#but it lasting for weeks is so LIFELESS and STAGNANT like

[wallisninety-six]

Rain is not ""Bad weather""!!!! Why do people gotta hate rain! It makes the plants green! It gives us free water! It keeps things from becoming a fire hazard! It makes *rain*bows and it's fun! "Like it can be annoying- but like...it's such a drop in the bucket. "Bad weather" is when your town gets freaking burnt to the ground or gets washed tf away!

People in California would marvel at how so green the Northwest is and so often i really wanna say "thanks! It's because of all the rain you don't want"

[thisaintascenereviews]

Goodbye June - Deep In The Trouble

Something that always is a disappointment to see is when a band starts to operate on auto pilot. That’s when they just make the same music they’ve always made, but there’s a lesser quality to it, or a lazier quality to it. It sucks, because you might love this band, but they just fall into the same pitfalls that many others do. They feel stagnant, and just not interesting, let alone good. I felt that way with rock band Goodbye June’s last album, 2022’s See Where The Night Goes. I reviewed it when it came out, and I didn’t like it, namely for being so bland, generic, and lifeless, so it was hard to listen to.

I loved their debut from 2017, and I wasn’t crazy about their sophomore LP, although it was pretty good, just continued what they were doing (only not as good). If See Where The Night Goes was your first impression of them, it wouldn’t be a bad first impression, but as someone that was following them for the last five years before that, it was such a letdown. I had no idea they were dropping a new one, but I was surprised to see Deep In The Trouble a couple weeks back. I was willing to give it a listen, especially with the new Zach Bryan, and Nathaniel Rateliff albums coming out, going along with the southern rock, country, and Americana themes. I was interested in it, because despite their last album not being anything worthwhile, it was passable, at least.

Deep In The Trouble is a record that’s immediately better than its predecessor at the jump, but I won’t pretend it’s anything unique or special. That’s not a dig at the album, but it’s a pretty straightforward rock album with some blues, folk, and soul. They have a 70s southern rock sound, but their last album leaned into AC/DC levels of generic and repetitive, whereas this album switches things up from time to time. There are some slower cuts and some groovier and soulful cuts that add some life to the album, but when the album rocks, it truly rocks. At a brisk 39 minutes, it isn’t very long at all, but it feels like that’s exactly how long it should be.

I wouldn’t say this record is the best of the year, or even among them, but it’s a solid rock album that should appease fans of the genre, especially if you want something relatively straightforward. They’ve somehow gotten their energy back, and like I said, it could be from going independent, but this is a big step forward for them. It’s the best they’ve sounded in years, and they have some life and versatility back into their sound that I really love. Definitely one of the best rock albums I’ve heard this year, and a must if you want something in that vein.

[steveskafte]

TIMELESS NOISES I went wandering a ways through the mostly melted woods, before the next big snowfall came calling. I hopped the Neaves Road bridge and headed south, out of sight from the man-made Dalhousie Lake behind me. Here beside the free-flowing Beeler Brook, any stagnant stillwater lies thinly iced over. After a long sunny day, the earth still radiates faint warmth in these shadows, just enough to overcome an otherwise chilling evening. So long as I lie flat, I'm like those shallow rapids – keeping just above freezing. It's such a sensory experience, all touch and timeless noises, nothing not natural. Last summer's grasses have bent over backwards, pushed down by high flowing water a couple weeks back. I feel them dry and lifeless beneath me. They make me feel alive because they aren't. February 22, 2023 West Dalhousie, Nova Scotia Year 16, Day 5582 of my daily journal.

[fishnets-fingers]

Six Months - Part Fifteen

Summary - Layla desperately needs a vacation and her Aunt and Uncle come to her rescue. So, at twenty two, she packs her bag and jets off to America. Harry took a break from education and is now a full fledged content creator on OnlyFans. At twenty, he makes more money than almost all of his friends. What ensues when these two meet and realise the windows in their rooms face each other? How will paper airplanes bring them closer together?

PAIRING - camboy!harry x indian!oc

a/n - hope you all have a lovely time during the holiday season. happy 2022. may this year be kinder to us than the last. i’m opening up this story to include any ideas or requests you have so i can incorporate into the series. please leave your thoughts once you are done. some people asked me about a schedule for posting new parts, i’m sorry, i’m so chaotic and unreliable that i do not have one. once every three to four weeks is my goal. reblog and like as always. have a wonderful weekend. happy reading!

