#but at my heart i think ill always be more comfortable on the sidelines getting to watch everyone anyway

[snixx]

sometimes I feel like I was put on this earth to witness the love other people have for one another. to observe and remember and tuck away all the beauty in that raw capacity strangers have for love somewhere safe and permanent where it'll stay forever long after it's died. maybe I was made to notice and remember long after everyone else forgets and moves on and maybe that isn't as lonely as I used to think it was and is actually the best gift I could've asked for, because how could getting to witness so many bursts of love all around me in one lifetime - even in the periods of my life that feel empty - not be?

do you ever look at how much love some people have in their hearts for other people in their lives and want to cry because of how beautiful it is

[deathbxnny]

Have I watched/read JJBA kinda. Is it my new hyper fixation yes. Anyways Giorno Giovanna, Jotaro Kujo, & Jolyne Cujoh with a reader (platonic or romantic idc) that’s like Firefly and her stance is just Sam but it’s called Iron Maiden!

(＃＞＜)

JJBA characters with a Firefly-like! Fem! Reader | Jolyne Cujoh, Jotaro Kujo, Giorno Giovanna

As someone who can easily say that JJBA is their favorite anime, I absolutely love this idea, Anon!! I made this a romantic hc, so I hope you'll like it!<33

Content: Vague mentions of chronical illness, mentions of potential future death by illness, angst, hurt/comfort, sfw

Reader is fem/afab in this, but no pronouns are mentioned!

((Not proofread))

》JOLYNE CUJOH

Jolyne met you in jail as a cell mate, one she quickly found a lot in common with, especially regarding your rather special stand abilities. But your illness is what really drew her to you and made her determined to keep you safe after you became a couple. Her heart ached knowing you were stuck in a prison, when you should be out there experiencing life as much as you still could, but alas, you were here with her, and she tried to make things easier for you with her presence.

She was left stunned however, when you were attacked by some stand users and quickly found out that you perhaps didn't need the extensive help and care she had given you after all. Sam, your stand, was more than enough to destroy any enemy in sight, something she found absolutely awesome. Jolyne would absolutely cheer you on from the sidelines, completely forgetting that she had to fight too.

It makes her proud to see how strong you are despite your potential deadly fate and hopes to stay at your side until the end.

》JOTARO KUJO

You both were childhood friends turned lovers, and so he was very much aware of your condition from day one. He watched as your illness progressed to become worse and worse until you were left unable to walk properly anywhere. But what hurt the most deep down was that you always remind me so gentle and calm with him anyway, despite his rather aloof and indifferent personality. His mother often teased him playfully for being so soft with you and only you, but he'd just stubbornly deny it every time.

With that said, anyone that hurts you is practically dead before they know it. He doesn't play around when it comes to your health or well-being, and so it does come to some sort of relief that your stand is extremely powerful. It made protecting and keeping you safe a lot easier when you could just do it yourself, too. This doesn't mean he won't keep his eyes on you at all times anyway.

Jotaro is somewhat in denial about what's most likely going to be your early passing due to your sickness, despite his rational mind. He doesn't want to think or hear about it, as it hurts too much to lose you as well.

》GIORNO GIOVANNA

Giorno met you through Bucciarati, and whilst you weren't directly a part of the gang, you were still an important person in it due to your stands immense strength. You immideatly introduced him to it through a battle against an enemy stand user, which made him take interest in you initially. You were gentle and soft-spoken, so it was definitely a contrast he quickly became infatuated with over time. But what really got him about you was that you were able to do all these great things despite being gravely ill.

It served as a reminder that life was cruel, and yet Giorno wasn't phased by it. In fact, he hoped that once he was successful with the mission of overtaking the boss, he'd eventually be able to get you the medical care you needed. He was determined to find a way to stop the illness or at least make life better for you, so you became another goal for him to fight for.

You can always count on him for anything and everything, that's for sure. He loves you greatly and wants to show you that by staying by you even when things get worse. So if you inevitably die, then he'll be there until your last breath.

[islandofsages]

darling heart.

summary: in which you are someone who participates in/identifies with jirai kei culture.

characters: heartslabyul boys x gn reader

tags: relationship not specified, fluff, imagines format

warnings: mentions of mental health, mentions of self-destructive tendencies

author's notes: hiiii this is very self-indulgent bc i am a jirai kei babe,, im specifically a jirai danshi <3 i might do for other dorms too, depending on my motivation lol you can find out more by searching up jirai kei tho dont just read the jfashion wiki for it, it's more than just a fashion style. also beware of potentially triggering stuff since it deals with mental health and all

Riddle Rosehearts

He’s intrigued by this subculture that you participate in and he’d ask you more about it, if you don't mind telling him - he’ll do his own research too anyway

When he finds out it's basically a subculture consisting of people with emotion dysregulation issues and is generally controversial, he checks up on you and asks you if you're okay or not

You laugh then – you’ve had your ups and downs but really, so has everyone. You hope reading about it hasn't scared him off

He’d feel like calling you a “landmine type” is too insensitive but you assure him that there's nothing to worry about and that people who participate in the subculture has reclaimed such stereotypes and fully embrace it

He’d really enjoy seeing you decked out in jirai kei fashion; he may want to try it himself but he’d insist that it's not in his place to participate, only support from the sidelines

You do get him to try out clothes that are similar to or inspired by the culture though – he seems to be comfortable in the style and you're happy that something that you enjoy can also bring the same joy to him

You’ll also recommend some songs to him, especially ones that you think would help him in studying despite the sometimes concerning lyrical content

If someone tries to bully you for identifying with the subculture, he’d step in immediately and defend your honor

“What right do you have in deciding what (Y/N) identifies with? That's what I thought. I’m always in the right.”

Through your downs and ups, Riddle will always be there for you.

Ace Trappola

He has heard of it before but he thought it was only a type of fashion, not a whole subculture with more substance to it than clothes

You’d infodump to him all about it and your journey with it, whether you just discovered it or have been identifying with it for a long time – he listens to you curiously all the while

He’s caught off guard for a moment by the more controversial and depressing part of it but he quickly recovers

He’s happy for you and glad that you’re comfortable having such a culture define a part of you

Though he implores not to do all the self-destructive stuff if you could and he’ll look out for you more just in case

He definitely thinks you rock while wearing your jirai kei outfits; it’s not his style but he wouldn’t mind trying it once, just to get a feel for the style

“Yeah, this is definitely not my thing… you, on the other hand, look pretty awesome.”

You’d give him a link for your playlist (or a playlist you’ve saved) and he’d listen to it when he’s bored – ends up adding a few songs to his personal playlist

If he finds anyone stereotyping you unnecessarily, he’ll call them out, saying as if they’re any better

Despite everything, you are still uniquely you in his eyes.

Deuce Spade

He apologizes for not knowing too much about it when you bring it up and you tell him it’s okay because it gives you an excuse to ramble about it

You tell him what it entails and how you’ve come to find out about it, sifting through your past experiences both good and bad

He tries very hard to be understanding, even if he doesn’t really get it. You’re just grateful to have his support

“I don’t really get it but it gives you a sense of community, right? I think that’s pretty cool!”

He’s also a little concerned about the mental illness part so he’d regularly check up on you to make sure you’re doing okay

He’d ask you to tell him more about your experiences with the subculture if you have any more and if anything exciting happens, you go to him first

Such as acquiring a brand new article of jirai kei clothing for example! He thinks the style is super pretty and fits you really, really well

He’d listen to the music together with you, sharing earphones and all – maybe he would even listen to them while he tries to do anything

He’ll be your guard dog and bite back whoever dares to make fun of you for being part of the subculture’s community you’ll have to calm him down sometimes

You couldn’t ask for a better cheerleader than him.

Cater Diamond

He’s always known about the subculture and although he doesn't participate in it, he thinks it's really neat

You tell him more about it and about the misconceptions people have about it so that he doesn't misunderstand

He’s super stoked that he knows someone in real life who actually participates in the subculture since he gets to see how it actually is in reality

He mostly knows about the fashion and when you come rocking up to him wearing the classic jirai kei look, he tries his best not to fanboy

He compliments you then proceeds to ask you where you got it – though cute styles like it aren’t his thing, he feels like he can give this style a try

He’d match with you on days he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable with more cutesy styles and snap pictures of you two to post on Magicam

He’d also go scouring for the music online to add more songs to his already rapidly growing playlist. He’d share some recommendations with you too!

Unintentionally got you more jirai kei friends since some people saw his posts about matching with you on Magicam; even people you already know commented on his post

“Look at us, (Y/N)! We’re totally Magicam-famous now~”

You laugh with him, head thrown back while the seeds of your relationship bloom behind where the two of you sit.

Trey Clover

He doesn’t know too much about it so he’ll ask you to explain to him what it is – to which you excitedly agree to

You tell him everything from the origins to how you’ve come to participate in the subculture – he nods patiently all the while

The mental health part of it has him questioning you a bit but he has no ill intention, he’s simply looking out for you and is worried about you

He’s supportive all the way and thinks it’s nice that you have something you’re passionate about. He’d even do his own research when he has the time

He’s pleasantly surprised when you show up wearing jirai kei fashion one day; he definitely thinks you look striking in the get-up

He wouldn’t mind going with you if you were to shop for more jirai kei-related things – he would joke you’ll have to repay by helping him out another time though

He’ll listen to your song recommendations and if he likes them enough, he’d listen to them while he’s in the kitchen. He likes that they remind him of you

“Oh, this one’s pretty catchy. …These lyrics though…”

Going places with you certainly catches attention sometimes but he doesn’t mind, as long as you’re happy and comfortable in your own skin

His name truly defines him – you sure feel lucky to have him in your life.

[maplecornia]

chapter 10

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.24K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: I think the banner is super cute for this one, fitting to the super FLUFFY moments in this chapter ehehehe

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine |@fangirl125reader |@kookiebbyxx |@taradevonne

He takes you to a studio.

Though the hallway is simple, another slather of pure white paint, stone, and plaster, the floor a gorgeous light charcoal tile. The door to the studio is beautiful hardwood, a large window of tinted glass embedded within so that you can see a bit inside.

You stare at it with awestruck eyes.

Namjoon doesn't notice your expression at first, turning the knob to the door, and entering.

As he does, you don't move. You don't know if you can.

The studio isn't much, it's very simple when you think about it.

It's spacious, with dark walls and an almost metallic look to it. There are two comfortable chairs located at the soundboard which has a black undertone to them. The table is dark hardwood, even the floor is plated with dark mosaic tile. The recording area on the other side of the massive one-way glass in front of the soundboard has the same black theme, the walls soundproofed with patches of black material.

Though it may seem simple to some, to you, it could not be more beautiful.

This room holds every dream you ever had, everything you had once wanted to be. On the other side of that glass, you would have sung and made the very same music that helped you feel loved and wanted.

As you stand there, awestruck, RM notices that you're not beside him. He pauses, turning around to you, his computer powering on. He looks at you, a bit confused.

“Yen?” at his voice, you break out of your trance and snap your eyes to him. He chuckles a bit before setting down his coffee. “Are you going to come in? It's rude to stand in open doorways.”

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you nod, hurrying in and closing the door shut behind you.

“Yes. I’m sorry I was just…” you trail off, searching for the words to explain, but coming up empty, you fall silent.

Namjoon gives you a look as you stop in the middle of the room, getting that dreamy, glazed-over look in your eyes once more. You seem as though you're afraid to touch anything. Maybe it will ruin the dream, somehow wake you up, when you don't want to be bothered.

“Are you okay?” he inquires, peering deeper into your eyes and tilting his head in a questioning gesture. Once more, the expression on your face disappears and you chuckle nervously.

“Yes, it's just, this doesn't quite feel real.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's always been my dream to come to a place like this.” You murmur, taking a steadying breath as you tentatively run your fingers over the top of the desk. The cool glossed-over granite sends a small shiver down your spine before you pull your hand back to your heart.

Namjoon’s eyes scan your face, searching it, as though it is the most interesting thing in the room right now. If you were to notice, the sight of his intense gaze would cause your heart to beat faster.

“What? A studio?” he inquires. You turn to him and nod, your mouth breaking into a wide grin, as you can’t ignore the pounding of adrenaline in your veins at your excitement.

“Yes. I've dreamed of being in one ever since I was a little girl.” Wistfully, your eyes turn to the one-way glass separating the soundproof from the recording studio.

“I would have sung right there, in front of that microphone. My producers and composers would be behind this glass, giving me pointers and helping me to make the best version of my song possible.” You explain, pointing to the lone microphone in the middle of the room. “But, I never got to live it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks intently, his eyes snapping back to you. You smile sadly and turn away from the glass, raising your tea to your lips. “Why couldn't you pursue your dream?”

“I didn't want to debut as a solo artist.” You answer him, chucking a bit bitterly afterward.

“It's a stupid reason, I know, but in America, there aren't necessarily companies constantly holding new auditions for boy and girl groups, like in Seoul. Normally it was you, on your own. If you wanted to debut as a group, you had to have people you knew willing to do that with you. I didn't have people who would want to do that with me. They all had their dreams, and I had mine. I saw those solo artists perform, and all I could see was how lonely they were up there. I wouldn't be able to do that. I don't think I'd be able to survive, to feel as though I were the only one in the world. As though everything I did or didn't do would define who I was. I wouldn't be strong enough to deal with that on my own.”

He looks at you, silent but understanding. As you raise your eyes to him, almost hesitant, you don't expect to see the sweet, kind smile on his face.

“It's not stupid.” He says, turning to the computer and opening up a few files. “Besides, now you're living it...sort of. How does it feel?”

He pulls back one of the chairs and beckons for you to sit down. You take it, easing yourself into the chair and thankfully finding that nothing disappears.

“Unreal.” You whisper, almost giddy at the sight of the soundboard in front of you. If you were in the recording area, things would get out of hand. He chuckles at your answer and sits down as well, pulling up a demo that he has no doubt been working on.

“You're lucky Yoongi isn't here, he would fuss at you for taking his seat.” He teases, but your eyes go wide and you almost stand up. RM grabs you by the wrist almost as soon as you do and sits you back down in your seat.

“Don't worry, I’m just joking.” You smile, laughing nervously, but continue to sit on the edge of the chair.

“Is he here?” you ask, trying to make sure you aren't overstepping any boundaries. Namjoon shakes his head in response, adjusting things on the soundboard.

“He was supposed to be but got called away for another project. He’s still a producer after all, and was only helping me a bit with this demo.” He explains. Relaxing, you sit back, nodding.

He proceeds to play with the soundboard as though it were some secret language only he knew, and you watch him, trying to study how it works. He pushes up a button there, twists a knob here, all the while clicking continuously on his computer.

“Is this what you got from your studio?” you inquire, and he turns toward you. As you glance up at him, your eyes meet before he turns back to the computer, and nods.

“Yep. I've been working on this for quite some time now, but can't seem to get the sound right. It's strange because I already have the lyrics for it, but one part just doesn't seem to flow.” You watch as his cursor highlights one part of his track and he pulls a pair of headphones off from the console. Drawing away from his computer, he turns to you. He offers them to you in a questioning gesture.

“Do you want to hear?” he asks and you nod, reaching for them.

Instead, he places them securely on your head, and your hands go up quickly to readjust it to your liking. As they do, your hands touch his as they pull away, for a small moment. It sends a shock through your body, and you can hardly look him in the eye as your face grows hot.

He, however, can't take his eyes off you. As you glance up at him with that innocent, confused gaze, he has to quickly turn away. His hand raises to his mouth, as though that would hide it from your curious orbs.

“Are you ready?” he asks softly, hoping that would cover up his slight embarrassment.

“Yes.”

Complying, he clicks the play button and after a small sound of silence, the music begins, soft and steady. It has a peaceful beat to it, one that calms you and makes you smile. Closing your eyes, you tap your hands over the headphones, almost as if to press the music deeper into your mind. As it progresses, the music grows faster and you can hear a woman's voice in the background vocalizing.

Opening your eyes, remembering that this should be where RM is having trouble, you can hear the music begin to transition, as though a record were stopping at the end of its song.

You can see where RM is having trouble.

The music that comes next is too fast, too different from the beginning of the track, it holds no consistency. Once it fades out, back to the calm and quiet track, you pull off the headphones, pondering what to tell him.

You know that he wants your opinion, but you don't want to be disrespectful.

“Well? Any suggestions?” he asks, holding your gaze with persistent eyes.

“May I?” you request, gesturing to the computer, and he nods, switching places with you. You have enough experience with software such as this that you know what you're doing.

“You see this area right here? I feel as though that's where the sound starts to sound a bit off. It's not necessarily that the beat is bad, it's perfect. However, in this area, it doesn't flow like the rest of the song.” As you play the area you're talking about, you hardly notice how close Namjoon moves to you, peering at the screen.

Your bodies are mere inches apart, his heat making your back warm. It's comforting, as though there is someone behind you whom you can trust.

“You see?” you say once it stops playing, turning and finding your face inches away from him. As he peers at the screen with narrowed, focused eyes he doesn’t notice you staring.

He's so close that you can see the deep brown of his eyes, the product in his soft hair, and the smoothness of his cheeks. The comforting warmth immediately changes into something else. Swallowing hard, you tear your gaze away. Pressing your hands to your cheeks, you try to cool them down, and silently wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.

Honestly...how could Korea ever call this man ugly?

“What would you suggest we can do to change it?” he asks, glancing down at you just as you raise your eyes to the screen, trying to ignore your pounding heart.

“I think that maybe if you used the same piano accompaniment in the beginning after the transition, then that would satisfy the need for consistency while keeping the original sound of the track.” You suggest, looking at him for approval.

