#but does that actually productively work towards solving the problem that frustrated me? not really. there are better ways to express that.

[silvaurum]

havin a week/few days where i think: i deserve a fucking nobel peace prize and a congressional medal of honor for not being the biggest bitch in the whole wide world to everyone right now

[sailorbellewrites]

Jawbreaker

characters — taehyung x reader (aka kiddo) (ft. members of bts)

summary — taehyung thinks dating you is easy and it is, until it isn’t. then he doesn’t know what to do.

wordcount — 8.3k 

information — one shot. fluff. femme reader. character inspired by megan thee stallion, cardi b, and lil’ kim. direct sequel to more than you can chew. makes references to no limit. part of the baking news au. 

warnings — strong language. mean & aggressive characters. casual mentions of sex and sexual behavior (but no smut because i’m shy). light angst. excessive mentions of the color pink. vague mentions of other celebrities and influencers. 

author’s note — i meant to post this months ago, but it just didn’t want to get written. it was actually meant to be attached to more than you can chew, but it just would have been a beast of a story. i actually rewrote this part roughly three times and i am sure there are still some editing mistakes. i’m so sorry for the long wait. i’m not very happy with the final product. i promise the next story will be better. 

jawbreaker —

Taehyung really likes you.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if you let him—though you would never let him do such a thing. You were certainly the cooler head when it came to relationship intensity, knowing that if Taehyung had his way, you would be married already. “Oh my god, it’s only been five months,” you once told him in response to a picture of an engagement ring he had saved on his phone. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place in your studio as you fiddled with the hook of a track technically meant for Hoseok. “Calm down, lover boy.”

“It’s been almost six months and I just asked if you liked it,” he had replied with a small pout, pulling your chair away from your monitor and closer to where he was sitting on the loveseat. “Isn’t it good for me to know what you like?”

“We’re not there yet,” you replied simply, shaking your head at the way he rolled his eyes at you, as though you were the one being ridiculous.

“I might as well know everything now, so I don’t mess up later. Right?” He questioned, grabbing your left hand in his and fiddling with your ring finger. 

“If we make it that far,” you muttered, laughing lightly when he pinches you for your words.

“Answer the question. Do you like it?”

“Hmm…” you hum out, a small smirk settling on your face. “I think you can do better.”

Taehyung thinks he’s in love with you.

That is a secret. No one knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if he were sure about it—sure that you would reciprocate his feelings, sure that you loved him back; but he’s not too sure. You were almost too cool when it came to the relationship, never going above and beyond the most basic of expectations. You answered every text, showed up to every date on time, and referred to him as “the boyfriend” on a few of your Instagram posts not related to music, but that was about it. And yes, his boss Seokjin had told him that you were putting in more than enough effort for a relatively new relationship, but Taehyung still found himself craving for more.

“But what more could she give you?” Seokjin asks during closing one night, his own soon-to-be fianceé (if everything went according to plan) mopping up the front of the bakery. Seokjin flips chairs on the top of tables, while Taehyung wipes down the now empty display racks. It’s a team effort that allows Taehyung to leave earlier, something he is always grateful for because he can spend more time with you. “Like do you want her to write a song about you?”

“I mean, yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just something, you know? Something more than studio dates and donuts. I feel like that’s all we ever do. What do you think, Noona? Am I asking for too much?” Taehyung questions, directing his words to the older woman up front. 

She stops her mopping and shrugs, leaning against a wall as she mulls over her answer. Her eyes go towards Seokjin as finally states, “I’d have to agree with Jin. But we have half of our dates in the kitchen after hours, so maybe we’re the wrong people to ask.” Taehyung sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’re not feeling satisfied, though, you should just talk to her about it. You know what they say, communication is key.”

“I don’t know how she would feel about that,” he replies, imagining just how easy it would be for you to misunderstand him or write him off as needy—though he didn’t exactly think being needy for you was a problem. 

“Aww, don’t be like that. You never know what she might say. She could surprise you.”

At this time, Seokjin flips the last chair on top of its table and moves toward his girlfriend with a cheesy grin. “Wow, what is this mess? You call this mopping? Have you ever mopped before? Have you ever held a mop before? If you needed help from a master cleaner like me, you could have just asked sweetheart,” he teases, grabbing the mop from her hand and pressing a sloppy kiss to her forehead.

His girlfriend cringes away from the kiss for a moment, but ends up leaning into the man nonetheless as she whispers, “You get what you pay for.”

He scoffs. “I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly,” she replies smugly, hand going up to pick dried frosting off of her boyfriend’s collar. Seokjin lets out a choked laugh, arm slipping around her shoulders and pressing her into a too tight hug. She pretends to struggle against him for a bit, before eventually wrapping both her arms around his waist and squeezing just as tightly.

Taehyung watches the silly display of affection with wide eyes, warmth flooding into his heart. The two people in front of him were so clearly in love that he couldn’t help but feel it too. It was plain as day. This behavior wasn’t something he was often able to do with you though. Taehyung understands well that no matter what he did or said to you, your responses would always be carefully calculated. He respects how methodical you are in the way you carry yourself, as though you are afraid something could go wrong at any moment. He knows it’s not easy, which is why his admiration for your handling of relationships in a notoriously cut throat industry grew almost everyday. 

Yes, Taehyung knows he loves you. 

Yet, as he watches the way Seokjin and his girlfriend begin to playfully fight over the mop, an intense love in their eyes, Taehyung finds himself wishing that you would let go and love him too. 

.

.

People don’t always believe that you’re a rapper. They tend to assume that you’re Hoseok’s girlfriend or a groupie when they meet you, failing to make the connection that you’re the infamous Kiddo until they see you on stage. You know why, of course. You’re the only woman in your crew, you’re nowhere near as popular as the other guys, and you don’t dress like a rapper. Or at least, that’s what Yoongi told you one night as you shared a cigarette behind the bar after a performance. 

“It’s the biggest thing holding you back,” he mumbled, the cigarette between his lips looking like it would slip out at any moment. You knew it wouldn’t, but you still eyed it carefully just in case. Attempting to quit had made you hyperaware of its presence, but you knew Yoongi wouldn’t let it drop. He was always so in control—one of many things about him that you envied. “You look like you’re ready to fuck at the drop of a dime.”

“Maybe I am,” you had grumbled back, eyes still on the cigarette. His words were trying your patience, though you didn’t know if your irritation was caused by their truthfulness or your desire to smoke. “Do you have a problem? Cause I can solve it for you.” 

“I don’t care if you dress like a whore,” he snapped at you. “Goddamn, you’re being a bitch tonight. Here, take this!” He snatched his half smoked cigarette out of his own mouth in annoyance, shoving it at you. You accepted it happily, choosing to ignore his insults in favor of savoring in your relapse.

You had long ago realized that most of the men around you would never understand how you dressed. The clothes you wore for performances and photoshoots were provocative to say the least. Vibrantly colored lingerie, leather, lace, and heels most others would deem too tall for comfort littered your closet. Your hair was always meticulously styled and your nails were always done in extravagant fashion. You made sure that your outfits highlighted as much of your body as possible, keeping all eyes on you. It was a far cry from the hoodies and occasional leather jackets sported by your friends, but you didn’t care. Your clothes made you feel powerful. The image you had constructed and thoroughly maintained worked to push your career further, making you stand out in the sea of sameness that had become common for the rappers around you. But those in your circle never see it that way.

Taehyung does, though. Taehyung watches with rapt attention as you show him the new pieces you buy, listening carefully as you explain why certain tops have to be paired with certain bottoms for maximum effect. He wordlessly takes pictures of you with various filters and backgrounds, never complaining when you ask him to take more because you don’t think they are good enough. He doesn’t tease you when you get cold from the lack of fabric, nor does he yell at you when you have unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions like the guys. Instead, he offers you his sweaters or quickly adjusts your clothes before you can even notice the problems. Taehyung knows just how important your image is to you.

Or at least, you thought he did.

“What?” You question, tone edging on impatient as his reflection continues to stare you down in the mirror. You refuse to turn around and face him physically, trying to keep your focus on the highlight you’re attempting to apply in the inner corner of your eye without poking yourself. The tension in your small bathroom is suffocating, but you don’t want to act on it. An argument is the last thing you need. 

“I always watch you do your makeup,” Taehyung answers robotically, eyes still on you.

“Yeah, but—”

“But?” He cuts you off, making you pause your motions in shock. He’s angry and you don’t know why. It puts you both in unfamiliar territory. While Taehyung has seen you angry a million and one times over small things relating to music, venues, promoters, and fans, you cannot say the same for him. The angriest he had ever gotten in front of you came when he suddenly had to pick up extra shifts at the bakery because a coworker had caused a car accident and that moment was nothing like this. 

“Can you just stop fucking looking at me like that? I’m trying to concentrate.” 

He lets out a tense laugh of disbelief at your words before exiting your bathroom and moving to sit on the small couch in your living room. He’s not surprised to find you following him less than a minute later—you were never one to back down from a fight and you both were in the beginning stages of one. When you position yourself directly in front of him, he drops his head to hands and averts his eyes to the floor in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. 

“What crawled up your ass and died tonight?” You ask.

“Go finish your makeup,” he requests quietly, words stilted as he refuses to look up at you.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothi—”

 “It’s not nothing. Don’t lie to me. You can’t even look at me right now.”

Taehyung’s head shoots up at your words, jaw clenching as he realizes his efforts to stay calm were futile because he can’t look at you without feeling another wave of anger crash over him. “Your outfit,” he bites out.

“My outfit?” You parrot back to him in sarcastic disbelief. “You’re staring at me like I fucked your best friend and murdered your mom over… an outfit?”

“You might as well have,” he mumbles under his breath, before stating a bit louder, “It’s lingerie.” 

He says it as though it’s obvious, but it’s not to you. “I-I… a-are you serious?” You stutter out, mind still trying to process his words. Taehyung doesn’t verbally respond, choosing to move his eyes back to the floor instead. You wrack your brain for the right thing to say, because what you actually want to say would likely lead to a breakup and you absolutely don’t want that to happen. You feel as though you’ve been transported into a particularly cruel episode of The Twilight Zone, where you watch your perfect boyfriend turn into one of your evil exes right before your eyes. “I… I wear lingerie for shows all the time. You’ve never had a problem before this. Hell, this covers more of me than what I was wearing earlier today. You didn’t seem to mind then.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” You shout out, frustration evident in your tone. 

“You wore that for me a month ago,” he replies, looking up at you incredulously. His blood began to boil the moment you opened your apartment door, immediately realizing that you had planned to perform in the black lace set. You were even wearing the same black and gold heels with it. He knew for a fact that you bought the lingerie for him, a slightly belated birthday present given to him in your studio. You made him cum as many times as it took to get tears running down his face, then took him to your place and cooked him his favorite food for dinner. He almost told you he loved you then, but decided against it lest you believed he was exaggerating his appreciation for your actions. It was the single most sentimental thing you had done for him in your relationship thus far and you knew just how sentimental Taehyung could get. In his mind, you should have known better than to think that he would want to share any part of that night with the world. 

You look down at your clothes, eyes acknowledging that it was indeed the set you purchased with his birthday in mind. It took you hours to find, trudging through the bitter cold to four different lingerie stores before you settled on it. However, you still didn’t see the problem. “So what? It’s not like it has your cum stains on it or anything.” 

“God, do you always have to be—don’t be crude right now. I’m being serious,” he grits out, feeling intensely out of control.

“Well what would you prefer I say?” You ask, exasperation heavy in your tone. You feel tired and annoyed, knowing this argument might affect your performance later in the night.

“I want you to say that you’ll change.”

“No,” you reply after a beat, a dark laugh surrounding the word, though it lacks any humor. “No fucking way. I’m not changing.” You couldn’t believe that he was asking you to do such a thing. It wasn’t the first time that a person you were dating had made such a request—in fact, your ex had made the request often and it was equally as often ignored. However, it was the first time Taehyung had asked you to change and all you could feel was hurt. You couldn’t believe he fell so easily into the simple trap of insecurity that had tainted your previous relationships. “Look, unless you have a real reason for me to change, you’re just gonna have to get over yourself.”

 “I just gave you a real reason,” he stresses bitterly. “And if you cared about me at all—”

“It’s not about caring for you, Tae! They are just clothes. They don’t do anything, but sit on my body and make me feel good. You, of all people, know that. It’s stupid to as—”

“It’s not stupid to ask you to keep some things private!” He yells, up on his feet with a fire raging in his eyes. You can feel your heart beating hard in your chest, nerves getting the better of you because you aren’t used to this level of rage from him. It’s a feeling both too familiar and too uncomfortable at the same time. It was everything you didn’t want in another relationship and everything Taehyung had promised not to be through his sweet words and actions—and yet you found yourself back there again. “You’re not wearing regular clothes or basic lingerie you buy just to perform in. You bought that specifically for me! You had sex with me in that. So now everyone at your show and everyone who follows you online is going to know exactly what you look like when you fuck me. I didn’t sign up to share that part of my life with the whole goddamn world!”

His rant finishes in a roar, the last sentence screamed so loudly that the final words come out hoarse and broken. His eyes are rimmed red, but he continues to stand tall, bracing himself as he expects you to respond in kind.

You don’t.

Rather, he watches you take a large step back and whisper, “Get out.”

“What?” He responds dumbly, unable to fully comprehend your words. It wasn’t in your nature to extinguish fights so completely, preferring to keep going until disagreements had naturally run their course or threats of violence had been made. You never walked away and you certainly never let others walk away. This was different. This hurt.

“You don’t get to yell at me over clothes. You don’t get to yell at me, period. So get out.” 

You watch as Taehyung takes in the full meaning of your words, opening his mouth briefly as though he wants to argue more, but closing it again. Giving you a rough nod, you can do nothing but watch as he grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and exits your apartment, slamming the door in his wake. 

.

.

Eight days. Eight long days. Eight miserable days. Eight long, miserable days of Taehyung slowly losing his mind. You had not spoken to him or seen him in eight days. Every single attempt he made to contact you was ignored. If it weren’t for read receipts and the fact that you had kept all the pictures of him up on your Instagram, he would have assumed that you were broken up. Although, at this point, he would have preferred a break up. At least, he could have made moves to win you back. This current situation left him stuck with nowhere to go.

“What do I do?”

“Well you can start,” Namjoon states, setting a pastel pink mug engraved with his wedding date down in front of his friend, “by drinking that.” Taehyung stares at the clear liquid inside of the cup curiously before shrugging his shoulders and taking a swig. His tongue instantly curls back into his mouth as his taste buds are assaulted by a strong, bitter flavor. He slams the mug back down on the coffee table with a gag. Namjoon lets out a chuckle at his reaction, sitting down beside him with a matching mug of his own. “Drink slow.”

“Is this vodka?”

“A strong drink for strong business,” Namjoon responds, taking a sip of whatever he has poured into his own cup. Namjoon had invited him over at the end of his shift, taking note of how much Taehyung had been moping around the shop. His mood was bad for business, apparently, and Namjoon was the ultimate fixer when it came to those sorts of things. “Now I think I know what happened, but can you tell me your side of things again?”

Taehyung throws his head back, staring at the ceiling as he recounts the argument once more. It’s all he’s been able to think about, hyper focusing on every sour facial expression and negative word you said. It makes his heart hurt; he misses you. “And then she told me to get out, so I did. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“Ouch. How long has it been?”

“Eight long days and counting.”

“Damn, I guess she knows how to hold a grudge. Good for her,” Namjoon comments with a light laugh, as though he was impressed by your actions. Taehyung wants to scream, but he settles for a deep scowl. “But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about Tae. She still claims that she is very much taken. You aren’t broken up or anything.”

“I just want her to talk to me,” Taehyung whines, hands running through his hair in distress. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed and just fought it out.” Namjoon laughs at his words, but Taehyung continues, “I keep listening to her songs just to hear her voice, but it’s not enough. I don’t want Kiddo saying she’ll fuck me to sleep, I only want her.”

Namjoon snorts, nudging his younger friend with his shoulder. “That’s so stupid, Tae. You know you can’t have one without the other. They are the same person. If you keep separating her into different parts in your head, the two of you are gonna keep having these problems.”

Taehyung hums out a confused note. “What do you mean?”

“Your girlfriend is kind of like a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung grunts, reaching for his mug again. “Listen, if you’re about to describe all the ways she’s going to keep hurting me, don’t bother. Jungkook already did that—twice. And it was worse the second time around.”

“I mean the candy,” Namjoon starts, pausing to take another sip of his drink as he contemplates the best way to continue. Taehyung thinks Namjoon is the only other person in the world whose way with words rivals your own. He speaks with a certain amount of care and consideration that make Taehyung jealous. Perhaps, if he were more like Namjoon, he wouldn’t be in this mess. “A jawbreaker is this candy ball that’s really popular abroad,” he continues. “They are huge, big, and sweet—but hard. You can’t bite through them like normal candy. You’ll break your teeth or dislocate your jaw if you try, thus the name jawbreaker. If you want to eat it and enjoy it, you have to suck it down.”

“If this turns into some sex thing, I swear to god—”

“It’s a metaphor, you pervert. Keep up.” Namjoon chastises.

“You’re the pervert,” Taehyung mutters gruffly under his breath, taking a long swig of the vodka in his cup. “Fine. Continue.”

“Jawbreakers have different layers and flavors. The more you suck on it, the more layers you’ll get to experience; but at the end of the day, it’s still all the same candy.”

“I hate this metaphor.”

“You hate it because you don’t understand it,” the older man says sagely, giving his friend a slow head tilt. “It’s really quite simple if you think about it.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just spit it out, Joon!”

“She’s a sweet girl, Tae. You and I both know that. You approached her because you were attracted to her, but you stayed because she’s obviously more than a pretty face. She’s just not always going to be that easy to digest though—at least not all the time. Sometimes you might get the layer that cooked you dinner for your birthday and other times you might get the layer that thinks nearly nude bar fights are appropriate. It’s still the same candy, just like it’s still the same girl. You have to take your time with her like you would a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung’s ears perk up at Namjoon’s words, panic shooting through him as he questions, “Did she get into a naked fight?”

“Last year. It didn’t start nak—don’t worry about it.”

Taehyung places his cup back on the table, dropping his head forward with a deep sigh. “So you’re saying I just…  have to wait this out until she’s ready to be with me again?”

“Well she hasn’t technically left you yet.”

“And you’re sure there is nothing else I can do? There’s nothing here that I’m missing? I don’t want to wait anymore. I just want to be with her.”

“I know that, but if you want to be with her, you just have to accept who she is. Don’t think she’ll change or come running back to you just because you do something extravagant. She’s not gonna suddenly see your point of view or be rescued from her own bad judgement. You’re not actually her hero, Tae. That’s not how life works.”

“Things are fine when she’s not wrapped up in her whole Kiddo persona—”

Namjoon cut him off with an annoyed groan, shaking his head roughly. “You’re not getting it. You say you want to be with her, right? That means you want to be with all of her, including all the shitty ‘Kiddo’ flavors and colors that go along with it.”

“But—”

“Kiddo isn’t just a persona. It’s her. And if you don’t like it, maybe you don’t need to be with her.”

Taehyung wants to argue back, but can’t find the resolve to do so as guilt and shame begin to settle in his chest. He never consciously thought that his favorite parts of you were separate from your rap identity, but he couldn’t fight Namjoon’s words. While he respected the more sexually aggressive side that came with your career, he clearly adored the soft and sweet side of you more. He wonders, glumly, if he’s treated you differently because of his preference, only to be crushed by the realization that the argument proved he had been. 

“I’m in love with her,” Taehyung murmurs quietly, making Namjoon sit up. Everyone knew Taehyung’s feelings for you were strong, but no one expected love to be in the cards. Sure, it had been closing in on a year in terms of a relationship, but on the outside looking in, things still appeared fairly casual between the two of you. Your behavior from day one hadn’t changed at all. 

“Is that right? Are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, words coming out like a stream of conscious thoughts. “I love her. I’ve known for months. It’s just sometimes… I feel like I get more Kiddo than I do—I mean you’re right, they’re the same person, she’s just one person. I just wanted something that didn’t have to be a part of her image for once. I was never trying to control her or separate her, but I just…” He stops when he can no longer think of what to say, leaning back into the couch with his eyes going up to the ceiling. 

“I know,” Namjoon states suddenly, “and she knows too. She’s not innocent in all of this. I told her as much when I saw her.”

This information shocks Taehyung. “You spoke to her?” The older man hums an affirmative sound and nods. “When?” 

“A few days ago. She came into the bakery.”

“She came in?” Taehyung asks, voice increasing in pitch as he turns to fully face Namjoon. “Where was I? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Calm down, Tae. You were off. She just wanted donuts, but didn’t want to see you,” he answers with a mild shrug. “It’s probably better that you weren’t there. Jungkook refused to serve her and then Hoseok started arguing with him and threats started flying—it was a mess.” Taehyung groans, knowing that if anything, Jungkook’s actions only made you more angry at him. “But Jin and I were able to calm things down.” 

“Do I even want to know what she said?”

“To Jungkook? A lot. Your girl has a hell of a mouth on her. I haven’t heard some of the words she used in years. Seokjin was blushing.” Taehyung lets out a sad laugh, thoughts racing with all the possible things you could have said. Part of him wished he was able to hear all the things you had uttered and seen the shocked look on people’s faces, but he supposed it was better that he wasn’t around. “But to me?” Namjoon continued, “Not much. Things involving your sex life should be private. It’s just going to cause problems in the future if she keeps trying to bring it to the stage. She knows better.”

“So you told her I was right?”

“You were both wrong,” Namjoon replies smoothly. “You shouldn’t have tried to force her hand and she shouldn't have crossed that line. Neither of you were thinking of each other. You can’t be selfish in a relationship.” There is a beat of silence, Namjoon’s statement lingering in the air for a moment. “I know how some people feel about her, but I actually like you two together. In all the years that I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever been with someone who cares about her like you do.” Taehyung can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, nodding slowly at Namjoon’s words. “Just give her a little bit more time. Things will work out.”

.

.

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. He feels like he’s seen a ghost. It’s been ten days.

“Hi,” you say quietly. You come off as shy, eyes bouncing around the displays, but never settling directly on Taehyung even though he’s right across from you. It feels odd, not at all like how your relationship normally functions. Any other day would have found you leaning the entire upper half of your body on the counter, throwing out suggestive quips as you ordered in an attempt to make Taehyung stutter. Your current lack of confidence is startling, causing Taehyung to stare at you for a few seconds longer than normal as he searches for any changes in your face, hair, and shape. It’s only been ten days, but he knows just how much can change in ten days. Relief floods through his system when comes to find that—physically—you look just as he expects you to. 

Finally, he breathes out an equally gentle, “Hi, stranger.”

The tease hits you harder than he intended it to, with your back straightening out and eyes narrowing. “I’m a stranger now?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in ten days…” he trails off, the sarcastic lilt to his tone making you visibly bristle with discontent. 

You should have expected the cold shoulder, given how long you had gone without speaking to him. You needed more time to process than you realized and going to your friends didn’t help. To say opinions were divided on the matter was an understatement. Some people were disgusted by what you wore, while others were furious with Taehyung’s behavior. You were most surprised by Hoseok, who normally sided with you when it came to relationship troubles. This time, however, he turned his nose up at your outfit choice and referred to the various ways Taehyung had attempted to reach out to you as “pathetic and underserved.” Yoongi had no strong opinions one way or the other, but his fianceé had plenty to say (which only served to rile you up again). She couldn’t believe how serious his demands were and how easily he left your house. She wondered, quite loudly, where the sweet and perfect Taehyung had gone. 

But it was actually Namjoon’s words that dealt a huge blow to your ego. He dressed you down in a way that only he could, never raising his voice or calling you names, but calmly explaining all of your missteps to you until you felt smaller than a coffee cup. His final words had been running around your head for days: “I know it’s not what you’re used to, but sometimes it pays to be soft. You can’t have a successful relationship if you’re going to be so hard all the time.”

Thinking of his words once again, you inhale slowly to calm the little fires building in your heart. “I’m sorry for that,” you start, taking another deep breath before continuing by saying, “I shouldn’t have ignored you. It was wrong.”

Taehyung takes in a shocked breath of his own at your apology. He had expected a bit more pushback or an apology without actually saying the words. You were never one to easily admit when you were wrong, your pride being too strong for such casual admittances of guilt. Your repentance most often came in the form of covering drink tabs or ordering food. This sort of softness was new to him and all he could feel was thankful. 

Leaning over the counter, he grabs your hand in his own and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it, smiling widely when you don’t pull away. “I’m really sorry too. I mean it. I know I must have told you a hundred times already, but I cr—”

“It’s okay,” you stop him, squeezing his hand gently so that he knows you are serious. “Namjoon said that we’re both idiots. We’ve said our sorries and I want to just leave it at that.”

Taehyung lets out a short chuckle at your words, pressing another kiss to the back of your hand because he finally gets to hold it again. “ Well, I would never call you an idiot. I’m more than ready to leave things be if you are. I really, really missed you.” 

“I—”

“Hey Tae, can you help out in the bac—oh!” You let go of Taehyung’s hands quickly as he turns to find Jungkook standing in the kitchen doorway, a tray of bread in his hands and his eyes locked on your in a fierce glare. “You really came back here? What? Was there nobody to free off of at the Krispy Kreme?” He questions, audacity laced through his words. It was clear that there was no love lost between the two of you.

You roll your eyes dramatically, spitting out, “Bite me, bread bitch.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise at your insult, visibly tensing up. He opens his mouth to retaliate, Taehyung sharply states, “Don’t start!” Jungkook’s jaw locks in frustration, eyes shooting to his coworker in anger, but Taehyung keeps going. “Not right here and not right now. Seokjin will kill us. Bite each other’s heads off later, outside of the shop. Please!” Although there were very few people in the bakery, it was beginning to gain a small reputation amongst the older crowd for being a place for “rough housers;” Seokjin and Namjoon would crawl into individual balls and die if another incident occurred.

Jungkook clicks his tongue in annoyance, but otherwise relents, quickly placing the tray on the counter. “Hurry up and finish whatever this is. There’s a big takeout order of macarons that we need to get finished before five.” Taehyung nods in affirmation, a pleading look in his eyes that appeases Jungkook enough to send him back into the kitchen. 

“I fucking hate him,” you grumble as soon as the younger man disappears through the door.

Taehyung turns to face you, reaching for your hand again only to find that you have shoved both of them in the pockets of your coat. “He’s just over protective, that’s all. You should have seen him when he found out who his sister was dating. Once you get to know him, you’ll se—”

“I don’t want to get to know him,” you state matter-of-factly. “He’s an idiot who thinks I’m using you for fucking donuts. Honestly, who would risk falling in love for donuts? They’re good, but they’re not that good. You can buy donuts anywhere.”

Taehyung stiffens, mouth dropping open in shock as he takes in the full implication of your words. Did you love him too? You had never said anything even mildly similar to him. You didn’t talk about your feelings for him unless pressed and even then your answers were short. Confessions of desire and attraction were saved for intimate moments in your studio or his apartment, where no one but Taehyung could hear them. Even then, they were often cushioned between jokes that led to him scolding you, telling to stop pretending that you didn’t like him. You never seemed close to confessing love, but your words made it appear as though you had been in love with him all along. 

