“Why?” He mutters.

“Because all I wanted was his approval,” you explain, but that’s not the answer he’s looking for. “I wanted him to love me. That blinded me, but—”

“Why?” He says again, cutting you off before you can finish.

“Why what?” You ask as you shake your head in confusion.

He takes a couple of steps forward, making your breath hitch.

“Why didn’t you tell me? All that time we were together, why didn’t you tell me about your past?” He finally shares the rest of his question, but you just hold his gaze in silence before you step back and continue with what you had been saying.

“I saw that I was wrong. I saw that the games were wrong and that trying to get him to love me wasn’t worth sacrificing my morales—-”

“Tell me,” he cuts you off again, but you remain defiant. “Please.”

“I left that life behind. I turned my back on it and tried to pretend it didn’t exist, so I didn’t know—”

“Why?” He asks between your explanation, but you continue.

“…your brother was involved. I didn’t know he was the Front Man—”

“Why?!” He exclaims as he also shouts your name, silencing you right away as if he had stolen your breath.

“Because—because,” you stammer as your memories riddle you with pain. “I left. I saw that the games were wrong so I left and I had the intention to expose them. I was close too, but my father…would do anything to protect the games and so he did.” You sniffle as tears quickly make their way down your cheeks. “He sent people to hurt me. He’s the reason I will never be able to have children,” you pause and Jun-ho’s face falls as he hears the response he pestered you for.

“My wounds are scars now. They don’t hurt anymore, but every time I remember what he did and why he did it, I’m riddled with a sharp pain. In my heart and my scars. And even though he didn’t make this scar,” you say and point to the scar over your ear. “He was the reason it’s there. That’s why I didn’t tell you. That’s why I chose to just leave it all behind and pretend like the island and the games didn’t exist, because it hurt. Because it was a nightmare.”

Jun-ho nods softly in comprehension while his eyes glisten with tears.

“I didn’t know your brother was the Front Man,” you say again so he understands that you’re being honest about that. “I didn’t know. I didn’t have any involvement with the games before I found out you were there. You believe me right?” You ask and finally, take a step toward him to press that question.

“I do,” he says and lets you feel an ounce of relief before he makes your heart skip a beat. “But I don’t understand why you let me believe you went missing. I…loved you.”

You try hard. You try to fight hard, but tears still stream down your cheeks as you feel your heart get crushed at the sound of him using past tense.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just stay with me and tell me the truth?” He continues to inquire in search of an answer to all those years he spent searching for someone who was never missing, just gone from his life.

“Because…I didn’t want you to die,” you tell him without trying to find a way around it. “Because I couldn’t put your life at risk by telling you.”

“So you left? And what? Joined my brother? You became one of them?” He interjects and points to the silver mask on the coffee table, making you take a deep breath before you finally approach him after having a gap keeping you apart.

“Jun-ho I went back because I didn’t want to put your life at risk. I didn’t want to see you die—”

“But,” he cuts you off before you put your hand over his mouth to shut him up so you can continue your explanation, causing him to hold your gaze with a piercing confused look.

“Listen. Just listen. I wanted to disappear to keep you safe because I know you. You’re persistent. Stubborn. And you would have gotten hurt or died and I couldn’t fathom losing you, so I left with the intention of just lying under the radar, but your brother found me. He called me and offered me a spot at his side. So I took it. I’ve been there for two years trying to gain their trust to destroy them from the inside. That’s my plan.”

He blinks repeatedly as he takes in what you said, so you slowly pull your hand off of his mouth and continue to hold his gaze, feeling butterflies and a dancing heart as he doesn’t look away.

“You’re doing it alone?” Is all that he can think of asking first.

You nod stiffly. “It’s not a new thing. I may not like it, but I’m used to being alone.” You shrug nonchalantly.

He shakes his head and pushes his face closer to you to the point it’s almost like you’re sharing breaths. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. That man. Seong Gi-hun is going back to try and stop the games from the inside too. He has a tracker in a fake tooth that a few other men and I will follow to help him,” he explains without so much as doubting you because he knows you. He knows every part of you now and he knows that you aren’t being deceitful about your plans.

“We can work together.”

You smile at the sound of his words and have the courage to cup his cheek and tilt your face so your lips are brushing. “You are my life, Hwang Jun-ho. And you will be my life until the end of the line…” you trail off and his eyebrows furrow as he fights every muscle in his body in an attempt to not ignore all his anger and finally connect to what he's been missing for three years.

“Oh, my Jun-ho,” you whisper as you smile at the feeling of his cheek against your palm once again

He stays still, unable to fight off the need to feel the warmth of your flesh on his, or the ache that unfurls in your proximity as if you were meant to be molded together as one. It’s why it’s easy to sneak out your taser from your pocket and bring it close to the back of his neck without him seeing.

“You trust me right?” You ask for reassurance, and without a doubt, even though you’ve hurt him, he nods.

“Good.” You smile softly. “I’ll take care of things. I will put an end to those games.”

He takes in what you say without adding anything, so once again you taze him until he falls unconscious because you know otherwise, he will follow you whether you want it or not. And you can’t have him following you just yet. After all, there’s no way Player 456 will still have that tracker hidden in his tooth and you can’t put Jun-ho’s life at risk, so it’s a necessary evil knocking him out.

Helping Player 456 will be hard with In-ho planning to be in the games trying to sabotage him, but you will try without abandoning your own selfish plan that is.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

“I’m sorry I had to taze you. I couldn’t have you following me just yet. Simple as that.

I do hope you believe what I said nevertheless. I do want to bring an end to those games, so I will try and help your friend. Don’t worry.

I hope I won’t see you soon, but knowing you, you’ll be searching relentlessly, so be careful and maybe I will see you.

-Yours truly”

A knock raps on your door, putting an end to the mental loop of the note you left Jun-ho before you left him unconscious in your abandoned family apartment, and pulling all your attention to the intruder.

“Come in,” you announce with your voice all muffled because of the blanket you have covering your mouth.

The door proceeds to open but no one walks in. In-ho, the person you expected to be your morning intruder simply interjects through a creak. “Your alarm has been on a loop for the past ten minutes. Turn it off.”

In response you turn around on your bed to put an end to the looping alarm playing your favorite western song by an old and long-dead famous singer; Elvis Presley.

“People are starting to wake up and gather in the middle of the room,” In-ho adds whilst you return to lay on your side—“and you’re late.”

“Uh-huh,” you brush him off, making him sigh in annoyance before he closes the door, leaving you to remain in the same position you’ve been in for the past couple of hours. Unfortunately, you couldn’t take advantage of the fact that last night would be the last night in a while that you would be able to get a good night's sleep without having to be wary of your surroundings constantly so you don’t get potentially stabbed by a ravenous player. You were wide-eyed awake almost all night replaying the reunion you had with Jun-ho.

After three years of yearning. After three years of watching over him from the shadows, and after three years of only being able to be close through old pictures, you finally were able to look him in the eyes and feel his warmth even if it was just trickles of it.

You couldn’t tell him the long thought-out apology you conjured in your mind, and played over and over again until remembering every word felt as simple as breathing. You couldn’t embrace him, or feel the rhythm of his beating heart. And you couldn’t ask him about your dog, but simply being able to stand under the same roof and share a few words was enough to drive you mad and have you like a love-sick fool, explaining the looping alarm that plays a song you both cherish. Or one you cherish, maybe it doesn’t hold the same value within him anymore.

Who knows, all you know is you couldn’t stop thinking about him and you wanted to let the song play before you had to start a bloody day that will lead to a tougher week, but alas, with the alarm turned off because of the morning intruder, you’re forced to start the bloody day.

Whereas In-ho as the Front Man is enveloped by dark colors, you don a purely white uniform that stands out just like him amongst a sea of pink guards and green players.

The mask you wear may not cover the entirety of your face like In-ho’s, but your silver mask in shape like a crane’s face, and the important meaning behind an animal mask is able to steal all the attention from your exposed lips and chin.

Furthermore, wearing the mask not only hides your identity but hiding under the mask from the world within the island makes it easier to play a character that is far from who you really are. You’re a changed person. You are the Crane that eludes everything you are not. That’s why it’s easy to stride out proudly and demand all the attention in the control room. Or so that’s what you tell yourself to make the pill easier to swallow…

Nevertheless, late as you are, you aren’t ashamed of it. You don’t cower in In-ho’s presence, even as he looks up from the floor to pierce his intimidating screened eyes into you. Anyone working under you and him would feel small under the gaze of such a terrifying presence, but you don’t falter. You tower just as tall as him and make light out of the situation by raising your mug full of spiked coffee and shoot him a teasing smirk.

In-ho most likely sighs in annoyance behind his mask knowing him, before he turns and continues to look at one spot on the floor. You grow curious as to what has his attention so captivated, so you slowly make your way toward him, seeing pictures pop up one by one on the floor under you as the players take pictures for identification.

However, just as you’re about to reach the Front Man, he walks away to another corner. He can’t hide what he was seeing so you catch it just under your nose, the picture of Player 456, his obsession that will have him enter the games, and the one person you have an interest in too. Which is funny, really, In-ho has tasked himself with sabotaging him and you have set yourself to try and help him.

It’s almost so poetic that you can’t help the faint smile that slowly tugs on your lips.

Before someone can catch you smiling to yourself like some crazy person though, you turn around and stand on the tile at the end of the floor and watch as the players make their way to the first game, unaware of what horror awaits them.

It’s always the same thing. They all carry the same curiosity as they ascend the multitude of stairs, just like they all have the same questions after they wake up and the pink guards give their introduction, “What are we doing here?” “Why were we practically kidnapped?” “Why do you hide your face?” “Can we leave?” Etc, etc. It’s a dread watching all that so you skipped it this year. Besides, you realized that it’s better to scout the players while they’re playing the first game.

If someone freaks out and dies trying to run after the first kill, then it would have been a waste of time looking into them at the beginning. Watching the first game lets you read every player like open books; if they’re cowards, brave, determined, morbid, and challenged. Of course, you won’t know who to use in your fight to end these games just yet, you’ll know when you’re one of the players, but watching the first game is the first step to the end.

“Close the doors,” you tell one of the pink guards after you double-check that every player has filed in the first stage. You then grab your walkie without looking to check on the pink guards in charge of taking out every loser. “Is everyone in their rooms ready to shoot?”

You take a sip of your coffee from a straw while you scan every pink guard behind a screen to make sure there's no technical errors that could interrupt the games.

“Every player is in position and ready,” a guard confirms, letting you return the walkie to where you keep it and then take another sip before you watch everyone position themselves behind the white line as you walk up to In-ho.

“We are ready to start the game,” you let him know.

He keeps his face pointed to the screens and nods lightly before he tilts his head slightly. “Don’t be late this time.”

You hum and watch him leave his spot to go watch the game from the privacy of your shared hall. Once he’s out of the room you face the screens and give your first command. “Start.”

“Cross the finish line without getting caught in five minutes. If you do, you pass.” The woman from the PA system lets the players know without actually telling them the consequences of…well, everything that can get them killed to avoid freaking them out.

“Everyone!” A different voice shouts from inside the stage, causing your eyes to search the screens until the middle screen displays a view of player 456 standing in front of every player.

“Here we go,” you almost let out a laugh.

“Everyone, listen up!” Player 456 continues to proclaim. “Pay attention! Listen carefully! This is not just a game!”

Well, you see why Jun-ho chose to work with him. He’s already trying to help everyone.

“If you lose the game, you die!”

Cameras pan over the different shocked and amused reactions of every player having to listen to every word player 456 is shouting, while in the room with you, footsteps approach you before a distorted voice fills the silence of the room. “Should we silence him?” The guard asks.

You bring the straw to your lips and think. This is the first call you have to make as the one in charge. In-ho and every VIP watching this will watch whether you choose to silence player 456 or let him make the other players uneasy, so you feel the weight of pressure already closing in on you like water slowly swallowing you.

“Hey!” A different player's voice breaks through the commotion. “What are you talking about?! We’re going to die playing Red Light, Green Light?”

“Yes, that’s right! If they catch you moving, they will kill you! They will shoot you from somewhere! Stay on your toes”

Confusion is shared amongst the players as well as an uneasiness that makes them all rowdy as they question the crazy man amongst themselves. And it’s while you see every player seem unaware of the truth that the pressure is lifted off as you make your first decision.

“Leave him,” you finally give your response as you steal a glimpse at the black-suited guard with a pink square mask. The man that will be left in charge when In-ho and you are on the other side of that screen. “Let’s see how long the players go without realizing he’s actually right. It’ll make for a more amusing game.”

You look back at the screen and drink from your coffee before you give a different command. “Start now.”

“You have to believe me!” Player 456 shouts desperately moments before finally, the giant doll on the stage turns to face the tree and start the first game.

“Don’t be alarmed or panic! No matter what happens do not panic and start running!”

You scoff and continue to drink from your coffee.

“Let the game begin,” the PA finally announces before the timer starts and the doll starts singing.

“Green light…”

People start moving past Player 456 and then the doll ends the first round. “…red light.”

“Freeze!” Player 456 warns the group with his hands out, and as you watch the screens you’re amused by the fact that every player survived.

It’s typical, but was it also Player 456’s influence?

“Well done! You just need to stay calm like this! We just have to move and stop at the right time. Then we can all win! We can survive together!”

After a calm first round, the doll sings the second round and more players move while Player 456 stays to try and continue helping those who are still in front of him with more or less of the same words he’s been shouting.

A third round then passes and Player 456 still remains in the same spot trying to help. Once everyone is past him for the fourth round he finally turns, but simply covers his mouth to continue shouting his commands, and with time ticking down, threatening to end his life, you can’t help but genuinely smile in admiration.

A few more rounds come and go and the amount of players remains the same. It’s not until player 196 starts frantically screaming and moving out of place as she’s meant to be frozen that the chance to keep all the players alive for the first game is destroyed.

“Nobody move!” Player 456 warns everyone behind his elbow while you make a sharp turn to stride to a podium with a tablet on it to avoid watching the amusement and confusion end and realization set as the bloodbath begins with a song of panicked screams and gunshots.

“Let me repeat. You can move forward while the tagger shouts “Green light, red light.” If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated,” the PA repeats, but now everyone knows what the real meaning behind being eliminated is. And as a result of Player 456 being proved right, you notice that the players don’t move now when the doll sings again.

Another round passes and the only one who moves forward is Player 456.

A third round passes and again there’s no movement. Will he be the sole winner again?

“You will also die if you don’t make it there in time! The doll is a motion detector!” Player 456 lets them know. “But it can’t detect motion that is not visible to it. Get behind someone bigger than you! Like you’re doing, follow the leader! We’re running out of time! We’ve got to move!”

With two minutes left on the timer, people start moving and scrambling behind someone bigger than they are. And once they’re all frozen your eyes find the tallest woman you’ve seen, Player 120, so you click on their profile on the player roster out of curiosity, discovering that she used to be known as a man. They were also in the special forces but got booted because they chose to transition into a woman—which is the army's loss, but alas, you imagine their transition is why she has crippling debt and why she’s here, but also if she was let go from the army and didn’t leave it could mean she is dependent. She’s also highly skilled given what she was a part of, and through all the chaos she still doesn’t let fear show on her face. Hm.

You’ll keep an eye on her.

The next player that catches your attention is player 230. Not out of curiosity to know more, but because you’re instantly disgusted by the fact that he pushes players out of line and has them killed for what? The fun of it?

He’s acting like it's some party with all his jumping and flaying of arms. What a joke.

You can’t have him killed so you move on to a different player as they come to another stop, player 380. Not because she’s tall, or does anything besides survive. She’s simply cool looking. Plus, you can see through her fear that she wears her defiance on her sleeve. That is what is keeping her alive.

The next player you find, player 246, doesn’t seem so defiant. You can see the horror in their eyes as well as the timidness that he bears. Much like every other player, he has a debt, but not out because he’s addicted to something, lost, or struggling. He has medical bills from his young daughter, meaning a few things, but you like to think he’s here to try and help her, so he could be useful.

Lastly, the last player you check out isn’t one you find interesting. You gravitate towards player 222 because when you catch a glimpse of her behind an elder woman, you’re reminded of your older sister. The one you lost when you were a little girl. The one who loved you despite not being biologically related. The one who took care of you in that orphanage you were brought to when you were a baby. The one who died trying to get you to a better place. Player 222 dons the same softness in her eyes that your sister had. She’s much younger than your sister would have been, but she still reminds you of her…

“Crane,” In-ho’s distorted voice breaks you from your stupor. “It’s time. The players will start crossing the line soon,” he reminds you regardless of the warning he had given you before he left.

“Understood,” you respond curtly before you leave your cup on the podium and leave without a word, leaving the guard in all black in charge.

Yet the fact that you’ll be one of the players doesn’t set when you leave the control room. You don’t realize that your plans will finally be set in motion when you don the player uniform and trace the numbers “002,” on your sweater. You come across In-ho after you both finish changing into your costume and find amusement in his attire, but yet realization doesn’t set in.

“Are you sure you’ll keep your name?” In-ho asks as you start to make your way to the player's floor.

“Yes. Someone might recognize me from when I used to be a detective so it’s better this way, Young-il.” You tease his choice of name, making him scoff and roll his head away—“Are you okay with us knowing each other in there?” You try to make sure to ask, making In-ho turn his head back to face you and give you a rather mean response, but it’s immediate nonetheless.

“I doubt you’ll be able to pretend you don’t know me for too long. You like to talk.”

You scoff. “Excuse me I can seriously act. I was a detective. Decorated at that.”

He nods stiffly as he has to hear you remind him of the same things you like to tell him over and over again.

“And…” you start to say but trail off right away.

In-ho lets his eyes linger on you to wait for what you want to say, but you drop your head and shake it before you dismiss yourself. “Never mind.”

Without stopping you to question you, In-ho probes. “What? Spit it out.”

You let out a deep breath before you hesitantly share your concern. “There’s so many men in there. I know what to expect on a certain night, but…you don’t think that they’ll let them—”

“No,” In-ho cuts you off before you can finish as if he knows what terrifies you.

“Okay,” you mutter as you reach the picture station and miss the way you’re being watched as if already on guard as you step up to get your picture taken.

“Smile,” the camera instructs as you set yourself in front of its view, but you’re far from smiling. You treat it like you’re getting a mugshot instead. And once the light flashes and you’re left blinded for a few seconds, realization finally sets in that what you got yourself into is no easy task. No matter what happens at the end you will have to face consequences like…having to turn on In-ho—but…maybe unlike your father he won’t choose this, these games and the island.

He’s a better person than your father was. He did shoot his brother rather than choosing to go with him, but he didn’t kill him like your father tried to kill you. In-ho is different, so maybe he will turn against the island too.

“You’re not regretting your decision, are you?” In-ho breaks you from your train of thought while you continue toward the player's hall, making you steal a glance at him and shake your head.

“No. Besides,” you mention and look ahead “there’s nowhere to go but ahead, right?”

“Well that’s not true,” he argues. “You can always turn back. There’s still time. My plans don’t rely on you.”

You scoff. “And miss out on the fun?”

In-ho glances at the floor and mutters. “You sound like the old host.”

You gasp as you come to a halt and look at him with disbelief as he’s offended you. “Well. That’s mean.”

In-ho keeps walking without peering back but you know you’ve amused him with your dramatics.

“So you’re saying I’m like a cancer-ridden old man?” You grumble and continue to drag your feet forward.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” he retorts and you roll your eyes before you skip forward to fall at his side. “Now try to blend in,” he adds. “Hide in the bathroom until you hear the players walking by.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you brush him off and don’t take long to come across the bathrooms, so you walk into the women’s bathroom and wait against a sink, choosing to give your back to the door, and the mirror on the wall.

In the silence, while you wait to hear the commotion of the players, you dig your hand in your pocket and pull out a picture of Jun-ho that you chose to bring with you.

There’s no doubt he’s already trying to look for his friend, Player 456. Whatever plan they conjured must be in motion even if they must have no idea how to get to the Island, so that does leave you wondering about him. As selfish as it sounds you think about whether whatever you had is truly over?

If you make it out alive. If you cross paths when this is over will he be able to forgive you and welcome you back to his life? You’re not asking for things to be as they were, you’re asking to work through this obstacle and come out stronger because if you don’t have him then who do you have? If In-ho chooses the Island, if Jun-ho can’t forgive you, and if you make it out alive, who will you have?

You thought you were used to being alone and unwanted, but after missing Jun-ho for three years, and spending two years with In-ho on the Island, you have realized that being alone also terrifies you just as much as the sea, the rivers, and the lakes. And thinking that you might live in solitude scares you more than any deadly game you’re going to play.

Then again if that's the fate you’re meant to live, why fight it? Fate, or whatever god exists, saved you from trying to put an end to that life once so maybe it’s what is meant for you.

In any case, the players finally start to file into the room, so you wait for the crowd to grow before you finally slip out of the bathroom and try to blend in with the crowd, but you accidentally bump into a player.

“Sorry,” you quickly throw out while sparing a glance at them. That’s when you catch that you bumped into player 222. She lived, and as you take her in with your eyes you notice a bulge under her sweater too.

“I’m sorry,” you offer her an apology again while you find a place to hide within the crowd.

“It's okay,” she assures you right away with only a quick glance.

You offer her a thankful nod without adding anything else. You simply spare discreet glances at her and take note of how funny she’s walking too while she’s pressing her belly as if that’s what is making her walk that way…

Is she…pregnant?