He doesn't answer at first, instead, he reaches across you, carrying out your task. Swallowing hard, you freeze, afraid to make the tiniest movement and accidentally touch him.

He doesn't notice, his turn to be entranced in his work, and you're thankful for it. You try to inconspicuously hide your face from him, missing your baggy clothes. Normally the giant sleeves would be enough to mask your blush, but now you only have the comfort of your small hands against your cheeks. Once he's done, he pulls back, gesturing for you to play it.

“Let's see if this works.” He murmurs, almost hopeful. You nod, pressing the mouse and intentionally avoiding eye contact with him until your heart has calmed down. The beginning of the song starts once again, helping to calm your nerves and you feel at ease once more.

You weren't aware there would be so little personal space when you first walked into the BigHit building.

When it comes to the particular area in the song, you're surprised to find that your idea worked. The small part no longer sounds out of place and it flows with the rest of the song. It still needs some tuning, but you solved his problem.

“Woah…” Kim Namjoon mutters, and you turn to him, finding surprise and a sort of pride in his expression.

“That’s incredible.” His eyes turn from the screen to rest on you laughing softly.

“Did you know that you're incredible? It's such a simple fix, such a simple error. Something we couldn’t pick up, and you…” he runs his hand over his face, staring at the computer screen with an unbelievable expression before turning his eyes to you once more. “I guess what they say about fresh ears is true.”

You blush at the pride, trying to ignore it, act like you did nothing at all, which you didn't. With him looking at you that way, however, it's hard not to feel vital, somehow important to this song.

“So!” you say, sitting straight in your chair and turning to him. “What do we do next?”

“What to do next….” he ponders on the thought before his eyes widen as though remembering something.

He curses under his breath, checking his watch. Immediately, he pulls back from the soundboard, and heads to the door, beckoning for you to follow him. You hurry to your feet, taking his coffee and your tea before scuttling after him.

“Where are we going?” you call out, having to jog to reach his side. He doesn't answer you, just mutters incomprehensible things under his breath.

You keep quiet behind him, understanding that he's stressed out. Sometimes it's just better to keep silent to show that you understand. You do that for him now, just follow him as he leads you back to Mon Studio, retrieving a few things and pocketing them in a backpack.

You wait for him near the entrance by your satchel, where you left it safe before.

As he finishes and begins to search for something, his phone rings and he curses once more. He rolls his eyes in annoyance as he pulls it out from his pocket.

“Yes?” he snaps.

As he presumes to continue packing, he beckons you for help. You comply, setting down the drinks before packing away the papers, pens, and flash drives into his pack.

“Han, I know I’m late, okay? I was in the middle of something.” Turning from you, he snags a mask off from a small hook on his wall. He shoves that into his jacket, before rummaging through his desk drawers, searching for something.

Han?

“Yes, I understand that it's an important meeting, I am trying my best to get there.” As you finish packing, he turns to you, whispering glasses, and you nod, beginning to search for them as well. He continues talking incomprehensibly on the phone, just as you spy the glasses. You snatch them, presenting them miraculously to him. He smiles at your ecstatic expression, taking them and placing them on his hat securely.

“Okay. Yes, I understand. Alright, I’ll see you soon.” With that, he ends the call, sighing as he places his phone back in his pocket and turns to you.

“I'm sorry about all that, I forgot I had to go to a meeting out of Yongsan-dong today and lost track of time.” He explains. You nod, understanding as he begins to position his mask on his face. “I was hoping to teach you the ropes a bit more, but I guess that will have to wait till tomorrow. Speaking of which, do you know what time to get here?”

“Yes. I'm supposed to get here around 7:30 am so that I’m ready.”

“Ready with what?” you smirk at his little question game before answering.

“Your schedule and coffee. You'll text me if you want me to get coffee for the other members. You'll also text me if I’m supposed to meet you in another place besides your studio. For now, I’ll be able to find any place in the building on the map you gave me.” He nods mutely as you recite your duties like a soldier. Once you're finished, he zips up his backpack and hikes it on his shoulder.

“Good. you'll be able to get the schedule from the receptionist at the front desk every morning. You'll also be accompanying me to every meeting, practice, or recording I have unless otherwise specified.” You nod in agreement, watching as he turns around in a circle seeming to search for something.

“Where did I…” reading his mind, you turn to the place where you put the drinks and hand him his coffee.

“Here you go.” You say, and he smiles, laughing at himself for his absentmindedness. He takes it from you, your hands making slight contact, but this time it isn't shocking. It's familiar, almost brotherly, makes you feel secure and comforted.

“Is there anything else I need to do?”

“Yes, actually if you could clean up my studio and the one we were working in, that would be a great help. You remember where it is right?” you nod, and he nods in return, turning to the door.

“After that, you'll be able to go home, I hope tomorrow I’ll be able to teach you more.” As he opens the door and steps outside, you bow to him, respectfully.

“Thank you, Mr. Kim. Once more, I apologize for being so late.” After a moment, you raise your head and find him staring at you with an unreadable expression. His soft brown eyes remind you of a wistful puppy. You tilt your head in confusion at the look, wondering what he could be thinking in that vast brain of his.

“Mr. Kim?”

“You don't need to do that.” He murmurs, as though he's talking half to himself.

“What?” you inquire, trying to make sure you heard him right. He turns fully to you, repeating himself once more, this time a bit louder for you to hear.

“You don't have to be so formal. I know everyone else does it, but you don't have to.”

You blink at him blankly.

“Jaejin never used them either. I guess it's easier to drop the formalities and work with someone who feels as though they’re a friend.” He explains, flashing a small smile your way. “I hope that won't be too hard.”

“Oh! Oh no! Not at all!” you say quickly, shaking your head vigorously.

“It makes it a bit easier on me, actually. Using honorifics can be a bit confusing.” You chuckle a bit and his smile grows wider, softening at the tips.

“Goodbye, Yen.” He says, turning away once more, before pausing and peeking over his shoulder at you as though he forgot something. “By the way, Jaejin was right."

"About what?" you ask, a bit confused, but all he does is smile.

"I'm glad he chose you as his replacement.”

The sweet phrase leaves you standing there frozen, unable to mutter a goodbye.

He chuckles to himself at the expression, placing his sunglasses on his nose before walking out of the room and down the hallway.

It takes you a moment, but once he’s gone, you shake out of your trance, your heart pounding deep in your chest.

“Thank you, Namjoon.” You whisper to yourself, holding your hand to your heart as you drop the honorific.

Crossing that barrier that turns you from a co-worker into his friend.

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: so...ship or skip?

chapter 11 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

[phanfictioncatalogue]

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Summary: Phil Lester goes back to university for his third year, expecting to live in the dorms with his childhood best friend PJ. That’s how it’s been for the past years, after all. However, due to a mistake of some sort, he finds himself with a new roommate to spend the semester with.

Daniel Howell, three years his junior, has rich brown eyes, a laptop to hide them behind, and not more than two words to spare in Phil’s direction. Phil is no fortune teller, but he foresees the upcoming months will be filled with a whole lot of awkward silence.

Unless, of course, Dan proves him wrong…Could one little mistake lead to something entirely life-changing? Perhaps it could. After all, nearly everything changes when Phil meets Dan.

Flatmates (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: oh my god they were flatmates / the fuckboy!phil au we all deserve

fortune cookies (ao3) - oqua

Summary: Dan goes with Phil to celebrate Father's Day with the Lesters, and suddenly all his complicated feelings about his own parents come bubbling to the surface.

Basically 11k words of Dan being angsty and the Lesters being wonderful.

If You Don't Love Me, Pretend (ao3) - phantasticworks

Summary: All his life, Dan has wanted to have the chance to be a parent someday. He would be the best parent that ever existed, he was sure of it. Fostering might not be the most traditional way on the road to parenting, but Dan's dead set on doing it anyway. But, well, it would be easier with a co-parent, right?

the bed-sharing, fake relationship, friends-to-lovers, parent fic i was desperate to read; when i shouted into the void and was met with silence, i decided i'd do it myself

Monochrome (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: When you build your life out of fear that your mental illness could worsen, it leaves little room for excitement. Luckily, Dan has found a space online where he feels comfortable.

Problematic - realityisnoplacetolive

Summary: Late one night, Dan stumbles across the blog phanfic and is captivated by the reality tag. He wonders, if these writers had access to a few more choice details about his and Phil’s relationship, just how close to reality could they get? He decides to find out.

slutville, population two (ao3) - dayevsphil

Summary: Dan and Phil both have reputations for sleeping around. Their friends don't think they could hold down a relationship if they wanted to. Sounds like a challenge to them.

In Dan's defense, tequila makes anything seem like a good idea.

Strictly Come Dancing but make it GAY (ao3) - natigail

Summary: @danielhowell: maybe i’d actually consider doing @bbcstrictly if they allowed same-sex couples. who wouldn’t want a sexy man spinning you around? it’s not just a girl’s dream. c'mon people let's see some pretty and fierce girls pair up and handsome and strong boys get it on. i dare you.

Dan Howell calls Strictly out on Twitter for not allowing any same-sex couples and accidentally volunteers himself to be one of the contestants if they were to change that. It was a joke. It had so clearly been a joke. Why did they take him up on it?! He’s sure he’ll trip over his own feet and hate every second, but then he meets his partner, the endearingly clumsy dancer Phil Lester.

they grew up so nicely, didn’t they? (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Cornelia doesn’t just get a boyfriend when she starts dating Martyn, she gets a whole second family too. Kath and Nigel welcome her with open arms and she becomes a pseudo older sister to Phil.

She is there watching from the sidelines as a boy bolts right into Phil’s heart and sets up camp. She gets to watch as Dan and Phil build careers and an internet community and all the trials and tribulations, as well as the pride and happiness, it brings along.

Those Who Trust - theshyauthor

Summary: Dan used to be a submissive and now he’s just a broken shell of a man.

Time's Tide (ao3) - intoapuddle

Summary: All men have secrets, and Phil won't let his own be known. But even in 1984's Manchester there is another person that understands.

too far to walk alone (ao3) - chickenfree

Summary: “The hazelnut stracciatella,” he says, as always. They might or might not have a bet in the shop about whether he’ll ever vary.

where we belong (ao3) - parentaladvisorybullshitcontent

Summary: “Only you,” Martyn says.

“Only me what?”

“Only you could end up stranded in the middle of nowhere with a gay author who writes gay books. Jesus Christ, Phil.”

In which Phil is snowed in with nobody but the mysterious dark haired author next door for company.

[lazuliquetzal]

Don't Take It Personally, Asshole!

@snowlikestardust

BY POPULAR REQUEST: This is a (cleaned up) version of an early draft of CH11 of AA Batteries, which is in Akira’s POV instead of Miyuki’s! You’ll probably recognize a lot of turns of phrase because I’m unoriginal and like, 80% of what I cut gets recycled. This scene got cut up and Frankensteined a LOT into later chapters haha.

So this takes place during the Yakushi practice match, right after Eijun throws wild and Miyuki talks to Kataoka about his inability to throw to the inside.

“Akira.” Akira stiffens and turns his gaze away from the mound. Coach is standing on the sidelines, and he makes a ‘come here’ gesture. Akira jogs over. He tries to ignore the flicker of hope in his chest, but he can’t stop the way his heart is pounding out of control, leaving him barely able to hear. “Coach,” Akira dips his head in respect and clenches his jaw. His eyes fix upon the ground below. “Can you fix this?” ‘This’ being the obvious — the fact that Eijun can’t throw to the inside. He looks back to the mound. Eijun is stiff and pale, his left hand clenching and unclenching in unconscious denial. He looks a little scared, yes, but mostly, he looks confused. And — this is the important thing — he hasn’t given up. This Eijun won’t shuffle back to the dugout, defeated. This Eijun will go down kicking and screaming. Eijun still wants to pitch. Maybe he can’t pitch. But he wants to. Yeah, Akira thinks. I’ll take those odds.

He looks back at the coach and nods his head.

Kataoka breaks his gaze and looks to the outfield. “Asou!”

Their left fielder jogs in, mouth pulled into a firm line.

“Miyuki, you’re playing left field. Akira, you’re in.”

You’re in.

The words echo around Akira’s brain. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

While Kataoka sorts out the substitution with the umpires, Akira exhales. He drops down onto the bench and adjusts the straps on his leg guards, making sure they’re not too tight or too loose. Beside him, Furuya hovers, eyes narrowed.

Are you going to be okay?

Akira nods.

The truth is: he’d thought about the Inajitsu thing for a long time. And after the initial anger and grief and shame, he’d come to the following conclusion:

Coach Kataoka was right. Akira probably would not have survived that inning.

It wasn’t nerves. Akira had never been nervous in his life.

(Okay, he had been nervous, of course he had. But not for a baseball game.)

And it wasn’t lack of skill or experience, though that probably played a big role in the coach’s decision.

(Okay, definitely played a big role in the coach’s decision. Let’s be honest: Akira was not the best catcher in the dugout that day.)

The truth is this: Akira was scared, too.

For good or ill, better or worse, Eijun and Akira have always fed off each other like a chemical reaction. If Eijun got excited, Akira got excited. If Akira got competitive, Eijun got competitive. Having them play while they were both out of their minds would not have ended well.

Today is a different story.

He’s not going to lie: it is weird seeing Eijun unable to pitch to the inside. It’s practically unthinkable. Eijun and Akira lived and died by the inside pitch. It pretty much defined their entire middle school career.

But right now? Akira’s not scared. And as long as he can hold onto that, he can fix this.

Kataoka gestures for him to get out on the field, and Akira steps out of the dugout.

“Do your best,” Miyuki says, from behind him.

Akira resists the urge to roll his eyes. As if I’d do anything less.

They split off: Miyuki to the outfield, and Akira to the mound. He jogs up to where Eijun is standing. When he arrives, he stops just an arm’s length away from his brother.

Eijun stares at him for a moment, and Akira stares back.

“Hey,” Akira says. “What sign does Miyuki-senpai use for the cutter kai?”

Eijun blinks, caught off guard by the question. He shakes his head and answers the question. “Ah, he uses a ‘four,’” he says, and he makes the sign with his hand.

“Cool,” Akira says. “I’m gonna use a seven.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Eijun makes a face. “You’re doing this just to be annoying, aren’t you.”

“Yep.”

“And even if I argue, you’re going to use it anyway.”

“Absolutely.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Great,” Akira says, in the flat voice that he knows Eijun finds irritating. “Good talk.”

He steps away and turns to the rest of the field. “So, uh, they’re probably gonna get a lot of hits,” Akira yells out. “Like, a lot. Sorry about the workout. Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You’re saying it wrong!” Eijun hisses at him. “And they are not gonna get a lot of hits!”

“I dunno, Ei,” Akira says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not exactly on top of your game, are you?”

“I’ll kick your ass if you make bad calls.”

“So shake them.” Akira glares at Eijun, daring him.

Eijun agitatedly waves his arms around. “You know I — ugh! Shut up! Get off my mound!”

Akira waves good-bye, as annoyingly as he can, and he walks down to home plate. He sketches a quick bow to the batter and the umpire, and then he crouches down.

The game resumes.

Akira takes a quick look around, the way Chris-senpai taught him to. The runners are at ease, barely paying attention to him. The guy on first base looks especially relaxed.

Hm. He’s never done a pickoff before. That would be pretty cool.

Akira turns his attention back to the mound, and he’s about to make a call —

And then he frowns.

He wants to tell Eijun to throw to the inside. And he knows, by the expression on his brother’s face, that it’s what Eijun wants to do, too.

But there’s something else in Eijun’s gaze. His eyes keep darting around — not to the runners, but to the batter.

Akira glances over at Todoroki Raichi. Yakushi’s monster first-year, a batter who can crush an ace in a single hit. Logic says to be careful; logic says to keep their guard up against the best batter in West Tokyo.

Well, fuck that, Akira decides. If Eijun really can’t pitch to the inside, then every batter might as well be Todoroki Raichi. It’s like middle school all over again.

He spreads his arms wide.

Eijun blinks.

Ignore him, Eijun. Just pitch whatever.

You’re joking, right?

Akira smirks. What, you think I can’t catch it?

Eijun sticks his tongue out — petty and dramatic as always. Akira rolls his eyes, and he knows that his brother can see it because he rolls his eyes back.

Eijun throws the ball.

It's instinctual, at this point, to move his feet and stretch his arm, catching the ball before it can fly out of reach. It slams into the back of his mitt, his vision tunnels — and before his brain can catch up with his body, he chucks the ball down to first base.

Wait, shit —

Thankfully, Zono-senpai catches the ball and tags out the runner. Pickoff.

"Out," says the umpire, looking just as surprised as Akira feels.

Holy crap! Akira thinks, in the safety of his own mind. That actually worked?

Zono tosses the ball back to Eijun, and then sends Akira a fiercely enraged expression.

Akira winces and ducks his head. He can hear Chris-senpai’s voice in his mind: baseball is a team sport.

Oops.

But they got the out, so at least he didn’t fuck up his very first play in the game.

Akira looks back to Eijun. Judging by the wild course of his last pitch, he’s still overly aware of the batter.

Akira spreads his arms, again.

Eijun grits his teeth. He steps onto the rubber and winds up.

It comes. Low. It hits dirt, and Akira stops it. Then he tosses it back.

Throw what you want.

“Are you leading me, or not?” Eijun yells, finally cracking.

“Depends!” Akira yells back.

Eijun crosses his arms. On what?

Akira mimes the motion of a ball hitting him in the face, and then flaps his hand around.

Eijun stares at him incredulously. Excuse me?

It’s a valid concern!

Eijun groans in frustration. I’m not gonna hit you in the face!