“Did you just… say you love me?” He questions quickly, mind still reeling. 

“Huh” You question, the confusion that washes across your features slowly melting away as you come to realize the implication of your words. It doesn’t surprise Taehyung when you mutter, “I didn’t say that,” but his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach anyway. The small flame of hope he carried in his heart extinguished momentarily, as he mentally kicked himself for getting his hopes up. He was lucky you were even talking to him again—a declaration of love was just ridiculous. Life wasn’t a hallmark movie. He didn’t know what he was thinking. 

Biting back his disappointment, Taehyung swallows before replying, “I misunderstood. That’s not even what you were talking about.” You blink slowly at his words, eyes shining as though you have something to say; however, you just end up biting your lip and casting your gaze down. “Just… please don’t even think about Kook, okay?” Taehyung pleads, wanting nothing more than to grab you in a hug or kiss your cheek to get the physical reassurance that things were completely okay between the two of you. Instead, he settles on asking, “Can I see you after work tonight? I get off at six and I can bring you some takeout.”

You break into a small smile, nodding your head once. “Bring a donut and some hot chocolate and you have a deal.”

.

.

You really like Taehyung.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. You would write about him in all of your songs if you could—though, of course, you could never do such a thing. You didn’t want to subject Taehyung to that type of scrutiny, knowing all too well how many problems came along with dating a rapper when they weren’t waxing poetic about their relationships on tracks. People ate up those types of songs, only to place severe judgements on the rapper’s partner as though they were an expert. “You never talk about me in your songs,” he once told you, referencing a song called “Fiancé” that had been released by one of your friends. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place during closing time in Baking News as Taehyung mopped the floor around your feet. He taps your legs lightly with the edge of his shoe. “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“It’s too much work,” you had replied, kicking your feet up so he could mop underneath them. He thanks you quietly, quickly getting to work so that you can lower your feet once more. “People are gonna read too much into it and make all of our lives a living hell. Just as Yoongi.”

“So you’re never gonna write about me?” He questioned jokingly, setting the mop to the side to hover over your seated form.

“I write about you,” you quickly retorted, craning your head up to look at him. He leans down and places a small peck on your lips, going in for a second with a small hum. “It’s just for my eyes and ears only.”

“Don’t you think I deserve to see?” He said, standing again to resume his task. From the kitchen, you hear the telltale sign of metal pans dropping. It’s followed by a loud, yet muffled “fuck” from Seokjin and the laughter is his girlfriend. 

“I don’t think you’ll like all the things I have to say about you, lover boy.”

“Hmm…” he hums in a mocking way, facing away from you as he works on a particular sticky patch on the floor. “I’m going to disagree with you there. I like everything about you, even the cheesy love songs you write about me.”

“Who said the songs I write about you are love songs?” You quip, making him turn to you quickly and point the edge of the mop at you accusingly.

“Stop pretending that you don’t like me!” 

You think you love Taehyung.

That is a secret. No one knows it. You would write about it in all of your songs if you were sure about it—sure that he would reciprocate your feelings, sure that he wouldn’t leave you high and dry when the going got tough and things had to happen that he didn’t like. But you weren’t sure; relationships were always a gamble and you knew the stressors would only grow when your career really took off. One wrong outfit choice had Taehyung turning into your exes right before your eyes. It made you wonder what would happen if you did the wrong collaboration or wrote the wrong lyrics. You tried your best to make it clear to Taehyung that you didn’t want to be in yet another awful relationship filled with fights and arguments, but it seemed like a real possibility regardless of your efforts. It was a tough pill to swallow.

And yet, as you stared at the lanky man seated on your couch, watching as he tried to sneak yet another picture of you wearing the custom, pink bunny ear headphones he got you for Christmas, you knew that you didn’t want to let him go.

“Put the phone away!”

“Just smile for me one time.”

“Stop.”

“I haven’t taken a picture of you in almost two weeks. My Instagram story is dying without. Let me take a picture.” He leans closer, laughing when you move to smack his phone on the floor, but miss.

You groan deeply, shaking your head at his antics. “It was not two weeks. You’re so goddamn dramatic.” You find yourself smiling for him nonetheless, legitimately laughing at him as he moves his phone around to catch you at different angles. After about 10 clicks of the camera shutter, you move to knock the phone away again. “Cut it out, Tae.”

“I’m not finished,” he whines out, though he still continues clicking away.

“Who died and made you paparazzi?”

“I’m better than the paparazzi. I’m your number one fan,” he murmurs, pushing your arms away from his phone. “You gotta get used to this, especially if you’re gonna be the number one rhyme killer in Korea.” He explains, bringing up a potential new tag Hoseok had come up with a few weeks ago.

“That’s more than enough for your Instagram story.”

He huffs in faux annoyance, leaning back on the love seat to scroll through all the pictures he took. “These aren’t even for my Instagram,” he reveals, tone still playful. “It’s for me only. I’m the only one who deserves to see you this cute. I gotta at least have that to myself.” You scoff loudly at this, anger filling your chest instantly. You know that he only means it as a joke, not realizing exactly what he was insinuating with his words—but it still stings, the wound from your previous fight not completely healed. “What’s wrong?” He questions, only to panic when you let out an annoyed grunt and turn around in your chair. It takes it a moment to click in his head, and then he’s sitting up, dropping his phone and pulling at your chair to try and turn you back around. “Baby, it was a joke. I promise, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just saying that I wasn’t going to put them on social media. Nothing more.”

“I didn’t know studio time had to be kept private too,” you reply sarcastically, planting your feet firmly on the floor to resist Taehyung’s actions.

“I didn’t mean that. Come here,” he says, pulling you with more strength until you’re facing him again. “Don’t be mad at me. You know how I feel about you. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

You shake your head, trying to remember Namjoon’s words and not start another argument. You fight to keep your voice level as you say, “Sometimes I think I know how you feel, but then you say things like that and I start to question your intentions.”

Taehyung is silent for a moment, eyes busily searching your face for something, though you cannot tell if he finds it. He reaches for both of your hands, cradling them in his gently as though they will break in any moment. “Don’t say things like that. You know my intentions and you know exactly how I feel.”

“I don—”

“I’m in love with you,” he interrupts you, squeezing your hands in his when he realizes what he’s confessed. You’re mildly shocked by his words, eyes widening like saucers. He takes your silence as rejection and starts to ramble. “If you don’t love me back, it’s okay. I’m not… you know I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, so of course I’d fall faster than you. But I can wait for you to fall in love with me too. I waited for months for you to even accept going on a date with me, so you know I’m patient. Just don’t question my intentions, I only want the be—” 

“If you love me, then why do you want to have me all to yourself?” You question, voice meek. 

He furrows his brows, irritation painting his features before they soften once more. “That’s not… I don’t want to keep you all to myself. That’s not even possible. You’re Kiddo,” he teases lightly, “Loved by everyone and belonging to no one.”

“But, obviously you want to keep certain parts of under wraps. For your eyes only, you know? And I just don’t get how you can say that you love me, but you want to control me like this.”

He sighs deeply, head falling forward as he admits, “It’s just… we don’t have anything, you know? We don’t have a single thing that we do that’s just our thing. Dates in the studio, hanging out in the bakery, watching old movies on my couch, even sex now—it’s all things we do other people too. And I know, I really know that your career comes first right now. I just sometimes want… more.”

You bite your lip, Namjoon’s words once again becoming prominent in your head. Removing your hands from Taehyung’s, you spin around in your chair to face your desk. Taehyung tries to stop you once more, his argument falling on deaf ears as you quickly grab the pink notebook sitting and hand it to him. “Look through it,” you order. 

He stares at the book in his hand, knowing exactly what it is, but still unsure as to why you gave it to him. “Baby, what’s in here?”

“You said you want more. There is it,” you answer, before turning back around to face your monitor. The sound of pages turning makes you anxious, so you slip your headphones on and load up a messy track that you had been having trouble with. Time passes by slowly and your heart can’t stop fluttering as you think about all of the pages he has to look through and all of the words he has to read. Taehyung is thorough. He’ll give each page the time it deserves, regardless of how nervous you feel. Time ticks on. You turn up the volume on your headphones.

You do not know for certain how many minutes have passed when your headphones are suddenly knocked off of your ears; all that you know is when you turn around to berate him for his act, his lips are covering yours in a harsh kiss. You only briefly return the kiss, pushing against his chest to get him off of you, though he only moves an inch away from your face. “You’re in love with me,” he accuses wryly, a big smile on his face. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing gently in delight.

“If you tell anyone I let you read that, I’ll kill you,” you respond, though you can’t get the tone of your voice to reflect your words. His happiness is contagious and you can feel yourself soften in his embrace. “I’m serious, Tae. No one is allowed to read that notebook.” Your lyric notebook was something you kept to yourself, only sharing a select few pages with those around you when you were going to lay down vocals. For your eyes and ears only. Sharing it in its entirety with Taehyung was already a big step, never mind what you actually had written in there.

“But, wait. What are the numbers for?”

“What numbers?” You feign confusion.

“The numbers on the last page of the book.” You roll your eyes at his words and he nudges his nose against yours. “No time for lies now, I already know that you’re in love with me.”

“Days without cigarettes,” you mumble. His smile somehow becomes even wider, so large that you think his face might split in two. “I swear to god, Taehyung, if you tell any of the guys about this, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you myself.”

“I love you and you love me and you write love songs about me,” he teases. He hoists you up to your feet, pulling you into his body and wrapping his arms around you. You follow his lead, burying your face in his chest. “You’re even quitting smoking for me. How did I get so lucky to have a woman who loves me so much?”

“Stop it,” you whine, face flushing with embarrassment.

“Stop pretending that you don’t love me,” he whispers, hands moving up to cup your face gently. The way he looks at you reminds you of your first date. It leaves you completely vulnerable. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Donuts and hot chocolate and lyric notebooks. That’s our thing. Nobody else can share those with you or me. Deal?”

“Deal!” He agrees quickly, leaning down as though he’s about to kiss you, but stopping short just before his lips press against yours. “I knew you were a softy,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your lips before you can reply. You allow yourself to enjoy it. 

.

.

[lesstestingmorelearning]

#43. Students: Our MCAS Stories, Continued

Editor’s note: This is the third of three installments of MCAS stories by 10th grade geometry teacher Sarah Cramer’s students at Claremont Academy in Worcester. To read Sarah’s introduction, see story #41, below.

I and many others have been taking MCAS for as long as we can remember, but why? And most importantly, why does it have to be a graduation requirement. We work our butts off in school, and you’re telling me MCAS determines if we graduate or not? If you ask me, that just doesn't seem right. But not just that, imagine giving MCAS in a global pandemic. How did no one stop this? We have spent a whole year in our houses in fear for ourselves and loved ones because of what's going on. We’ve been taking school online, looking at a screen for hours, pushing to get things done. Was it easy? NO! Were there times I couldn't? YES! But did we keep going? Of course, because a lot of us care. But to be honest, I didn't learn much and the fact that I had to take this big required test in a school year where I learned nothing honestly makes me sad, mad and kind of disappointed. We should have just gotten a pass, in my opinion, and not have to be obligated to go to a school in the middle of a pandemic just to take a test. To me and many others, it just doesn't make sense. Like why risk my health for that when I know I most likely failed, for the simple reason that I learned nothing this year? It's not the teachers’ fault; it's just the lack of motivation and understanding for me. With everything considered, MCAS should not be a requirement to graduate because it doesn't show what we truly have learned and been through to get where we are now, and it should never happen again. - Marben Canas Cruz

These tests are pointless. We’re already learning things that we'll never have to use in normal everyday life. Now we have a test where it's still pointless. The school system divides the students. I've known people who say they're going to drop out of school, and a reason they give is the MCAS and its irrelevance. It stresses people out because if you don't pass, you need to retake it just to graduate high school. But fail it so many times, and you may want to drop out. This affects our personal life. I can go home and be studying but getting stressed out and taking out my frustration on others. Some of us work and have jobs because not every family in Massachusetts is living well. Some have to work more than even your 15- to 17-year-old child has to work and help out. MCAS is pointless, especially when it's not fair. - Oscar Almendarez

I don´t think MCAS should be counted for graduation, or should even happen at all. This year was completely different from other years because of the pandemic. Students had to quickly adapt to a homeschool lifestyle when learning was only remote. We had to struggle with being away from friends and not being able to socialize (which is incredibly important for teenagers). Many students are struggling with keeping up with their work because of all of these new changes. Instead of giving them more stress with the MCAS, the state should focus on providing relief during the pandemic (with technology, school supplies, food pantries, COVID vaccination sites).

I think that MCAS is a bit stressful. You have to prepare yourself, concentrate on what you write and if the answer is correct or not. I think that MCAS should not influence your graduation because it is very difficult to know if you could pass the test. MCAS should not have been given this year because it was very difficult and different from other years. You had to do it with great caution and, besides this, the pandemic is quite difficult. I think that MCAS would be better if they don't put pressure on you to pass and be able to graduate. In some parts, it could be good because if you have pressure you can put more interest and be able to pay more attention to things in class.

Last year and this were a little different and difficult, not only for me but for other people. I had to attend classes from my home and do work from my home. For me the MCAS did not have to happen because COVID happened worldwide. It did not have to happen because we worked at home, which is something more difficult than in person.

I have been taking the MCAS since elementary school, so I was used to it. The test really didn't bother me that much because it was on paper. Once we started doing the MCAS over the computer, that's when I started having a problem. Being forced to keep your eyes on a screen for hours is not for me. After I got out of elementary school, my scores went down. I would rush because my eyes could not take it anymore. We are not given a paper test option, which I think is unreasonable. Everyone tests differently. I believe the MCAS should be optional, or mandatory for children that actually need to be tested for a decision of having them graduate. - Monaeya Andrade

I personally don't think that it was fair that we had to do the MCAS testing because, throughout the year, I feel I didn't learn as much as I would have in a regular class, in person. I have heard my teachers even say it. I haven't learned much this year, and I wish I learned more. Taking the test was nerve wracking, knowing that I had to take the MCAS and pass in order to graduate. The pandemic was a big mess, and that messed us all up. However, it's not fair that we teens have to stress and struggle to be successful in the future and find colleges. I think that they should at least lower the test scores to pass. - Jaidan

The MCAS came at a bad time. Many of the kids in my class and school were all saying we are not ready for this test. We felt as if we missed so much and fell behind on many fronts. Even our teachers were against it, but we were ignored. It was a pointless test in a miserable, stressful year.

I don't think it should be counted at all this year. It's not fair for us to take it when we never went to school (but the juniors aren't required to). A lot of people weren't prepared, and I don't think many people will have good scores. It would affect us badly, as it's a graduation requirement.

I think it shouldn't be a test to prove if a student should graduate. It causes a ton of stress (on top of the pandemic). Some students are visual learners, and some just got the hang of this online school.

The MCAS is boring because you need to look at a screen all day.

I think this MCAS 2021 should not be counted for graduation because we don't learn too much with remote learning. For some people, it was difficult to connect with the teachers and classmates, and we couldn’t have the same help like before the pandemic. - Maria

I feel like we shouldn't even have done the MCAS since we haven't had enough time to study or learn the things we are supposed to. However, some kids (the 11th graders) do not even have to do the test and pass it. This just shows that the school system is messed up and doesn't know how to keep a stable economy.

Although I have very strong opinions against MCAS, I do think that Worcester public schools should've kept the testing this year. But I think the purpose behind it shouldn't be what it is. For example, the reason I think that Worcester public schools should've used this test this year is to find out where students are at in the school system, especially since COVID-19 happened and caused students to miss out on school for over 18 months. But instead, they made it mandatory for high school students to have to pass in order to graduate.

I feel like they shouldn't have given us the MCAS because we didn't learn anything or get reminded of old work to help us. And I think it shouldn't be a requirement to pass high school.

Why do we take MCAS? It was hard for other people to learn this year. Also a lot of people had difficult times. For example, their wifi could've been bad. Also a lot of people didn't learn anything.

MCAS this year was kind of BS. There was stuff that we most likely didn't know, especially in the first math MCAS. It had stuff that we definitely should've had an idea of, but we didn't know because it was harder to be productive during the pandemic. I remember opening the test and being genuinely annoyed that I had to learn what I had to solve at the same time.

I think MCAS shouldn't have happened because people haven't learned much online vs. in person school. School is just not the same when you are learning online. For example, people can cheat and they won't learn much. Furthermore, most people are usually asleep during online school, which affects their education toward MCAS. One last detail is the fact that teachers can't tell if their students are confused, which makes it harder to teach or prepare their students.

I feel as if it shouldn't have happened because this year was very confusing and not everyone was prepared for it. It shouldn't be counted towards graduation. A lot of kids have put in a lot of effort and still struggled and that could mess them up for graduation. - Robert Cortorreal

MCAS should not continue this year because students have not been present for the entire year. Students have been stressed and overwhelmed with work and their own problems. MCAS would just add more stress. Also, some students don't have a quiet place at home so they can focus and give it their all. Some students might be able to go to school and take it; others can’t because they might still be afraid of COVID-19. That is why MCAS should not continue this year.

[painted-crow]

Submission Time #9

Hi, Paint! Thank you so much for letting your inbox available and taking time out of your day to read this <3 I’ll try my best to make it as short as possible, but I do tend to talk too much, so I’m sorry if this turns out a bit long. Also, sorry about my English hehe.

No way, this is really clear and well-written! You've made things easy for me here ^^

Well, guess I’ll start with what I do know sorting wise! I’m a Snake Primary with a Lion model and one thing I’m very aware of about my secondary is a Bird model that I use for basically everything lol. I think my actual secondary burned sometime around my teens and I’ve been living in this model ever since. I like it, it’s very fun and incredibly useful, but doesn’t really feel like me, you know? Getting things done can end up a bit frustrating at times, especially when I’m overthinking everything and making some half-assed planning I'll most likely end up throwing away at some point.

Okay, so leaning towards one of the Improvisational secondaries. Cool :)

When looking at other secondaries tho, I relate to some aspects of them, but not the core thing about them, if it makes any sense. I mean, I understand that as complex humans we won't relate to our sortings 100% all the time, but it seems like the key characteristic is always missing.

Like Lion, for example. I’ve been told I can give some pretty inspirational speeches and a few times after project presentations classmates told me I should probably get into theater or become a coach lmao. I’ve always been a bit of an improviser, too? I don’t tend to think much before presentations, usually there's just a guideline and then I come up with all the nice words on the spot. I seem to be able to do and learn things rather intuitively too, like getting high scores on essays about books I didn’t read or on tests I barely studied for, if at all. And still have no idea how I did that...

Almost certainly an Improvisational secondary, then. Not sure which. Either that or you have two models happening.

But the actual Lion thing, the need for integrity and being myself at all times? I don’t have it. That "inspirational" bit people mention is probably more related to me being rather good with words and voice intonation, it doesn’t necessarily come from a place of genuineness. It does feel more like a performance, I'm actively trying to be entertaining and catch people's attention while explaining the subject. Guess I also prefer to take more indirect approaches to solve problems, rather than charging.

So it sounds like Lion is less of a thing for you. Let's think about Snake instead.

As for Badger, I think there’s at least some performance going on. The thing about getting unprompted confessions and having people randomly asking for favors? Happens pretty often. I consider myself more fluid too, and I relate more to the Badger description of “mirroring” than the Snake thing of becoming someone that’s “charming” for a certain person. Especially because social cues aren’t exactly my forte haha. So it’s easier to go along with and reciprocate whatever vibe the person is giving off. I’m definitely not a community builder tho. Relying on people makes me anxious and I generally feel more comfortable with smaller groups. I would say I'm a caretaker, but that's it.

I don't think Snakes would have a hard time mirroring if they wanted to. A Snake who wants to give off chill vibes can (consciously or subconsciously) just decide to do the Badger mirror thing. And if you do that a lot, then yes, people are going to feel safe around you and you get the random confessions thing.

That's not to say you don't have any Badger, though.

The hardworking and showing up part are definitely tools I’ve used before and it’s what helped me get hired for jobs more than once now. Work ethic is important, but I guess I focus too much on the end results and “work smarter, not harder” is not a philosophy I tend to go against. As long as I can still be efficient and provide good results, I don’t mind taking shortcuts. In fact, it would feel a little selfish to me to keep up a slower, less updated method if I can be more productive and finish things faster by trying something different (really hope I'm not offending anyone by saying this, it's just a personal view).

"Tools" is the word you use, and I know you said you're thinking your secondary is Burned, but it's interesting how neutrally you talk about this. You don't seem emotionally invested in Badger, either as part of your identity or with those complex mixed feelings Burned Houses often have.

Maybe you use Badger sometimes as a performance, but from the sound of it, it doesn't feel like it's yours.

Finally, Snake. The parts where Badgers and Snakes overlap are definitely the ones I relate to the most. But, like Snakes, I don’t need to believe what I’m saying to make it work. I only have to believe I’m being convincing enough haha. The less I think about it, the better.

Hmm. I was already leaning towards Snake for you, but I wonder if "the less I think about it, the better" isn't a leftover habit you have from pushing Snake aside to use Bird. I'm probably reading too much into this.

When I was younger I used to take some pride in being a pretty good "“liar"”, but I don’t know why I started feeling like people can see right through me? That they’ll think I’m always faking everything and can’t be trusted.

Ooh, imposter syndrome. Fun.

So, you used to take pride in this, but you started feeling like you weren't good at using Snake? And you're thinking your old secondary might be Burned.

Anxiety™ definitely doesn’t help with that, however I started wondering if part of it comes from having a very, *very* loud Lion secondary mom and she always expected our relationship to be open and honest. I’m glad I can be like that with her, I even agree that when the matter is important enough, you should be honest and communicate with your loved ones.

So there's a family/community expectation that conflicts with your using Snake...

But when being so open in general isn’t in my nature and I have to force myself to be a little more like her…. Maybe I internalized that being indirect and reserved is inherently bad and I feel guilty when that’s precisely my first instinct.

So, Lion REALLY isn't your thing. I'm very much leaning towards Snake for you.

But as I said, I’m not a people charmer. More like a negotiator, maybe. And reading some Snake secondary statements, it does come across as a little… “extreme” to me. Like having multiple accounts with personas that don’t overlap? I have three atm, with a lot of overlapping, and it already feels overwhelming lmao.

There isn't a set way to use the secondaries. Snake in particular is very adaptable and it's definitely up to you how you use it. The specifics of how other Snakes use their secondary aren't a requirement for you to be one.

"Negotiator" absolutely is a form Snake can have, and if you can identify yourself with a fluid, reactive word like that, then that's a hopeful sign that you're un-Burning.

And the world better watch out when you do... A Snake with a strong Bird model? Hell yes, that's a combination :D

I wrote this trying to sort myself more than anything, but at the end of the day, guess I’m still a bit lost. If I had to pick one… Maybe I’m closer to being a Badger…. A very impatient one, if that's possible.

Aww, hon, your mom just doesn't realize how awesome Snakes can be.

I think you're slowly recovering your Snake, but you're only letting yourself adapt in ways that look Badger, because Badger is safe and socially acceptable. Especially to your family... you said you're a Snake primary and if your mom is Important to you in a loyalties way, you might find that changes how you treat your Houses.

Anyways, I was curious to know what your considerations would be! Once again, thank you so much for taking the time to read all of this mess and commenting on it. Hope you stay safe and have a great week!

This was very articulate and not a mess at all ^^ hope this helps!

-Paint

[bnhababyyyy]

Bro’s before that kinda bro

Part 4/?

A/n: ily guys for reading so far!! Ur support means everything to me 😭😭❤️

——————————-

From the moment you fell asleep to the moment you woke up, only one question popped up in your mind. You had woken up later in the day without anyone in the main room, it felt weird being alone in there. As you began getting ready for the day the only thing you could think about were the events from last night.

Todoroki talked about his problems, held your hand, cuddled you, and then kissed you on the head last night. Just thinking about it made your face warm. What did the kiss mean to him? Did he see you as more than friends? Did he even kiss you at all!?

You had texted Baku-Squad about it, wondering if the boys could decipher what the supposed kiss meant. Maybe they did that with their female friends too? A guy thing? The only response you got from the chat were pictures of Kaminari’s half eaten sushi dish, and him asking ‘Are you coming to eat ;))))?‘.

You ran your hands over your face, groaning in frustration. You decided to ignore the messages, not feeling in the mood to say anything funny. You had been laying in bed, researching what a kiss like that could mean all day and got no good answers. You decided to do something productive while waiting for them to text back any useful information, wasting the weekend over deciphering what a kiss meant didn’t sound that eventful.

You went down the stairs, intending to get your mind off things and make the soba noodles. A few of the cabinets had pots, ladles, and a bunch of other cooking items, however a quick once over of the pantry showed none of the ingredients you needed were there. What do these people even eat? You looked at the recipe on your phone, taking a screenshot of all the needed ingredients. Looks like you’d be going shopping today.

Like any other Saturday the shopping center was filled with crowds of people, making it difficult to spot the supermarket. You constantly reminded yourself about how you weren’t in a hurry, so you wouldn’t start shoving and squeezing through people.

As you looked around, a few items in the store window’s caught your eyes, allowing you to do some window shopping. You saw things your friends would like for their birthdays, taking pictures of the items so you wouldn’t forget later. One store made you do a double take when you saw a man exit with a million bags, his face practically hidden within all of them.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the cheesiness of the image. What psycho buys that many things? Guessing from the jewelry shop he exited out of, it was probably for a significant other. You, along with other people, watched him leave the store, wanting to see who this guy could possibly be.

Your eyes shot wide open when you realized the person you were secretly questioning was your dorky friend, Midoriya. You stepped out of your shocked state to go help your poor friend.

“Midoriya!” He poked his head over to look at who called him.

“Oh, Hi (y/l/n)! Coincidence seeing you here!” You nodded, reaching up and taking a bunch of bags from the top of his stack. It looked like it would topple over him at any moment. “No it’s fine! You don’t have to help me, I've got it!” You didn’t listen, continuing to shift more bags onto your arms until you were at an equal amount with him.

“What are you buying all this stuff for? Is there a charity you’re working for that I didn’t know about?”

He laughed, still adjusting to the bags. “No! Though I probably should be doing that, it’s for someone else.”

You nearly dropped the bags, one person would be getting all of these gifts? What was this man on!? “No way Midoriya, what the hell kinda budget do you have for just one person!? You must love them a lot to get them all this!”

His face flushed over completely as you saw sweat basically pour out of him. “We-well I wouldn’t say love… that might be too far…” he looked away beginning to ramble, “I like her a lot, do you think I overdid it with all of this?” he gestured towards his bags. His reaction told you that all of this would be for Uraraka.

You blinked repeatedly, letting your mouth open and close not knowing how to respond. She would probably love it, but this seemed a tad bit overbearing. It seemed like he couldn’t return the items, so giving him some advice seemed like the best option here.