She looks so young, and if she is, what is she doing in a place like this? Or why are you assuming she is pregnant…maybe she’s just…in pain from the game and maybe she's always walked that way…

You can’t ask her. Everyone is so shaken up now after living through the first game and you’re supposed to be one of them so you have to be rattled too. However, if anyone really looked into your eyes they would see that you don’t look traumatized like they do so they would know that you’re either crazy or lying.

It’s a good thing no one finds you suspicious then. You’re able to blend in with them and enter the player hall, parting sides with player 222 in the meanwhile, but not losing sight of her. You let your eyes linger on her as the memory of your sister is sparked to life like a match coming to life in a dark room.

When you do eventually lose sight of player 222 in the crowd, you start to search the room for In-ho instead, but there’s so many players walking in that you start to feel desperate and hopeless though. You even go on your tiptoes to try and see every number in hopes you find his, but you can’t find him.

Is this where you start to relive it again?

Alas, just as you start to find a place to sit a hand falls on your shoulder, causing you to come to a quick halt and look back, noticing In-ho. “Hey,” you breathe out with relief.

He drops his hand to his side and points his head to the beds and the stairs where everyone starts to gather. “Let’s find a place to sit,” he says and leads the way to open spaces on some stairs and coincidentally you’re next to player 230, the guy with purple hair, and guilty of pushing others for the fun of it.

“So,” you whisper and lean toward In-ho so he’s the only one who can hear you in the morbidly quiet room. “Did he make it out? Did you find him?”

In-ho snaps his gaze to you and shoots you a piercing look, letting you know to not bring it up again to avoid being caught, so you pull back and assume Player 456 is alive. It would suck if he came and died at the first game while In-ho has all these great plans.

Albeit you can’t stay quiet for long, so you lean back toward him, making him sigh. “I think player 222 is pregnant.”

This time when In-ho looks over at you he doesn’t tell you to shut up with a piercing look, there’s a spark of curiosity in his nonchalance.

“She had a tiny bulge under her sweater and she was walking funny,” you share what you noticed, making him shift in his seat and lean in to whisper back.

“You noticed this in the first five seconds you came across her?” He asks in a judgy tone that you don’t give any importance to. You simply flash him a proud smirk before you nod.

“I mean—”

“Don’t say it,” In-ho cuts you off before you can finish and leans away from you.

You smile and want to laugh so you prop your elbows on your knees and bend over to hide your face in your hands to pretend to be utterly wrecked by the game.

You continue to be like that until you hear the doors open and a wave of fearful gasps fills the room. When you sit up you see that everyone is beginning to freak out over the group of pink guards stomping in and taking command of the room.

“Congratulations for making it through the first game. Here are the results of the first game.” The square guard speaks up like they’re supposed to, and without a second to spare the screen above changes the number of players.

“Out of 456 players, 91 players have been eliminated. Three hundred sixty-five players have completed the first game.”

That’s more than you thought would make it out. You’re surprised but also asking yourself again if it was because of player 456 or just luck.

“Congratulations again for making it through the first game.”

“Sir!” Someone interjects loudly as they show themselves in the middle of the room along with a curly-haired man attached at her side. “Please don’t kill us!” The elderly woman begs and gets on her knees. “Please don’t kill us. I beg you! As for my son's debt, I will do whatever it takes to pay you back! Please forgive us! Don’t just stand there. Beg for his forgiveness.” She cries and pulls her son down to get on his knees with her, but you can’t stand looking at her anymore so you avert your gaze, knowing it won’t help because you can still hear her crying along with her son, but it stings a little less when you’re not looking.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” the square guard interjects again, but more people start to crawl forward to ask for the same thing mercy.

“Excuse me,” a voice next to you directs at you, letting you find an excuse to avoid looking at the crowd and instead find the widened eyes of the purple-haired guy next to you.

“Why are you not running out there begging for mercy?” He asks and the skinny guy with longer dark hair pokes out from his side to start gawking too.

“You look like the fragile type.”

You scoff and share an annoyed glance with In-ho before you look back at player 230, noticing his shaky hands and his fidgety leg “Are you?” You ask while the guards try to calm the players down.

“Tsk,” Player 230 huffs and tilts his head up. “I’m capable of protecting you while also playing the next round.”

You look at him nonchalantly and he leans forward, making you reel back.

“Just say the word, my girl.”

You nod and then quip with nonchalance. “I’d rather get stabbed in my uterus again, thank you though.” You flash him a sweet smile and try to turn away as he works through his wounded ego, but then player 124 next to him claps and points at you.

“I know,” he says, making you stiffen. “You’re that missing detective the news likes talking about. I knew I recognized you from somewhere. That’s you, huh?”

You sigh deeply and hum in agreement. “It is, but I’m not missing now am I?” You remark and finally look away so they know not to talk to you anymore and instead focus on the talking guards in front of the room.

“But first,” you pay attention to the guards once again. “Let me announce the prize amount that’s been accumulated.”

The bright lights proceed to turn off and dim yellow lights turn on as the ceiling rumbles and a tube enters the giant pig above your heads, summoning everyone under it like moths to a flame as money starts to accumulate inside. In-ho and you stay where you are while people make their way around you and that fear that held them captive slowly washes away with every dollar they can see.

“The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

“How much is that?” You hear a player ask and you know that what follows is disappointment. Rather than being eager to leave, you’ll hear disappointment.

It’s rather pathetic.

“Each person's share would be 24,931,500 won,” the square guard shares and just as you expected, you hear the pathetic sounds of players being disappointed about the amount of money.

“Twenty million?” You recognize player 230 ask what everyone is wondering. “You said 45.6 billion!”

“The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player,” the square guard clarifies. “If you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

“How much will it be if you survive until the end?” A player queries and all you can think about is if he’s stupid. You almost want to repeat what has already been said, but you bite your tongue and remain seated as the same questions get asked. You know them by heart, every variation of it, so you tune it out until finally it comes to vote.

First, the last number goes up first, making that player 456. However, as he makes his way with his head held high, a woman on the highest bed breaks the silence built as every player wants to know whether the first vote would be an X or an O.

“It's all pointless!”

Player 456 comes to a stop and everyone, including you, looks up at the woman.

“You didn’t decide when to come into this world and you can't decide when you leave it either. When and where you die were already decided by the gods the moment you were born. No matter how hard you try, you can never escape it.”

You swallow nervously. You may not be a believer, but there’s something about the way she says it that makes you feel uneasy.

Nonetheless, with nothing to do about it but pass her off as crazy, you watch player 456 press X (as you expected) and be given a patch with the choice he made in order to have everyone stand out and be divided. Not just on the floor but later on too.

After player 456 more and more players cast their vote, with every single one having to wear a patch on their right side and move to their chosen side on the floor. The numbers to stay or leave are never too far apart, making for a very thrilling process.

They all have a choice and the chance to leave with a good amount of money that could help them, but will they give up their greed, or risk their lives?

So far you’re disappointed and rather annoyed that people would choose to risk their lives after what they’ve seen. Even if it meant spoiling your plan, you’re disappointed. And it seems you’re not the only one, after player 230 casts his vote to stay, Player 456 runs to the middle of the room yelling.

“Wait a minute, everyone! You can’t do this. Come to your senses! Don’t you see? These aren’t just any games. We will all die if we keep playing! We have to get out of here now. With a majority vote, we can! We must stop here!”

“Why should we though?!” You speak up in order to play your part and convince the players to stay. “I just risked my life playing this game, why should I go home with just 24 million won after it, huh? Is my life not worth more?”

“What will your life be worth once you’re dead?” Player 456 rebuttals and all eyes dart back to you to hear your response, but alas, someone else counterattacks

“Who do you think you are? Why do you keep egging people on like that?” They demand to know as they push through the crowd that has yet to vote. “You scared us by saying they’d shoot us before the game even began!”

“That’s right!” A lady who already voted speaks up. “He was going on about how we’d die, and I almost did because I got so nervous!”

You roll your eyes in response but also find her accusing player 456 of her mistakes funny.

“How did you know they were going to shoot us?” A third player now joins in the conversation. “Are you one of them?”

“Are you conning us all by pretending to be a player?” The first player who you can now see is player 100, bounces off that question before he barges past player 456 to speak at the guards. “Who is this guy? Did you plant him to mess with our heads?”

There’s no need for that.

“That’s uncalled for,” another player who also already voted cuts in as he walks toward the growing group. “We wouldn’t have won the game and survived if it weren’t for him!” He points at player 456 and a lot of people agree—“And you!” He points at someone else. “I saw how scared you were. Your legs were shaking.”

You snicker.

“You should thank him, not treat him like a fraud!”

“And who the hell are you?” They snap back. “Are you conspiring with him?”

“Rude. How old are you?”

“Older than you. What are you going to do? What?”

“Come on now!” You see the same old lady from before joining them too. “Please don’t do this. Listen. None of us would be alive if it weren’t for this gentleman.” She points to player 456. “So enough with greed. Let’s put our lives first and get out of this place! Okay?”

More and more people now start giving their opinion. Each one speaking over the other and creating a ruckus that raises the already sensitive tension in the room. You assume the guards will finally put an end to this dread, but alas, Player 456 shouts and makes the room go quiet.

“I have played these games before! I have done this before! I had known about the first game because I had played it before!”

You pass In-ho a surprised look, but he keeps his eyes on player 456.

“I played the games here three years ago!” Said player continues. “And everyone with me…died here!”

Murmurs and gasps pass throughout the crowd before questions are asked.

“No way. If they all died, how did you survive alone? Wait, are you saying you were the sole winner?”

There’s a second of silence before player 456 responds. “That’s right. I was the final winner.”

The murmurs grow louder and you have the nerve to speak up against him, but he goes on. “If we continue the games, every single person here, just like all the people back then, will die in the end.”

“Bullshit,” Player 100 counters him. “If you were the sole winner, it means you won 45.6 billion won. If you really did, why would you come back here?” He asks and more people speak up against player 456, calling him a liar, so you interject too to fan the flames of greed.

“He might not be a liar. He won before and came back. What's keeping us from winning too?”

“She’s right,” Player 230 says after you as he walks toward the group in the middle. “If you really won, it actually works better for us. You can give us tips on how to beat these games.”

“That’s right!” Player 100 interjects again. “We have a previous winner with us, so what do we have to worry about? Come on, let's do this!” He shouts and people start to agree with him, but again Player 456 tries to insist only this time the guards aren’t taking it. Without warning a triangle guard starts to make his way through the crowd too.

“Players, I’m begging you. We have to get out now! If we keep playing, more people will die. That could be you. We have to stop this now and get out of here.”

Finally, the guard reaches player 456, bringing him to a sudden stop.

“From here on,” the square guard speaks up at long last. “We will not tolerate actions that disrupt the voting process. Now, let’s resume the vote.”

With player 456 back in his place and everyone else who fell out of line back where they’re meant to be, the voting process continues with both sides rising and neither one dwindling and showing off an obvious winner. The tying numbers could mean that what Player 456 had to say affected their choice or they heard and didn’t care. Either way, the numbers are close and when it’s finally down to you, the tension is incredibly high as it falls to 182-181.

You can either make a tie or give those who want to leave the chance to do so regardless of what In-ho will choose.

Alas, as sorry as you are. As much mercy as you do want to show those who want to leave. Your plan depends on the games to go on. Even if it means damming them.

“Player 002.”

You take a deep breath and without looking at In-ho you stride down the middle, feeling every pair of eyes on you as you make it to the box.

Each team does try to persuade you to pick them, but neither side affects your cemented choice, so you raise your hand from your side, and without hesitation, you make a tie by picking O.

Cheering as well as disappointment booms while you take your patch and stick it on your right side before you make your way to the side you chose.

“Lastly player 001,” the guard makes his final announcement and again the shouts of persuasion blares through the room, but much like you, his mind is made, so after some pretend hesitation that creates a thick tension, In-ho breaks the tie by clicking O, forcing everyone to stay for another round.

——

*LATER*

“Thanks,” you direct at the pink guard after they handed you the food for the day, letting you get out of line quickly and try to find somewhere to sit or someone to talk to. Not just for the sake of your plan, but because you genuinely want to talk to someone.

Yet when you pass the line of players waiting to get their food, you see everyone eating at their beds or some free space they could find. Some are already talking to someone, while others don’t seem to mind being by their lonesome. In any case, the room full of strangers intimidates you, dimming that need to go up to someone. And it wouldn’t be the first time.

It happens frequently in bigger social settings. It explains your lack of friends, and it’s not that you’re shy or hate people. You're just hesitant and cautious. Too many people you love have died, and some others have hurt you for you to be any other way, so like you’ve done before, you avoid the crowds and go sit against a wall covered by the shadows of the room to eat your food.

After a few bites in footsteps approach and as you’re going to look up, In-ho identifies himself. “Where is he?”

You meet his gaze and raise your eyebrow while you chew fast, making him press his impatient gaze into you.

“Who?” You ask once you've swallowed.

“Player 456,” he reveals and honestly, yeah, you should’ve known he was going to ask that.

“Oh. I don’t know, I’ve been eating. I was hungry.”

In-ho rolls his eyes. “Well if you hadn’t acted like a teenager in the morning you would’ve gotten to eat breakfast.”

You chuckle and look at his closed container. “You’re not going to eat?” You probe and scoot down to make room for him. “You should. It’ll be a while before we eat again.”

In-ho sighs and chooses to sit across from you instead without trying to open his container. “I’m not hungry. Do you want it?”

You hold his gaze and shake your head before you point at him with your utensil. “Eat, man.”

In-ho doesn’t appreciate your word usage, but as if persuaded by your push he crosses his legs on the floor and opens his container to start eating along with you, there, in some secluded corner covered by the shadows of the room.

Silence is far from attainable surrounded by more than three hundred players stuck in the same room, but that comfort you usually feel together is accompanying you.

“What you said during the voting process,” In-ho breaks his silence, making your eyes flicker to him but focus back on your food. “It was smart.”

You falter with surprise and find yourself slowly lifting your eyes to look at him with that same surprise still painted on your face.

“Do you believe it?” He queries, causing you to look down quickly and grow tense. “What you said about yourself?”

You scoff and part your lips, but you can’t muster anything right away. Which is a mistake on your part, you don’t want him to look too deeply into your battered soul.

“Of course not,” you rebuttal and scrape up more rice. “I felt like I needed to say something to play my part. That’s all.”

In-ho’s eyes linger on you as you look at your food hoping he won’t dig too deep, but maybe you’ve been too intertwined already because he can read you like an open book.

“What is your part?” He probes without touching on the matter he had started with. “What do you truly gain out of playing?”

You set your container down along with your utensil and rub your hands on your thighs as you finish chewing the last bite of your food and get ready to offer him a practiced response.

Thankfully though, a person wanders over to an empty bed, interrupting your private moment.

“I’m done. We can go now.” You avoid the question and collect your things before you get up. “Are you done? I can throw it away and catch up with you.”

In-ho follows you up and hands you his barely eaten food, letting you walk off before he can interrogate you further.

He probably won’t pester you about it later because thankfully he’s not like his brother in that aspect. If he was, what would you have said? No matter how memorized you have your practiced response, would he have believed you when you said that you want to know what every player feels as a result of the games your father betrayed you for? Or that you want to prove your dead father something by winning game after game?

It’s hard to know but either way, you’re glad he didn’t get to hear it.

Now, after dumping the trash at one end of the room, you find In-ho approaching player 456 at the opposite end with people swarming around him as if taking advantage that he’s brave enough to approach a previous winner.

You join the group too, but don’t stay in the back, you push through the gathered crowd to fall by In-ho’s side.

“…You said you’ve played these games,” you catch In-ho tell Player 456. “I pressed the O button because of you.”

Player 456 snaps his head up with surprise in response to what In-ho says before he continues.

“Honestly, I was scared, I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game.”

People behind you and In-ho agree whilst you ascend one metal step to get closer to the infamous player. “Same here,” you lie, gaining the man’s attention. “I mean if you made it out what’s stopping me from doing the same and making this all worth it?”

Player 456 sighs and drops his head without adding anything, making In-ho step forward to continue. “Sir. You know which games next, don’t you?” He probes.

“That’s right,” the player sitting next to player 456 says. “You’re a previous winner, so you should know. What are we playing next?”

Without hesitation, Player 456 offers his response. “The second game was Dalgona.”

After he gives his response you’re startled as a player on a bunk above your heads drags himself to the end of the bed to include himself in the conversation. “Dalgona?” He says and you look up at him, seeing that he’s player 388. “The sugar candy with a snape you can carve out?”

“That’s right,” Player 456 confirms. “We had to choose one of our four shapes and carve it out.

“Four shapes?” Player 390, next to him chimes in. “Which was the easiest one?”

“Triangle.”

You scoff softly and look down.

“Which was the hardest one?” Player 390 asks now.

“Umbrella.”

You snicker while In-ho pretends to be shocked. “Umbrella? Some people chose Umbrella?” He scoffs. “Those unlucky bastards must have bitten the dust.”

Player 456 holds his gaze for a moment and one of his eyebrows rises before he looks away and player 388 interjects.

“So that means we should all just pick triangle. Everyone could probably pass the round.”

“The umbrella is not that hard,” you offer some consolation, gaining the attention of player 388 along with a question.

“Is that so?”

You grab the metal pillar of his bed and look up at him with a hint of cockiness. “It is. I would compete with my brother too to see who could carve out the shape first. I would pick the umbrella all the time and win. It’s all about licking the candy until it’s thin and soft enough to carve out.”

Player 388 scoffs with an impressed look on his face. “Well then maybe I’ll have to copy your technique.”

You nod and offer him a smile. “Just don’t blame me if you can’t make it work.”

Player 388 flashes you a smile. “I’m sure I will if you’re here to tell us.”

You part your lips but before you can say anything a voice interrupts you before someone pushes you against the bed as they barge themself between you and In-ho. “Hush now!”

You scowl at the player and realize it’s none other than player 100.

“If all 365 of us survive, the prize money won’t go up at all,” he argues. “Then we’ll have risked our lives again for nothing.”

With no surprise whatsoever people agree with the stinky old man.

“Listen,” Player 100 whispers. “We should probably keep this information to ourselves. What do you say?”

People around you agree, but you’re about to rebuttal. However, player 456 cuts in. “We can’t do that. I’m telling you this to save everyone’s lives. If it’s confirmed that the next game is Dalgona, I’m going to tell everyone what I know.”

Player 100 scoffs in protest before he storms off, taking the crowd with him except for In-ho and you.

“So which shape did you pick?” Player 390 asks, but gets no response, making you assume that he picked the hardest shape.

You could’ve known since there’s recordings of previous games, but alas, no matter what In-ho said you did not do any studying on player 456.

“So, player 002,” you hear 388 direct you, making you crane your neck to look up at him—“Is what you said true? Is it really that easy?”

You snicker and walk up to stand higher up so you don’t have to keep hurting your neck, and he follows your every moment by turning around on his bed to keep holding your gaze. “It is. My brother would get too impatient so it would never work for him, but I always made it work.”

He hums and adds a quiet comment. “I should have thought about that.”

“It’s okay,” you retort lightheartedly. “You’ll get it next time.”

“Well, hopefully, it is that easy. What if it’s an impossible shape, or worse, a difficult game.”

“Well,” you sigh. “We just played red light, green light, a kid's game. We should hope they’re all kid's games. I mean just look at this room.”

Player 388 looks around and nods softly. “Look at that. I didn’t even realize. Nice observation.”

The corner of your lips lifts to offer him a faint half-smile before your lips fall as he drags himself closer to the edge of his bed and narrows his eyes on you. “This might sound crazy or maybe rude, but…”

You swallow thickly and glance nervously at In-ho before looking back at player 388.

“…do I know you?”

You blink repeatedly and slowly let out a small breath of relief. “I don’t think so. I’m sure I would know if I knew you.”

He hums softly and gently shakes his head. “You just seem oddly familiar.”

The corner of your lips lifts and you step forward to tease him. “Is that so? Maybe I’m famous.”

He snorts. “If you were, I would know. Trust me. You’re…” he pauses and bats his eyes while you raise your eyebrow to press him.

“My sisters follow the celebrity life. They would have mentioned you.” He doesn’t say what he started off saying, so you can't help but smile shyly at your feet.

“May I ask you something,” In-ho speaks up and when you look over you see him addressing Player 456 as he sits below Player 390 –“why did you come back to this place? You said you won and made it out. Then you must have received 45.6 billion. Did you spend it all?”

“Did you bet on horses again?” Player 390 remarks, making you assume they’re familiar with each other.

“That money doesn’t belong to me,” Player 456 argues. “It’s blood money for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there.” He points to the piggy bank above.

“You don’t have to think of it that way,” In-ho tries to contest him. “It’s not like you killed those people, and saving that money won’t bring them back to life.”

“If you had pressed the X,” Player 456 quickly snaps. “Everyone here would’ve made it out alive.”

In-ho nods. “That’s right. I was the last to press the O button. But there were 182 more people who wanted to stay.”

“And there were also 182 people who wanted to leave,” player 456 counters, and In-ho doesn’t give up either.

“Let’s say I pressed X and we all left. Would everyone have been happy? Do you think if they ran into me later, they’d thank me for saving their lives and tell me they’re happy now?”

Player 456 sighs while his eyes remain on In-ho. You can’t see if he seems defeated or not because you’re behind him, but you know he wouldn't have quit if it wasn’t for his friend jumping in between the two men.

“All right. There’s no point in placing blame now. You know the saying goes, a widow understands a widower best. Let’s focus on tomorrow's game, okay?”