Aw, you do care! Akira grins and fires off a sarcastic thumbs up, just rile up his brother a little bit more.

It works, because Eijun’s eyes flash, bubbling up with barely contained fury.

Get mad. It’s better than being scared.

Eijun steps back onto the rubber and tightens his grip on the ball, daring Akira to make the call.

Akira places his mitt. Fastball to the outside.

Eijun throws. Todoroki swings. Foul.

Akira barely registers the hit — as soon as he realized it was a foul, he’d already started planning the next move. Another outside pitch, again, but a four-seamer this time.

Eijun throws.

Foul.

Okay, Akira thinks. He looks back at his brother and studies his expression.

He still looks annoyed and irritated. And even better — he’s not looking at Todoroki Raichi anymore.

Good.

He makes the call. And Eijun follows.

It’s like déjà vu, Akira thinks, as the ball makes its way toward him. A fastball to the inside corner, a sight he’s seen thousands of times. The batter tenses, squares his hips, and swings the bat.

Clang.

Like lightning, a sudden stab of oh shit flashes across Akira’s chest. That was a good hit — firm and loud and solid.

Oops, Akira thinks, as Todoroki takes off running and the runners start trickling in. In retrospect? It was probably obvious that they were gunning for an inside pitch. Most batters are pretty comfortable with the gambler’s fallacy —

Someone clicks their tongue, and Akira blinks, crashing back into the present. Eijun’s glaring at him, again.

Deal with that later, dumbass.

Akira rolls his eyes, but Eijun’s right. Unfortunately.

They’re in the middle of a game right now. He can reflect upon his baseball sins at two in the morning.

The moment the next batter steps up to the plate, Akira calls for another inside pitch. And Eijun delivers.

The ball slams into the back of his mitt, and it’s like a gear clicking into place. How long has it been since he caught for his brother outside of mandatory practice? How long has it been since they formed a battery on the field?

The familiar sensation doesn’t wipe away the anger, but it does drown it out. Who needs feelings? They have baseball.

“Nice pitch,” Akira calls out, and he tosses the ball back to the mound. Truce?

Eijun receives the toss. He nods and straightens his back. Truce.

The rest of their play time blurs by after that.

[madquerade]

In Questo Paradiso ne Scopra il Nuovo Dì (1/10)

Rating: m Ineffable Wives (female Crowley x Aziraphale) Major Character Death, tw: illness, blood Human AU, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, just a lil fluff but like... You can read it on Ao3 @ sherwhotreksings Chapter: one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

Paris. 1851. She’s not sure if she’s real or imaginary, the girl sitting on a chair across from her bed. She sees her though: dark hair, golden brown eyes, dressed in white, Azira’s sister. She can’t be sure anything is real at this point. The only thing she knows for sure is that she’s home now and she’s dying. ~ This is just La Traviata but with the wives. I'm sorry. Antonia is a Parisian courtesan caught up in the intricacies of French society until a young madame, Azira, disrupts her whole world.

Chapter 1

A/N: I 100% blame @miss-minnelli for this fic existing. Darn you and your opera loving ways. That being said, I couldn't have done it without you <3 I also want to thank my beta @serpentyletorc for putting up with me and my nonsense.

It’s her first party in a while. It’s been too long for someone like her when parties are her livelihood. After all, how else will she meet new clients? Courtesans don’t just stand on the street corners in Paris and beg. She’s more sophisticated than that.

Her chandeliers sparkle in the light of the party and the gas lights cast intricate shadows on the walls and guests below. A couple of her guests sit on the piano bench, playing a song together as the small quartet she hired takes a break. Someone hits a wrong note and they both stop to giggle before continuing. Antonia is passed from hand to hand as her guests beg for a moment of her time. She swirls around the party, ball gown feeling as though it’s squishing her. Her dress feels too tight like she can’t quite get a deep enough breath, even though she knows everything she’s wearing is the same as always.

She tried to put on the kind of party that she had before she contracted her illness. The kind that goes and goes until it’s morning. The kind that no one ever wants to end. She used to be able to go all night without even realizing any time had passed, but it seems her stamina has faded in the month she was gone. She’ll need to work on building it back up if she intends on throwing and attending these types of parties again. Still, something feels off. Though she’s since recovered, she knows the underlying cause is more severe.

Antonia manages to break away from the crowd, standing to the side in a private moment. She gasps for breath, trying to push down the increasing panic. She pulls at the front of her gold dress, shimmying to try and shift her corset into a more comfortable place. Her full skirts make a pleasant swish swish as she moves, which she focuses on to try and calm herself.

A guest pulls her from her thoughts with a hand on her shoulder, begging to introduce her to someone. “Antonia, this is Madame Azira Donadieu.”

A heavier woman stands a short distance away with her back to them. She’s dressed in a tan suit with a bright blue jacket. Her blonde hair is cut short, but just long enough that curls form and cling to the back of her head even though her hair is slicked back. Madame Donadieu turns, smiles, and takes Antonia’s hand in hers and places a kiss gently on the back. “Please, call me Azira, Antonia.”

Antonia nervously shoots a glance to her escort for the night, Baronne Beelze, who is watching the pair closely, eyebrow raised and obviously displeased over the informality of a stranger addressing Antonia without an honorific.

Flora, Antonia’s friend, places a hand on Antonia’s arm and says teasingly, “I’ve heard Azira is madly in love with you.”

Antonia can’t help but let out a laugh at that. The absurdity of someone actually loving her is too much to contain. Everyone knows she doesn’t believe in silly things like love. Besides, rumors start and spread quickly in this section of Paris. By the time a rumor makes a full circle suddenly the Baronne has purchased an elephant and Flora has given away all her money to Archduke of Austria. There’s no truth in any of it.

“But it’s true.” Azira is as serious as can be, face intensely set on Antonia. “I am in love with you, Antonia.”

Flora squeezes her arm, lowering her voice to whisper, “When you were ill she came to ask about you every day.”

“Don’t say that!” Antonia hisses at Flora. The action causes her to cough a little, but before she can catch her breath, the musicians return, and she’s pulled back into the action of the party.

She’s spinning both literally and figuratively across the room. Partner after partner twirls her around the dance floor in a maddening waltz. She can barely think straight between suffocating in her dress and trying to catch another glance of Azira while dancing.

She can’t quite wrap her head around what Azira said. She seemed so convinced of her love for Antonia. It’s foolish to fall head over heels so completely. And without even meeting her first! Still, something sticks in the back of her mind. A small bit of hope that hasn’t yet been extinguished. She shoves it away. Like the snake of Eden tempted Eve with the apple, she mustn’t fall for the same trick herself. She’s learned from Eve’s mistake.

She ends up falling into a chair next to the Baronne and Azira while trying to gain back her balance, legs shaking from exhaustion. She waves off the concern of her guests who have gathered around her. Both the Baronne and Azira have their handkerchiefs extended toward her. She takes Azira’s, fingers brushing, and dabs lightly at her chest and face.

“A toast! Antonia, a toast is just what we need for the night!” Flora cheers from the sidelines, oblivious to her out of breath friend.

Antonia shakes her head, unable to get out any words, and gestures to the Baronne. The Baronne in turn gestures to Azira. Great, just the person she’d want to make a toast at her first party back in society.

Azira thinks for a moment and then holds up her glass. “To the night and to... pleasure!” She casts her eyes to Antonia in a way that conveys that’s not exactly what she means or what she wants to say.

Antonia supposes it’s the best Azira can do to express her affection in present company. The indignity of it all fills her with emotions she hasn’t felt before. It fills her lungs better than any breath and enters her veins with a fire. How dare this woman enter her own home and proclaim her love without any thought to Antonia herself.

Before she can stop herself, she’s pushing herself up from the chair, raising her own glass while purposely avoiding Azira’s eyes, and shouting a response of, “To friends!” She continues with, “Love is a short bliss,” meeting Azira’s eyes to emphasize “short” and holding them there, “it’s a flower that blossoms, dies, and is gone forever.” She lets her gaze wander. “Let’s celebrate this moment while it lasts!”

The crowd cheers their agreement, urging Antonia for more. And she obliges though her lungs are burning.

“We live for pleasure and pleasure will sustain us all!” She lifts her glass higher, champagne sloshing out at the apex.

Azira raises an eyebrow, a challenge. “Unless you live for love.”

Antonia steps closer to Azira, face set in a stony mask. “I never have and I never will,” she says this to Azira alone, letting out the last of her air in a delicate tinkle of a laugh.

Azira creeps closer, not breaking eye contact. “But love is my destiny which will make me immortal, not pleasure alone.”

The pair are standing close together, so close that Antonia can feel Azira’s breath on her face. It sends a tingle down her spine and she wishes to live in this moment longer, but her lungs are screaming for air. She manages to take a breath but it is immediately coughed back out into her borrowed handkerchief. She wobbles on her feet but stays upright this time. Motioning with her hands, she encourages everyone to continue partying for a while longer while she excuses herself.

With a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes, she makes her way to her bedroom.

Antonia holds up the mirror resting on her boudoir, gripping the worn wood for stability. “I’m so pale!” she gasps, which prompts another coughing fit.

Antonia catches a glimpse of red on the handkerchief but before she can fully process it she hears a voice behind her.

“You know living like this will kill you. You should take better care of yourself.”

She slams the mirror down and rushes to stuff the handkerchief in her bodice before turning around.

Azira passes through the threshold into her room. “If you were mine, I'd watch over you.”

Azira is too close.

Too close.

So she does the only thing she can think of to protect herself. She laughs. Even if it does make her lungs burn again. “No one has ever watched over me, and no one has to,” she almost spits the words out of her mouth. She turns, back to Azira, and goes to her open window, feigning interest in the curtain there.

“Because no one has ever loved you before.”

The words hang thick and heavy in the summer between them. Externally she’s composed, she’s skilled enough to not reveal any secrets, but internally she recoils. Azira had hit far too close to home with that one. The July breeze caresses her face and she can feel her cheeks pinken from the heat. At least that’s what she’d say if anyone asked her.

On her own in France, she did what she had to do to survive. She made her way to Paris and made herself invaluable. Her lifestyle allows her to support herself, and have all the pleasures she’d like. But it’s isolating too.

Antonia glances over her shoulder, alarmed that Azira is impossibly close. “I forgot you’re supposed to be madly in love with me,” she mocks.  She whirls around dramatically, skirts blooming around her, and she steps back as far as she can, bumping into her bed.

“You laugh. Don’t you have a heart?” Azira asks, gaining ground.

Antonia calms and considers what Azira is truly asking her. “Perhaps.”

“Let me tell you how I love you.” Azira steps ever closer, reaching out to take one of Antonia’s hands. “I first saw you a year and a half ago during Carnival. You were backlit in a window, this window, wearing an elaborate gold mask and I was below in the streets. Your beautiful rousse[1] hair was curled and half up. That’s not the moment I fell in love with you though. Somebody must’ve complimented you because you smiled, and I could see it in your eyes. I’d never been more jealous in my entire life.”

Merde[2]. Antonia feels her heart skip a beat. She’s used to being lusted after. She has all the lust in the world and she doesn’t need anymore. But this feels different. Azira claims to have known from the first moment how much she loves her, has pined silently for so long, waiting for the right moment to say something. And none of her clients had even bothered to check up on her, nor would she expect them to. But then, how does she know Azira isn’t only after her for her beauty or money; for the chance to say she bed a courtesan without payment?

“You are my heartbeat. My world! The heartbeat of the universe.” Azira brushes the back of her hand with her thumb and then lifts it to her lips.

Antonia has to give it to Azira for being persistent, but it doesn’t change how Antonia feels. All this talk of love is silly and childish. She’s not the naive little girl she once was. It seems Azira still is, though. And yet… here she is… claiming Antonia is her whole world in her own bedroom, and Antonia can’t help but remember that distinctive feeling. It’s a ghost of a memory now.

Antonia shakes her head, casting her eyes to the open window once again. “Then leave now because I can offer you only friendship.” Her life isn’t meant for love and romance. She’s meant for amusement. She’s meant to be used and thrown back into the world time and again. “Please, forget all about me. Find another girl who will love you.”

She looks back, shocked to see Azira’s lips are a whisper away. Their eyes lock and she can feel one of Azira’s legs pressed between hers, even through the layers of her skirt fabric. Her head is spinning again but from more than just champagne and air loss. Antonia closes her eyes against the penetrating stare of Azira’s blue ones and-

“And what are you doing in here?” A tipsy party guest interrupts them with a laugh.

Antonia pushes Azira away from her with a shove to her shoulders and takes the handkerchief out of her bodice, dabbing at her lips and cheeks as she flounces to the middle of the room. “Amusing ourselves.”

The party guest gives her a knowing smile and backs up, “I’ll give you some privacy.”

She doesn’t fault the guest for assuming Azira paid her for her time. It’s her job after all. However, she has no intention of denying the claim and setting them straight. For all she knows Azira might just enjoy the thrill of teasing and triumph before becoming a patron.

“Stop talking about love now, only pleasure.” Antonia addresses Azira but speaks to the doorway. Opening the handkerchief, she examines the droplet of blood more thoroughly. “What do you want from me?”

“Then I will leave now because what you’re asking is impossible.” Azira moves away from the bedside but stops in the doorway.

“Wait!” Antonia feels like rushing. As if rushing is the only thing in the world that could save her right now. Rushing to her destiny. Rushing to her death… Yet, she remains poised as she goes to her dresser and picks up a camellia, giving it to Azira. “You can come back when it’s faded.”

Azira takes it, fingers brushing again and sending another tingle down her spine. “Tomorrow?”

Hope flutters in her chest, bursting out in the form of a smile and she presses her forehead to Azira’s. It would be so easy to just put her lips…

She can hear a ruckus from the other room as her guests call her name. Leaving Azira, she puts her mask back on and saunters into the receiving room, looking at the grandfather clock nestled in the corner. It’s far past decent hours. Her guests swarm her as they say goodnight, pulling her from person to person until everyone has been thanked and she’s been propositioned by several men. She’s unsteady on her feet, and on the verge of another coughing fit, but she has to check on the Baronne and make sure everyone has left before giving in to it. Azira must’ve snuck out sometime in the rush because the Baronne is the only one left.

She wobbles and almost falls, but manages to stay true, making it to the Baronne.

“Are you satisfied Baronne Beelze?” Antonia questions with the tiniest of curtseys, the edge of her breathlessness coming through.

“That’ll be all for tonight, Antonia. Thank you for your time.” The Baronne kisses her hand goodnight and passes without another word through the doorway and onto the early Paris street.

Antonia coughs into her handkerchief, grabbing onto the nearest chair for support before flopping down onto it, allowing her muscles to relax as she takes in measured breaths. After a beat, she balls up the handkerchief, stained with small red flecks, and tucks it back into her bodice. Standing shakily she tidies some of the things around the room. Her guests aren’t messy, but some furniture has been moved out of place and the piano cover needs to be lowered. Marceline, her maid, will pick up the glasses tomorrow.

She wasn’t always like this, disillusioned by love. When she was younger, she was as Azira is now, full of hope and eager for what awaited her. It changed once she was on her own. It was clear she’d never be more than her beauty. So she threw herself into it. If it was her choice then it shouldn’t hurt… right?

Yet, she still can’t get Azira out of her head. How can she ignore this chance given the empty life she leads? What if she’s the person her soul once imagined, painted before her eyes in vivid color, alive and animated with air in her lungs and blood in her veins. Does this woman, one she’s known for only a moment, contain the power to start a new fever in her?

Antonia looks around the room once more, surrounded by the discarded remnants of the party. She shouldn’t be so harsh on her life. She has it good here. She has all the money she could ask for and countless gifts from her paramours. She can party whenever she wants without worry of what the outside world thinks.

She picks up the half empty champagne bottle and pours herself another glass, laughing merrily as she considers her life and the constant pleasure it produces. She downs the champagne in one go.

This woman says she loves her. She knows what she does and loves her anyway. She wants to protect her and save her from herself.

“Madness!” Antonia whirls around and slams the empty glass against the wall.

This is only the sad illusion of an abandoned woman in Paris. She shouldn’t hope for anything, especially something like this, something so easily ripped away, something so fragile. She needs to be free to glide along her path and give thought only to her clients and their needs. Besides, she’ll die of pleasure before she’ll leave this whirlwind life.

You are my heartbeat. My world! The heartbeat of the universe.

She lets out a growl of a scream and races to her bed, tearing the covers from it. She’ll never be free. If only things had gone differently. If only she hadn’t become this- this- femme déchue[3].

You are my heartbeat. My world! The heartbeat of the universe.

She throws the pillows from the bed. Repeating to herself that she’ll die of pleasure first. She lets out another scream, grasping at the sheets, balling them in her fists.

You are my heartbeat. My world! The heartbeat of the universe.

She’ll die before she gets to leave her hell.

She falls to her knees sobbing, lungs burning, and still clutching the sheets.

-

[1] Red in conjunction with hair, ginger

[2] Shit

[3] Literally “fallen woman,” a whore

[crystal-moon-101]

Ehhhhh, more redesigns/rewrites! The Hong Kong Gang up here. And yes, I added Circe because I see her as part of the squad.

-Cricket-

I tried to make her a little more bug like. Adding a couple more details to the body, adding those palps to her face and changing the white in her eyes to black. Her outfit is slightly different but I changed her hair to a pixie cut, because I thought she'd suit a shorter hair style.

Notes:

16 Years Old

5'5 (When she is half cured, she becomes 5'4)

Real name is ‘Chen Tsui’

Because of her strange bug legs, she had to wear very short shorts. She didn't feel comfortable walking around with them on, however. So she ended up also wearing her skirt.