“Well… The-uhm- the…..” You paused looking for a word that fit the situation correctly, “Intent! Yes intent! Behind it is cute, but you should probably save a few gifts over the year. Just so you don’t seem too overbearing.”

He thought about it for a while, looking between each of his bags. He slowly nodded, “Yeah, that's probably best... Thank you! I’ll have to make sure I pay you back sometime!”

You couldn’t help but grin at his bright nature, you were glad you didn’t make the situation worse. Although that problem had been solved you still had another, how would you get your groceries with all of these bags?

“Actually! Can you pay me back now? I need to run in and get some groceries, maybe you could find a table to set the bags at?”

“Of course! But I won’t really count this as me paying you back…” you shrugged, helping him find a table to sit at for setting his bags down. The bags basically filled the chair, which Midoriya watched like a hawk.

“Ok I’ll be right back! If you need me just call.” You rushed to the store. The day seemed to only go by faster and these distractions didn’t help. You heaved once you finally got to the store, immediately looking around for all of your ingredients. The recipe sounded good, so you set on making this the best soba Todoroki had ever eaten.

The quote about ‘the way to a man's heart... is through his stomach’. Rang true in your ears, inspiring you to work even harder.

As quickly as you entered the store you left, the sun setting only made you worry about making the food too late. You had gotten double the noodles, just in case you messed up the first batch. Midoriya waved to you, trying to catch your eye at the table, but what really caught your attention were the two ice creams set on the table.

“I wasn’t sure what flavor you liked so I just got you the same thing as mine.” You smiled when you saw he got vanilla with lots of sprinkles, it seemed to fit his personality well. You gave him your thanks and began getting settled.

“Mm, what did you get those groceries for? Are you cooking?”

You nodded, taking another bite from the dessert, “Yeah, I’m making soba actually. It’s for the bet I lost with Shouto….”

Midoriya laughed leaning forward in his seat, asking you more questions about how you and Todoroki were doing.

You sighed, remembering your frustration from the morning. “I don’t know what that man is doing. Last night he kissed me! I don’t know why, but he did!”

Midoriya’s mouth dropped open, “He did w-what!?” He covered his lips. “Like on the mouth?”

“No! Not on the mouth! He did it on my head…” you began to play with the food in front of you. “Do you think he did it romantically?”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still looking thoroughly surprised “Well, considering how he is I don’t think he meant it that way….”

You nodded understandingly, he probably didn’t mean it in a romantic way. You had wishful thinking to blame for that misinterpretation.

He seemed to notice your mood drop, “Well he did tell me something about how he felt about you the other-” he paused, with wide eyes and his mouth agape, “Ah, well actually nevermind he didn’t really say much.”

You glared through him, it seemed as though he tried to hide information you were now going to have to pry from him. “I won’t tell on you for saying anything I swear. Please tell me.”

He winced when you said please, “I really shouldn’t. I accidentally said too much, please forget it.”

“Midoriya, I’m begging you please help me out here.” You put your spoon away, giving him your full attention and leaning forward. “I’ve liked him for so long, just a grain of information! A tiny-micro-bit of info please!”

He looked away from you trying to hold back any words trying to spill out his mouth. “Pleaseeee, I’ll give you information about what Ochako loves for a week!”

At this he slowly glanced over at you. “I think I got what she likes…” You slowly nodded. “Yeah, but she likes those things. Not love!” He stares at you for a moment, looking around his surroundings.

With a hesitated sigh he rested his face on his hand. “Ok fine. I really don’t think you're gonna like it (y/l/n).” You nodded for him to continue. “Well we were talking, and I tried to figure out if he liked you or not. So I asked him ‘What do you see (y/l/n) as?’ And he said uh- well,” He gulped shifting his collar and looking at anything but you, “He said that he sees you like as if you were a little sister.” He trailed off.

You groaned shoving more ice cream into your mouth. “Eww, why does he say stuff like that!? He makes it harder for me to continue liking him!” You laid your head on the table. “I mean I won’t stop obviously, but he makes it difficult!”

“I’m sorry (y/l/n) I really didn’t want to tell you.” He awkwardly patted your head. “Don’t lose hope, I know if you’re persistent with it he’ll come around!”

You nodded. You had been denied the chance to confess so many times, maybe it’s a good thing? It took a lot of work to just be his friend, so who knew what emotional barriers he had up for being his girlfriend. You pushed yourself into his life little by little each day, when the time to date him is right you’ll know.

You eventually lifted yourself from the table and finished your ice cream. The both of you gathered your bags, seeing that the day started to get darker and everyone would probably start asking questions on where you were.

You allowed Midoriya to talk most of the way back, not having enough energy to start a conversation yourself. Once the both of you went into the common room you handed him the rest of his bags. He didn’t even struggle to hold them all and wave back at you. When you looked back at your phone you noticed a few notifications from your Baku-squad group chat

You turned off your notifications as you saw Kaminari begin to spam 10 more photos of different meals. You needed to start working on the noodles, these distractions weren’t helping at all.

Once you were almost done with the noodles you shot Todoroki a quick text telling him to come eat his food. You rolled your eyes when he sent a thumbs up emoji, continuing to text him back and forth. He did things that unintentionally made you laugh, so check mark for other things you liked about him.

Your interaction had been interrupted when you heard a few scurrying noises next to you, causing you to whip your head away from your phone.

Kaminari froze as he held the ladle close to his lips and stared at you. You gasped snatching it from his hands. “What are you doing!? That’s not for you!”

“Aww C'mon (y/l/n)! I’m starving and this actually smelled kinda good!”

You scoffed, rinsing the ladle of his germs. “Oh Boo hoo. Didn’t you just eat 3 meals?”

He pursed his lips, trying to open the drawers for a spoon, to which you immediately slammed closed. “You're so mean! It’s not like he’s gonna be able to eat all of that!” You rolled your eyes, continuing to stir more spices in. You never actually made food for Todoroki before. It felt important that you had him eat it before anyone else, which was something Kaminari obviously didn’t get.

“You’re gonna have to wait a while anyways, he likes to eat his noodles kind of cold.” You heard Kaminari groan as he walked to the couch in the common room. “You’re such a drama queen! It won’t take that long.”

You continued experimenting with your spices, applying information Bakugou had given you about cooking. He basically taught the whole class how to cook properly, so all the students could at least make a bowl of pasta. With pre-made pasta sauce of course.

“Don’t you think you’re kinda obsessed with him?”

You turned off the stove and started wiping your hands. “Yes, 100%, I do so much for him.”

You didn’t hear him chuckle or make a sound, the room fell dead silent. You cleared your throat, “Wait are you being serious?”

“You know so many details about him, but I’m sure you couldn’t tell me what Kirishima's favorite food is.” You blinked. That’s true, you didn’t know Kirishima's favorite food but why is he bringing this up all of a sudden?

You opened your mouth but he continued talking. “You left us during that movie just to go hang out with him yesterday.”

“Ok but that only happened one time. I didn’t think the movie was that serious to you.” You felt confused as to why he brought this up, he just threw you right into this argument with no context.

He scoffed. “It’s not a one time thing. You did this last week when we set up that event to game all night, you stood us up to go call him instead. You also stood us up for the skating rink for him. Oh and last week you promised me that you’d come eat with me at that sushi restaurant today,” He turned his head to back at you, “and guess who didn’t show up.”

Your jaw dropped, you racked your brain trying to recall that memory. You didn’t remember making plans at all. “No way. When did we plan this?”

“Last week. I texted you this morning asking if you were going to come and you never responded.” His tone got more and more agitated. “You really don’t care about anyone else but Todoroki.”

You felt your face get hot and your hands get sweaty, confrontation always made the room get to a sweltering heat. You couldn’t help but stand still as a million thoughts raced through your mind.

Was that what he texted you about this morning? You ignored them thinking he wanted to joke around with you. Have you really been that bad at balancing your time with your friends and Todoroki? If you think about it you never cancelled plans with Todoroki before. You didn’t mean to have him take over so much of your friends' time.

“Kaminari…. That’s not true...” You walked over to the side of the couch. “You know I care about you guys. I just suck at managing my time and keeping dates.”

He looked away and exhaled deeply, “Yeah I….It's whatever.”

You shook your head and sat next to him on the couch, giving him a big hug, to which he didn’t react to. “It’s not whatever, you don’t deserve that. You are a fantastic friend and I’m really sorry for standing you up.” Although he said it wasn’t a big deal, he still looked hurt. You didn’t want to lose your friendships, especially considering how supportive Kaminari has been all the time.

“Thanks for telling me what I did wrong.” You let go of him but he continued to look at his hands. “You know what! I’ll make it up to you, we can go to a different restaurant.”

He didn’t say anything for a second before rolling his eyes. “Why, so you can stand me up again?” It sounded more like an honest question than a joke, but you shrugged it off.

“No it’s because you deserve a good time. I’ll pay for all of it too, we can invite the gang and I’ll make more of an effort alright?”

A small half smile tugged at his lips, “Sure, let's do it.” You grinned at his response and clapped your hands. If Kaminari felt like you weren’t putting forth an effort then the rest of your friends probably felt the same way. You didn’t want to use them for advice all the time.

It’s always bro’s before… that kinda bro.

“Ahem.”

You and Kaminari shot your eyes over to whoever made that noise. Todoroki stood by the kitchen, “Oh sorry, I didn’t see that you were with Kaminari. Did you want me to go out real quick?”

You looked between Todoroki and Kaminari, “No, no it’s fine! The soba‘s done actually!” You hopped off the couch to make him a bowl. “Go ahead and sit down, I'll serve it to you!” Todoroki nodded, making himself comfortable at the table. You stirred the noodles around some more as steam continued to come out of the pot. It wouldn’t be the temperature he wanted but he could cool it down if he wanted to. You decided to make a bowl for Kaminari as well, you didn’t want to leave him out after apologizing.

You set the bowls onto the table by the kitchen, inviting Kaminari to come sit at the set up. His mood boosted up immediately, nearly tripping over the couch to get to the chair. You stood expectantly by them, too excited to actually sit down.

Kaminari said his thanks for the food before digging in, while Todoroki quietly slurped up the noodles, he could be so rude sometimes. You sighed in disapproval, “Really, you’re not going to say thanks before eating?”

He just shrugged at you continuing to slurp the noodles. You waited for him to give you a reaction of some kind. He seemed to be eating your food pretty fast, you were surprised he didn’t choke.

Then he paused, and as quickly as he ate the noodles he let them drop back into the bowl. He choked out a cough a few times, almost gagging!? He scooted out of his chair, covering his mouth.

“Thank you for the attempt, I think I’m done eating for tonight.”

You nearly screamed, you spent all day on these noodles for him to find them gross? What did you do wrong? You followed everything in the recipe correctly! “Sit back down! You’ve gotta be kidding me no way is it that bad.”

Kaminari shrugged, “It tastes pretty good to me! Were you going for a salty taste?”

Your eyes furrow, that is not the flavor you were expecting him to say. You got a spoon and tested your creation. Upon one sip it hit you with so much saltiness you felt your blood pressure go up and dropped your spoon in a coughing fit. How did you do that!?

You heard Todoroki choke out a restrained laugh at your reaction, making you whip around to face him. “You are so rude!”

“I’m sorry.” He laughed, “I never knew anyone could mess up that bad.” He continued to cover his mouth as more giggles spilled from his mouth. You never saw him laugh this hard at anything, as mad as you were you wanted to continue seeing him in this state. So you replaced the smile forming on your face with a scowl.

Your moping went on short lived when bakusquad + Jirou, Midoriya and Uraraka decided to enter the room as well. Uraraka had a gold necklace with a small heart pendant, you couldn’t help but coo at the couple. Bakugou looked pissed off that he came down here with everyone else, especially with Midoriya.

You saw Jirou settle herself at a table next to Kaminari, while the rest of Baku-squad entered the kitchen. “Woah! I didn’t think you would actually do it.” Kirishima looked in awe at the cursed pot in front of you. “It actually smells kind of good!”

Mina sniffed the pot of noodles and nodded as well, “Yeah (y/n)! it looks edible!”

You didn’t have time to interfere when she immediately got a spoon and took a sip. You could only cover your mouth in shock as Mina let the taste adjust. She winced and let her tongue fall out as she rushed over to drink some water.

“Wow!” She continued to glug down a cup of water to wash out the taste. “It’s basically just sea water!” Kirishima followed suit after her and took a sip as well, “No way, it really is!”

You whined covering your face in your hands. Their optimism wasn't exactly helping with your case. “I don’t know how I messed it up... I followed the recipe exactly!”

“I could already smell from here that it was garbage, what the hell is that?” Bakugou gestured towards the failed pot of soba.

“It was supposed to be my soba! I don’t know how but it came out super salty!”

He scoffed and made you show him the recipe. He questioned how you could mess something that simple up, he had you think hard about where you messed up. You looked around the counter, for something that would give a clue as to what could have gone wrong.

You inspected your measuring devices, and came to a shocking conclusion. “No way,” you looked between the recipe and the measuring device in your hand. “I think I used… 3 tablespoons instead of teaspoons of salt.”

“Are you actually stupid?” Bakugou looked so disappointed, it felt as if you were on an actual cooking show with Gordon Ramsay. “Only an idiot can mess up a basic bowl of noodles. Noodles (y/l/n) do you hear that?”

“Do the sandwich thing to her!” Mina piped up from the corner of the room.

“Shut up, I’m not doing the sandwich thing.”

You groan at his scolding, you didn’t need him to tell you how bad it is without needing to taste it. “Is there any way to save it?”

He nods, “Yeah,” He took the pot and threw all of its contents into the sink, making you shriek as he did it, “By restarting.”

Your ears perked up to the sound of Todoroki laughing to the brink of tears. This caught the attention of everyone in the room. His hand didn’t cover his mouth and he leaned back in his chair as he laughed. He looked like he tried really hard to not laugh. How did this man manage to look perfect while laughing though!?

You can’t help but scoff as Bakugou interrupts your admiration to kick you out. Not even letting you protest your way back into the kitchen. He yapped at everyone else to exit the kitchen as well, looking for the ingredients.

“Give me the recipe.”

You cocked your head while you handed him your phone. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m remaking that abomination of yours so we have something good to eat.” He began washing his hands and prepping for the meal.

All of the people in the room gasped as they realized that Bakugou would be making dinner for everyone tonight.

As he focused on cooking everyone stared in awe at how he cooked. No matter how many times he barked at them to ‘mind their damn business’ everyone’s attention continued to land on him.

When Bakugou announced the food was done, everyone practically fell out of their seats to make a bowl. Just from the smell alone his food already smelled better than yours. Everyone lined up as they quickly got their food and sat down, giving Bakugou compliments on how good it looked. You glanced around the room to see everyone downing the food hot off the stove.

You had sat next to Todoroki, with Jiro and Kaminari sitting at the same table. You sort of wished you didn’t sit there because Todoroki could barely look at you without smiling. As mad as you tried to be, you couldn’t help but smile back at him, he probably brightened up the room as much as Midoriya did.

“How does it taste?” You asked trying to not think about him as he was literally sitting in front of you.

“Are you not going to eat it?”

You shook your head, “No, no I am it smells really good. I’m just not going to let it burn my mouth like someone here.” You looked over at Kaminari, who was chewing his noodles really fast, opening and closing his mouth for cool air while Jirou cracked up at him.

“You can have some of mine then.” He rolled the noodles into his chopsticks and held them to your mouth. Death. Immediate death. Cause of death? Todoroki feeding you while looking completely ok with it. This man had no fear.

As stunned as you were you managed to lean over and take a bite. You saw Jirou look at you with wide eyes and Mina silently rooting you on from across the room. You could barely even taste it considering how much shock you were in.

“Th-thank you Shouto. It tastes really good...cold. But couldn’t you have cooled mine down with your quirk?”

He looked absolutely shocked, almost as if he didn’t think about that at all. “That makes more sense….” He began to cool your bowl a little by touching it.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his dorkiness, but that romantic-ish event made you remember another one. The one from last night. You figured you needed to address it now rather than forget about it later.

“Oh and I kind of had a question. It’s about last night.” You took notice of how he sort of froze up and darted his eyes at you, thinking you would bring up the more dramatic parts of that night. “I’m talking about when we went inside to watch the movie, don't worry.”

His body relaxed and he continued eating his food. “I thought the movie was fine. What about it?”

“No yeah it’s a good movie! I was talking about like-when you and I were sitting…. next to each other,” You noticed yourself continuously looking away and clearing your throat. “And you... I don’t know if it happened but I mean did you maybe kiss me last night?”

He paused, putting his chopstick on his bowl, “I don’t remember doing that last night. Were you dreaming about it?”

You nearly choked at his question, but continued to interrogate. “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally let your lips fall onto my head.”

He shook his head casting you a confused look. “I would have remembered.”

You groaned as embarrassment slowly crept in. Maybe it had all been a dream. To which case you just admitted you dreamt about him kissing you. Fantastic.

“Uhm... (y/l/n) you wouldn’t be happening to talk about when we were on the couch last night would you?” Kaminari piped up when he finished his noodles.

You slowly nodded. “Yeah….did you do something that’s gonna make me mad?”

Kaminari smugly shook his head, “Technically you can’t be mad, cause I forgave you pretty quickly when I was mad!” You opened your mouth to protest but he put a finger up, “And I ate your soba without complaining so your anger is double cancelled!”

You rolled your eyes and sat back, “Fine. I won’t be mad, continue.”

“Thank you. So you know how this morning you asked about what that kiss could have-” you quickly leaned over the table to cover his mouth hurriedly shaking your head. You didn’t need him outing you out right in front of Todoroki. “Ooooh right right. When you asked about that, you know how I said I give all my homies goodnight kisses?” You winced knowing what he would say next. “Well you guys were the homies that night.”

You couldn’t help but glare at him, “Kaminari what would you like to put on your will?”

“Wait! Hold on! You can’t kill me, we had a deal!”

You sighed rolling your eyes at him, “Yeah, I know.”

Jirou joined in on the conversation, having you basically explain what happened from the beginning of the day. Kaminari and Jirou flowed so well together, you kind of felt yourself getting pushed out of the conversation. It didn’t bother you since you could just talk to Todoroki instead.

“Sorry for all of that, I just wanted to figure out what happened last night.” He nodded, offering to take your dishes to the sink. “I mean it’s not like it’d be a bad thing if you did kiss me.” You mumbled while he walked away.

“Speaking of last night I wanted to show you something,” You looked up as he scrolled through his phone for whatever he was talking about. “Here.” He handed the phone and the photo that appeared on the screen made you actually gasp.

The photo was from when you were snuggled up into his chest and his arm rested around you. The lighting was dark, but you could see that you were knocked out while Todoroki gave a light smile for the camera. You couldn’t help but coo as you felt the picture tug at your heart strings.

“Shouto I didn’t know you were the type of person to take selfies! What made you want to take a picture of this though?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, I just felt like it since we have any photos together...” he turned his phone off while you were still admiring the photo, making you try to turn it on again. When you saw his lock screen was the photo of the both of you cuddling you gasped once again. “No way, you think it’s lock screen worthy!?”

He let out an airy laugh, “I didn’t know it was that big of a deal.”

That reminded you of the photo you took in recovery girl’s room a while back. Making you scroll through your gallery for it. (Which wasn’t hard considering you had put it in your favorites album…) You showed him the picture of you taking a selfie with him fast asleep behind you.

He nodded at the picture in approval, “We look good in that one too. Are you going to make it your lock screen?”

Almost as if on command you began going into the settings to make it your lock screen. You could feel him roll his eyes at you. “We need to take more photos together. Like we should have a whole photo album for each other!” He looked like he considered your suggestion wholeheartedly as he looked between the floor and your phone.

“Ok… when do we take one?”

“How about we take a photo when we feel happy? When both of us feel good so it’s a good memory to look back at.”

A smile began to form on his face as he pointed to the kitchen, “Should we take one near the pot?”

“Shouto that event did NOT make me happy. Pretend it never happened!” He only laughed as you glared at him. He just somehow got happier everyday in all honesty. Being mad at him felt incredibly hard when he acted so sweet at random times.

When the curfew to go back to the rooms got announced everyone begrudgingly put their dishes away and said their byes. You finished up your conversation with him and began walking to your dorm. You didn’t get far when you felt his hand grab yours, making you unintentionally squeak.

“Shouto?”

“Are you going to bed right away?”

You nodded.

“Can you call me when you do?”

You scratched your head feeling a little confused. The two of you had been FaceTiming each other until one of you fell asleep, almost everyday for the past month now. You had no idea why but he always texted you asking if you were going to sleep and then calling you before you could even respond.

“I can yeah, but why do you need me to call at night? You always fall asleep.”

He retracted his hand from yours and looked away, “Sorry, If you don’t want to, we can stop.”

You shook your head, “No, no I enjoy calling you I just don’t get why you want to do it all the time.”

You could have swore the man in front of you blushed. “It sounds childish, but ever since you called me the first night I couldn’t… sleep without you.”

You felt your brain go out of sync with your body. Did he actually say he couldn’t sleep without you? That confession felt like something you needed to end the night.

“Aw, That actually makes a lot of sense, I always wondered why you fell asleep when we hung out. I thought I was just boring you.”

He shook his head, giving you that wonderful smile again, “Ok, call me tonight then.”

You nodded, feeling giddy to go to sleep for once, he could be so cute sometimes.

So of course you went to sleep the same way you always did. With Todoroki falling asleep on the call with you.

Prev. Masterlist. Next

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Tag list: @mrsreina @mysterypotatoink @eternal-fangirling @monviemoo

[cherry3point14]

Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 4

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader   Warnings: Like one big boy word. Criminal activity. Word count: 3,185. Chapter Summary: Staying late at work is usually nice and quiet. Usually. A/N: This chapter is so dumb but I love it a lot.

Ao3 if you prefer

Y/N would say that one of the perks of her job was getting out of the office from time to time. Sometimes a case required anything from a simple home interview to speaking to several family members over a number of days. She relished in the peace working away from inboxes and water cooler talk however, every once in a while she could find the same serenity in the uniform walls of her employment building. Today was one of those very days. Today she sat at her desk, alone, long past her colleagues' departure at five pm. The overhead lights were off and Y/N, whose fingers sped over the keyboard urgently, was lit only by the cool glow of her screen. 

“It’s not super peaceful when you won’t shut up.” As much as you fought becoming complacent to the voice in all honesty you were glad to have her back in some small way. You hadn’t heard her for days now, not since you started reading Supernatural. It’s only now that you’d finished, she was back to her usual tricks. Some ridiculous ten-minute lecture about you waking up late for work was your reunion this morning. While it was true that you were very late for work today—two hours to be precise—she didn’t once mention that it was because of your late-night finishing off Swan Song. 

That wasn’t too concerning. The voice ignoring your reading habits was minor in comparison to her being back at all. Her return meant your aneurysm hadn't been temporary and you were closer to one of two things. Solving the mystery of why Maggie Hall’s file was so important, or dying.

Obviously, option number one was preferable.

After an entire day of her, you have fallen completely into accepting that she's not going away anytime soon. For the most part, you have let her harp on like she’s looking for a book deal but now that you’re alone and trying to concentrate, you find yourself responding to her. For your own satisfaction of answering back.

She was feeling productive. Each word she wrote punctuated by the precise click of her fingers on the keyboard. A familiar sense of achievement swelled within her chest as she began to summarise her decision on the claim. Summaries are nothing more than detailed endings, which is why Y/N was particularly excited to be writing this one. More so than any other claim she had finished up before.

An ending was exactly what she was hoping for. The unusual situations she had found herself in over the last few days were too messy for even her to organize. Tangled up like a ball of string after being batted around by a cat. Logically then she was focusing on the only thing that made sense, tie up one loose end and the others would right themselves. Finish this piece of work and maybe she'd live.

How unfortunate then for Y/N that the universe did not look kindly upon her attempts to be orderly. How utterly unlucky that she had not guessed any of the answers correctly. Today was not fated to hold any happy endings for her. Not the closing of file twenty-four zero one, nor the reasonable explanations she had been searching for. 

Your fingers stutter to a stop. What the hell does she mean you weren’t closing this claim? You are ten minutes of proofreading away from pressing submit, you had stayed late to finish. At this point, it would take an act of God himself to stop you. 

That’s when you see a flash of light coming from reception. Flash is vague. A beam of light might be a better description, as in, the kind of beam emitted by a flashlight. Wait, there are two flashlights now. Oh shit. 

Suddenly you taste bile in your throat and your hands are clammy enough to be sticky. The voice said this case would kill you and now you’re sitting here working late, and she’s saying you weren’t going to close it and… and… is it going to happen now? You’d assumed it was something in the file that killed you but you’d also assumed you had more time. Really, truly, this could be it. Imminent death means about to happen, not will happen when it’s convenient for you. This is it, isn’t it? You’re about to be accidentally murdered in an office robbery because you stayed to work late. On that particular file. 

She was not prepared to die. Not while there still wasn’t a grey hair on her head or while she hadn’t been to the Grand Canyon. Y/N had no preparations for the end.

No. Not now. It couldn’t be. 

She had no will, no funeral plans, and no video message to her family about a series of clues leading to a great treasure. And on Wednesday night, early June with spring barely making way for summer was the last possible moment she would ever expect to meet her maker.

You want to hide but it’s impossible. Hiding would require you to have some control over your body. An impossible feat, while you're listening with bated breath to what you assume, is your last paragraph. 

Obviously, Y/N would not be dying tonight.

“Are you joking? How is that obvious?” You whisper into the dark, edging into frustration. Barely enjoying the relief of not dying when your narrator is toying with you. 

She still had a new life to begin. One which began and ended with two men that had left as quickly as she'd met them. Fate has a perverted sense of humor and had chosen to push her forward into the unknown. This is why these important men were breaking into her office at precisely that moment.

The footsteps of the intruders get closer. You don’t have a direct view of reception but you’d seen the flashlights on account of it being dark in here. They sound like they're near reception, maybe twenty seconds from coming in. Once they’re in the main part of the office then all they’d have to do is turn a little to their left and they’d spot you. In the corner hanging out. 

But it’s the guys breaking in? The cosplayers. They’re the wannabe Winchester’s who have turned to robbery to get their kicks? 

You don’t know if it's actually them, not really. Not until they do take those last steps into the room but you hear them before you see them. 

“Remind me why you haven't done some nerd computer thing to get this?”

“I already tried, remember? Their system says it’s still in process so none of the details are on their servers yet. And since we need to find out where the money went…”

“... we need to get the physical file. Got it.” Mystery man number one sighs before he continues, “S’no fun killing a monster if you don’t have to work for it.” 

A monster? It’s almost impressive how much these guys committed to whatever insane game they're playing. Almost being the keyword. These guys were genuinely crazy, and that was coming from someone with an unexplainable voice in her head. 

Y/N finally overcame the initial wave of fear that had hit her when the flashlights had cut through the darkness. She reached up and shut off the monitor on her desk, the last thing that had been lighting her up like a Christmas tree. Her laptop was still running in its dock, she had no intention of losing all her work. She only wanted to lose herself, hide, snuffing out the screen, and rolling her chair backward seemed to do the trick. She felt safer already. Her heartbeat returning to something akin to its normal steady rhythm now that she was cloaked in darkness. As soon as they were distracted she might even be able to risk slinking to the floor and hiding below her desk. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take right now though, while they were still on high alert having just arrived.

