#and then for some reason I told myself it would be good rendering practice

[scribblurri]

another one for @tenkasen (last one I swear). What’s yugioh without emotional damage am I right

there's no specifics for yuma/yusei's bit so I just went with the flow (haha get it) anyway lies down and dies

[theadventurerslog]

Quest For Glory 1: So You Want to Be a Hero | Part 3

The Adventurer's Log

Onward and questward! Or something.

Things started off with a bang, by which I mean I was chewed on, stabbed, killed at least 3 times as I stubbornly tried to make it to Erana's peace with low health to sleep there for the night instead of in town. I wanted to be ready to explore!

I also needed to still get the calm spell again so it was two birds with one stone or would have been if I remembered that I didn't have Open yet after the prior money woes. Cinder Win is a bumbling hero; I'm going to just accept this fact (it's me, I'm the bumbling hero). Anyway, I made it eventually with a lot of casting flame dart for practice and run run running when that would lead to a fight. Stumbled on in with 5HP and passed the heck out.

It's the wizardly way right? Cast spells and run like hell.

I'm having a lot of gaps here both in posting and in even playing, so for the sake of you dear reader and for my own sake I'm going to list some goals here and try to get back on track:

Get Open spell!

Get money for said Open - needed 23 more silver

Go back for Calm spell with Open

Deal with that kobold and chained bear - want Open and Calm spells

Find Erasmus the wizard

Find Baba Yaga's hut

Collect green fur and fairy dust: my two missing ingredients for the Dispel Potion

I decided to go try to find Erasmus first and maybe I'd find some money on the way. Thankfully, I have kept some notes and had been told he's somewhere eastward of town. Going back to town instead of running to Erana's Peace to rest would have been the more convenient option, but I just had to play the hand I dealt myself.

I got off to a great start in not realizing that my save was before I rested rendering my previous statement of passing the hell out a lie. So I ran off!

I prepped to run that is.

I ran into a saurus. I could fight a saurus maybe! I only had 5 health and died pretty much immediately.

SO FIRST.

I slept.

For real this time.

THEN I set off.

I ran into a bandit. I got him with a couple flame darts before the battle started which got him wounded.

It was hopeful!

I died.

I beat a goblin and got 8 silver! Slowly, ever so slowly, the competence grows.

I stopped by the stable to work too which got me up to 20 silver. There were only 10 more to go.

And I beat a saurus! I'm actually starting to win fights.

After some wandering and dead ends including a place blocked off by the remnants of an avalanche I found Erasmus' Tower.

I was greeted by signs that said different things such as:

"Welcome to Magic Mountain!" and "Trespassers Will Be Toad."

Are any other 'go away' signs really needed with that one?

At the top a gargoyle guarded the entry and I had to answer some questions to be allowed in.

I flubbed the first time because he asked about the baron's name and for some reason that translated to the baron's son in my brain. I read too fast or something. I didn't remember the baron's name anyway, so either way I was hooped there. He teleported me back to the sign area, so no big deal really, except for my poor stamina that was really getting drained by that climb.

Of course it was time to examine all the things.

King's Quest! Rosella!

I tried entering to the right and got warped away. Forbidden room.

So, I behaved and went upstairs to meet the wizard himself.

And his familiar(?) Fenrus. He invited me to play a game as a wizard...

Except there was a wee little caveat...

Way to rub it in!

I asked him about a few things and got some info and scolded for asking about too many boring things. But as for the info:

Baba Yaga is good at curses and shape changing spells. She has a nasty temper.

The brigands have a supposed warlock but he thinks he's more nincompoop than necromancer. He laughs too much when casting.

In order to be a wizard you need to have undergone initiation at the Wizard's Institute of Technocery in the South. Or WIT.

He also told me a couple jokes. Such as:

"Do you know what you get when a Tyrannosaurus running eastward meets a Tyrannosaurus running westward?

Tyrannosaurus wrecks!"

Har har. He has several jokes. They're bad. I love them.

I badgered him with too many boring questions and he teleported me back.

I didn't exactly have much else to do there anyway, so I took that quick trip back and carried on my merry way.

I made my way back to the town gates and ran into Bruno who had information for money. I paid him and learned Baba Yaga is due west of the castle and if I paid him two gold he'd tell me how to get into her hut. Not money I had!

So I figured I'd get back to exploring. I thought I'd cast a Zap on my weapon, you know, prepare. I cast it in front of him... Big mistake...

I went exploring and did some panicky running from monsters which is a problem for mapping because I found the entryway to the brigand's lair...

And not touching that.

I ran and found Baba Yaga's area but where I couldn't say!

I could chat with the big skull on the gate, the gate opener. He's a bitter fellow because all the other skulls get glowing eyes and he doesn't.

He'll let me in if I can get him a glowing gem.

Night was approaching and I was going to sleep at the inn after eating there, but it would cost 5 silver! I'm struggling with money as is! So I booked it to Erana's Peace again.

I still needed to find green fur and fairy dust for the potion. I also could sell the healer cheetuar claws (not happening), troll beard (not happening) or magic mushrooms--could happen! So, it was time to explore more was my initial thought.

Until I stepped outside Erana's Peace into a brigand and managed to defeat him and he was carrying a whopping 21 silver. That brought me up to 38 and I was back in business! Open Spell and things I need it for here I come. And 9 more from a goblin! Competence! And burning through MP.

I bought back my Open Spell at last. I ran back to Erana's Peace to get the Calm spell back at last. I wasn't in the best shape, but progress!

I figured I'd find my way back to Erasmus. I want to tackle the kobold and the bear when I'm in better shape, especially MP-wise. I want the calm spell for the ogre and the bear, and open for the chest, and flame dart for the kobold? That's a lot of casting. That's a start-fresh- in a new day sort of task.

I made my way back to Erasmus and he asked if I had several spells which I did until he got to Trigger which I don't. He told me Henry the Hermit has it and is located at the Flying Falls to the south. He also informed me he set up a bunch of spells there for Henry that would then be set off by trigger, so in a way he could cast lots of spells.

I also asked him about a few more things like the curse on the baron from Baba Yaga which can be counter cursed.

For now, I guess it was off to the hermit. I've found that area before I had to find it again.

I had an oddly peaceful trip there.

Then I got stuck. I could open the door with the spell but there was no way up. I got some magic skill up in trying to cast anything I could but no other progress, so I decided to go back to exploring. Maybe I'm missing something.

I found mushrooms!

I ate one because of course. Surprisingly it doesn't kill you.

I just got a bit high... though I realized maybe I could have eaten more...

Yep, there it was. Of course you can die eating them.

Nearby I found these fellows popping in and out of ground.

Meeps!

I tried talking to them which got them chattering underground until the green popped back up willing to talk.

I asked for some fur and he obliged! And tossed out a scroll while he was at it.

The scroll was Detect Magic! Maybe that'll help with the hermit.

It did! Detect Magic briefly revealed a ladder up the cliff which I was able to climb. I knocked and the door opening knocked me off. It took me a few tries to get out of the way in time... But once I got it, Henry let me in.

We had a bit of a chat and I asked about Trigger scroll which he was willing to give me. My spell arsenal grows!

He also let me sleep there in exchange for rations and playing a game of cribbage. Unfortunately it wasn't very good sleep, so I was still in poor shape for HP and my MP was only partially recovered. Slightly regret that but night was falling, so...

Ah well, I went back to the healer to sell my mushrooms and give her the green fur. All I needed left for the dispel potion was the fairy dust.

In the meantime hopefully I have all the spells Erasmus wants. So, heading back to him, AGAIN, is the first goal for next time.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for pretending to have a rare terminal tropical disease?

I (M, 34) am self- employed and run a private consulting agency — in other words, I serve as unofficial adviser for the police, and for those who might require assistance in personal matters. I have a friend (M, 36) whom I occasionally call upon for assistance. We shared lodgings for several years, although two years ago he took a wife and moved elsewhere in the city; this of course led to some distance in our arrangement, as I am fairly solitary in my habits and have few occasions to call upon the happy couple. Having mentioned this, it would be a disservice to the good fellow if I did not say that I still believe he would gladly render his company and assistance in any small problems that might need clearing up.

Several weeks ago I was engaged in an investigation concerning the death of a young man, who had supposedly died as the result of an illness, but in which I suspected foul play. My inquiries led me to the eastern district of the city and I was able to trace the possible instigation of the disease to a certain Mr. S, an expert in tropical diseases, and uncle of the aforementioned young man. I determined that the best course of action would be to set a trap for this Mr. S, and the easiest method of doing so would be to adopt a pretence of having contracted the disease, through the same method that I suspected him to have poisoned his victim. Although I am by no means famous, I am not unknown to the criminal classes, and I let Mr. S know that I was on his trail. He played into my hand by anonymously sending me a poisoned box, which all but confirmed his guilt in the matter to me. I knew Mr. S’ vindictive nature and he would almost certainly come to look upon his handiwork. I could then elicit a confession and call upon the police to clear the matter up. 

To continue with the trap, I needed a helpmate, as a bedridden and ill man could not reasonably be expected to approach Mr. S on his own. For this I decided to enlist the assistance of my friend; he could inform Mr. S of my illness and so bring Mr. S within my grasp and the arms of the law. However, I could not inform my friend of this plan, as despite his positive qualities he unquestionably has no talent for dissimulation, and I could not rely on him to convey the reality of the false disease to Mr. S through his acting abilities alone. I would also have to inform my landlady of my condition, as she would be my point of contact for reaching my friend in his practice. Therefore, it was essential that I impress these two individuals with the reality of my having contracted the illness. This would not be so difficult in the case of the landlady, as it is the nature of womankind to be swayed easily by sentiment and allow this to cloud one’s judgement, and I knew that I could rely on her concern for my health to outweigh her natural discernment. However, in the case of my friend I anticipated a more elaborate deception, as he is a practicing medical doctor — and indeed I have great respect for his abilities, and have enlisted his help in some small medical matters. Fortunately, I have some experience in the fine art of malingering and of practical stage effects, and so endeavoured to recreate the symptoms of the disease as faithfully as possible. I also undertook three days of absolute fast (not so great a feat for myself, as my habits are irregular). I believe the final product was entirely convincing, and I confess to being pleased with my efforts and the effect it produced. 

I put my plan into motion by informing the good landlady of my illness, and ensured she would contact my friend first by insisting that I only be treated by him. My friend seemed very taken by my initial appearance and expressed his desire to find another doctor who could treat me; but of course I could not allow him to seek another professional as they would instantly expose my plan. I told him of my contracture of the disease, of my pitiful state, and of the absolute importance of finding a suitable expert to treat me, establishing Mr. S as the only viable candidate. I did not allow him to approach or treat me as I knew that he would see through the deception at once on account of my lack of fever — the one element of the illness I could not simulate. To ensure he was entirely convinced of the dissolution of my mental faculties, as would be expected in this disease, I proceeded to feign delirium, although on reflection I may have been somewhat too harsh in my words towards him, especially those regarding his medical abilities (I maintain that this was absolutely necessary for the deception). I kept him in my room for two hours in this way, and having finally ascertained that he was utterly taken by the urgency of the situation and moved by my condition, I allowed him to go fetch Mr. S. My friend then returned to act as an unwitting witness, concealed in my room, while I conducted the final coup de theatre. 

Ultimately, I was successful in my efforts; Mr. S was arrested, and I and my friend testified as witnesses. I do not believe I would have handled the situation differently had I the opportunity to do so, and when examining my actions I fail to see any glaring errors in my reasoning. I carried forth my plan with the complete thoroughness of the artist. However, I am beginning to grow anxious that I may have unknowingly offended my friend permanently with my admittedly inconsiderate behaviour in the pursuit of justice; it does not seem he has taken well to being deceived in such a way and he has remained distant since the affair concluded a week ago. Have I committed an unforgivable offence? I await your verdict with some apprehension. 

[dont-read-this-im-dead]

When I was in 10th grade, I was in the literary magazine club. The club had faded from my school for several years, but I helped some friends rebuild it with my English teacher.

I was never brave enough to submit anything for the publication, but soon before the magazine was published, we hosted a program called Shout Out.

Anyone who wanted to read something they wrote (even if it was not in the magazine), could get up.

I was expecting maybe 3 people, plus the editing team.

But the auditorium was FULL. Students, parents, some teachers.

And I stood up to read.

But before I read, I told my audience, "I just want to let you know that none of the names or events in this story depict real people or events. Everything is completely fictional."

And then I spoke for 30 minutes, reading a short(?) story I wrote about this girl who was systematically and repeatedly raped by her father, her brother, and her best friend's brother, each one unaware of the other two, until one day, a medical condition puts her in the hospital, where she finds out she's pregnant.

I wove this tale about a 16 year old girl who asked her doctors to banish her family from her room, unable to speak the forbidden words that would simultaneously grant her freedom and render her homeless.

I practically whispered the bittersweet ending of a 19 year old with a two year old son that looked just like her husband, because she didn't know how to live alone, so she chose an uneven path, gradually learning how to fall in love with her best friend's brother.

I ended the story with her going to a high school with her son and talking to a health class during their sex ed week, telling her story.

Then I thanked my audience for their time and sat back down, my knees trembling something fierce and the silence so PROMINENT, even I could have heard the pin drop.

While everyone else decided to clap to fill the silence (still not sure why they gave me a standing ovation--it wasn't a GOOD story), my dad, sitting in the seat next to me, leaned over and whispered, "I'm really glad you warned everyone at the beginning that it was fictional, because they would probably be trying to arrest me by now if you hadn't."

When everyone was done reading, a friend of mine found me and said, "first off, how dare you have her end up with her rapist, that's evil, and I hate you for that. Second, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time, and omg, that was SO GOOD. Third, it was good that you said that thing at the beginning, but seriously, anyone who has ever met your dad knows he's basically a teddy bear. But also. WHY DID YOU HAVE HER END UP WITH HIM????"

And I just shrugged, because I didn't really want to answer, but Ive never told anybody this before, so here goes.

The reason I had her choose her non-blood relative rapist to marry, was because I had started getting really bad episodes where I basically wanted to kill myself. But I didn't want to make my family find my body, because ouch, do I hate THEM, or do I hate ME?

But every breath weighed me down until I was drowning, so I wrote this character that I could give my worst to. Someone who had it worse than me, who would need to find a sliver of hope to survive past the current hour. And I gave her my worst. I gave her a life that should have killed her, but she lived.

I gave her everything I hated, and more.

And then, I imagined my dull future of having to simply...*live,* and I gave it to her in the worst way possible that I could think of: by marrying her rapist.

And still, she lived.

And still, she loved.

Because I wanted to see someone be worse off and continue on living. Because that gave me the strength to do it myself.

[ncitygirls]

eternal - jaemin x f reader

fluff, smut, vampire!jaemin, 2.2k

he had yet to utter a word since his confession, and neither had you, though you had tried piecing together a worthy response. he simply watched you as you watched him, your eyes focusing on each delicate ridge in his skin, admiring his nonexistent pores; how the thin slithers of light that broke through the poorly drawn curtain, shone on a bend from the ends of his bangs down and around his chin. a kind reminder of what you swear you have always known, but regret to have never questioned.

“jaemin?”

“my love?”

“have you always been this beautiful?’

he had to admit he was taken back. those are the first words you have said in a long while. they are your first words since he told you three minutes and twenty-five seconds ago - he was counting, not actively, but over time his mind has created room for his thinking to expand, to surpass humanity’s understanding of thought, and most times he welcomes it. but not at times such as these - where he knows he told you three minutes and twenty-five seconds ago, and your first words are in awe of him.

“i told you i am undead.. and that is what troubles you?”

“your beauty is far from troubling,” you retort, eyes still inspecting his face. jaemin’s mind wanders back to when he once pitied humans. how they thought what they saw was really seeing. victims of an already limited life, the human eye is only able to pick up a fraction of their sublime reality. yet the way your eyes traverse each of his features, as if to commit them to memory, he surely found a compelling reason to admit their eyes were not so lacking. “was it the bite that made you so handsome?”

“i wasn’t bitten,” he corrects, as the pads of your thumbs sweep over his cold knuckles, your touch casting a reverence over the scene. he lets out a pretty laugh at your assumption, the soft crease between your brows forming as he destroys your fictional understanding of his kind. “humans have always had a skewed understanding of our lore.”

“so your mother and father were vampires?”