You nod. “He’s right,” you agree as you lean against the bed. “The choice has been made too. There’s no point in arguing. The best thing to do is work together and try to make it out. I mean player 456 has won before. That means you can help us make it out, sir.”

“She’s right, sirs,” Player 388 says before he jumps down from his bed and exhales loudly after drinking the rest of his water. “We have to stick together. I’ll be with you all the way.”

“Who are you?” Player 390 quickly probes.

“My good sir,” Player 388 exclaims and walks over to be in the center of the group. “I’m Dae-ho.” He points at himself. “Kang Dae-ho.”

Said man puts his hands out to offer them to 390 first, but the man just leaves him hanging as he presses him. “Oh, Mr. Dae-ho.”

“Yes.”

“Have we met?” Player 390 asks, making Dae-ho chuckle awkwardly before he points to Player 456 and drops his hands to the side.

“Earlier during the game Mr. 456 here was like, Freeze!” He mimics him with the arm gesture and everything. “And I became his fan. I'd like to get to know you, sirs…and lady.” He lastly directs at you before once again addressing the whole group. “Please give me the chance!” He bows.

Player 390 gets up and starts to walk down the stairs whilst Dae-ho continues to praise Player 456.

“Freeze! That was so cool.”

You can’t help but smile with amusement. In-ho catches you and you notice him judge you for finding something so silly amusing, so you look away from him and smile wider whilst Player 390 approaches Dae-ho.

“Hang on!”

“Yes, sir?”

You look over and see Player 390 lifting up Dae-ho’s sleeve to show off the Marine’s tattoo on his arm.

“You were in the Marines?” The man asks and Dae-ho responds.

“Yes, why?”

“Class number?”

Dae-ho chuckles and Player 390 takes his sweater off to roll up his sleeve and show off the same tattoo Dae-ho has on his arm, making the young man straighten up and exclaim with a salute. “Victory at all costs! I was in class 1140, sir!”

You watch with confusion whilst Player 390 proceeds to salute back. “At ease!” He assures Dae-ho. “Dae-ho! I knew there was something about you.” He says and smacks his arm playfully making Dae-ho shout.

“Sir!”

“Class 746 here. Let’s make a good team.” Player 390 says and Dae-ho responds loudly again.

“I won’t let you down!”

Player 390 laughs and smacks Dae-ho’s arm again, making him exclaim again and again as they keep repeating the same silly process.

“You’re full of spirit!” Player 390 muses.

You find it all silly but maybe that’s why you feel yourself smiling at the interaction.

“Excuse me,” someone behind you says as they tap your shoulder, making you move aside without looking back to make room for them to pass.

Yet just as you expect to see them pass by, suddenly something slimy is smashed on your head, causing you to gasp, and making Dae-ho and Player 390 go quiet and still as they watch the scene unfold.

“What the hell?” You remark, making In-ho and Player 456 look back to follow the commotion.

“Pigs like scraps don’t they?” The person counters and finally walks by with a snarky smirk on her face.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Player 390 remarks but the woman ignores him while she rubs the sticky rice off her palms.

“It’s okay, she obviously has something to say,” you grumble as you step down one step.

“What?” The woman quips. “You don’t remember me? Then again I can’t say I’m surprised when all you would do is look for people to lock away.”

Dae-ho gasps behind the woman but doesn’t add to the matter, instead, he backs up while you pierce a fierce scowl on the bold woman.

“My friend got life in prison because of you. And I got five years and a lifetime of debt.”

The corner of your lips twitch up, making the woman falter but not stand down so you step closer and snap back nonchalantly. “Well, maybe you and your friend deserve it.” You snicker and flash her a malicious smile that triggers her and makes her want to tackle you, but In-ho is quick to get in the middle and stop her as he catches her intent.

“Enough. Leave her be,” In-ho interjects nonchalantly, but with his chest puffed out and his hand back to keep you back. “She’s here and so are you. Now move along and behave like an adult.”

You hold the woman’s gaze and let your smirk deepen, aggravating her more, but In-ho pushes her back by walking forward so she ends up walking off, leaving an awkward air in the group.

“Are you okay?” Dae-ho is the first and only one to ask you.

“Yeah,” you nod. “It’s okay. I expected something like this would happen.” You sigh and wipe off the chunk of rice the woman had smashed on your head. “I’ll be back.”

You groan and before you can walk off, In-ho turns around and you meet his gaze, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes find the pieces of rice still stuck to your head and then meets your gaze again nonchalantly before he moves to the side to let you pass.

Thankfully, you’re able to access the restrooms so you go in and try to wash off the stragglers still stuck to you.

Honestly, if someone were to ask if the woman offended you, you would say no. First, because you’ve been called a pig more times than you can count. And second, you felt a thrill provoking that woman knowing where you really stand on this Island, and knowing what to expect from these games while she doesn’t.

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?” You breathe out and pull the last grain of rice off your head as you look over and catch player 222 at the sink next to yours.

You had been so focused on your own business that you didn’t check if there was someone else in the bathroom.

“Oh. Yeah,” you let her know as you turn the faucet on to wash your hands. “Some bitch thought we were back in the school playard and smashed rice on my head. It’s whatever,” you sigh and discreetly check her out, realizing that her belly is way more prominent now. “I’m used to it. I was a detective.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” she says before she points to your shoulder. “You still have some.”

You chuckle awkwardly and flick the rice off your shoulder before you retort. “It's cool until you get rice smashed on your face.”

Player 222 scoffs with a hint of amusement and you take this time to study her face now that you’re face to face and not behind a screen. And yes, what you saw was right. She does carry the same gentleness your sister did.

“Are you…okay?” You now redirect at her as her pregnancy is actually obvious.

Player 222 glances at her belly and grabs it before she nods stiffly. “I’m alright. Thanks.”

You offer a small smile and keep your eyes on her face as if hoping she would fuse into your sister.

“Well if someone gives you shit, find me,” you tell her with no ill intent, just sincerity. “Or if anything hurts. I can help with that too. I’m player 002,” you share along with your name.

She gently bows her head and offers you a rather timid smile. “Thank you,” she mutters.

You offer her a wider smile before you walk out with her trailing behind you since she was done too. When you return to the player hall though, there in the center is a group of men fighting, and one happens to be In-ho.

Albeit In-ho seems to be winning the fight with the way neither Player 124 nor Player 333 is trying to counterattack or stop him as he kicks Player 230 down on his back.

After that instead of letting Player 230 go as he drags himself away, In-ho grabs him by the throat and reels his fist back, threatening to punch him. However, his fist never goes down nor does he let go. He keeps holding player 230 by the throat for a tense-filled minute before finally releasing his grasp from the player's throat, earning thunderous applause and praises.

You watch him offer the crowd an awkward smile and an awkward head bow before he walks away. You wait for the commotion to die down before you break into a little jog to catch up to him.

“Hey,” you catch his attention. “What just happened? You got into a fight?”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Some punks were fighting so I stopped them.”

You click your tongue. “Damn. I missed it.”

He sighs and you have the intention to thank him for standing up for you. You really should thank him, but rather than doing so, you watch him as if lingering stares would say the words you need to tell him.

And he’s no different. Days are short here when the games are done for the day and when the people in control don’t have something up their sleeve, so bedtime comes soon after dinner. And it’s when everyone’s in bed asleep that all these words come to In-ho’s mind. Words he intended to share with you, but you fell asleep after lacking sleep after a previous restless night, so he used that as an excuse not to tell you a thing.

Instead, he kept watch. While you caught sleep and drifted into a deeper slumber, he looked out for those lurkers that you had told him you were worried about before. And it’s while he kept watch when he couldn’t help his eyes from lingering on you as he wondered again why you bothered to risk your life playing these games.

Are you looking for a swift death? Is that what you want? He wonders as he looks at the scar above your ear because that scar was self-inflicted. Was it not?

So are you looking to get yourself killed here? Don’t you not have more to live for?

Or are you alike?

.

.

.

.

A/N- ☹️

[mara-xx217]

F&H Enki x fem!reader, raunchy NSFW please? <3

I have so many ideas for this asshole that's it's really hard to pick just one... So I'll pick the lesser of the evils I have lined up because some of them are... 😬 (but all in line with the usual F&H fucked-up-ness~)

Warnings: Noncon, Extremely Dubious Consent, Orgy, Mindless Sex, Loss of Virginity, Rough Sex, Sex-Repulsion, Touch-Repulsion, Gloves, Hair Pulling, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Multiple Creampies

You held the mask in your hand, feeling nauseous at the sight of it. 

“Hurry up and put it on.” 

His voice was dry and harsh, muffled behind the vaguely rabbit-shaped face that rested on his own. You made a face and flushed as you realized the dark priest, Enki Ankarian, was already undressed, save for his bicep-length gloves that still covered his thin arms and hands. It wasn’t as though the sight of nakedness was so terrible, given all the horrible things that you’ve seen while in the dungeon of Fear & Hunger, but seeing his pale, emaciated, scar-covered frame so clearly made your stomach turn violently against you. 

“I- I… will.” 

What other choice did you have? Supplies were low, and what little you had left needed to be given to the Girl. What a fight it was to get this priest to agree to such a thing… He had suggested that the Girl be given to the masked gentlemen in the caves, but you utterly refused. You promised you would take care of her, no matter what! And… And if that means you need to… W-Well… Then fine. 

You’ll give it up for her. 

You undressed with trembling fingers, piling your armour and clothing up to the side of the tree you hid behind for modesty’s sake. Was there anything modest about this? The sounds of dispassionate sex hits your ears, sending a shiver down your spine. You slipped the mask of Sylvian over your face, grateful that it hid your flushed face from prying eyes, from his eyes. 

He, the dark priest, was already standing among the copulating bunnies, facing in your direction. You embrace yourself in an attempt to salvage some of your dignity. Everything is on display… You’ve never been naked in front of anyone, let alone a group of strangers engaging in a never ending orgy outdoors. Enki stood out among the crowd of sweating, writing bodies, not only for how he had little to no body fat to speak of but because he wasn’t engaging in… affairs with any of the other participants. 

Your feet dragged against the cool grass, collecting the fallen mist that dewed on each individual blade. With your heart pounding in your ears, you waded into the crowd, stopping just shy of the dark priest that stood totally motionless and unflinching amidst all the debauchery happening around you. Your core tightened as his head tilted to the side ever so slightly, his long, wispy, grey-blonde hair fanning out slightly as you ducked your head in shame. 

Maybe you can’t do this after all… Perhaps you can manage on your own, until you find some more supplies… Some alcohol, some tobacco… Something other than this- 

“I- I think… This was a mistake. I- I can’t-” You struggled to keep your breathing steady as you turned to walk away, only to be stopped as Enki grabbed you by the wrist. You froze, heart leaping into your throat as he squeezed you with a surprising amount of force. 

“We must do this.” You shook your head as you pressed your thighs together. 

“N-No… I- W-What are you-?!” 

A surprised cry leaves your mouth as you are pushed from behind. Enki pins your wrist behind your back, while your other arm is pinned underneath your body. Panicked, you tried to crawl away from the priest but found yourself dragged backwards towards him. A few pleas escaped from your lips, but they all fell on deaf ears. Enki forced your legs apart with one of his boney knees and pinned the other against the back of one of your knees. 

“S-Stop this-!” 

“You selfish sow-! We will both die in this place if we do not do this!” There was a twinge of… something in his words. The priest’s touches against your skin were hesitant, jerking away from you as quickly as he made contact with your body, even when it came to touching you with his gloved hands. 

“Lay still and let this be finished quickly!” 

“N-NO-!” 

“Do you wish the Girl to hear your screams? Or everything else in this godsforsaken place, for that matter?!” He hissed under his breath. From the tilted eye holes of your mask, you could just barely make out the act of lovemaking taking place just in front of you. Your face twists up and a sob escapes your lips as your bare sex is grazed by the priest’s gloved fingertips. 

“N-No! Please-! I- I’m a- a virgin-!” You cried out. The dark priest paused for a moment, pulling away from between your legs as though surprised. Your heart throbbed in your ears as you strained them, your stomach dropping as he scoffed from under his mask. 

“Perhaps your use could have been in sacrifice… but it matters not. I need another shield in this place if I am to achieve my given goal…” 

No amount of pleading reached him. Your eyes snapped wide as you felt the blunt head of something hard and hot prod directly in between your legs. You gasped, hyperventilating as Enki shuddered and drew away from you suddenly. H-Has he changed his mind?! The relief you could have felt swiftly morphed into terror and agony as he began to force himself inside of you. 

“OW-! S-STOP-! I-IT HURTS-!” 

Your eyes snap wide as a burning pain splits in your core. I-It’s hot-! Tears welled in your eyes, catching on your cheeks due to the mask pressing harshly against your face. You are flat on your stomach, toes digging into the wet ground as you attempt to push the dark priest off your body. He hisses and grunts, pinning you down by your neck as he pushes into you with all his strength. As frail as he is, he has more than enough strength to take advantage of you in this position, and all you can do is sob as your body tries to reject the foreign object thrusting into it against your will. 

Enki grunts as he wrenches your arm further behind your back, twisting it so you cry out in pain. You gasp and choke on your breath every time he hits a certain spot inside of you, sobbing as it becomes easier and easier for him to use you with each passing moment. He- He took it from you… Just like that? Was it really that easy…? You manage to yank your arm from underneath you, blindly groping around for some way to pull yourself away from this utter humiliation and pain. 

“S-Stop… S-Stop i-it… O-Oww… Oww…!” Your voice cracked as Enki’s movements became sharper and less defined. A pair of legs catch your eye, and you reach out to them, weeping and hoping beyond hope that their owner would somehow save you. 

“P-Please-! PLEASE! H-HELP-! M-MMPFFH-?!” 

To your utter shock and horror, the masked man grabbed your chin and pulled your head up, not as a means to assist you, but so he could shove his erect cock into your partially exposed mouth. Instantly, you splutter, choking as you are gagged repeatedly, both from the sudden intrusion into your mouth and the pain in your lower abdomen. You screw your eyes shut, pressing your palm into his bare hip but he only manages to deepen his place in your mouth as Enki grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls you up to your knees. 

“M-MMPFH-! PFFF-! GLUGH-! GLUG-! URGH-!!!” 

Your shoulders droop as you are defiled from both the front and from behind. The pain in your legs was a constant, throbbing ache, but it was dulling gradually, until you began to feel something that was very nearly pleasant. The dark priest released your arm and only held you by your hair, pulling it taut as though the thought of touching you any further was a direct affront to him. You could only screw your eyes shut, breathing only when you had a precious few moments when a cock wasn’t shoved down your throat to the hilt. Your jaw was beginning to ache from strain, and a choked squeak left your mouth as the pressure that had been building in your stomach was suddenly reaching a breaking point.

Please make it stop! Sylvian… Alll-mer… PLEASE-! 

You tried to push the masked man in your mouth away from you, but it only deepened Enki’s thrust, and caused your back to arch and your knees to buckle. The priest had to hold your hair tightly, pulling it so harshly that you were forced upright. The other man grabbed the sides of your face and kept his pace steady, his cock hot and throbbing, much like Enki’s that was flush deep inside of your womanhood. You need to get away… This needs to stop… It has to stop! 

A soft pant behind you and a sudden stilling of the dark priest’s hips was your only cue that anything had happened. You almost didn’t feel it, as an incessant, buzzing pleasure had overtaken your nethers and caused your mind to become fuzzy and unfocused. Enki hisses behind you, quickly removing himself from you and leaving your newly deflowered hole leaking bloody cum. He shudders, quickly stepping away as he goes to redress himself. You don’t realize that he’s left, or that you are now bobbing your head up and down all on your own, no longer held in place by him or the man thrusting into your mouth. Large, warm hands touch your hips, and before you collect yourself enough to protest, you are penetrated once again. 

Enki was disgusted but he couldn’t deny that he was refreshed. All his pains gone, his hunger, fatigue, both mental and physical… Yes, praise Sylvian… He looked over to the pile of clothing that belonged to you and scoffed as he went to scan the rabbit’s copulating fields for you and why you hadn’t returned yet.

Huh… 

Well… Isn’t this a surprise? 

A virgin indeed… With her ass up and virginal blood still staining her thighs as she’s fucked from the front and back… Again. You weren’t even fighting it, anymore, allowing the masked men to fuck you as they pleased with no complaint whatsoever. Enki watches from afar, fingers holding his chin thoughtfully as he watches the man fucking you from behind sensually pound into you, once, twice, three times before pulling away. Thick globules of cum leak out of your used hole as you continue to bob your head up and down, slurping loud enough that Enki could hear it clearly before you were pulled onto the man’s lap. 

You didn’t fight it when he lined his cock up with your entrance and slowly sank your body down onto it. You slowly began to spear yourself down his shaft, taking another thick cock into your hand and guiding it to your mouth as a nearby man silently offered it to you. The man underneath you matched your movements, your breasts bouncing with every thrust until he cupped them both with his hands and pinched your nipples in between his fingers. 

Over and over again, you let them use you, until you were a mess of cum from head to toe. You said nothing as you eventually pulled yourself up, just as you did when you tried to clean yourself up and put your clothing back on. Enki made it no secret that he witnessed it all, and though the Girl embraced you just as she always did whenever you returned to her sight, you can’t help but to wonder if she distanced herself from you, as though she knew that you were no longer pure in the eyes of Alll-mer and instead tainted with the sin of Sylvian: lust. 

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @cherrysodalite, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine, @memoryofheather @horny-3

[alenseress]

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

[scribeofskyrim]

Middas, 1st of Heartsfire, 4E 201

Well, THAT could have gone better.

I’m getting ready to bed down in…

Northwatch Keep.

No, I’m not in the dungeon. I think this is the… Head Justicar’s room? (I have no idea how they rank people) Doesn’t really matter to me; it’s a real bed in a warm room.

The important thing is they’re all dead, and we’re not. Thorald’s on his way to officially join the Stormcloaks, and to take his brother Avulstein with him.

We also killed a dragon.

The day started out normally. We got up, had some breakfast, then broke camp. I found a safe path down the mountainside, and while it was a bit steep, it was easy enough to follow and we were able to wind our way down to the seaside with little trouble.

I noticed a shipwreck not too far off from where the path ended, and a spooky-looking castle on a small, rocky island in the distance. It was hard not to investigate the shipwreck. There could be all kinds of salvageable goods in there!

Lydia caught me looking, and said she could hear me thinking.

Damn, it’s not even been two weeks according to this thing, and she can already hear the gears turning.

It’s been just over two weeks since I got here. I was on that one ship for… A week, was it? I’m not exactly sure. I think it took two weeks to get to Skyrim from Cyrodiil.

I’ve been away from home the Capitol for a month.

A month ago I didn’t know how to swing an axe, or put on armor. I only knew two spells. I didn’t have a place to live aside from whatever room I could rent for the night.

Now I have a home! A home and a title with offers for more. I have more gold than I’ve ever seen.

And I have Lydia, and some sort of big, important destiny that I should probably take care of sooner rather than later.

So much has happened. Part of me wants to spend a week doing nothing once we get back, but I know me. I’ll relax for one day and then get antsy and want to go out and do… Things. A heist, or run a con or something. At least here I can clear out bandit dens and not worry about the guards coming after me.

Anyway - We passed a few horkers as we walked along the shoreline. Those things are HUGE! However big you think they are, you need to double it, at least. Lydia said that so long as we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us. We gave them a wide berth and kept walking. Luckily, the dog listens and didn’t go after them.

The wind coming off the sea is bitterly cold, and it wasn’t long before we were shivering again. We were also right near the Keep, so I built a fire behind a big rock that kept us reasonably out of sight of the guards so we could warm up, first.

Once I could feel my hands again, I told the dog to stay there, and Lydia and I walked up to the main gate.

The first guard wouldn’t even let me talk to anyone else! I decided to walk right past him, you know, maybe get someone’s attention, and we were attacked!

No weapons out, I just wanted to talk, and they decided that we had to die.

Not today.

We ran back out so we weren’t surrounded, and I started throwing fireballs at the archers while Lydia hacked her way through the foot guards. The one with the warhammer got raised as a zombie.

I’m pretty sure I saw the other Thalmor recoil when they realized their comrade with the really big weapon was coming after them. They shifted their attention from me to him right away.

It took a while, but we did manage to get rid of all the Thalmor outside the Keep. I made sure we had plenty of food and potions before we went inside to find Thorald.

Fighting inside the keep wasn’t that terrible, thankfully. We were able to draw them into hallways to fight, and that kept things even between Lydia and the zombies I summoned. There were several mages, though, but I was able to take care of them with Sparks and my enchanted axe.

I guess the Thalmor don’t train their mages to fight hand-to-hand. They fold like a bad hand as soon as you hit them.

We eventually found our way down into the prison level, and I saw a bank of levers to the right. I pulled them, figuring they would open the doors, and I was right. A bunch of prisoners ran out and past me, eager to escape. To my left was a wide archway, and it led to a torture chamber, with Thorald and a Thalmor Inquisitor.

He was a hard mage to fight, but I had quite a few magicka poisons and my Sparks to help me. He was able to use a Ward against some of my magic, but Wards can’t stop an axe to the face!

We freed Thorald, and he said that they were just trying to get him to confess to anything. Anything they could use against him or his family. Probably so they could go after his brother, too.

Figures. Someone makes trouble they don’t like, so they’ll lock them up first, then find a reason later.