Before she mutated, she lived with her parents. They weren't the greatest of people, both extremely rich and successful in their businesses, expecting the same with their daughter. They constantly put her down and emotional abused her. The moment she became EVO, they kicked her onto the streets.

Use to have long hair, but Skwydd helped her cut and style it to a much shorter length. It was mostly so it didn't get in the way with the amount of jumping she did, but also a little rebellion against her parents. They would never allow such a look.

Excellent chief, food is often a ten out of ten.

Was the only one in the gang, including Rex, who was already in Hong Kong before going EVO.

When she is incredibly happy, the palps on her face will wiggle.

Emotional sponge of the group.

Because of her up bringing, she sometimes just does insane or stupid stuff out of nowhere because things use to be so uptight and strict for her. It strangely relaxes her.

Took her weeks to figure out how to walk with those legs.

Loves candles, especially scented ones.

Has a thing for street boys with a heart of gold (*Cough* *Cough* Rex *Cough* Tuck *Cough*).

Many don't notice it, but her and Skwydd have a sibling like relationship.

-Tuck-

I changed him the least. His original design is very simple so I couldn't think of much to do. I did rough up his shirt a little more, adjust his build and give him a loose belt.

Notes:

17 Years Old

6'0 (Later grows to be 6'3.)

Full name 'Tuck Byron Craig'

Leader of The Hong Kong Gang since Rex left.

Before he mutated, he lived with his single father, who was a car mechanic. They were happy together, but sadly, they weren't in the best financial situation. They ended up borrowing money from some dangerous people, and when they couldn't came back they came to their place. A fight broke out, Tuck's father was killed and he ran away, living on the streets ever since, eventually mutating.

When Rex vanished, he spent the longest time looking for him. Skwydd assumed the worst quickly and Cricket gave up after a few weeks, while Tuck looked for months.

No.1 Bro to all.

Quarry had made plans to give Tuck Rex's hold spot, but he trash the idea when he saw that he didn't have the same flare as Rex did.

Because of his father, he knows a lot about mechanics with cars or motorcycles.

The one most likely to want to talk things through than fight if there is a chance (Cricket is too quick on defense, Skwydd doesn't trust easily and Circe many issues.)

God awful at trying to speak another language. Cricket tried teaching him Cantonese, but his pronunciations were way off. He tries, he really does.

Would have gotten his ear pierces if he had ears.

He likes crappy high school films, they always just make him laugh.

He's had a thing for Cricket for a long time, but when it became apparent to him she liked Rex, he didn't make any attempt. But now, in the present, he's began trying since it's clear nothing will come between the two.

-Skwydd-

Small squish boy. Honestly my favorite out of the crew. But anyway, I made his tentacles a little longer, gave him little eyebrow things, a gradient on his hands and gave him a new jacket/jumper.

Notes:

15 Years Old

5'6

Real name is ‘Walter Milo Martin’

Emo with a secret soft heart <3.

Before he mutated, he was the child of a young couple who died in an accident, so he was giving to his maternal Grandmother, who was happy to raise him. Bit of an odd child, but he loved his Grandma and had a lovely relationship with her. Even when he turned EVO, she accepted him. However, in her older years she started having heart problems and died one morning. He, of course, called for help, but fled before anyone arrived. He knew very well that being an EVO will get him into trouble. Since then, he's lived on the streets.

He loves art, his favorite form being ink stuff, ironically. Him and Rex like to share drawings, one of the few quiet moments they have with one another.

Has a dorky crush on Circe.

Has a very squishy body and it's honestly nice to hug him, if he allows it.

While his ink spray is his main defense, his does have one nasty bite.

Also, his ink stuff stains, badly.

Has suction cups on his hand/fingers. It's the only way he can hold stuff with them.

Probably listens to My Chemical Romance or piano music.

Knows how the play the flute, a skill learnt from his Grandma.

The one you could vent to for hours without him having to talk too.

Has a really strange bone structure. Like, some parts of him has bones, some don't.

Had to painfully watch the love situation between Rex, Cricket and Tuck on the sidelines.

His real hair is quite long and he learnt early on how to cut, brush and manage hair, even style it. Sadly, he can't really do that anymore, and Cricket hair is too short to style, while Tuck has none. However, sometime after Circe joined and was comfortable enough, she lets him style it for her.

-Circe Kleiss-

You read that right, in this rewrite/reboot/WHATEVER!? Circe is the daughter of Van Kleiss. It was an idea me and my friend came up with, as a way to explain some of her actions and motives, but also for more dramaaaaaa, along with adding onto Van Kleiss's character. Yes, this also means her and Rex knew each other before the Nanite Event. Again, adds more drama. Her outfit changes were to be more practical, especially because of where the Pack lives and sends her on missions. I also made her a little muscular, because this girl has quite the training. Still a bit of a goth girl though.

Notes:

16 Years Old

5'8 (Grows to be around 6'0 in her young adult years.)

Fear this girl, she knows how to fight.

She was young when her mother died, roughly four years old, so she doesn't remember her that well. However, her father has always openly talked about her to Circe, so she knows her mother was a lovely person, with a personality that somehow made the cruelest of people smile. Sadly, she died to an untreatable disease, though this is was resulting in Van Kleiss joining the Nanite Project, after learning that it was suppose to prevent illnesses.

Biowulf was her primary training, so they have some respect for each other, but can get snarky at one another.

Her and Breach however? Not that great of a relationship. Circe does feel a little bad, as she understands Breach is not all there, but that doesn't stop them from bickering.

Skalamander and her have a rather peaceful relationship. She appreciates all that he does, even if it's minimal compared to the other two.

You could imagine her shock when she saw Rex, her childhood friend, alive. Gave quite the yelling at her father when she learns he never told her this.

Her and Cricket like to have little make up session, even if Cricket doesn't keep hers on afterwards.

She's really good a writing, often making little poems or short stories here and there. Horror is a favorite of hers.

In the past, her and Rex were the only kids around the labs during the Nanite Project. You can imagine the trouble they caused.

She has trouble standing up for herself, but lord forbid you say something about her friend.

She likes to watch murder mysterious, often getting really into the story and making predictions all the time.  

Has the least knowledge of online culture.

Has a giant EVO worm thing as a pet (This one is actually in the show).

[writing-the-end]

WS Chapter 56- Let’s Get Down to Business

Previous Chapter

Masterpost

Totally inspired by Mulan, both Red and my favorite disney princess! All the minesonas are together, the hermits are here, and the battlefield is ready! Just one last bit of red angst, brought to you by JoeHills

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland​

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Mentioned: Pierre belongs to @cabbagesenpai​ , Star belongs to @thatonewannabedragon​ , Bre belongs to @mintyhotchocolate​ . (If there are any others i missed let me know! Credit where credit’s due!)

Morning sunlight rises over the tents and small cabins within the battlefield. Not much after the sun has fully appeared over the horizon, black wings jet across the camp- followed by a second smaller pair of wings. 

Red groans, wishing Avon had never found that damned bell she has. “Wake up everyone! We need to get as much training in, we never know when the hellspawns will arrive!” 

“I was the best fighter ever seen in any world, I don’t need training.” Etho groans, face dragging along the ground as Avon pulls him by the feet out of his tent. 

“Key word ‘was’. Let’s see if that still stands.” Avon chuckles, tossing his feet to the ground and joining Ecto on the dunes. The two clasp hands, pulling each other into a half hug. The warriors share a moment of silent conversation in their eyes, enemies turned friends. And now friends turned generals of a small army. 

“A stick? That’s a pretty dinky weapon, man.” Mumbo looks at the staff Ecto hands him. 

“Ugh, again with the weird english words.” Iskall hisses, thwapping his friend in the ankles. Beside the other two architechs, Grian lets out a giggle at Mumbo’s pain. 

“I don’t trust giving any of you a weapon in our world.” Ecto mumbles, rolling her eyes and handing off a staff to Ren. 

“Just like a lightsaber. Thanks dude!” Ren gives her a wink, spinning his staff and planting it into the sand. 

Avon pulls off her cloak, draping it over a cactus and getting a feel for her staff. It’s lighter than her trident, but it reminds her of her earlier days. Jessie flits off the warming desert sand, wrapping around her neck and curling her tail around her bicep. “Avon, I don’t think you made enough sticks for everyone. I don’t have one.” 

Ecto glances to the other wanderer, and both bite their lips. Avon avoids Red’s anxious gaze, the way he bounces on his feet to get to training. She looks anywhere else, fearful eyes meeting with Pierre, flitting to Star, before staring down Impulse. “Red… Ecto and I talked it over, and we aren’t sure you’re ready for the rage of war.” 

“Wha-what do you mean?” The entire desert gets quiet, everyone staring at the three. Making it even worse. “But I can fight! You saw it in the mansion, in the nether! I want to help you all!” 

“Red, we don’t want you to get hurt.” Ecto whispers. “This is more than just a woodland mansion, or even our botched infiltration to the nether. This is war.” 

“This is for the best, Red.” Avon pulls Jessie off her shoulder, plopping the dragonet into Red’s open arms. “Just… try to stay out of trouble. Stay safe, okay?” 

Avon and Ecto turn away, yelling for the hermits and other fighters to begin sparring. To get back to business. Red backs away, sniffling as she tries to keep her tears from catching the sunlight. Is she really that useless? That her own best friends would rather she stay out of their way? Stay out of trouble? Jessie chirps, purple tongue lapping at Red’s warm tears. 

He turns away, feet slipping as he runs across the sand. Away from the army, into the campground, tripping over stakes and vines. He collapses into a pit of water, Jessie floundering to the surface as Red sinks lower. Feeling warm tears sting and mix with the water. Salt against fresh. 

Red thought he was a part of the team. A part of this all. That he wasn’t useless to them, to anyone anymore. He could be a friend, a part of this battle. To get justice, make the nether pay for Mama Gummi’s death. But he’s been sidelined. Too weak, too useless. He was an idiot to think that he was anything but that. He should just stay out of trouble. Always out of trouble- that’s all that caused this anyways. 

He’s not sure how long he’s underwater, curled in a tiny fish ball. Jessie had crawled out, but he could see her curled up in the sun. Laying in the grass just above him. Even Jessie will eventually be something more. More than just a baby. She’ll grow into a massive dragon, with firebreathing and massive claws and wings. She’ll be useful. Red flinches when a hand taps his shoulder, peeking from over his shoulder. 

A hermit has his head shoved underwater, glasses floating away from the bridge of his nose. His hand opens, inviting for Red to take it. And for some reason, Red does. Something about his face, his calm smile and jovial eyes eases Red from his wallowing.

“You’ve got quite the lung capacity to stay under there.” The hermit hauls Red out of the water, plopping her onto the grass beside Jessie. 

“I can breathe underwater. It’s not that incredible.” Red mumbles, not willing to meet his eyes. 

“I dunno, that’s pretty sweet in my mind. I’m Joe Hills. My friends just call me Joe.” He offers a hand, his other reaching out and petting Jessie. The dragon chirps, pressing into his palm like a kitten. 

“Red. Why aren’t you training with the others?” Joe stands up, and Red follows him. He isn’t sure why, but Joe just exudes a feeling of comfort, easy and friendly. Standing near Joe alone makes Red’s spirits rise.

“I’m not really the kind of person to fight with weapons. I’m more of a ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ kind of guy. What better way to beat your enemies into submission than with a damning remark on their ill actions towards the safekeeping and prosperous balance that nature provides us?” Joe summits a rise in the plain, plopping down on the grass. Red sits down beside him.

“I think I understood about half of those words, Joe.” The two look out across the battlefield. The training has split off. Some remain with Avon, working on strategy and further practice with fighting. Others have spread across the field, Ecto traveling between groups as they build up traps. Bre works with Stress, setting up potion dispensers. Pierre and Etho play with fire charges.

“Hey Impulse can you help me test this redstone trap?” Tango waves his friend over to the other side of the forest. Impulse takes off from the campground below where Red and Joe sit, watching the work. 

Red isn’t really keen on this whole fighting thing, but she understands that all attempts to talk have faltered. But she asked for the traps to be survivable. Maybe if the hellspawns see that a battle will cause harm, they’ll stop. It’s her hope, at least. But just another thing he can’t do right. He can’t even kill right. She sits, watching Tango explain the setup to Impulse. Tango is covered with redstone, the same color as his red eyes. Impulse was working with water, so he’s a little cleaner. Both laugh, and a glint of something metal appears in Impulse’s hand. 

Red squints to see what it is, but Impulse disappears from view. The ground beneath him has dropped away, and black vapors escape the pit. His head only reappears as he jumps around within the trap. “Is that…?” 

“Wither roses. Quite a poetic flower, I must say. So beautiful and delicate. Yet so...deadly.” Joe hardly looks up from his notes on the field. Red can’t take his eyes off of Impulse. His veins turn black as the wither roses deliver the sickness, and he grabs onto a ladder that was set above the trap, pale hands shaking as he climbs out. He still clutches whatever’s in his hand. 

“He looks like he’s not going to make it!” Red stands, realizing that Impulse is covered in wounds. The wither races across his body, penetrating into his heart and lungs. And the entire time, Tango can hardly breathe. Not from fear. Tango is laughing so loud Red can hear it from the hill he’s atop. Impulse’s writhing stops, but Tango’s cackles don’t. Horror etches across Red’s face as he realizes what’s happened. What kind of sick friend laughs as their friend perishes from wither sickness? Why would Tango not help him? 

A loud crack echoes from the forest, forcing Red to cover his ears and cringe. Joe doesn’t even flinch, used to the crackling noise. He glances over his glasses, seeing the horror on Red’s face be replaced by confusion. 

Impulse is standing up, brushing wither vapors off his shorts and playfully nudging Tango. Tango’s now on the ground, clutching his stomach from laughing so hard. Red wipes her eyes, blinking away the tears as if that was causing her to see things. “What happened? How is he alive?” 

“We’re all carrying totems of Undying. Once Xisuma warned us that there’s no respawn in your world, we all keep them around.” Joe pushes his glasses up his nose. “Do you not know what a totem of undying is?” 

Red shakes his head, and looks back at the pair. Impulse and Tango are looking at the trap that just killed the former, smiling quite proudly at the redstone work. He can see a glint of gold, covering Impulse’s cheek where a thorn had scratched him. The trap is deadly, but it’s possible to escape. Impulse closes it up, so no one else falls in for now. “What is a totem of undying?” 

“You’ve been carrying one around the whole time.” Joe points the feather end of his quill to Red’s backpack. Pointing at the golden statue, haphazardly tied onto the straps like a knick knack. Red sits down, plucking Fred off his string. Running his fingers across the smooth gold, ringing the emerald eyes. “When the holder’s heart stops beating, their soul perishing, it activates the totem. It breaks apart, and the magic instilled in the metal brings them back from death, gold melting into their wounds and healing them. It’s quite a beautiful sight to see up close.” 

Red’s lips form a thin line. Scar gave him this. Why did Scar think he’d need this, or was it a precautionary measure? The idea of having to use such a tool scares Red. But now, he just wants to keep it with him at all times. Red tucks the totem into the pocket of his vest. Just in case. “I’m not going to die. I’m not going to use this. I’m not useless.” 

“You should prove that to your friends. Look across this battlefield, little fish. What’s something we’re missing?” Joe lays out his journal, showing the map of the field. 

Reds eyes look around, noting the traps and offensive moves. His mind remembers something that Blu said, long ago. When they first met the hellspawn. “I’m the most dangerous. But why?” 

He watches a drop of water fall from his hair, quickly drying in the sun. The nether is the realm of fire. The hellspawns are made of fire, of lava and magma. Red remembers the way Blu recoiled from the blast of water that night. The steam and crackling of Endo when he washed over her with a wave. “Water. I can stop them with water! I can defend us all...with water!” 

Joe looks up, grinning as he gazes over his glasses. “And you can do it in a less deadly way than any of their blades of blasts can. You aren’t useless, and I don’t think your friends feel that way either. You just haven’t embraced the strongest side of you.” He nods to where Ecto and Avon are training together, using fire charges to simulate hellfire. 

“Thank you, Mr. Joe Hills!” Red leaps from the hill, running down and through the campground. “I won’t forget this!” 

Red feels the wind brush through his hair, feet pounding across the ground. As joyous and determined as he ever felt. His emotions take over, and soon he’s no longer running. He’s swimming, water pulsing across the grass with him. Easing him over the stakes that would trip him, the pits that would cause him to stumble. 

Crossing the battlefield, he raises ice walls, defending the hills and mounds that archers and fighters plan to make their stand upon. Moving water creates a trench, a moat around the campground, protecting them from all sides. Safe from attacks by land from the nether. Red hasn’t felt this much power, this much energy in his whole life. 

And he nears Ecto and Avon, struggling to defeat one another and avoid the hellfire surrounding them. Always dueling, equal matches for one another. Ecto shoves Avon backwards, and she narrowly avoids falling into fire by spreading her wings and flying. Avon tosses a fire charge, igniting the grass around Ecto. Trapping her. “You’ve been caught by the nether Ecto! Again!” 

Red lets out a holler, the water building up into a wave. The crest of the wave, and Red, comes crashing into the battle. Hellfire extinguishes into sputtering smoke, and both of the wanderers are swept off their feet. Red sees both of them look at her, and she snaps her fingers. “I won’t stay out of trouble. I am the eye of the storm. I am the trouble!” 

Dual whips of water lash out. Both Ecto and Avon narrowly avoid the strike, Avon blocking hers and Ecto dodging to the side. Both are shocked, glancing at one another before looking at Red. The three wanderers, the three friends, sharing a silent conversation without a word being spoken. Seeing the strength each has. The strength that makes them a team, that makes them friends. 