Word Count - 10.3 k

Warnings - fluff, angst, mentions of smut

Masterpost (find previous parts here)

There’s no one home. It was just Layla on the bed, her feet were sticking out of the bed sheet but her icy toes were the least of her concern. The air was stagnant, almost lifeless. The white colour that was chosen for the walls of the guest room seems to mock her current inert aura. Her throat is turgid, her tummy was brewing the feeling of perturbation and it simply felt like it was going to fall out of her body. The dust particles were static, like they’d forgotten how they used to whirl away in the sunbeam that came in through the window.

The Gameboy Advanced rests on her sternum, the device penetrating warmth into her skin accompanied by fuzzy tingles, the muted vibrations from the sound ports, seeps through the thin sleep shirt she was wearing - essentially a baggy black t-shirt with a small Winnie the Pooh illustration messily embroidered on her left breast bone and loose sleeves that came up to her elbow with the length that stopped right above her knees. The device’s screen is dimly lit displaying the title card of Contra, taunting her to pick the number of players so it can load the first level. But it's not doing a good job at goading because all she can see is darkness that comes from the inside of her closed lids. She draws in a shaky breath, and exhales through her parted lips.

She hates this. She hates the power it has over her. But, most of all she hates the anticipation that comes with it.

 She’d been painting one of her commissions, upstairs in the swing room when her phone rang. Her grandmother’s face filled the screen. It wasn’t odd for her grandmother to be calling her at the dead of the night from India, because she suffered from Rheumatism and with that came pain and insomnia. So, whenever she couldn’t sleep her grandmother would immediately call to talk to her and tell Layla she misses her chaotic loving nature in the space they had shared. What started with gossiping about extended family members and neighbours turned into her grandmother inevitably circling back to update Layla about her parents. That’s when the dread in her core started bubbling, the minute she heard her grandmother tell her that her parents have been having a heated spat for the past two days. She continued with the rest of the conversation with a nonchalance that only she could muster, in order to not worry her grandmother. But the minute she hung up, she abandoned everything at her workspace and her feet led her to the mattress. She tried to switch on her handy gaming system to distract herself but soon found herself being pulled back into a very familiar feeling to no avail. A feeling that can be described as teetering on a tightrope with piercing spikes on the floor ready to be impaled. But not knowing when she’s going to fall.

Her palms come to rub at her face - the stench of turpentine flooding her nostrils, as her hands make their way to to end the overheating misery of the device that was currently begging for a morsel of attention from her. She hears the door open as her nimble fingers prod the side of the device looking for the power slider button.

“Hope you aren’t deleting my Harvest Moon progress,” his boyish voice floats through the room. The teasing undercurrent apparent in his tone.

She blinks back the thin film in her eyes as she tries to bring herself to focus on the stark white of her ceiling. “Don’t worry. Not doing that,” she replies trying to bring back that nonchalance that she has spent her life mastering to not worry others.

 A weak chuckle escapes her body, as she takes in his appearance. Her Snoopy t-shirt and some jogger bottoms with the little claw clip that sat at the top of his head holding his messy brown ringlets off of his forehead caught her attention. Her claw clip. The one she picked up from Target. Most of what he was wearing today belonged to her. 

“Are you okay, baby?” He questions. Something about her felt off today, he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly. Her eyes were irritated, and her disposition was clouded by something else. No snarky comeback for his teasing. He quickly comes to sit by her side on the bed and notices her dolphin stuffie plopped right next to her shoulder on the other side.

Worried seafoam eyes meet her dark ones and he presses the back of his hand against her neck to check if she’s running a temperate. He’d feel like absolute shit if he managed to pass on his cold to her. His eyes flit to her shin that was covered under the sheets. 

“I’m not sick. Just tired. I’d been staring at my phone and the canvas for hours now,” she says smoothly. It wasn’t a total lie. 

“Worried me there for a second.” He bends down to steal a kiss from her mouth. She tastes like licorice. The black tea she’d discovered at the local supermarket. Harry discovered that it’s something she drinks only while painting. He even picked up a box of Pickwick's for her while going on a grocery run for his mum. It tickles the back of her throat and it feels nice is what she told him. Plus whenever she drank oat milk, Harry noticed how her nose ever so subtly scrunches up but she was too polite to drink regular milk in front of him. So his hands automatically went to drop that in the cart along with Twinings without a second thought. 