Well, their tactic backfired, sort of. Thorald reasoned that since he was already accused of helping the rebellion, he might as well join the Stormcloaks. He couldn’t go back, because Whiterun is the first place they’d look for him, but it wouldn't be safe for Avulstein, either. He asked me to speak with his mother when I got back, and tell her, “To suffer the winter's cold wind, for it bears aloft next summer's seeds.”

He said that she’d know what it meant.

We left the Keep, and were immediately set upon by a dragon! Lydia and I jumped back inside, and peeked our heads out a minute later. Still there, but no Thorald. I didn’t see a body, so he probably ran the other way.

Smart man.

Remember when I said I was stupid?

Yeah, I’m still stupid.

I blame the rush of taking out a keep full of Thalmor, but I decided to go and fight the dragon. Lydia came with me, and we fought it in the shallows, nearly freezing to death as we did so. It was so hard to do – I almost died several times! We won in the end, and Lydia got to see firsthand what happened at the watchtower outside Whiterun.

That same strange light surrounded me, and while I didn’t get that Knowing that I did before, I did feel stronger, and more energized.

Lydia was definitely… Unnerved by it. She wanted to know what that was, and I explained that I absorbed the soul? At least, that’s what I had been told, and she sort of shrugged because honestly, it was the best explanation.

It was getting late and we were tired from all the fighting, so we decided to come back here to rest for the night. I went to get the dog, but it was nowhere to be found. I didn’t see any evidence that the dragon got him, so he probably ran off.

He was friendly enough. He probably followed one of the prisoners we freed, or Thorald. Dogs are smart like that, so I’m not worried.

So, we came back in here, and we’re getting ready to sleep. Maybe we can make it to Solitude before nightfall tomorrow.

---

Back | Next

[offbrand-deltatraveler]

After rewatching the first episode of Onegai My Melody’s first season,

I feel like I honestly may have misjudged Hiiragi

Don’t get me wrong, he is still an irredeemable villain. His actions towards Kuromi & Baku, Jun, even Sebastian at times, and basically everyone else he comes into contact with are inexcusable and he feels no remorse for them

But at the same time, he didn’t start out completely heartless. The Hiiragi that quit playing the violin and literally prepares booby traps for his fans that they realistically shouldn’t be able to survive isn’t the same Hiiragi that helped Uta back onto her feet time and time again, and gave a motivational speech to a group of aspiring musicians that he absolutely wouldn’t have had to if he didn’t want to. And with such a genuine tone of voice compared to his more clearly manipulative and detached side that shows in later episodes

When thinking about this, his amusement at the dream of that one kid in Season 2 (The one he speaks to before revealing that he was Bunny-Eared Mask) makes a lot more sense. With him talking about how that dream reminded him of times long past when he could afford to think about things like that. Even going as far as to say that he would be glad to be glad to be his friend if they were to meet again in the future

He’s not an irredeemable villain in the way of “Some people just don’t want to change”, but rather that it’s just too late for him. Whatever his deal is, it developed behind closed doors. One last unresolved problem that flew under everyone’s radars and turned him into the monster he is today. Which, maybe if someone did manage to catch onto it, they could’ve helped him be a better person. But that timeline just ain’t this one

Overall, Hiiragi wasn’t born evil. He is a genuinely semi-tragic character, or at least that’s what the show wants us to believe, we just can’t see it so easily because of how hard the themes of his story clash with the themes of the overall show. Meeting the Girls’ Dream Defense Squad’s optimism with unfortunate realism: Sometimes there are bad situations that are completely unsalvageable. Maybe they could have been salvaged had someone attempted to do so earlier, but that didn’t happen. Whoever that hypothetical someone could’ve been missed that chance, and now the only thing anyone can do is accept that there’s nothing they can do

Does this mean that everyone likes to think of the world in a way that’s too positive for their own good and that in reality everything is and will always be perpetually immutably terrible?

No. It just means that Hiiragi in particular is a bitch

[ace-does-stuff]

Sanctum

Summary: Trunks is gifted the terrible honor of regaling the tales of how important his Son Goten was, in turn, he ends up helping another Son Goten get his head clear and figure out how too bite the bullet

Warnings: Check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: I started rewatching GT with my little bro and my dad because hey, why not, and then this ended up in front of me.

"What was I like in your future?" Goten asked excitedly, and it really, really stung to hear him use 'was' instead of 'am.' He's sixteen now, he definitely understands the concept of death, and the idea that Trunks had the worst timeline.

Trunks gave a sigh, well, he did suppose that his Goten was probably dead at this rate. He can't help but bring a hand to brush through faded lavender locks, "Where do you want me too start?"

"Was he actually in your timeline, cause, mom told me that he wasn't," Goten asked, and those words forced the air from Torin's lungs.

"He almost didn't exist in my timeline, when my Chi-Chi died my own mother took it as her responsibility to try and salvage the unborn. She managed to do so just barely and then he was passed around and raised by each of the survivors a little bit. He did his best and we trained with each other under Gohans watch, helping around the lab while trying to not die. He was great," Trunks heaved a heavy sigh, shoulders dropping and gaze trained on the ground, "I don't know what else there is too tell you."

"Did he use weapons?" Goten asked, tone shifting to one of an interrogative nature, "How did he fight?"

Trunks nodded to the first question, "He had some spiked brass knuckles, he couldn't coordinate with an actual weapon. He was always more of a brawler than a speed fighter, he never learned instant transmission and he was bad at using his ki in projectile attacks. But I've never seen anyone bash open skulls like he could," He almost sounds wistful as he speaks, he represses anything intense from showing on his tone.

Goten gave a hum, "Do you think he's worried about you?"

"I," There's a pause, "I don't even know if he's still alive. Black is ruthless, unrelenting, if he gets a chance to kill either of us, he'll take it."

"He is worried about you," Goten said, and he said it so confidently that Trunks believed him entirely. He stared at Goten, he could lose himself in the obsidian depths of his eyes, it's missing the glaze of fire that's yet to be ignited. Trunks wonders what the spark will be for this Goten, for his Goten it was having Gohan die.

"You think?" Trunks asked as tugged at the hem of his jacket, a deep navy hue, leather fabric. He nearly lost it in the first fight with Black, when he brutally interrupted his first chance to go on a picnic. His first chance to breath easy, and he planned full well on enjoying it. But the rage Goten displayed right then and there, the sound of bones shattering and sinew snapping as he went absolutely feral? It almost made up for it even though it put a massive target on his head.

Goten nodded, "He fucking loves you man, he's definitely worried about you, he's not going down unless you're going with him," His speech is picking up pace the further he gets into it, his tone is growing agitated. He looks up from the ground and forces a smile, "I mean, I'd think so at least."

Trunks is merely stunned into silence at the sudden exposition into this Goten's head. A hundred doors just swung wide open and Trunks gets to look into all of them whether he likes it or not. He swallowed thickly, "No, you're right, he isn't gonna go down easily."

"Fuck no. He's me, he needs you to be there to hold his hand even when you're in the dirt," Goten said, voice petering off to a tone much quieter as he spoke until he mumbled.

Trunks stood up and held out a hand, "Wanna spar?" He isn't good at feelings, no one in his timeline is, but he does understand the universal language of fists.

Goten took his hand before standing up, "Yeah, let's go spar."

-/-/-/-

"You fight just like he does!" Trunks exclaimed as he caught both of Goten's fists.

The younger Saiyan was shaking, teeth grit and tail thrashing back and forth. He kept his eyes locked with Trunks' and watched for a single sign he'd move, for anything. There was none, they were locked mid-air and he couldn't escape. With an aggravated scream he tried to kick at the olders ankles, the hit was receptive and gave Goten just enough time to slide out of his grip.

His full body shuddered as he got in a stance, staggeringly rhythmic heaves up and down as he tried to breathe. His everything ached as he tried his hardest to form one Kamehameha with what little he had left in the tank. And Trunks? Trunks was fine, aside from the brief stumble here and there he was fully practiced in lethal combat. Goten knew that he was going easy, but it was pissing him off a bit more than it should've.

He dropped his hands, dispelled blue energy sparking up his arms, hair raising like static electricity. He launched himself at Trunks once more, the flat end of the blade raised to block the fist. And then the second. Fingers wrapped around razor sharp iron and gripped as hard as they could before wrenching away the blade. Shock showed with ease on the warriors face as a shoulder came into contact with his sternum, a full on ram down.

The impact on his spine and shoulders would've been enough to kill a human, he's pretty sure something is fractured. Crackling energy comes to the collar of his shirt and he stares up at Goten. The ravenette just looks wrecked, confused, absolutely ruined, he's almost crying.

"If I'm so much like him, then how come you're nothing like my Trunks?" Goten questioned, "How come he's nothing like you?"

Trunks doesn't even know what he's supposed to say.

"You fucking loved him, you loved your version of Goten," The ravenette managed to choke out.

Trunks still stays silent as the grip on his collar loosens and Goten rears back.

"How come my Trunks doesn't fucking love me?" His voice absolutely shattered as he dropped down next to the older Saiyan. He drew his knees too his chest, "What am I doing wrong?"

Trunks took a moment to try and breath, "To be fair, he's a fucking idiot."

"No he's not," Goten managed weakly.

"Yes, he is. I'm almost him, he is an oblivious fuck," Trunks said sternly, "Trust me, I am too."

"... I hate you," Goten spat bitterly.

"Yep," Trunks answered with, he forced himself onto his elbows and glanced warily for his sword. He couldn't see it, "Nice thing you did with the sword, not many can pull it off successfully."

Goten gives a hum, almost a laugh, "Thanks, my Trunks picked up swords since the last time you were here. Had too figure out how to deal with it so I wouldn't actually get hurt."

Trunks refrains from stating the obvious.

"He did too, didn't he?" Goten asked.

Trunks nodded.

"Of course he did," Goten said on a sigh.

"Look," Trunks said as he sat up, "If you want him too see you as anything other than a friend, you have too make the first move."

"But-" Goten tried too say.

"What do you think my Goten did?" Trunks asked.

"He made the first move," Goten said dejectedly.

"That he did, and then I could fucking see everything. I've seen you and Trunks, no matter how obvious you think you're being, he's oblivious, you got that? As receptive as he is to everyone else saying he looks good, he can't see you making the same comments," Trunks explained, "It's fucking shitty, and I know that I missed years because of how oblivious I was. My Goten didn't confess until what? A year before Black arrived? I was thirty, and I spent almost twenty of those years pining for him."

Goten just listens.

"I could've spent so much more time with him as more than just a friend, but I was too fucking oblivious, and now he might be dead while I'm here. Don't wait for your Trunks too notice," He took a heavy breath, "He won't notice unless you tell him directly."

"What do I even say?" Goten asked.

"My Goten said," Trunks paused, did he actually want too tell this to Goten? Would it be too personal? No, it wouldn't be, "He said I was all he had, he said he would already be dead if it weren't for me being there for him, he said that even before Gohan died he looked up to me more. I was his everything, he was my everything, I don't know what I'd do without him."

"Make it personal?" Goten asked.

Trunks nodded silently, partially afraid he'd start crying if he opened his mouth, but mostly aware he'll probably say something that could shatter this timeline if he goes any further. He reaches too the ground, and plucks at sprouts that have yet to blossom. He gives a small sigh, "I would've liked flowers, but they weren't enough left for it to be safe too pick a bouquet."

"You should bring him home some flowers, even if he is dead- which I know he isn't -it'd be nice to bury him with flowers," Goten said quietly.

"I'm gonna do that, any ideas on what he'd like?" Trunks asked, giving a gentle smile. Time travel humor. Often unnoticed by many, or maybe he has a twisted sense of humor.

"He'd like the smell of fresh cut lavender," Goten said.

[orlaithrose]

"Well," Orlaith said with a shrug as she next threw some balsamic vinegar into the pan - for depth she'd once read on a recipe- and watch it bubble into the meat, "If you're happy to take the win on the back of two shaky arguments that perhaps wouldn't stand up in court on the grounds that when I first knew you and couldn't stand it whenever you opened your mouth to speak but was attracted to how tall you were, then I suppose that's your prerogative. You can have this one, since admittedly I do like your height, even if I think it's less normal than my height."

Orlaith threw him a sheepish look. "Well now, please manage your expectations there. Even if this doesn't become an all day endeavour, that doesn't necessarily mean it'll turn out right. Like I said, terrible cook. Baking I can do. If you want a chocolate cake at two in the morning, I'm your girl, but this—" again, she stared dispiritedly into the pan— "is not my forte. So it'll either be shit and we'll have to get something from downstairs anyway, or since you've just revealed you know a few things, maybe you can salvage it." She looked at him hopefully, as though begging him to come and turn things around.

"That's all I need, really. The animals looked after and the pasta place to provide the food. It would be a disservice to my memory if the food at my funeral isn't the best it can be, and I will haunt you."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, if you're going to group me with a height group 'd be group with the six foot tall people s'all 'm saying," he said. "And 'm not one because 'm actually considered almost too short for the game. At least professionally." Tristan raised an eyebrow. He was usually the one that gave in to their bickering, though less so on the grounds of granting her her point and moreso that he was just got tired much quicker. He felt rather pleased with himself on this one. "Wow, we might have to start keeping a tally now of who wins which arguments."

At least Tristan knew her well enough for that. He'd like to think he knew her more than just her food habits, but if nothing else, he certainly had learned enough so the he didn't get accidentally bit (which might have been humorous if it weren't basically true). "You're right, better to get it right the first time otherwise this'll become an all day endeavor."

He looked surprised at that. Of course he knew her schedule might make it harder for her to cook and of course he knew she had grown up in a rich family where someone else could simply be hired to do the cooking, but he supposed in his mind her love of food also equated to being able to cook as well. "'M no chef or anything, but I could teach you a few things." Tristan had tended to cook more than eat out because it cost much less. As someone who grew up needing to economize, it was the cheaper avenue. "Once you know a few basics, you kind of realize it opens up a whole avenue of cooking all sorts of food."

Tristan couldn't stop the eye roll. He tried because it was a lot for one conversation. "Should've known." He shook his head. "Leave me a list for you funeral proceedings and 'll make sure it s'at least one to remember."

[rendy-a]

Idia househusband au

What kind of househusband is he?

Fluff plz

Fluff is what I do best.  Please enjoy and thanks for requesting!

There is a learning curve involved with adapting Idia to the househusband life.  When you were first married, Idia struggled to manage his new household duties.  Having lived a sheltered and wealthy life, he has never learned the proper way to manage things like laundry and vacuuming.  You would pat him on the back after a long day and tell him to stick with it, that you believed in him.  He takes heart at your faith in him and resolves to conquer his chores.  Over time, he has made an impressive array of gadgets to do the housework for him.  Now, he hardly works at all.  Don’t worry thought, that isn’t time wasted but time he can devote to you! (and anime)

Idia is still big into gaming, which leads him to keep unusual hours.  If you feel like trying to stay up late with him, he’ll put a comfy reclining chair in the game room for you.  Go ahead and watch him play for as long as you are able.  Some days you fall asleep in the chair only to wake up with Idia curled up on your lap.  It was too far to the bed plus…he doesn’t want to sleep in there without you.

Idia likes keeping images of you he gleans from the various monitors around your house.  Not in a creepy way!  He just can’t help but think of that time you smiled at him when he told you he made dinner himself.  Or when he held your hand that time you were sick and you told him that he was the best. (Him!)  These small, soft expressions are collected for emergency purposes.  The emergency being whenever he gets lonely waiting for you to get home.  He’ll set his monitor into slideshow mode and take in all your tender expressions to remind himself that you’ll be coming home to him soon.

Dinner was burnt.  You said you’d be home hours ago and that is when dinner was ready.  There is only so much even highly advanced cooking robots like the ones Idia makes can do for holding something warm for three extra hours.  When you stepped into the house, you could tell by the smell of char wafting from the kitchen and no Idia to greet you at the door, that you’d messed up. 

You found him in his game room, legs pulled up on the chair with his headphones on.  ‘So, pretty upset,’ you thought.  You wait for a moment to give him a chance to find a place in his game to stop so you can talk.  After a while, you realize he doesn’t intend to stop.  “Sorry,” you get out lamely, “There was a big project and I had to stay late.”  He doesn’t stop playing but, before you go, you see one eye flicker to observe you as you go. 

You head to your room and set your things down before hopping into the shower.  You feel terrible after both working a long day and disappointing your spouse.  You really need a hot shower to de-stress.  After a good amount of time, you finally resolve yourself to turning off the steaming water and heading down to the kitchen to see what you can salvage from the ruined dinner.  To your surprise, on the table is a steaming bowl of fresh ramen waiting for you.  A cooking bot approaches you to ask what toppings you’d like added.  You give the robo-chef your order and sit down to wait.  You set your arms on the table and lay your head on top of them, waiting for your dinner to be ready.  You smile softly, looking at the ramen bowl waiting.  A peace offering if you ever saw one.  Maybe, after dinner, it would be good for you to make an offering of your own?

You knock on the doorframe of the gaming room and Idia casually looks up at you.  Or he tries to but only succeeds in nearly falling out of his chair.  “Wha wha what are you wearing?” he stammers.  “Oh, this little number?  Just something I picked up from that Con we went to last month.  I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”  His hair is rapidly turning from the standard blue to a more flushed pink.  “Commander Lightning!  From the Space Hero Brigade anime.” You smile at him seductively before adding the final piece.  “I thought I’d spice it up just a touch.”  Idia looks at the cat ear headband you’d just donned before setting his controller aside.  This was a limited time event, if he’d ever saw one.

Bonus: The next day, Idia shyly hands you the lunch his robot chef has prepared and gives you a small kiss as you head out the door.  He waves at you from behind the door until you are out of sight.  Then he lets out a sigh of relief and closes the door, blocking out the normal world for another day.  Now, straight to his computer; he has things to do!  He pulls up the footage from last night.  There.  That is the shot he needs.  You are at the table with your head on your hands looking at the bowl of ramen with a soft smile on your face.  Some people might not be able to see it, but Idia knows that when you gaze at that bowl of ramen, what you are actually looking at is him.  And that look on your face whispers, I love you.  He saves the image to his file.  That will get him through another day.

[lem0nshark-writes]

"The City of Ruins"

Thranduil x Male (elf) Reader

Word count: 2344 Summary: Lost lovers reunite 🌙☄

Warnings: angst at first then fluff w/ smut later on, the begining of smut is marked tho so don't worry, reader's a bottom

🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄🌙 ☄

After the battle for Erebor you stayed behind in the city of Dale, it wasn't on your own accord, no. If it were up to you you would have returned to Mirkwood with your king, but you were banished from your home.

Such events came to be because you defied your king's orders to fall back and leave the dwarves to deal with orcs on their own. But you weren't gonna let your friends die, you weren't gonna let them fight on their own, even if it meant going against your king's will.

So you stayed behind, betrayed look on your king's face coming to haunt you more often than you'd like to admit. But you knew you did the right thing.

Many moons passed since the battle and you managed to fix yourself a home, it wasn't much, just a lower floor with a fireplace and a spot to lay on, but it's all you could muster up from the city in ruins.

You took it upon yourself to slowly clean and build around yourself, salvaging what you can of the city. And short trips to Laketown took care of your need for food and liquids.

It was a decent life, but terribly horribly lonely.

Your only friend being your thoughts and a bittersweet longing for your rín meleth*.

(*crowned love)

You feelings didn't come as surprise to you, they've been lingering for a while now but you've never acted on them, fearing he wouldn't feel the same and you'd cross a line. And besides, you were just a regular elf, no royalty, why would you ever be a match for him.

Dark stormy clouds gathered around the mountain and the city of Dale, heavy rain moments from being released.

You rushed to your small home in the heart of the city, arms full of twigs and branches, racing the time against the rain. And you made it in in the last second because just as you closed the door the sky came crashing down in big droplets.

You let out a sigh of relief and made your way to the fireplace, placing the newbrought wood at the side of it and started the night's fire. After making sure it's well lit and strong, you moved the remaining wood on the side for later.

You got up and took off unnecessary layers of clothes and your boots as the room started to fill up with warmth, setting them on their spot near the door.

Fixing your hair up in a messy bun you sat down on your bed and just as your were about to lay down for your daily rest, an unexpected knock on the door broke the comfortable silence mixed in with the crackling of the fire.

You looked up at the door and slowly got up, wondering who could it be as no guests announced themselves for the following days.

Creaking the door open your eyes widened in surprise. There in front of you, soaked in rain head to toe, stood none other than your ex king.

Your shock was soon pushed away by reminiscence of betrayal and old memories that came flooding your thoughts.

"How could you do that to me?.." pained expression pushed it's way through on kings face, trying to overcome the angry one that he tried so hard to keep.

"I already told you, but I guess you've gone deaf on your ears, I wouldn't and I won't let my friends die because you were too much of a coward to fight!" you started slow and calm but by the end of the sentence got louder and angrier, fire of the old argument rekindling fast.

"I am no coward! I did that to save the lives of our people! To save your life!" he growled back.

Anger gushed through your body but you said nothing, staring at his icy blue eyes.

"You might be-You maybe were my king, but my friends' lives are more important than your orders," you turned away, walking deeper into the house.

Thranduil followed, doors closing after him, and looked around a bit, feeling bad seeing how you lived since he threw you out of your home.

"You're so stubborn.." he sighed heavily, "What if something happened to you? What would I do then? What would I do without you??"

You turned around slightly and looked over at him. Worry of past events and what-ifs ridden across his face mixing with anger towards your stubbornness.

"You did just fine.." you muttered almost inaudibly, looking back away to hide your tears, old feelings starting to become too much.