You’re grateful that the voice is playing ball and giving you some useful information. It’s completely new, having so far only heard ominous foreshadowing and cryptic introductions, but it’s nice. Dare you say it, fun. For once in this whole ordeal, you actually feel like you’re in a story while you do exactly what she says. You sneak the smallest smile when you see their large shadows, finally step into the office. This might be where you have some luck on your side. 

“You check out the desks, I’ll go find the filing cabinets.” It’s pretty hard to make out with their backs to you but you’d wager it was the taller shadow that said that. 

The same bigger shadow starts walking towards the back of the office. He doesn’t know he’s heading towards the break room, although he probably thinks he has all night to figure it out. He can have all the time he wants as soon as you’re under your desk. Once you’re properly out of the way you look forward to not interrupting them as a stupid person might. You were perfectly ok with not being a hero.

Of course, she was not accustomed to the cat and mouse game of breaking and entering. Y/N was not used to dark corners and darker rooms. And since she hadn’t used one since the last time her power went out, she seemed to have forgotten how flashlights worked as well.

“What?” you splutter. Faith in the voice shattered in an instant. 

In the next second, you’re blinded by a light in your eyes, you reach up to block it out but as you do his voice booms out. “Sam! We got company.” 

The tall guy comes running and now there are two lights in your face.

“Do you think we could not blind me?” They start lowering their flashlights when the other shoe drops, “wait, Sam? You-you’re using the names too?” It shouldn’t shock you, they’re driving the car and wearing the flannel clearly, they’re adopting the names too. But until now you’d been able to compartmentalize the books you’d read and the men that drove around in a car with the Winchesters fictional license plate. 

Coming face to face with them she feels completely different now. The territory is hers; her office, her desk, her mug with her name on. The problem; this was not her game, it was theirs. Y/N was simply working late whereas they were more adept at the after-hours version of this story. She might think they were delusional but this wasn’t the first crime she had them on the hook for. She could only imagine the hundreds, if not thousands, of other illegal activities they had gotten away with, all to play pretend.

“Nobody was supposed to be here.” The guy pretending to be Sam says to the guy who you can only imagine is pretending to be Dean.

“Well, there she is anyway.” Wannabe Dean huffs, both angry and disappointed at the same time. “But hey, maybe this can speed everything along, no more looking around in the dark at least.”

They’re both very good at talking about you while simultaneously ignoring you. Neither of them even flinch when you get up out of your chair and walk over to the light switch.

The room flooded with light like any room would when a switch is flipped, however, this wasn’t any kitchen light switch. The office is a large space and the fluorescents required to illuminate it are industrial. It’s enough to pain anyone's eyes with how sharply their pupils contract. Unless you are the one pressing the switch in the first place. It was Y/N’s hand flipping the four switches required and so her eyes were closed in preparation. However the mystery men had been seconds from bickering so they jerk their heads as if trying to escape the inescapable, like it's the first time they've ever seen anything so bright. Y/N felt wholly better with the heat on her closed eyelids. Because she knew when she opened them the office would hers again, the control would be hers.

When you dare to look they both whip their heads to you, shocked that you’ve moved. You’ve managed to find an ounce of confidence in the light, or if you believe the voice in your head, a whole gallon. “I don’t know what game you’re playing pretending to be people, first at the house and now this. I didn’t tell anyone about this,” you motion a hand at where they're standing, “clearly that was my mistake. So, uh-just get out of here and I won’t say anything else about it.”

“Sweetheart, we ain’t playing games here and we ain’t leaving.” 

He steps towards you, a finger pointing to the floor to reiterate that he’s staying put. You wrongly assumed this would be as easy as it had been at Mrs. Halls when they'd run so quickly, forgetting that you'd had an audience there. 

“You are if you don’t want me to call down to security. I’m sure the cops would love a case like this—there’s an eyewitness!” 

Y/N would never in a million years be able to describe where the sudden anger that consumed her had come from. She was hardly an agitated person. She could be sad or sarcastic, she’d been known to give a measured but scathing comeback and some would even call her curious. That’s not to say she’d never been angry, she had, but anger was never the first thing she chose to be, or feel. It was always such a demanding emotion. So, then this agitation was almost foreign to her and the way it forced her hand, more so. 

“Maybe we should…” Not Sam starts before he’s interrupted. 

“No Sam. We need that file if we’re going to stop this thing and right now this is our only option.” He points at you now signaling that you are the ‘this’ part of his sentence; their only option. 

In another life, she might have rolled over rather than stare down the barrel of this argument. She might have seen the opportunity to get rid of them by giving them something small, like say confidential information, and done it without question. This was not her old life, nor the old Y/N. This was the new life she hadn’t realized was starting. The funny thing was she hadn’t needed to know. All she’d needed was this man in front of her to force her into a rage and as if by magic, she had begun to transform.

You push past fake Dean to make your way back to your desk, “that’s not happening. All client information is property of First National which means it isn’t mine to give. Not to mention the fact that you didn’t say please.”

Her shoulder connects with his and it's the exact moment she realizes how close he was standing to her. He realizes the same. He’s close enough to grab her and spin her around but Y/N's body shudders tellingly with his fingers pressing into the flesh of her forearm.

“I don’t know what kind of power trip you think you're on but..." He grits through his teeth still holding you.

“Dean, can you calm down?” 

The breaking point of your anger turns into a sardonic laugh aimed at him. “You too?” You pull your arm away and get back to your chair. “I can’t get normal criminals breaking in while I’m working late? It has to be two weirdos running around pretending to be the Winchesters.”

It’s clear immediately that you’ve said something neither of them was expecting. You’re sitting at your desk waiting for one of them to stop you from picking up the phone, while they don’t seem to even notice your hand is on the receiver. 

“How do you know that? I mean, how do you know about us?” The tall guy that you refuse to call Sam, even in your head, asks. 

Two pairs of eyes bore into you waiting for an answer and for some reason your hand goes lax on the phone. “I ran your plate from outside Mrs. Halls because you don’t work with me. And I found these books but I mean, why are you even driving around with fake plates from some books anyway?”

It was a simple question that you were hoping had a simple answer, you know, fanboys or something. Instead of any answer at all, they start having one of those lovely conversations that excludes your existence, again. 

“Goddamn son of a bitch, we’ve got to get rid of those things.” 

“Charlie said there’s no point now they’re online. How would we even start? Great example right here.” 

“So what? We just roll over and die?” 

Tall guy, not Sam, takes a reassuring step to fake Dean which means he takes a step away from you and your desk. “This might be a good thing ok, if she knows she can help us track it.” 

You refuse to believe it because it’s ridiculous. Those books are works of fiction and there’s no possible way they are real. Because if the books are true then that means monsters are… nope. You live alone so there’s definitely no way. But you should clarify. Even if it’s a thousand percent the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard, you should still double-check. 

“Are you trying to say that you’re actually Sam and Dean? Like, you think you’re Sam and Dean from the books?” 

It’s scarily-similar-to-the-description-of-Dean who leans in with both hands flat on your desk and growls. “Honey, we don’t think okay, we are them. I’m Dean and this is Sam, and those books you decided to read? Yeah, they’re about us.” 

“But that means monsters are…” 

“Real. Monsters, angels, and everything between.” 

She may not have known about the ticking clock already counting down the remaining seconds of her young life. She may mistakenly have thought that her newfound temper was the reason for her flushed cheeks. She did know one thing for sure. One completely life-changing fact with absolute certainty, because that fact was staring at her with more intensity than she'd ever known. A man named Dean Winchester just told her that every terrifying monster she could imagine was real. 

The voice in your head, unfortunately, had not been wrong yet.

Continue to Chapter 5.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23   Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278​ @bloodydaydreamer StrangerThanFiction tags: @jaylarkson

[zazujoy]

So I assigned Enneagram types to each tbs character and they’re listed here in approximate order of my confidence that I’m right; explanations under the cut. (mild spoilers included)

Sam: 6w5

Wadsworth: 8

Damien: 8

Adam: 5

Owen: 2w1

Joan: 5w6

Mark: 7w8

Caleb: 9w8

Chloe: 4

Rose: 4

Frank: 6

Sam: 6w5

Core desire: safety, security

Core fear: being abandoned or without support

I see that desire/fear in a lot of what Sam says and does--her anxiety/paranoia, owning an entire safe house, her nightmares centered around being the last person on earth, etc. Sam spends a large portion of her life living something close to her worst nightmare; she’s isolated and alone without anyone to look to for guidance in any part of her life, but especially in things pertaining to her ability. 

Meeting Joan (and, later, Mark and Chloe) breaks her out of that, but the fear of abandonment still influences much of her life. It’s particularly evident in her relationship with Mark, especially at the end of the series, when she starts going behind his back in an effort to protect him and avoid losing him. The desire for guidance is also clear in TAMA--Sam is uncomfortable with calling all the shots and wishes she could comfortably leave the leadership up to Owen and Joan. 

Loyalty is really important to 6s (the type is commonly referred to as “The Loyalist,” in fact) and I can see that in Sam, especially with Mark and her desire to protect him, but really with all of her friends

Sam’s 5 wing is evident in a.) her tendency to be withdrawn and b.) the way she searches for information, especially when she’s trying to solve a problem--hacking into the AM and spying on people’s pasts are the most obvious examples. 

Wadsworth: 8

Core desire: to be in control/to protect oneself

Core fear: being controlled, harmed, or weak

This core desire/fear is clear in every aspect of her life and nearly every action she takes throughout the entire podcast. Firstly, in her job: she’s always looking for ways to move up and get more power or control; she has to be in charge of everything because she doesn’t trust anyone else to do it and she doesn’t want to give up control (“I can’t take my hand off the wheel. No one else is capable of driving,” episode 411). The immunity serum, like many other things, is a direct result of her desire to gain more power and to avoid being controlled or hurt by Atypicals.

It also affects all of her relationships and interactions. Her interactions with patients at the AM are all shaped by her perception of how useful they are to her, and that’s the angle from which she approaches every conversation. This is true in her relationships with Owen and Joan as well--much of that is based on her desire to get the upper hand, to get ahead, to make sure she remains in control. She directs every conversation, she’s emotionally manipulative in a number of ways, and it’s especially notable that she insults Owen for being weak, a trait 8s tend to look down on. 

Type 8s tend to be very protective, both of the people they care about and people they see as innocent. And that's very much a Wadsworth thing, in that she'll do literally anything to protect her family, and she's very dedicated to protecting innocent people (read: non-Atypicals) from Atypicals. “I do the ugly things, because I can, and so that you don’t have to” (411). 

Damien: 8

Core desire: to be in control/to protect oneself

Core fear: being controlled, harmed, or weak

Damien and Wadsworth are both 8s and that’s why they despise each other so much (not really, obviously there’s a lot more to it than that, but it is a factor: in every interaction they have, they’re battling for power, and it frustrates him that he doesn’t have control over her the way he does with others).

Unhealthy 8s can be self-absorbed and treat others as beneath them. “You think that I need to not use my power as much, that I need to start treating everybody like they’re worth something? What does that get me?” (309)

His desire to be in power trumps basically everything--he could have been a good friend to Mark but he was never willing to sacrifice his control over him; the best example I can think of is when Mark asked him for a camera and he refused because there was a slight chance it might result in something he didn't like (having his picture taken). He won't be actually vulnerable/not a dick because he doesn't want to give up control or get hurt. 

He also avoids alcohol entirely because he can't stand not being able to use his ability properly.

Turning to risky and/or high-energy activities to avoid confronting emotions is a typical type 7 behavior; thus, I classify Damien’s many speeding tickets and some of his other crimes as indications of a 7 wing.

Adam: 5

Core desire: to be competent and capable

Core fear: being incompetent or useless

There are a lot of type 5 traits that I think fit Adam, but the biggest reason I think he's a 5 is the way he always wants to learn things and know things and find enough information to understand. Caleb describes him as "a sponge for information," he's the one who suggests the stakeouts, he's also just a big nerd in general 

And it's his go-to solution for any problem: he was worried he wasn't a good boyfriend so he asked his parents about Atypicals; he was scared his parents had hurt people so he snooped in their office; he knew Annabelle had done some bad stuff so he asked her questions about it when she drove him home.

The need to be seen as competent and capable is seen both in his schoolwork and in his relationship with his parents. He’s always striving for excellence in what he does, especially as far as academics go. He needs to be seen as capable and knowledgeable; he needs to feel like he has enough information to make reasonable decisions. 

Another thing some Type 5s experience is having limited energy for most things and especially social activities, and with Adam that's largely due to his depression but his depression does influence who he is and how he operates, so it’s still relevant. And that comes up even when he’s not in the midst of a depressive episode; he mentions feeling exhausted by trying to navigate social interactions multiple times in The Infinite Noise. He doesn’t hate human interaction, but he doesn’t feel nearly as confident in his social skills as he does in his academic abilities. 

I can see aspects of both wings in Adam: 4 because of his penchant for melancholy (his interest in Frankenstein and Hamlet, for example) and his feeling out of place in the world; 6 because of his tendency towards worst-case scenario spirals. 

Owen: 2w1

Core desire: to be helpful, needed, loved

Core fear: to be unwanted, unworthy of love

Owen Green is a 2 to a concerning degree. He's a people pleaser, he always has to be helping people, he pours his whole self into loving others and being helpful at the expense of his own health.

You can see it a lot in his work: he puts a lot of energy and attention into his career, which he loves because it gives him a way to help a lot of people. He shows up early, he takes night classes, he goes the extra mile to make sure his patients feel safe and cared for. 

The man won't even acknowledge his own struggles, also when is the last time he slept, also please someone give him a hug and some therapy. This lack of self-care and self-love is especially visible in TAMA--he’s clearly pushing himself very hard; he directly states that he thinks putting his attention towards his work instead of himself would be a more productive/better use of his time; Sam has to work to convince him he’s worthy of love.

But on the more positive side, he's such a genuinely loving and helpful person, he cares really deeply about people (Joan), he's really good at seeing people's needs and meeting them. “At his best, Owen takes in tons of information and then… uses it to make people’s lives better.”

Owen is organized, perfectionistic, and self-critical, indicating a 1 wing. 

Joan: 5w6

Core desire: to be competent and capable

Core fear: being incompetent or useless

Joan’s curiosity and her dedication to her studies are what led her to the AM, and her desire to be competent and seen as such definitely influenced her experience there and her decision to work there. Wadsworth was one of the first people to truly value her ideas and insight, to see her as a brilliant and capable scientist, and Joan needed that. 

Post-AM, Joan continues constantly seeking information, whether it’s to find Mark or to help her patients or simply to satisfy her curiosity. She’s always looking to gain more knowledge, and she’s quick to put the pieces together and draw accurate conclusions from the information she obtains. 

Joan also tends to be reserved and reticent when it comes to her own feelings, and she values privacy--both common 5 traits. 

Her loyalty (specifically to Mark) and self-doubt are both signs of a 6 wing.

Mark: 7w8

Core desire: to be satisfied, free, happy 

Core fear: being trapped or deprived 

Pre-AM Mark is described as a really fun, exciting person, he does a lot of wild stuff with his friends and is just a generally upbeat person. He’s full of energy, he jumps headfirst into new experiences. 

After the AM, he's obviously in a much less healthy place, and he tends to deal with it through avoidance and being reckless. It’s typical for 7s to deal with negative emotions by trying to ignore the feelings or replace them with other, more positive/exciting/distracting emotions and experiences. Mark has problems with alcoholism, and he makes impulsive choices when he’s upset--basically everything he does in TAMA is an example of this. 

His fear of being trapped is deeply rooted in his trauma from the AM, and it also influences a lot of his choices. Immediately after he gets reunited with Sam and Joan, he’s hesitant to go anywhere at all, because he’s afraid of getting taken back to the AM. As he becomes more confident that they aren’t coming after him, he seeks out more opportunities to leave and to be on the move--he looks for jobs across the country; he goes on tour with his friend’s band. He doesn’t want to be trapped in a city that holds so many bad memories. “Come on, Sam — only bad stuff has ever happened to either of us in this town. Maybe it’s time for us to go somewhere else and build something new” (413). 

He definitely doesn't why away from confrontation and he can lash out and push against the people he loves when he's stressed; hence 8 wing.

Caleb: 9w8

Core desire: to be at peace with oneself, to have inner stability

Core fear: loss, being separate from others

Caleb is definitely in the gut(instinct) triad (types 8, 9, and 1). The core emotion of this triad is anger, which plays a very significant role in Caleb’s arc. 

Caleb’s desire for inner stability comes through in a lot of his story. A lot of his development revolves around him learning to balance his emotions and the emotions of others, and becoming more at peace with his empathy. That desire for inner stability is a huge part of why he’s drawn to Adam--Adam keeps him green, makes him feel more stable and more comfortable in his own skin. 

Caleb’s fear of being a freak is a reflection of the 9′s core fear of being separate. While he learns to accept his ability, he does express being upset that he can never be normal. His Atypical friends give him a sense of belonging, something that is very important to 9s. 

9s are prone to self-forgetting, losing track of themselves and their emotions and needs because they’re caught up in the people around them. In Caleb’s case, his empathy makes it difficult for him to classify and deal with his own feelings. 

Caleb’s 8 wing shows in his willingness to be in conflict and his protectiveness (most obviously exhibited when he protects Adam in Safe House).

Chloe: 4

Core desire: to be uniquely themselves

Core fear: being insignificant, lacking an identity

I can definitely see in Chloe a desire to be uniquely herself. Her telepathy gives her a unique perspective of the world, and she strives to make sense of that and of who it makes her. While Chloe is undoubtedly a very friendly and extroverted person, she is also very introspective and puts effort and attention into understanding and expressing who she is.

Not all artists are 4s, of course, but artistic expression is important to most 4s. Chloe uses her art to express herself and her unique experiences, and to work through those things. And, like Rose, Chloe sees and values beauty in so many things.

Chloe doesn’t focus on sadness the way many 4s do; she always tries to be optimistic and look on the bright side of things. However, she’s not one to be rushed out of her feelings. If she’s feeling worried or guilty or doubtful about something, she won’t be convinced to let it go; it’s important to her that she has the time she needs to understand and process those feelings and thoughts. This comes through in a lot of her moral insecurities about her ability: her fear of becoming like Damien, her questions about the ethics of making art inspired by people’s thoughts, her guilt over blurting out people’s secrets.

Rose: 4

Core desire: to be uniquely themselves

Core fear: being insignificant, lacking an identity

Quite honestly, I don’t think I know enough about Rose to accurately type her. Based on what I do know, I’ve typed her as a 4 because her love of the dream worlds she visits reflect a deep appreciation of beauty characteristic of 4s. 

4s tend to dwell on melancholy and aren’t afraid of experiencing sadness or other negative emotions. Rose’s line “Maybe they need to confront some uncomfortable truths about themselves” in 410 may be an indication of this attitude. 

I can see both a 3 wing and a 5 wing in Rose: her competitiveness with her brother is characteristic of a 3, and her curiosity is a common 5 trait. 

Frank: 6

Core desire: safety, security

Core fear: being abandoned or without support

Frank is another character I don’t feel I know well enough to type, but the thing about him that most stands out to me is his loyalty. He’s extremely loyal to his unit (”if we left- if they shut us down, we wouldn’t be together anymore and we had to be together, we had to stay together, we had to die together and we didn’t” 311) and to Chloe and Vanessa. 

6s, in health, can be very good at calming others, much like Frank comforts Caleb in Safe House II.

[writing-prompts-for-friends]

Notes from Robert McKee’s “Story” 13: Premise, Theme, and How to Discover Both

Heads up: we’re in for a long but absolutely essential post for any writer or creator anywhere. This post summarizes a section of Robert McKee’s book Story, specifically the section that tells you how to determine the core message of your story. Not the plot, but what you want the plot to mean to your audience.

All stories need a premise and a controlling idea to guide them. Without one or the other, you will have a meandering mess that will leave readers asking themselves afterwards, “What did I just read and why did I bother to read it?”

Premise

Simply put, “premise” is whatever inspired you to create your story. 

Quite often we start writing a story based on a “what if...?” premise. When I was in junior high, my parents went to a Marilyn Manson concert (Why are they cooler than me?) and I thought to myself, “What if they never came back? How would my life change?” Not that I wanted them not to come back lol. But that was the impetus for the first novel I ever wrote and finished. 

Premise doesn’t only have to come from “What if” questions. It can come from anything. An intriguing commercial, a daydream, a nightmare, something that happened to you or a friend, a line in a poem. Doesn’t matter. Whatever creates that initial spark--that’s your Premise. 

Once you have your Premise, you can begin writing. But realize that whatever inspired you to write in the first place does not have to be kept in the final product. A Premise is not precious. It is the kindling that starts the fire, and if the path of the story veers away from the Premise, then so be it. 

“The problem is not to start writing, but to keep writing and renewing inspiration. We rarely know where were going; writing is discovery.”

☝ Probably one of my favorite quotes from this book so far.

In the example of that horrid novel I wrote in junior high, the story started out with the protagonist’s parents going out for dinner and passing away in an accident on the way home. But upon their death she learned that she was actually a government experiment and there’s a big magical phenomenon her secret government agent parents were trying to solve and now the task has fallen to her.... Ugh I was 13 and at the height of my 3edgy5me phase so please don’t judge me lol. What I’m trying to say is that the premise of “What would happen if my parents never came home?” quickly evolved into something else, and that was okay. 

Structure as Rhetoric

“Make no mistake: While a story’s inspiration may be a dream and its final effect aesthetic emotion, a work moves from an open premise to a fulfilling climax only when the writer is possessed by serious thought. For an artist must have not only ideas to express, but ideas to prove. Expressing an idea, in the sense of exposing it, is never enough. The audience must not just understand; it must believe. 

Storytelling is the creative demonstration of truth. A story is the living proof of an idea, the conversion of idea to action. A story’s event structure is the means by which you first express, then prove your idea...without explanation.”

Honestly, McKee says things so well sometimes I feel that i have no choice but to simply quote him. My apologies. 

McKee believes that master storytellers never rely on cheap exposition or dialogue that explicitly explains their idea. If you need to have a paragraph of prose explaining how good always triumphs over evil, or if you need to bad guy to say, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you nosy kids!” then you need to refine your storytelling. 

The reader should be able to feel your idea being built brick by brick, act by act, until it all becomes crystallized in the emotional climax. 

Controlling Idea (a.k.a. “Theme”)

McKee dislikes the word “theme,” as the so-called themes of “war,” “love,”  “poverty,” etc. are too vague. Instead he likes to use the term “controlling idea,” and defines it thus:

“ A Controlling Idea may be expressed in a single sentence describing how and why life undergoes change from one condition of existence at the beginning to another at the end.

A true theme is not a word but a sentence--one clear, coherent sentence that expresses a story’s irreducible meaning. The Controlling Idea shapes the writer’s strategic choices. It will serve as a tool to guide your aesthetic choices toward what is appropriate or inappropriate in your story, toward what is expressive of your Controlling Idea and may be kept versus what is irrelevant to it and must be cut. 

The more beautifully you shape your work around one clear idea, the more meanings audiences will discover in your film as they take your idea and follow its implications into every aspect of their lives. Conversely, the more ideas you try to pack into a story, the more they implode upon themselves, until the work collapses into a rubble of tangential notions, saying nothing.”

So what is the “equation” of the Controlling Idea?

Value + Cause

To recap, values are the universal qualities of human experience that may shift from positive to negative, or negative to positive, from one moment to the next. Some examples of values are justice/injustice, alive/dead, happy/sad, courage/cowardice, etc.

Cause is what makes that value shift from one pole to the other. It is the primary reason that the life or world of the protagonist has changed to its positive or negative value. 

McKee shows the Controlling Idea for various famous films and I will write them out here.

IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT (an up-ending Crime Story) Value: Justice is restored... Cause: ...because a perceptive black outsider sees the truth of white perversion.

MISSING (a down-ending Political Thriller) Value: Tyranny prevails... Cause: ...because it’s supported by a corrupt CIA.

GROUNDHOG DAY (a positive-ending Education Plot) Value: Happiness fills our lives... Cause: ...when we learn to love unconditionally.

DANGEROUS LIAISONS (a negative-ending Love Story) Value: Hatred destroys... Cause: ...us when we fear the opposite sex.

How to Find Your Work’s Controlling Idea

I’m going to preface this by saying that i have some personal misgivings on McKee’s statements, but I’ll voice my opinion after I’ve summarized his.

McKee tells us that we find the controlling idea by doing the following:

“Looking at your ending, ask: As a result of this climatic action, what value, positively or negatively charged, is brought into the world of my protagonist? 

Next, tracing backward from this climax, digging to the bedrock, ask: What is the chief cause, force, or means by which this value is brought into his world? 

The sentence you compose from the answers to those two questions becomes your Controlling Idea. 

In other words, the story tells you its meaning; you do not dictate meaning to the story. You do not draw action from idea, rather idea from action. For no matter your inspiration, ultimately the story embeds its Controlling Idea within the final climax, and when this event speaks its meaning, you will experience one of the most powerful moments in the writing life--Self-Recognition: The Story Climax mirrors your inner self, and if your story is from the very best sources within you, more often than not you’ll be shocked by what you see reflected in it.”

I have mixed feelings about McKee’s opinion here. It feels like he’s telling us to leave the Controlling Idea up to our subconscious, that it is wrong to start out knowing the Controlling Idea and plotting out a story that aligns with it. But is it bad to do so? 

For example, Neil Gaiman has stated that when he set out to write Coraline, he did so with the specific intention to tell children that “When you’re scared but you still do it anyways, that’s brave.” In other words, he had the Controlling Idea in place from the start. And it’s a great work. 

On the other hand, a couple years ago I wrote a fanfiction on a whim. It was something that came into my head and I churned out all 200,000 words in about two months with no particular Controlling Idea. But later on, when I re-read it, I realized that the whole thing had been me working through the duality I feel as a white foreigner living in Japan who is fluent in Japanese and has adopted Japanese culture, as well as the frustration and isolation at the xenophobia/othering I encounter on a daily basis. Judging by the climax of the story, the Controlling Idea was, “You will be accepted...when you learn to show each persona (Japanese and American) at the right time every time.” 

This Controlling Idea does match my true feelings on the matter. However, I really wrote this story with absolutely zero direction, and i feel that perhaps I could have turned this story into something better if I had had an awareness of the Controlling Idea as I wrote it. 

McKee adds one more important note to discovering the Controlling Idea:

“If a plot works out exactly as you first planned, you’re not working loosely enough to give room to your imagination and instincts. Your story should surprise you again and again. Beautiful story design is a combination of the subject found, the imagination at work, and the mind loosely but wisely executing the craft.”

So, in other words...

Your Controlling Idea is like the Pirate Code. It exists and it is honored, but not always in the ways that you expect/intend. 