“What brings you here, thief?” She questions, her eyebrow arched as she turns to her side to face him. 

“I beg your pardon,” he scoffs. 

“Well, two out of three things on your body right now, you’ve stolen from me,” she giggles. 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh no, what heinous crimes have I committed,” his tone was nothing close to that of repentance. 

“I can hear police sirens in the distance,” she teases him. 

“I’m sure they’ll bring their finest pairs of handcuffs to arrest me,” he chuckles. “You’d like that now, wouldn’t you.” He nudges her shoulder. 

“Very much so. Although I don’t think the admission board at UC San Diego would like that very much.”

“You are such a dickhead sometimes you know that.” He shakes his head with a lopsided smile on his face.

“I also know that you’re hopelessly in love with said dickhead,” she responds cockily. 

“That I most definitely am,” he tells her leaning to kiss her forehead. He lingers there for a moment letting his senses be invaded by her. 

“Wait, how did you get in?!? I thought the house was locked.” She says suddenly, alarmed eyes meeting his. 

“Shh.” He mumbles into her cheek. “I used the spare key. I also bought you these.” He picks up the sheets of A4 that he’d put on the floor and hands it to her. 

“Thanks.” She flits through the sheets, making sure everything is printed out properly. “You didn’t have to come here. I could have picked it up if you told me it’s done.”

“Yeah.  Yeah.” He mutters dismissively, as he climbs into bed to lay next to her. “The driveway and the front walkway looks good.” He tells her. When they had got back from Vermont, Layla came home to a newly constructed front lawn with a brick walkway and lights. 

“Hmm. Aunty said they managed to do all that in three days.” She puts the sheets of paper down on the bedside table that was closest to her, so she doesn’t wrinkle them. 

“Baby,” coos into her ear. One hand finds hers on her belly and he delicately weaves them together. 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re always honest with each other, right?”

Layla nods. 

“Are you really okay?” He prods, his eyes flit to the folded bed sheet draped on her shin. 

She lets out a broken sigh, eyes closing shut to stop him from going further. “How did you know?” She asks quietly. 

“I can tell. You don’t have to hide with me, Lails.” He peppers kisses along her jaw. “Plus, I sent you a paper airplane an hour ago and I don’t think you even noticed.”

“What?” She gets into a seated position to search the floor for the tiny airplane that flew into her window. There’s no way she could have missed that. But the paper airplane that landed on her shin, on top of the bedsheet, proved her otherwise. 

“Oh.” Is all that she manages to get out before she picks it up to look at the folded piece of paper. Her eyes scan over the messy black scrawl he’s made on a wing.

 Miss you. Wanna lunch?

P.S - I know it’s only been 20 hours and I can’t help but miss your face okay.

A chuckle escapes her. He was such a simp and she loved that. “I’m sorry.” She breathes out and turns to face him, worry apparent in his face by the way his eyebrows knit together and small lines make their way through the surface of his forehead.

He remains quiet. Not wanting to interrupt her. Giving her the space.

“It’s just- just…it’s nothing new really. I don’t want to talk about it. No point in worrying now,” she says, flopping down on the feathery mattress. 

“You sure?” He asks, taking a stand of hair in between his fingers and tucks it behind her ear.

“Yeah. I’m okay. Promise.” Her tone was earnest, a hand came to cup his cheek, thumb absentmindedly tracing the mole near his lips. She has been down this road multiple times and she came out perfectly fine.

“Alright then,” he mutters, bending down to kiss the pad of her thumb.

“Sorry I got you worried though.”

“Eh.” He brushes it off. “I kinda printed out the pictures you wanted, just so i can have some excuse when I keyed in here. I texted you too.” He settles down by her side, hands wrapping around her middle, nose prodding along her neck.

“My phone’s upstairs in the swing room,” she mumbles sheepishly.

“Were you painting a commission?” He asks in a drunken stupor. His eyes were half lidded as he took in her scent. If he could bottle this scent up he would in a heartbeat. Baby soap, coco butter, sweat with a hint of coconut and turpentine. That’s all it takes for Harry to fall into his Layla drunken stupor.

“Yeah. This woman asked if I could paint her cats in a very cottage core aesthetic. I said yes, because I love painting fur - it’s quite easy really. So, I sent a couple of my animal paintings and she did want something more adorable and less realistic. I’ve taken it upon myself to surprise her, so I’m putting her kitties in babushkas. I finished the first cat and was doing the second today.” She explains.