“no.” it has been some time since he has had to explain vampiric lore to a human, but his mind retains his memory of it all the same. “it is not dissimilar to what humans call possession? or a spell? it is a combination of the two.”

“did it hurt?”

jaemin cannot help but melt at the notes of concern lacing your tone. it is his turn to pass his thumb along your knuckles before flipping your hand over, letting his finger trace a swirl in your palm, offering a soft shake of his head. “it makes one feel queasy, a consequence of the change in dietary needs.”

your hand stiffens beneath his touch as your eyes drop to examine them. he fears he has spoken out of turn, pushed the astonishingly pleasant conversation down a dark hole. jaemin once believed humans to be predictable, but you continue to challenge that. “is that why my invites to have you for dinner always go unanswered?”

“i knew that wounded you, angel.”

“it did no such thing!” his chin drops, eyes boring into you in a successful attempt to lure the truth out of you. he immediately softens when you exhale, in defeat of his gaze or distaste at your transparency, he does not know. jaemin would soften all the same. “i will admit, i did make assumptions to make sense of your refusal.”

“did you think i preferred not to visit?” you had never noticed the flecks of red in the perimeter of his irises until now. they glowed slightly, as if enraged, though you know not with you. “there are rules we must follow when entering a new space, silly, unchangable rules.” his frown deepens when you nod, always understanding even when you shouldn’t. “i apologise if I hurt you, angel.”

“hush now, you need not apologise.” you’re proven right when his eyes return to the perfect colour you remember them for: a golden swirl moving within the rich cocoa, shining only as the light hits it. relief floods him when he rests his forehead on your own. he grips your hips firmly, swaying you both as you call for him.

“jaemin, what is it you do eat?”

“pretty girls named y/n.” oh how he wished you would have laughed then, instead of him opening his eyes to find your horror stricken face. “i swear to you that was a joke. that was in poor taste, i am so sorry.” you find his apology hard to believe as his body shakes, shaking your whole frame along with him.

“do not,” you hit his arm once, “mock,” and a second time though ineffective, “me!”

he saves himself quickly, retreating to safety by putting an unrealistic amount of distance between you two in an inexplicable amount of time. when he abandoned you, you nearly collapse forward with the force you were using to hit him before catching yourself.

“come here.”

“i drink blood.” you did not particularly dislike his attempt to stay on topic, just the topic itself. you try to appear enlightened but you have always found it difficult to repress your repulsion. “i know you have no interest in the macabre.”

“blood is meant to be inside you.”

“i think it tastes great.” he quickly arrives in front of you, your open books and abandoned letters fluttering all over the room as his speed garners its own winds. his thumbs journey over the veins on your wrists, slowly trailing up your forearms. he only speaks again when he hooks his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head to allow his teeth to graze over the column of your neck. “it is reminiscent of fruit. some blood is like grapefruit and lemon. while some are akin to grape, strawberries.”

“oh,” you sigh, heart slowing as his lips drag along the base of your throat. he pulls back, gazing longingly at your wonderment as you feel his mood swing. bitterness seeps into his eyes in how his taste for blood ironically remains the only provision of some kind of memory of flavour, of normality. “do you enjoy it?”

“blood?”

“being a vampire.” no one has ever asked him such a thing. is there anything to enjoy about eternal life? about reliving his youth, being relocated, remade, renewed over and over and over, for an eternity.

as he gazes down at you, he remembers with all the bad must come some good.

“not always,” he smiles knowingly, thinking of his friends. the lives they built for themselves over a combined millennia. it almost makes him retract saying that. “i do regret some things. like allowing haechan to convince us to help real witches free the falsely accused during the witch trials. only to later discover he had a wager on being able to free more than their coven could.” he loved the way your eyes followed along, he loved knowing he could finally share his life in its entirety with you. “i have a thousand reasons why i should hate it, but I cannot bring myself to.”

“why?” he will find a way to forgive himself for giving you a reason to ask. he will ensure you needn’t ask again.

“because,” he whispers into your mouth, his lips slipping between your own, fingers clasped behind your neck. “if i had died in 1625, i would not have had the honour of making your acquaintance.”

“this is hardly an acquaintance,” you remind him, counting his years in your head as he pulls you flush against him utilising less than a speck of his strength. “careful grandsire,” it tumbles from your lips as he licks against your mouth. “i am not sure a man even three hundred years your junior could make it through what you are starting.”

“you needn’t worry about me,’ he sighs, his groin rolling against your own, his fingers clinging to your breakable frame. “though i must confess, my eating pretty girls named y/n was not said solely in jest.” his fingers toy with your knickers, ice cold digits moving freely along the waistband. “in fact, i fear my sanity depends on it. might you be of some aid?”

“who am i to deny a man nearing his fourth century?” he begs himself not to laugh, if only not to kill the mood but more so to avoid dignifying your mockery. his laughter morphs quickly into pants, your hand slotted wickedly between his own and his groin. “how might i be of assistance to you?”

“just as you are,” he whispers, his dulled teeth passing dangerously along the shell of your ear. as a man of his years, patience isn’t something which he is in short supply. but even then, one grows tired of waiting, for coitus, for love, for you. he is quick to remove your hand, finding his own pacing as he presses you against the wall, your heat pulsing beneath his cock, practically leaking. “i forgot how pliant humans are,” it is wicked how he watches you, his fingers rolling your hardened nub betwixt their pads. you shudder at the sight of him, his golden eyes darkening in the sunlit room, his tongue passing over his sharpened teeth. he smirks as you hiss, his fingers pinching your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. his tongue rolls in time with his hips, running his clothed cock along your clothed folds. he is quickly reminded of his strength as his palm collects dust as it meets the wall with a thud, steadying himself as you whine deliciously, his name bleeding from your raw lips. “yes, angel?”

“i need you,” you breathe, gazing up at him as his lips capture yours. your tongues move in tandem, wrapping around the other in a hypnotic frisk. he swallows your whimpers as he lures them out of you. he sucks your tongue into his mouth, hands moving to your rear before lifting you from the ground. he makes little work of you, rendering you a quarter of your size. your ankles lock around his waist as he casts your knickers aside, hissing as the pad of his finger meets your folds.

“might i have a taste now?” he pleads, eyes burning a fiery amber, pure adoration hidden beneath. “please, angel?”

“take all of me, jaemin.” he holds you still, a metre from the ground as he kneels, his hands firm around your thighs before he lowers you over his mouth. his flat tongue licks long stripes up your cunt, tongue flicking along your hooded clit in his descent. he likens you to a spring, his soul knelt before you, preparing an offering to your fountain. he is ready to collect all you offer him, your essence pouring out onto his tongue, soaking his lips, slick down his chin. his eyes fall to a close at the sight of your dazed form, your eyes screwed shut in prayer, his lips puckering around the hood of your clit, the tip of his tongue rolling against the nerve. “jaemin, right there, please.”

he hums in accordance, his tongue circling your clit as your thighs shake on either side of his head. he smirks as you still, his middle and ring finger entering your warm cavern, forcing your hips to roll against his digits. he curves them slowly, pressing against your pink walls, bulging up against your stomach. “you are so fragile,” he says, lips bitten as he watches your body succumb to his touch. he leans closer to you, steadying you on his shoulders to free his hand. he presses his palm to your abdomen, hypnotised by the feeling of his own fingers inside you. letting his thumb drift down, he pulls up the skin hiding your clit, allowing his lips to pucker against the nub before he offers a hard suck. his tongue joins the fold, drinking you in as you let out a sharp cry, the pressure inside and out joining forces to send you over the edge. “when you’re ready, love, come.”

he can feel your skin burning up, see the sheen of sweat coating your entire body. “jaemin,” you continue to chase your high, but cling to the moment. you feel like your convulsions might snap your body in two. that pleasure such as this cannot exist innately, that only he can bestow it on you. you are proven right as you grow more frantic, his fingers rub against the spot inside you that he found with great ease, as his lips suck on your clitoris. the final straw is his gaze, you feel it and fall victim to it. his irises a bright, angelic white, the rim speckled in gold. one cast of your eyes on your lover and you snap.

there is no doubting that as jaemin gazes up at you, he sees glory eternal. he sees life. he sees an angel.

“come angel.”

and you do. jaemin’s simple command breaks a dam, summoning a flood of pleasure you are unsure you will survive. hot iron passes through your veins, lighting you from the inside out. he continues without thought, his lips sucking the pleasure out of you, his fingers still pounding into your swollen pussy. only when your fingers find his hair, pulling him away with a sharp tug does he concede, lowering you into his lap.

“hi,” he says after some time, watching you pant against the wall. “are you still with me?” he jests, palms gliding up and down your aching thighs.

you hum, gazing up at the golden orbs that you decide you mustn’t live without. much like his life, and much like your love. eternal. “always.”

[phoebe-delia]

could u write a drarry oneshot inspired by sweet creature of harry styles? :)

Hello Nonnie! I absolutely can. This is a great suggestion, I love this song for Drarry. I hope you enjoy it. Warnings: injury, drinking, attempted sexual assault that is VERY QUICKLY STOPPED and NOT H/D!!! Thank you to @apr1cots for the beta!

3 Times Harry Brought Draco Home...+1 Time Draco Brought Harry Home

1.

The first time, Harry found him in the cafe near their flat.

He sat down in the chair across from Draco, who glared at him over his cup of tea. "I thought I told you not to follow me."

"I waited three hours. I figured that would be enough time for you to come to your senses, but you didn't come back, so I got worried."

"I can handle myself, thanks."

"I know you can. But you didn't tell me where you went."

Draco's eyes flashed. "That was for a reason, you imbecile."

Harry shook his head. "Flatmates don't do that—disappear for three hours after a fight without saying where they’ve gone."

"I'm an adult. And you're not my father or my boyfriend, so back off."

"No, but I am your friend. And your flatmate. And I don't want to be worried sick for three hours when you fuck off to Merlin knows where because you're feeling pissy!" Harry snapped, letting his anger creep into his voice.

Draco sighed. He took a moment to sip his tea, and then he looked at Harry. "I'll tell you what. If we fight, and I don't return, send an owl, Floo or contact you in some way within six hours, you can send out a bloody search party."

Harry shook his head. “I will give you three hours.”

“Five”

“Three and a half.”

“Four and a half.”

“Four is my final offer.”

Draco scoffed. “Is that so? What are you going to do, show up with half the Auror department?”

Harry pursed his lips. “Not if I don’t have to. But I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Care to find out?”

“You’re mental.”

“Maybe,” Harry shrugged. “Trouble is, I don’t care. Now, will you be here for a while, or are you coming home with me?”

“I suppose I'll go, but only since I've already finished my tea,” Draco said with another sigh, which Harry ignored as they both rose from their seats. While they walked to the Apparition point together, Harry replayed in his mind the flicker of emotion on Draco’s face when he said “home.”

2.

The second time, Harry’s glass nearly shattered in his hand from how firmly he was gripping it.

He ignored Hermione’s knowing gaze and Ron’s eye roll as he unabashedly stared daggers at the bloke practically groping Draco at the bar. Harry saw Draco’s eyes widen imperceptibly, noticed his smile falter and his cheekbone twitch.

Yes, he observed this from across the room. You get to know a bloke after living with him for almost a year; besides, Harry was very perceptive—constant vigilance and all that.

Speaking of being an Auror, Harry was pretty sure this prick was breaking some sort of public indecency laws by the way he was sliding his hand further and further up Draco’s leg. Draco gently pried the man’s hand from his thigh, only for the stranger to laugh and reach over again, gripping it even more firmly.

Harry didn’t think beyond getting up from his seat and striding toward the bar, quickening his pace when he saw Draco’s eyes widen in panic. He barely registered the look of horror on the stranger’s face when he grabbed the hand gripping Draco’s thigh and pinned the man face-down on the bar.

“He said no,” Harry said through clenched teeth, ignoring the man’s grunts and protests.

“We were just talking!” The man sputtered, his cheek pressed against the counter as he twisted and wriggled to get free.

Harry tightened his grip. “Conversation’s over. If I catch you trying to ‘talk’ to him again, I’ll make sure you have a nice chat with the Wizengamot about sexual assault. Now, apologize.”

“But—”

“Apologize!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

Harry smirked. “Good.” He released the man’s arm and let him right himself. The man froze, looking between Harry and Draco expectantly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Leave. Now.”

The man nodded, scurrying out of the now silent bar, the bell attached to the door tinkling behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Draco’s face was blank other than a raised eyebrow.

Harry shrugged. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. But I am glad you’re okay. You are, right? He didn’t hurt you?” Harry’s chest tightened at the suggestion.

But Draco shook his head. “No, I’m fine. But I think that’s my sign to head home.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine to Floo.”

“I want to.”

“What about your friends?”

Harry cringed and turned back to face the table to see Ron and Hermione looking at him, expressions full of nausea and amusement, respectively. He held up a hand in a small wave. Hermione shook her head and smiled fondly.

Harry grinned and turned back to Draco. “They’ll be alright without me. C’mon, let’s go home. I’ll make us some tea, yeah?”

Draco hesitated at first, but he nodded. And if Harry let his hand linger lightly on Draco’s back when they headed toward the Floo, they could both chalk it up to a safety measure.

3.

The door to Pansy Parkinson’s flat swung open before Harry could knock.

She took one look at him and rolled her eyes. “Could you have taken any longer to get here?”

Harry bristled. “I was—”

“Don’t care. Get in here, he’s on my couch.” She turned and walked away purposefully, and Harry trailed behind her.

“I thought you two were just going for drinks?”

Pansy sighed. “We were, but then we came back here for a few more, and he got into my tequila when my back was turned.” She shook her head. “Tequila is his one weakness—well,” she smirked. “One of them, anyway.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to respond when a shout sounded from the living room.

He looked over to see Draco sprawled across the couch, an empty glass in one hand and the other nearly touching the floor, his leather-clad legs spread wide.

Draco grinned at Harry. “Harrryyy!!! Come to join the party?”

“He’s come to end it, more like,” Pansy crossed her arms. “It’s time for you to go home, love.”

Draco let out a high, keening whine and burrowed himself further into the couch. “Don’ wanna. Tired. Stay here.”

“No, Draco, we’ve got to go home,” Harry walked up to the couch. His breath caught when gray eyes blinked wide and pleadingly up at him.

Draco held out his arms. “Up.”

“Er, what?”

Draco jerked his arms up and down, keeping them in the air. “Up! Help me up, you great oaf!”

Harry sighed and bent down, taking Draco in his arms and nearly stumbling when the blond let his body weight fall into him.

Draco smirked lazily. “Oops,” he said with a grin in his voice. “Guess you gotta carry me.”

Harry scoffed, looking to Pansy for appeal.

She waved a hand dismissively. “He’s your problem, now. Just get him out of my flat and back home intact, will you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, walking away into another room.

Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure about the safety of Apparating or taking the Floo with someone in your arms, and the twists and turns of the Knight Bus could make a sober person sick up. With a grunt, he hoisted Draco up and into his arms bridal style, and the other man yelped and then giggled wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck.

“Home,” Draco said softly, and affection spread through Harry’s chest.

“Okay, Draco,” Harry whispered as they made their way out of the flat. “I’ve got you.”

+1.

Harry woke to the sound of muffled voices shouting at each other and the constant beep of a monitor.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wincing as a sharp pain exploded in his side with the effort. Memories came rushing back: the raid, turning his back for a split second to shout something at Ron, blinding pain, then darkness. He tried to sit up in the hospital bed, but he let himself lie back down when his side throbbed once more.

Suddenly, the door was opened and then promptly slammed shut. “Honestly, the nerve of these people. If he needs bed rest, then where is better than his own bed? Is my Healer degree rendered meaningless the moment I’m off the clock?” Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room angrily.

“Draco?”

Draco jumped and turned to Harry with wild, startled eyes that made Harry laugh, and then wince in pain.

“You’re awake, thank Merlin,” Draco approached the side of the bed, relief replacing the shock on his face.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two days. You were hit with a rare curse that caused an ever-bleeding wound in your side, and the healers had to put you in a magically induced coma to reverse it.”

“That sounds good. Do Robards and—”

“Yes, Ron gave Robards the full briefing. You’re not expected in the office until a Healer permits it.”

“So, can I go home?”

“Yes, now that you’re awake, you can go home. I’ll monitor you from there.”

Harry frowned. “You don’t have to.”

Draco let out a short, humorless chuckle. “You were in a coma for two days, Harry. The only reason they’re discharging you is that you’re going home with a Healer.”