Red begins to laugh, followed by Ecto. And finally, a giggle bubbles free of Avon. Fire burns bright in all their eyes, and Avon launches her trident at Red. He easily blocks the attack, and deflects it towards Ecto. 

The wanderers duel, all three together. Playing like children, laughter ringing across the battlefield. No matter what happens, what the end of this war gives, they’re still together. They’re friends. Allies. 

Wanderers.

[shesey]

Wintering by Katherine May

“Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness; perhaps from a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition, and have temporarily fallen between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful. Yet it is also inevitable. We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer, and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves.” “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season when the world takes on a sparse beauty, and even the pavements sparkle. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.” “That’s what humans do: we make and remake our stories, abandoning the ones that no longer fit and trying on new ones for size.” “In the changing room later, I experience a different kind of warmth: the nakedness of a dozen women, all unashamed. These aren’t the posing bodies you find on the beach, dieted beyond al joy to be bikini-ready, and tanned as an act of disguise. These are northern bodies, slack-bottomed and dimpling, with unruly pubic hair and the scars of hysterectomies, chattering companionably in a language I don’t understand. They are a glimpse of life yet to come: a message of survival, passed on through the generations. It’s a message I rarely find in my buttoned-up home country, and I think about the times I’ve suffered silent furies at the treacheries of my own body, imagining them to be unique.” “Ghost stories may be a part of the terror of Halloween, but our love of ghost stories betrays a far more fragile desire: that we do not fade so easily from this life.” “Winter has decorated ordinary life. Some days, everything sparkles.” “You realize that no one is what they look like, on the surface. Everybody has their dose of suffering; it’s just more hidden in some than in others.” “I think about this a lot, she says, the needle breaks the fabric in order to repair it. You can’t have one without the other.” “In the absence of sunlight, it would be too costly to maintain the machinery of growth.” “I’m fairly certain that my decision not to have a second child rests squarely on my worship of sleep.” “I have nothing to show for my forty-odd years on this earth, except for a pile of dusty books.” “4am. The ego flares like a struck match: bright, blue, fleeting. I am thankful to be alone when this happens, to let it burn out in private. We should sometimes be grateful for the solitudes of night, of a winter. They save us from displaying our worse selves to the waking world.” “Certainty is a dead space in which there’s no more room to grow. Wavering is painful. I’m glad to be travelling between the two.” “Sometimes writing is a race against your own mind, as your hand labours to keep up with the flood tide of your thoughts, and I feel that most acutely at night, when there are no competing demands on my attention. That slightly sleepy, dazed state erods the barriers of my waking brain.” “I can confess all my sins to a piece of paper, with no one to censor it.” “Our personal winters are so often accompanies by insomnia, but perhaps we are still drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness, and silence, without really knowing what we’re seeking. Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort.” “Lucy is a symbol of absolute faith and utter purity, but the sins for which she suffers are not her own. Instead, she shoulders the weight of the male gaze, and is destroyed by it.” “Some winters creep up on us so slowly that they have infiltrated every part of our lives before we truly feel them.” “We felt broken into pieces, but at the same time, never so loved.” “We changed our focus away from pushing through with normal life, and towards making a new one. When everything is broken, everything is also up for grabs. That’s the gift of winter: it’s irresistible. Change will happen in its wake, whether we like it or not. We can come out of it wearing a different coat.” “I could have stood there and cried on the spot, just knowing that I wasn’t alone.” “I felt accepted in a way that I hand’t for months.” “This isn’t just an unkind attitude, it does us harm, because it stops us from learning that disaster happens, and how to adapt when it does. It stops us from reaching out to people who are suffering. And, when our own disaster comes, it forces us into a humiliated retreat, as we try to hunt down mistakes that we never made in the first place.” “I simply had no defence against the changes that were happening in my life.” “Life never does quite offer us those simply happy endings. I often that that it’s all part of my own craving: the moral clarity of cause and effect, reward and punishment for my actions. A map for living that renders everything explicable.” “All her desires were for elemental things: love, a little comfort, the society of interesting people. Everyday life is so often isolated, dreary, and lonely. A little craving is understandable. A little craving might actually be the rallying cry for survival.” “I love the inconvenience [of snow] the same way that I can sneakingly love a bad cold: the irresistible disruption to mundane life, forcing you to stop for a while and step outside of your normal habits.” “In autumn, the male drones are sacrificed because they’re no longer of any use, and would otherwise just be hungry mounts to feed.”  “Our lives take different shapes: we do not work in a linear progression through fixed roles like the honeybee. We are not consistently useful to the world at large. We talk about the complexity of the hive, but human societies are infinitely more complex, full of choices and mistakes, periods of glory and seasons of utter despair. Some of us make highly visible, elaborate contributions to the whole; some of us are just part of the ticking mechanics of the world, the incremental wealth of small gestures. All of it matters. All of it weaves the wider fabric that binds us.” “We may sometimes drift through years in which we feel like a negative presence in the world, but we come back again, not only restored, but bringing more than we brought before: more wisdom, more compassion, a greater capacity to reach deep into our roots and know that we will find water.” “Usefulness, in itself, is a useless concept when it comes to humans. I don’t think we were ever meant to think about others in terms of their use to us.” “We flourish on caring, on doling out love.” “Winter is a time for the quiet arts of making: for knitting and sewing, baking and simmering, repairing and restoring our homes.” “We sing because it fills our lungs with nourishing air, and lets our heart soar with the notes we let out. We sing because it allows us to speak of love and loss, delight and desire, all encoded in lyrics that let us pretend that those feelings are not quite ours.” “As I walk, I remind myself ot the words of Alan Watts: ‘To hold your breath is to lose your breath.’ In The Wisdom of Insecurity, Watts makes a case that always convinces me, but which I always seem to forget: that life is, by nature, uncontrollable. That we should stop trying to finalize our comfort and security somehow, and instead find a radical acceptance of the endless, unpredictable change that is the very essence of this life. Our suffering, he says, comes from the fight we put up against this fundamental truth: ‘Running away from fear is fear, fighting pain is pain, trying to be brave is being scared. If the mind is in pain, the mind is in pain. The thinker has no other form than his thought. There is no escape.” “The future, to which we devote so much of our brainpower, is an unstable element, entirely unknowable.” “When we endlessly ruminate in these distant times, we miss extraordinary things in the present moment. They are, in actual fact, all we have: the here and now; the direct perception of our senses.” “I’m beginning to think that unhappiness is one of the simple things in life: a pure, basic emotion to be respected, if not savoured. I would never dream of suggesting that we should wallow in misery, or shrink from doing everything we can to alleviate it; but I do think it’s instructive. After all, unhappiness has a function: it tells us that something is going wrong. If we don’t allow ourselves the fundamental honesty of our own sadness, then we miss an important cue to adapt. We seem to be living in an age when we’re bombarded with entreaties to be happy, but we’re suffering from an avalanche of depression; we’re urged to stop sweating the small stuff, and yet we’re chronically anxious. I often wonder if these are just normal feelings that become monstrous when they’re denied. A great deal of life will always suck. There will be moments when we’re riding high, and moments when we can’t bear to get out of bed. Both are normal. Both, in fact, require a little perspective.” “We need friends who wince along with our pain, who tolerate our gloom, and who allow us to be weak for a while when we’re finding our feet again. We need people who acknowledge that we can’t always hang on in there; that sometimes, everything breaks.” “I recognized winter. I saw it coming (a mile off, since you ask), and I looked it in the eye,. I greeted it, and let it in. I had some tricks up my sleeve, you see. I’ve learned them the hard way. When I started feeling the drag of winter, I began to treat myself like a favoured child: with kindness and love. I assumed my needs were reasonable, and that my feelings were signals of something important.” “We tend to imagine that our lives are linear, but they are in fact cyclical. I would not, or course, seek to deny that we grow gradually older, but while doing so, we pass through phases of good health and ill, of optimism and deep doubt, of freedom and constraint.”

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Close Call

Anon requested the following:

Fog - hearing stay awake as they are carried to safety.

Repair - being confined to bed due to injury or illness and hating every second of it.

Misfit - getting out of bed too soon, insisting they feel much better, and collapsing / passing out.

All three: In which both twins are sidelined and Alvaar has to care for them?

Time Frame: Post Canon. No Spoilers

Notes: Established Alvaar/Alphinaud/Alisaie. Prompt fill for the Rest Prompts.

Cross posted to Ao3.

-

Alisaie wasn’t entirely certain what happened. She remembers rushing ahead, trying to reach one of the Brass Blades further away from them. A young hyur, newly recruited and eager to prove himself on the field. Undoubtedly the sort to find themselves into the most trouble. From there it’s... hazy.

Fire. A very loud noise that felt like it was still echoing in her skull. And what seemed like far, far too much blood but from where she wasn’t...

She wasn’t...

Gods she was exhausted. Exhausted and cold and sorely wishing whatever she was curled up on would just stop with the bouncing about already.

Distantly she hears something familiar. Something important. Something demanding she pay attention.

There’s a flicker of red and white robes in her blurred vision. A gentle touch to her head that reminds her of years long past. Of the Ruby Sea and one of those rare times she finally felt like someone had approved of and been genuinely proud of her. Alvaar’s hand settling into her still damp hair after she’d successfully distracted and escaped the Red Kojin, and the warm and approving smile he’d given her that had soothed the ache of past failures even for just a moment...

It’s not Alvaar she sees. This hyur woman is too short, a long and wild mane of russet hair framing a stubborn but gentle face.

“Stay awake,” the woman murmurs, voice low but calm even as she issues the order with the maternal confidence of a seasoned healer.

“What?” Alisaie asks, or tries to at least, as the word catches in her throat and wheezes out instead.

“It’s not time for you yet,” she explains simply, hand still settled against her hair and ruffling pale strands with a familiar motion. “You need to-”

“-STAY AWAKE!”

It jars her from her thoughts, some of the fog lifting to look up at the Bard currently carrying her. The grim set of his determined expression as he drags in air with deep and almost bestial breaths while the battlefield blurs past them.

Distantly she can hear music. Feel the warm breeze that usually follows him when he’s worked his Bardic abilities to full swing.

“Stay with me you hear? Keep listening to my voice and don’t drift off. I mean it!” Alvaar demands, voice louder than normal and rough from the sprint he’s making.

She wants to listen to him. This is probably the most demanding he’s ever been in her presence. The last thought she has before she slips under is that he and that White Mage seem very alike.

-

Alisaie wakes up to a steady and deep ache in almost everything, but especially focused on her right side. Propped up slightly against pillows and a modestly comfortable bed in a darkened room. When she tries to feel out the damage, she comes to the puzzled realization her right arm is in a sling and her left hand is tangled up with someone else’s. Before she can even try and push herself up to sort things out there’s a warm palm settling to her collarbone and pressing her back down.

“Don’t,” Alvaar murmurs from somewhere in the dark before the bed she’s laying on dips a bit as he perches beside her. Pulling away he fussed with something nearby before the strike and hiss of a match sounds as he lights the bedside lamp.

It throws a warm light about the rustic room they’re in, setting shadows to dancing across wooden supports and plastered stone. Some small study converted into a makeshift private medical ward.

“You look terrible,” she remarks without thought after meeting Alvaar’s pale gaze, the Bard still a bit bleary eyed and the shadows emphasizing the fatigue on his face.

“Yea? Well you don’t look like roses and kittens either,” he remarks flatly before a weak grin tugs at his mouth in spite of himself, brushing her short hair back with a careful touch. “But I’m glad to see you awake. You gave us all a scare.”

“Did I? Where’s Alphinaud?” she asks, glancing around. “He should be here any minute to harp on me about staying in bed and recovering...”

“Next to you.”

That makes her blink, finally looking down and noticing the second lump under the thin blanket beside her. Settled as close as he could get without disturbing her, fingers threaded tight with her own even as he slept.

“You’re very lucky. You only got hit with shrapnel. Barely missed your lung, but you were bleeding so badly... Alphinaud drained every drop of aether he had getting you stabilized before I could get you back to the chirurgeons,” Alvaar whispered.

“What happened?” she asked, still not looking away from the face of her twin and the worried set of his brow even as he slept.

“Stray magitek shot hit one of the ceruleam tanks on a broken reaper,” Alvaar murmured. “Sent metal shards everywhere.” The toughened fingers that soothe over her hair draws her attention back to him, studying the tight look of concern on his face. Cupping her jaw gently, he strokes the rough edge of his thumb along her cheek, a tender gesture she shifts into without thought. Shutting her eyes as he leans in closer, she stays quiet as he presses a kiss to the top of her head and nuzzles into her hair before going still and savoring the closeness. It speaks more of his concern than any amount of chastising or flowery words. Evoking a quiet and soft sort of warmth in her heart that almost always gentled the sharper edges of her words and personality.

“M’ okay,” she mumbles. “You don’t need to fuss. I wanted to sleep anyway.”

“Good... Could you humor me? Just a moment longer,” he whispers, words soft and airy as they’re breathed so close against her skin and it makes her heart thump despite herself. Giving an answering hum before he’s cradling her face in both hands and pressing another kiss to her nose. Her brow. A few more feather-soft presses of lips against her cheeks as his fingers brush along her ears before his forehead and nose nudge against hers and stay. Warm and tender and filled with the all-consuming love the Bard just seemed to give as naturally as breathing.

“I love you,” she murmurs without thought, wishing she could wrap her arms around him even as she thinks it doesn’t matter when they still feel that close anyway.

“Love you too, my dearest chevalier. Please, for just a bit, no brave heroics? I know that’s your default, but you probably shaved a year or three off my life today and this world needs you,” Alvaar returned quietly.

It ruffles her ire just a little, as being sick or injured always does. But she’s tired and sore and the warmth and patient intimacy of the moment win her over in the end.

“Alright... But I expect fresh tarts and tea tomorrow,” she breathes, smirking faintly at the huff of amusement that leaves him.

“I’ll do my best with what I’ve got. Get some rest, I’ll be here if you need anything.”

-

“You know I hate being bedridden,” Alisaie huffs the next morning, even as her injuries throb faintly as she remains leaned into Alvaar’s side with her cheek resting against his shoulder. She heaves a slow breath and waits for him to turn the page of his book given her reading speed is faster than his own. There’s a temptation to tease him for only having romance novels and sheet music on him, but the opening chapter had been enjoyable enough to still her tongue.

“I do. What page do you think the smut scene happens on?” he asked lightly.

“How long is it?”

He paused to flip to the back. “... 432.”

“Mmm I bet 120,” she answered frowning a bit at his following snort.

“Amateur,” he remarked lightly, smirking with amusement.

“Oh? Pray tell what’s your guess?”

Holding the page with a finger he flipped the book closed to study the thickness a moment before checking the page number of a seemingly random section. “They’ll do a cocktease at around 250 to build tension but won’t do the actual act for at least another 50 pages. It’s too slow burn even for a one off to happen a quarter in. Too much focus on a plot and world setting.”

It earned a faint chuckle from her. “I’d place a bet on that but somehow I’m inclined to believe you’ve read enough of these sordid tales to know.”

“It’s something to do and the novels are cheap,” he answered before they both perked up at the third occupant of the bed as he stirred with a soft noise of protest.

Pushing himself up to sitting, Alphinaud groaned faintly as he rubbed at his face sleepily, long hair ruffled and sticking up from where he slept on it. It made Alisaie unconsciously reach over to pet it smooth with her good arm given Alvaar was too far away to beat her to it.

“Good morning Alphinaud,” she announced simply, studying him blankly when he gave a start and looked back at her with wide eyes.

“Alisaie,” he whispered, staring at her in disbelief a moment before he reached up to grip her hand in his and give a brave if slightly teary-eyed smile. “I am glad to see you awake and well dear sister. I... we both were concerned for you.”

“I’ll be a sight better when Alvaar lets me out of this bed,” she huffed but gave her twin a faint smile anyway even as he frowned faintly.

“You had best stay put until the chirurgeons give you leave of it,” he chided flatly.

“Or what? You’ll park a carbuncle on me?” she challenged wryly.

“I very well may.” Casting his gaze over to Alvaar, his expression softened further. “I see you are up and about as well my friend. I’m sorry to have left everything to you by falling asleep. It was not my intention.”

A shrug rolled off a broad shoulder flippantly as the Bard tossed a hand in nonchalance. “Don’t worry about it. I just had to assist your spell with Bardsong, not dump my everything into it. You needed the rest more than I did.”

“But neither was I the one that returned to the fray to lead a decisive charge,” the Scholar shot back frankly.

Meeting the scrutinizing stare, Alvaar offered another faint shrug. “And here I am, resting. I would suggest you do likewise. I brought you breakfast. I would have done your hair too, but you were quite content where you were. Hold still and let me fix it for you.” Snapping the book shut once he’d tossed a bookmark in place, he set the paperback aside and eased away from Alisaie’s side.

Squinting out the open window and the daylight blazing outside Alphinaud shook his head. “No, it seems to be well past noon as is. I should gather the reports and the recent status of our positions,” he countered, already slipping out from the covers and sweeping his hair back into some rough sense of order.

“Hold up a second would you? At least take a moment to eat something,” Alvaar chided, slipping to his feet and starting to round the bed.

“Knowing you? It’s likely something I can eat on the way,” he returned with dry amusement. “I’ll be alright, but undoubtedly Raubahn will be interested in my insight and I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

The Bard paused at the corner of the bed, frowning faintly at the Scholar who now stood an easy two inches above him.

“If it makes you feel better, I can bring them back here to review?” Alphinaud offered, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt before moving for his longcoat draped over the back of a nearby chair. He’d made it all of three steps before his knee buckled, Alvaar swooping in abruptly and catching him before his head could meet the floor.