“Bet that’ll look adorable,” he kisses her shoulder.

“They do! They actually turned out better than what I pictured it to be.” She beams. “What did you get up to yesterday, babe?”

“I finished editing the pictures we took. It’s ready to hit OnlyFans next month. I was also texting Mitch and Sarah, they’re quite excited for our FaceTime double date soon. Oh, also as of this morning all of mum’s colleges and friends have RSVPed yes. All I have left is to invite your folks and Earl, zero in on the menu and decide on our costume.”

“Our costume? Didn’t realise we were going to be a singular entity for the duration of that whole evening.” She teases.

“Please,” he responds sassily. “We both know that if you’re gonna pick someone to meld into one, you can’t do better than me.” He brings his finger to poke at her dimple and she sticks her tongue out at him. “But I was actually thinking along the lines of a couple's costumes.”

“Couples costumes?” 

“Er- I uh… we don’t,” he stumbles. “We don’t have to if you don’t. I just thought it’d be cute.” His cheeks flush with colour, confidence dissipating from his body. 

“Babe, I’d love to do a couples costume with you. Of course,” she mumbles into his hair, planting a kiss to the top of his head. He hums into her neck, those vibrations sizzle in Layla’s body as his fingertips dance across her bare arm. 

“Whew,” he dramatically sighs, properly putting on a show for her. “Now that the hard part is out of the wa-“

“Slow down there, earth boy,” Layla interrupts. “I think the hard part is the two of us coming to a consensus about the costume,” she chuckles. 

She wasn’t wrong. Although they enjoyed each other’s movie tastes, they were on different planes. Harry loved some science fiction, romance, and obscure indie films. Layla on the other hand loved horror, gore, and Disney. Sometimes Harry didn’t appreciate the gore and Layla inevitably snoozes through almost all of his romance flicks. Finding a middle ground was going to take some time, especially if that middle ground is minuscule. 

“We’ll Venn diagram it.” He assures her as trails his nose and lips from the base of her throat to the shell of his ear. 

She twitches as the ticklish sensation from her ear spreads through her system. “I’m excited for our date tomorrow.”

“Me too. Are you gonna tell me where you’ll be whisking me away?”

“Just bring your best artist self that’s all,” she responds. 

“Easy for you to say,” he snorts. 

“Nonsense. It’s a new activity for me too. We’ll both be at a disadvantage.”

“Somehow I highly doubt that,” he mutters. 

They spend the rest of the hour in silence. Their limbs lax, muscles basking in the rush of peace, hearts thudding sluggishly against their ribs. Soft touches - ones akin to cotton candy and sea foam that brush past your feet as the waves lap the shore - lulling each other. Harry ghosting his lips against his girlfriends collarbone in a steady circuit and Layla sneaking hand under his shirt to draw aimless teardrop outlines against his skin with the blunt edges of her neatly filed nails, each spreading a blanket of tranquillity as neurons fire off in their brains, making a dopey smile tug up the ends of their lips. Harry looks into her eyes, dark irises that camouflages calamitous oceans but not for him. For him her eyes are an abyss. An endless pool of devotion, a pool in which he feels weightless - like all the burdens of the world dissipates and all he feels is safe, with her.

“I love-” he begins to whisper against the corner of her mouth but is soon cut off by a loud grumble of his stomach.

A tinkling giggle comes from her, making him groan out loud. Mentally cursing his traitorous tummy for rumbling and ruining their moment. 

“I take it that you haven’t had lunch yet,” she asks, booping his nose. 

He shakes his head with a bashful smile. “Was kind of hoping my girlfriend will join me, you see.”

“Crap, forgot that you came here to ask me over for lunch,” she says. That’s why he was here in the first place. He sent a paper airplane - seeing her feet poking out of the sheets - and after no response, resorted to texting. When that garnered no response, worry crept up on him. A possibility of her napping crossed his mind as a valid explanation, as he was printing out the pictures she asked for, but he still felt the urge to check on her. 

“It’s okay.” His knuckles caresses her cheek reassuringly. “How would you like a seafood foil boil?”

“Foil boil?” 

“Yeah. Mum used to make it all the time before she went for her shifts. So, when I came home all I had to do was pop that thing in the oven for a few minutes,” he explains. “It’s just whatever seafood you want with butter and salt in aluminium foil.”