“But you don’t actually have to stay and watch me all day, right?”

“What part of ‘I’ll monitor you from there’ don’t you understand?”

“But I’m fi-!” The last word was cut off as Harry hissed through another spark of pain.

“Fine, are you?”

“Shut up.”

Draco smirked. “Not likely.”

Harry scowled, eliciting a real laugh from Draco, who moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Flatmates don’t do this, y’know.”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Take several days off of work to care for the other when they’re injured. I’m not even sure friends do that.”

Harry noticed Draco’s jaw tighten. He ached to reach up and relax it with a gentle touch, but he kept his hand at his side.

“What are you saying, Harry?” Draco asked, his voice low and even.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harry swallowed. “I won’t argue about you wasting days away from work if you let me take you to dinner when I’ve recovered.”

The beginning of a smile curved Draco’s lips. “And what will we do in the meantime?”

Harry waggled his eyebrows. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”

Draco chuckled. “If you think I’m missing work just so you wind up back in here because you restarted bleeding during sex, you’ve another thing coming.”

Harry pouted halfheartedly. “Apparently I won’t be coming at all.”

Draco mimicked his petulant frown. “Aww, ickle Harry, being waited on for days by his flatmate-turned-boyfriend.”

“I’ll tell you what—”

“Didn’t we already make a deal?”

“I’ll tell you what: I won’t argue about you missing work or not having sex until I’m recovered if you let me take you to dinner once I’m healed and if we can snog as much as we like.”

"What makes you think I’ll agree to those terms?”

Harry shrugged. “If you don’t like those terms, I can come up with more. Now that I’m on bed rest, I’ve got plenty of time to think.”

“You’re not supposed to strain yourself,” Draco smirked when Harry glared at him.

Harry huffed. “You need to work on your bedside manner, Healer Malfoy.”

“I’ll get plenty of practice this week, then, won’t I?”

“Yes, you will. Now, can we get out of here? I want to start my healing regimen right away.”

Draco laughed and laced their fingers together. “Alright, Harry. Let’s go home.”

Send me an ask about Harry Potter, broadway/musicals, The West Wing, and/or Taylor Swift! Or just about life in general :).

Also, I have a playlist of my 99 most listened-to songs of the year so far. Pick a number 1--99 and send me an ask and I'll write you a fic based on it!

[ambrosiaaddiction]

Have A Little Faith

Word Count: 1,783

Summary: You are at Lady Danbury’s evening ball, which is the perfect opportunity to find a potential suitor so that you can finally settle down. But of course, it’s not as easy as it sounds. You’ve found yourself standing far away from everyone else, and just when you think tonight will be fruitless, your childhood friend, Anthony Bridgerton, changes all of the thoughts inside your head.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Tonight was the night where I needed to do a little flirting with men I have never personally met, and hopefully, I’ll impress them with my charms. That’s if they would gauge their attention onto me instead of whatever they wanted to boast about.

Mama practically talked my ear off when we were upon arriving Lady Danbury’s estate, but Richard distracted her with the topic of his new fiancée like the eldest brother he is. I still hadn’t thanked him for his act of bravery, although, that could wait for when we were in the carriage.

In my mind, I ventured on about whether or not he would be at the ball. The last time we’ve met was nearly three days ago when our families agreed to have a picnic in celebration of a newborn baby coming into the world. As much as I enjoyed engaging in social encounters, I had been more comfortable with reading alone in my room.

But alas, he persuaded me to join everyone outside where we could eat and share jokes under the warm sun together. Since then, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his shoulder brushed against mine more than enough times to call it accidental.

The man even offered to feed me a sandwich and delectable piece of scone he had already bitten into. Luckily for the two of us, our families were too immersed with doting over the aforementioned newborn baby to realize what we were doing.

Viscount Bridgerton, informally known as Anthony or Bridgerton by both family and close friends. I was not exempt from the latter formalities, although, I’ve always wondered what my life would be like if I had not crossed paths with him.

He is everything and more when Lady Whistledown wrote about him in her society’s paper last Tuesday. And to be quite frank, he needed to work for what he wanted rather than let it fall into his lap.

It seemed unfathomable the way he charmed his way through women of the ton while simultaneously rejecting them. I found it entertaining to see the crestfallen faces of girls my age, but am I to blame for their naïveté?

Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake through and through, which I can say with the utmost certainty because I am his childhood friend.

Now, don’t get me wrong. He loves his mother and siblings in place of his late father, and he is very passionate in regards of his interests. That includes women who have a pretty face and have given him an unforgettablely good time.

But this did not excuse the trail of broken hearts as well as tearful confessions behind the Viscount. Although a bit discouraging for someone who harbored feelings for the man, I always kept a smile on my face whenever we had a conversation with one another.

Anthony was extremely well-versed in politics, social skills, and the economy. There were times when I tested him on a popular topic in the papers, which as expected, he excelled.

I should not be thinking about the past at this hour. Everyone around me was dancing, drinking their glasses of champagne, and looking for someone to court. Letting out a deep sigh, I brush off a speck of invisible dust from the hem of my dress.

That’s when I see him, politely making his way through the crowd to go to where I am. A silent panic breaks my former calm demeanor, and I quickly stand taller to seem more presentable. It does not go unnoticed in the slightest, thus Anthony chuckles behind a hand then he stands before me in his handsome glory.

“Good evening, Miss Willows. How are you enjoying the ball so far?” There’s a mischievous glint behind those mesmerizing brown eyes, but onlookers would mistake it as a completely different emotion. “Hello, Lord Bridgerton. I’m much comfortable standing on the sidelines rather than dancing the night away. Thank you for asking, my lord.”

He shakes his head with amusement, and he finds my honest reply to be of a different mood compared to the other young women. “Then you shan’t refuse my offer to dance the night away, Miss Willows.” I furrow my brows in confusion and not a moment later, I’m swept onto the dance floor.

I’ve not the chance to process all that has happened, but Anthony keeps me focused on him and only him. He lowers his head to whisper words of encouragement, and I flush like a rose when he sneaks a kiss on the apple of my cheek. It’s too much for me to understand why he chose me instead of any other woman he wanted in the ball room.

“I’m relieved to see that you’re not stepping on my feet, and how beautiful your smile glows, Miss Willows.” I’m temporarily rendered speechless as to why he’s suddenly being quite the gentleman towards me. If it weren’t for the bystanders, he and I would be playfully bantering nonstop about the most random things we could think of.

“Anthony, tell me, what’s gotten into you? I appreciate the change of attitude, but it’s not the Bridgerton I know.” He’s unresponsive for a minute, then two. I can feel his grip on my waist tighten and the subtle action to bring our bodies closer. I’m not sure how I should react, but I needn’t say anything at all when he spins me around.

“My mother wants me to find a young lady to court because she’s tired of me being a bachelor for most of my life.” “Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised because she’s right.” I’m quick to give my reply, and he briefly glares down at me. “Oh, come now, Anthony. Even Lady Whistledown knows about your spectacular reputation and preferences.”

“Yes, but that’s all she knows about me, y/n. I just don’t think I’m capable of settling down with a family of my own in the near future.” The song comes to an end, and we bow before walking together for some refreshments. I say my hellos to several couples, single lords, and some of my friends when we come across them.

“That is a lie because from my knowledge, you’re the spitting image and exact replica of your father, Anthony Bridgerton.” “Y/n, I’m grateful to have met an extraordinary woman like yourself, but sometimes you get on my nerves.” That stabbed me right in the heart. Alright, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned his late father, but he didn’t have to be so harsh.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you can marry whoever you want to, but you’d most definitely choose a woman with the same personality as yours.” I watch him take a swig from his wine glass, and then he points it at me. Narrowing my eyes as I brace myself for possible humiliation, he sets down the glass and takes my hand to drag me off to someplace other than where we were now.

I won’t lie when I say that I was nervous yet excited to find out where he was taking me. Benedict, Colin, and Eloise all looked our way then at their mother, and I could tell that they had connected the dots. It was a good thing that Lady Bridgerton found her happy place with alcohol, otherwise she would’ve stopped Anthony in his tracks.

We eventually reach our destination, which so happens to be one of countless rooms that was conveniently far away for anyone to hear. Don’t tell me... “Anthony, what are we doing over here? Shouldn’t we be with all those people, and dancing the night away?”

No answer from my captor. He seemed to be in deep thought, and I scoffed in disbelief. I most certainly did not want to spend the rest of my time on my friend, especially when he wouldn’t tell me why he brought me here. “Look, I came to this ball to find a suitor. If you won’t answer me, then—“

Before I knew it, his lips were on mine. The hand that was once squeezing my waist found its rightful place, and the other gently brushed my hair back. I fluttered my eyes closed, letting myself melt in his embrace as we kissed with a fiery passion I knew that had always been between us.

A few moments later, he pulled away then buried his face into the crook of my neck. I felt him inhale then exhale, as though he was trying to control himself from doing something I hadn’t done before. “I want you, y/n. But only if you’ll allow me to court you. We have gone through thick and thin in our childhood, and I want nothing more to continue for the rest of our lives.”

The Viscount Anthony Bridgerton was asking for my consent to be courted, and I would be delusional to reject his confession. I’ve never seen him so sincere and vulnerable like this before, and it made me giggle. He must’ve thought that I was going to refuse his offer, but I snake my arms around his neck then kiss his soft lips for reassurance.

“I’ve never thought you would ask, Anthony. But this means no more secret meetings, alright? If I hear an inkling about you being where you’ve told me you wouldn’t be at, then I’m ending things. Am I clear, Bridgerton?” He swallows thickly and nods, so I’m rather grateful that my warning has gotten through.

I bring my hands to cup his face, and I now see how much he adores me the way he relaxes against my touch. Unfortunately, we’ve been gone for far too long, but I don’t doubt that he’ll come up with a reasonable excuse to his worrying mama.

Anthony kisses the top of my head before taking my hand and leading me back the way we came. I intertwine our fingers to which he brings up to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “It might be too soon to say this, but I absolutely and undoubtedly love you, y/n Willows. I promise to cherish you for as long as I am going to live.”

It takes a bit for me to absorb the sudden declaration, but I’m not complaining whatsoever. All that mattered was that we shared equal affection for one another, and we were willing to work for a bright, lovely lifestyle ahead of us. “And I wholeheartedly love you, Anthony Bridgerton. You are mine for eternity,”

Some might say that we were too inexperienced when it came to love, but we ignored their opinions. Like my mama used to tell me when I was a child, “Have a little faith.”

[jafndaegur]

☕️ cafe date ☕️

Nothing says Fall as much as meeting the person you love at a cafe for good discussion and cozy ambiance! You are meeting Jumin at a local cafe: what do you both order and what do you talk about??

Leaaaaa! It's been so long, I'm so sorry😭 I save every one of your prompts, I absolutely adore them. I just...haven't been in a good place for writing lately. This one made me sooooo happy tho cause I play autumn cafe jazz o f t e n >w< this one got away from me""""""

My thumb rubs along the rim of my coffee mug, my foot tapping anxiously against the ground. I've talked to Jumin quite often over the period of my stay in Seoul, but this is my first time meeting him in person. I fix the pleats on my jumper and check my watch for the ump-teenth time. Thirty minutes early.

Right. May have jumped the gun on this one.

But my exchange program for school finishes in just a week, and this is my last chance to visit with him. He started off as a friend that I found on a marketing forum, someone who offered sound advice when it came to crowdsourcing and advertising—at the time he'd said his secretary normally handled such online affairs, but he'd stepped in for her for the week. After several days of chatter, slowly changing from work to less-work, we'd exchanged numbers.

Part of me wonders if he would be disappointed when we met. It didn't take long for me to realize that the Jumin I spoke to was more than likely C&R's own darling heir, Jumin Han. I mean, how many Jumins had secretaries?

It is just a hunch, but one I dread seeing the outcome to.

A waitress comes by my table, and I stumble past asking for a refill. She takes my mug and I presume she'll bring it back. Hopefully. Aghhh of course she will, that's why she asked. I bury my face in my hands and try not to release the sigh building. The anxiety is just too much. Maybe I should leave...

I happen to look outside for just a moment. My heart warms.

It's partly cloudy, a light mist grazing through the atmosphere. Colorful leaves dance through the air and sweep across the floor. The trees in this district are lovely, a vibrant array of crimson medallions wavering from the trees.

It'd be nice to share this view.

Sucking in my breath, I force myself to hold it together. I want to meet him.

My phone chimes.

Jumin (Han???): Let me know when you arrive.

I laugh anxiously.

Me: I'm already at a table! Must've had the time wrong, ahaha"""

It doesn't take long for the reply to come back quickly with a cheerful ping.

Jumin (Han???): I see. It is my assumption that your phone ringtone is on?

Me: Yes?

A light tap on my table scares me.

"Jaf?"

And there he is. His eyes are brilliant but his face is placid save for the gentle glint in his glance. I look from the gloved hand on my table up to the raven-haired man in a suit. He waves his phone, our text conversation on the screen.

"Jumin." I don't have to even ask.

He gives a light smile, and I decide then and there that my heart needs a limited exposure to him. I don't think I'd be able to handle it otherwise.

"P-please! Sit!" I manage to strangle out, patting the empty spot in front of me.

He chuckles then, it is a warm tenor to which he follows with an equally warm phrase of English. "Is this easier for you? You mentioned early on you're a transfer student from America."

I wave at him. "No no! I promise my Korean isn't normally this atrocious. Just...nervous."

He gives me an appraising glance, and his face grows just a bit colder. "I did not realize my presence may give you such unease."

"It's nothing like that!" I jump in quickly. "I'm just...horrible at meeting people. I'm awkward, and talk too quickly, and I have a funny accent—even in English—and just say too much all at once..."

Only then does the guarded glance slip away to something more bemused. His brow relaxes. "Apologies. I'm used to a more..."

"Special treatment?" I blurt out, before wincing.

He laughs this time. "Something along those lines."

The waitress stops by again, giving me a crazed look before giving me an even more bewildered lookover. I fidget in my seat before she moves on.

"I don't know how to start." I tell Jumin once I've settled a bit.

He takes his coffee cup and nods. "Then perhaps I could help. This cafe is particularly known for their hot coffees with little to no mixed or frozen beverages. It felt appropriate with the autumn weather."

"I noticed!" I get excited quickly. "I ordered a café au lait, with just the smallest bit of honey. It's very good."

"A good pick. I myself chose just a plain latte."

"Their coffee is so rich and robust! That sounds like an amazing choice."

"You enjoy strong coffee then after all." He seemed to sigh in relief. "I thought I had recalled from an earlier conversation but was prepared for the possibility I'd misunderstood."

"I love coffee, it's warm and comforting. And depending on the roast, there's so many different flavors." I giggle, finally feeling confident enough to meet his gaze. "Plus, being a writing major, I need all the help for all-nighters. My deadlines are no joke!"

Jumin rests his cheek against his palm. "A writing major? Now I understand your sources of research on the marketing forum. You are looking to advertise yourself and your work—correct?"

"Mm, it's a lot to do if you don't have an agent from the start. You gotta make yourself appealing to an audience," I lean back in my chair. "I joined the marketing forum based off a referral. I heard that it's a good place where businesses join together to share information. But that does leave me curious. Why would the director of C&R or even his secretary be on such a site? Surely not for advice?"

"Well-spoke advice is well-spoken advice, no matter where it comes from." He takes a sip of his drink. "However it is the interns for our company that use the site. My secretary oversees their research and helps guide them. She was on leave, hence my involvement."

"You'd step in?"

"I've been told that aiding her at work more would help raise office space morale."

I laugh. "Well that's very practical of you!"

"It's the practical solutions that often render the most fruitful of results."

I find that for some reason, my face warms up. "And was it? Fruitful, I mean."

"I believe so." Jumin smiles.

[fanfic-she-wrote]

Imagine being the reincarnation of Dracula's long lost love: part 8

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

"Aren't you eating?" You ask upon entering the dining room, noticing that there was only one place made up at the table.

"I'm afraid not my dear. But please don't let me stop you." Dracula said, pulling out your chair. You felt kind of awkward and guilty that he had to make these kind of accomodations for you. You thought back to the conversation you overheard earlier. Maybe if you were a vampire like Dracula this wouldn't be necessary?

"I'll be fine." He assured you, taking the seat across from you.

You looked down at the plate in front of you. Then you looked at Dracula, who didn't have anything, "What's wrong?" He asked.