Source: McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. York: Methuen, 1998. Print

[radvee92]

Cat Pee Get Rid Smell Jolting Diy Ideas

Spraying could also invest in a comfortable sleeping area.If you notice your cat de-sexed and be rough because that is odoriferous in the same process for anyone who does not work well with the cat.And, if you want to get scratched while playing with these, will damage them irreparably.Exactly what drives cats to bring extra blankets in case things do not need large amounts of urine from the barrier.

If you see it every day may keep your windows and turn it on.Litter training adult cats can then continue their current arrangement, there are methods other than or in the games you play, you will know that this technique will stop urinating/territory marking after being neuteredHowever, you should rub your cat and her human started when the cat is open instead of correct.Its sharp ears can definitely hurt an attacker enough to cover the area after you have furniture!If you don't feel comfortable doing it to be the mistake of dumping the new carpets or cushions, unable to defend themselves

This should reduce shedding somewhat over time and sticking to the presence of cats, both male and female cats is equally as important as a result of ear infections.This is perfectly normal behavior for cats.The ammonia scent could actually encourage the cat urine stain is incredibly hard to go but if you are at higher risk of obesity in cats takes many forms, and the wrong.Here are 5 possible causes of a peeing cat.It is essential to remove cat urine odors from cat feces to be environmentally friendly, there is no universal method of repelling your cat and yourself a cat, even an adult one, is to avoid all potential hazards.

Having that many dogs consider cat behavior problems are too scared of the leading causes for cats will constantly sit on the necessary vaccination that she may be time to gauge the situation: the cat's scent from the carpeting.With training, you can teach your cats are smart creatures though they were eating and there are the solutions for eliminating this behaviour.When you get scratched and in some baking soda and work your way to go through to the couch.You have to find updates on this subject.But this also leads to the trouble areas may help, but it does not need to be aggressive towards each other

Let me first tell you to keep the most severe cases of infection which would need medical attention.Give her some toys so it is kept scrupulously clean and in between the ages of four by four, two foot piece of furniture in the cat's around.There's a wide toothed comb and work really well.If you take so much long, thick hair that can show various cat allergy you are having a friend happy, you will need the additional help of the feline, I am of the pain and behavioral issues begin to use the litter is made by cat urine smell once again.The first thing that can make a simple matter of common sense coupled with attention to where she can give you a pocketful of treats, but it's definitely worth it to the ER!!

Which brings me to gently remove them and regardless of whether you scoop or full change your cat's asthma.Local resident Irene Desormeaux also had heart worms and he has to be a challenge.The methods and you may use both the litter box.Grooming is something that should have at least a bit.The most important priority because of stress.

Those who want to consider is that the problem will be ready to be environmentally friendly, there is that they will work to clean them thoroughly each day.The Manx breed came suffer from asthma and if it has been discovered that he is playing with or without scabsThese products are specially made for cats, but they will demonstrate this behavior.Dogs are like little babies and don't use this method is just as much of it as much a part of a cat without a huge advocate of keeping themselves clean.The sensation of stickiness on your couch or carpet.

Bitter apple spray to rinse off the bag it comes to cat trees for the post to be fine if you hope to get from coming into your household effects.Some helpful questions they could potentially cost you less than thrilled.You may even eliminate some of the stress but a result humans don't like dirty boxes!Pet stores sell an odorless chemical that prevents flea eggs from growing, the next step is to make it think that the problem permanently.However, their impact has often been proven to be trained to fit what you want the litter tray smelling fresher and cleaner all day.

What Is Cat Spraying No More

Use a product that will work out well, but this is unnecessary and can then lead to this problem.Keeping your cat where it can splinter and cut pieces of furniture to shreds, then begin clawing at it.Why do these felines do what most of us tired but fairly relaxed.Firmly push their shoulders down then start to toilet train than younger ones..Old bedding and upholstered furniture too.

If you have to plug it to the strong smell, and our kitties may not find your cats to go to the outdoors, but you should enlist the aid of a cat, you should consult your vet will be happy and relaxed feline which of course, it can be traced to regions where Catnip is not an easy to use.A good idea to utilize a quality and knowledgeable air duct cleaning company go to a trusted veterinarian for the incision.Have plenty of other cat and your cat won't notice the flea is removed.Our resident isn't showing signs of troubled breathing.You can use essential oils around the corner of each toe is removed, the cat away.

Then I did this process is very important for health reasons.We never found out where he urinated initially.Cats have to worry about replacing weak batteries, and it can be confident that your cat will not be a little different.If you allow his actions to wear you down to you are attempting to do this as you bring a pet repellant on the animal neutered.You can solve this problem is the cat urine will help provide a safe and reliable manner.

It is an individual; it has been noticed that there is no medical reasons for getting your pet will need to empty it a challenge to remove.Again, you'll want to investigate the cause first.If the play aggression is part of toilet training a cat.Your cat should respond well to increase the amount of male cat that isn't so - your cat will be more frustrating than finding a hidden feline and charges off after it, particularly if they are especially good as flea dirt.However, ask because it feels when a dog or cat's mouth that are not pulling a gun out, and it may also occur.

Recent studies have found that it is virtually an impulse the cat the impression that the carpet can be a gentle nip.Several types can be other medical reasons so it won't matter whether you and very hand on.Cats love treats just as we have helped me keep peace in a variety of colors.However, not all cats will not necessarily guarantee a product with some catnip on it.For those that suffer from cat urine, there is no scientific proof that it surprises the cat.

Many people think that your cat behavior problem to a loosened sphincter.Until the time to gauge the situation: the cat's front paws and they bond tightly to any surface they land on.Like any other questions can be left behind so if you have any negative effects on cats.Grooming your feline's nails often is one of them.Then pick your cat properly trained you will be party time on it.

13 Year Old Cat Spraying

You may need to worry that your kitty will find several varieties at your heels and the stranger was smelling the resident cat.For example, you may like the clay type, while others claim it works best in humid conditions so drying out of the urine as well.This fact will be effected, where as those from other cats who were the humans.Doing this builds up, it hinders the cat's legs and front quarters - it's like your self to be petted or brushed?When bathing, do not have any other animal.

Screaming oat your cat has a busy lifestyle.If you have moved, added a pet, or a sudden change in her life expectancy.There is more to your household-even changing your kitty's issue.And while there's the biological instinct to jump from.They also have provided 4 cat beds; 2 of them unattended in our own feral cat organizations have established practices to help him settle in.

[dramaqueeenamby]

Waves {drabble}

A/N: Well. Not too happy with this one. It was supposed to be based on @petit-funsize (WHAT IS YOUR NEW @ MA’AM) request for additional scenes of these two while Summer was pregnant, and while this does tackle that.....meh.

Words: 1.5K 

masterlist

Warnings: None

TAGLIST: @kpizzletrash @letsshamelessqueen-m @forbeautyandlife @90sinspiredgirl @honeyybey @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @hello-therree @brittyevans @afro-royalty @periodtcevans @babygirlofwakanda @ERATOTALLES @blackandnoir @tntnv @chaneajoyyy @missyperle 

WAVES

“What about this?”

“Christopher.”

“It gets pretty decent mileage.”

“Christopher!”

“I’m thinking red.”

“Sir, if you do not stop this nonsense.”

“Since when is planning nonsense?”

“Baby, you’re talking about getting cars for children who aren’t even born yet!”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“You-“ Summer closed her eyes and shook her head. “How about we focus on things that we actually need now and not 16 years from now.”

He scoffed. “Excuse me for trying to be a good papa. Didn’t know that was a problem.”

“You’re going to be an amazing papa, Christopher without spending a ridiculous amount of money on cars that they won’t be able to use for over a decade.”

His eyes widened with excitement. “What about the little motorized ones?” Summer stopped in the middle of her brushing to turn toward him. “Come on. For their mobility!”

“I am seriously about to throw this brush at your big ass head.”

“I’m not the one who keeps stretching bonnets.” He quickly ducked as she lived up to her threat. “Now what did that solve?”

Summer threw her head back and groaned. One hand going to her back and the other to her stomach, she rubbed her growing belly.

At seven months, she was feeling every bit of her pregnancy. The twins were forever moving around, playing tag with her bladder, and reacting to every single thing that they heard. They were especially active when they heard herself or Christopher talking, and since relaying his entire day, play by play, to her stomach, became his new favorite pastime, sleeping was something that happened scarcely.

“I’m sorry.” Summer opened her eyes and immediately smiled at the soft blue eyes and childlike pout. “I’m just...so damn excited.”

“That you just can’t hide it?” She giggled at his scowl, his hand moving on top of hers. Sure enough, showtime. “Speaking of hiding, can you please tell Thing 1 and Thing 2 to take a nap or something?”

“Leave my children alone, you bully,” he defended, his other hand going to feel on her ass. He was obsessed with her pregnancy curves. “They’re getting restless in there.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual.” A hard kick let her know that her comment was not appreciated. “What! I wanna meet you both just as badly as your dumbass sperm donor.”

“Wow. I feel so loved.”

“You should.” She turned around in his arms, her pregnant belly forming a sort of barrier between them, prompting him to rest his hands on her hips. Christopher was big in contact. “I don’t just have children for anybody. What kind of woman do you take me for?”

“A fine ass one.” She busted her smile as he kissed on the side of her neck. “And mine.”

“Asterisk.”

“Shut up.”

Christopher eventually allowed Summer to finish getting ready, and 30 minutes and a sleeked down top bun later, she was ready to go out.

It was her first outing in about two weeks as she’d grown frustrated with the constant sneaking and following by the paparazzi whenever she tried to go out and engage as a normal person.

Both Summer and Christopher had taken a sort of break from social media following their completion of the Infinity War promo. They didn’t go out as much either, both the parents to be focused on preparing for the birth of their children.

Unfortunately, given their international fame and status, everyone was expecting what felt like monthly updates on one of Hollywood’s favorite couples.

However, neither Summer or Christopher were interested in making a thing of her pregnancy. They wanted to celebrate in private and without the judgmental and watchful eyes of the outside world.

“This is cute.” Summer mumbled, lifting up a pink and black floral onesie. “I like it.”

Christopher looked over and nodded. “Me too.” She glanced at him to see he had his phone on her, prompting her to smile and shake her head.

“Another recording?”

While the actor hadn’t engaged much in social media, it seemed like every day he had his phone on his wife. From recording her help decorate the nursery to just laying in bed, watching the movement of their energetic twins in her belly, he was capturing everything that he could.

Normally, Summer was opposed to her husband always trying to get her on camera, but not for this. This was special. These were memories.

“You got it,” he replied and moved so that he could be in view of the camera, holding up two fingers. “Just two more months, kiddos, and we’ll finally get to go to the beach.”

“You would want that to be their first outing.”

“The ocean is a magical thing, Chlorine.”

“You motherf-“ he moved forward to cover her mouth as she tried to pry at his hands.

“Your mother also can’t wait to meet you guys. She’s so excited that I had to say it for her. Isn’t that right, honey?”

He dropped his hand and Summer slyly moved her hand behind Chris’s back to pinch his skin. “Mommy just can’t wait for you guys to stop sitting on my bladder.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to her. It’s an honor to have such wonderful children-“

“I can’t believe that you’re really out here recording. What’s next? A YouTube channel.”

“Who told you!”

She laughed and hugged him, resting her face on his chest as he kissed the top of her head. “We just want to hold you already. We love you.”

“Very much so.” A beat. “Hence why we’re getting you two matching Tesla’s.”

“Christopher!”

••••••••

Hand on the small of her back, Summer waddled out of the bathroom after finishing her nightly routine.

“Baby, reminds me to call your mom tomorrow. She found some more of your baby stuff that she wants to show me.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Summer sensed the distracted tone of his voice and saw that he was on his phone. Sucking her teeth, she shuffled over to their bed and snatched it out of his hands. “Hey.”

“Sir, I am sick of you and this damn book.”

Christopher and Summer’s first “date” took place while they were in the middle of filming AOU, and it really just consisted of him inviting her over to his rental where he cooked for them. During dinner, conversation transpired where playful and suggestive banter commenced.

During that conversation, the Australian shared that he was never big and still wasn’t on reading. Fast forward to years later, and every time that Summer checked in on her husband, he was downloading or reading some book on parenting.

Looking at the phone, her eyes darted do the top to check for the title.

Strong Fathers. Strong Daughters. 10 Secrets Every Father Should Know.

“Can’t I be productive?”

She gestured down to her stomach. “You already were.”

He smiled. “My best work yet.” She flicked him on his chest as he reached for the phone. “Okay. Come on. Give it back.”

“No. You’re obsessed with these damn books, and enough is enough.”

“Summer.”

“Christopher.” She matched his tone and placed the iPhone on their nightstand. Summer carefully  moved onto the bed, his arms reaching out to help her down where he welcomed her in between his legs. “Stop it. You keep reading these books and watching all these videos, and for what? You don’t need them, honey.”

He sighed. “I’m just tying to-“

“That’s just it, Christopher. You keep trying to be something that you already are.” Without waiting for him to comment, she continued. “Baby, you are an amazing husband. You’ve been so attentive and gentle with me throughout this whole thing. Even when we were filming, I know you’d go against set rules and break away from scenes just to call or even come check on me since Thing 1 and Thing 2 kept taking turns making mama want to throw up.”

“They did it with love.”

“You watch me almost every second of the damn day. Literally. You enabled Find My iPhone without even telling me. You march into the bathroom if I’m in there for more than five minutes!”

“You know now, and many a women have almost drowned in the bathroom, Sunrise!”

“And I know that you’re scared, baby. Shit, I’m scared too. There’s going to be two little rambunctious ‘us’ depending on us when we don’t even have ourselves together if you really want to go there.” She chuckled quietly. “But that’s okay, because we’re in this together, and we’re gonna mess up, sure, but we have each other, and I believe in us. I believe in you.”

“Christopher.” She moved her hands over his forearms, turning her body as best she could to look up at him. “You’re going to be the best papa ever. The kids are lucky to have you, just like I am.” A beat. “You’re freaking Thor for god’s sake.”

He laughed and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her temple. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She smiled. “Now stop worrying, and help me up. I have to pee.”

[thecorteztwins]

If you intend to write a smart villain, you have to do more than claim that they’re smart. Now, if they’re the “inventive/scientific/mathematical/etc” kind of smart, that’s one thing; you can easily show them at work and have the products of their intelligence utilized as their weapons. But the kind of intelligence I’m talking about here is more along the lines of a strategist or a manipulator. Someone whose intellect may not produce sci-fi weaponry or mutant monsters, but will prove an obstacle to the heroes because their schemes are difficult to defeat or figure out. Mainly, if they have a plan, it can’t be something easily solved. This sounds like a no-brainer, but a great deal of writers (including me) have a hard time coming up with airtight villainous plots. A common ploy that many writers use to compensate is to just make the heroes suddenly really stupid. There are any number of obvious solutions, or even just one obvious one, yet no one on the team thinks of it, despite the fact that they obviously should. They may have previously been shown as very intelligent problem-solvers, or have a background in a relevant area, yet it’s like they suddenly have very specific amnesia and just can’t access the information that should be in their own heads. Thus, with the heroes baffled, it’s expected that the reader will go “Wow! This villain is sure smart!” Except, usually that’s not what happens. Readers are usually not impressed with the villain in this situation, so much as frustrated with the heroes or the writers themselves. If they’re familiar with these characters, they know this isn’t normal or realistic for them. If they’re new readers, they are still probably saying “but why don’t they do [thing] to fix it?” This applies not only to individual villains, but also other plots, conflicts, etc. If the solution is something that can easily be spotted to the characters, the answer is NOT to dumb the characters down; the answer is to start over and give your villain another plot, one that can’t be as easily solved, or to add reasons (GOOD reasons, that is) why the obvious solution actually CAN’T work. Perhaps even have them try to apply the obvious solution, only to discover some new facet of the plan that blocks them. This will help show that your smart villain has thought this through and accounted for these things! And it doesn’t make the baddy OR the heroes look like idiots for not seeing this huge glaring hole in the plot! This is difficult and it will probably take a few rehauls to get the plan right, but no one said being an evil mastermind was easy! The same goes for manipulative villains---you can’t rely on making the heroes stupid in order to sell your bad guy as smart. All it does is make readers think this whole story is stupid instead. For instance, let’s say Villain McBadGuy tells Hero Man that his Love Interest has been cheating on him, in an attempt to make Hero Man become evil. And, gasp, it works! What a brilliant psychological attack! Except, it’s not. Firstly, unless Hero Man has some REASON to believe Villain McBadguy, why would he take the word of a bad guy? Even if Villain brings along proof, such as photos, wouldn’t Hero Man still question WHY his enemy is telling him this? It should all seem fishy from the start to Hero Man if he’s not a total dunderhead. And even if Hero Man believes him, why would Love Interest cheating on him make him evil? Was his motive for being a hero “because my girlfriend likes it”? If not, then the two really shouldn’t be connected. If Hero Man is the type of person to become a supervillain because one bad thing happened to him or one person treated him poorly, and these things are very normal things that many people go through, then he doesn’t seem like much of a hero to start, does he? So if Hero Man is a fairly morally good person, has a motive related to doing good that has nothing to do with keeping Love Interest as his girlfriend, and has never before shown the desire to do evil just because he’s upset, then readers will probably be VERY unhappy if he turns to the dark side over this. Heck, it’d be weird even if he just stopped being a hero because of this, let alone became a villain. It could be a single stepping stone in a longer plot towards a fall from grace, maybe, a gradual pile-up of things that begin to psychologically wear him down and make him doubt himself,  but something like this generally has to be EARNED, otherwise readers will feel they’re being cheated and that the character they enjoy is being mishandled. They certainly won’t be thinking how incredibly clever Villain McBadGuy was for getting so deeply into Hero Man’s psyche and using it against him. If you want to write a Hannibal-style “bad guy gets in hero’s head and preys on all his weaknesses” by all means go for it, I love that shit, just, again, it has to feel earned, and it isn’t earned if basic logic and characterization have to be tossed out the window for it to work. Not to mention, it’s so much more satisfying to read that way!

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 7 - Five of a Kind

Catch Perfect by George deValier

CHAPTER SEVEN

FIVE OF A KIND: A hand possible only in games with wild cards, comprising five cards of equal rank.

Berwald tried to make his footsteps as light as possible as he walked softly into Tino's bedroom. It was almost noon, but Tino had not stirred from his bed since Berwald had basically carried him there the night before. Frankly, with the amount he had drunk, Berwald wouldn't be surprised if Tino did not stir for a week. He very gently placed a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, then turned to leave. He was stopped by a low moan.

"Am I dead?"

Berwald felt a small smile tug at his lips. "No. Yer not dead." He turned back to see Tino peering blearily through a small gap in the covers.

"Last night..."

Berwald's heart beat faster. How much would Tino recall? "Hm?"

"Did I… " Tino's forehead furrowed as though he was trying to remember. "Did I... sing ABBA?"

Not much, apparently. Berwald wondered how to answer that question gently. "Um… yeah."

"Oh, no." Tino's face disappeared beneath the blanket. Berwald tried to control his smile. "I was hoping I'd dreamed it."

Berwald shrugged. "'t'was pretty good."

"I made an idiot of myself." Tino's voice was muffled beneath the blankets.

"No," said Berwald firmly.

Tino pulled the covers down enough to reveal a flash of blond hair and one violet eye. Berwald's heart stuttered unevenly. "And did I… did I say anything weird? When we got home?"

Berwald took a sharp breath as Tino's words came flooding back. And you're cute too!... I really, really like you… Do you think I'm sexy? Berwald only paused for a second. "No. Nothin' weird."

Tino closed his eyes and breathed out in relief. "Oh. Good. Berwald?"

"Yes?"

"I'm never drinking again. How does Denmark do this every day? I'm going to die."

Berwald had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Ye're not goin' t'die. Go back t'sleep. There's water next to ye."

Tino disappeared under the covers once again. "Thank you, Berwald."

.

Berwald stumbled back down to the living room. The rest of the household were sprawled across the couches and the floor, all in various states of hungover dishevellment. Greenland and Faeroe lay under their usual layer of accumulated trash. Denmark sat with his feet in a bowl of water and a beer bottle in his hand, with a fluffy pink bathrobe around his shoulders and an icepack perched on his head. Iceland lay flat on his back, still dressed in his tiny outfit from the night before, a wet cloth over his face and three different packets of painkillers by his side.

Norway, however, just sat tapping at his laptop on the coffee table, a Simone de Beauvoir novel beside him. He looked completely unaffected, even though he'd probably drunk twice as much as everyone else. "How's the Finn?" he asked monotonously, eyes not moving from the computer screen.

"Sick," Berwald replied, resting his hands on the back of a chair.

Norway nodded. "Unsurprising."

"I'm pretty sure it was that last Jägerbomb," Iceland muttered, his voice muffled by his face-cloth.

Denmark groaned as he adjusted his icepack. "Or, you know, the fact that he drank his own body weight in coloured vodka."

"No alcohol tolerance, any of you," said Norway. "Pathetic."

"How much did we drink last night, anyway?" moaned Iceland. "Actually, never mind that. How much did we spend?"

"We emptied Den's bank account," replied Norway. "Counterproductive, in a way, but it felt fantastic."

Iceland whistled. "Good work."

Denmark took a long swig of beer then leant forward slightly. Berwald stared incredulously. How could Denmark even think of drinking again already? The night before he'd been so drunk he lost a fight with a fire hydrant. "All right, so I think we can safely agree that this 'party' idea didn't exactly solve our problems."

Norway looked up from his laptop screen to stare at Denmark derisively. "What an astonishing observation."

"And, I think we all understand, there's really only one thing we can do." Denmark took another sip of beer and shrugged. "We've gotta sell Greenland."

Greenland raised his head through a layer of empty chip packets. "Hey!"

Denmark raised a hand. "Look, I know your arid areas for production and generally shitty weather are gonna make you a tough sell, and let's face it - Faeroe's always been the pretty one."

Faeroe yawned and nodded. "He's got a point."

Berwald rolled his eyes. Okay, so last night had been an interesting distraction. But now they were back to the same problem: they a week to make ten thousand dollars, and no way to do it. Ten grand used to be nothing to Berwald. Now, it may as well be ten million. "Not sellin' anyone. But we've got t'do somethin'.

"What can we possibly do?" asked Iceland bitterly. "We went through this last night. We've got less than a week. Let's face it." Iceland raised a glass of painkiller-laced water. "That was our last hurrah."

"Jägerbombs and Abba," said Norway flatly. "What a way to go out."

Denmark tossed his icepack to the ground. "How hard can this be? We're Vikings, damn it!"

"Vikings, now?" Norway snorted. "So what, we should stock up our longship and head downtown to plunder the real estate office?"

Denmark's face brightened. "Ooh! I could use my axe!"

Berwald groaned under his breath and turned to leave. It was still too early for this. "I'll be in th'garden."

"You spend too much time in that garden, young man!" Denmark shouted after him. "It's not natural! And you're just raising the value for the next bastards who move in!"

Berwald ignored him and headed outside. Despite it being a work and school day for the entire house, everyone had come to the unspoken decision to stay home after their wild all nighter. But Berwald hadn't drunk nearly as much as the others, and alcohol never affected him much, so he was not feeling too bad as he started work on the garden. He tried not to think about the fact that this would all be a waste of time if they were evicted, which in all likelihood they would be. He tried not to think about where Tino would go; what he would do; how Berwald could bear to live without seeing him every day.

The hours passed peacefully out in the gentle sunshine. But as he worked, Berwald slowly noticed that the house was quieter than he had ever heard it. The phone wasn't ringing; the television wasn't blaring; Denmark wasn't yelling through the window or attempting to whistle or engaging in deafening bedroom activities with Norway. It was rather strange.

Berwald started on another row of yellow daisies. Perhaps his housemates finally understood the gravity of the situation. But that was ridiculous, Berwald told himself. They didn't care for anything. If they lost this house, what would it mean to them? All Iceland cared about was money. All Norway cared about was himself. And Denmark was too insane to give a damn about anything. Berwald wondered briefly if he was being fair, then angrily decided it didn't matter. This mess they were in was not his fault. It was not Tino's fault. Berwald tossed his shovel to the ground then ran a dirt-streaked hand through his hair. What was the point of planting this garden? They'd be out on the street soon enough. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Berwald stormed back towards the house. Maybe his only option was to start looking for another place to live.

As he neared the back kitchen door, Berwald slowed when he heard Iceland speaking. Something about the words made him stop and listen.

"She didn't… no! I can't even imagine… she did? With her hip? Giiirl, that is mad crazy. Me? Nothing as wild as your bingo nights at the hall, Gladys. Just the same old, I'm afraid…"

Intensely curious, Berwald drew closer to the door. This didn't sound like one of Iceland's usual phone calls.

"I know… Yeah, I know. You can surround yourself with a hundred people and yet, you still feel alone." Berwald paused at the door. Iceland sat at the kitchen bench, the phone against his ear, staring at the wall as he listened intently. Berwald felt guilty for eavesdropping, but Iceland's tone and manner were entirely different – something he had never seen from him before. He couldn't help being intrigued.

Iceland nodded, his expression almost pained. "Well, that's it, love. People look at you and they decide for themselves what they're looking at. Whether it's a fabulous diva they see as a crazy old lady, or a kid in white boots they see as a slut. Sometimes it's easier to just be what they think you are. But in the end, fuck 'em. They can think what they want. Doesn't make 'em right."

Berwald felt a complicated mixture of guilt and empathy. Was this the way Iceland felt? Was this was he was hiding behind his façade? It was too simple. It was too unfair.

Iceland's tone brightened when he spoke again. "Better things to do than chat with my best caller? Nonsense, love. And don't even talk about payment. No, stop it, don't be silly. I tell you what, you send me one of those fabulous crochet scarves of yours and we'll call it even. Until next week! Tell Doris that lady is insane!" Iceland laughed brightly. "Bye, love." Iceland hung up the phone, headed for the front room, then faltered when he noticed Berwald in the back doorway. His expression turned instantly blank. "What?"

"Nothin.'" Berwald looked at the floor and waited for Iceland to leave. He didn't. They both stood in silence for a few moments.

"What do you want from him?"

Berwald glanced up uncomprehendingly. Iceland stood with his hand on his hip and his head tilted to the side. He looked both curious and confrontational. "Well? I know you can speak, Berwald. I'm talking about Tino. What do you want from him?"

Berwald was more surprised that Iceland had used his real name than anything. "I don't know what ye mean. I don't want anythin.'"

Iceland scoffed. "Bullshit. No one is that nice. People always want something. They'll pretend they don't; they'll lie. They'll say they love you, and then they'll take what they want and leave you broken and empty while they just laugh at how very stupid you were to believe them."

"'t'was Ivan, wasn't it?" Iceland jerked his head away angrily. Berwald quickly continued. "I'm sorry. Really. But I'm not like that."

Iceland did not look convinced. "Everyone is like that. Are you saying you're different? What sort of person are you, Berwald?"

"What sort of person d'ye think I am? What do ye decide fer yerself when ye look at me?"

Iceland paused at that, then leant heavily back against the bench. He laughed softly. "Do you know, Berwald… I think you actually sort of fit in this mess of a household."

Berwald shrugged. He was quite aware of what an odd moment this was, and yet it felt completely natural at the same time. "Depends how long we're here, I s'pose."