“As delightful as they sound, do you add anything else to it?” She asks. As much as she loved delicious dishes, like casserole, lasagne, pot pie, and the occasional curry Anne had made,  she just can’t bring herself to be excited about butter and salt - as much as she loved it on popcorn. 

“Sometimes I dab a little bit of  Worcestershire sauce. Why?” He questions. 

Her face floods with heat. 

“Oh I see,” he teases. “Miss. I travel with hot sauce, needs her heat huh.” He kisses her chin. 

She shrugs in response. 

“I bet you can’t top the butter, salt and pepper. You can jazz up yours however you like.”

“Perfect. There’s a bottle of unopened Sambal in the fridge begging me to break the seal,” she does a little dance in glee. 

He laughs as he gets out of bed begrudgingly, missing their cocoon of warmth. He offers his hands to pull her out of bed and she takes it. 

“Can you please put this upstairs and get my phone from upstairs? I need to use the loo real quick,” she mutters, handing him the papers he’d bought. 

“Sure, baby.” He kisses her forehead and turns to head out of the room. 

Her hand comes to grip on his wrist, halting him . He turned around to face her, eyebrows arched in a questioning manner. 

“I believe you were going to say something,” she tells him shyly, eyes cast downwards, looking at his mismatched socked feet. 

“Was I?” He asks. He could have passed that off but the giant smile that breaks across his face is a dead giveaway of what he’s trying to do. 

Layla nods and squints his eyes in response, his thumb and forefinger coming to rest on his chin - dramatically appearing to think hard. 

“You got cut off by your tummy rumbling,” she prompts. 

“Don’t recall really,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

She rolls her eyes. He wants her to say it, so she exhales a sigh of defeat. 

“Tell me you love me, fool,” she mutters, hands encircling his middle as she looks up at his face. His dimples make a flamboyant appearance as his pearly teeth shine, bunny teeth on display in a wide grin. 

“Oh that.” He comes to rest his forehead against hers. “I love you, sweet girl,” he coos, leaning in to steal a kiss from her mouth. 

“Alright off you go now,” she shoos him away. 

He walks upstairs to the swing room. Layla’s Uncle had been kind enough to set up an old desk and a rolling chair there, so she didn’t need to break her back painting and it could serve as her temporary office while she starts teaching soon. She decorated that room with her folks, temporarily until she was there. Her aunt gave her full permission to make whatever changes Layla saw fit in the guest room to make her feel like home but she didn’t want to mess up the transitional aesthetic her aunt went with for the whole house. So, the room they didn’t get to decorate became her playground. The three managed to find a fluffy white rug, a houseplant, and a small fabric chaise single sofa bed to tie up the small space together.

He places the papers on the light pink sofa bed and moves to pick up her phone that was on her desk. He looks at the half done canvas on her desk and is surprised by her talent -  the piercing blue eyes of the Himalayan Siamese cat and the silver wispy whiskers really highlighted her attention to detail. The red babushka was still half undone, so he could see the pencil lines she’d once made to draw an outline.

There was a completed piece of a Ginger tabby cat lying on the floor, on top of some newspapers she'd spread on the floor. Its expression mirrored her own during the housewarming, if he was being honest, when he met her for the first time - cute with an awkward expression on its face, wanting nothing more than to get out of there.  A chuckle escapes his lips as memories from their first encounter comes to the forefront. He pulls out a tissue from the box to carefully wipe off the small paint smudges on her transparent phone case before he closes the door of the swing room.

////

"Please tell me that you washed the zucchini before cutting them."

"I did," he responds, catching himself from widening his eyes - not wanting to give her any hints to pick up that he lied through his teeth.

"Really?" She turns around to face him from the counter, with a knife in her hand. Abandoning her finely chopped shallots, she moves over to where he was standing, by the pot of boiling water with potatoes and quartered corn cob.

"Yeah. Yeah. I most definitely did," he says again, like he's trying to convince both himself and her.

“I see,” she responds, sucking her lips inwards as her eyes flit to the chopping board. She steps dangerously close to him, invading his personal space, knife tip resting on his abdomen. She looks up at him and extends her index finger outwards, then immediately curling it towards her, beckoning him to bend down. When he does, she whispers in his ear, “You see, earth boy, I think you failed to consider that washing requires water.”