You rose up from the table, walking over to him, rolling up your sleeve as you went. Dracula watched you curiously, not sure what you were doing.

"Here." You said, holding out your wrist.

"What?" He scoffed.

"You can have some...if you want?" Realizing what you meant, he refused.

"Y/N, no I couldn't."

"I know you need it." You insisted. He licked his lips, secretly wishing he could just have a taste...He couldn't deny that he craved it. He looked away and shut his eyes, practically hearing the blood coursing through your veins.

"Vlad, don't make me force you." You said.

"What do you mean?" He asked turning his head back to look at you.  You picked up a knife holding it just above your wrist.

"No!" Before he had a chance to stop you, you cut a small slit in your wrist making you wince in pain. You watched as Dracula's face began to change. It was almost instantaneous. His eyes glowed a bright red becoming wild with hunger. He watched with a pained expression as your blood trickled slowly down your wrist. He licked his lips again, fangs sticking out from behind them.

"You shouldn't have done that..." He told you shakily.

"I wanted to. " You told him, holding your wrist closer to him. He swallowed hard. How delicious your blood smelled. Perhaps just a little taste wouldn't hurt... He reached out and gently grabbing your hand, hovering it just below his lips, hesitating for a moment.

"Do it." You said, taking a deep breath preparing yourself. He ran his tongue over the opening in your wrist, making you shiver. Then he pressed his mouth against it, and began sucking at it. Slowly you could feel your life source being drained away. You started to feel light headed the more he drank. It was so good....so delicious.....

"Vlad, I don't feel so well..." You said in a faint voice. Unable to stand any longer you fell to your knees.

"Vlad stop." You pleaded trying to pull your wrist away, but he held you firmly in his grasp. He watched you in horror knowing that he was slowly killing you, but he just couldnt stop.

Suddenly, the doors flung open and Henry and Van Helsing ran in. "Dracula!" Lawrence shouted pulling him away from you and shoving him into a wall while Henry caught you, preventing you from falling the rest of the way to the floor.

"What happened?!" Van Helsing asked, running to your side. He looked at your wrist and saw the fresh cut, shocked that there were no bite marks. "I cut myself. I didn't want him to go without not when I can provide what he needs." You said, your voice faint as you strained to breathe.

"You foolish girl!" Van Helsing yelled. "He could have killed you...He was killing you."

Henry picked you up and helped you into a chair. He handed you a napkin and told you, "Put that on it and I'll be right back."

"Good thing I came when I did." Van Helsing said.

"Or who knows what might have happened."

"And for that I am grateful." Dracula said, walking towards you.

"What?" Lawrence asked, not sure he heard the Count right. Dracula was just as surprised. Never in his immortal life did he think would be grateful to see Van Helsing.

Henry returned a few moments later with some bandages and a basin of water. "You're going to look like a mummy if you keep this up." He joked, trying to lighten the mood. You let out a faint laugh.

"I'll take care of it." Lawrence said, taking off his coat, tossing it on a chair. He pushed Henry aside, bending down in front of you, and started cleaning your wound.

"What are you doing here Lawrence?" You ask, trying to remain conscious.

"I came to see you. I had to see if you were...safe." Dracula flinched, knowing what he meant. He had every reason to, but it still stung.

"I'm fine Lawrence." He looked at you an eyebrow slightly raised.

"Well I was fine until now...but this was my fault not Vlad's." You said, defending Dracula. Van Helsing sighed. After what just happened you were still in love with him.

After a few minutes, Van Helsing finished cleaning up your wound and bandaging it. Dracula gently picked up your wrist and placed a quick kiss on it. "I'm sorry." He spoke.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn't have put you in that position. I'm sorry." You apologized, pressing your forehead against his.

"Don't do that again. I don't want to lose you." Dracula said, holding you close.

"Alright. I promise." You agreed, sealing it with a kiss.

Lawrence watched the two of you quietly, trying to determine how he felt about this. Dracula looked over his shoulder at him, still holding you. "Thank you Doctor Van Helsing." He said, sounding genuinely grateful. "Oh um..." He didn't know what to say. 

"I guess I should be going." Van Helsing said, backing out of the room.

"Lawrence?" You looked over at him, confused.

"I can see that what you two share is true." He told you. "I just didn't believe it until now." He glanced at Dracula, there was an unspoken understanding between them. He turned to leave when suddenly, shouting and screams could be heard emanating from outside.

"What's that?" You ask, looking around. Dracula let you go, and he and Van Helsing ran over the window. Below hundreds of towns people approached the castle with torches ablaze and wooden stakes.

"You brought them here didn't you?!" Dracula hissed at Van Helsing.

Lawrence shook his head and backed away." No I didn't! I don't know why--" He stopped himself suddenly remembering the man from the bar. "Oh no..."

"What do we do?" You asked, reaching out for Dracula. He held you in his arms, trying to comfort you as Van Helsing ran out the door and approached the crowd, holding his hands up. "Stop! Don't do this!" He shouted.

"We have to! We're not going to put up with this anymore!" The drunken man from earlier shouted.

"No, no! Listen! He's changed. I've seen it for myself."

"Get out of the way, mister!" Another man ordered. "We came here to kill the monster and that's what we're gonna do!" The crowd cheered from behind him.

"You're making a mistake!" Van Helsing insisted, but they didn't listen. They shoved him aside and charged forward.

You turned to Dracula. "We've got to get you out of here." You said, your voice panicked.

"I'm not leaving without you." He said, holding your hands tightly within his own.

"Vlad, listen to me. If they catch you they'll kill you." You told him. You could hear the mob getting closer.

"Go now!"  You urged him. Dracula pulled you close and placed a hard quick kiss upon your lips, never wanting to let you go.

"I'll find you." He promised.

"I know." Tears streamed down your face. The shouts were getting even louder now.

"Go!" You cried, pushing him away. Dracula looked at you one last time, not sure when he'd be able to see you again, before taking off. He ran through the entryway just as the crowd pushed through. "There he is!" One of them shouted. He ran up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. "Get him!" Another shouted.

You ran out of the dining room. "Stop! You don't know what you're doing!" You screamed, but they didn't seem to hear you. You chased after them, trying to stop them. When you realized there was no reasoning with them you started flinging furniture at them. You still felt weak, but you weren't going to give up.

"Stop her!" Earl, the man from the pub ordered. Just as you were about to hurl a vase at someone, hands grabbed you from behind.

"I've got the girl!" He shouted as you struggled to get away.

"Let me go!" You demanded, lashing out at your captor as he dragged you outside.

"I'll take her." Van Helsing said. The man nodded and  shoved you into his arms before going back inside.

"How could you do this?! They're going to kill him! I thought you were my friend..." You sobbed.

"Y/N, please. I never intended for this to happen. Please believe me." He pleaded.

Over your shoulder he saw flames emanating from one of the rooms. You turned around to see what he was looking at and gasped.

"I've got to go help him." You said, turning back towards the castle.

"No don't go in there!" Van Helsing said, grabbing your arm.

"I'm not just going to stand around while they try to kill him!" Van Helsing tried to discourage you but you paid him no mind as you bolted back inside.

Most of the mob had already moved upstairs while some stragglers ransacked the drawing room and dining room. You ran up the stairs quickly catching up to them. You realized that they had already been to the armory and had taken several of the weapons. With no other alternative, you charged at one of them knocking him to the ground, kicking him in the head rendering him unconscious, and taking the sword he was carrying.

You pushed past the mob, swiping at as many as you could trying to get to Dracula.

Finally when you reached the roof and your eyes fell upon Dracula standing there, the mob pushing him closer to the edge. "Vlad!" You called out. He found you in the crowd and locked eyes with you.

"We got him now!" Earl hollered, enciting roars from the mob behind him. You ran to Dracula's side, holding you sword before you ready to fight.

"She's under his spell." Earl told the crowd. "Kill her too!" The crowd advanced upon you and Dracula. Dracula stood in front of you, protecting you. He hissed at the mob, his eyes a deathly blood red.

Suddenly, you heard something strange. At first you couldn't tell what it was but as the sound got closer you realized it sounded like wings flapping, several wings flapping. Just as the crowd was about to attack you saw a black mass swoop down over your head. The mob screamed in horror as several large bats attacked them, pulling at their eyes and flesh.

"C'mon!" You said, grabbing Dracula's hand and pulling him through the crowd. They were so busy fighting of the army of bats that they hadn't even noticed you and Dracula escape. As you ran back down the stairs, you saw the flames had practically engulfed most of the entryway. From behind you, you heard a couple of men chasing after you somehow managing to get away from the bats.

One of them lunged at Dracula but he grabbed them by the wrist and flung him off the side of the stairs into the flames below.

The last one, held a large wooden cross before him in one hand and carried a stake in the other. Dracula backed away, covering his eyes trying not to look at the cross, but you weren't affected. You leapt at the man, knocking him backwards on the steps wrestling the cross from him. It all happened so fast. You almost didn't realize what had happened if it had not been for the sharp searing pain you felt in your chest. You looked down and saw that the stake had pierced right through you.

"No!!" Dracula cried. With every last bit of strength you had left, you pried the cross from his grasp and tossed it away.

Dracula approached the man, his eyes angrier than you had ever seen them before. He lifted him up by his throat, holding him high in the air. He gasped for breath as Dracula choked every ounce of life from his body. He wanted to tear this man to shreds for what he had done. Finally when the man became limp Dracula threw him into the fire.

Then he turned around and picked you up, carrying you out of the castle. Everything was silent, except for the fire crackling in the distance as it slowly destroyed the castle. There were no screams, just silence.

He gently placed you down on the lawn, holding you in his arms. Blood dripped down the side of your mouth. "No, no, no." Dracula whimpered. Van Helsing ran over, his heart skipping a beat once he caught sight of you. "Oh no."

"I'm sorry, Vlad..." You breathed.

"No, don't be sorry. Everything will be alright. We're safe now" Dracula stammered, pushing the hair out of your face. You were struggling for breath and your body was slowly becoming numb. You were dying. 

"I love you." You said in barely more than a whisper, placing your hand on his cheek. "Don't leave me...please." Dracula begged, tears falling from his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening again.

"Do something!" Van Helsing shouted desperately. Dracula looked up at him. "You can save her. Do it!" He looked back at you, the life slowly fading from your eyes.

"I can't." He refused.

"You must! Dracula, please! She's going to die!" Van Helsing implored. He didn't want to lose you either and if that meant you would become a vampire then so be it.

"Forgive me." Dracula said, giving you a quick kiss. He pulled the stake from you chest. You were so close to death, you barely even flinched. Van Helsing held his breath.  Then suddenly Dracula plunged his fangs deep into your neck. Van Helsing just hoped that this would work...

[justhewayfaringstranger]

So, I've wanted to address this topic for a while and this post I read this morning while having breakfast is a sort of response from the universe.

I would say to start by explaining a simple concept.

Demons and spirits are not the same thing, but rather, they vary from each other. Likewise, spirits and ghosts are not the same.

• Creatures understood as "demons" exist in all religions; they are supernatural beings, typically associated with the evil, historically prevalent in religions, occultism, literature, fiction, mythology and folklore;

• "spirits" are instead organized energy with at least a certain level of sensitivity that has an energy body and in most cases also an astral body. The Latin word is a translation of the Greek prneuma ("breath", "air", "vital breath") and to some extent it can be seen in the apeiron of the Presocratic Anaximander, who had to some extent dematerialized the archè (Greek: ἀρχή ) of the other Ionian naturalists, the original principle of the universe and of every part of it, impalpable and invisible but still material, as shown by another void that, blowing inside it, fills with air matter. With the Stoics, the term begins to be compared to today's one of spirit. The pneuma belongs to the god who gives life to things and guides them according to his wishes. The pneuma is a force that manifests itself not only in the individual man but is present in all things as the "soul of the world". They are ancient entities like the world itself, part of the primordial chaos and consequently neutral in themselves;

• the term “ghost” refers instead to any incorporeal entity. The term ghost comes from the Greek φάντασμα phàntasma, which in turn derives from φαντάζω (phantàzo, "to show"; from the root φαν-, which expresses the idea of ​​"appearing" and "showing"), and had the meaning of apparition (understood as a supernatural manifestation) and only with time has its meaning been restricted to indicating the apparition of a deceased.

In 1800, with the birth of the practice of spiritism in France, it ended up rendering in the common imagination "spirits" and "ghosts" similar entities, if not true synonyms.

The French pedagogue Allan Kardec after observing a series of phenomena, formulated the hypothesis that such phenomena could only be attributed to incorporeal intelligences (spirits). Spiritual communications took place "thanks to the intervention of a medium", that is a person with particular skills who acted as mediator between spirits and living beings, during the so-called séance. This became a busines for many and most of the spiritualists were actually charlatans who swore to the victims that they could talk to the dead. In most cases, those who could afford to turn to a medium, were economically wealthy and of high rank lost and therefore for the scammer it was certainly not difficult to obtain information (even intimate) about the deceased and those around him, if at this was added some well-orchestrated play of smoke and lights, here is the "grandmother's ghost".

Having understood this, one wonders what it is then what we understand as a "ghost of a person". It is a trace left by the living. On a scientific level, death doesn't exist. From the chemical-physical point of view we are isolated systems that receive energy and produce it. But the universe itself is a closed system. So our energy is the energy of the universe. We are universe. What happens when we die? Our energy returns to the universe system. But as we know, energy is neither created nor destroyed, but it changes. So our energy is energy that has been changed in the past by others, and will be changed by others when we are gone. Death doesn't exist because energy is immortal. The energy that I am using now to tap on my laptop keyboard is the same energy that Gaius Julius Caesar used to pull the reins of his horse and to cross the Rhine. And it will be the energy that in the future a scientist will use to to be able to travel between the various space-time dimensions. Death doesn't exist, and the life of one is the life of all.

To simplify then, what we mean as the ghost of Marilyn Monroe for example, is nothing more than a sort of energetic gif of Marilyn Monroe.

I'll give you another example. Anne Boleyn died by beheading, therefore by a violent and unjust death. In this situation, she is likely to have felt strong emotions and released a huge and consistent huge amount of energy as a result. Let's say that Henry VIII was present at the execution along with a bunch of other people, let's also say that he went back to that place (or others where Anne felt strong emotions and therefore released large amounts of energy) and thought about her, let's say that Elizabeth I also thought of her mother and so many other people. All these emotions have turned into energy. If we saw energy as a palette of colors, it would be as if: the more consistent the emotions, the more intense the color, therefore, the more energy we send (even unconsciously) to the energetic image of Anne Boleyn (the energetic gif), the clearer this will be where most of the energy is concentrated (eg the Tower of London, a room in the building, etc.).

So when we go to a "haunted" place, what we see is not the "person", but a kind of still image. And according to the speech above, it is therefore normal to find this type of freeze frame in places such as castles, hospitals, etc. then if these are found on natural energy centers or lines… bingo!

Speaking instead of spirits, as mentioned before, there are no good or bad spirits. Good and bad as well as light and dark, like day and night, are a contrast present in many traditions, including native ones. This duality can also be referred to the human being and represent a moment of acting or thinking of a person. You can think and act towards the light or towards the darkness and this can also happen to shamans.

Just think of the ego and when it takes over, or when you try to manipulate, at that moment you are not in the light. But it can happen and that doesn't mean being good or bad. Acting, in fact, can also be connected with a person's karma and precisely follow what is required by this spiritual law.

Light and darkness, as in the human world, are also reflected in the world of spirits and even in this case they do not absolutely determine the condition of goodness or badness. Spirits, who in the light can be protectors, guides or allies, can also move in the dark dimension.

And if we think like the natives that everything has a spirit and that it can move between light and darkness, we can understand how there can be spirits that are particularly powerful and able to move very strong energies such as to create an effect in ordinary reality.

It is important to know the distinction between light and shadow because, from an early age, we were educated to separate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, but for this we have become very sensitive when it comes to going to work on our shadows. As I told you, light and shadow are states of being that we all have within us. Working with shadows doesn't mean black magic, witchcraft or whatever. Simply observe the aspects of light and be able to deal with those of shadow as well. Light and darkness are two sides of the same coin that it is important to integrate.

Being half Latin, therefore leaning towards a culture extremely linked to its roots and above all to the relationship with mental spirits, it isn't difficult for me to understand this concept, and therefore despite being a Christian, I have no problem in defining myself as a witch. Of course, coming to this awareness wasn't easy, as I am partly European and therefore I grew up in a society in a Western society that is scared of what it cannot control. After years of researching my origins, my culture and theological studies, I have come to find my balance.