He looked at you in shock for a few moments before regaining his ability to speak, "What… You think I enjoyed banishing you?? You think I enjoyed returning home without you and spending months an months with you nowhere in sight?? You think I like that?? .. When people ask me where you are?? .. Not seeing your face ever day??…"

"You think my soul isn't tearing into pieces without my meleth.." he looked at you, sadness twisting his face into a pained expression.

Your eyes widened at the last part and you turned around swiftly, standing there with your mouth agape for a few moments before speaking, " . . . Your meleth?.."

Thranduil's eyes widened a bit as well after he realized what he had said but then closed slowly as his expression melted into one of saddened agreement.

"You loved me?.." you asked softly.

He nodded, ". . . I still do.."

"Why didn't you say anything?.." you took a few steps towards the taller male, closing the gap between you two almost completely, and searched his eyes with your own.

"I feared you wouldn't feel the same.. and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you if that were true.." he finally gazed back at you.

"Silly king," you muttered through a slight smile forming on your face, " I loved you for hundreds of years, and I still do," you took his hands in yours and held them to your chest.

At your words his face lit up like forest in spring waking up from a long winter dream and he leaned I swiftly, locking his lips with yours, something he's been yearning to do for so long.

Without thinking you returned the kiss, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace and he did the same, his strong arms washing away all the worries and making you feel like the whole world around you disappeared.

"Return home with me my meleth, rule as a king by my side, let's never part again," he whispered into your neck.

Your lips spread into a warm smile as you gazed upon his eyes, "I'd like that very much."

((smut continuation from here on))

The two of you settled down on a crapet by the fireplace, setting your journey back to Mirkwood for tomorrow, when the storm hopefully calms down.

You forced the king to take off the outer layer of his clothes to put to dry by the fire and he undid his wet hair too, allowing it to dry easier on the warm air.

The two of you rested in each other's arms for a while, letting the fire warm you both up as you chatted exchanging some old stories and talks of your lingering feelings.

He smiled down at you, arms wrapped around your body as you rested your back against his chest. You looked up at him, returning the smile, "What?"

"Nothing. I just am wondering why we didn't confess sooner," he placed a warm kiss onto your jaw.

"Me too," your eyes instantly closed as he did that, "I guess we are two completely oblivious idiots," you added with a chuckle.

He let out a chuckle as well, "That we are." He grinned and kissed you deepy, passion spilling out from his lips.

You smiled into the kiss and returned just as passionately, cupping his cheeks in the process.

The bigger elf moved slightly, allowing your bodies to face each other, before wrapping his arms around you again.

The two of your kept on kissing, the kiss turning from slow and passionate to yearning and with a lot more tongue.

His hands started roaming your body and soon enough your vest was off, and shortly after your shirt too.

At the motion you parted your kiss and the two of you exchanged a knowing look. And just as quickly his lips were back on yours and your hands now undoing his top.

Once you won the battle with his shirt he moved his lips to your neck, tracing kisses and licks before the same turned into bites and sucks, leaving hickeys behind that ended up littering your neck and your chest.

You moaned on his actions, running your fingers through his hair and giving it a gentle thug on each bite he left on your soft skin.

He moved his attention to your lower stomach, leaving warm kisses there as he slipt your pants off with a single swift move.

You looked up at him, the two of you locking eyes, as you bit your lower lip. His gaze trailed around your body, taking in every bit of it, "Y/n.. you're beautiful.." he said, lust-laced desire dripping off his words.

The tone he spoke in made you shiver under his touch. He gave you a deep kiss and then proceeded to take his pants off too and soon enough both of yours undergarments followed.

He laid you down and got on top of you, kissing you deeply once again.

Your eyes stayed locked with his abs and, well, lower parts, being slightly taken aback by how good he looks.

He quickly caught up on your thoughts and smirked, making you in return blush like mad.

"Like what you see?" Thranduil smirked at his smaller lover who by the looks of it was about to burst into flames from the redness his cheeks reached caused by his words and that smug smirk Thranduil proudly wore.

He chuckled at his lover's sudden shyness and let his hand trail to his already errect memeber.

You gasped softly at the feel of his fingers on you and your eyes closed from pleasure, hand rushing to your mouth to silent the escaping moans.

Thranduil's hand reached for yours and moved it from your mouth, pinning it above your head, "I like your moans, don't hide them," he smirked and left kisses across your yaw and neck once again, as his hand worked magic bringing you all the way to the edge before abruptly stopping.

You looked up at him in wonder, unpleased and yearning for the pleasure to come back. He smirked softly at you and pulled you by your thighs closer to himself and his face went down.

You looked up at what he was up to and gasped in pleasure when you felt his slick tongue move against your hole. You fell back and your eyes rolled in sweetness as his tongue made it's way into you. It twisted and turned inside you, sending waves of pleasure all throughout your body, his hands squeezing your butt cheeks as they held onto them.

Once again you were on the edge of an orgasm and once again he pulled away just as you were about to reach it.

You whined slightly this time, pouting at his repeated action.

"Shhhhhh you'll like what comes next better-," he smirked at you and sat himself up again, grabbing at the sides of your thighs as he positioned himself at your now wet entrance.

You propped yourself up just enough to reach his lips and kiss him deeply, which he gladly returned, one of his hands reaching up to cup your cheek.

"Ready?" he smiled at you warmly as you two held your faces close to one another. You gave him a soft nod, bracing yourself for what's about to come.

He slowly started pushing in, giving you enough time in-between each little push to adjust to him in you, moans rolling off your tongue along with rugged breaths.

Once he was all the way inside you he kissed you deeply, distracting you from any lingering pain till it all melted away into burning pleasure.

Holding at your sides he slowly started moving his hips pushing his big length in and out of you, at first slowly before picking up the pace. Moans streamed out of both of your mouths mixed up with muffled breathing between kisses.

"Ahhhh hhhhhngggg…" moans left your mouth one after the other as he picked up the pace even more, hand back on your ass and squeezing it.

Your finger nails raked his back in pleasure causing him to moan your name out between paced breaths, "Y/n… ahhh-."

You moved your lips to his neck, leaving the tall elf an even bigger moaning mess as you left hickey upon hickey against his skin.

He slapped your ass in the moment as he pushed in even deeper, reaching that sweet sweet spot, making you moan his name out even louder than before. He picked up on that and started hitting that spot repeatedly with even greater strength making you melt completely underneath him.

He could tell you were very close and so was he, and with a few more strong thrusts both of you came hard, moaning each other's names and spilling, you on his and yours stomach and him inside of you.

Panting he brought himslef down and placed a loving kiss on your lips, exhausted with pleasure and still riding your orgasm you returned.

He gently pulled out and plopped down next to you, pulling you close into his warm embrace.

You two stayed like that for a while, hugging and unable to reach your breaths.

Once your breath returned to your lungs you snuggled up into his chest and kissed his yaw, "I love you my king."

He smiled down at you and hugged you tighter, placing a long kiss onto your lips, "I love you too meleth."

[cetaitlaverite]

What I Always Say

a belated christmas gift, for you, @sergeant-spoons merry christmas!!! i hope you love it <3

pairing: don malarkey x oc

word count: 10k (i got a bit carried away)

synopsis: it’s christmas eve and both of their flights have been cancelled due to the snow. everything is a disaster. but just when clara thinks things can’t get any worse, the universe finds ways to surprise her. but perhaps, from some angles, this christmas isn’t all bad. maybe there’s someone who can salvage it for her.

***

“Any news?” Don asked, eyes hopeful above the lid of her laptop as she clicked refresh over and over again. 

Clara tried her very best to keep the tears stinging in her eyes back. She would not cry. Because that would be pathetic. And she had worked much too hard building a reputation for herself in this new city as someone who was happy and positive and optimistic to ruin it all in one fell swoop by crying. 

“No,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes glued to her screen resolutely. But she needn’t have been so concentrated; she’d refreshed the page at least twenty times in the last minute and it had always loaded back up the exact same as it had been before, with that one terrible, terrible word printed in red where her gate number should have been. 

DELAYED.

“What about you?” Clara asked, once she had a little better of a hold on her emotions. She sniffled as quietly as she could manage before peering down at Don where he was camped out on the floor at her feet; the airport was packed full of people on their way home for the holidays, it seemed, and, probably, a great deal of them wouldn’t be getting there. Herself and Don included. Oh, god, this was just horrible. The whole situation was a disaster. It was Christmas Eve! She should have been at home baking cookies by now, clad in her fluffiest pyjamas and sipping hot chocolate which was more marshmallow than anything else, dancing to whatever cheesy Christmas classics the local radio station was playing and silently critiquing the choices. 

“Just says ‘delayed’,” Don informed her after a beat, presumably wherein he refreshed the webpage pulled up on his smartphone. He sighed loudly but when she glanced over at him he was smiling - only a little, a tiny smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, but it counted. And why the hell was he smiling right now?

Clara didn’t ask. As she mindlessly clicked refresh once more a new flash of text caught her eye. Her eyes darted over to it immediately and her heart was bold enough to leap with hope, only to fall right down to the floor and roll out among the piles of her bags and Don’s limbs. 

The tears returned and this time there was nothing she could do to stop them. “It’s been cancelled!” she cried. Her voice was wobbly and strained and full of sorrow and she didn’t care, because her flight had been cancelled and she wouldn’t be going home for Christmas and it was snowing so hard outside she didn’t even know if she’d be able to make it back to her apartment. She was going to spend Christmas in a goddamn airport and she was just as furious about it as she was devastated.

Don turned around lightning fast upon hearing her despair. “Hey, hey, hey,” he attempted to soothe, resting both of his hands on her knees. “It’s alright.”

“No,” she snapped, because she just couldn’t help it, “it’s not alright. I’m going to spend Christmas Day in a goddamn airport because I can’t get home and I can’t get back to my apartment and I’m so mad about it that I’m fucking crying!”

Don wanted to laugh so bad. It was terrible, because she was clearly genuinely distressed about the entire situation, but she was so cute sitting there like that, with her hands in fists on her hips and her cheeks puffed out and her eyebrows furrowed, that he couldn’t help it. And though he counted himself among the people who knew her the best, he’d never known her to be like this. Usually, Clara was all sunshine, smiley and joyful and polite; her preferred brand of humour was dad jokes, which Don secretly thought was both the stupidest and most endearing thing ever, and nothing ever seemed to get her down. But now? Now she was like a different person entirely. She was pushing back tears with all of her might but it wasn’t really working, and she wiped furiously at the few which dared to slip out of devastated brown eyes and track down flushed cheeks. Her hands were shaking in their fists and her feet were fidgeting where they rested on the floor behind where he was sitting, and the whole thing was so surprising, so unexpected, that he wanted to laugh. He also wanted to take her into his arms and smooth back her messy hair and whisper to her that everything was going to be okay, but that was not something he was ever going to do - whilst he was not a proud man, he would like to return home with some shreds of his dignity intact, thank you very much, and being rejected by the single most angelic creature on the planet because he’d been arrogant enough to try it on with her was not something he wanted to experience for the holidays. When he’d fallen hard on his ass during ice skating last weekend had been perfectly painful enough. 

“We’ll get a hotel,” Don suggested quietly. He frowned when she covered her face with her hands, clearly trying very hard not to sob. “Hey, Clara, it’s alright.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, her voice muffled through her hands. “This’ll be the first Christmas I’ve ever not been at home.”

Don let her have a moment to come to terms with the situation. Meanwhile, he opened up a new tab on his phone and searched for the next flight to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. All of them were cancelled. It didn’t look optimistic.

“Is your flight cancelled too?” Clara asked in a small voice once she’d had a moment to process the disaster. She lowered her hands and looked at Don with wide, tearful eyes. 

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. All cancelled.”

Clara looked down into her lap. “Should we go find a hotel then?” She shut her eyes and scoffed bitterly but didn’t say anything else. 

“Yeah,” Don replied quietly. He locked his phone and tucked it back into his pants pocket, then pushed himself to his feet and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He waited patiently while Clara packed her laptop away and got her coat back on, taking the time to look around for any signs pointing them in the direction of the airport hotel. He found one just as she informed him that she was ready, and after giving her a smile he led them towards it. 

They walked all the way to the hotel in silence, focusing all of their energy on wheeling their suitcases behind them as they zigzagged through the crowds and not losing each other in the hubbub. When they reached the hotel lobby they found it heaving. It seemed they weren’t the only people who’d decided to set up camp for the night. 

“Excuse me,” Don called to one of the women working behind the desk. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise but that wasn’t a problem; he’d never struggled with being loud. “We need a room!” he went on when he had her attention.

The woman scoffed. “Yeah, you and everyone else who decided to try to fly home on Christmas Eve.”

“Have you got a room free or not?” Don called back, not entertaining her remark.

“Hey, buddy, get to the back of the line!” said the man in front of him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark eyes partly concealed beneath thick dark eyebrows, but Clara didn’t seem to care. She stepped up to him until they were toe to toe and said something to him, and a moment later he stepped away. 

The woman behind the desk spoke, drawing Don’s attention back to her. “We have a double room still free on the third -”

“We’ll take it,” he declared. He filled out the paperwork she handed him and paid for the room, with Clara in his ear the entire time promising to pay him back, before they finally found themselves navigating the quiet hotel hallways, on their way to room 312.

“This is it,” Clara said once she found it. She turned back to Don, pointing at the door, and his heart squeezed when he caught sight of her smile. 

He got the door open in record time after that, and allowed her into the room first before shutting the door behind him.

“Oh.”

Don turned around. “Oh?” he asked. 

“When she said double room I thought she meant…”

She’d thought she’d meant two beds. But here they were, in their hotel room, with what was not, in fact, two beds, but one. One double bed. One double bed with rose petals on the sheets and heart-shaped decorations everywhere. 

“Oh,” Don said as he took it all in. 

“Oh,” Clara agreed. 

“Well,” Don said, picking up one of the heart-shaped room service menus on the desk, “at least it’s festive?”

“For Valentine’s Day!” Clara exclaimed. She dropped her bags and collapsed into the small armchair by the window. “Why is everything going wrong?” And now she was going to cry again. This was all like some sick joke from the universe. First her flight is delayed, then it’s cancelled, then she cries - in the middle of a crowded airport, no less - and then the only hotel room available is for couples. Yes, this must have been a sick prank pulled by someone with no soul. If she was with anyone else she might have laughed and she definitely would have brushed it off and got on with it, but with Don? Oh, it was cruel. It was more than cruel, actually, it was spiteful. Because her traitorous heart wanted nothing more than to spend this horrible night curled up in his arms in a comfy double bed, while her logical mind knew that he would be repulsed by the idea, would have to reject her and crush her dignity and then the friendship would be ruined.

“Aw, come on, Clara,” Don said gently. He, too, had dropped his bags, and he came to kneel on the floor in front of the chair, resting his hands back on her knees. “It ain’t so bad,” he attempted to soothe. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, I don’t mind. At least it’s carpeted.”

“No, you won’t,” Clara argued. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Like hell you will.”

“I will!” she insisted. 

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will!”

“Clara.” He groaned, frustrated. 

“Don,” she replied, resolute. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he decided, shaking his head and meeting her eyes once more. “How about dinner?”

“I don’t want dinner.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

Clara scoffed, but she knew he was right. She was throwing a tantrum. She didn’t want to be stuck in California in this couples’ hotel room with the man she loved who she knew for a fact didn’t love her back, she wanted to be at home in Florida with her sister and her mom and their golden retriever, Lucky, baking cookies and getting snuggly ready for the big day. 

“I always have cookies and hot chocolate on Christmas Eve,” she mumbled after a beat. 

Don smiled. In fact, his entire being brightened. His eyes lit up and his shoulders lifted and he grasped onto the rope she’d offered him with both hands. “Cookies and hot chocolate,” he repeated.

She nodded.

“Sounds perfect,” he declared. “Let’s go find a coffee shop.”

It was not fair that he was this angelic. Not fair at all. His flight had been cancelled, too, and he also had a family to get home to, and yet here he was, doing his best to make her smile. Her heart ached as she met his warm brown eyes, eager and excited, and she wanted more than ever to reach for his hands and tug him close and burrow into him. She bet he was warm and that he smelled nice and that he gave the best hugs. She bet he would make her feel like she was home. 

“Really?” she asked quietly, pushing all of those thoughts away. 

Her eyes were so hopeful, her voice so small and dejected, that Don felt his heart crack clean down the middle. How badly he wanted to scoop her up and cradle her to his chest, rock her from side to side until she felt like the world was a happy place again instead of a sad one. She should never frown and she should especially never cry. And if he had to trek out into the snow and freeze his ass off trying to find a coffee shop which was still open at 5pm then he would do it. If it got her to smile then he would do anything. 

“Would you like that?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

He smiled and patted her knee where his hand had been resting on it. “Then let’s go.”

He looked up the locations of some local coffee shops online before they headed out into the blizzard, and they went to three before they found one which was still open. It was cosy and quaint, small and homely, and when they walked inside a little bell jingled above the door while a blast of hot air hit them both in the face. 

Don went to order while Clara secured them a table - a circular table for two nestled in a corner by the Christmas tree, with a heating vent set into the ceiling above them. The two chairs were armchairs, hers red plaid and his green, and she settled back into hers with a sigh.  

Don flopped into the chair opposite a little while later. “He’s bringing it all over,” he said by way of explanation when Clara found him empty handed. He inclined his head in the direction of the counter, behind which was a man, likely around Don and Clara’s age, grinning to himself as he made their order. 

“He seems nice,” Clara remarked softly as she watched him work. He had one of those kind faces, one that made you want to trust him, and he was humming along to the Christmas song playing on the radio.

Don looked back over at him, too, and chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. Nice guy,” he acknowledged. “He kept saying, ‘That’s what I always say,’ after everything I said.”

Clara looked back at Don with a small laugh. “What?”

Don grinned. “No shit,” he insisted. “I ordered your hot chocolate and he said, ‘Nothin’ like hot chocolate on Christmas Eve, that’s what I always say.’ Then I ordered my coffee and he said, ‘Coffee’ll always keep ya warm, that’s what I always say.’ Then I ordered the cookies and he said, ‘Can’t go to a coffee shop without trying their cookies, that’s what I always say.’”

Clara giggled, looking over at the worker with new eyes. “Well,” she said as she watched him, “at least he was being nice. That’s what I always say.”

Even though the joke wasn’t all that funny, Don downright cackled nonetheless. He tipped his head back and laughed into the ceiling, and the sound chased sunlight through Clara’s veins. 

He was so alive, she thought, marvelling at his beauty. She’d never met anyone who seemed to live as much as he did. Anyone else would need to jump out of an airplane to get get as much enjoyment as he got out of a good cup of coffee. She loved that about Don, and loved how infectious his love of life was. When she’d first moved to California and was still deciding who she wanted to be she’d toyed with a lot of ideas, but she’d decided on being smiley because of Don. When they first met on her first day at the radio station he’d stuck out a hand and declared his name with the widest grin she’d ever seen, and she’d immediately felt safe. She’d felt seen and accepted, and she hadn’t even known him back then, and she’d thought that it would be magical if she could make someone else feel like that, too.

It was exhausting, though, she’d come to find. Being that joyful and that alive took effort and energy which she wasn’t used to expending. Probably, that was why her mask was slipping now. Don might have paid witness to her brief moments of rest now and again but he was seeing her as she really was now, when she was tired and irritated and frustrated and upset. How he managed to take everything on the chin and shrug his shoulders she would never know, and forever be envious of, but she didn’t have it in her. She was a fraud in that way. A fraud who had fooled even herself into believing she might contain even half as much happiness as he did. 

The man who had prepared their order skirted around the counter and approached them with a tray, and he set out their mugs and plates with practised precision. “There ain’t no better place to be on Christmas Eve than a coffee shop, that’s what I always say,” he told them once he was finished, standing upright once more. “Enjoy the cookies.”

“We will,” Don answered. He waited for the man - whose name tag read Frank - to get back behind the counter before he turned to Clara and said, “Nothing like having a catchphrase, that’s what I always say.”

Clara laughed and Don’s smile widened. He pushed the plate with two cookies on it towards her. “I didn’t know which cookies you have at home, so I got chocolate chip and double chocolate. I’ll get you more of whichever one you prefer.”

“Don,” Clara said with an almost dreamy sigh. He watched as her eyes went soft as she looked down at the plate on the table before her, and his heart clenched before it began to race. She made even the simplest things seem beautiful, he thought. A plate of cookies might have been nothing to anyone else, but she was looking at it like they were offering her three wishes. He wondered if she knew how even just being in her presence made the world feel infinitely more lovely. He hoped she did. Every time they were together he drank up her energy like water, like he’d been stranded in a desert and didn’t know when he’d next find a reservoir, and still it would never be enough. He wanted to live in her presence, bask in her sunlight forever, but he pushed that thought away; she didn’t want him like that, didn’t like him like that, so he would have to be content with the time she did allow him to spend with her. Even that much was generous. 

“What would you be doing if you were at home right now?” Clara asked, breaking off a piece of the double chocolate cookie and lifting it to her mouth. 

Don opened his mouth to reply, pleased that she’d asked him about home, before she gasped and exclaimed, “Yummy!”

Don laughed.

Her cheeks flushed but she didn’t apologise. He loved that about her, too; even when she was embarrassed, she still didn’t apologise for who she was. And he was glad for it, because he found everything she did so terribly endearing that he sometimes thought she must have planted magnets in both of their clothes, for he felt almost inhumanly drawn to her. 