A frisson of exhilaration runs down his spine, and the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up straight. His breathing accelerates and it takes him a while to process what she’s saying. Shit. Of course. The cutting board is dry, he mentally smacks himself. Layla watches the way the cogs turn in his head as he figures it out, and smirks when he gives her a sheepish smile.

“Here’s a life lesson, maybe next time it’s best to not lie to the person holding the knife,” she razzes him, pressing the flat side of the blade against his abs for additional emphasis.

“Er- oka- yes, ma’am.” He stumbles.

She giggles at him. “Alright, now that the chopping is out of the way. Show me how you do it,” she says, moving to the counter where he’s thrown in some prawns, clams, and vegan sausage into two squares of aluminium foil.

Harry leans against the marble top staring at her in disbelief, jaw slack, dragging in heaving breaths. He had no idea how this one girl had so much power over him. He was beyond turned on by her in barely three volleys of conversation. She looked so innocent, waiting for him to do his thing, still in her sleep shirt and a ponytail. Like she just didn’t make his dick semi erect with a knife and a hint of condescension. It wasn’t like this with anyone he’d been with. She had this force field around and he was naturally pulled to her, like a moth to a flame or the way the earth moves with ease around the sun. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and clears his throat. 

“Yeah.” He throws in a small cube of butter in both, using the salt and pepper mill to grind some on top of the protein. He fishes out the zucchini, par boiled potatoes and corn and tosses some in both their portions, drizzles some olive oil and massages everything together. Layla quietly watches the way his fingers move with ease, veins in his hand apparent when he uses his thumbs to press the corn cob making sure that each ridge was coated. “That’s it.” He says, stepping back to watch her perched on the stool, gnawing at her lower lip, breaking her trace from his hands. He smirks, he knew exactly the effect his hands had over her. He’d caught her shamelessly staring at them one too many times whenever he did inventory, as he counted flowers one by one, at Earl’s shop. 

“So, now I can add my stuff?”

He nods. She slips out of the stool and begins to open the sambal jar. She spoons some in hers and adds some shallots, and  bruised lemongrass. She opens the spice drawers and pulls out a few containers. She sprinkles some old bay, cayenne, and paprika. The symphony of flavours makes its way to Harry’s nostrils. As much as he hates that he’s going to eat his own words, he has to admit his girlfriend knows her way around the kitchen - she literally just improvised something that he’s been eating a long time instantaneously. 

“Can you do that to mine too, please?” He asks her quietly, hands coming to scratch the back of his neck. 

Layla grins, eyes fixed on the food in front of her, as she nods. “Of course.” She knew this was going to happen. She cut extra shallot and lemongrass because he’d want the same thing as her. 

Once she is done, Harry massages all the new spices she’s added and wraps them up into a ball. He pops that in the oven, and Layla can’t help but deliver a stinging clap to his bum cheek. 

“Heeey,” he whines. Hands coming to run at the spot while he closes the oven door. 

She gives him the least apologetic shrug, which makes him roll his eyes. 

“Careful there,” he whispers, pulling her to his chest. “You’re giving me an impression that you are more obsessed with my butt than I am with yours.”

“Highly debatable.”

“Please,” he drags. “Make your case.”

“Remember what we were doing a day ago. You literally couldn’t decide between my tits and my ass.”

“What can I say? If it’s on you then I’m game for anything,” he replies, bending down to rub their noses together. She laughs and Harry could feel her body tremble against his chest. 

“How long is it going to take?” She asks, nodding to the oven. 

“Twenty minutes.”

“And what are we going to do to kill time until then?”

“I have a plan. Go wait for me in the dining room,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

She pads into the dining room, as Harry barrels upstairs, the room is very much the same as before. Dark walls, oblong cream dining table that housed a teal ceramic pot with lavenders growing out - it really gave the power to turn a person’s sour mood to one of exuberance - in the middle with velvet dining chairs in different shades of pink, retro looking bulbs that drops from the ceiling in gold coloured furnishing - that ties with the gold legs of the velvet chairs, large French windows that opened into the garden,  a neon sign that said ‘heart of the home’ and lit up a hot pink when switched on, a small bar cart with different coloured glass bottles containing various spirits. Peace lily and pink anthurium sat in their pots on white stools at both ends of the windows. The only thing different about it was the decorations on the mantle of the faux fireplace. There were different whimsical figurines of witches, with colourful striped tights, puffy dresses, pointy black shoes, waif-like bodies with a Burtonesque face -large eyes, pointy noses, hollow cheeks, silvery hair, and thin lips - placed on it tastefully along with some ceramic pumpkins, conkers and pine cones that looked like they had been collected from the community park. Bat streamers tangled along with orange fairy lights were skilfully stung along the mantle. The candle holders, at were at both edges, were replaced with black ones and on it were these half melted purple candles. The picture of Anne and Harry on the boat was now dusted with cobwebs on the sides of the frame. This truly was the heart of the house and Layla’s favourite room. She wishes she could one day see, or maybe even join in when Anne’s decorating.