Studying him with a flat look, Alvaar tsked under his breath. Shifting his grip so he can release a hand and press the back of it to the Scholar’s brow. “You’re running cold. Aether deprivation... Come on, Raubahn and the Alliance will make do without us. Let’s get you back in bed where you’re going to eat something alright? I’ve got a potion or three in my bag.”

“I’m fine... just... slipped,” Alphinaud huffed.

“You almost smashed your skull on the floor Alphinaud, I would do as Alvaar says,” Alisaie remarked flatly from the bed, now parked towards the center of it where she’d yanked herself on reflex in fright.

“Come on love, don’t be stubborn,” Alvaar murmured, scooping him up in his arms and lifting him easily. A slight amused grin tugged at his face as the Scholar glowered at him.

“I’m fine,” he insisted again.

“Sure. Humor me anyway? I don’t need any more scares today. My heart can’t take it,” Alvaar argued lightly, getting the man situated back on the bed and fussing the blankets back over him.

Alphinaud was less than happy about it, even as a small plate of cinnamon rolls was held out to him and accepted.

“This is far too sweet for breakfast,” he snipped softly.

“It will help give you a boost. If I’d known when you’d be waking up, I would have had a drink ready for you. But cold tea or coffee is the worst, so what do you want me to fetch you?” Alvaar asked lightly, ignoring the Scholar’s sour mood.

“Coffee. ... thank you.”

“Tea for me please,” Alisaie chirped, mostly because she knew Alvaar was about to ask anyway.

“Alright. Stay in bed the both of you. I come back and you’re gone, I’ll tell Y’shtola,” Alvaar threatened as he collected a few empty glasses and plates before excusing himself.

“... Pest,” Alphinaud remarked after the Bard’s steps had faded.

“Definitely,” Alisaie agreed as she leaned into him, plucking a cinnamon roll off his plate and taking a delicate bite. “But I suppose we both have to suffer being bedridden together,” she murmured after swallowing and taking another bite.

He made a noncommittal noise, but even then he leaned back into her shoulder gently. The pair sharing a silent reassurance that the other was fine.

“Y’shtola’s not even here,” Alisaie commented lightly.

“I’m not taking chances,” Alphinaud returned promptly.

“Me neither.”

-

Curled back up in bed with the pair a few hours later, Alphinaud on his third ether with his hair freshly brushed and braided, and Alisaie having just had her wound checked and another wash of restorative magic on her deeper wounds, Alvaar casually flipped the page of his book. Alisaie was slouched down enough to rest warm and cozy against his right shoulder and Alphinaud mirrored on his left. It was almost, if he ignored the circumstances entirely, like a weekend morning when things were relatively peaceful. Those rare times they could all lounge in bed late into the day and be comfortable together. Something so innocuously domestic he could still scarcely believe it possible for him.

It was a thought that left his heart soft and warm, and given the fright of the last day the Bard hoarded it close as he often did with these quiet moments.

“So, when do you think the smut scene happens?” he asked lightly on reflex.

“I still think it’s sooner,” Alisaie pointed out. “There’s no way it doesn’t happen before page 200.”

“No, there’s too much world building, it will take longer than that,” Alphinaud commented, puzzled at Alvaar’s soft chuckle and his sisters look of betrayed disbelief.

[maplecornia]

chapter 34

𝔞/𝔫: this chapter will be in 3rd person POV

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.45K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear | @mangminnie | @pixiekooo | @cana

When was the moment he realized things were broken?

Driving down the dark streets, his hand clenches on the wheel of the car. Memories of past smiles, foreign whispers of love, someone's hand holding his while he couldn't feel more alone...

Maybe he always knew.

Maybe he just didn't want to admit it to himself.

Pausing in front of a stop sign, he looks over as his phone buzzes, a message popping up on the screen. He doesn't bother looking at it, he knows it's not going to say what he wants it to say.

Watching the blinking lights at an empty street, he considers running it. There's nobody else around. No one would even notice. Even if he somehow did get in an accident would it matter? At this point is there anyone left who cares? Once the light changes green, the thoughts disappear as though they had never existed in the first place.

Jimin, you knew this would happen eventually.

You made this game.

"Yen, what's your secret?"

How is she able to smile so brightly? He sees the darkness in her eyes, he sees the way she disappears into herself, he sees the struggle inside her as she fights to be happy every day.

So why? How is she so strong?

Why can't I be that strong?

Jimin thought he would be able to forget everything. He thought it wouldn't matter. All he wanted was someone to be beside him. All he wanted was to not feel alone. He didn't think that having someone beside him, knowing that they didn't love him, knowing that they were using him for everything else but love...

He didn't think it would make him feel cold, almost isolated.

And yet, he still doesn't want to let go.

When his phone buzzes once more, he looks over at the passenger seat, not paying attention to the road. He doesn't notice as he comes across another intersection. He doesn't notice the crosswalk, nor the woman who is crossing. He’s too focused on the name that flashes on his screen. Debating in his strangled min whether or not to answer.

When he reaches her, just a few feet away, may it be fate or destiny he turns away from the phone just in time to see the woman. Adrenaline pumping violently through his body, his eyes widen as she turns, hearing the roar of the engine and the screech of the tires. Instinct taking over his body, Jimin slams his foot on the brake, the car managing to squeal to a stop, just a few inches away from the frozen woman. In the few moments it takes for him to register her face, he's able to discern one thing.

Bright luminescent green eyes.

In the silence that follows, Jimin breathes heavily, looking over his wheel almost hesitantly. He doesn't know if he hit her, all he's aware of is that she can no longer be seen through the windshield. Fear erupting in his nerves in waves, he frantically unbuckles with shaking fingers, opening the door and dashing to the front of the car. The buzzing phone now forgotten.

He pauses for a moment taking in the scene.

The good news is that he didn't hit her.

The bad news is Jimin quite possibly terrorized her beyond reality.

She’s fallen to the ground, bags of groceries scattered around her, her eyes wide and her entire body shaking. Her hands wrap around the gravel on the ground as she shivers, her lips moving as tears start to appear at her eyes, but no sound can be heard. Jimin notices the scratches her knees have endured from the fall, the way dark smudges of pavement have mixed with the tears on her cheeks, and the small drops of blood dripping from her hands so brutally ripping through the pieces of gravel and dirt.

Sighing, he kneels beside her, trying to gather her attention. It proves to be quite difficult considering the way her eyes are locked on the headlights of the car just a few inches away from her. She shivers as she contemplates how she could have died just a few moments ago and finds the thought far too horrifying to comprehend. Fear paralyzing her like a virus, Jimin has to take her by the shoulders to gather her attention.

And there they are again. Brilliant green eyes, golden flecks scattered within her irises. They meet his deep cinnamon ones, a spark reflected between the two of them. A spark only the heavens could have seen.

"Are you okay?"

Once Jimin speaks, in a soft hushed tone, the woman breaks out of her reverie. Her eyes well up in unspoken terror, and she starts to shake even more violently at the sight of someone next to her comforting her.

Why is it when we are at our most vulnerable, we find ourselves breaking when there is someone there to hold us?

Noticing her shivers, he removes his jacket and places it across her shoulders, trying desperately not to falter at the sight of panic in her eyes.

"It's okay, I'm here."

.

.

.

"Yes, I know I'm late but I'll be there soon."

Needless to say, Jimin finally figured out how to answer his phone.

He paces a few feet away from where he left the shivering woman, his heart clenching and unclenching in distress. When did it become such a chore to talk to her? When did he start regretting every moment spent with her?

Half listening to the pressed voice on the other line, he glances at the woman who pulls his coat tighter around her body, her face pale and eyes darting around in frantic panic. At the sight, his heart tightens in pain and he struggles to shove down his guilt.

It doesn't help matters when he hears the words on the other side of the line.

"What?"

As though he were stuck in a lucid dream he tries not to let the disappointment eat at him. It's not a big deal that she ate without him, after all, he was running quite late...

Why does it bother him so much?

Why does the thought make him feel alone?

Oh, I don't know Jimin, maybe it's the fact that she used you.

Again.

Your money, your love, your dedication, your time.

It was all a waste after all.

"No, it's fine. We'll see each other another time."

Jimin clenches his jaw at the sound of a male voice addressing her on the other line. Suspiciously close, dangerously close. Jimin doesn't bother asking who it is. He already knows the real reason. Taking a deep breath, he tries his hardest not to give in to the tears.

God, you're pathetic aren't you?

"Okay. I have to go now, but I'll see you soon."

No, you won't.

"I lo--"

The line cuts off before he can finish his sentence, and Jimin would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised. He holds the phone up for another moment as though waiting for a phantom to whisper the words he so longs to hear. Biting his bottom lip when it's clear they won't come, he pockets his phone and turns back to the woman on the bench.

Would she treat him the same?

If she were in this situation, what would she do?

Jimin knows these are desperate, ridiculous questions to ponder, but he can't help himself. He's too lost, too broken to wonder anything else. Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he walks towards her, settling onto the bench seat beside her. He knows she overheard the conversation, he knows that every time he looked at her she glanced away as though being caught in a trap.

At this moment, however, he finds it very hard to care.

"Was that my fault?"

At the question, Jimin smiles almost bitterly.

"No, it was mine." He leans his head back, sighing as he stares at the dark sky. "I should've expected it."

At the nearly dejected statement, the woman can't help but look at him with concern. She recognizes the look in his eyes. The dark swirling pit of nothing. She's seen it reflected in her own. She hesitates before speaking once more.

"If you need somewhere to be, I'll be fine." Jimin looks her way incredulously, at the glance, she smiles nervously finding it hard to meet his eyes. "I can wait for a bus on my own--"

When she glances back his way, she doesn't expect him to be so close.

His face nearly inches away from hers, she could almost swear that her heart stopped for a fraction of a second from the shock. It's not a normal occurrence to have a nearly perfect man inches away from you.

But then again, what part of this situation is normal in her eyes anyway?

Oh God, all I wanted was to get some groceries.

Jimin stares at her with an unreadable gaze, his piercing eyes staring deep into hers. Perhaps it's an attempt to see into her soul, to find some part of her character reflected within him. There has to be a reason she looks so familiar, some form of explanation for why he feels as though he's known her all his life.

Why is it so comfortable to be around her?

"What is your name?"

The woman looks up at him with wide eyes, the iridescent green nearly blinding Jimin of all reason.

"Jocelynn."

Sliding his hand on the back of the bench as he leans closer to her, she avoids his eyes. Inwardly she prays that he doesn't hear her heartbeat increasing every second he is close to her.

"Jocelynn." At the sound of her name on his tongue, her stomach turns in on itself. Looking back at him she is surprised to find that his gaze has never strayed from hers. "You know that when it's this late, it's not smart to be on your own right?"

His voice is deep and husky, drawn to a near whisper that is hardly distinctive but manages to move every possible emotion present in her heart. Raising an eyebrow, Jocelynn tilts her head slightly.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You were alone."

If she expected him to be flustered, she couldn't have been more wrong. Instead, his eyes darken once more and he smiles half to himself.

"Maybe I don't want to be alone."

Another second, maybe Jimin would have leaned further. Another second and maybe he would have placed his lips on hers. Another second and perhaps he would have been able to forget just how empty he was, as long as he was holding another in his arms.

But when he sees the sad conjecture hidden within her eyes, he can't bring himself to use her in that way. For some unknown reason, he finds that he can't hurt her even if it means he'll feel whole.

Coming to his senses, he pulls away. The same space that was between them a few moments ago, opening once more. He leans forward resting his arms on his legs, his hands clenched tightly together, his heart playing games with his mind.

She's just a stranger, someone he met by some strange coincidence of the skies.

And yet, he can't bear to see that look in her eyes.

"You never told me your name."

Jimin turns to Jocelynn, raising an eyebrow incredulously.

"You don't know me?" he murmurs, obviously surprised, and probably wondering if she's lying. Jocelynn in turn rolls her eyes at the assumption that anyone would be oblivious to who he was, and Jimin can't help but feel amused.

"So what if I do? It's polite to introduce yourself to strangers you nearly run over." Jocelynn responds, her eyes glinting mischievously and Jimin can't help it.

He laughs.

Jocelynn smiles at the sight, almost proud that she was able to leech that out of him. After a moment, Jimin turns to her and extends his hand her way.

"My name is Jimin." When she doesn’t take it right away, he raises his eyebrow at her. In turn, she rolls her eyes before intertwining her hand with his and shaking it. Jimin can't help but think that her hand is soft, comforting, almost made to fit with his. Inwardly, he chastises himself for thinking that way.

When will he remember that fate and destiny don't exist?

Hasn't he been taught that enough?

"It's nice to meet you Jimin."

When she says his name, it's almost as though some invisible bind around his heart has been released. He's able to breathe for the first time, he's able to forget everything he's been harboring deep inside. Almost as though a simple utterance of his name on her tongue has set him free.

"I'm sorry I ruined your date." Jocelynn apologizes before pulling away, and Jimin considers scrambling to hold her hand tightly within his own. In order to refrain himself, he scratches the back of his neck as he shakes his head.

"It's not your fault, don't worry." He reassures her, and she bows her head, smiling to herself. Sighing, Jimin looks back up at the stars, finding it fascinating the way they can shine so bright from so far away. "If I'm being honest it was probably ruined before I met you."

"Do you mind saying why?" At the thought of showing her that vulnerable side of himself, he can feel the darkness start to taint the inner corners of his heart.

Why is it so frightening to reveal one's weakness?

Smiling almost bitterly, he avoids her eyes as he answers her.

"Have you ever had a relationship where you know you're being used, but you stay in it because you're afraid of being alone?"

Jocelynn flinches at the description, being reminded of a time way back where she had exactly that. Painful memories she had thought she had since buried ever since he was removed from her life. Moments she thought she had left behind the moment she promised she would move on.

"That's my relationship." Jimin continues, Jocelynn listening quietly beside him. "I mean it started nice enough. The usual honeymoon phase. She was sweet and funny. To top it off she was just drop-dead gorgeous, I thought I hit the gold mine. The luckiest guy in the world."

Though he doesn't look her way and she doesn't make a move to comfort him, somehow her presence beside him makes things easier for him. He doesn't feel as though someone is violating his memories, he doesn't feel as though she were a stranger. On the contrary, he feels as though this were a normal thing, as though he had been confiding in her all his life.

"Until I saw that she was only happy when she was taking from me. She used me for money, sex, love..."

It was all a lie.

Even now, Jimin can't bear to utter the words, instead they hang over his head. Unspoken but the reality hitting him like a grenade.

"Yeah, she was sweet all right. Like poison."

He laughs bitterly, shaking his head at himself. He never knew self-deprecation could hurt this much. Slowly building up each day until he threatens to break.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I don't even know you."

It's strange, he can't even confide in his friends. He doesn't even feel as though he's able to talk to Tae like he used to, why is it so easy for him to talk to Jocelynn? A person whom he met on a chance encounter, someone whom he didn't even know the name of until just a couple of seconds ago. They are little more than strangers, so how is this so easy?

At the question, Jocelynn smiles to herself, remembering something she had heard once before. From a mere child, and yet it was a child who was the first person to teach her she was never truly alone.

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to those you don't know. They don't have room to judge, they don't know what you did wrong or where you messed up. You may never see them again, so what harm is there in talking to them? That way you don't have to deal with the baggage following you around."

Jimin looks at her with surprise and finds that her gaze is far away. Those green eyes that are so calm and serene are now filled with unspoken tears and sparkling gems of pain.

"I'm not going to say some crappy thing like 'why don't you just leave' or 'she's toxic just drop her' because I know how hard that really is." She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves before continuing. "However, I know what it's like to be used and endure pain because you don't want to be alone. So I will say something to help you make up your mind."

When she meets his delicate tawny eyes with her tender green ones, he finds himself struck speechless. She looks at him almost as though she were afraid he'd break. As though he needed a shield to protect him at all costs and she would be willing to be that shield.

Since when was it Jimin who needed protecting?

"You deserve better."

"What?"

Jimin seems shocked, almost baffled at the notion. Jocelynn smiles almost bitterly to herself. Is that what she looked like when she was told the same thing? Was it so hard to believe that someone like her could deserve to be happy?

"No matter what you may tell yourself, you deserve love. You deserve to be loved. No matter what you think you may have done or how scared you are of being alone, you deserve to have someone reciprocate the love you give to them." Jocelynn holds her hands tightly together as she speaks, an attempt to refrain herself from reaching over and taking his within hers. Though she longs to give him some sort of comfort, she has to keep her distance. "From the way you're describing it...this relationship doesn't sound like it's love."

The silence that blossoms between them is one not easily broken. It's a silence filled with unspoken emotions, late realizations, and hard-won ignorance crumbling. When Jimin looks at her, he admires the way her face shines in the moonlight, her hair that tumbles down around her shoulders, the way she exuberates calm serenity that never thought he'd find.

Almost as if she were an angel sent for him.

When the bus pulls up in front of the two of them, Jimin finds that he doesn't want her to be a stranger. He doesn't want her to leave. He wants her to be around him, he wants her to know his burden. And above all...

He doesn't want to hide anymore.

"Just...think about it okay?" Jocelynn stands, sliding the jacket Jimin gave her not but a few moments ago off her shoulders and offering it up to him. "Here."

He sits there for a stunned moment, staring up at her and the jacket. Within his mind, he makes a quick decision, one that he sincerely hopes he doesn't regret.

Standing, he pushes the coat back to her and smiles.

"Keep it." He murmurs as her emerald eyes widen, a soft rosy hue threatening to erupt on her cheeks. Smiling to herself, she nods, holding the jacket close to her chest, before stepping back toward the bus.