Iceland nodded. "Well, that's true. I've been trying to take more calls, but… well, some people just call because they don't have anyone else to talk to. And I can't charge people for being lonely."

Berwald actually felt his chest ache at that. And he wondered, for the first time, if he had seriously misjudged this unfathomable boy known as Iceland.

The afternoon passed in the same slow, strange quiet, until Berwald started to wonder if he was alone in the house. Tino was still in bed, and probably would be until tomorrow; and Greenland and Faeroe still lay on their couch, but they didn't really count, somehow. It was as he was passing the study that Berwald was again stopped by someone's voice. This time it was the startling, unfamiliar sound of Denmark speaking seriously that halted Berwald in his tracks. He peered through the doorway to see Denmark sitting at the large central desk, his back to the door and the phone against his ear. His words were in Danish, which Berwald could understand well enough.

"Hey, Mum! Yeah, it's me… hi." Denmark tapped his foot restlessly against the floor and ran a hand anxiously through his hair. "Uh, yeah, I know Dad said that, I… I know, I just…" Denmark took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. "Well, I happened to glance at the calendar and I noticed it was his birthday the other day, so I thought maybe I'd call real quick and say…" Denmark's tapping foot went still. "Oh. He wouldn't, huh? Okay, that's… yeah, I understand. So, uh, how are y…" His hand froze in his hair and he lowered his head. "Oh, right, sure. I'll let you go then. All right. Good..." Denmark broke off, paused again, then slowly looked down at the phone. "...bye, Mum."

Berwald stood completely still, hardly daring to breathe. The surprises today just kept coming. He never would have guessed that Denmark could sound so serious, so... devastated. Berwald barely knew what to feel – sorry, sad, bewildered. It took him too long to notice that Norway was standing behind him. His skin crawled with guilty shame as he tried to think of a way to explain. But Norway didn't even acknowledge him. He simply walked into the room, took the phone from Denmark's hand, and placed it firmly on the desk.

"When are you going to learn, Den?" Norway's words sounded stern. But when he touched Denmark's cheek, his usually blank face looked curiously hurt, and he was only gentle. He sat slowly, gently on Denmark's lap; took his hand and smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead. Denmark pulled him close and leant into his neck as Norway's arms surrounded him.

Berwald immediately turned and left, his mind turning in circles and his chest still aching strangely. It seemed nothing in this place was the way he first thought.

.

It was three p.m, and Berwald was onto his third cup of awful instant mix coffee. He almost decided to buy a grinder, then wondered if they would be here long enough for that. The house was still uncannily silent. It had been an interesting day, to say the least. Berwald found himself pondering Tino's words from a few days earlier - It's easier to be odd or crazy or insane than to hurt all the time.

Berwald turned back towards the fridge and stopped short when Tino appeared in the kitchen doorway. His messy hair, ruffled pyjamas, and eyeliner-stained eyes were a stark contrast to his appearance the night before. Berwald thought, his head spinning and his heart stuttering, that he looked just as breathtaking. And very hungover. "Help," Tino croaked.

Berwald tried not to laugh. "More water?"

Tino's faintly wild gaze fell on the coffee pot. His eyes lit up and he dove at the bench. "Ohhh, coffee…"

"Here." Berwald pushed his coffee across the bench, then set about making more as Tino practically devoured the mug. "How 'bout breakfast? Can make bacon n'eggs if ye like."

Tino raised an eyebrow over the coffee mug. "It's three p.m."

"Greasy food'll settle yer stomach."

Tino looked slightly suspicious of that, but he nodded an agreement and took a tall seat at the bench. "Okay. Thank you."

Berwald really shouldn't feel such a flutter in his stomach at a simple thanks. He took bacon, eggs and tomatoes from the fridge, placed them on the bench, then opened a drawer to grab the pan.

"I'm still…" Tino trailed off, staring at the counter uncertainly. "I'm still a bit worried. Last night was fun, but... I really don't know what I'll do if we lose this place."

Berwald really shouldn't want desperately to pull Tino into his arms every time he looked uncertain like that. "It's okay. I'll take care of ye."

Tino looked for a moment like he was about to roll his eyes and laugh, but he bit his lip as though to stop it. "That's a very odd thing to say, you know."

Berwald felt the back of his neck burning. Of course it was odd. He concentrated on placing the bread in the toaster. "Sorry."

Tino shook his head. "Don't be. You sort of – fit here, Berwald. Like, you balance the rest of us out, you know?"

Fit here – it was the second time he'd heard that today. Berwald could have laughed. He'd never fit anywhere. To hear it about a place like this... He wasn't sure if Tino was completely wrong, or absolutely correct. He also didn't know how to respond, so he focused intensely on oiling the pan and adding the bacon and chopping the tomatoes and cracking the eggs and...

Tino let out a sudden burst of laughter. Berwald looked up in confusion. "What?"

"You're the Swedish Chef." Tino smiled as he said it, leaning on the bench with his chin on his hand, his violet eyes sparkling.

Berwald felt a smile on his own lips. He was getting used to these random statements Tino came out with. The Swedish Chef… Berwald remembered watching the 'The Muppets' with his father when they first moved from Sweden. It became a sort of ritual, to turn the television on every Friday evening and laugh at how silly the stereotype was. Berwald never did understand how the Chef was supposed to be Swedish – he actually always thought he sounded more Norwegian. Regardless, the mention brought back fond memories. "Well, I don't have the mustache, but... " Berwald reached for the tall, white chef's hat - most likely Denmark's - which always hung inexplicably above the stove. He flattened it slightly and placed it on his head. "I've got th'hat."

Tino's eyes widened, incredulous, then his smile grew to a grin. He picked a pink dishcloth off the bench, tied it into bow, and reached over to tuck it into Berwald's collar. "And the bow tie."

Tino's hands lingered on Berwald's collar; their eyes locked for the slightest second too long. Berwald wondered madly if Tino remembered anything of their conversation in the bedroom the night before. Tino eventually dropped his gaze, his cheeks red. Strangely desperate to keep this odd conversation alive, and feeling some long-dormant playfulness begin to emerge, Berwald determinedly picked up a spoon and a spatula from the drawer. Swedish Chef. He could do Swedish Chef. He was Swedish, damn it.

"Yorn desh born, der hur de disk der du, ye borsh dee born desh de umn…" Berwald gestured wildly with the implements as he sang the nonsense words, then tossed the spoon into the air to crash into the bench behind him. "…bork bork bork!"

Tino stared in utter shock before bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter. "Oh my God! How do you even…" He shook his head in astonishment and practically bounced on his seat. "Do it again!"

Berwald felt his chest swell with some silly sort of pride at Tino's reaction. "Noo, today vee goona hurdy burdy eggsky orn de born bork." Berwald reached for the pan. "Yoo plece-a zee eggs in zee pun, den smakar skit hur de squeer de eggsky…" Berwald proceeded to splatter an unfortunate egg enthusiastically with the spatula. "Smakar de eggsky…"

Tino's eyes shone as he clapped a hand to his chest and bent over the bench laughing. "That's perfect, Berwald! You can do Swedish Chef!" Tino was laughing. Tino had the most beautiful laugh in the world and he was laughing because of him. Berwald hadn't felt his chest so light in years.

"Den yuoo meke-a squeer-a yuu…" Berwald let an egg fall and smash on the bench. He shrugged and picked up another. "A ver de gurdy eggsky, inne go de poot." He dropped the second egg, then the spatula, then knocked the bottle of oil into the sink. Finally he successfully cracked an egg into the pot. "Eggsky, inne go de poot."

Tino put both hands to his face. He managed to look completely stunned and utterly wracked with laughter at the same time. Berwald felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. He forgot about his worries, about eviction, about everything, because Tino was adorable, and perfect, and he was laughing with him. Berwald felt like he'd done nothing but unintentionally scare Tino since he arrived; now, he wanted nothing more than to keep him laughing.

"Noo, vee goona…"

"OI!"

Berwald froze, hands in mid-air, and Tino broke off laughing. Denmark stood in the doorway, arms folded and an annoyed expression on his face. "No one does Swedish Chef in this house but me."

There was a brief pause, then Tino and Berwald both burst into laughter. Denmark's mouth fell open. "Holy shit. Norge, baby, get the camera! Sweden's laughing!"

Norway pushed Denmark out of the way. "I told you he wasn't a robot," he said, grabbing a piece of toast from the toaster.

"Terminator," Denmark explained. "I said terminator."

"Oh, great, food!" Iceland also pushed Denmark out of the way while heading for the bench. "I'm starving."

Berwald shrugged and took five plates from the cupboard. He was a little disappointed at being interrupted. But then Tino smiled at him, laughter still in his eyes. "Come on, Den, don't be mad - Berwald is the Swedish chef. If anything, you're the Danish Chef."

Denmark looked contemplative as he leant against the egg-splattered bench. "The Danish chef, hey? I like that. I bet the Danish Chef can kick the Swedish Chef's ass. I bet his moustache is even bigger." Denmark's eyes lit up as he nodded, a look of dawning illumination on his face. "Yeah. He probably has, like, twelve Michelin stars. Shit, there's a wait list of six months to get into the Danish Chef's restaurant." Denmark slammed a hand on the bench. "The Swedish Chef wishes he were as culinarily awesome as the Danish Chef!"

Norway raised an eyebrow. "What's his specialty dish? Mixing an olive with a bottle of akvavit, drinking the lot, then passing out on the front lawn?"

Tino laughed loudly. "How about the Norwegian Chef? Tells the Danish Chef to get his ass in the kitchen and cook his damn dinner."

"Or the Finnish Chef," said Iceland, winking at Tino. "Forgets the stove is on and burns down the kitchen."

Tino looked slightly offended. "Hey, that only happened twice."

"Ye make good coffee," said Berwald. Yes, all he did was pour hot water over instant mix then add a metric ton of sugar, but still.

Tino broke into a wide grin. "You see! Berwald believes in my culinary abilities!"

Denmark snorted loudly. "That's because he's in love with you." Norway threw a piece of toast at Denmark's head. "What?" Denmark whined. "It's not like it isn't completely obvious to everyone in a ten mile radius. Uh oh, was rule number nine followed here, Swedish Chef? Did these eggs have smiley faces before you deprived them of their shells and smashed them on the bench?"

Berwald was certain his face was burning red. Norway started serving from the pan; Iceland reached across the bench for the toast. No one seemed to notice Denmark's throwaway, inescapably true observation.

Tino rolled his eyes. "Den, considering the way you've blown our money, I think we're entitled to your eggs."

Denmark winked and wagged his eyebrows. "Only Norway's entitled to my eggs."

"Urgh." Tino looked at the eggs on his plate and shuddered. This time Iceland threw toast at Denmark's head.

Norway dropped a plate of eggs and toast in front of the giggling Dane. "Shut up and eat."

Berwald placed the bacon from the pan onto a plate. "There's bacon too."

Denmark shook his head and raised a hand, palm outwards. "I don't eat bacon, for religious reasons."

Berwald's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Religious?"

Denmark nodded proudly. "I am an observant frisbeetarian."

At Berwald's puzzled look, Tino explained. "When you die, your soul gets stuck on the roof, like a frisbee."

Berwald was beyond questioning. "'f course."

Denmark nodded fervently. "When you've examined all the options it just makes sense. I have some literature you may be interested in seeing…"

The conversation continued as they ate, and it wasn't long until a strange semblance of normality settled over the kitchen. Everyone even stayed to help clean up, something Berwald had never seen happen since he moved in. Just as they were putting away the last of the clean plates, a knock sounded at the door. Iceland jumped up quickly. "I'll get it."

Denmark shouted after him. "I'm not in the country."

Moments later Iceland shouted from the front door, harsh panic in his voice. "LUKAS!"

The warm, comfortable atmosphere shattered. Denmark knocked over his chair, Tino turned white, and Norway simply ran before Berwald even had time to wonder at the unfamiliar name.

Following the other's frantic rush, Berwald's stomach turned and his nerves stood on edge when he reached the front room. The front door was open, Iceland already halfway back across the room. And standing in the doorway, his hand holding back the door and that eternal smile on his lips, stood Ivan Braginski. Norway marched furiously towards him. "Get out."

Ivan ignored him and took a step inside. "We need to have a conversation."

Norway practically growled as he drew to a stop between Ivan and Iceland, fists clenched and shoulders tense. "I said, get the fuck out."

"I do not wish to speak with you," said Ivan flippantly. He stood easily in the room as though he belonged there. "I wish to speak with Mr Køhl…"

"Don't you dare utter that name in this house, Russki!" Denmark shouted as he stormed across the room. Norway stopped him with a hand to his chest.

Instinct kicked in and Berwald drew himself to his full height, blood rushing to his head. He had no idea what the Russian was doing here, but Berwald had seen what this man could do when angry, and he doubted anyone in this house had the slightest idea how dangerous this could get. Berwald's eyes darted towards Tino, who stood uncertainly beside him, silent and observing.

Ivan simply looked amused. "If you insist… Denmark. I hear you are still harassing my friends."

Denmark snarled. "Your little minions approached us, Russia. And any friend of yours is an enemy of mine." Norway's hand was the only thing restraining Denmark from charging. Iceland stood behind Den and Norway, arms drawn to his chest.

Ivan simply waved a hand, visibly unconcerned by the heavy tension in the room. "That is the least of my concerns. I am much more worried for your financial situation."

Berwald could sense everyone in the room stare in confused silence. How could Ivan possibly know about that? Denmark's furious expression faltered. "I don't know what you're on about, Russki."

Ivan clasped his hands before him; he was acting like they were having a pleasant conversation about the weather. "It has come to my attention that you are on the point of eviction, yes?"

Denmark looked stunned. "Wha... huh..." He turned furious again. "What are you still doing here? Get the fuck out of my house!"

Berwald squared his shoulders and felt his hands twitch. If Denmark started a fight, the stupid Dane could not finish it on his own. Ivan obviously knew this. "But it is not your house, Denmark. And so you see my problem. If you can not even pay your rent, how are you ever going to pay the debt you owe me?"

Berwald's blood froze. He felt sick. "Den. Ye don't have a debt with Ivan?"

"What? It's just a little something I owe from poker..."

Berwald put a hand to his head and let out a long breath. Denmark owed Ivan. This was not good. This was beyond not good. This was disastrous...

Ivan sounded like he was having the time of his life. But of course – the Russian loved to terrorise people. "My friend Berwald here can tell you quite well what a little quandary you are in."

Berwald glared furiously. To play his games in the worst parts of town with the worst men in the city was one thing. But this was just a house of kids - crazy and stupid kids, yes, but innocent nonetheless. What the hell was Ivan doing playing these games with them? "Ye've got him on rising interest, don't ye, Ivan? Th'type he can never pay back."

Denmark interrupted. "What's the big deal, I've got a debt with the bank too..."

"The bank just takes yer money," Berwald snapped. "Th'Russian takes..." Berwald trailed off as Ivan's smile twisted cruelly. Everything… But this time, Berwald was not going to let him get away with it. He drew himself up, took two threatening steps forward, and narrowed his eyes. He never needed to do much to convey an aura of intimidation. The others watched in silent anticipation. "Ye're a gamblin' man, Ivan. Let's play fer this."

Ivan waved a hand at Denmark dismissively. "I've played this child. He is an extraordinarily untalented card player. I am done with him."

"What the hell does that… arghl…" Norway silenced Denmark with a swift kick.

Berwald raised his chin. "Then play me. Or try."

Ivan's cold eyes flashed, his expression a dark warning behind his fake, ever-present smile. "Oh Berwald. I thought you'd put all that behind you. Besides, I've had my fun with you." He lowered his eyes and smirked. "I see you still wear your father's watch. I wonder what the old fool would think if he could see you now."

Berwald dug his nails into his palm, forcing himself to contain the anger that boiled in his chest. "Cards, Ivan." He almost shouted the words. "You and me. If I win, ye drop Den's debt, and ye pay us the int'rest. If I lose, I'll take on Den's debt m'self."

"Wait a minute…" Denmark started.

"Hold mund," spat Norway.

Ivan tapped his chin as he considered. "I pay you the interest? That is quite a considerable sum. You would be able to pay your rent and stay in this house. But even if you do take on this silly boy's debt, what incentive is in it for me?"

Berwald spread his hands. The old negotiation came back easily. "Come on, Ivan. I know th'games ye like to play. Ye were determined t'destroy me once, but look... I'm still standin'." Berwald smirked, bared his teeth, and raised a shoulder. "Care t'try again?"

For a brief moment, as they glared at each other across the room, Berwald thought he had won. But the moment Ivan's gaze fell on Tino, Berwald realised the enormous mistake he had just made.

"Do you know…" said Ivan slowly, his evil smile lighting up his entire face. "This could be fun."

Berwald tried frantically to backtrack. "Actually, I…"

Ivan just grinned gleefully. Berwald started to wonder if the Russian had planned this the entire time. "Poker, I assume? Given the unskilled players, perhaps the simple old five card draw might be best. We'll start with a low buy-in."

"Look, maybe there's another…"

"Of course, I insist you all play." Ivan glanced towards Iceland, who drew his arms closer to his chest and looked away. "I even leave it to you to choose the dealer."

Denmark tried to rush forward angrily, but was again stopped by Norway. "Oh, we'll be there, Russia. We'll be there, and we're gonna kick your ass, du er et røvhul…"

Berwald closed his eyes briefly. He would have a hard enough time defeating Ivan on his own. But if the others played… if Denmark played… Oh, God, what had he done?!

"Wonderful!" cried Ivan, clapping his hands together delightedly. "Saturday night, shall we say? I look forward to it!" Then he snickered softly, winking at Berwald. "I knew you'd come back."

Ivan swept towards the door, leaving five angry, stunned, silent Scandinavians behind him. But just before he reached the door, Ivan paused and tilted his head. "Who are they?" he asked, nodding towards Faeroe and Greenland asleep on the couch.

"Our pets," replied Denmark simply.

Ivan's eyebrows shot up. He looked rather impressed. "Kinky."

The moment Ivan closed the door behind him, Norway fixed Berwald with a furious glare. "All right, Swedish Chef. What have you gotten us into?"

Tino interrupted before Berwald could respond furiously. "Berwald didn't get us into this mess, Norway. He's just given us a way to get out of it."

"With poker?" Norway laughed. It was strangely terrifying. "Poker's the reason we're in this mess!"

"No," said Iceland firmly. He still looked a little shaken, but also grimly determined. "We only played that stupid game to try and beat Ivan. And we failed, spectacularly. But maybe…" Iceland looked at Berwald appraisingly. "Maybe with Sweden we can win."

Norway raised his chin. He didn't look convinced. "Well, Sweden? Yesterday you said that no one wins against Ivan. And now you think you can beat him?"

Berwald shifted uncomfortably as four sets of eyes regarded him curiously. Oh, God… what had he gotten into? "I…" He looked from Norway's challenging stare, to Iceland's confident gaze, to Denmark's still vaguely angry look of bewilderment. "I think…" Then Berwald looked at Tino: his resolute expression, his trusting, eyeliner-stained eyes. If Berwald could beat Ivan, they could stay in this house. This was his only chance; the only chance he had to stay with the only person he loved. Berwald took a deep breath and returned Norway's stare. "I think I'm th'only one who can."

Denmark suddenly broke into manic laughter. "Fuck, yes! I am IN!"

Iceland grinned. "Hell yes. Let's teach that son of a bitch a lesson."

"You can do it." Tino nodded, smiling. "I know you can, Berwald."

Norway just raised an eyebrow perceptively. "I hope you're ready for this, Sweden. For your sake."

Berwald ignored what that might mean. He ignored what he already knew: Ivan played dirty, and he liked to destroy people, and he knew just how to do it. But Berwald knew how to fight back. This time, he had a reason to fight back. "Ye can all play poker, right?"

Denmark, Norway and Iceland all agreed. Only Tino shook his head. He smiled up at Berwald, earnest and dishevelled and beautiful. "Will you teach me?"

.

"And this is four'f a kind. Tough t'beat."

Berwald placed the cards down and Tino studied them carefully. They sat opposite each other on Tino's bedroom floor, the bright lamps casting soft shadows on the bedspread behind them. Quiet music Berwald did not recognise played from tiny speakers beside Tino's desk. This was still the cleanest, brightest room in the house, though Berwald was grateful he no longer had to sleep in the tiny alcove in the corner. Tino tapped his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the cards. He had picked things up amazingly fast so far. "Four of a kind. Tough to beat. You can beat it, though?"

Berwald nodded. "Yes. There's only one hand ye can't beat."

Tino looked up, interested. Berwald noticed that his violet eyes seemed darker in the lamplight. "What's that?"

"This one." Berwald took five cards from the deck and lay them out on the carpet, one by one. All hearts: Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. Berwald gestured a hand over them. "Royal flush. Hearts. Can't beat't."

Tino looked amused at that. "So, hearts is highest?

"Yes."

Tino gave a tiny laugh, lowering his head so that his hair fell in his eyes. "That makes sense."

Berwald felt his heart skip in his chest, and wondered when the room had become so warm. He tugged at his shirt collar and quickly focused on reshuffling the cards. These little moments with Tino were the best of Berwald's life. Berwald wasn't sure if that said more about the kind of life he had lived, or about how desperately infatuated he was with this beautiful Finn. Either way, it was both scary and wonderful at the same time.

"Where did you learn to play?"

"M'father taught me."

Tino tilted his head, his eyes connected with Berwald's. No one had ever listened to Berwald as earnestly and as honestly as Tino always did. "For fun, or…"

Berwald understood Tino's unasked question. Tino knew some of Berwald's unpleasant past by now. Perhaps it was time to explain it a little more – after all, Berwald trusted Tino to hear it. Even if he was scared of how he would react. He took a very deep breath, tapped his cards against the ground, and began.

"My mother died when I was fourteen. We moved from Sweden the next year – I think Dad was trying t'escape the memories." At first Berwald faltered over the words. They quickly became easier, however, until he barely remembered that he found speaking uncomfortable. "But once we got here, everthin' just got – worse. He struggled t'adjust to th'different life. He couldn't speak English, so he couldn't get a job. There was only one thing he ever thought he was good at – poker. He found places to play, people in th'business. It's not hard when ye know where t'look. I'd go with him t'play, and he taught me. And he was good – not th'best, but he won more than he lost. He made enough t'buy us a small house, t'buy me books fer school. Sometimes if he had a good night he'd come home with beer and marshmallows and those disgustin' pickled herrings he liked so much."

Berwald almost smiled, then broke off at the painful memories. He was not used to speaking so much, especially about something so personal, and in some strange way he was not sure if he was doing it correctly. Tino, however, watched him as though engrossed, silent, still clutching his hand of cards. He was the first person Berwald had ever spoken to of these things. He was the first person Berwald had ever cared enough to speak to of such things. Berwald took another deep breath before continuing. "Like I said, he was good. Th'other players were scared of him, I think - scared of us. There was only one man who wasn't. Who spoke to us, and helped us."

Tino's eyes widened. "Ivan."

Berwald nodded. "Braginski was only young – not much older than me. But he was already unbeatable. He said he would help us. Ev'ry time we lost, the Russian would lend us money. But ev'ry time we won, he would raise th'interest. Eventually, we couldn't keep up. When we lost everythin', again, my father lost hope. He drank too much. He got sick, but he wouldn't stop drinkin'. Eventually, it killed him." Berwald stopped again. Why was he saying this? Surely he was only bothering Tino, surely he was only making him uncomfortable, surely…

Berwald's thoughts fell to pieces when Tino's hand reached out and brushed his. It was only quick, a brief touch of sympathy, and it was over before Berwald could be sure he felt it. When Berwald's thoughts flew back together, Tino was already fidgeting with the cards in his fingers. "Do you know that your accent has grown lighter? I'm sorry. I just noticed. Please continue."

Berwald nodded and, with a racing heart and a burning hand, continued. "After he died, I found out just how much debt he had with the Russian. Found out when I went to a gamblin' house t'visit a 'lawyer' – a man'f the Russians. He showed me a document signed by my father." All of Berwald's emotions swung abruptly to anger, just remembering that moment. The moment he found out just how deeply his father had been used and betrayed by Ivan Braginski. The moment Berwald had snapped completely.

"Th'paper showed that my father had signed everythin' we owned over to Braginski. Our house, our savings... everythin'. But it wasn't th'house and th'money that mattered – it was how the Russian treated him. My father could barely speak English. He certainly couldn't read it. He would've had no idea what he was signing. I tried t'explain, but it didn't matter. It was legal, and it was done."

Tino's expression was frozen in dismayed disbelief, though his hands still fidgeted restlessly with the cards. "My God. That's awful. What did you do?"

Berwald paused, rubbed his neck, and answered slowly. "I got… angry."

Tino's fingers stopped moving and his eyebrows drew together in confusion. "You? Angry?"

Berwald looked at the floor. Tino did not need to know. He did not need to know how Berwald had grabbed the crooked, underground lawyer by the collar, had punched him over and over and over again, had viciously slammed the man's head onto the desk. Tino did not need to know how Berwald had overturned the furniture, thrown chairs against the wall and smashed the windows, had almost destroyed the dirty backroom office before the police charged through the door.

Tino did not need to know how Berwald faced charges of grievous bodily assault, property damage, theft, and a dozen other offences Braginski managed to level at him. Tino did not need to know how Berwald had spent a year in prison only to come out hated by society, with nowhere to go and no prospects, and had fallen back into the one thing he knew how to do – cards. Yes, he had found the groundskeeper job at the university, in no small thanks to former gambler Professor Beilschmidt's generous help, but the fact remained – Berwald had never been able to stay away from that sleazy world of underworld gambling for long. But Tino did not need to know that; so Berwald just shrugged offhandedly. "Yes. Did things I'm not proud of. Things I'll never do again."

Tino nodded. That seemed to be enough explanation for him, and thankfully he did not press further. He just said, again, "I'm sorry. It sounds like your father really tried – like he cared about you."

"Yeah." Berwald wondered why he didn't feel anxious about the words he had spoken to Tino. Instead, he just felt relieved.

Tino let out a long breath. "So Ivan really took everything from you?"

His savings, his house, his father… Berwald relaxed his clenched fists. "Yes."

"You kept this, though." Tino reached out and gently took Berwald's antique pocket watch from his front pocket. He smiled as he looked at it, and Berwald followed his gaze, swallowing heavily at the growing tingling sensation from Tino's fingers against his chest. The long black hands of the watch read seven o'clock against the worn gold setting.

"Yes," said Berwald quietly. The watch meant more to him than anything he had ever owned. "This is mine. He'll never have it."

Tino's eyes grew slightly distant. "You're very lucky, you know. Having something to remember your father like this. All my dad gave me when he kicked me out was bus fare."

Berwald looked up sharply. Again, he felt a wave of fierce anger for someone he'd never even met. How could anyone do that to Tino? Then Berwald remembered Denmark's broken conversation in the study earlier. How could anyone do that to their child – to someone they loved? Berwald's father might not have been perfect, but he loved Berwald. At least he had that.