“The question still stands,” Clara said once Don’s laughter had settled a little. “But you should try a cookie, too.”

Don did try a cookie - and it was, as she had declared so enthusiastically, ‘yummy’ - and between bites he explained his family’s Christmas Eve traditions. Usually, he explained, he’d be helping to put the presents beneath the tree and then place the star on top. They would all sit down to have dinner - usually a casserole or something to that effect - before they’d each pick one gift from under the tree to open early. Don told her that he always picked the gift which looked like it was wearable, and last year he struck gold in picking a gift which contained a pair of new pyjamas. He slept in them that night and they were now his favourites - a gift from his mom, he said - but usually the gift he picked for Christmas Eve turned out to be socks. 

“So,” Don said when he’d finished speaking, “besides having hot chocolate and cookies, what do you normally do on Christmas Eve?”

“We bake the cookies,” Clara explained, somewhat defensively, and Don raised his hands in mock surrender just to make her laugh. “And we drink the hot chocolate at the same time. And we play the local radio station and listen to all the Christmas songs, which are usually terrible but we don’t mind, and then we all sit down to watch White Christmas.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Don declared. His eyes were alight with mischief, like he knew this would outrage her. 

“What?!” Clara exclaimed, outraged. “You’ve never seen White Christmas?!”

“Never.”

“Don!”

“Clara!”

“You have to watch it!” she exclaimed. “If it’s on Netflix then we’ll watch it together when we get back to the room.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Don replied, grinning. 

Clara and Don remained in the coffee shop for a long while after that - until it closed, in fact - talking and laughing and eating so many cookies they felt sick afterwards. When Frank finally asked them to leave so that he and the other workers could clean up - “The sooner we clean up, the sooner we can get home, that’s what I always say!” - Clara and Don exchanged a look, then had to look away before they laughed, then pulled their coats back on and headed back out into the cold. 

Somehow, and she had no idea how, Don had managed to raise Clara’s spirits. He had managed to work miracles. Before, she’d felt so sad she might just have cried her way through the rest of the night. Now, she followed him through the snow with a smile on her face and, when he was distracted telling her about the gift he’d forgotten to buy for one of his sisters, Clara bent down and scraped up some snow, then pelted it at the back of his head. 

“What the fuck?!” Don exclaimed when the snowball made impact. He smacked a hand against the back of his head and whirled around, not registering quite yet what had happened, before his eyes found Clara, doubled over and laughing, and he came to understand his situation. “Oh, it’s on,” he vowed. 

Clara bent back down to make a new snowball as quickly as she could but her laughter slowed her down. Before she had even stood back upright a snowball hit the side of her face, and she shrieked, hastily rubbing it away. “It’s so cold!”

The next instant, she threw her new snowball at Don with all of the force she could muster and threw herself back down to the ground to form another, then was hit by two consecutively in her distraction. “No!” she cried. 

They threw snowball after snowball at each other before running out of good snow on this side of the street. The both of them ran further up the street, collapsing to their knees to form their next weapons, but when Clara jumped up to throw her next lot of ammunition at Don her ankle gave way.

“Oh shit!” Don shouted. He was with her in an instant. “What happened?”

All of the air had left Clara’s lungs in one great big gust. She couldn’t seem to get any oxygen in, was gasping and sputtering as she tried to breathe.  

“Clara?” Don asked, a note of urgency in his voice. 

“Did I snap it?” she asked when she finally had enough breath to speak. “Did I snap my ankle?”

Very carefully, Don uncurled her leg and drew down her sock. Clara hissed anyway. 

“No,” he eventually decided. “You didn’t snap it. You probably just tore a ligament or something.”

“Oh my god, it hurts so bad,” Clara said as the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain started to rush in. “God, this day is so fucking shitty!” Just when it was starting to be okay it just had to go and get bad again. Not only was she in pain, she was embarrassed, terribly embarrassed, that she’d fallen right in front of him and now she didn’t think she’d be able to get up without his help. So stupid! How stupid could she get?

“Hey, no, it’s alright,” Don reassured her. He rolled her sock back up and eased both of her legs out in front of her. “It’s not so bad. When we get back we’ll just elevate it and we’ll put some ice on it and you’ll be good as new come tomorrow.”

“Oh my god, Don, it hurts,” she complained, hearing him but not knowing how else to reply to his kindness. And there were the tears again, back with a vengeance. “And I can’t believe I fell in front of you!”

Don laughed and then coughed to cover it. He tried his best to hide his smile. “It’s alright.”

“All of the people in the coffee shop probably saw me!” Clara persisted, sniffling and crying and trying not to sob. Her ankle was throbbing, white hot flashes of pain shooting up her leg, and the snow beneath her was starting to hurt where she was sitting in it. Her head was starting to pound and her stomach starting to turn. “I’m so embarrassed,” she lamented, even when her head began to spin. 

“Hey, come on,” Don said, and though she could hear the smile in his voice she didn’t say anything about it. “It’s not embarrassing.”

Clara clapped a hand over her mouth, and then she started to gag. 

“Okay!” Don exclaimed, getting out of her way and easing her onto her other hip. “Lean over, there you go,” he advised as guided her into such a position where she wouldn’t get too much vomit on her clothes. He pulled her hand away from her mouth right before she began to throw up, and held her hair back as she did. 

“You’re alright,” he soothed as she threw up from the pain. He ran his free hand up and down her back. “You’re okay, Clara. Just let it all out.”

The moment she was done, she sat back up and wiped her mouth, then turned dead eyes on him. “I’m mortified,” she said.

He was powerless to prevent his laugh from exploding out of him.

“Don!” she exclaimed. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still laughing, his shoulders shaking with the impact of his chuckles. “I’m sorry. I’m trying really hard not to laugh, I swear.”

She had no energy to be angry with him. Instead, she let her head fall back until it rested on his shoulder. “I think you’ll have to carry me back to the hotel.”

Again, he laughed, but it was a lighter sound this time. Gentler. More uncertain. “Everything’s falling into place, isn’t it?” he said quietly. 

“What?”

“This is all part of your masterplan,” he explained, “right?”

Weakly, Clara laughed. She couldn’t help it. He’d always known exactly how to make her laugh, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. “If it is,” she replied, playing along, “I think I’ve gone above and beyond, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. She could feel him nod where her head was resting so close to his neck. “You’re real dedicated.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. 

Though she didn’t see it, he smiled. 

Her tears had slowed now, thank goodness, and her breath was starting to ease. The cold seeping into her clothes was making her bones ache, as she was sure it was doing to him, too, and she hiccuped as she lifted her head up off of Don. 

“You alright?” he asked, rubbing his hand up and down her back again.

She nodded, sniffling and wiping at the tears drying on her cheeks. 

“You wanna try to stand?”

Again, she nodded. And, though she tried her very best, she couldn’t. 

“Walking on my own is not part of my masterplan, Don,” she informed him when they’d both tried, and failed, for the fifth time to get her to stand. 

He laughed, surprised by the joke, and wrapped his arms around her for a single instant. The next instant, however, he withdrew them, as though burned, and sat back from her. 

He was horrified. He’d just hugged her, essentially, without consent, without her giving him any sort of indication that she wanted his arms around her. Horrifying. She’d just been too endearing that he’d forgotten himself. He needed to screw his head on straight.

“Okay,” Don said on a long, low exhalation. “I’m gonna lift you up, is that alright?”

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet and her eyes were wide and earnest when she looked back at him. In the light of the streetlights and surrounded by snow she looked like an angel, all soft edges and gentle features, the picture of elegance and grace even if she had just fallen on concrete and hurt herself. 

Don nodded and steeled himself, then wrapped his arms back around her and lifted her into his hold. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, thanking his former self for all of the hours he’d spent working on his upper body strength in the gym, and then began to walk the both of them back to the hotel. 

“You’re so nice to me,” Clara mumbled as he walked. Her head was turned at an angle so she was looking at the street ahead of them, though where her arms were coiled around his neck her face was very close to his. 

“Are there people who aren’t nice to you?” Don asked. His voice was almost a whisper. It seemed a moment which called for quiet. There was no one else out on the streets, everyone either at home, getting ready for Christmas Eve night, or else fighting their way to a hotel room or a hopefully-not-cancelled flight. Out here, with the snow and the streetlights and the darkness and the stars, it was just the two of them; two plumes of white breath on the air in front of them, two racing heartbeats, one pair of footsteps.

“No one’s as nice to me as you are,” Clara replied. 

“They should be.”

“Yeah.” Maybe if they were she wouldn’t love him as much. Maybe if everyone was as singularly sweet as him then she could turn her attention elsewhere. As it was, that had been a losing battle from the day she’d met him and would continue to be for, probably, a good long while yet. 

The hotel lobby was still bustling with activity when they arrived inside, but at least it was warm. Clara’s ears were aching with the cold and her nose felt like it was burning. Her fingers, long since buried beneath the collar of Don’s coat, were tingling with the desire for movement and her ankle was starting to really, really, really hurt. 

“Alright, trooper,” Don said as they waited for the elevator. “Nearly there now. How’s my brave girl doing?”

Clara thanked the heavens above for the cold, for her cheeks were already rosy and thus disguised the terrible, white hot blush which vaulted into them. “Alright,” she squeaked. 

Don wanted to die. He could not believe he’d just said that. How’s my brave girl doing? Really? He wanted to punch himself in the face. Repeatedly. Maybe bash his head on the wall a few times, as many times as it took to forget what he’d just said. 

The ding of the elevator arriving was like music to his ears. He all but charged in, grateful for the distraction, pressed the button for floor number three and then hummed so he wouldn’t have to speak. 

They were joined by an elderly couple. While the man pressed the button for floor number four, the woman’s eyes widened as she took in Clara, perched in Don’s arms like they were on their honeymoon. 

“I twisted my ankle,” Clara hurried to explain. “Or pulled a ligament, or something like that. And I can’t stand up on my own.”

“She threw up,” Don added.

Clara’s eyes shot over to him, wide in her horror.

He flushed under her scrutiny and shrugged. “What? You did.”

It was the longest elevator ride of his life. Three floors and yet it felt like an eternity. When they finally arrived at the third floor he all but sprinted out of the elevator, careful to keep from banging Clara’s feet against the walls. 

Their hotel room was warm and familiar and had somewhere soft for Clara to sit down, and she no longer cared that it was a couples’ room. She refused to sit on the bed, since her wet clothes would make the sheets wet, but the armchair suited her just fine. And, true to his word, as soon as she was settled Don headed down to the hotel bar to get some ice for her. 

In his absence, Clara tilted her head back until it hit the wall behind her. She breathed a deep sigh. Her foot was throbbing where she had it resting on the bed, she was cold all over, even though the room was warm, she was tired and still felt a little bit sick and her head was pounding and, above all, she missed home. She was supposed to be there by now. It was seven o’clock in the evening on Christmas Eve and she was supposed to be snuggled up on the couch in her living room, watching White Christmas with her mom, her sister, and her dog. But no. She was stuck in a lovers’ room in a hotel room in California, with a sprained ankle or whatever it was she’d done to it and the worst FOMO she’d ever experienced. 

But, she reminded herself, at least there was Don. At least the universe had seen fit to line their flights up so they got to the airport at the same time. At least his flight had also been cancelled. And at least he was sunshine personified, kind and selfless and warm and safe. Everything felt just a little less bad because he was experiencing all of it with her. 

Although she would never forgive the universe for giving them this room. That was still, and would always be, a sick, sick joke. 

Don returned with the ice pack, the big light in the room turning the red strands of his hair to gold, and he took care to place it against Clara’s ankle as gently as he could. After that, he pottered around the room, doing this and that, until he wheeled Clara’s suitcase up to her and presented it, with the zipper undone but the lid closed, to her. 

“I thought you might wanna change,” he said, blushing up to his ears, “but I didn’t wanna go through your stuff. So, here.”

Clara smiled and opened the suitcase, and Don looked away as though he was expecting to find all sorts of unmentionables in there. She made quick work of searching for her pyjamas, then sighed as she informed Don that she would need to shower before she could change into them. 

So, like a true knight in shining armour, Don set the desk chair in the shower and then carried her in. He shut the door for her to undress and shower in peace, of course, but informed her he was there if she needed anything. 

Unbeknownst to the other, each of them had blushed furiously as he’d said as much. They then both quickly set about making themselves busy so as not to have to linger on the thought for too long.

By the time Clara emerged from the shower, hobbling as she attempted to walk on her own, Don had loaded White Christmas up on Netflix on her laptop and was chatting away with what sounded like Skip and Alex on his phone. Clara smiled as she watched him talk, gesturing animatedly with his hands as the three of them argued about something minor, until he saw her in his periphery and his jaw popped open. 

“Gotta go,” he hurriedly informed Skip and Alex, fellow co-workers of both Clara and Don, down the phone. A second later, he was on his feet and crossing the room, scooping Clara up into his arms to take the weight off of her ankle. 

“You should’ve called me!” he was scolding her as he carried her to the bed and got her settled. He went to fetch the ice, then fretted about whether she needed more, before she laughed and assured him that she was okay and encouraged him to calm down. It took five minutes’ more reassurance to talk him down until he finally, eventually, relented and went to take a shower of his own. 

Clara took the time to call Hoobs, who must have been snug at home by now after having taken a few days off of work before Christmas break to ensure he got home on time. You know, like someone smart. 

“Clara!” he greeted down the phone when he picked up. “Merry Christmas Eve!”

Clara smiled softly, fiddling with a thread on the bed sheets, before replying, “Merry Christmas Eve, Hoobs.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. She could hear his smile fade. He always was unreasonably good at puzzling her out, even when their voices were tinny through the phone connection, even when they were on opposite sides of the country. 

“I’m stuck in California.”

“What?”

Clara sighed. She explained everything to him as quickly as she could - the delayed flights, the hotel, the coffee shop, the snowball fight, and finally the ankle - and he listened well, never once interrupting, until she exhaled to let him know she’d finished. 

He paused, silent on the other end of the line. 

“Hoobs?” Clara asked warily, checking to make sure he was still there. 

He inhaled, and then…

He burst out laughing.

Clara scowled. “Stop laughing!”

He only laughed harder. “You must have the worst luck of anyone on the face of the planet!”

“Hoobs!”

“Or the best,” he went on, undeterred by her admonishment. “You and Malark in a couples’ hotel room. There’s only one bed but it’s mighty cold outside…”

“Stop!” 

“One thing might lead to another, and then…”

“You are the most unsupportive best friend in the world, you know that?” Clara asked, though there was no real bitterness in her voice. It was impossible to stay mad at Hoobs for long. 

“Whatever you say,” he drawled in reply, still grinning. “You have a nice night, though, alright? Wrap it up and all that.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Clara told him, cringing at the innuendo. 

Hoobs laughed. “Merry Christmas, Clara.”

She smiled, sighing quietly to herself. “Merry Christmas, Hoobs.”

Don emerged from the bathroom just as she was putting her phone on charge, a cloud of steam from the shower following him out. His hair was wet, some of the bright red strands hanging in his eyes, and his pyjama shirt was sticking to him in certain places where he hadn’t dried all of the water off of his skin. He ran his hands through his hair to push it back from his face, oblivious to the eyes on him, and Clara turned scarlet. Her breath had stopped entirely, gotten stuck somewhere in her throat, and it was all she could do to drag her eyes away from him the instant before he looked over at her. 

“Who was on the phone?” he asked casually, crossing the room to sit in the armchair by the window. 

“Hoobs,” Clara replied quickly, perhaps too quickly, her voice perhaps too strained. “He went home early so he’s having a great time back in Ohio, the lucky bastard.”

Don cracked a smile at this. “Must be nice.”

Clara hummed her agreement. 

“So,” Don said next, his eyes on her laptop, “are we ready to watch the movie?”

Clara’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm which she tried her best to stamp out. “You don’t have to watch it,” she assured him.

He frowned. “I want to.”

She brightened again, and his heart lifted. Such a beautiful smile.

“Okay,” she chirped. She shifted along on the bed and let him retrieve the laptop. When he had settled, somewhat awkwardly, beside her, he set it on his lap and pressed play. 

Clara fell asleep twenty-five minutes in. 

Don had no idea what to do. 

This position he was in was incredibly uncomfortable. His thighs were burning where his legs were extended out in front of him, and his left shoulder blade was digging hard into the bed frame. His arm felt awkward where it was trapped beneath Clara, but he wouldn’t dare to move it. She was sleeping so peacefully, her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, her cheek pressed to his chest and her arms wrapped around his middle. She’d only moved there after she’d already fallen asleep but the thought that she was seeking comfort from him still made him feel warm inside. So he would not move. Under any circumstances. He would stay like this for as long as she needed to sleep, even if that was until tomorrow morning. He would wake up stiff as a board if he needed to if it meant he got to leave her undisturbed, snuggled up to him and dozing on his chest. 

But Clara woke with a start just before the movie ended. She sat up, then winced as she disturbed her ankle, then glanced at Don, then frowned. 

He expected an apology, even though he really didn’t want one, or at least a sheepish smile before she scooted further away from him on the bed, reestablishing their personal space. What he didn’t expect was for her to snuggle right back in again, nuzzling into his neck and twining her hands in his pyjama shirt, before immediately falling back asleep. 

He could feel his heart racing in his chest.

She must have only been half awake, he realised, when she’d sat up. She certainly hadn’t been thinking straight. But even in her half-conscious state she’d felt comfortable and safe enough to snuggle right back in again, cuddle up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And, he realised, it really did feel right. It felt so natural to have her sitting like this, and so easy, that he let his arms wrap around her and keep her close. 

At some point he fell asleep like that, too. Into a deep sleep, in fact. The laptop was left to cycle through episode after episode of some Spanish TV series Clara must have been halfway through watching while they settled in close to each other, shifting and adjusting until they were both curled into each other. 

It was 6am on Christmas morning when Clara woke. She startled, forgetting where she was for a moment, before settling again when she remembered. Then she startled again, because why was she cuddling Don Malarkey like he was her boyfriend? And why was he cuddling her back? And how had they landed themselves in this position? And was her laptop playing an episode of Élite?

Don groaned and mumbled something, starting to rouse, and Clara shifted away. Or, rather, she attempted to. His arms - damn those muscles! - curled tighter around her waist and became as solid as concrete, not letting her go anywhere, and after a fruitless struggle she conceded and sagged against him. 

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled sleepily into her hair. 

Clara blinked. “Merry Christmas.”

“Your hands are so cold.”

Her hands were beneath his shirt, holding onto his back.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, immediately withdrawing them. 

He groaned a complaint. “What’re you doin’?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. Did he know who he was talking to? If he didn’t, she’d be mortified. Even more mortified than she’d been last night, when she’d fallen over and then vomited. Oh, god, had that really happened?

“Don,” Clara began tentatively, pushing her memories of last night away, “it’s me,” she informed him. “It’s Clara.”

“Clara,” he repeated. There was a lazy smile in his voice. He nuzzled into her hair. “Merry Christmas, Clara.”

“Merry Christmas, Don,” she repeated, her voice slow and confused. “Do you want me to move?”

“No.” In fact, those arms of steel of his only tugged her closer. “Want you to stay.”

“I’m probably heavy -”

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re… asleep?”

“I’m - oh.”

He was finally starting to wake up properly. 

“Hi,” he muttered. “Sorry.” And then those warm arms were gone. Even though she’d been campaigning for their removal, Clara missed them immediately. 

“Hi,” she replied, sheepish, as she shifted a little away from him in the bed. 

“Is someone speaking Spanish?”

“It’s Netflix,” Clara explained. “We left it on last night by accident after we fell asleep.”

“Right.”

He was blushing so hard his cheeks were on fire. How long had he been imprisoning her in his iron grip before he’d woken up? Just when everything started to go smoothly he had to go and stuff it up again. Idiot! She was probably desperately searching for an excuse to get away from him without seeming rude. 

On her side of the bed, Clara was desperately searching for an excuse to get him to hug her again. She was so cold and her ankle still hurt something fierce and was it too much to ask to have a proper, awake, hug on Christmas Day?

“I should probably shower,” Don said awkwardly into the silence. 

Clara’s eyes fell resignedly shut. Of course he didn’t want to hug her again. How many times did she need to be told he didn’t like her like that? Jesus.

“Okay,” she mumbled in reply. 

A moment later, he pushed himself up from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom with his suitcase. 

Clara buried her face in her pillow and groaned. 

Her family wouldn’t be awake yet and neither would Hoobs, so she couldn’t call anyone. And she couldn’t get up from the bed to start creating an outfit because her ankle was still… Well, whatever it was. And she couldn’t reach her bag to retrieve her hairbrush or her deodorant or anything. 

So, on her first Christmas morning away from home, Clara simply lay in bed, staring at the love hearts painted onto the ceiling of this couples’ room she was sharing with a man who didn’t love her, at least not like that, trying to pretend that everything would be alright. 

After Don was finished in the bathroom, he carried her in and then brought in her bags, too, and she got ready as best as she could. She brushed her teeth and showered and did her hair and even put on some makeup, a last ditch attempt to make herself feel better, before changing into the outfit she’d intended to wear at home on Christmas and mourning the fact she wasn’t there as she looked at herself in the mirror. When she hobbled back out again Don was lingering by the door, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and his face lit up when he saw her before he squashed the expression in place of concern.