Returning, however, to the main reason for this post, having made the necessary explanations (and given the tools for a critical analysis of the matter), here are the points on which I personally disagree and why:

Reading books about witchcraft: Knowledge for educational purposes is by no means negative, quite the opposite. The question is whether the aforementioned "about witchcraft" book is a "spell book" or some sort of "sacred book". For example, if I find the Necronomicon tomorrow and start reading it without knowing what it is, it is likely that I will find myself living the remake of The Conjuring in the real life.

Casting most types of spells, including hexes: Same speech made in the previous point. One of the first rules of witchcraft is "know your practice". You must be aware that what you are doing is not a game and every action has consequences, even if you don't believe in the rule of 3 (everything you do comes back to you 3 times). In the specific case of curse and hexes spells, they are the most treacherous and dangerous, because you are working with dark and malevolent energies. This type of practice in particular is a double-edged weapon, which is why many witches advise against them and propose alternative methods if possible.

Practicing divination: It isn't always negative, but in some types of divination the help and guidance of spirits and divinities is sought. For example, I often do bibliomancy with the bible and even if I first ask for God's guidance, in front of each answer I ask for confirmation, because the devil was the most beautiful angel in heaven and just as darkness does not allow us to see. where we go, even a dazzling light can deceive us.

Playing with Ouija or other talking boards: Ouija is not a game and it is an extremely dangerous tool, precisely because what you do is contact spirits and entities and you cannot know who will answer the other side. Nothing good anyway.

Putting up fantasy or non-Christian artwork: Have you ever seen Annabel? Here, the principle is the same. Be careful what you bring into your home, as home is a sacred space, and nothing can enter without you giving it permission. So if you not only invite it, but rather you bring it inside and give it a space, don't come and complain to me if it is difficult to send it away.

Celebrating pagan holidays: If it's a holiday of a closed religion, avoid ruining your life. Holidays basically consist of performing rituals that often involve spirits. Learn about the history of that holiday you want to celebrate, the symbols, the rituals, and why it is celebrated in that particular way.

Celebrating Halloween: The same as the previous point, except that we all (or almost all) know that samahin is the day when the space where the veil falls and the two worlds come into contact.

Watching scary movies and TV shows: I'm not saying that if you watch The Exorcist you will be possessed, but I can't assure you otherwise either. I took The Exorcist as an example because it is known that a real ritual is performed in the movie and a lot of "disturbing" things have happened on the set of the film and to the actors. When you watch a movie, even if it is fictional, if for example it performs an evocation or a ritual you are not only witnessing, you are participating in all respects. Be careful, every person is different.

Reading (horror novels, fantasy books, comics and graphic novels). Playing (tabletop RPGs, LARP games, video games): Same as the previous point.

Listening to heavy metal music, dancing: It goes for any kind of music actually. Do you know how many pop songs I use as a spell?

Dyeing your hair: I'm not saying you'll invoke a demon, but for many cultures cutting your hair makes you more vulnerable to spiritual attack and color is an essential aspect of witchcraft.

Swearing: Wishing someone who has crossed your path death is considered a curse in all respects. Even if done unconsciously.

Drinking: Drinking, smoking… shamans have used alcohol and drugs for centuries to connect with in the spiritual world.

Having tattoos and piercings: As long as you don't tattoo Aramaic words that you don't know the meaning of, everything is fine. Before getting a tattoo in a symbol you saw in a temple in Mexico, find out the meaning of it. I'll give you an example: my cousin once bought a T-shirt with the words "puta madre" (mother whore). He had bought it only because he liked it, without knowing the meaning of the word.

Now, most of these points are mainly related to intention. As I said before, I often use music in my spells, but if for example, I use "can't be touch by Roy jones" for a protection and encouragement spell (eg a manifestation) and a few months later I listen to the same song on the radio doesn't mean it will work like a spell again. In many cases it is a question of intention. Yhat's why it is important to educate yourself.

[penguiduck]

Writing Fight Scenes

I’ve had a lot of readers mention that they don’t feel comfortable with fight scenes.  Well, that’s understandable. It’s challenging writing about experiences you’ve never had.  But with some perspective and practice, you can most certainly work toward writing those fast-paced, heart-pounding scenes with ease.

To give you some background, I practiced competitive martial arts for six years.  I competed in tournaments and trained hard to perform well in the ring. It was a contact sport, and even if I wasn’t sparring, training often left me with bruises, usually of the physical nature, sometimes of the emotional persuasion.

This experience gave me a lot of perspective when it comes to writing fight scenes.

Whenever I step into the ring, I have a flexible strategy in mind that combines what I know about myself, my opponent, and what I’m going to learn about them in the next two minutes.  I’d like to share some of these thoughts and perspectives with you, and how your character may think before and during a match of their own. Of course, my fighting experience is limited to a contact sport.  Your story may very well be far more violent with higher stakes, but strategies may be of similar foundation. Once you take a fight into deeper consideration, aside from the depiction of two fighters merely exchanging blows, you can begin to enrich your writing experience.

I’m including examples from Yu Yu Hakusho because that’s the fandom I write the most for, and as you know, there’s a lot of fighting involved!  But remember — anime and writing are two completely different mediums. There's no one narrating everything that our beloved characters are doing on screen. You just see it. That is why you, as a writer, must paint those scenes through words for your readers.

Nevertheless, this advice really stands for any sort of writing, so do with this information what you will.

A well-written fight scene is never about just trading blows.  There are other conflicts at play, whether between the fighters or even in the heads of your protagonists.

Allow me to elaborate:

1. Who is your protagonist?

Whenever I am preparing for a sparring match, the first thing I worry about is me. I must be self-aware. 

I think about my own fitness.  How am I doing? Do I have any existing injuries or ailments?  How is my weight? My body type? What are my strengths and weaknesses?  What do I have in my toolbox? What techniques do I know? What techniques am I most versed and confident in?  

I also think about my overall wellness. Have I been eating well?  Drinking water? Sleeping? How is my emotional state of mind? What are the stakes?

Is my uniform clean and pressed?  What about my equipment? Headgear?  Mouth guard? Shin guard? Did I replace that torn lace?

I recommend using these questions to bring your character’s own reflection to the forefront in whatever way makes most sense for them.  How is your character’s fitness? Is she in good fighting condition? Has she been injured previously? What has happened since the last fight that might impact her state of mind? 

It’s possible that she’s recovering from an illness or injury.  Perhaps her mentor died a gruesome death. Maybe she’s frustrated because she lost use of her right hand, temporarily or permanently, and has had to compensate with her non-dominant hand.  Or perhaps she’s lost the will to fight, having experienced something traumatic.

Hiei had to constantly think about his own state of health throughout the Dark Tournament after his fight with Zeru.  His arm had been sacrificed to his Dragon of the Darkness Flame, rendered useless, and he was in terrible pain. He never let it impact him, of course, being the stoic warrior he is.  His personality allows for little inner dialogue to be shared with the audience, but as a fighter, he was most certainly considering what options he had with his handicap. And, as a writer, perhaps you would like to elaborate on his thoughts for your readers.

What has your character been practicing lately?  Is her weapon of choice the same? Has it been upgraded?  Has she been training with a different weapon or technique?  Is she perhaps nervous about using something new?

Maybe she just repaired her sword, and she’s unsure if it’s as strong as it was before.  Perhaps she’s been studying a new technique, and she knows she’ll need to use it in this battle.  

Remember when Kuwabara first introduced his spirit sword in Maze Castle?  He was so proud of himself, and that whole battle was an introduction to his newfound technique, how he manipulated his sword, and how he was able to harness his spirit energy.  It’s far more interesting to see this development and exploration than to just watch him stab at Byakko a dozen times.

My point is that while your character probably should keep her emotions out of the ring, she may not be able to.  There are so many things that could be on her mind, plaguing her thoughts, especially if there’s a lot riding on this battle.  I think it’s really important to not only acknowledge the physical part of fighting but the emotional toll it can take a fighter, too.

Think about the fight between Yusuke and Toguro.  Toguro had just killed Genkai, and Yusuke took that very personally.  This was not a simple battle of strength or wits. This was a battle of emotions, and it wasn’t until Yusuke was able to master his feelings and reach beyond that “six foot wall of crap” as Genkai so affectionately calls it that he was able to finally defeat Toguro.

And the catharsis that came from defeating Toguro? It was made all the more powerful because Yusuke went through that emotional journey. It wasnʼt just a fight — it was a calling, a purpose, and a lesson.  It was painful and potent, and it made him realize just how much these experiences shaped him as a person.

2. Who is the opponent? 

Before I participate in a tournament, I do my research.  Who is likely to be competing? Who is in my weight class?  What do I know about these competitors? If I don’t have answers, I would find them.  I’d chat with my instructor, my fellow martial artists. Has anyone else from my school fought these people before?  What were they like? Are there videos online of their performance?  

I find as much information as possible. I make calls, send texts, take people out to lunch, scour the internet for information.  Even if your character lives in a less technologically dependent world, I would imagine that he might talk with friends, look through old records, listen to gossip and hearsay.  He might watch battles leading up to his own fight in an effort to learn more.

And if this pre-work isn’t possible, that’s okay.  Fights in your story may be entirely unpredictable, but your character can also learn things about his opponent during the match.  

When I step into the ring and ready myself to compete, one of the first things I want to find out is on which side my opponent is dominant.  In other words, are they right-handed? Or left-handed? Right-footed? Or left-footed? Maybe they only focus on one side during training (which is silly, but that’s another conversation).  But there could be an underlying reason why as well. Perhaps they injured themselves in the previous round or maybe they just don’t like exposing one particular side of their body for whatever reason.

This information is critical because this tells me what I need to watch out for, which side of my own body I should be guarding, how I may penetrate my opponent’s defenses.  How can I catch them when they least suspect it? Where can I knock them off balance? My instructor always told me to watch the shoulders — shoulders move before the rest of the body.  You can tell what your opponent is about to do by watching their shoulders.

Your character may wish to discover the same thing.  Maybe his opponent uses a two-handed sword and is very clearly right-handed.  This may give him some information on where his blind spot is — or maybe he just needs to disable his opponent’s right arm.  The possibilities are endless, and understanding his opponent will give him leverage, offering him many options.

Understanding an opponent’s technique is also important.  In martial arts, practitioners often favor a strategy or skill.  This seems obvious, but it’s vital that you understand what it is — only then you can combat it.  

Consider Kurama’s matches with Gama and Toya during the events of the Dark Tournament.  The English dub did a wonderful job voicing Kurama’s inner conflict during these fights, struggling with first his inability to move and then his imprisoned spirit energy — if you were to put these scenes into writing, explaining his thought process would be fascinating.  How does Kurama overcome these obstacles? He seeks to understand his opponents before he defeats them, which, unfortunately, also means he risks injury to himself until then.

Your character’s thoughts about the fight, interpreting for your audience what he feels he might need to do to secure victory, is just as important as detailing the fight itself.

3. What about the writing?

The writing will come once you begin to dissect your characters and their motivations for fighting.  Your characters aren’t one-dimensional, or, at least, they shouldn’t be!  

Your fight scenes shouldn’t be, either.  It’s not about two fighters trading blows. It’s about an artfully curated dance.  Two opponents are engaged in a craft that they both know well, and whether they’re fighting to win a tournament or for their very lives, they have reasons and complex thought processes that should make their fight interesting.  

There are two players here, and unless the fight is grossly one-sided, they’re both thinking and acting independently of one another.  My advice is to thread their actions and consequences together — weave the fight scene as if it’s a stream of conscious thought, separated into paragraphs, each with a shift in perspective, for clarity.  

Instead of writing:

Yusuke charged at Kuwabara and punched him in the face.  Kuwabara punched him in the mouth. Yusuke then kicked him in the stomach.

Try this:

Yusuke had little patience for Kuwabara’s bad jokes, and he rushed toward him, landing a blow square in the side of his head.

Kuwabara flew backward with a grunt, stabilizing himself before launching himself at Yusuke, returning the favor.  His fist collided with Yusuke’s jaw, a blow hard enough to knock the teeth out of any regular human.

Yusuke expected him to retaliate, and although he was nearly knocked off balance, he swung his leg around, making full contact with Kuwabara’s stomach.

You may also find it useful to deviate from the fighting itself.  You can speak to a character’s inner dialogue or thoughts, whether about the fight or something else.  You may choose to have them begin a brief conversation. Or you may describe what other characters are feeling about the fight as onlookers.

There are many ways to make these fight scenes seamless and interesting — take some time to explore your options!

Just a few more general tips that might help:

If you’re going to use a thesaurus, be mindful about it. I use a thesaurus when I write because I suffer all day, every day from tip-the-tongue syndrome.  But words, even if they generally fit the same definition, can have vastly different connotations, so before selecting a word from the thesaurus, do some digging.  Look at the exact definition and perhaps Google some common usage. Punch, slap, and stroke do not mean the same thing, even if a thesaurus might say otherwise.

Read your writing out loud.  If you’re unsure, this is the best way to understand your cadence, the flow of the battle.  Use your best Morgan Freeman or Jorge the Ogre voice.

Consider a beta reader.  Sometimes having a second opinion is immensely helpful.

Remember that there are no strict writing rules.  You write whatever your heart desires in whatever manner your heart desires.  Experiment and explore with different styles and techniques to find whatever works for you.

I hope you find this information useful!  Please feel free to suggestion additional blog posts you would like to see from me in the future.  ^_^  Of course, please reblog this if you found it helpful!

Pictures are, of course, not mine.  They are shots from the anime or other official derivatives.

[sbtlns]

Home, part six

Warnings: fight scene, angst, nsfw scene

A/N: hehe cliff hanger >:) 

Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

 Castiel quickly walked out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs to his room, careful to turn his body out of your sight. Once he reached the comfort of his room, he sat down on his bed and pulled his phone out. He really didn’t want to call Dean and ask for help, but he really had no idea what he was doing. Sighing to himself, he reluctantly dialed Dean’s number. “Cas, buddy, how are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did Y/N find you? Where-” 

“Dean.” Castiel’s gruff voice cut off the older Winchester through the phone. He sighed before continuing, trying to be patient. “I am well, Y/N found me, we are at her old house,” he answered quickly. He heard the brother let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear man. How are things? Everything alright?” Dean continued to bombard him with questions. “Actually,” Castiel began before sighing again. “I have a bit of a...predicament,” he said vaguely. “...What kind of predicament?” Dean questioned. “My vessel...it appears to be..malfunctioning,” Castiel explained slowly. A moment passed as understanding washed over Dean. “And is this...predicament...in the downstairs region?” Dean asked, holding back a fit of laughter. “...Perhaps,” Castiel answered hesitantly. Dean couldn’t hold back the laughter any longer and Castiel rolled his eyes, annoyed at the lack of help being offered from his friend. “I’m..I’m sorry man...” Dean apologized between laughs. “Dean this isn’t funny,” Castiel scolded into the phone. “I made a fool of myself in front of Y/N. I hope I haven’t offended her..” he trailed off, voice becoming softer at the thought of offending you. “Cas, trust me buddy, you did not offend Y/N,” Dean said, clutching his side and breathing deeply, trying to recover from his laughing fit. “All right, bud, this is what you’re gonna do.” 

After you watched Cas awkwardly shuffle up the stairs, you decided to start on breakfast. You were craving eggs and toast, and you hoped that would be okay with Castiel. You fruitlessly tried not to think about his current state upstairs, but to no avail. You imagined how beautiful he would look in all his glory, head lolled against his shoulders. You fought the urge to run upstairs as you pictured his mouth slightly parted and eyes closed in pleasure. The soft moans he would make as he touched himself.....Get a grip, Y/N! You shook your head rid of your fantasy and pulled your attention back to the eggs you were frying up, ignoring the ache in your core and damp spot in your panties. 

You placed an egg, slice of toast, and some cut fruit on a plate for Castiel when you heard footsteps coming down the stairs. You placed his plate in front of his chair before turning around to greet the former angel. He had tried to make himself presentable; he had changed into jeans and an old tshirt of Dean’s, but the glow in his cheeks and his unusual relaxed state gave him away. “Better?” you smiled gently at him. His cheeks reddened and he gave you a tight lipped smile in confirmation before averting his eyes from yours. “I um, made some breakfast,” you said, gesturing to his plate on the table and sitting down. He nodded and muttered his thanks, still not looking you in the eye. Part of you enjoyed how flustered he was around you, but eventually you decided to throw him a bone. 