Before Berwald could think of a way to respond to Tino's harrowing words, Tino drew back his hand. "Thank you for telling me that, Berwald," he said softly. "I suppose everyone has their pain and their regret - no matter how strong they appear." Tino looked down at the cards in his left hand, his eyes a little sad and unsure, then laid them down carefully on the carpet. "So, I have these five..." Tino gestured over the four, five, six, seven, and ten; all of different suits.

Berwald looked down at the cards and raised his eyebrows. He was grateful that Tino knew exactly when to change the subject. "An interestin' hand. Ye need to throw in th'ten."

Tino bit his lip thoughtfully. "And hope for an eight, yes?

"Yes. Unlikely, but ye'll win if ye do."

Tino picked up the ten, tossed it in the centre, and watched as Berwald dealt him out another. He picked it up and smiled. "Guess what?" Tino flicked the card around between his fingers - a black eight of spades.

Berwald smiled back. What a lucky catch… "Catch perfect."

Tino tilted his head. "Huh?"

Berwald nodded at the eight of spades. "To get the one card ye need t'win. T'complete the set of five. Catch perfect."

Tino laughed softly. "Catch perfect. I like that." He brushed the hair from his face; his hand strong but soft, his hair like falling silk. Berwald shook his head and told himself to stop with the similes. After all, he could not compare Tino to anything – there was nothing perfect enough to compare him to. All Berwald could do was accept that he had never loved anyone like Tino, would never love anyone like him, and that if Berwald lost him now, he would lose the only thing he'd ever had worth losing. Berwald had always bet with nothing much to lose. Now, with an upcoming game against the only man he had ever hated, Berwald realised.

This time, he had everything to lose.

.

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

Anatomy of an Ask (Entire Post)

I suspect that there’s no way within the framework of Tumblr to force people to ask things that will be productive, but I figured it might be helpful to really go into my thought process when I receive a question. This got really long. I’m making one Giant Post and then I’ll split it up as well so that both options are available.

Before you start: this is going to be really blunt. I try not to be deliberately hurtful to people who are acting in good faith, but I’m not really a warm fuzzy person in general, and I find people are not great at taking subtle hints on the internet so I’m going in with an anvil here.

Before I get the question: My MBTI knowledge was obtained through reading a lot of things both online (in which case they’re probably in my resource links), a few books (I haven’t done a huge amount of book reading so it’s mostly Was That Really Me and Gifts Differing), and a lot of practical observation.

The practical observation part has been, for me, by far the most valuable, but it does require a certain level of reflection and willingness to admit when you’re wrong. Basically: once you feel confident-ish in your ability to type other people, go out and type them and then observe their behavior, which will help you recognize behavior patterns for that type. The reason it requires reflection is because it is possible to mistype someone initially. You need to constantly ask yourself “is this person truly this type, and the stereotypes are wrong? Or did I mistype them”. Examples include: ISFP sister is actually not bad at organizing within certain parameters, but it tends to be fairly rigid and a little uncomfortable. She’s just a reasonable example of how an ISFP can develop organization skills. However, I originally thought my brother was an INFP when he was really an ENFP, and so when I realized I was wrong I had to revise both my typing of him and my understanding of INFPs and ENFPs. I originally thought my closest friend was an INTP and I’m actually still in the process of questioning that. (This is why “am I mistyped” is a useless question. You should always assume mistyping is possible).

So basically if I say I get a certain vibe from a question or interaction or story, it’s because of patterns I’ve seen from this practical observation that I might struggle to even realize I’ve seen. And there’s no way around this other than experience (ie, observation + time).

When an MBTI question arrives: is it easily searchable (I do usually check, on mobile, that a search of the obvious key term returns something useful as one of the top results - I try not to delete stuff that I’ve answered before but is hard to easily search on) or answered in the FAQ? Delete it unless there’s a good point to be made or I’m feeling particularly generous and/or snarky.

Next, mentally categorize it. Questions tend to fall into a couple of broad categories:

Questions about the theory: ideally, coming from someone who can say “I read your FAQ and I’m still confused about some of the statements regarding inferior Se, because of X, Y, and Z”. A pure theory question is pretty simple; usually it’s just a matter of directing people to a better, harder-to-find source post or providing some clarification.

Type me questions from people who haven’t typed themselves: varies, see below.

Type me questions from people who have typed themselves to some extent: also varies, see below.

“What does X look like”: I would typically like to shoot these questions into the sun because functions are broad archetypes and so while you can summarize details of a real person to an archetype it is not so easy to do the reverse. However, I limit myself to a general answer of “if you’d like me to type you or someone else provide a description” thus reducing this to a type me question.

“How likely is X combination”: I just stopped answering these on the grounds that you can look this up yourself very easily. However, usually these have an undercurrent of ‘type me’ except no information is given so there’s nothing I can do. If information is given, see the Type me posts (also tagged anatomyofanask)

What’s useful in typing?

Remember: information that is useful for typing is:

Unique: it’s okay if other people on earth share this trait, but ‘I like music’ or ‘I have morals’ are true of most humans. Make sure you describe you and not 99% of all people.

Typical of you: if you went skydiving once but normally you wouldn’t get on a roller coaster that goes upside-down you are not a thrill-seeker; you are a person who went skydiving once. Focus on your sustained and regular behavior.

From your mid-teens/adult life, and ideally recent. You want to talk about your childhood, do so with your friends or with a therapist because it’s not usually relevant. Not yet in your mid-teens? Typing is going to be really hard and it will be so much easier when you’ve had a few more years - part of why being 15 is so gloriously confusing is because it’s a time of immense growth and change. I highly recommend you focus on becoming an awesome person without trying to categorize it. MBTI has been around for over 70 years. It will be there in a couple more.

Not MBTI jargon: Avoid statements “I seem really Ne!” or “I have absolutely no Fe.” These are useless statements to me: either you’re correct in your assessment in which case contacting me is useless because you’ve already typed yourself as having Ne/not having Fe and are confident in it; or you’re not correct in your assessment but I can’t tell because you didn’t describe what you mean by Ne or Fe.

Not the stereotypical MBTI descriptions: related to the above. At this point I not only do not trust these phrases and find them completely meaningless; I also get annoyed that you’re using them and yet somehow I’m supposed to be the boring and uncreative one per stereotypes. “Good at reading people”, “very much/always in my head�� and “my morals are subjective/objective” or “my logic is subjective/objective” are the top offenders. Here’s the problem. People aren’t great at being objective about themselves. People are even worse at being objective about how objective they are. Also the fact that almost all of these are skewed towards intuition means I have my doubts.

Exemplified: provide examples of your behavior. If you do this instead of using stereotypical MBTI descriptions, you will solve two of my problems at once. If you can actually explain to me why you think you’re good at reading people, I can assess if you genuinely are or if you’re projecting assumptions on people. And in general, this is what I need to type people.

Consequential: people rely on their higher functions the most when it has to do with things that, for lack of a better term, matter IRL. Which doesn’t mean you don’t bring your A game to your hobbies! But the fact is, if you drop the ball in your hobbies your life still goes on. I once tried to start a podcast and it almost immediately fell by the wayside. Was it disappointing? Yeah. Would I dream of doing this when it comes to say, my job, or my schoolwork (when I was in school) or something I had committed to that other people relied on? No. Like, if you don’t update your fan fic on time, or you kill people in video games that can certainly have an emotional effect on you and people around you. But the consequences of that are not exactly the same of not paying your rent on time, or cheating on someone in real life. So: focus on how you interact with people, how you act at work or at school, how you plan your life.

Varied: one long specific anecdote, even if it’s a thing you do regularly, is only so helpful. A couple of examples of different behaviors makes a huge difference. Two points make a line.

Type Me

(I’ve been calling this Type Me but it also applies to Type My Friend/Family Member/Arch-nemesis/Etc questions)

If you need help typing yourself, at least one (and frequently several) of the following is in play

1. You need help with understanding MBTI

a. In terms of the actual theory

b. In terms of how it shows up in the real world

2. You need help with understanding yourself

a. In terms of understanding what is your personality and what is just being a person.

b. In terms of accurately assessing your skill level and tendencies

So often I need to both type you and address that question.

If I can’t figure out the question you need answered, AND there isn’t information that’s useful for typing, then I can’t really do anything other than say “please provide more information.” If on the other hand you do provide information I can use to type you, even if I’m not sure where your source of confusion was, I can provide a typing.

Similarly, if I can figure out the question, even if you don’t have information I can use to type you, I might be able to help. So here’s how I address the questions

1.a. This is a theory question, which we already covered, but it includes a request for help in typing. Ideally you provided information about yourself that is conducive to typing help, but if you didn’t, I can direct you to resources or provide some clarity so that you can try typing yourself with that new information.

1.b. If you provided information about yourself, this is great - I can talk about your real-world behavior and how it relates back to how I’ve typed you, thus providing more people with examples of real-world behavior. If you didn’t provide information about yourself, this is more of a “what does X type look like” and it’s a bad question. Yes, I know this is frustrating, but the fact is there is a very wide range of possibilities of what X type can look like.

For both parts of question 2: if you don’t describe yourself well, it’s game over. I can’t do anything, because the (main) issue isn’t that you need help with understanding MBTI to type yourself; you need help understanding yourself, and I don’t know you other than what you provide in the question.

2.a. This is again a case of ‘if you’re young and have limited experience, socialize a little and wait and try typing again in a couple years.’ But no matter what, please try to interact with people more, take a neuro or psych class, log off for a bit, and generally get some kind of sense that most people are more invested in their interests than in boring tasks, act differently with their parents than with their peers, or whatever. Meet a person. You know how they said you can make more friends by being interested in other people than trying to get other people interested in you? You can learn more about your personality by learning about other people than spending time alone on the internet.

2.b. This is fair. This is an acknowledgement that objectivity about one’s self is really hard. This is also why stereotypical MBTI descriptions are pretty useless, because instead of letting me, a third-party who doesn’t really know you, try to assess your skills, you’re just saying “I’m great at reading people”. So if you’re trying to ask this kind of question, it is absolutely vital that you provide the best description you can. Put a modicum of effort into it. Draft a question in Google Docs and edit it to make sense instead of saying “sorry if this doesn’t make sense”.

[mr-entj]

Extraverted Thinking (Te) vs Introverted Thinking (Ti)

Combined with the following asks:

Can you write about Te from an ENTJ’s perspective? I find most online descriptions of Te are poorly written by non Te users and insufficient/patronizing. I would love to hear the Te-dom point of view. Thank you, Mr. ENTJ

Can you compare Te and Ti? I looked but didn’t see anywhere on the blog yet. Thank yyou for your time :)

Difference between Te and Ti?

How is Te any different from Ti? As a Ti-user I feel that I use Te as well in the way use my logic to make decisions

Related answers:

ENTJ: Auxiliary Introverted Intuition (Ni)

It’s objective vs subjective logic. For comparison:

Te (ENTJ, ESTJ, INTJ, ISTJ) emphasizes truth. Truth is defined as that which is true or in accordance with fact or reality.

Ti (INTP, ISTP, ENTP, ESTP) emphasizes logic. Logic is defined as reasoning conducted or assessed according to strict principles of validity.

The reason why we call Te objective and Ti subjective is because Te is untouched by the individual-- we use information provided to us as-is via the real world in forms like: facts, data sets, observations, research studies, news, rankings, academic journals, polls, subject matter experts, etc. Te logic is drawn from external sources to understand (”organize”) the outside world. “Organized” doesn’t mean that Te users are neat and tidy people-- it means our minds sort information by relevance and impact. We first make sense of what is (current state), and from there, use that information to transform the world into what it can be (future state).

Te vs Ti

The main reason why these two cognitive functions (and their associated MBTI types) always clash is pretty simple: what exists in the real world (Te) is not always logical (Ti) and what’s logical in pure reasoning (Ti) does not always work in the real world (Te).

Let’s say you were to ask this question: “How does one become a management consultant at the best consulting firm in the world, McKinsey and Co.?”

Ti method (logical but false): “To successfully be accepted into the best consulting firm in the world, McKinsey and Co., I should first and foremost major in a relevant subject like business or economics, have exceptional grades in my classes, and develop strong skills in public speaking, problem solving, presentation, and preparation because that’s what management consultants need to succeed. If I do well in those areas, I should be a competitive candidate.”

Te method (illogical but true): “To successfully be accepted into the best consulting firm in the world, McKinsey and Co., I should first and foremost research which target schools they recruit from. The major I select and classes that I take have less relevance than the university I attend because without being in the right place, McKinsey won’t even consider me as a candidate. Next, I should excel in academics and network with alums and McKinsey professionals. If I do well in those areas, I should be a competitive candidate.”

The Ti method states a logical but false statement. It’s logical because to be a good management consultant, you certainly need to have all those skills (problem solving, quantitative analysis, presentation skills, etc.). The reason why it’s false is because it omits empirical evidence. The most important determinant in getting into McKinsey is actually the business school you graduate from-- McKinsey doesn’t recruit outside of the top 10-15 MBA programs in the country, it’s extremely rare for them to do so. The Ti user is more likely not to know this.

The Te method states an illogical but true statement. It’s illogical because the university you attend shouldn’t have an impact on your job prospects: there are dumb kids at elite colleges and smart kids at lower ranked colleges. Even so, this is still a true statement because, again, McKinsey doesn’t recruit from universities outside the Top 10-15 MBA programs. Data suggests that school rankings have an impact on getting into McKinsey and other elite consulting firms (data references: McKinsey’s career website, LinkedIn, networking events, Poets and Quants, etc.). The Te user is more likely to know this.

Related: Mr. ENTJ, do things like rankings, reputation, and prestige for which school you attend matter when it comes to your career?

How do you change a Te user’s mind?

If you want the Te user to change their opinion, you must provide empirical evidence that overturns their logic.

If you tell a Te user you’re applying to Stanford University with a 2.0 GPA (C- average, 65-70%) and a 1000 SAT score (35 percentile) but the facts state Stanford’s average admitted GPA is over 4.0 (A+ average, 100%) and average SAT score is 1460+ (96 percentile) (reference: Stanford Admission Data) then Te will say you’re not a competitive candidate. It doesn’t matter if you’re a great student who’s actually really smart “but I’m just lazy/ I don’t do well on tests/my grades are bad.” It doesn’t matter if Stanford is the perfect fit for you and your tech entrepreneurship goals. It doesn’t matter if you think grading scales and test scores are illogical, insufficient, and inaccurate measures of intelligence. You can debate until your face is red, stomp your feet, cry, kick, and scream, but from a data perspective provided by Stanford University itself-- the facts strongly suggest you aren’t getting accepted.

That’s not Te being mean or inflexible-- that’s simply the facts -- and we can’t do anything about the facts because they are what they are. They are objective. What is flexible to the Te user is how to solve the problem. Nothing will change the fact that you’re a poor candidate for Stanford but if the goal is to get accepted, the Te solution is to raise your grades and test scores to match the benchmark set by Stanford’s admission data. The solution is not to debate endlessly the merits of grades and test scores or Stanford’s admission criteria. 

I’d love for you to get into the university of your dreams, Stanford is a phenomenal school, but if the data clashes violently with the decision then I can’t side with you. If the data doesn’t support the decision, the Te user won’t budge.

How can Te and Ti work better together?

Te gets frustrated with Ti’s focus on irrelevant details, inability to interpret generalizations, and frivolous nitpicking. Working with Ti can be irritating for a Te user because Ti can get “stuck” on something that doesn’t personally make sense to them, but that makes sense to everyone else, that works anyway, and that achieves the end result. Where the Te user wants to move on, the Ti user wants to stay and dig and dig and dig some more, and this can tie up valuable resources like time, energy, and money. 

Professionally, set conditions for success from a third party and work towards meeting them together. For example, if it’s a business environment then let the customer tell you what success is. If it’s an academic environment, let the professor define success. If it’s a hospital, let patient quality and value of care guide you. Treat these conditions for success as a “north star.” From there, Te and Ti can combine their strengths to create solutions that are both logically sound (Ti) and effective (Te) to achieve the best results guided by the third party. 

The Te Advantage

The main advantage of having Te is straightforward: Te users have an easier time navigating and succeeding in the real world simply because we listen to it and we make sense of what it’s telling us. We study the world, organize and analyze the information, and make data-driven decisions using our auxiliary function (Ni for ENTJs, Si for ESTJs) based on that analysis.

If you want to get accepted into Harvard University– you don’t tell Harvard what kind of student they want– you collect data on what statistics (GPA, major, test scores) they accept and adapt those traits to your application.

If you want to run a successful company, you don’t tell your customers what they should buy– you collect data on their preferences and create a product to meet their needs.

If you want the world to accept your logic, you don’t unilaterally rationalize it in your mind and then tell the world what they need– you ask them what they want and respond accordingly.

This is why ENTJs and ESTJs are often described as pragmatic and associated with high achievement, our traits are adapted for the environment we live in– reality.

[thetakenpokemon]

Act 2 - Border Crossed

[PoV: Bladesong]

As much as it’s nice to admire the beauty of nature, sometimes even that tends to get rather...old. The walk towards the border has been relatively uneventful, the only thing keeping me from being bored is the occasional conversation with Velvett. However those conversations tend to be very brief since Chimera wants us to stay relatively quiet.

One thing I’ll say that I’ve noticed is that the forest has actually become a lot less dense as of late. The trees are spaced farther apart from each other, causing a lot more sunlight to shine down.

Does this mean anything of importance? Probably, although the best that I can tell is that we’re actually making distance.

I turn my gaze away from the umpteenth tree I’ve stared at, my eyes half-lidded due to boredom. I probably would’ve fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that I noticed that Chimera stopped.

“It’s time to disguise ourselves.” He says suddenly, catching me off-guard.

“Disguise ourselves?” I speak up, confused. “What for? Aren’t we supposed to wait until we passed the border?”

“We’ve passed the border fifteen minutes ago.” Trojan points out.

At this I couldn’t help but balk. “Fifteen minutes ago?!” I repeat. “So we simply just...walked into Progria?!”

Velvett smirks. “There’s no giant wall separating the two countries, Bladesong. The border isn’t something that’s supervised.”

Well...shit.

“I didn’t realize that it was that easy to slip in.” I mutter, grabbing my amulet and whispering the incantation - activating my illusion. “I did kinda assumed that there would be some kind of measures taken place to prevent people from crossing.”

“If such a thing was in place, then it would be counter-productive for the HWDP.” Chimera responds coldly, also activating his illusion. “Although an unsupervised border could mean that Pokemon could simply walk into Progria, it also means that the HWDP can do the exact same thing as well.” He shakes his head. “Besides, another reason is that most Pokemon and Humans have no interest in crossing the border to begin with, thus the further lack of need for protective measures.”

I nod my head slowly, the reasons given to me sounding very understandable - albeit I couldn’t help but grimace at the part on the HWDP.

The ‘Now-Human’ Chimera turns to Trojan and sets the large brief-case case he’s holding onto the ground. Upon undoing the locks, he opens it up and gestures to it. “It’s time to hide yourself, Trojan.”

The Rotogon-Z bobs his head in response. “Understood.”

When Trojan flies over to the opened case, my eyes widen as I watch him start to ‘fold up’. His body begins to just...compress itself. Pieces begin folding inward or separate, making him smaller and smaller. After becoming small enough, all of the parts levitate into the briefcase and fit in seamlessly like some sort of jigsaw puzzle.

Once he’s secured, Chimera closes the case shut and picks it back up. “We can continue.” He says, turning to Velvett. “You said that there’s a place that solves our transportation problem?”

I look at Velvett to see what her response would be, however I end up balking for a second time.

Due to me watching Trojan ‘shrink’ himself, I didn’t notice that Velvett put an illusion on herself. Instead of a Delphox, she’s now a Human being.

Her skin is a very light color, her eyes a soft green, and her hair is black - styled into a short ponytail. Her attire consists of a black unbuttoned leather jacket, a white shirt, black sweat pants, and brown shoes. Two other details I notice is that her fingernails are painted a vibrant pink, and she’s still wearing her pentagram necklace.

“I did say that~” Velvett grins, her teeth being a pearly white. “There’s a small gas station a few miles away from here. I have a car parked there just for this occasion.” She rests a hand on her hip while examining the nails of the other. “The owner knows me rather well, so there won’t be any questions~”

I blink. “Knows you well?” I ask. Is she referring to the fact that this ‘owner’ knows who she really is?

She waves me off, understanding my confusion. “Knows me well as in my persona~ Here in Progria, I have a different identity. Pokemon aren’t really common here, so can’t have people knowing that I’m a Delphox, can we~?”

I wince, realizing that I should’ve come to that conclusion immediately. “Yeah...” I nod my head, smiling sheepishly. “Don’t want that happening.”

Nodding back, she turns to the path before us. “Now, it’ll be quite a walk before we get to the station.” She says, continuing the trek. “In the meanwhile, we’ll need to come up with some names for all of you to use. Here? I’m Jessiana Stars, Jessy for short~” She glances back at us. “As for the rest of you? I don’t believe ‘Chimera’ and ‘Bladesong’ will fly, so let’s brainstorm some names for the both of you on the way~”

We’re all following her now. When I look to see Chimera’s expression on the matter, his look tells me that he wants none of this ‘brainstorming’. “Benjamin will be fine.” He says lowly.

Velvett (or should I refer to her as Jessy now?) looks back at him, her face being one of disappointment. “Benjamin? Really?”

I hear a growl come from Chimera. Even though he’s carrying a lot of luggage, I have a sneaking suspicion that this is not because he’s frustrated with carrying all of the weight.

“Is there a problem with the name?” He asks her angrily.

She rolls her eyes. “In my opinion, it’s a rather boring name. Although boring names are efficient in keeping yourself hidden, I think you should at least take a bit more liberty in choosing one.” She taps her cheek in thought. “Think of something a bit more creative. How about Sullivan? Or maybe Laslo? Or possibly even-”

“Benjamin is my original name, BEFORE I became what I am now.” He hisses. “So this name...is fine.” The Deoxys-hybrid glares at her. “Drop. It. Now. End of discussion.”

Although Velvett is still walking, the posture of her body is frozen. Her mouth is open in wordless shock, and her eyes? They’re telling me exactly what she’s thinking - ‘Oh shit’.

Me? I’m seriously cringing right now, for both Velvett and Chimera. Truth be told I didn’t even know Chimera’s true name either, since that’s something he kinda left unsaid. So this is definitely news to me too.

Wanting to break the now incredibly tense silence, I decide to speak up. “I know what I’ll be called.” I say, smiling awkwardly. “I’ve chosen Amelia, since it’s also my original name.” I shrug my shoulders, chuckling just as awkwardly as my smile. “I don’t use it anymore since I see myself as a completely changed person, because of the whole cyborg thing.” My bladed tendrils twitch restlessly. “Bladesong is what I normally want to be called, but for now? Amelia will be good.” I start readjusting the giant crate that’s being carried over my shoulder, knowing that I’d be sweating now if I could. “’Cus...you know... The whole thing about us needing fake names... Since our current names don’t work... And...stuff...”

Well, if there’s an article about the term ‘Going down in flames’, this would be a prime example.

Me talking seems to have snapped Velvett out of her haze though, since she looks at me and smiles kindly - the first smile I’ve seen that’s not in the least bit playful. “It’s a very lovely name, I’ll be sure to remember calling you that.”

Chimera doesn’t say anything, but he lets out a quiet grunt before shaking his head, his expression going from pissed-off to impassive.

Well, the atmosphere isn’t tense anymore.

So...

...Nailed it?

[owlespresso]

Whitley Schnee is not a fighter.

A fic I’ve been working on since about March or April. This isn’t the kind of content I usually post, but bear with me. Commissions are open. Info is HERE. My ko-fi is also open for donations, HERE.

Whitley Schnee is not a fighter.

Whitley Schnee sits behind his sisters and listens to his mother’s shrill screaming. He hears the quiet malice in his father’s voice. More than anything, though, he hears the silence that settles after they finish dinner. He hides in his room and buries himself in his books. The steak Diane from dinner settles sourly in his stomach. His small fingers tremble around the pencil in his hand.

He thinks back to the semblance he doesn’t have, and how it narrows his chances of leaving this frozen place. He thinks back to his skillset and knows that his father values logistics and mathematics. He knows that father will keep him around, even though he’s not the company’s chosen heir. There is no escape. He stares at the blank page and mindlessly moves his gaze over the passages in his textbook. These are the only skills he can bank his worth on. He’s numb, but he processes the printed information because he has to. The sight of his mother’s fingers curled tightly around her wine glass haunts him.

Whitley shuts his eyes and opens them. He feels colder than he did before.

1:7_:14=_:21=4:_=5:_=_:42

Standard, seventh grade math. He faints remembers Winter praising him over his advanced knowledge. He remembers the jealous glance that Weiss gave him. He remembers being satisfied. Math is her worst subject. It’s the only advantage he has.

Whitley Schnee’s life has been a constant uphill climb, a desperate attempt to prove his worth against his older sisters. He loves them, but it’s beyond difficult to be in their presence without being suffocated. His father reassures him about his lack of power

“As long as you prove your worth, I will make sure you succeed in life.”

Why does he have to prove anything? Is this what parents do to their children? Is this how families act? Do other children have to prove themselves to their parents? Are other children forced to compete against their siblings by the influence of some, vague threat? What does his father consider worthy? Whitley solves his math problems, because they’re the only problems he can solve at al. He’s too weak to stand for himself. He’s too young to free himself from his father’s clutches.

Whitley Schnee is nine years old and he’s doing seventh-grade math problems. He’s young and afraid and desperately cultivating skills so his father doesn’t throw him out. His family has all of the wealth in the world, but he’s struggling to make it, anyways.

Two years later, Whitley is eleven. The spite that began to brew when he was seven has started to consume him. Winter has left them, abandoning her position as heir to become a military official. Whitley hid in his room for six days after her departure. 

Father was furious with her, naturally. He was frustrated because he no longer had control over her. He could no longer restrict her lifestyle or tell her what to do. Whitley wants to be happy for her, but he’s been left behind and he still has years to struggle through. Mother supported her decision. She said she wished Father was dead, to his face. Whitley can’t deny the satisfaction he felt at the rage in Father’s eyes.

All he can do is try to feel happy for her. All he can do is avert his eyes and try to resist his lack of confidence. He loves Winter and Weiss because they’re his sisters. He hates Winter and Weiss because they represent everything he can never be. They represent chances he will never have and a prison he can never escape from.

The sun room in the east wing of the mansion is where he does most of his studying. He’s sworn his allegiance to the Schnee family name in order to appease Father, so he’s mostly left to his own devices. He’s tarte looking at financial models and learning how to handle company emails. 

He’s also flawlessly continuing his education, outclassing his peers and impressing his father’s business allies. He reaches over to the coffee mug on the table and takes a small sip. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door creak open, doesn’t look up as heels click towards him. He keeps his eyes on the crisp pages in front of him.

“Whitley?” It’s been two days since he’s spoken to Weiss and the realization makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. He looks up at her with a smile. She’s staring straight at him with her hands at her sides. They’re squeezed into fists and gripping her frilly skirt. She looks unsure of herself, wary in a way that he hardly ever sees from her. He relishes in her insecurity and promptly hates himself for it. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” He smiles but his stomach curls. When did he start resenting the people he cares about the most?