“Stop trying to walk!” he scolded, crossing the short distance between them and sweeping her up into his arms. He was so perfectly the picture of the male romantic lead in a Christmas romcom, standing there with his hair combed, wearing his jolly Christmas sweater, that she actually wanted to sob. Anyone else might have landed in this situation and ended up with a boyfriend, but all she was going to get was a heart even more irreparably broken than it already had been. 

“Should we get room service?” Clara asked quietly as he shifted her in his arms. 

“No,” he replied, “I’ll carry you downstairs. We can go see all the Christmas decorations. I’ll bet it’s damn festive down there.”

Clara let her head fall to rest on his shoulder. “Okay,” she replied, too tired to argue. 

The hallways of the hotel had been decorated overnight to be even more festive than they had been the night before; green wreaths with fake snow and white berries hung on each door, and great big red bows had been tied to all of the lights set into the walls. In the elevator, there were even snowflakes painted onto the mirror, and Clara smiled as Don turned them both to show her, looking instead at his awed smile and not really noticing the pretty snowflakes at all. 

The hotel restaurant was almost empty at this time in the morning, and Clara and Don got their pick of the tables. Clara picked one on the edge, close to the window so they could see the snow outside, and he set her down in one of the chairs before asking her what she wanted from the breakfast buffet, and then retrieved it dutifully. 

When he sat down with his own plate, he grinned at her for a moment. “Festive, huh?” he asked, his eyes hopeful as he sought her approval. 

Clara smiled back at him. “Very,” she agreed. “It’s really pretty.”

“What do you wanna do today?” he wondered around a mouthful of waffle. 

Clara considered the question while she chewed on a strawberry. She didn’t want to be a downer, but most places they could have gone would be closed, and with her ankle…

“How about,” Don began after a moment’s consideration of his own, “we see if the hotel has a spare wheelchair or something, and then we go for a walk? How’s that? We can find a nice little park and I can sit in your lap while we feed the ducks.”

Clara couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re made of sunshine, do you know that?”

He grinned, but his eyes were surprised. “What?”

“Nothing ever gets you down,” she explained. “It’s one of the first things I loved about you. The whole of last night and this morning I’ve done nothing but complain but here you are, making plans and being wonderful, because that’s just what you do. You’re made of sunshine.”

He smiled wide. “You’re made of sunshine,” he corrected.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Yeah.” He leaned over the table between them and pointed his fork at her. “You are. You’re allowed to have a bad day and be mad about it. And, by the way, you haven’t complained about that ankle even half as much as I would’ve if it was me. So, you know, I think you need to cut yourself some slack. I’ve caught you smiling more than you probably realise over the last twelve hours.”

Clara dropped her chin to her chest, smiling and blushing and not knowing what to do with herself. “I was only smiling because of you,” she muttered, then shovelled a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. 

She wouldn’t dare look at him, couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to.

Out of her line of sight, Don was full on beaming, awed by her confession as he gazed at her adorably flushed cheeks. “Well, if you were smiling ‘cause of me then that was only ‘cause I was happy about getting to be with you.”

Clara sighed silently. Once she’d swallowed her eggs, she said, “You’re so kind to me.”

His smile softened, recalling how she’d said something similar last night. “You’re just the kind of person who inspires kindness, I guess.”

Clara steered the conversation to different topics after that, because as much as his compliments filled her with warmth, they also made her heart ache, knowing he was only being nice. They talked about their families and about work and about their favourite Christmas movies, and then talked a little about how good those cookies had been last night. Before long, Clara was paying for breakfast - she had insisted, since Don had paid for everything else - and then Don was scooping her back up into his arms and heading for the lobby, ready to demand a wheelchair if they had one. 

The hotel did, in fact, have a wheelchair to hand, and the man behind the counter looked too disgruntled at having to work on Christmas morning to bother to ask them why they needed it. As soon as Clara was settled into it, Don steered her outside and they began their hunt for a park, preferably one with a pond. 

The streets were empty, as quiet as a ghost town, and the fresh snow from last night crunched underfoot. Their progress was slow, since the wheels of the chair didn’t want to push through the snow all that easily, but it gave them time to talk and look around. In the houses they passed they heard the muted sounds of Christmas joy, children screaming about their gifts and parents telling them to be quieter, televisions playing Christmas movies or else radio stations cranked up loud to play Christmas songs.

The sky above them was just starting to turn blue as the last of the orange of sunrise chased the night away. The sun was warm even though the wind was biting, and when Clara glanced around at Don she found him with a pink nose and rosy cheeks, his hair windswept, grinning at the world like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be living in it. 

The park they stumbled upon didn’t have a pond but it did have a lake. Don pushed Clara as close to its edge as he dared, setting the wheelchair beside a bench and sitting down beside her. There was a huge tree beside the bench, its branches stretching over their heads and sheltering them some from the harshness of the wind. And they sat there in perfect silence, staring out at the lake and the swans on the far side of it, both of them wondering how to express just how happy they were to be sharing this moment with each other but finding themselves too embarrassed to ever actually say anything.

Clara opened her mouth to remark on two of the swans, who were swimming together in the lake with their heads bowed together, creating a heart out of their necks. She was intending to make a joke about all of the heart-shaped decorations they’d come across since leaving the airport yesterday, first the hotel room and now these swans, when a bird landed on the branch above her head. She looked up and smiled, watching the robin hop idly across the branch. 

Until it jumped onto the space right above her head and sent snow crumpling into her face. “Oh!”

Don laughed loudly when he saw what had happened. He helped her clean the snow off, still laughing all the while, then looked up to see where the robin had gotten to. 

His smile faded.

“What?” Clara asked, following his gaze. 

“Mistletoe,” he murmured, flushing crimson. 

And, indeed, on the branch above the one which was now empty of snow was tied a cluster of mistletoe. And it was tied there directly above both of their heads, a warning and a promise in one.

“Mistletoe,” Clara breathed. 

Don’s eyes sought hers and found them already waiting for him. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Do you…” he started, and trailed off. He was finding it a little difficult to breathe, having her so close. 

“Do I…?” she asked.

It was the hope in her voice, the tiny smile wanting so desperately to tug at her lips, that got him to finish the question. “Do you believe in traditions, Clara?”

She laughed, a gentle, tinkling sound, and it filled him with warmth from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Absolutely,” she replied. “Do you?”

“Of course,” he replied, starting to grin. He tried to hide it, because this was a moment for being smooth, not for grinning like he’d just won the lottery, but he couldn’t help it. Whenever she was around he wanted to grin. 

“What’s the mistletoe tradition again?” Clara asked softly, gazing at him with wide, doe eyes. Because she wanted to be sure that he was sure, wanted to give him a way to get out of this if he wanted to. 

He lifted a careful hand and rested it against her cheek. “I’ll show you, if you want.”

Clara nodded, her breath caught in her throat. “I’m a practical learner,” she said. 

He laughed, and then he kissed her. Softly, slowly, very, very gently. And for the first time she really did feel like she was made of sunshine, as he had insisted she was. 

The kiss went on and on, becoming more insistent when they each gained confidence. There was less uncertainty, now, as he lifted his other hand to bring her face closer to his, as she placed both of hers on the back of his neck to keep him there. And he only pulled back when he needed breath, only to have it stolen away again by how she was looking at him, content and surprised and so, so beautiful he wanted to remember this moment forever. 

“Was that… alright?” Don asked after a beat, still just a little bit uncertain.

Clara laughed softly. “Well, you have to kiss under the mistletoe, that’s what I always say,”

Don laughed and smiled widely. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m so glad your flight was cancelled.”

Clara smiled. “I’m so glad your flight was cancelled.”

Don smiled sheepishly. “My fight wasn’t cancelled.”

“What?!”

“When the girl you love ends up stranded on Christmas Eve, you don’t leave her to spend the holidays alone,” Don said. He held his breath in the wake of his confession until he watched the biggest, most beautiful smile light up her face. “At least,” he added, reaching for her hand and weaving their fingers together, “that’s what I always say.”

[fairymascot]

have you caught up to the last eat bang kill tour? if you did, do you think they managed to salvage the characters or nah

i read it, yeah. alas, i was not impressed. started listing my issues with it and it turned into a bit of a novel, lmao, so i’m gonna stash it under a cut.

like... first of all, i'm tired of seeing harley in the damsel role. this is a near identical retread of the harley quinn & birds of prey comic miniseries, where harlivy's falling out is resolved through harley winding up in a near death situation and ivy heroically saving her. i didn't love it then and i don't love it now. it's only marginally less sexist to shove powerful women in damsel roles when other women are doing the rescue, and it's equally as painful to see women undergoing horrible torture for the sole purpose of evoking an emotional response in the reader -- yes, even if the payoff is lesbian romance. it's trite, cheap, and it feels innately disrespectful to harley's character. not to say she needs to be infallible always -- but even, for example, when she was joker's captive in the s1 finale, she came in with a goal, a plan, and fighting spirit. it was a pretty desperate situation, and he had most of the power, but she wasn't rendered as helpless and pitiful as she was in the comic finale, nor were we subjected to any gory, graphic details of her torment. i mean, gore is fine. violence is fine. i am not some delicate flower. but played like this, it just feels like torture porn.

on top of that, i was absolutely rolling my eyes at ivy's whole 'redemption arc'. first of all: it was written extremely stupidly. 'i'm mean to harley because of my emotional issues that all stem from my abusive dad, so i'm gonna go in my head and kill him. boom! normal now'. what a ridiculously reductive view of ivy's character and human psychology on the whole? like, killing your childhood abuser in your head gives you nothing. it does not magically solve all of your mental problems.

not to mention, while he may have been the root of her original trauma, ivy has so many other issues piled on that have nothing to do with him?? she's a social outcast, she can barely stand the company of other people while also extremely concerned about how she's perceived, she's scared of opening up and showing vulnerability, she's wishy washy and has a hard time making decisions about her future, etc etc. those are issues that are caused by more than just her dad-- there's her peers at school, her repressed sexuality, her (presumed) trauma and transformation at the hands of woodrue, the future she planned with kiteman blowing up in her face... so explain to me how going in her head and killing her dad is gonna solve all that. lmao.

also, just the way franklin went about it, 'ivy hallucinates harleen and goes into her memories with her while on the outside she just appears to suffer a massive brainfreeze' -- again, just a cheap retread of events from the show, and it barely even makes sense in this context because franklin just slapped em on willy nilly. HARLEY hallucinates harleen because she is her past self, and her consciousness was splintered when she became harley quinn, trapping her previous persona as some sort of ghost figment in her head. why would IVY hallucinate harleen. when has there been any indication of that happening. it's yet another part of franklin's approach to this whole series -- lazily recycling ideas, scenes, word-for-word lines from the show to make for a cool reference, without remotely grasping the logic behind those scenes or the purpose they originally served. like, genuinely, this woman Does Not Get It.

even ignoring how stupidly the 'redemption' was executed, though, the fact is... the very fact that ivy NEEDED a redemption was terrible characterization. that's not to say harley and ivy's relationship doesn't have issues they'll need to work on-- while she's already started on this path, ivy still needs to work on establishing boundaries, communicating her feelings clearly, and allowing herself to be vulnerable. harley's been working on her selfishness and recklessness, but that doesn't mean she's completely outgrown them. and neither of them have ever been in a healthy, equal relationship with someone who deeply loves them and is GOOD to them, which i'm sure will lead to some interesting stuff in season 3. but you know what issues they've NEVER had? ivy treating harley like she's human garbage! ivy belittling her at every turn, scolding her like she's a child, getting angry at every little thing she does, flat out ignoring her when harley tries to talk to her. this is not their dynamic, this is not who ivy is. when ivy in the comic looks at vixen and her gf and goes 'omg, this is what non toxic love looks like, i should be more like that!' all i can say is, fuck off. ivy knows what non toxic love is. it's her love for harley. franklin just totally destroyed those characters and their relationship for the sake of a halfassed, completely unnecessary two-minute redemption arc.

god, what an absolute waste of time.

[sentimental-darkness]

One thing that I don’t get about the entire “searching for terrible Sauron” premise from Rings of Power is that I don’t get the idea they may possibly have here for how the reasoning behind this search works... let me explain...

Sure, some elves can kick ass and Galadriel would be exceptional one too, nevertheless here she is a younger version without the power of her own ring and above all else, no matter how hard you stretch it, Sauron is a goddamn Maya. Not yet bound by the powers of the One Ring... like when Isildur managed to cut his finger off and defeat him. So what’s this supposed to look like in RoP? According to Galadriel ??? In First Age it took Beren and Luthien and the OP magical beast’s help (Huan) to put Sauron in his place and even then he wasn’t really beaten, just shamed and thus persuaded to retreat under threat. Even if beaten, as a full-fledged Maya (unlike the willingly limited Istari) he would be able to take on a new form and body, in time. That’s why he was such a terrible adversary, he is just heavily OP and one of the last remnants of such OPness in Second and then Third ages of Middle-earth, the other ones but to a lesser extent being a Balrog and Smaug, for example.

This is also why - while it’s pretty undetailed - it kinda does make some sense in Tolkien texts that the elves wouldn’t really be mentioned actively concerned with combating Sauron in earlier days and not even later after he begun seizing power in Middle-earth and continued Morgoth’s legacy. First of all, it was the Valars who ignored the threat of Sauron to Middle-earth even though he didn’t arrive for the judgment in Valinor. So why would the elves in Middle-earth bother? At best they thought Valars had it all figured out and at worst they just didn’t perceive Sauron as a vast political threat, some of it undoubtedly their hubris as proven by the devastation of Eregion and almost lost war that inevitably happened (because they didn’t expect that kind of deception with the rings and maybe thought Sauron would be satisfied with his Eastern men? if they cared enough to look into Southern or Eastern affairs of “savage” peoples of Middle-earth to begin with...?) but some of it legitimate calculation of military forces at play since Numenoreans under Ar-Pharazon actually managed to prove the final inferiority of Sauron’s armies and political organization - so he was never really a threat here on Morgoth’s level of apocalyptic.  

In any case, that’s the thing - in early years they wouldn’t even conceive of the idea to go on a suicide mission to try find Sauron and then “defeat” him (it would be an equivalent of some veteran Roman legionaries coming up with a “grand idea” to try to hunt down and permanently get rid of the Devil, for example! pretty dumb!), and in later years when Sauron made himself known again it was just too late to even consider such a folly (that wouldn’t be possible anyway) and how they failed there was feeling too secure and isolationist, kind of - basically letting the willing men of the South and East rot and fester under Sauron’s influence, too ignorant of Eastern affairs of distant men probably and too willing to watch the battle of influences in Middle-earth unfold between the powers of Numenoreans and Sauron. But... actually... defeating Sauron or chaining Sauron was never an option... he was only chained by Ar-Pharazon after that military encounter in later years because it was already a part of his ploy to salvage this big defeat but from what we know about him he could have just turned into a bat and escaped from the Numenorean host not letting them drag himself to Numenor. Soooo...

I beg your pardon but... what RoP Galadriel thinks she is going to do once she finds Sauron? 

I’m literally lost here... because this entire premise... is THAT nonsensical to begin with... apparently.

[teamxdark]

He’s Not Here

More masquerade content but what’s this at the end???

In the grand castle ballroom, surrounded by soft golden light and the countless nobles clad in shimmering fabric, King Arthur was so bored he could cry.

This wasn’t what this night should have been; it was a masquerade party, an opportunity to hide away his identity and mingle among the people 一 okay, the nobility, but he would take what he could get 一 like he was a person instead of a king. Finally he had a chance to dance around until his legs ached, to eat food without worrying about the repercussions to his image should he dare speak with his mouth full or use the wrong spoon, to hold conversations that weren’t about politics or finances or how he was doing the best-or-worst job looking after an entire kingdom with a myriad of people with different needs and opinions. 

So how was it that, out of everyone in that room, he was stuck listening to some dull-voiced stag drone on and on about the rising price of grain?

“This is why pricing is tricky, you have to account for the pests before you ship it out and…”

Arthur fought the urge to dash away, but the instant he tried, he knew he would give himself away. His speed was renowned throughout the land, alongside his golden armor and brilliant blue spines. Those, at least, he had taken care of; Merlina had spent the better part of an hour adjusting his coloring to a warm orange and growing out his spines to disguise him beyond the limits of a simple mask. She had tried so hard to give him a chance to have a night off without people instantly worrying for his favor or trying to get something from him… only for him to be trapped all over again.

Arthur would have happily made an excuse to leave, if the stag would only let him get a single word in. His conversation “partner” seemed not to need to breathe, droning on and on in an endless monotone, offset by the cheerful music and bright lights and flashy costumes.

I’ll never be free of this.

“And now that the price is rising, it leaves me in a strange spot, you see. On the one hand, I sympathize with the people who cannot afford my wares, but on the other hand, it means more profit for myself and my own family.”

Chaos above, Arthur wished he hadn’t bumped into this man. His fingers tapped restlessly against his leg, mildly quelling the urge he had to just flee, to drop everything and everyone he had ever known and flee into the night and into the unknown.

“Not to mention, the cost of labor--”

“Mind if I cut in?”

Arthur’s head snapped over to the new voice, endlessly relieved at the interruption, though the stag continued to drone on, the odious voice still grating his ears even as the king faced the bold newcomer.

It was a tiger clad in elegant black clothing with silver accents, extending a hand out to him, and even though Arthur was eager to take it and be whisked away from this living nightmare, something about him made him take pause. His eyes took in the white fur streaked with blue, the slowly flicking tail that reminded him of Sir Percival 一 was it common among all cats? 一 and the eyes looking gently back at him.

He trusted those eyes. It was the look that they held, a look that reminded him of… 

Arthur mentally slapped himself. He’s not here, he reminded himself as he finally took the hand offered to him.

“Yes, please.”

The tiger seemed to brighten just a fraction at his approval, and he led him away from the trappings of boring conversation to the dancefloor, and Arthur had to try hard not to think about how this felt like being rescued by a knight. Especially not…

He’s not here.

The king was jostled from his thoughts as his new partner started to fit him into a hold, and a brand new anxiety washed down upon him as he tried to remember how to reciprocate the hold. Dancing lessons had never been high on the list of priorities when it came to running a kingdom, and yet somehow Arthur was expected to be able to social dance like a pro when his days were filled from dawn to dusk with meetings and drafting decrees and submitting notices of approval until he passed out on his bed. Arthur swallowed, trying to remind himself that stumbling during a dance was still preferable to listening to that one-sided conversation…

...but his partner didn’t dance like a professional. Well… he did, there was no denying his grace and timing, but he didn’t dance like he expected Arthur to be one as well. The steps were simple, the turns basic, and Arthur’s mind swam in relief as he realized that, somehow, this stranger was leading him through steps that he had managed to pick up on through trial and error.

This chance encounter was proving to be everything he needed.

The stranger led him carefully around the floor, maneuvering slowly around other people rather than weaving expertly between them like so many other couples did. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could easily pretend that he was practicing his basic steps with his brother, or his friends, or his--

He’s not here.

And yet…

Yet it was so easy to picture it, even as the peals of laughter surrounded him and washed into his subconsciousness like a spark of delight for him to enjoy. The strong hold, the careful footwork, the calculated rhythm…

Lancelot…

Arthur’s eyes opened, and though he saw stripes they were the wrong ones, and the bittersweet feeling of missing someone dear to him almost caused him to heave a sigh.

He had it bad, and he knew it. His greatest knight and closest ally and dear friend… Sir Lancelot was beyond compare. From questing as youths to his coronation, and in every disaster thereafter, Lancelot had been there, his pillar of strength in a tumultuous world, always standing nearby to passionately defend him or to spare him a quiet gesture of support. Lancelot had protected him from danger, defended his honor, strived to keep his spirits up for years and years…

Arthur had never considered himself one for romance, but as years went by, Lancelot had claimed more and more of his thoughts, attention and affection until the knight unknowingly held the king’s heart firmly in his hands. Too many times to count had Arthur been struck by the urge to grasp his hands, to sing out the words in his heart to him, to draw him close and see if he could make such a powerful knight’s knees buckle below him with a kiss alone…

One song changed into the next, and Arthur, too swept up in his fantasy, didn’t let go of the stranger, didn’t notice the slight lull in their dance, and so the dream kept going.

Lancelot wasn’t there, but Arthur could lean into this stranger’s hold on him, follow his dance, focus on his attire, concentrate on the energy he exuded, energy that reminded him so strongly of his Lancelot, and Arthur’s mind could so easily turn his dream into something more substantial. An illusion for him to drown in, just like this masquerade offered.

The music kept swelling, the sweet notes tickling his ears and driving him even deeper into his dream like he was in a trance. He kept dancing with the man that reminded him so much of his beloved that a second dance turned into a third, and Arthur clung on to his dream, not even registering that it might seem strange until--

“I mean no offense, but surely there are others who would want to dance with you?”

Arthur blinked, and the dream shattered as the man in his arms shifted back into a stranger. The king’s feet stilled, his gaze dropping to his feet. Arthur had to fight back waves of embarrassment and disgust at himself before he could answer.

“Forgive me, but the way you dance…”

HE’S NOT HERE!

“...it reminds me of someone dear to me.”

“O-Oh.”

His companion seemed at a loss, and Arthur held back another sigh, counting the beats in his head before pulling him along for the next dance, leading him in a very basic, repetitive step around the floor.

“I apologize,” Arthur murmured, knowing that there wasn’t much he could do to salvage the situation. At this point, he could only offer his apologies and an explanation. “I know it’s not fair on you, to imagine you are someone else, but…”

A look of hurt passed over his dance partner’s face, and goodness, even that reminded him painfully of Lancelot.

“...but you remind me so much of him.”