"Thank you." She whispers back, turning on her heel and boarding the bus.

Leaving Jimin alone.

As the doors close, and the familiar hiss exuberates from the vehicle as it pulls away, Jimin stands there. He watches Jocelynn walk down the aisle, before settling into a seat beside a window. She presses her cheek against the cool glass before turning back to the jacket she holds in her hands. Jimin sees as she smiles to herself before holding it close to her heart, her face buried deep within the fabric.

He doesn't notice the grin on his face as he witnesses the pink blush on her cheeks, and the wide smile on her face as she pulls away. Her eyes sparkle with a joy he's only seen on TV screens, and in the back of his mind, he wonders if it's possible to keep that smile to himself. He wonders if she'd be willing to stay by him forever.

Then the bus is gone, she's gone, and he's left in the dust of forgotten memories and broken tears.

"No..." He murmurs, a smile playing at the memory of her green eyes.

"Thank you."

note: NEW CHARACTER ALERT!!! This character has a lot of background to do with Yen, which will be revealed later. I really like this chapter and enjoyed writing in a different POV for different characters. I think this is a nice view into Jimin's side of the story and hopefully we can expand on it soon. Anyways! Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoyed!

chapter 35 here

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[goodticklebrain]

Q&A August: Kate Pitt, Pocket Dramaturg

I’m so very excited about today’s installment of Q&A August, because it means I get to formally introduce you to Kate Pitt, my pocket dramaturg and Shakespearean soulmate! I first met Kate when she saved my life by letting me crash on the couch in her hotel room before the closing banquet of the 2016 Shakespeare Theatre Association conference. It was my first conference and, by the last day, I was so sleep deprived that I could hardly function. Despite meeting me in such a ragged and incoherent condition, Kate, who was then working in Public Programs at the Folger Shakespeare Library, decided to invite me to the Folger for a public interview/talk event.

You can read up on my visit to the Folger here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. But, long story short, in Kate I found an absolutely kindred spirit. Within half an hour we were completing each others’ sentences, most because we were conversing almost entirely in Shakespeare quotes. Since then we have gone on several Shakespeare adventures together, including a long-overdue joint pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon earlier this year. Despite having spent extended periods of time in close proximity, we have remained friends, which is something of a minor miracle.

Apart from being a delightful human being, Kate is also a genuine Shakespearean powerhouse, with a vast amount of both scholarly and practical Shakespeare knowledge and experience. You might have noticed that many of my recent comics have included the note “Thanks to my pocket dramaturg, Kate Pitt, for consulting with me on this comic.” This is because I quickly fell into the habit of texting Kate with random Shakespeare-related questions, like “IN HOW MANY SHAKESPEARE PLAYS DO SHEEP REGULARLY APPEAR ON STAGE?” Kate, in her infinite patience and bottomless depth of knowledge, would always promptly text me back with answers, including sources. It was like having my own personal dramaturg in my pocket.

Since then I have often brainstormed comic ideas with her, run drafts past for her approval, and asked for her help when wrestling with particularly troublesome punchlines. (Among other things, she helped me finalize the list of questions I’ve been asking everybody this month!) Creating Good Tickle Brain is a very solitary occupation, and for most of the past five and a half years I’ve been essentially operating in a vacuum. It’s been fun, but it’s also been lonely and isolating at times. Being able to bounce ideas off of Kate, and occasionally commiserate with her on the challenges of being self-employed businesswomen in the Shakespeare world, has made both my job and my life immeasurably more enjoyable.

And so, it gives me GREAT pleasure to turn things over to my pocket dramatrug!

1. Who are you? Why Shakespeare?

I’m Kate Pitt. I’m a dramaturg, writer, producer, and director. I grew up watching Shakespeare films with my parents and saw an outdoor Midsummer at the Edith Wharton house in Lenox when I was about seven. The Mechanicals drove up in a real Jeep, the fairies crept out of the actual woods (I was a city kid – trees were a big deal!), and I was hooked. I’ve also had many wonderful teachers.

2. What moment(s) in Shakespeare always make you laugh?

Orlando forlornly waving his arm and saying “It is my arm”? I’M THERE. A really good (bad) Viola-Sir Andrew fight? SIGN ME UP. Benedict being terrible at hiding? THE BEST. Pyramus’ never-ending death? I LOVE IT. The physical comedy in the plays always makes me laugh. There are lines of text that I almost always laugh at, but I’ve been more delighted when those bits are reinterpreted in ways that sacrifice the laugh, but gain something more interesting in its place. Olivia’s wide-eyed “most wonderful!” is a war-horse, but I once heard it delivered with quiet awe rather than schtick and it was shockingly beautiful. “The dead can live again” rather than “another one!”

Mya interjects: Ok, yes, I also love “It is my arm.”

3. What's a favorite Shakespearean performance anecdote?

A Winter’s Tale where the bear was a puppet, and entered down the aisle sniffing at the audience as it slowly stalked Antigonus. The bear nosed at the handbag of an old lady in the front row and growled at her. She growled right back.

Mya interjects: Don’t mess with old ladies’ handbags.

4. What's one of the more unusual Shakespearean interpretations you've either seen or would like to see?

The opening speech of Richard III done as Bunraku puppet theater, but with a person as the puppet. It showed the pain of being “unfinished” so beautifully while also being horrifying and incredibly funny. This Richard was so close to being a person (“a real boy!”) but knew that he lacked some essential, animating humanity and made a conscious decision to hurt people because of it.

5. What's one of your favorite Shakespearean "hidden gems"?

I love watching the characters on the sidelines – the ones who aren’t the center of attention but are telling incredibly rich stories with their silence. Margaret in Much Ado is a great example and I always watch her when the Prince explains why he thinks Hero is disloyal. Margaret knows in that moment that the ruined wedding is her fault but she says and does…nothing. Aufidius and Isabella also have whole histories in stillness.

6. What passages from Shakespeare have stayed with you?

I’ve had Henry V’s “upon the king” and the Scrivener from Richard III on my mind – the responsibility of leadership and the realization of its corruption – but my favorites are the ones I think as my own thoughts and it takes a minute to figure out where they came from. i.e. on a hiking trip in the pouring rain, carrying a heavy pack, and staring up at switchback #492, I thought, “Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back!” It took until the top of the mountain to figure that one out.

Mya interjects: If you’re not familiar with the Scrivener from Richard III (and there’s no reason why you should be,  since his scene is almost always cut), his one speech goes as follows:

SCRIVENER Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings, Which in a set hand fairly is engrossed, That it may be today read o’er in Paul’s. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven hours I have spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me; The precedent was full as long a-doing, And yet within these five hours Hastings lived, Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. Here’s a good world the while! Who is so gross That cannot see this palpable device? Yet who so bold but says he sees it not? Bad is the world, and all will come to naught When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.

I’ve never gotten over the beauty of this line from Pericles – silence may be the perfectest herald of joy, but if you must use words, these ones are pretty great:  

“Give me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me o’erbear the shores of my mortality and drown me with their sweetness.”

7. What Shakespeare plays have changed for you?

All of the plays have changed as I’ve gotten older, but the ones that deal with grief have altered the most. A friend died suddenly when we were eighteen and I reached out for Cleopatra and Constance without consciously knowing why. My father died five years later, and by then I knew that I would find some kind of recognition in the plays and I deliberately went to them. The words were always beautiful, but now I knew what they meant. I must have heard Claudius’ “that father lost, lost his” speech a hundred times but never understood the obscenity of telling someone “the right way” to grieve until someone did it to me. Cordelia comforting the confused and frightened Lear sits close to my heart now, and Ophelia’s madness has method in’t. Hamlet’s “mirror up to nature” didn’t tell me what I’d see or how to respond, but it allowed me look at myself and observe both the shadow of my sorrow and the thing itself when I needed it most.

8. What Shakespearean character or characters do you identify the most with?

Beatrice. I love her wit, her walls and her willingness to climb over them, her delight in her friends’ happiness and her white-hot fury at their pain.

Mya interjects:  Can confirm, Kate is totally Beatrice.

9. Where can we find out more about you? Are there any projects/events you would like us to check out?

You can follow me on Twitter @katepitt and keep up with me on my website www.katepitt.com.

(Back to Mya)  Thanks so much to Kate not only for answering the questions she helped me come up with, but also for being an unfailingly helpful creative and emotional outlet. Get thee a Kate.

COMING NEXT WEEK: A wonderful woman who is training small children to become the next generation of Shakespeare geeks, and two Shakespeare geeks who regularly act like small children! 

[mdelpin]

Gratsu Bingo 2019, Gratsu Week 2019 Prompt: Flying AO3 | FF.Net

Anyone Who Had A Heart

Summary: Natsu and Gray were careful, they had to be. They were well aware that Don't ask, don't tell didn't only apply to servicemen at Loring Air Force Base. One wrong move could destroy not only them but their loved ones. But they were in love, and sometimes love can make us careless.

Disclaimer: All Fairy Tail Characters Belong to Hiro Mashima

Natsu had always loved flying. It had started at an early age when his father had taken him to a small local airport to watch the small planes take off and land. They'd sit on the hood of his father's old truck on Sundays while his mother prepared dinner. His father would sit him on his lap, and they'd laugh as they felt the wind push against their bodies when the planes accelerated past them on the runway, as they prepared to take off and soar in the air.

His father would walk him through what the pilots where doing and even though Natsu couldn't really understand the words at first, he still loved listening to the joy in his father's voice as he would patiently explain the same thing every week.

His father was a fighter pilot at the local Air Force Base. He flew planes which were sleeker and faster than anything that was housed in the small hangar of the airport, but he could always find something to love about any type of plane.

It wasn't uncommon to see Natsu running around the base, arms stretched out in makeshift wings as he made sputtering noises like an engine. His father would always beam at him and urge him to go faster and faster.

They had to move often, his father receiving Permanent Change of Station to other bases as he was promoted up the ranks, but as soon as they arrived at their new home they would seek out the local airport, and it would all begin again. It was their one normalcy in their ever-changing world.

When Natsu was six years old, his father surprised him by taking him out on a plane for the very first time. It was just a small biplane he'd rented, but Natsu was still thrilled to be inside instead of watching from the sidelines. He felt funny wearing the goggles and headset his father had insisted he put on, but he could still feel the wind threading through his hair.

It was the most exhilarating moment of his life so far, he felt a freedom he'd never experienced before. There were butterflies in his stomach, and his heart raced in his chest. He couldn't help but scream joyfully into the air, smiling as he heard his father's warm laugh coming from the seat in front of him.

When he was in the air, there was no time to think about the friends he had once again left behind, or worry about having to start a new school and making new ones. There were only clouds and wind, and basking in the warm sunlight. It was as peaceful as it was exciting, and he loved it.

When his father began to do barrel rolls, Natsu hooted in approval. He thought his father was the coolest person in the world. Natsu was filled with great happiness, and he wanted nothing more than to stay up in the sky forever.

He now knew without a doubt what he wanted to be when he grew up. He wanted to be a pilot like his father, to spend his time in the clouds, leaving his worries down on the ground. After that, every year on his birthday, his father would rent a plane for a few hours and take him up.

xxx

Natsu's father knocked on his bedroom door, making him look up from the Lego model he'd been struggling with.

"Natsu, I need to talk to you, son."

His father looked pained, and Natsu had long ago learned to recognize that voice. He knew, without a doubt, they would be moving again. He'd lost track of how many times they'd moved, but at ten years of age, he could say he'd lived in all the time zones the United States had to offer.

There was something different this time though, his father had sat on his bed. Usually, when this happened, he'd just tell him where they were going and then leave him to begin packing. Something else was up.

"An opportunity has come up at a base in New England," His father declared absently, "I know you like it here, but our situation has changed, and I have to take it."

Natsu wasn't exactly sure why his father thought he liked it here, the kids were mean. They called him names just cause he had pink hair.

It was irritating, it's not like he had any control over his hair color. He would definitely not be sorry to leave this place behind. Natsu couldn't help but notice his father was paying no attention to him. By that token, where was his mom? She usually came in after the announcement to help him pack.

Natsu's father finally focused on him again, peering at him with wide eyes and shaking hands, and Natsu could feel the beginnings of fear grab hold of his fingertips and crawl itself up the rest of his body.

"Dad?"

His father didn't respond right away, seemingly lost in his own world, one that was apparently sad enough to cause tears to glisten at the corner of his eyes. Natsu could feel his insides get cold, and he began to shake with anxiety.

His father looked at him blankly before shaking his head and producing a smile that wouldn't fool anyone, let alone someone who knew him as well as Natsu did.

"Your mom," Natsu could hear the sob in his father's voice, and he rushed to his bed, jumping on his father's lap and holding on for dear life.

They held each other for a few minutes as his dad got himself under control, "Your mom is sick, and she needs better care than what she can get at this small base. "

Natsu looked up in shock. His mother was sick? But she looked fine.

"I don't understand," Natsu managed to get out wondering what kind of illness could be so severe but not show.

"She uhm, she has cancer. Moving to a bigger base might help extend her life a little," His father tried to explain.

"So if we move they can cure her?" Natsu asked eagerly, he wasn't exactly sure what cancer was, he'd only ever heard the word used in hushed voices.

His father shook his head sadly, "There is no cure, but the base we're moving to has its own hospital. She'll have access to better treatments, and they'll be able to keep her comfortable."

"So, when are we going?" Natsu asked, trying to sound like his world wasn't currently falling apart all around him.

He felt strong arms embrace him tightly, and they remained this way for a long time, long past when it got dark outside. He could hear his mother moving around in the house, but for the first time he could remember, he wasn't eager to see her. He didn't know what to do or what to say, and he was terrified he would somehow make the situation worse.

Natsu had never wanted to be up in the sky as much as he did at that moment.

A/N: This was an idea I had while I was working, I had a query that required me to look around an air force base and this story sort of popped into my head. It takes place during the early 1990’s when attitudes towards those who identified as gay were a lot worse than they are now, especially in military circles. It was originally meant to be a two-shot for Gratsu Week but when Gratsu Bingo was announced I decided to expand the story to use some of the prompts. They start up as kids but should age up to high school age in a few chapters. Will be continued in Day 4′s Prompt: Water.

[bubblemoon66]

Dead Men Family Headcanons

I was digging through my drafts and found a bunch of old headcanons about the original Dead Men and their families. I think they’ve since been disproved by canon but I thought they might be fun to share, so here you go:

Skulduggery

Skulduggery’s parents were both powerful mages from old well-respected sorcerer families. Both were elemental and veterans from the war against the Unnamed (the war before the war against Mevolent).

Skulduggery was the overlooked middle child. He had an older brother (who was eleven years older), and older sister (nine years older), then he was born, and three years later his parents had twin boys, and finally a younger sister (who was nine years younger).

Both his older siblings were talented elementals - which meant Skulduggery felt like he had a lot to live up to. They looked out for Skulduggery but the large age gap between them meant they weren’t great playmates.

There was a shorter age gap between him and his younger brothers - but that meant that Skulduggery didn’t get a long time as the ‘baby’ of the family, and got overlooked by his parents. He did his best to be a big brother like his siblings had been for him  - but he got them into a lot of mischief.

They all grew up in a small manor house in the countryside. They weren’t extraordinarily wealthy but were able to live more than comfortably - think landed gentry as opposed to aristocracy/nobility.

Skulduggery spent a lot of time rambling around the countryside. And the family had plenty of hounds and horses to keep him company on these adventures.

He didn’t have any friends outside his family because of the stutter, until he met Ghastly (and later, Hopeless)

Skulduggery was thirteen when the war against Mevolent started. His parents and his older siblings were recruited immediately. Skulduggery begged them to let him join but was told he’d have to wait until he was older.

Both Skulduggery’s younger brothers became sensitives - the kind that specialised in telepathy. They joined the war as soon as they had their surge but stayed on the sidelines for the most part - being used for relaying messages and interrogating prisoners. Although they still got into a few scraps - sensitives were targeted by Mevolent’s troops.

Skulduggery’s youngest sister became a healer, tending to wounded soldiers fighting against Mevolent. The age gap and the fact that Skulduggery left home as soon as he could to fight meant they weren’t close as children, but they became much closer later in life. During the war, she introduced Skulduggery to her best friend - the woman who one day become his wife.

In addition to his large immediate family, Skulduggery had a large extended family. Most of them fought against Mevolent, but a few fought for him. All of them died during the war.

Out of his immediate family: his older brother was the first to die, then his parents, the twins, and his older sister. By the time Skulduggery was killed, only his youngest sister was alive. Her death was what triggered him to study Necromancy/become Lord Vile.

Ghastly 

Ghastly is an only child. Both his parents were only children as well, so he never had any cousins to play with.  

He was born in Dublin, his parents preferring to live surrounded by mortals rather than mages.

His parents tried desperately to break the curse that left him scared, but after it became apparent that they couldn’t they moved to an all-mage village hoping that at the very least they might not be stared at as much. Ghastly was about five at the time.

Unfortunately, mage children stare as much as mortal children. And Ghastly was bullied badly. He learnt boxing from his mother as a way to fight back.

Although Ghastly got on extremely well with both his parents, he was still very lonely as a boy. He didn’t have any friends until he met Skulduggery.

Ghastly was 12 when they met, Skulduggery 11. He immediately liked Skulduggery because he didn’t make fun of him or ask him lots of questions about his scars (admittedly Skulduggery would have done both these things had his stutter stopped him).

The two quickly became firm friends, their friendship cemented by their lonely misfit status. They spent their time wandering around the countryside and the nearby villages having adventures and solving mysteries.

Ghastly taught Skulduggery to box, and Skulduggery helped Ghastly hone his elemental magic.