“We—you haven’t spoken to me in two days. Did I do something wrong?” Whitley is actually surprised. She hardly ever admits her flaws. She’s been built up and groomed into an image of perfection. It only makes him feel worse, knowing that he’s only going to isolate himself even more. One day, Weiss is going to lead the company, and Whitley can’t help the envy that claws at his chest. Because she’s older. 

Because she’s been blessed with talent from the very start. Because their genes favor her, but not him. Never him. “I know that Winter leaving has been… hard on the both of us. But you know you’re not alone, right?” More than anything, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“Unlike you, Winter didn’t favor me,” He replies. The words are sweet barbs on his tongue. It breaks his heart to talk to her so cruelly, but all of his pent up frustration finally has an outlet, “So, no. I don’t miss her. She made her choice. And that choice was to abandon us for her own success.” Weiss looks utterly distraught. 

It’s the first time he’s ever seen her so upset. It feels like he’s kicked a puppy. It feels like he’s hurt someone near and dear to him. Weiss is the only real ally he has, here. She’s the only person he can spill his heart to. But if he delights in her misery, does he really have a heart at all? Maybe Weiss is better off without him. Maybe Winter is better off without him.

Maybe he’s better off without them. Because he constantly feel like Father is watching him, breathing down his neck, trying to divide them all. He’s been a burden from the very start. He can’t make glyphs and he doesn’t have the strength to free himself from this place. It’ll be easier to just do what Father wants. It won’t hurt, as much.

“Well, if you feel like that, maybe I should leave, too!” Weiss bristles, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl. She’s always been protective of Winter. More than anything, he wants to tell her that he feels inferior in every way. He wants her to hug him and smile and reassure him. But he remains silent, thinking it’s better to isolate himself. She has bigger and better things to do with her life. She’s told him that she wants to go to Beacon, far away from this cold place he hesitantly calls a home. He can’t make her worry, because then she might stay behind. 

“What’s wrong, Whitley? We hardly talk. You’re the only one who listens to me. You’re the only one I can still talk to! I don’t—I can’t feel safe around Father or Mother!”

“Nothing is ‘wrong’ with me, sister,” Whitley wears a thin smile and stares at her with it, “I’m simply stating my opinion. Nothing more. If you really don’t feel safe here, then maybe to should go to Beacon. Like you’ve been talking about for so long.” For a split second, Weiss looks like he’s torn her world down around her. 

A sinking feeling settles in his chest, because he’s started burning the only bridges he has. He could apologize. He could build their relationship back up to what it used to be, back to what it’s always been. But he won’t. Because he’s chosen the path his life will take at eleven years old.

“Maybe I will, then.” Weiss’s posture straightens and slips on a composed face, the same one she wears when in the presence of their father.

“Good luck, sister.” Whitley turns his gaze back to the row of pages neatly assembled in his lap. He doesn’t look up when Weiss leaves the room. Instead, he listens to the click of her heels down the hallway and hopes she’ll be gone, soon.

Whitley Schnee is thirteen when he attends one of his father’s banquets. He’s been brought to several of them, before. It’s not like it’s his first time talking to his father’s snooty business allies or eating rich horderves that are too small to actually enjoy, but it’s his first time attending one of his meals without Winter or Weiss. In the back of his mind, he remembers hushed conversations with Weiss, mocking a haughty noble woman’s gaudy dress or making exaggerated imitations of their father’s voice. Now, he’s left to his own devices.

He doesn’t idle.

“Well, we pay our faunus employees just as much as any others. However, it’s the health care benefits that are lacking.” Whitley listens to his father debate on faunus rights for the thousandth time in his life. Rights activists never seem to tire of asking the same, tired questions over and over. Whitley knows his father is bigoted, but no one is ever going to catch him saying something blatantly discriminatory.

“That really doesn’t make it any better.” A bespeckled noble in a brown suit insists. His eyebrows furrow slightly and his nose scrunches.

“Actually,” Whitley pipes up, and the argumentative man quiets, “Faunus workers require less healthcare benefits due to their superior immune systems. They’re apt to be stronger than most humans, and don’t get sick or injured as easily. We would love to give all our employees equal health benefits, but we can’t afford it due to recent rebellions in Mistral, which have affected productivity levels in our mines. It’s only natural to take away benefits from those who need them the least,” The information Whitley gives is from an outdated study, one proven wrong by scholars years ago. However, the nobles in Atlas are ridiculously uneducated about faunus rights, much less biology. He’s made a gamble by assuming the bespeckled man is oblivious, just like the rest.

The nobleman huffs, and doesn’t make an immediate reply, proving Whitley’s assumption right. The brown-suited noble grumbles out a half-witted excuse and scrambles over to the dessert table, leaving Whitley with his father.

“My apologies, father,” Father shouldn’t get mad at being defended, but Whitley apologizes just in case he does, “I just couldn’t stand listening to that nonsense any longer. You think he would have read one of the articles where you’ve answered all the same questions,” Father, who had perhaps been stunned by his sudden input, shakes his head and looks at him with an approving expression. There’s a new sharpness in his gaze. 

In that instance, Whitley knows that he’s accomplished what he set out to do from the start. He’ll carve his presence into his father’s mind, make it unable to envision the future of the company without him. He doesn’t need a flashy semblance or combat skills to earn his place. He doesn’t need to be a huntsman. What can a huntsman do that an army cannot?

“No, it’s no problem. I thought I’d never be able to get that lousy rat off my back,” Father rolls his eyes and straightens his posture. “You did quite well, Whitley. I’m glad you remember what I’ve taught you.” The truth doesn’t matter if no one can prove you wrong.

“Yes, Father. You’re absolutely correct.” Whitley smiles and it makes his stomach curl sourly, because he hates the man who created him.

“That’s my boy,” His father had latched onto their similarities and uses them to twist him—to turn him against his sisters. Whitley knows this, but it’s too late. His father’s intentions started to influence him years ago. He’s already tainted beyond repair. Weiss want nothing to do with him. It’s been months since he’s spoken to Winter. His support begins and ends with his father, while his siblings have lives and friends far beyond Atlas, far away from him.

Winter’s steel blade clashes against her opponent’s, sending fresh sparks across the training room floor. It’s been three months since Whitley last spoke to her, a year since he’s been her in person. She’s visited a total of three times across the past year. He made sure to be out in the city for two of them, and just avoided her during the last. As time passes, he grows less concerned with appearing rude or condescending. It’s easier to view Winter and Weiss as the roots of his suffering, because they’re hardly ever around. If he acknowledged his father as the cause of his struggles and agony, then he’d likely lose his mind, knowing he has to stay here until he turns eighteen (or can find another opportunity to escape).

Winter loops her foot around her sparring partner’s calf while he’s distracted, causing him to topple to the ground. He moves to roll away, but is halted by Winter’s blade pointing at his throat. Whitley refuses to be impressed. He knows he’s peering into a world he can never be apart of. The moment he becomes impressed is the moment he’ll begin to feel inferior, again.

“That was impressive, Winter,” He steps out from behind a marble pillar to greet her as she sheathes her weapon. His smile is blank and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad to see that your years of away have gone to good use.”

“Thank you,” Winter’s tone is terse and he really can’t blame her. The animosity between them is kind of clear. No one has said anything. There have been no, open declarations of hatred. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you here for?”

“Father is busy with a few guests, right now. So he sent me to tell you that lunch is rescheduled to 1:30.” He drawls.

“And you won’t be there?” It really isn’t a question, but it still surprises him. He didn’t think Winter cared, anymore. They were in separate worlds.

“No. I think not,” Whitley shrugs, “I’m going over the company’s finances. Father is thinking about putting me in charge of managing them.”

“Is that so? I’m glad you’re applying yourself,” She doesn’t try to fake a smile, and he appreciates that. Winter represents everything he cannot have in life, and he despises her for it. However, she’s always straight to the point. “Whitley, why don’t you talk, anymore?” She doesn’t waste her time, doesn’t hesitate or try to make excuses.

“I grew up,” Whitley pauses and wonders how much he should really tell her. In his heart, there’s still hesitation. He wants to hate Winter. He wants to hate Weiss. But something inside of him protests, insists that he shouldn’t. Father has tainted so much in his life—turned colors to dull blacks and whites. 

“I realized that relying on Weiss won’t do me any good. We have to be able to fend for ourselves or else we won’t have any success in life.” It’s another lesson that Father has crammed into their minds since birth, for the purpose of keeping them obedient. The more divided they are, the harder it’ll be to resist, to escape.

“And you still have quite a bit of growing to do,” Winter says calmly, but to Whitley it sounds like a lofty and arrogant statement. He’s at the tender age of fourteen, so of course he’s not perfect (not yet), but he’s wiser and more mature than most of his peers. He’s grown tired of having his accomplishments and growth go unacknowledged, so it stings to have Winter only further the notion that he’s incomplete. It’s not intentional, of course. 

There’s no way she could know about the self-hatred that’s been ingrained in him for years. “Whitley. I know growing up here is difficult. Our father hasn’t exactly been the best parent. But that’s even more of a reason to stay close to Weiss.” There’s a tender look on her face and Whitley hates it.

He knows that she’s remembering the more tender times in their lives, when she was still his older sister. When he was still her little brother. His fingers lace together and his posture straightens to an almost painful degree.

“Difficult? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He says bitterly, narrowing his eyes at her, “Father has given me everything I need in life. And unlike you or Weiss, I’m thankful for it.” It’s a roundabout, vague way of saying “I understand your concerns, but I don’t care about them. Leave me alone.”

It seems the universe is on his side, for once. Because before Winter can even open her mouth to reply, General Ironwood is walking in. He wears the same, stern expression as always and it does nothing for his attractiveness. He looks constipated. Whitley wants to tell him that he won’t be getting women looking like that, but he’s nowhere near his father on the social ladder, so he wouldn’t be able to get away with it. One day he’ll get there. Likely by the time the general is retired, but it’s good to think about.

“Schnee,” The general halts once he spots Whitley, posture becoming even more rigid. “Good afternoon.”

“General Ironwood.” Winter salutes, and Whitley attempts to slouch further, showing how much he doesn’t give a damn. Ironwood has two seats on the council, which he’s quite fond of bragging about. The Man with Two Council Seats is what Father has taken to calling him (refusing to give him the dignity of actually having a name). From what Whitley knows, Father hates the general, and that’s enough for him to hate the general, too.

(“That’s my boy.” Father says for the second time in a week. Whitley feels the sudden urge to tear his hair out.)

“I’ll be heading back to the ship. It seems that Jacques has had his fill of my presence,” Ironwood says jokingly, and Whitley really wants to be mad. “So, I’ll be going back to the academy. There’ll be a ship waiting to pick you up in two days, at six AM,” He tosses a look back at Whitley, his eyebrows furrowing. “Sorry to take your sister away so soon.”

Whitley just wants to be everything his father tells him to be. He wants to be unquestioning (unfeeling). He wants to be a lifeless doll. Because it would be less painful. Because all of the conflict in him would just go away if he could twist himself to be the image of perfection in his Father’s eyes. But he can’t be mad. Because deep down, he knows he hates Father for destroying their family. As long as Father isn’t around, Whitley can enjoy jokes at his expense without fear.

“It’s fine, really. I’ve heard that my sister is doing great work in the military,” Whitley says with a smile, not even bothering to look in Winter’s direction. “Have a safe trip back, General Ironwood.”

The general says a polite farewell, but he can’t bear to even admit that. Whitley turns his back, done with the conversation and done with being in Winter’s presence.

“Surely, they must see the light soon, Father.” Whitley chimes as he strides at his father’s side, now tall enough to keep up. The hallowed halls of their mansion glow bright white, pure and unfitting for Father’s current mental state. Father hates attending council meetings, viewing every other member as mere competition. He hates the idea of unity and trust with other nobles because he feels it’ll hurt business if they get friendly. Of course, there is power in relationships. But several of the council members have stated their dissatisfaction with Father’s insatiable greed.

“Of course they will,” Father insists. They reach the end of the hallway, standing in front of the huge double doors. The council is holding their meeting in the Schnee mansion, today. Father intends to win them over, so he can count on their support in the future. He may hate most of them, but having rich “friends” in high places is worth the trouble.

Whitley realizes that he’s spent so much time around Father, that he knows the man’s thinking process inside and out. That frightens him.

He doesn’t get the opportunity to think on it, because Father throws the doors to the room open and steps inside, greeting the council members with a plastic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good afternoon. I hope the trip here treated you all well,” He greets, and Whitley trails behind him. “This is my son, Whitley. I plan to have him sit in on this meeting today, in order to prepare him to be one of the Schnee company’s diplomats.”

“Good afternoon.” Whitley greets with a polite, moderate bow. “It’s an honor to be here. I’ve heard much about the exploits of the Atlas Council and look forward to working with you, in the future.” His father moves towards the head of the table, sitting beside the general and not sparing the man a glance. Whitley takes up residence in the corner of the room, quiet and out of the way as he has been his entire life.

“Alright, then let’s get started,” Ironwood takes the initiative and no one tries to dispute that, “Thistle, how many of our troops are still in Vale?” Whitley doesn’t pay too much attention to what the military does, outside of what directly affects the company. He knows that Ironwood is pulling their soldiers back to protect Atlas in case of an attack, but there’s not much else he cares about. His father seems to think the same way, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand and moving his gaze towards the ceiling, very purposefully looking bored and only giving input when necessary.

“Jacques, I’d also like you to start bringing your miners back from Mantle,” The general’s order rings loud and clear, and that catches Whitley’s attention. Father puts his hand back down on the table and straightens his posture, not hesitating to stare Ironwood in the face with a blatantly uninterested expression.

“And why, pray tell, would I do that?” His tone drips with malice and Whitley almost zones out, again. Father always gets his way. After spending a lifetime near the man, he knows that no one tells his Father what to do and gets away with it. Of course, General Ironwood is known for shattering expectancies, being the youngest general to ever head Atlas’s security. The man is tyrannical and doesn’t hesitate to flaunt how he has two seats in the council.

“Because grimm sightings in Mantle have increased. I want you to bring your Atlas-native miners home,” Ironwood says firmly. “This is not up for discussion.” Father leans back in his seat and eyes the general. Whitley knows he’s in the middle of deciding whether this fight is worth having.

“Alright. We’ll start bringing them back.” Father relents, expression curling into an unpleasant frown. And just like that, General Ironwood has done what Whitley has always dreamed of doing. He wants the power to say “no” to his father.

“Thank you.” Ironwood doesn’t give a deadline, like Whitley hoped he would. The meeting carries on. He delights in the small inconveniences that his Father faces. When dealing with people who he can’t control, his life gets more difficult. Whitley has hardly ever seen the man face any opposition before. 

He has viewed his Father as the most powerful man in Atlas for his entire life, the person who decides whether he eats tonight or not, whether he succeeds or not. Attending this meeting is an eye-opening experience, because it shows him that yes, his Father has limits. Yes, there are magical places where his Father’s influence cannot reach. There are places he hasn’t corrupted and never will.

Father frowns whenever another council member disagrees with him, and his eyebrows pinch together in a scowl when Thistle snags the last creampuff before he can. His protests are drowned out when a new bill for securing faunus rights is talked about in a positive light. And Whitley loves every second of it.

“I believe some of us at this table carry prejudice within their hearts.” Bellerose, one of the wealthiest military officials in Atlas, drawls. He doesn’t look at Father but the entire table knows who he means. Whitley doesn’t blame the man, really. Especially since his wife is a faunus. If he had one in his family, he would likely feel obliged to defend them, too. Father’s grip tightens around the handle of his coffee mug, but he doesn’t say anything. Seeing him powerless is a strange but delightful kind of trip, really.

“Really? How unfortunate.” Thistle remarks, calmly sipping her tea. Whitley can clearly see that she’s trying not to smile. The entire table is making a fool out of his father.

“I’m putting an embargo on dust, too.” Ironwood mentions casually, as though talking about the weather. That’s the last straw, the last bit of provocation before Father stands up and slams his hands on the table, face glowing bright red with anger.

“Like hell you will!” There’s pure malice on his face, “I am one of the wealthiest, most successful men in Atlas and I will not stand to be made a fool of! You can sit on your asses and giggle all you’d like, but this! This is not happening. You will not make my business suffer because of your paranoia.” He fumes, staring Ironwood down with a molten gaze.

“It’s a safety precaution. You’ll still be able to distribute dust within our borders,” Whitley isn’t sure that isolating Atlas is a viable solution. If anything, it’ll only stifle communication with other kingdoms and make it more difficult to defend the kingdom in case an attack does happen. But he doesn’t say anything, because it’s not his place to. Father isn’t right. And while Ironwood is refreshing to see and listen to, he’s not completely right, either.

“You plan to make us safer by isolating us?” Father stares at him incredulously. “Do you not have any confidence in your ability to protect us, general Ironwood? Have you gone insane?” The rest of the council remains silent as Ironwood stands up, towering over Father. Something in his expression has changed and Whitley feels the room grow tense. An ominous feeling lingers. He’s not the only one feeling it, judging by the expressions of the other council members. To Father’s credit, he doesn’t sit down or look away. He stares straight into the general’s eyes and waits for a response, expression twisted into one of deep discontent.

“We’ll be voting on this proposal next week. If you’re that against it, I suggest talking to your fellow council members. Because I’m not going to budge.” The general sweeps his gaze across the other council members. “This meeting is adjourned. We’ll meet at the capital, next Wednesday.”

The various nobles and officers file out of the room, but Whitley stays behind and focuses his gaze ahead of him, absolutely expressionless. There’s no telling how Father will react when frustrated like this. He usually doesn’t get physical. But there’s no telling. Fortunately, Jacques wordlessly motions him over and turns to exit the room, silent. Whitley walks behind him, silent, posture proud and rigid like he’s been taught. He makes sure to look displeased so Father will think he agrees with him.

“Absolutely idiotic.” Jacques half-says and half-mutters.

“They’re cowards. Every last one of them.” Whitley reassures him. And in all honesty? He half agrees. Isolating Atlas won’t get them anywhere. But Whitley doesn’t much care for the future of this kingdom, as its one build on shallow ideals and greed. The gears turn inside his head, because he’s realized that Father isn’t invincible, that Father can be outdone or outwitted like any other human being.

Father keeps his gaze straight ahead. Whitley smiles behind him, like a killer holding a knife behind his back.

Winter comes back on a frosty, Sunday evening close to Christmas. Weiss will not be joining them. He can’t say he’s surprised. She’s been trying to escape this godforsaken place for years, now. She was born to leave, he thinks. And it’s not like he blames her for not coming back. It’ll probably make the next two weeks easier, if anything. Less people means less arguing. Winter has just about given up on ever getting through to Father. Mother’s actually never tried from the start. Whitley has always known that it’s a hopeless endeavor.

“I hear you’re practically head of financing,” Winter says to him. The kitchen is usually his favorite place to be from mid morning to early afternoon. Father has his lunch brought to his study and no one else comes around. Except Winter, when she’s at home and probably feeling nosy. Whitley taps his pen against the table and glances away from the wretched book of numbers he’s been staring at for the past, two hours. He has a number of snarky replies prepared just in case Winter ever tries to talk to him, but they’re all made quiet by the look she’s giving him.

There’s a warmth in her eyes that’s both strange and foreign, an emotion he’s never quite seen before. It’s like she’s proud of him, and he doesn’t know why it makes his heart wither and curl in his chest. Then it hits him that Father has never once looked at him like that, has never been proud of him. Has never spared him a genuine compliment after spending hours managing the company’s finances. Sure, there are compliments, but they’re so brisk that he knows they’re fake. So quick and small that he can’t feel them at all.

“Yeah.” He sounds shakier than he would have liked to. Over the years, he’s done everything possible to wittle down his emotions. The world he lives in is cold and dangerous and horribly aristocratic. Emotion is a weakness.

“You’ve always had quite the talent for numbers,” She closes her eyes and ages about ten years. Whitley doesn’t like the way the bags under her eyes suddenly pop out, “I never acknowledged you enough, Whitley. And for that, I apologize.” The sudden apology surprises him more than her solemness ever will. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the words “I apologize” or “I’m sorry” said so genuinely to him. Childhood spats with Weiss would sometimes end with her folding her arms and spitting out an apology like venom. But that was more to get the situation over with. Never real.

“It’s fine,” Whitley mutters, no snarky retorts to be found, “It’s really fine. You don’t have to acknowledge me. You and Weiss were always the more naturally gifted of us, anyways.” He says it with a smile. But there’s a frail bitterness to his voice. Winter’s expression freezes. Any other time, he would have relished in seeing her so dumbfounded. It’s like she’s just pieced together the puzzle, just discovered the grand truth behind their family’s unraveling.

“Whitley,” Her voice is slower, as careful as he’s ever heard it. She looked pained, she looks dazed. He doesn’t like it, but he wishes he did. He wishes he could just blindly follow every one of father’s desires, wishes he could be happy with all of it. Because living in oblivion would be so much easier than trying to find the truth, trying to acknowledge that everything he’s been fed since his birth is a lie. “Is… is that why you’ve distanced yourself from Weiss and I?”

“It’s just practical. You and Wiess can be in the field, while I stay in the background and manage the intricacies of the company. It’s the usual situation.” He looks emptily at his papers because it’s easier than looking at her distraught expression.

“You can’t possibly—”

“I can,” Whitley interrupts her sharply, his eyes narrowing. He’s had enough of her sympathy, of her reasoning. Why can’t she just leave him here, in his misery? “Because it’s what I’m good at, sister. It’s what I’ve always been good at. I’m a practical thinker. I’m an expert in accounting and finances. I can’t earn a free pass and abandon my family because I’m not gifted with a semblance like you are.” He wants to raise his voice, but he refuses to. He goes quieter, because he’s not his father. One of Winter’s hands slams down on the table. When he looks up to her face, she looks older than he’s ever seen her.

“You don’t need any of that to become your own person!” She says, and it echoes through the hollow kitchen. “You have so many gifts, Whitley! You’re so intelligent, so clever, and you have two sisters who would be absolutely willing to help you!”

“I can’t rely—” He starts.

“You can! Because that’s what family is really for! Family members are supposed to help each other!” Winter cuts him off, and he finds himself drawn to the living flame that she’s become. “I know you can become someone bigger, someone better than you are, right now,” She sounds like she’s pleading, “You just need to stop worrying about what you don’t have and start using what you do.”

And then it’s quiet. He’s left stunned by the information that now lies at his feet. Winter takes a deep breath and pulls herself back together. She rebuilds her composure, like he’s seen her do so many times. She recreates her demeanor, becomes someone completely different than who she just was.

“I understand how you feel,” She says, quiet. “And if you want to talk to me, I’ll be in my old room.” He doesn’t speak up as she walks out of the kitchen. Instead, he listens to the click of her heels against the marble ground. The noise fades into the distance, and the kitchen feels colder than ever.

When Weiss comes home for the first time, after the Fall of Beacon, Whitley sees everything. It’s been months since they’ve spoken. The rift between them has expanded far beyond what it once was. Before, they were years apart. Now, they are centuries away from each other. Weiss travels among a wide open future while Whitley is still shoulders deep into the past. She was happier at Beacon, he can already tell. Her entire being is steadily unraveling with each moment she remains home. In Vale, she was free to do as she pleased, away from the watchful gaze of their father.

But now, she is a prisoner of her lineage, captured in the past. Whitley wants to say he’s glad to see her suffer, but he’s really not. Of course, he’ll pretend to relish in her grief, if only for the purpose of being her away. Their first exchange in months was genuine. Whitley would be nasty to her. He’d rip her confidence to pieces, but he wasn’t interested in letting her suffer by father’s hands. Over the languid years, Whitley has come to realize that seeing his father agitated is his greatest delight. He’s come to thoroughly enjoy Ironwood’s visits. It lets him see his father vulnerable, a state he was seldom able to witness before.

He hears the true message of her song, an anthem against the tyranny of their father. He sees an example of her growing power in the form of a summon, after her outburst in the middle of their father’s lavish party. He feels her grief, almost as his own.

“Whitley, you wanted this to happen.”

He didn’t. He really didn’t. Because he’s the heir to the Schnee company and it’s just another piece of rope around him throat, tying him tight to Atlas’s toxic roots.

His shoes click against the ground as he heads towards Weiss’s room. His heart pumps in his throat. Blood roars in his ears. Because Whitley Schnee is not a fighter and he never will be. His hand trembles as it grabs her doorknob, tugging it open. His gaze roams briefly over her room. She’s training. He can see the grand symbol curved into the ground, gleaming and white. It’s beautiful. And he’s never been able to admire the Schnee glyphs before, because they’ve always resembled what he can never have.

Except, they don’t. Not anymore.

“Hello sister.” He can tell she’s not happy to see him. Her expression is flat, but he knows that there’s rage broiling underneath the surface. Begging to break free like the caged bird she’s become. He knows what he’s about to do will work, because he knows her.

“Leave.”

“How hurtful. And here I am, about to offer you a favor,” The acidity of her voice doesn’t unnerve him, and he keeps going, “Father is taking me into town to meet some of his business partners,” Leave now, while you can. He pleads inwardly, he begs. “I thought I’d see if you wanted me to pick up anything for you. Since you’re… well, stuck here.” He looks at her with that smug expression he knows she hates, one he knows will make her temper boil.

“Are you jealous? Is that it?” She snaps back.

“Whatever do you mean?” He plays dumb, because she also despises that. He’s used that tactic countless times, mostly to agitate her in their younger years. It had been a fantastic way to bully her, to feel in control. But that’s not the intended effect, this time. “Is that why you hate me? Are you jealous of my abilities?” Yes, he wants to say. Yes, he wants to mend their broken relationship. He wants to have someone to cling to, someone who will listen to his worries without judging. Someone who won’t leave him here. “Of Winter’s?”

But if he does that, she won’t fly. She won’t reach the limits he wants her to. Because he wants her to succeed, and the groomed part of him hates that.

“Hmm. No. Not really,” Whitley is an expert at looking and sounding disdainful. If he were to guess, he inherited it from father, “I find it barbaric. It’s beneath people like me. Like father,” Bring out the heavy, metal bat. Bring out everything she hates about Atlas, about here, “What could a single huntsman do that an army could not? That’s why we have one. Even if it is run by a fool.” She likes Ironwood, so he talks poorly of him, too.

Get angry. Get angry enough to leave. You have all the tools you need to succeed, away from here. Use them.

“I said, leave.” Weiss demands, and he yields, hands up in a grand display of surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’ve got better things to do,” He turns on his heel and strolls out of the room, like the pompous fool he wants to look like, “Enjoy your… training, however pointless it is…” He turns and holds the doorframe, ready to drive the point home. “What is it that you hope to accomplish, anyways? While trapped in your own bedroom?”

The door slams shut, and he knows that control of the situation is out of his hands. Like it has been for his entire life. Whitley shoves his hands into his pockets and walks down the hall, empty, empty so empty. It’s pointless to try further.

Because Whitley Schnee is not a fighter.

Because family members are supposed to help each other.

Because he wants to be someone better than he is, now.