Arthur’s eyes swept over his partner, taking in the paradoxical way that he looked completely unfamiliar and yet he still somehow managed to feel so much like his dear knight. Perhaps the dream hadn’t fled from him quite yet, because now Arthur’s yearning mind was searching for any and every chance to convince himself that this was, somehow, Lancelot whom he was dancing with.

“You dance like he does,” Arthur thought aloud, as his partner remained silent. “Careful and precise.”

Your movements… I know them like I know my own.

“Pardon my asking,” the stranger returned, “but why do you not dance with him tonight?”

Like a weight to his soul that would never truly leave, Arthur’s melancholy came back to embrace him. “Ah… he isn’t here.”

He’s not here he’s not here he’s not here--

“Or at least…”

Arthur looked into the stranger’s eyes, his desperation to go back to his dream nearly choking him with emotion as the tiger’s eyes widened at the sudden look directed at him.

“...I haven’t recognized him, yet.”

Arthur knew it was terrible to put such a fantasy on a stranger at a party, but he wanted so badly to believe that this man was Lancelot. Arthur wanted to believe the ludicrous ideas his mind was supplying him with, that somehow this was Lancelot in front of him, disguised beyond all normal means. The tiger in front of him appeared to fluster, his mouth parting as though wishing to speak, though no words came forth.

“You have stripes like he does, too,” Arthur murmured softly, thoughtfully, and yes, he truly was reaching for every last detail in his pathetic attempt to turn what he had in front of him into what he wanted to see.

“If it pleases you,” the tiger finally said as the third song changed into a fourth one, “I… am not opposed to you pretending that I am he.”

Arthur smiled at that, feeling suddenly hesitant at the idea, now that the stranger, as kind and helpful as he had been, had given him his consent to mentally transform him into someone else, to be a player in this dream of his. It was sad, and unfair, but Arthur knew sadness and injustice. He tried to battle it every day, slowly changing and updating laws as they became outdated, but everything went so slowly and people only kept crying out in pain and Arthur wanted just one day, just one, to take ahold of something that he wanted and to cherish it.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered as he stepped further into the stranger’s hold, feeling warmth overtake him as he confessed his truth. “I have loved him for a great long time and… perhaps this is the closest I shall get to what I dream of.”

Because that was all this would ever be: a dream.

He’s not here.

Arthur’s eyes closed as his head dipped down to rest on the tiger’s shoulder, a soft smile spreading over his muzzle as he noticed that he was of a similar height to Lancelot, and the dream came back in full swing. Arthur’s arms wrapped around his partner, blocking out any consideration to the lack of spines on his back, and the king focused on his heartbeat as it hammered in and out of sync with the other’s.

“I understand the sentiment,” his partner whispered in response, and Arthur had to hold back what was either a laugh or a sob, morphing it into a hum on its way out.

You speak like him, too.

And so the king held his partner as tightly and tenderly as he would a lover, humming along to the song as the masquerade around him faded into nothing. There was nothing, nothing in his dream, but himself and his Lancelot as they spun around slowly.

He’s here. He’s here, I can feel it.

Arthur’s dream permeated his mind, overtaking his consciousness, and as the fourth song faded into oblivion, he finally let out the sigh he had been carrying all night.

“Lancelot…”

Two pairs of feet stilled as both parties realized what had just been said, and one final word jolted the king from his dream.

“A… Arthur?”

He was here all along.

[sadfruittheatre]

Whoops

"Deeji isn't home right now," Dulze explained to the god standing at her door. "She's been out with her father today."

             "...Oh," replied Bragi, the god in question, frowning a bit. "When do you think she will return?"    

             "Probably not too long from now," she answered. He was immediately smiling again.

             "Oh, excellent!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Would it be alright if I waited here for her?" Dulze hesitated a bit.

             "...I guess," she sighed despite her better judgement as she opened the door a little more. "Come on in."

             "Thank you!" Bragi bowed to her slightly before following her inside. Almost automatically, Dulze made a beeline for the refrigerator and grabbed the boy a juice box.

             "Here, help yourself," she said, handing it to him. He accepted it graciously like it was a precious gift and not a juice box for preschoolers. She hoped it would keep him quiet for a little while until Yamcha returned with the kids. In the meantime, she decided to pour herself some coffee.

             And for a time, it did keep things quiet. However, the silence between them grew painfully awkward as they took turns glancing at each other between sips of their respective drinks and looking away the minute they made eye contact. Bragi took note of the necklace Dulze was wearing. It was the one her husband had him make for her. He smiled to himself, quite proud of his handiwork. Perhaps this would be a good topic to break the silence!

             "Oh, Mrs. Dulze, that is a very lovely necklace you're wearing!" he said slyly (or so he thought).

             "Thank you," Dulze replied, trying to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "My husband got it for me."

             "Did he say where? The craftsmanship is incredible! I imagine you must be very happy!"

             "He didn't, but I think I can hazard a guess," she mused, giving him a knowing look. "...Thank you, Bragi." His eyes widened a bit in surprise.

             "Eh? How did you know?" Now she was rolling her eyes.

             "One, Yamcha can't afford something like this on his salary, and two, you're being about as subtle as a brick through a window."

             "...Oh." He felt his face heat up a bit, so he glanced away, fidgeting. "W-Well, umm... I figured it's the least I could do, since you're like family--" He froze, eyes wide. "I mean--" He went to cover his mouth with his hands, but it was too late. Dulze raised an eyebrow as she wondered if she'd heard him right.

             He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't even meant to think it, but after their last major talk, it had been an idle thought that found itself continuing to grow until this moment, where it had managed to work its way out of his mouth. In that moment, he wished he were an angel so that he could rewind time to just before he made this fatal error. Unfortunately, without that proverbial undo button, there was only one other option: lie his butt off.

             Unfortunately, Bragi was a terrible liar.

             "Whatever you just heard-- whatever you thought you heard-- I didn't say that--" he babbled. "It was a slip of the tongue! A verbal typo! A conspiracy! Slander and lies! I didn't didn't mean that, I didn't say it, I didn't--"

              Dulze had admittedly been caught off guard as well, but she was much better at hiding it. Unfortunately, now that he'd gone and pointed out the elephant in the room, there was no choice but to deal with it.

             "So, that's how it is, hmm?" she sighed, resting her chin in her hand.

             "Y-Yes--er, no--umm, d-depending on what you mean by 'it,' I mean--" Bragi was squirming, practically flailing his arms as he tried in vain to salvage the situation.

             "Hey, slow down a minute," she said in the sort of gentle, yet firm tone she usually had to reserve for her preschoolers. He froze, looking like a deer in headlights. "Come here and sit down." He hesitated, so she urged again, "Come on." Despite feeling like his legs suddenly weighed a ton, Bragi finally did as he was told, sitting stiffly in the chair across from her. Dulze sighed again, taking a deep swig of her coffee.

             "Calm down, you're not in trouble," she said as she set the #1 Mom-Sensei mug back down.

             "I-I would certainly hope not!" he replied, trying (and failing) very hard to play it cool. "It was an honest mistake! That was definitely not the phrase I wanted to use whatsoever! I don't even know where that came from! I would never be so presumptuous as to--"

             "Please," Dulze interrupted, holding out her palm. "I have five year olds who are better liars." Bragi went quiet as he stared down at his lap.

             "I-I'm sorry..." he mumbled, unable to look at her.

             "What for?" she asked, with a bit of a smile in her voice.

             "Because-- I-I mean, you already have your hands full as it is, and... and I am well aware you only tolerate my being here for Deeji's sake, so, umm..."

             "Well, that was true..." she hesitated a moment. "...At least, at first."

             "Huh?"

             "Well, yes, you've been surprisingly good for Deeji, but think about it. Do you think I would go out of my way to find stickers you like, or increase my juice budget to accommodate you? Do you think I would sit and offer you advice if I disliked you that much?" Bragi looked up at her.

             "...Oh," was about all he could muster.

             "Don't get me wrong, you're absolutely a handful, maybe even two,  but that talk we had made me realize that you're really not all that different from the rest of us."

             "...In what manner?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

             "You're covering up a lot. Under all that pomp and circumstance, you're a bit lost, aren't you?" There was that awful feeling in his chest again; the kind that he'd get whenever Maraschi called him out on something about himself that he didn't want to think about.

             "I--" he immediately began to protest, but Dulze cut him off.

             "It's okay! I'd say it's probably a little normal, even. I was the same way at your age." She paused for a second as she remembered he had a good few thousand years on her despite his young appearance and overall demeanor. "...Well, relatively speaking."

             "...Really?" he asked hesitantly.

             "Mmhm. I had to figure a lot of things out on my own, but that's a story for another day. The point is, as much as I hate to admit it, you've... kind of grown on me. A little," she made sure to emphasize. "And, well... I don't think you should have to figure things out on your own either. So, if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm always open."

             "So you mean..." Dulze nodded.

             "...Just think of me like... your cool aunt. Or something." As honored as she was, she was definitely not going to make it a full time job, at least.

             "Aunt..." Bragi murmured under his breath. That wasn't a word or even a concept he'd considered until now, but with it, everything sort of fit into place. He could at least stop worrying about betraying Flann's mothership... Overwhelmed with relief on many different levels, Bragi felt tears start to well up in his eyes. "Thank you...!" Dulze couldn't help but smile a bit and shook her head.

             "Don't start doing all that now! If Deeji walks in the door, you'll make her worry!"

             "I'm trying not to, but...!" he protested, wiping his eyes. But suddenly, his eyes widened in realization. "Wait, Deeji..." Like a switch had been flipped, he suddenly stopped crying and looked toward Dulze excitedly. "Do you realize what this means?!"

             "...I'm afraid to ask."

             "This arrangement makes Deeji and I cousins!" he exclaimed, barely able to sit still. "Isn't that exciting?! I wonder what she'll think? I hope she comes back soon! I can't wait to--"

             "H-Hey, hold on a minute!" Dulze attempted to interrupt, but Bragi was far too excited to pay any mind. All she could do was hope he'd calm down before Deeji arrived.

[peridot-dreams]

beautiful people | shawn mendes

Shawn sees a familiar face at the awards show, and learns the value of realness.

The setting sun leaves the Hollywood sky pink and full of possibilities. Shawn finds himself looking out the window at it, still in a daze after the events that had unfolded that day. He’d won several awards for a song he was proud of. He thinks of the look on his parents’ faces in the audience when his name was announced and smiles. That’s who I do this all for, he thinks to himself.

His limousine rolls up the venue. It’s already teeming with people, Lamborghinis, and cameras. Shawn is used to such commotion, but the second he opens the car door, he’s bombarded with excessive noise - noise so loud that he can barely hear himself think.

He’s still riding his post-awards high when he walks in, still dressed in the same red carpet outfit as before. He has a girl on his arm, but not by choice - rather, an unfortunate PR stunt planned terribly and executed even worse. He greets his celebrity friends as he passes by, offering a small smile and a thank you when they congratulate him on his win.

He’s just about to ask the girl on his arm if she’d like to come with him to the drink bar when he sees a flash of silver in the corner of his eye. Shawn realizes who had just walked past him; he feels his heart began to pound in his chest and his breathing gets shallow. “Sorry, can I go to the bathroom?” he tells the girl on his arm, not bothering to wait for a response. He detaches himself and follows the silver blur, around a corner and into a dark hallway.

The silver blur is standing in the dark, scrolling aimlessly on her phone. Shawn sighs and takes in the sight: the silver dress on her is absolutely stunning. Her hair and her makeup is perfect; he feels lost in her presence, stunned by her beauty. He’s never seen her like this, and it only adds to the pain of it all. His mother had once said that losing a best friend is worse than a break up and right now he completely understands what his mother meant.

“Y/N,” he breathes. When she looks up, he feels like running away - she’s looking at him as if he’s the dirt under her silver heels. He wishes she would stop, that she would run to him and hug him and make everything alright between them again. She’s standing right in front of him but he misses her, misses everything about their friendship and support for each other.

“What do you want, Mendes?” she mutters under her breath. She turns her attention back to her phone, tapping her toe incessantly. Shawn can’t stand the sound of her heel hitting the ground because he remembers that she tends to fidget when she’s upset; the clacking sound is only a reminder of their friendship that had crashed and burned for reasons Shawn still fails to understand.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Shawn blurts out. “I don’t get it, Y/N. We used to be best friends, and one day you just started hating me and I still don’t understand why.”

“Because,” Y/N spits, shoving her phone into her bag. “Because you’re like them now.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“All those fake people out there!” Y/N exclaims, her eyes glancing over to the party-goers with a disgusted look plastered on her face. Shawn feels her gaze coming back to him, judging and critical. He feels like he could wither under her stare like a plant in a drought. “Shawn, you’ve changed. You used to be so down to earth, so genuine, but now you’re caught up in the money and fame and corporate bullshit.”

“Am not!” Shawn crosses his arms as he unconsciously clenches his teeth. “That’s such bull-”

“Shawn, you’re the epitome of fake. You’re in a fucking PR relationship.”

“W-What-”

“Don’t even try to argue. It’s so obvious and even your fans know what’s going on.”

Shawn closes his eyes. He wishes that he could argue with her, but arguing in the dark hallway outside of an after party wasn’t the ideal setting to do so. From the outside looking in, he knows it looks like he’s changed but he needs her to know that it’s not true. He needs his best friend back in his life again.

“Look,” Shawn speaks, taking a deep breath. “Let’s ditch this party. I know you don’t like these kinds of events anyway, so I don’t even know why you’re here…”

“My manager made me come.”

“Right. Whatever, let’s just sneak out. Let’s hang out like we used to, okay? I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t you need to get back to fake-dating your ‘girlfriend’?” Y/N snaps, giving Shawn the most sarcastic air quotes she can muster.

“No, fuck that,” he says. Against his better judgment, he takes her hand in his. He’s relieved when she doesn’t try to yank her hand back. “Let’s just go.”

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Thirty minutes later, Shawn finds himself sitting across from Y/N at a dingy old diner on the other side of Hollywood. He watches as she twirls the straw in her chocolate milkshake. She hasn’t said more than three words to him since they left the party, and Shawn feels like trying to salvage their friendship is pointless at this point. Shawn knew from their now-dead friendship that Y/N was a champion at holding grudges - he just never expected to find himself at the other end of one.

“So how’ve you been?” Shawn asks softly. He wants to kick himself for how awkward and nervous he sounds, but he hopes that Y/N will take his nerves as a sign of his genuine interest in rekindling their friendship.

“Fine,” she mumbles. She takes a tiny sip of her chocolate shake. “Slow year.”

Shawn knows that isn’t true. He Googles her name every few weeks and watches every single interview she appears in on YouTube. Y/N’s acting career had taken off in the past few years, and she’d been getting tons of lead roles in TV shows and movies lately. He always gets a pang of jealousy in the pit of his stomach when he sees pictures of her with friends on Instagram, because he knows full well that it could have been him travelling the world with her, experiencing new things with her.

He doesn’t tell her that he’s been keeping tabs on her. “Yeah,” Shawn mutters. “Okay.”

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. It doesn’t help that the diner is completely empty, save for the old man who owns it and is busy complaining about how “millenials are killing the restaurant business” under his breath. Shawn tries to focus on the owner’s mutterings, desperately wanting to think about something other than the fact that Y/N is totally not into him or the conversation that he’s been trying to keep going.

“I don’t hate you, by the way.”

Shawn’s head snaps up to look at her, eyes wide with shock. “Well, you stopped talking to me out of the blue, so I just assumed you did.”

“Well, I don’t.” She stops twirling her milkshake straw and drops her hands into her lap. She meets his gaze, eyes still hard and lips pressed together in a straight line. “You’ve just...changed.”

“I think we’ve both changed.”

“No.” She shakes her head, letting out an indignant laugh. Shawn winces at the sharpness of her tone. “You’re the one who started doing brand deals, ripping off fans with overpriced tickets and merch, signing PR contracts and betraying your fans…”

“Y/N.” Shawn’s hands are starting to shake; he rubs his thighs over his jeans in an attempt to calm himself down. Her words are cutting deeper than a knife; he can barely stand it.

“You’ve completely betrayed your fans, Shawn. You’ve sold them out to every company that has approached you, taken advantage of their trust. Damn it Shawn, you’re even endorsing overpriced water now, like how stupid is-”

“That wasn’t fucking me!” Shawn slams his hand on the table. The old man stops mumbling about millenials and looks in fear at the angry boy. Y/N is barely fazed, her hard glare still targeting Shawn.

“Oh really?” She narrows her eyes at him. “‘Cause your ass is everywhere these days, every time I turn on the TV-”

“Do you remember how my career started?”

Y/N stops for a second, but rolls her eyes immediately after. “Yeah, at some overpriced convention marketed towards prepubescent teenagers.”

“Before MAGCON,” Shawn interrupts. His eyes plead with her to understand, to see where he’s coming from. “I was just a kid, sitting in my room with a guitar. Singing cover songs and making six second videos even though no one was listening. Because I felt like it. Because it made me happy.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Yeah. That’s the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.” A sigh leaves Shawn’s mouth; his eyes drop to his lap as he tries to calm his shaking hands and voice. He’s never felt so heated in his life, like every emotion is about to burst out of his chest. “And then everything just took off and suddenly I was signing with a record label and being thrust into the public eye. I was just a small town kid from Canada, but suddenly people were starting to expect things from me.”

“Shawn-”

“No, please. Hear me out.” The suit on his body was tailored to be comfortable, but in the heat of his rant it feels like it’s suffocating him. “It all went so fast. It was just one song after another and interviews and TV shows and concerts and tours. Everything was just going by so fast and every day, I lost a piece of myself. I was on autopilot, and my team was just signing me up for everything and I would let myself be led by them. Even now, I just sign contracts without thinking and allow myself to be molded by people who only care about money.”

“Shawn, why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Y/N’s eyes are soft now. She suddenly notices how tired he looks under the makeup that he was forced to wear to the awards event: his sunken eyes, the dark bags under them, the lines that furrowed into his skin between his eyebrows. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to life, like the walls are caving in and he’s been trying to hold them up. She wishes she would have noticed earlier how lifeless he looks. “We were best friends, you could have told me about this.”

“Because,” Shawn starts, holding back the sob forcing itself up his throat. “I can’t ever tell anyone because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I’m grateful, I really am...I’m lucky to have my passion be my career. But I’m so tired, Y/N. I just want to go back to being that kid in his bedroom, playing guitar because he feels like it, not because he signed a contract or because someone else wants him to.” He closes his eyes, sighing, letting his head fall back slightly. He reminds himself to relax his shoulders and take deep breaths. “When I’m on stage, I get to go back to being happy for just a moment. I get to forget about everyone’s expectations, about contracts and brand deals and PR and all the bullshit. I get to be me. Completely free.”

She’s stunned and he knows it. He’s just unloaded all of the burdens he’s been carrying; Shawn doesn’t know how Y/N is going to react, but he feels lighter, he feels better. He just hopes, so desperately, that she’ll understand his brokenness and the wreckage that has been left in his mind as a result of the stress and anxiety of the last few years. He hopes that she’ll understand him for what he is, not what he appears to be.

“So I haven’t changed, Y/N. I’m not like them; I’m like you. Money and fame, it’s just not who we are.”

“Shawn, I’m so sorry.” Her tear-filled eyes move in a frenzy as she realizes the falsity of her words and accusations. “I should have realized that you felt this way and that you were struggling. I’m so sorry for severing our friendship and for not knowing what was going on.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I just…”

Shawn groans as he sees the group of people that have congregated outside the windows of the diner. They both gaze into the parking lot, bombarded by bright flashes and deafened by the sound of cameras shuttering.

“Fuck. It’s the paps.” Shawn groans again, head rolling back in frustration. “How did they find us?”

“They were following your famous ass,” Y/N says, laughing. Shawn smiles; he resists the urge to point out that she’s famous too, and has more followers than him on Instagram.

“Should we leave?” Shawn asks.

“Hell no. They want pics, let’s give them pics.” Shawn watches in awe as Y/N stands up on her seat despite the loud protesting of the owner. She starts waving at them crazily, her peace signs occasionally replaced by a middle finger.

“Fuck you!” she yells in between her laughs. Shawn grins; he finds himself copying her and standing on his own seat. He starts waving at the cameras, reveling in the flashes and dancing like an idiot to the music inside his head.

“Fuck you!” he yells. He’s never felt so liberated in his entire life. He starts posing with her, each pose more ridiculous than the prior. They pretend to tango on the table, screaming when they nearly topple over the edges. He twirls her around, smile growing bigger and bigger with each giggle that leaves her mouth. “It’s been two years and you still suck at dancing,” he cackles. She pretends to gasp, then sticks her tongue out at him and at the paps outside.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, his lips are on hers. She doesn’t kiss back at first, shocked, but when Shawn is about to pull away he feels her hands on the back of his head pulling him closer. Suddenly, there’s nothing else in the entire world besides her; they’re not standing on top of a diner table anymore. It’s like they’re floating and Shawn’s body is leaning into hers and he’s never felt so complete before. The smell of her conditioner makes him forget his own name and he realizes that her lips taste like chocolate and friends aren’t supposed to know how each other taste but he doesn’t care because it’s her and it’s always been her.

When they finally pull away, Shawn’s gasping for breath and Y/N’s eyes are as wide as saucers as she realizes what has just happened. “S-Shawn. Your PR contract…”

“Fuck the PR contract. Let’s give the world something real.” And their lips connect again, for the paparazzi cameras and the whole world to see.