The two met Hopeless six months later.

Ghastly’s mother left home to help out with the war shortly after it started. She sent letters back to husband and son frequently. Ghastly still keeps them in a box under his bed.

Ghastly’s father stayed behind to raise him - and to make armoured clothing for the war efforts. Ghastly helped his father out in the workshop every day. It made him feel like he was making a difference in the war and protecting his mother.

Ghastly enlisted in the war at the same time as Skulduggery and Hopeless - mostly because someone had to keep Skulduggery out of trouble - but also because he wanted to support his mother. 

Ghastly’s mother was a well-respected commandant by the time Ghastly enlisted (she rose through the ranks quickly) but Ghastly never served directly under her since it was standard practice to separate family members. 

Ghastly’s father died a few years after his mother. The doctors said it was heart failure but Ghastly always believed it was heartbreak. 

Hopeless

Hopeless was the second child of two mages. His mother was a necromancer who had left the order for love, and his father was a shapeshifter. 

He had a sister who was 23 years older than him and also a shapeshifter.

Hopeless met Skulduggery and Ghastly when he was 14. Technically, he had run across them on a few occasions before this, but they hadn't recognised him because he had been wearing a different face. (He remembered them though, Ghastly's face and Skulduggery's attitude are hard to forget).  

Hopeless' parents died a couple of years after the war broke out - they weren't soldiers, but were caught in the crossfire while visiting a distant relative. 

After their parents died Hopeless' sister became a dedicated pacifist and joined Esryn Vanguard's movement. She married another pacifist during the war, and eventually had two children with him. 

Meanwhile, Hopeless became a soldier in hope of preventing more innocent people from dying. 

Hopeless, Skulduggery and Ghastly enlisted to fight together. During their first assignment, they met Erskine Ravel. 

Hopeless and his sister had a difficult relationship after he became a soldier/she became a pacifist but they still cared deeply for one another and stayed in touch their whole lives. 

Hopeless’ sister loathed the rest of the dead men, however. They represented everything she was against. She blamed Skulduggery and Ghastly in particular for leading Hopeless astray. And her loathing of them only got stronger after his death. 

She and her family survived the war and emigrated to Canada in the 1870s. 

Erskine

Erskine was born the only mage to a large mortal Catholic family.

His parents were both weavers in a large town/small city (Cork maybe?). 

The family weren’t dirt poor but it was by no means a glamorous upbringing.

Erskine was the second youngest. He had two older brothers, two older sisters and one younger brother. There were also a lot of extended relatives around and about. 

The younger brother died when Erskine was eight from some now-preventable illness.

The older siblings all lived fairly typical lives for the time. All of them married and had children. The brothers took up their father's craft. One of the sisters died in childbirth. (Erskine thinks back to it all as depressingly mortal).

Erskine never really felt close to his family. They weren’t bad people, but he didn’t feel like he had much in common with them. From a young age, he saw himself as more ambitious and clever and special than them. 

There were a fair few rumours surrounding Erskine’s birth. Some of the neighbours said his golden eyes were the mark of a changeling (not true). Others said he looked more like the apothecarist who lived two lanes over than he did his weaver-father (true). 

Erskine’s mother called both rumours hogwash and they more-or-less faded by the time Erskine walking and talking. 

The apothecarist-two-lanes-over took Erskine in as an apprentice when he was thirteen. (There was no mention of parentage, at least not that Erskine heard).

Said apothecarist was an early science-magic theorist and sorcerer. (He wasn’t a very good one, however, and so chose to live a life surrounded by mortals who looked up to him as opposed to other  sorcerers who looked down on him.)

Erskine thrived under his tutorship. He’s never had much interest in the family business and learning about magic confirmed and strengthened his conviction that he was destined for greater things. 

He learnt a little bit about a lot of different types of magic but ended up favouring elemental magic.

When he was seventeen he ran across three strange young men fighting a war no one had heard of and wreaking magical havoc in the town. They seemed an exciting bunch and he figured he’d learnt all he could with his current tutor so he joined up with.

 Anton

Anton was found abandoned just before his first birthday at a foundling hospital (the religious kind run by monks/nuns, not the kind run by medical doctors).

There was no note left with him, nor anything else that could shed a light on who he was or why he had been abandoned. 

The hospital wasn't a great place to grow up in. There were strict rules, bullying, and too many kids to look after. It could have been worse though. Most of the nuns were decent people and the kids were kept warm and fed and received a basic education.

It was clear from the beginning that there was something not quite right with baby Anton. There would be scratches on his arms and chest and one nun swore once that she saw something try to claw itself out of the child. Rumours start spreading that he was some sort of demon-child and that’s why he’d been abandoned. (This was, of course, the gist’s fault).

There were a few attempts at exorcisms as Anton got older. They would appear to work at first but one temper tantrum later and the scratches and other strange happenings would start appearing again. 

One kind-hearted young nun realised this tied to Anton’s distress levels and took Anton under her wing. She provided spiritual guidance and was a stable, calming, motherly figure to Anton. 

Anton gained more control over the gist as he got a bit older, until puberty hit and suddenly his temper became a lot harder to control again. The gist start appearing as a fully-fledged thing 

When the gist hurt an older kid Anton had been fighting with and Anton’s favourite nun who tried to separate them, Anton decided he needed to leave the hospital before something worse happened. 

He found a job as an apprentice for a blacksmith. He was big and strong for his age (twelve) so the work suited him. 

But that went up in flames after another incident with the gist a year or so later so he moved to the next town over, did odd jobs for a few years and then moved on dock-work.

Anton was twenty-six when he realised he’s stopped ageing. This terrified him almost as much as losing control did. 

It was also around this time that Anton realised he was exclusively attracted to men, which only added to his feelings of isolation.

Three years after he noticed he wasn’t ageing, he packed up his bags and moved to another town to start afresh. 

He continued doing various manual labour jobs, hoping from town-to-town when either the gist showed itself or when he started to worry about others noticing he wasn’t ageing.

This went on for decades before Anton met his first sorcerer - Saracen Rue. Anton dragged him out of a bar fight involving an angry cuckold husband and friends. They both realised the other had magic and they struck up a friendship. 

Dexter

Dexter grew up on in a small cottage in the countryside. 

He’s one of the younger Dead Men. 

He has two older sisters. The eldest is eight years older than him and the middle one is six years older. 

Dexter’s sisters babied him well into adulthood. He was the apple of their eye when he was born and that never changed.

While Dexter and his middle sister were both mages (she was an elemental) his eldest sister never developed any magical talent and had a mortal lifespan. She remained close to both siblings her whole life despite this, and her death at age 71 hit both siblings hard.

Both his parents were mages. Mother was an energy thrower. Father was an elemental. 

Dexter’s parents encouraged their children to act kindly and respectfully to mortals, but also stressed the importance of isolation and hiding magic from the world. 

Dexter's father abandoned the family without warning when Dexter was about four years old. None of them knew why or if he was dead or alive. 

Life for the family was difficult economically speaking after that, but they managed by banding together and Dexter still thinks of it as a happy childhood despite the abandonment.

Dexter’s a good hunter, fisher, tracker and trapper. He spent a lot of his teen years supplementing his and his family's diet this way. He’s the Dead Man’s go-to man when they’re running low on supplies.

When Dexter hit sixteen, he went looking for his father. He ended up finding him living in a town twenty miles down the road, remarried with two young children. Dexter pushed him for an explanation - amnesia, blackmail, any reason at all so he could forgive him - but the only explanation Dexter got was that his father had lost interest in his old life and wanted a fresh start. There was never an apology or any attempt to make amends. His father had no interest in hearing how his old family was doing and told Dexter quite plainly to leave. 

Dexter returns home unsatisfied. He debates reaching out to his step-mother and step-siblings and letting them know what a dirtbag his father is but he doesn’t like the idea of breaking up a (potentially) happy family, so he just decides to put them all out of his mind and move on with his life. 

The journey to find his father and his return home does give Dex a taste for adventure, however. He finds he likes living rough and seeing more of the world.

(The journey also helps him to decide that he’s going to be an energy thrower. He had been torn between energy throwing and elemental magic up until then, but after seeing his father again he decided he wanted to be nothing like him.)

He starts spending longer and longer periods away from home. It’s on one of these excursions he meets sorcerers from outside the family for the first time and finds out there's a war going on (the family had been pretty isolated and unaware of mage politics up ‘til then). 

The sorcerers in question were a group of radical Mevolent supporters. They tried to recruit him and were pretty persuasive with their vague promises of adventure and glory and a better world. But it didn’t take long for their mortal-hating policies to light and with Dexter’s eldest sister being mortal, he turned against them pretty quick.

This leads him to join the Sanctuary’s military, and eventually, the Dead Men. 

Dexter and his mother, and his surviving sister are still close.

The sister’s married to a lovely South American witch. He goes to stay with them at least once a year. 

Saracen has tried to seduce Dexter’s mother, sister and sister-in-law on several occasions. He has yet to succeed with any of them. 

Saracen

None of the Dead Men know much about Saracen’s family. They’ve heard some wild stories involving a whole host of relatives, but a lot of the stories contradict each other and the same relatives seem to go by multiple names or multiples relatives are going by the same name. Nobody can keep the stories straight, least of all Saracen.

No one’s sure if they’re alive or dead or mortals or mages or both. 

Although they’re pretty sure he has/had several sisters and nieces. Presumably parents too.

If you ask Saracen about his family directly he’ll go off on a wild tangent or claim he has to protect their identities from all the jilted ex-lovers and cheated-on husbands he’s pissed off. 

Dexter’s convinced that it’s actually because Saracen’s family know what his power is and he doesn’t want the Dead Men to try and find out through them.

The only thing everyone can agree on is that Saracen is a farm boy.

[mellowedolans]

Someone to me - Grayson Dolan Imagine

Hi! This is my first imagine so please enjoy! Please let me know what you ACTUALLY think of this. I’ve never done this before so I have no idea what I am doing. IF YOU LIKE IT LET ME KNOW, MAYBE I will do a part 2 :) !

Summary: Y/n gets dragged to a party when she meets a handsome stranger at the start of a panic attack. 

Warning!: This imagine does deal with anxiety, mainly social anxiety. I am not saying that this is how everyone who has a panic attack or deals/struggles with anxiety feels. This is just how it is for me. In no way am I trying to romanticize anxiety. I know that it is a mental illness that many struggle with every day because I do struggle with it. I just had this idea after having a panic attack after being forced to give a speech in front of a lot of people.

The room felt as though it was on fire and suffocating you. There were way too many people shoved into James Charles’ apartment in the bustling city of Los Angeles. You didn’t even know why you were at this party. You didn’t know anyone and really didn’t belong with this crew of people. It had been your friend f/n, who begged you to come with her. Now, this was her scene. She was an aspiring model who had somehow stumbled upon several internet celebrities and became great friends with James and some other people. Now you were a different case. You were y/n, a shy, awkward, human being who had written a novel that was in the works of being published by a big publishing company here in LA. Your friend had been kind enough to let you crash with her while you hammered out the last details of your novel and then you planned to book it back to your home state ASAP. It was obvious how much f/n was enjoying herself. She seemed as though she didn’t have a care in the world as she danced to the pop music that blasted through the speakers, casually sipping some kind of alcohol from her red solo cup. It was as though f/n was the center of attention, which definitely didn’t bother you. You were the most content that you were going to be at this party as you stood quietly from the far left corner of the apartment, gripping the already warm water bottle that you had grabbed from y/f’s fridge before being physically dragged out the apartment by a relentless f/n. You were shaken out of your thoughts someone tapping your shoulder. You quickly turned around to be met with the most attractive guy who you had ever had ever laid your eyes on. He had dark brown hair and a jawline that could cut glass, with a small angel wing necklace the dangled from what was his left ear but your right. “What are you doing here all by yourself?” He inquired, tilting his head ever-so-slightly to the right, making your heart melt a little. “Um...I don’t know, my friend f/n dragged me here.”  You said, inwardly cringing at the fact that you stumbled over your words, but that was nothing new. You suffered from social anxiety so putting yourself out there and meeting new people was extremely difficult for you. “Oh, you know f/n?” The attractive young man responded fairly quickly and you figured by the way that he said that sentence that he probably had some kind of romantic interest in her. You couldn’t blame him, she was everything that you would never be. “Yeah, she’s been my... um, best friend since I was ten. I mean we were both ten but she was a grade younger than I so...”  You looked up to see the poor guy completely confused by what you were saying. This is why you hated talking to new people, you just made yourself seem like some big idiot. “I’m sorry, I’m not good with talking to people.” With that he laughed, making you feel like absolute shit. “Why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong, you were just talking really quiet and for some goddamn reason James has the speaker blasted and it’s kind of hard to hear you.” The boy explained, making your heart soar, realizing that he wasn’t mocking or making fun of you like most guys have done to you in the past. “So what are you doing in LA? No offense, but you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” “I’m a writer and I’m working on getting my book published.” You explained, raising your voice slightly so he could hear you more clearly. His eyes became the size of saucers. “Really?” You nodded your head in response, suddenly being hit with a wave of anxiousness as you realized more and more people were making their way into the apartment, making the exit seem farther and farther away and as although you were trapped in here. “That’s amazing!” “Thanks.” You choked out, feeling as though the air in your lungs was being sucked out by a vacuum. It felt as though all eyes were on you, even though they obviously weren’t. In your head, you imagined that they were all secretly judging you. Judging your body, the way you were dressed in jeans and a graphic t-shirt, the way you wore your hair. It felt as though they were judging every inch of your exterior and it made it feel as though the room was collapsing even more inwards. “Are you okay?” He was gentle, placing a hand on the middle of your back ever so slightly, as though you were a fragile piece of glass that could break at any moment. You nodded your head again but the boy did not shake off his look of worry for your safety. He bit his lip as though in concentration and quickly grabbed his phone from his jean jacket and texted someone. He looked up and gave you a small grin. “Give me one more minute, okay?” Still confused but very intrigued by the handsome man standing in front of you, you nodded your head again for the third time. “Here you go Grayson, you owe this sister big time.” You looked up to see James giving the guy, Grayson, a set of keys. James turned his head and looked at you. “Oh hi, y/n! Sorry, I haven’t seen you here, I’ve been kind of busy making sure no one ruins my place.” He leaned in and gave you a quick hug, which you awkwardly returned. “I see you’ve met Grayson, we’ve known each other forever...” It was as though James had a realization as he stopped speaking and looked between the two of you. “Oh I see what’s going on and you better not do anything nasty in there!” With that, a crash was heard coming from the opposite end of the house, causing James to turn in that direction. “Sorry, duty calls and I mean it Grayson, no dirty business!” He gave Grayson one more look and disappeared among the flock of people. “Hey, follow me please, if you don’t mind.” With that, he grabbed your small hand in his larger and much warmer one and led you down a much less condensed hallway with several doors on each side. Grayson led you to the end of the hallway and stopped in front of a light gray door on the right side. He reached into his pocket, grabbed the keys that James gave him and preceded to attempt to find what key fit into the lock. As he did that, you noticed a girl pinned up against the wall by a boy as they made out very lustfully. Upon further inspection, you realized it was f/n. You quickly directed your eyes to focus down on a small portion of the hardwood floors that you were currently standing on and waited for Grayson to be done doing whatever he was doing. “Aha!” With that, Grayson jiggled the door handle and opened the room. “Come in here.” With that, you cautiously stepped inside and Grayson followed suit. Inside was a plan room that you guessed was a guest bathroom. It was clean, with white walls, a gray comforter, and a white desk in the corner. You turned around as you heard a locking sound, meaning that Grayson had locked the door that you had entered from. This scared you. Although he seemed like a genuinely nice person, you had learned in the past that looks could be deceiving. What was he planning on doing with you? James had warned Grayson about doing any funny business but you weren’t sure if he was the type to listen to the rules. Slightly scared, you raised your hands from your sides, searching for your phone and inwardly sighing when you found it. At least you had your phone just in case if this Grayson boy did attempt to try something. While you had been doing this, you hadn’t realized that he had made his way over to the bed, where he took a seat on the edge and silently observed you. It was when he groaned and flopped back onto the bed that you paid attention. “I’m sorry, I just realized how insanely creepy it must be for you to have some stranger take you into some locked bedroom. I promise that I won’t do anything like that to you, I would never take advantage of someone like that.” “Then what are you doing?” You weren’t sure where this burst of confidence was coming from, but you couldn’t say that you were upset by it. “I just realized that you were about to have a panic attack. I used to get them pretty frequently when I was sixteen. I get them every so often but I’ve learned how to control it better.” You were shocked by his words. How could someone you perfect and put together get such anxious thoughts as you do? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so bitchy.” There you went again, apologizing. You always seemed to do that when you got anxious, even if you had done nothing wrong. “Why are you sorry?” In a split second, Grayson was up and standing in front of you. He gently raised his hands to your cheeks, holding them tenderly in his hands, forcing you to look directly into his beautiful brown eyes. You couldn’t believe how close you were to him. Any wrong move and your lips would be planted on top of his. Not that you minded, Grayson was undeniably handsome but you weren’t entirely sure that he would want that to happen. “I don’t know, I just get anxious in these types of social situations. I guess I’m just used to being the girl on the sidelines. F/n was always the one who got all of the attention while I just laid in my room, writing and wishing that I wasn’t so goddamn awkward. I guess I’m just used to be a nobody.” “Don’t say that.” He voice commanded and you felt as though you were falling even more into his eyes. “You are not a nobody. You are a beautiful girl inside and out that I’m very happy I got to meet tonight. I want you to know that you will always be somebody to me.” With that, Grayson leaned in, molding your lips with his.