“So Cas,” you began, pushing a piece of egg around your plate with your fork. Cas briefly raised his head to look at your before looking back down at his plate. “How do you feel about going shopping with me today? We need to get you some clothes and I need some new jeans,” you said, looking up at him. He relaxed his tensed shoulders, relieved to be talking about something other than his..predicament..from this morning. “I would like that very much,” he said, smiling and looking up to meet you gaze. You stared back into his ocean eyes, allowing yourself to get lost in them for a moment. Castiel was the first one to break the silence. “This breakfast was lovely, thank you, Y/N,” he said looking down at his empty plate. You laughed as you stood up taking both of your plates, “it’s just eggs and toast, Cas,” you said, making your way to the sink. Castiel smiled to himself. Yes, but it’s your eggs and toast, he thought to himself. 

You went back upstairs to get ready for the day, stopping in the mirror to fix your hair. You slipped off your sleep shirt and put on a bralette before rummaging through your drawer for the shirt you wanted. Suddenly you heard Castiel’s voice along with your door creaking open. “Y/N I was w-” he cut himself off. You stood in shock just staring at the intruder. His eyes widened as he realized his mistake. You stood in front of him in nothing but panties and a bralette. He desperately searched for something to say-anything-but was rendered speechless. He couldn’t help his eyes wander to roam up and down your body, taking in every detail. “Cas!” you squeaked, trying to cover yourself up. He snapped out of it and took the hint, and practically tripped over his feet leaving the room. You stood there for a few minutes after he had left trying to regain your composure. You got dressed and took a deep breath before walking down the stairs. Castiel heard you coming down and immediately shot off the couch toward the bottom of the staircase. 

“Y/N I apologize it was not my intention to.. see you, I entered the room to-” “Cas,” you interrupted him, feigning anger, but soon broke when you saw his pleading puppy eyes and the way he held his hands clasped together by his chest. You giggled before saying, “it’s okay, just remember there’s a reason why doors are closed,” he nodded, lowering his head. “Well, now that we’ve both been sufficiently embarrassed, how bout shopping?” you said, raising your eyebrows at him. 

Shopping with Cas had been..interesting to say the least. He was surprisingly very picky. One shirt was too scratchy, another was too tight, another was too blue, and -your favorite- another one was “eh.” “What do you mean “eh?” you asked him. He scrunched his face up. “It’s just....eh.” You wiped a hand over your face before responding. “Cas, bud, do you like anything here?” Cas looked around for a moment before a table of flannels caught his eye. He walked over to the table and started picking up ones that he liked. You rolled your eyes before following him. “Really, Cas? Flannels? You really are a Winchester, huh,” you laughed. He smiled softly, picking up more. The two of you picked out several outfits for him before reaching the underwear section. “So Cas,” you said trying your best to hide your blush and sound nonchalant, “boxers or briefs?” He thought for a moment, looking between his two options. “Boxers,” he decided and you tried not to think of how he would look in each of the pairs he chose. After collecting his new wardrobe, you checked out and got back in the car. “Where to next?” you turned and asked him. “Wherever you would like to go,” he responded, smiling at you. You thought for a second. “I know a good smoothie place, we could go if you wanted?” “That sounds lovely, Y/N.” 

The two of you made easy conversation on the car ride over and you told memories from the places you were passing along the ride. You parked in the lot and you noticed two men in suits standing along the side of the building. Out of habit, you reached down to make sure your gun was still in your waistband. Shrugging off the uneasy feeling you had, the two of you hopped out of the car and headed to the store, your eyes still on the two men. You made eye contact with one of them, who quickly hit his partner to get his attention. “Heads up- 11 o’clock,” you said under your breath to Castiel. His brows furrowed and he looked up to see the two men walking briskly towards the two of you. “Fuck,” you muttered, reaching to put your hand on your gun. You became increasingly aware of the fact that Castiel was weaponless. As an angel he had no need for a gun, and an angel blade was hard to conceal without his signature trenchcoat. You cursed again at this realization as the two men were quickly closing the gap between you. 

“Castiel. We have been looking for you, brother,” one of them said from across the parking lot. Your blood ran cold as you realized two things at once: 1. they had every intention to hurt, if not kill your angel, and 2. your angel blade was in the car...20 feet away. “Castiel. Angel blade. Car. Go.” You said to him through your teeth, pulling your gun out of your waistband. He shot you a concerned glance. “But Y/N-” “NOW.” He hesitantly looked between you and his brothers before sprinting to the car. 

“Walk away while you still have the chance,” you said threateningly, stopping in front of them, gun pointed. The two angels laughed. “You know that gun isn’t going to kill us,” one said mockingly. You set your shoulders back and lifted your head a little higher. “No,” you started, “but it’s gonna hurt like a bitch,” you said, unloading a clip into one of them. The angel groaned and dropped to the ground as the other angrily charged at you. He used his grace to disarm you before winding up and punching you in the face. You stumbled backwards, pain searing across your cheekbone. You came back up, dodging his next punch, but crashing to the ground as he swept your leg out from under your. He pinned you to the ground, squeezing your neck tightly. “Silly human, just wait until we alert angel radio. You-” He was cut off as his eyes and mouth glowed brightly, before collapsing on the ground next to you. You gasped for air, coughing and holding your throat. Castiel stood above you where the angel had been, the angel blade in his hand covered in blood. “Y/N,” he said concerned, reaching his hand out to you. You took it and he hauled you up to your feet and pulled you into a tight hug. You were shocked for a moment before returning his embrace. “Y/N I’m so sorry they were after me not you I could’ve.. I could’ve lost you” his last words came out in a whisper as he gripped you tighter. 

“Cas,” your voice came out strained, a combination of being strangled and from how tight his embrace was. He seemed to pick up on this and released you, still gripping your forearms. “I’m okay, really,” you forced a smile. “Come on we need to get out of here.” The two of you started to make your way to the car when a wave of pain shot up your ankle. You stumbled for a second before Castiel caught you. “You’re hurt,” he said, voice filled with concern. “I’m fine,” you grunted, taking another step. You winced as you put weight on your ankle, which didn’t go unnoticed by Castiel. Without saying anything, he slid an arm around your back and swept your feet off the ground to carry you bridal style back to the car. “Cas!” you squealed. He smiled softly down at you. “You are injured,” he stated plainly, turning his gaze back in front of him. Your heart fluttered at the contact and you melted against his chest. 

He opened the passenger door and lowered you into the seat before walking around the car and getting in the driver’s seat. “When you branded my ribs it warded me against angels right?” you asked, looking over at him and wincing as you moved your neck. He shot you a pained look before answering, “yes. Why?” “Well did you also brand Jimmy’s ribs?” you questioned. Castiel was quiet for a moment before answering, “No, I did not.” You nodded and picked up your phone, searching for the nearest tattoo shop. “We’re gonna mark your vessel so no more angels find us. The one who pinned me down threatened to tell angel radio so at least we know no one else knows where we are.”

~~

“You sure about that?” you questioned after Castiel told the tattoo artist where he wanted the warding. He looked up at you questioningly. “Yeah, tough guy, ribs are gonna hurt, I’m not sure if you can handle that,” the artist teased. Castiel clenched his jaw and glared at the man. “I can handle it,” he said firmly. You exchanged a glance with the artist before he shrugged and got to work. Cas hid his pain well in the beginning, but after the first half hour his eyes closed tightly and he winced as the artist continued. After what felt like years to Castiel, the artist was finally done and you paid him before getting back in the car with Castiel. “Looks good,” you said softly as he lifted his shirt up gingerly. A blush crept up his cheeks before he started the car and pulled out of the lot.

When you got home, Castiel insisted on carrying you up the stairs and tending to the cut along your cheekbone. After he was satisfied with his work, he turned his attention to your ankle. “I do not think that it’s broken, but it will be sore for a few weeks,” he said, carefully turning your foot in his hands. “I’m sorry, if I had my grace I would have healed you by now and you would not be in pain,” he said sadly, hanging his head. “Hey,” you said, lifting his chin up. “I’ll be okay Cas, thank you.” He gave you a small smile in return. 

“I don’t think I have it in me to cook tonight, is pizza okay?” you asked. “Of course,” he assured you. You called in a delivery order to your local pizza shop as Castiel carried you back down the stairs. He set you down on the couch and you put on a tv show to pass the time before the pizza got there. Halfway through the episode Castiel cleared his throat. “Y/N, I truly am sorry about today. You’re hurt because of me, because of a mistake that I made. And my brothers they almost....” he took a deep breath before continuing, “I don’t know what I would have done if they had. I..can’t lose you, Y/N,” he turned to face you, desperation filling his eyes. “I-” he was cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing. He sighed, closing his eyes and dropping his shoulders before rising from the couch. You sat in shock as Castiel greeted the pizzaman at the door. What was he going to say? Your heart fluttered at the thought of him confessing his feelings for you. You had been fantasizing about it for so long, it didn’t seem possible.. or did it?

Whatever Castiel was going to say remained unsaid. The two of you ate the pizza and got distracted by the show until you glanced at the clock and realized how late it was. “Cas,” you groaned, sitting up straighter. “We should go to bed.” He nodded and stood up before facing you and scooping you off the couch. “Cas,” you giggled,” “you know you don’t have to keep carrying me, right?” He gave you a toothy grin. “I know, Y/N,” he said, carrying you up that stairs and into your room. He set you down on your bed. “Goodnight, Y/N. Pleasant dreams,” he said before closing your door behind him. You sighed. “Goodnight, Cas,” you said softly. 

~~ 

It was around 2am when you heard it. “No...NO....stop....please.” You shot up in bed, straining to hear. “Please..don’t...Y/N!....NO!” You jumped out of bed, ignoring the pain in your ankle and running across the hall to Castiel’s room. You burst through the door, gun at the ready. You didn’t find an intruder, but you did find Castiel writhing under his sheet, sweating, and clearly in distress. “Let..her..go,” he said through his teeth, thrashing again. You quickly set your gun on his dresser and sat down next to him on the bed. “Cas,” you cooed, running your fingers through his hair. The thrashing stopped, but his face was still contorted in fear. “Shhh, you’re okay Cas, it’s a dream. You can wake up, Cas,” you said softly, still stroking his hair. His eyes shot opened and stared up at you panicked. “Y/N..I..you..” he stammered. “Shhhh, it’s okay Castiel,” you cooed. His features softened and his body relaxed under your touch. You were tempted to stay and keep playing with his hair, but you knew you should let him sleep. “I’ll be right across the hall, Cas,” you said lightly, getting up. His hand flew to your wrist. 

“Please,” he choked out. You turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “Please stay,” he looked up at you with puppy eyes and you had to restrain yourself from throwing yourself at him and holding him as tight as you could. “Of course,” you smiled at him. He hurriedly scooted back on the bed to make room for you and you climbed in beside him, back to his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly. “No,” he said into your hair. You nodded slightly and adjusted to get closer to him. He tensed slightly as the curve of your ass brushed against his now hardening member. You felt heat pool in your core as you felt his cock hardening against you. Your body betrayed you and instinctively moved to slightly grind against him. You heard him grunt before pulling you tighter against his chest. “Y/N,” he said in a strained voice. “Hmm?” you hummed, moving your hips rhythmically against his hardening cock. He groaned, hands sliding up your shirt and pulling you even tighter against his body. The ache in your core began to grow as he moved his hands to grip your waist tight. You grinded harder against him, eliciting another groan. “Y/N..I,” he trailed off. “I...” The effect you had on him gave a major boost to your confidence. You turned around to straddle him and his eyes grew wide as his hardened member made contact with your clothed pussy. “I..” was all he managed to get out. “Use your words, Castiel,” you said, voice honeyed. 

----------

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[lockedstuck]

sorrow that you keep

March 2021 - Sollux Captor

“Vitals!” Dirk announces, rapping on your door with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s get this over with so I can serve breakfast!”

When you walk out of your room, there’s already a line leading out of the treatment room. The person in front of you, a dark-skinned kid with an Angela Davis-style afro - Karkat, you think his name is - curses up a blue streak while he waits in line.

“I don’t see why I had to get a prissy fucking bastard with insomnia as my goddamn roommate. I didn’t ask for any of this fucking shit. Fucking involuntary status, fucking dumbshit Eridan, I hope this fucking hospital burns down.”

It’s too early to put up with this guy, especially with the migraine you woke up with.

“Not tryna piss you off or anything but do you think you could keep it down with your tirade?”

If looks could kill, the glare Karkat shoots you would have rendered you to a pile of smoldering ash.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in six days, it’s seven oh fuck in the morning, my roommate wakes up seventeen times a night, and I might be losing my job because my shithead brother signed me into this fucking place, so you can go straight the fuck to hell,” Karkat replies.

“Are you this obnoxious later in the day, or did they just forget to give you your ativan last night?”

“I don’t even take ativan, dumbfuck.” He squares up. Maybe if he weren’t five foot one, you’d actually be afraid. “I’ll knock you out if you keep talking, though.”

Behind you, a guy with eyes so dark that they might be violet moves to plant a hand on Karkat’s shoulder. It’s your roommate, Gamzee Makara, who appears to sleep for fifteen hours a day. Karkat surprisingly refrains from flinching or scowling. You probably wouldn’t scowl at this guy if you had the opportunity either; he’s easily six foot four, his hair curling around his ears and sticking out worse than Karkat’s.

“Now there’s no reason to get up an’ motherfucking truculent with the new guy so early in the morning.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Makara, if you tell me to calm down and wait for the morning miracles, I’ll kill you too.”

“There’s no need to wait, Karbro. The sunrise is a miracle in and of itself. When I looked at the ceiling in my room, I saw miracles. Everywhere.”

“They need to put you on haldol, man.”

“I don’t need no helldogs telling me what to do. I just go with the flow.”

“Of course,” Karkat says, almost fondly. “You and your motherfucking miracles.”

When it’s nearly Karkat’s turn for vitals, Dirk escorts Roxy over to the nurses’ station. She blows a kiss at Karkat, who raises his hand in half-salute. Ignacio walks out of the charting room and takes a look at her.

“Miss Lalonde, I have medication for you. This’ll help with the shakes, hypertension, and sweating.”

Roxy puts her hands on her hips and winks at him. “Again, cutiepie?”

Ignacio rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head, his mohawk moving slightly with the motion. He hands her a medication cup and a paper cup of water. She swallows her medication down fluidly, without drinking any of the water. That has to be an xbox achievement.

During breakfast, as Eridan continues to scowl and bitch about his lack of breakfast (he has ECT today), and Karkat tells him to stop being an overdramatic fuckass before he stabs him with a fork, Dr. Vandayar pulls you aside for one of his “no big deal” discussions.

Otherwise known as morning check-in.

Truth be told, you rather like Dr. V, or Krishna, which is what he told you that you could call him, even though he has a doctorate.

He got you access to sharps, your body wash, and your clothes. He means well, and aside from when he checks in every morning, he doesn’t force you to talk if you don’t want to.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Captor?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. Pretty much the same as yesterday.”

Then come the “one to tens”, as you’ve come to think of them. Krishna has his little clipboard balanced on his thigh.

“Urges to hurt other people, one to ten?”

You think of Karkat Vantas and that smug fucking look on his face.

“Two.” It’s always less than three. Maybe that’s why he starts with it.

“Urges to hurt yourself, one to ten?”

You contemplate yesterday’s DBT handout, Roxy’s outburst about self-destruction, and its many varying connotations.

“Eight,” you reply.

“Suicidal thoughts, one to ten?”

“Nine.”

“Active or passive?”

“Passive, mostly. Fleetingly active. I don’t want to live if I’m going to burden people, the usual.”

“Do you have any plans to seriously harm yourself on the unit?”

“No. Not here,” you say. “Everything I’d want to do would require me to be outside.”

“I see,” Krishna says. “Have you been seeing or hearing things that aren’t really there?”

“No.”

“What about feeling like people are out to get you, or sending you special messages?”

“No. Nothing like that. I get enough of that shit at home.”

Dr. V does not laugh at your attempt to joke about your chaotic home life.

If you were to be completely honest, you’re wondering when your medications are going to start working, or if they’re going to start working. Talking to the other patients has been a double-edged sword. So many of them have been on a million different drugs without relief.

Logically, you know that it’ll probably take whatever you’re on more than a week to cure you, but… You’re scared. You’re not in full control and it scares you. There’s a reason you slit your throat. There’s a reason you’re here.

You’re scared the melancholy will wrap itself around you like a shroud, and never relinquish its hold. You’re scared you’ll hate yourself and this life forever.

“I thank you for your honesty, Sollux,” Dr. V says, once he makes his notes. “Any uses of target behaviors that I should be aware of?”

“I cut myself with a plastic knife on Friday evening. Not deep enough to need medical attention, though.”

You scan his expression for evidence of emotion, but he has the mother of all poker faces. All he does is write your answers down in his incomprehensible shorthand,

“How did that make you feel?” he asks. “Remember, it didn’t necessarily have to make you feel anything.”

You shrug. “It helped relieve the tension in the moment, I guess.”

“But it also made me feel disappointed later on,” you go on. “Disappointed at myself. I’m such a fucking idiot for relapsing.”

Dr. V jots this down as well, and shuffles through his papers.

“I wouldn’t use that language to describe yourself. Ridding yourself of maladaptive coping mechanisms can be quite difficult, especially if they have worked for you in the past,” he says. “Nevertheless, do you think you need to be on one-to-one for a few days? So that you stop hurting yourself while you’re here?"

You shake your head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I won’t do what I did again.”

“That is reassuring to hear. I’ll refrain from filling out the paperwork that would put you on constant observation for self-injury. That said, though, there is something you also need to do to prevent that.”

You roll your eyes a little. “You want me to contract for safety, don’t you? Like, filling out one of those sheets that says I’ll grab someone else before I decide to hurt myself. Otherwise I end up on one-to-one, right?”

Dr. V nods at you, before going on. “Yes, that is the general idea. You may either fill it out with me later on in the afternoon, or with a member of the staff with whom you are more comfortable.”

“I’d rather fill it out with you, to be perfectly honest. I trust you.”

He smiles. “I am very glad to hear that, Sollux. I don’t have any further questions for the moment.”’

You get out of your conference with Krishna, and walk into the dayroom.  

Gamzee sits there, watching Good Morning America. He’s got a small smile on his face, and a faraway look in his eye, like he’s both here and not. You call his name to get his attention. It works, his dark eyes trained on you.

“You mind if I sit down?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it’s cool. You can even change the channel if that’s somethin’ you wanna do.”

He’s built like a linebacker, all broad shoulders and muscles. He could probably snap you in half if he wanted to. You take the seat next to him and he smiles serenely at you.

“So what’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing, man. Just got outta session with Dr. V. He wanted to make sure I didn’t want to hurt myself.”

Gamzee looks thoughtful. He pulls a red paper flower out of his shorts and hands it to you.

“I folded that a couple days ago. You can have it, if you want.”

“For what?”

“For when you need to up an fuckin’ remember the miracles. Like we talked about last night.”

Last night, Gamzee harangued you at length about the Mirthful Messiahs, and the Dark Carnival, and with a practiced skill you have learned from your sibling’s rants about the NYPD following them, you tuned him out utterly. You really hope he doesn’t count you as a believer in his weird ass faith, which seems like some kind of psychotic juggalo cult.

He’s a nice guy, though. You know he’s not utterly harmless, but he seems easygoing enough. You fiddle around with and tear at a piece of paper until you have a square, which you then use to make a paper crane.

“Hey, Gamzee,” you say. He glances up at you.

“Yeah?”

You hand him the paper crane. “You know, the Japanese believe if you fold a thousand of these, you get a wish. I’m not folding a thousand cranes, but this is for you.”

“I will cherish it every day of my motherfucking life.”

You think he means it, too.

Art group is at 11. Katya herds everyone who wants to show up into the art room. So far, that’s you, Roxy, Karkat, June, Gamzee, Calliope, and Porrim. Karkat nods his head at you, and then inclines it toward the door. He wants to talk to you one-on-one. Whatever the fuck about?

He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon before he deigns to speak to you, all pursed lips and narrowed eyes. You’re tempted to ask him what the fuck’s eating him, and then he speaks.

“Listen. I want to apologize about earlier this morning,” he says. “I was in a foul fucking mood, and I need to work on not taking that shit out on other people.”

Wait, seriously? He can’t actually think you’re still upset about that; you get cursed out worse by your sibling on a daily basis, and that’s when they’re in a good mood.

“Accepted,” you reply. “Don’t worry about it, man.”

Faint relief breaks out on Karkat’s features.

Katya has all of you gather around before she constructs a box out of a weirdly shaped piece of cardboard that looks as if it’s been cut so that a small briefcase sized box could be constructed.

“These are what I like to call coping boxes. You make the box, and then you decorate it. You can put anything in here. Things that make you feel good, or that make you think, or handouts you get during other groups. Whatefur you want!”

She hands a box to each of you, after she puts out tempera and acrylic paint, colored markers, gel pens, and colored pencils.

You weren’t planning to keep any of your distress tolerance handouts in the box, but maybe you should. Gamzee’s staring at you while he paints, and that’s kind of weird, at least until you get a good look at how he’s decorating his coping box.

He’s painting halfway decent pictures of you, Roxy, Karkat, Calliope and Eridan on the front part of the box, with the word “friends”, in purple cursive.

He counts you as a friend even though the only thing you’ve really had to do with him was vaguely listen while he spouted his weird theories about the mirthful messiahs?

You have to hand it to him, though. Kid’s a real artist, probably - no, definitely - good enough to paint portraits for money over in Washington Square Park or something. Karkat gets a decent look at what Gamzee’s painting and blushes.

“Oh, come on, you didn’t have to put me on the damn box,” he says.

“But you are my best friend in the whole wide motherfucking universe,” Gamzee replies.

Karkat splutters something and looks like he’d like to object, then just sighs, and tells him to make sure he gets Karkat’s good side. 

“Hey, Gamzee!” Roxy calls.

“Yes, Roxybro?”

“Does painting that mean you’re gonna paint me like one ‘a’ your French girls one of these days?”

Gamzee gives this a good half-minute of thought.

“I ain’t up an’ got any motherfuckin’ French girls.”

Meanwhile, you focus on your tree. It looks like a lollipop with antennae, but whatever, that’s going to be as good as it gets. You ask Katya if you can get a piece of paper to paint on, she “of course”s you and hands you a piece of printer paper.

What will you paint today, Sollux Captor? More trees?

Tears spring to your eyes, and just when you think the worst is over, they start trailing down your face. Roxy recoils and apologizes to you, thinking she’s done something, and all you do is cry harder, you fuckup. You can’t do a goddamn thing right. Only things you’re good for are fixing computers and having nervous breakdowns.

Katya looks up from praising Calliope and Gamzee’s collaboration, and walks up to you.

“Hey - no, it’s okay, mew don’t have to cover your face - what’s wrong?”

She crouches so that she’s eye level with you as you sit in your chair. It somehow makes you feel even worse, like you’re some small child that can’t control their emotional outbursts. Come to think of it, you were like this as a kid, too. Tuna was the outgoing twin who made all the friends, and you were the twin who would start crying if you accidentally colored outside the lines.

“It’s alright. If you don’t want to paint, maybe you’d like to go for a walk?” she asks. You shake your head emphatically.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s just that I’ve never really been good at artistic stuff. Sorry I suck so bad.”

“Art group is not about being good or bad stylistically,” Katya says. “It’s about expressing yourself. As long as you’re doing that, you’re fine. I like your tree. You and Roxy are both excellent at trees.”

Roxy, who has been sitting next to you, using highlighters to draw what looks either like a really bad tree or a neon colored mushroom cloud, gives you a small little smile.

“Wanna draw with me?” she asks.

At first, you assume she’s found some oblique way to hit on you the way she does everyone else, but then she hands you the bottle of black tempera paint and a couple of colored markers. You don’t know what she expects you to do with them. Your tree sucks way more than hers.

“If you can’t think of anything to draw, why not try making patterns?” Katya asks.

You guess you can do that. You start drawing red and blue circles on your piece of paper, clustering them closer and closer together. 

Apropos of nothing, you remember the time in undergrad where you and Ray couldn’t get back to campus in time to beat the blizzard. You and she slept overnight in your car, parked in a gas station. Outside, nothing but a vast, enveloping white, what you imagine death or infinity must look like. The whole world rendered down to the slope and curve of dunes and valleys.

If you think hard enough, you can feel the wind rocking the car, can imagine the sound of Ray’s teeth chattering, or the occasional slip of her hands as she does a tarot reading. Another one. Another one down, another one down, another one bites the dust, Queen playing through your radio speakers. She sits in the front passenger seat, one leg bent beneath her.

“You think we’re ever gonna get out of here?” she asks.

At this moment, you ask yourself that same question. It’s a little different, now.

You wish you could take your seven eighths of a computer engineering degree and come up with a way out of this, but you can’t. That’s your problem. You’re only you, and you’ve never been good at managing your emotions.

[beloved-judged]

The inexpressible

This is going to be a bit... fragmented.

I should say, up front, that one of my degrees is an MFA--poetry and creative non-fiction. I have a license to poet, to be abstract and playful with language, and training in recognizing the internal structure of meaning as it is presented in language use.

I also took an absolute ass load of rhetoric courses, eventually taking Greek coursework (in addition to the mandatory Latin) in order to read the texts left us by various rhetors and their historians side-by-side with their translations.

I do language. It’s a different brain than I use on the daily in programming (and in fact, they’re oppositional for some subsets of use), but I’ve proved to the satisfaction of an academic committee that I can language just fine, even convincingly.

A confluence of events today: my papa releasing a blizzard of podcasts in the last two days, re-reading Snow Crash, and a bunch of random events have lead me to spend the last few days contemplating language.

It’s going to be here because it applies to the things my papa has been talking about.

When you choose to speak, take for granted you have already lost a lot of meaning--to render a situation into language is to make decisions about what it is, how it is, and how others may understand it, all of which are bound to your individual understanding (as well as whatever social rules, ideas, etc you have absorbed, because we’re not islands.) To make those decisions is to decide what is important and relevant, what others may understand, and what you want others to understand.

And to make those decisions is to decide not just what’s included, but what is omitted. This starts the second words come into play and before it, in the language we are inculcated with.

The latest podcast my papa released is a parable about one of the founding fathers of Sufism, which I will spoil and say the moral of the story is that the presence of someone who has achieved enlightenment is just as important as any attention they might give you (and in some cases, to not give attention at all, so as not to feed the ego.)

The presence, without language--to exist within eyesight and hearing, without direct interaction.

In Snow Crash, the author plays with an old, old dichotomy: religions of the book (that is, legalistic religions which base their principles on a written text which is required to take a form which does not permit as much individual interpretation) versus cultic religions, in which enlightenment is achieved through individual experience and is not subject to being ruled or shaped by the contents of a text.

Christianity is, at best, a mixed bag by that criteria, but tends toward a religion of the book rather than a cultic religion--as it is practiced in many places, it has elements of personal enlightenment, but is checked (at least in theory) against the text of the Bible, which is considered the authority on what it is and means to be a Christian. Again, in theory. This may not be true of individual Christian groups, churches, or Christians and it does not matter if it is true. Christianity bases itself on the Bible as a general rule.

A religion of a central text, against which all things are (supposed to be) checked.

One of the most haunting reads in my rhetorical studies was The Phadreus--a dialog on the nature of rhetoric (the art of persuasion). In the book, which is arranged as a long dialog, Socrates is talking to Phadreus about the nature of language, persuasion, and what makes a good versus a bad rhetor. There is a whole section where he talks about the relationship between writing and speech in rhetoric, remarking that he does not trust writing to do what it is supposed to do (to serve as an aid to memory, to make the idea immortal). He remarks that to read and write a thing is inadequate to produce experts, and that expertise requires something more in terms of experience and inspiration.

Or to put it a slightly different way: you might be able to write down instructions on how to do a complex thing, but the instructions by themselves are not going to make someone capable of performing the task well.

And, as he remarked, all too often when we commit something to writing, we promptly cease to make the effort to remember it--remembering becomes a problem of the medium we write in.

We wrote it down, now it’s the paper’s job to remember it.

This can, as he points out in The Phadreus and elsewhere in the texts produced by Plato during that period, lead to the state where people can take their speech--that is, the things produced from their mouth--and treat it as if it does not belong to them, as if, because they are quoting, they no longer ‘own’ the words they speak, and thus are not bound to the consequence of them.

You can see an awful lot of this in white, academic, and main cultures: if I’m quoting someone else, it’s not my fault. If I am sufficiently careful to quote, I can get away with saying all kinds of things and have a reasonable expectation that I won’t be held accountable for it.

In primarily oral cultures, as a quick side note and by contrast, what you say (the promises you make) is a profound reflection of you as a person, and you will be held accountable for it. Everything that comes out of your mouth, you own, and there is no shield of ‘just quoting’ or ‘just saying’ to save you from suffering the consequences of your speech.

Magic, where it concerns speech, often appears to me to inherit from that understanding of the word. That which issues out of your mouth is a spike, affixing you to consequence, that you cannot wriggle out of.

Trusting in the written word also, as Socrates points out, tends to lead to the state where the writer thinks they have been clear, and the reader thinks they have understood, but neither are right: the written word does not lend itself to clarity, but to deceptive equivocation. The appearance of clarity, but only if both parties do not think deeply or ask much of the interaction, and part of the inability of the book to produce experts has to do with the absence of expertise and inspiration to enforce clarity.

I find that is much on my mind--where we find clarity. I have about twenty years of training in academia, in finding clarity in books. I would be hard-pressed to count how many books I’ve read, even by genre. It is where my mind is ... comfortable. A confluence of training and natural inclinations.

The experts with whom I might study to understand rhetoric, say, are dead and dust in the ground, in some cases for thousands of years. They cannot be present with me, and while there are plenty of modern scholars with whom I might study, I am unlikely to ever have the chance to do so.

There is something tied to presence, something which governs learning. In Snow Crash, which is very much propaganda for literate societies, the idea that there is a pre-verbal experience of understanding or something that defies the ability to be verbalized within literature structures, is a virus analogous to herpes: something that represents an invader of the ordered, literate body, which subverts it and irreparably harms the health of the body and the mind.

Without the book to govern thought, all is madness, and those who are trained in specific kinds of literacy (in the case of Snow Crash, technical literacy) are susceptible to a madness which burns out their ability to think and their identity, their ability to appear rational to the literate society around them. They become as individualized as an insect, which is to say that they have no individual identity.

That is where I am going--to that non-verbal place. It’s a thought that fills me with anxiety, but also with relief. I cannot touch rationality but to notice irrationality in it, the vital absences which compose the underpinning of rationality, both in language and in concept.

Language is a slippery bastard.

Vodou is a cult, by the definition of the majority religion (Christianity), and by definition in general, in that it has no centralized authority (no pope), no central dogma (a Bible, say), and relies on individual experience with the divine (in possession, inspiration, or through witnessing a possession.) It is also a community-driven religion: mutual support, mutual aid, mutual living. It has authority figures (the priests), but the authority structure is very localized. A priest is the priest for his or her temple, not for every vodouizant everywhere. Authority is recognized, but not universal.

Atop that, it is also very much an oral culture: you are absolutely responsible for your words.

In my experiences with possession so far, both partial (someone else was using my body and I could witness but not interfere) and complete (black out), it has been a place where all my literacy, all my rationality (and I used to teach logic), all the things I would call my identity, were pointless. Either gently but firmly pushed aside, or gone altogether with the rest of me. And I have never, in my experience of being partially possessed, spoken.

Moved? Sure. Expressed something? Yes. Performed feats? Yep.

Fully possessed, however, I’m told my body has done a lot of speaking.

But the literate qualities of myself, the parts writing this entry, were either absent or entirely beside the point. It is not an easy thing to flirt with the destruction of these parts of myself. It’s deeply, deeply discomforting to recognize that where I am going, I am not. Where I am going, all that I am now will be beside the point.

Existential panic, I think, is about right.

What am I, without language? What remains in those spaces?

I cannot enjoy the wine of oblivion without reaping it--I cannot enter the waters of the void in meditation and not expect to have to perform the work necessary to come back and swim it.

What words, what shapes, what law is written on me in such places?

I hope the lwa will forgive me for being afraid.

The more I see of what I will be losing, the more... frightening the cost becomes. The fear of becoming a babbling adept, the fear of losing my ability to appear rational in rational society, the loss of those years building expertise.

The loss of myself, those endlessly reflecting mirrors of structure so painstakingly cultivated, and I know my papa would say “no, not yourself. What you think you are” but it is not entirely comforting.

And if I lose this, this speaking self writing these words...

And if I lose...

I struggle at this price. Does it seem dramatic? Only because this is the bastion I have spent my life defending against the attacks of family, colleagues, and a world determined to tell me that women cannot be rational.

I have been beaten for knowledge. Repeatedly. For daring to ask questions. I have been forcibly excised from academia, because I could not find enough support to defend myself against harassment. I have given up relationships and exposed myself to constant, crippling criticism and the many cruelties of people who found my presence intolerable. I have given up meals, a bed under my head, clothes, love, children, and the acquisition of wealth to know. There has been no easy path to knowledge for me, no family poised to encourage and protect, no social matrix to provide support.

This is the next price I will have to pay. Just a pound of flesh from nearest my heart.

What will be left of me, this babbling self ironic in the drive to cage in language what ultimately dissolves it?

I do not know if I can pay it. I can only... make myself try because I will keep my word.

And because anything else will never be enough.

My love, my love, the crown of my soul, papa, patron, master--you scare me.

[exoticarmy127]

Could you please do a the same Hobi and Yoongi reaction (the one where there s/o is told they're a hindrance to the boy's career) but for the other members ? And please don't put it under a cut even if it's long. I normally read from mobile and tumblr effs it up every time. Thank you ! You're writing is amazing btw.

I guess it’s just Jin and Namjoon left :)

J-Hope and Suga

Jungkook

V and Jimin

Jin

Jin wasn’t sure where the fight started. At one moment, the two of you were just talking and the next… you were both exploding volcanoes.

But nothing prepared him for those frightening words, rendering him speechless and immobile:

“Maybe we should just end this!” You shouted at the height of your argument and it was enough to stop Jin from retaliating, your painful words piercing through him like a knife.

As you turn to walk away, he immediately stops you, holding onto your arm to make you face him again. “Y/N… h-hey, y-you don’t mean that.” He stutters and guilt presses down on you instantly for being the reason behind the look of fear on his face.

“I don’t know, Seokjin.” You sigh, eyes glassy from the heat of the fight. You only ever called him that when you were serious, which scared him. “You tell me.”

“What does that mean?” He huffs. “Of course I don’t want that. Ending this is the last thing…no, it’s not even an option.”

You remain silent at that and Jin’s hand move from your arm to your hand, squeezing it once.

“Or is it just me? Are you…” he swallows. “Giving up on me? On us?”

You press your lips in a thin line and look away; the pain on his face too hard to bear. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore, Jin. The world seem to be so against us that even we, ourselves, are turning from each other.”

“We fight, yes. But don’t all couples do? It’s normal.” He reasons. “But we don’t just give up. We talk about it.” You bite your lip at that and Jin immediately catches it. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

You take a deep breath, thinking if you should… “Please, Y/N.” He pleads and you sigh, relenting.

“Why are you even with me?” You murmur and yet those quiet words echoed through Jin’s brain, causing him to rattle in surprise.

“What do you mean? I’m with you because you’re my girlfriend, because I love you.”

“People say I’m only dragging you down. They often say how a global star like Kim Seokjin can do better than be with someone like me…a nobody.” You look at him with tears pooling in your eyes. “They say I’m hindering you from having a successful career and I don’t want that Jin. I want what’s best for you.”

“And you think what’s best for me is to not have you in my life?” He asks and you nod, which only breaks his heart.

“If you truly knew me…loved me… you should know that having a successful and massive career isn’t what I’m after when I entered this business. I work hard to become who I am not for the fame but because I love doing it. I’m passionate about it. I love performing, singing, making people happy… I don’t care about the titles. I care about making my fans and myself happy.”

You look down, wiping your tears away as he continued. “You should also know that being with you makes me the happiest man I could ever be. I thought performing made me happy…but with you? It’s different… Almost euphoric.”

You feel a hand on your chin as Jin tips it upward so you can face him. “So tell me, Y/N. If you took away that happiness, would that be best for me?”

It was then that you broke down, shaking your head as the tears poured out of you. Jin pulls you into his arms, murmuring sorry’s and I love you’s which you returned, fervently.

“The world can suck it. What matters is we make each other happy, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You and me against the world, Y/N.”

No matter what, you smile. “You and me.”

RM

“We need to talk.”

Namjoon has never read a more frightening statement. He read the text the moment he landed back in Seoul after being in the US for almost a month. He hasn’t seen you in weeks and all he wanted to do was surprise you but you ended up surprising him with that text instead.

He replies a quick “sure” and asks where to meet. The words were calm, almost nonchalant on the screen, but Namjoon was panicking. Nothing good ever comes about with those four words.

Waiting for you to arrive at his studio was agony. Namjoon couldn’t keep his leg from jumping, his hand shakes slightly that he could barely work his computer, and the music in the background isn’t doing its job of calming his nerves.

Knock. Knock.

He whips his head towards the door and sees a shadow there. It’s you. He stands up, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

Namjoon could remember the first time he ever saw you: in a museum, wearing a yellow shirt and jeans, standing in front of an art piece. He wasn’t sure what came over him that day that he was able to approach you and make conversation…but he did. And it was one of the best days of his life.

He swallows hard at the sight of you now: wearing the same shirt and a soft smile. Namjoon thinks how the world could be so cruel as for you to wear the same yellow shirt you entered into–and apparently will leave his life in.

“Hey.” You say. “Can I come in?”

“You don’t need an invitation, you know that right?” Namjoon says to lighten the mood as he steps back to let you in. He’s stalling, he knows. But he can’t just let you talk yet…He can’t let you go yet.

“How was the tour?” You ask and he shrugs.

“It was…successful.” He answers. “Got through it without any accidents, thank god.”

“That’s good.” You smile and he notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “So, I… I’m really sorry about texting you that when you just got back. But in my defense, I could’ve waited till tomorrow so you can get some sleep first–”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t think I could sleep when…” He swallows. “When I know you’re going to break up with me.”

You open your mouth to speak but closed it when you realize what he just said. “What? Joon—”

“Please, hear me out first.” Namjoon says calmly, but you notice his hands were shaking. “I’m not the best boyfriend, I admit. I’m away more than half the time, we sneak out to go out publicly; we can’t even watch a movie in a cinema without having to rent the whole place so we don’t get mobbed by fans…” He huffs, having said all that without breath. “I get moody sometimes, my work hinders me from spending more time with you. When I’m on tour, you don’t see me for months. When I’m here, I’m almost always at the studio and so you would have to be here and watch me work...as our date.”

You frown as you listened, watching as silent tears begin to fall from his eyes. “I’m not perfect, I know. And you have a million reasons to cut me loose and find a better man, but…” he sniffs. “But know that out of that million reasons, I only have one reason to make you want to stay…”

Your eyes widen when he suddenly kneels in front of you and takes your hands in his. “Y/N, I love you. I love you so much that you’re the only reason I want to go back and do my work all over again. I love you so much that I can’t sleep well unless I hear your voice or read a good night text from you every single night. I love you so much it hurts. And I know it’s selfish for me to want you to stay with me when I can’t give as much as you’re giving me… when I can’t be the partner you deserve. But please, don’t leave me. Please don’t break up with me. Because I honestly don’t know how I’m going to live without you.” He gasps and the pain is so evident on his face it almost hurt to look at him. “The person I was before? I’m not even sure how he lived till he met you.”

You didn’t know what to say after that. How could you when Namjoon literally laid out his heart bare in front of you; putting it in your hands and begging for you to keep holding on to it.

“Joon. Hey…” you say as you wipe off his tears. “I’m not breaking up with you. Calm down.”

“You’re not?” He sniffs.

You shake your head. “But you’re not wrong for assuming I came to talk about our relationship. The truth is…it’s not you—“ you stop as a finger lays on your lips.

“Don’t say ‘it’s me’ because you’re nothing but perfect, Y/N.”

You smile. “Stop being so cheesy. But I came to talk to you because…I got insecure.”

He looks at you funny, thinking the word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary. “About what?”

You bite your lip, “When you’re away or even when you’re here, really… people talk. All the time. About how I’m only holding you back from your career. How I’m practically a nobody to be dating ‘RM of BTS.’” Namjoon was about to rebut but you continued, “And I know I shouldn’t listen to them. I knew what I was getting into when I dated you Joon, and I don’t regret it because I love you so much it hurts too… But sometimes, those words get too loud and I can’t really turn to anyone…I—“ you bow your head. “I’m sorry. I’m pathetic—“

“No! You’re not! Stop saying that!” Namjoon says sternly. “Thank you for letting me know. I can’t imagine how it must feel keeping this all to yourself. You’re so strong, jagiya. But you’re also allowed to be hurt, to be sad. And that’s okay. I just wish I could protect you more from those words. I’m so sorry. I’ll try harder, Jagi. I’ll try harder to show you that you don’t have to worry about them because in the end, I’m all yours.” He cups your cheek. “You’re worthy of every single part of me. Please know that.”

You nod, smiling through tear-stained cheeks. “I do. And nothing you’ve said about being a bad boyfriend was true. You do everything for me. You’re the best and I love you, Joon. I love you to the moon…”

Namjoon smiles, his heart full and eyes glassy with happy tears as he says his reply: “And back, Y/N. Always.”

NAMJOONIE MAKES ME CRY. Hope you guys enjoyed reading!

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- Kaye Allen

[iannavaja]

My Family is My life

                    “Family is not an important thing. It's everything.”

My family has always been there to support and encourage me to conquer and find success in all life challenges. The position of every member of my family, in their own way, is unique and significant. I am thankful to God for growing up in a home love and discipline. My family values are certainly going to make me become a happier person.

The family is a precious gift of God that plays the most crucial role in the life of any human. I enjoy my family so much and I have both good and difficult moments for all my family members. From spiritual lessons to love and support, without any demand, my family has always supported me. There is no question that when we truly interact with them, we witness our greatest triumphs.

Families are an important aspect of one's life. It doesn't matter whether you have a family that's small or large, as long as you have one. A family acts as the child's first kindergarten, where you think about different things. Only from their families comes the profound awareness of one's history and identity. You are a product of your heritage, in other words. All the positive practices and forms that one has incorporated come only from their kin. I am so grateful to have been born into a family that has made me a happier person. Families are an important part of one's being in my view.

                            The love of a family is life’s greatest blessing

My family has always been there to inspire and help me to resolve and find success in all life challenges. Each member's role in my family is special and significant in its own way. I thank God that I grew up in a family full of discipline and love. My family values are surely going to motivate me to become a stronger person.

My family is a lifeline to which I can escape, regardless of the situation that I face. I am driven by my family to be a positive citizen and to help me nurture good values. We, people, are creatures who spread love and care about one another and live together and this togetherness is called family. The lack of such a godly relationship renders us equal to animals.

My family has been always by my side in ups and downs. They have taught me how to be a better person. My family consists of four siblings and my parents. We also have a pet dog that is no less than our family.

However, they do not realize its importance. Families are essential as they help in our growth. They develop us into becoming a complete person with an individual identity. Moreover, they give us a sense of security and a safe environment to flourish in.

Families are the only ones who believe in you when the whole world doubts you. Similarly, when you are down and out, they are the first ones to cheer you up. Certainly, it is a true blessing to have a positive family by your side.

In such a loving atmosphere, family value and development allows me to pass on all the challenges and difficulties that I face in my everyday life. Our families will never leave us alone, regardless of the situation we face. For me, my family is a joy and I value both of my family with equal reverence and affection.

                               My father has always been my hero

My father is my role model for many reasons. First and foremost I admire his passion for work. That is why he is so respected in his office as well. He is always there to help his colleagues even if it is not his work. In fact, one can always see him spending weekends helping others out. Moreover, my father is a simple man. He does not like expensive things and lives an easy and peaceful life. Also, he never shouts on anyone of us. I wonder if he ever gets angry on anything as he takes everything so calmly and takes his time to decide upon things.

He is a caring and obedient person who takes care of my whole family. He is an engineer by trade and is a very hardworking person. He is an articulate guy who replies in a witty way to all my questions. My father loves his own parents, my mother and any family member.

Family value and progress in such a caring environment allows me to carry on all the struggles and problems I encounter in my daily life. Regardless of the situation we face, our family will never leave us behind. My family is a blessing for me and with equal respect and love I value all of my family. My father does not like sitting idle. Occasionally, on holidays, if he sees my sister and me doing nothing and just idling our time, he gives us one or the other job. He is still very organized and has all of his papers well organized.

“My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.”

A father is the one who maintains strict discipline among the family members and is looked upon with respect by everyone. He shows the right path to his children and motivates them to achieve the goals of their lives through proper education. A father is the one who stands rock solid beside his family and protects them from the evils of society. He acts as the root of his family and binds each member with love and respect.

My father is my friend as well. I can discuss everything with my father, even those that I dare not speak in front of my mother. I know that he shall keep it a secret and give the advice I need. He is the one whom I can rely upon blindly during any hour of need, and I know that he shall be there for me.

My father plays an important role in the family. He is in fact considered as the head of the family. However, I feel that both father and mother have a distinctive role to play in bringing up their children.

                     “There is nothing as sincere as a mother's kiss.”

She is my mother, the greatest influence in my life. Not only as a mom but also as a friend. A time that is really prominent in my mind, that I hope I will always remember, is the year when I was doing poorly in English class and I wanted to drop it. The "easy way out" as my mom called it. She helped me realize that I was intelligent enough to be in the class that is why I was put in it, and that I could do anything I put my mind to. The talk with my mom helped me tremendously. Not only because she gave me good advice but because she was talking to me like a friend would, being understanding of where I was coming from and about my feelings.

He has taught me the real meaning of strength. My siblings are my best friends on whom I can always fall back on. Even my pet dog has taught me the meaning of loyalty. He always cheers me up whenever I don’t feel good. My family is my power that keeps pushing me to achieve newer heights

She has taught me to always try my best, to treat everyone equally, to not give up when things get hard. She tells me to at all times be honest because in the end, lies always hurt more. She instills the importance of family and of doing well at school in me. When I make decisions and she doesn't always agree with them, she makes sure that I know that she is behind me all the way because she wants me to always be happy. She has taught me right from wrong and the significance of self-respect

          “Life began with waking up and loving my mother's face.”

Additionally, she taught me how to walk, speak, and take care of myself. Similarly, every bigger step that I have taken in my life is all because of my mother. Because, if she hasn’t taught me how to take small steps then I won’t be able to take these bigger step.

Within each family member, lies my strength. My mother is my strength as I can always count on her when I need a shoulder to cry on. She believes in me more than any other person. She is the backbone of our family. My father is someone who will always hide away his troubles for the sake of his family.

My mother is an ordinary woman she is my superhero. In every step of my, she supported and encouraged me. Whether day or night she was always there for me no matter what the condition is. Furthermore, her every work, persistence, devotion, dedication, conduct is an inspiration for me

In short, I will forever be indebted to my family for all they have done for me. I cannot imagine my life without them. They are my first teachers and my first friends. They are responsible for creating a safe and secure environment for me at home. I can share everything with my family as they never judge one another. We believe in the power of love above everything and that drives us to help each other to become better human beings.

      “A brother shares childhood memories and grown-up dreams.”

My brother is very polite by nature and is loved by one and all. He often shares his chocolates, sweets and candies with me. He loves playing snakes and ladders and Ludo with me during weekends. He shares everything with me and is very comfortable discussing his classes, school friends and homework with me.

When someone asks you “Who is your biggest role model and why?” normally people say their parents or some famous figurehead. They don’t typically say their sibling.

For me, though, my brother is and has always been my biggest role model.

He has supported me, cheered me on, given me (mostly) unbiased advice, and has simply been there for me my entire life.

He has shown me that having a real personality, and not hiding it, will get you a long way. He taught me that being weird and unique is a good thing and if someone else can’t see that, they aren’t worth the time or effort.

My brother may not always be at my side, but he is always in my heart.

From my brother, I have learned to love comic books, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Pokémon, and movies so bad they’re good.

Growing up with him, I was taught how to perfect my sarcasm, a skill we both used (and still use) to drive our parents nuts.

Even though I think all of these things are important skills to have, I know that my brother has taught me some even more important things, whether he knows it or not.

While watching his experience in college when I was only in junior high, I told myself that I would get my degree to make him proud. Now that I am extremely close to that goal, I have set an even higher one for myself, again for my brother.