But the thing that caught her attention was the open leather bound journal that sat atop the table, the ones that were pliant and could be wrapped around by a leathery rope. An almost empty coffee cup, the ceramic snail one she’d gifted, was placed next to it. There were dried coffee rings on the cream marble table top. No doubt a result of him not using a coaster. It looked like he’d forgotten about them. She got closer to the opened book, black ink stood as a stark contrast against the ivory papers. ‘The time for hot chocolaty mornings and toasty marshmallow evenings,’ was scratched in Harry’s script. There were other words written below but were scratched off. 

Why is he quoting Winnie the Pooh? Her eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. Is this the same one that he was writing in when she woke up the other day? Her curiosity gets the better of her as she reaches to close the journal, her eyes scanning over the brown leathery cover. It looked like it had been lived in, with the colours fading here and there from his touch and scratches and indents from when certain objects were pressed up against it. The stars were drawn haphazardly on the top right in a black sharpie, and on the flap it said ‘she thinks she doesn’t deserve his heart.’ There were also two triangles, one with an open eye and the other with a closed one inside them. 

She lets her fingertips trace over them, feeling the grains of the very medieval looking journal underneath. 

“I know I don’t have my record player but-“ Harry says, walking into the room. The side of his shoulder smacks into the doorframe. Always klutzy as ever. He stops when he sees her next to his journal. His eyes fly between Layla and the inanimate object right next to her. Three circuits, like his brain needs time to fully process the scene in front of him and what the implications could arise. 

“I wasn’t snooping!” She says defensively. 

“Umm.” His hand comes to scratch the back of his neck. “Did you read anything?” He quietly asks. 

His shoulders drop when he sees her shake her head. 

“No. It was opened on the table and I just closed it.”

“I kinda forgot I left that there to be honest,” he tells her, coming to get the journal from where it was placed. 

“I read the quote from Pooh’s Grand Adventure.” She blurts out. “Only because it was on the page that was open. I didn’t flip through anything else in your diary.”

“It’s not my diary,” he chuckles. 

“Any reason why you picked the quote?” She questions. 

“I didn’t know it’s from Winnie the Pooh. I was looking at autumn quotes online for the invites for mum’s thing,” he lies smoothly. He was indeed watching that movie because he felt bad because he didn’t know anything about it when Layla would reference it sometimes. He thought he should divulge into this favourite of hers, especially because she was well versed with his favourite cartoon, Scooby Doo. 

“Ah, I see. I’ll have you know that it’s not any random quote, it’s from the movie.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he chuckles. “Especially with this.” He points to the embroidered yellow bear on her t-shirt. 

“I did it myself you know,” she beams at him. “My grandma took on this mission that she should teach me how to embroider as soon as I told her I’m going to take a break from studies. This was the first one I did. Pretty basic though but there’s where my skill stops because I’m too impatient to learn the complex stitches.”

“I’ve seen your ‘I need to be extremely skillful at this task I’m just learning or else I’m done’ rage,” he chuckles. He pushes his journal away from them, and it glides along the surface till it gets to the other end of the table.

Layla slowly lifts her hand up, giving him the finger with narrow eyes. 

“Alright. Alright. Let’s do this before we end up pissing each other off,” he tells her, putting down a vinyl of Fleetwood Mac’s The Dance. “You remember when you were assembling my record shelf?”

“How could I forget? You basically pounced on me,” she giggles.

“Hey, I can’t help it if my girlfriend using a screwdriver to screw together a shelf for me was too distracting that I couldn’t alphabetise my collection properly,” he throws his hands up in defence.  It didn’t help that he was shit at handiwork and his plans of doing it all alone was shot to hell, when the corners of the shelf wobbled unsteadily after he used all the screws in its place. So, he ended up texting her to come do it instead - warning her that he would throw a hissy fit if she touched any of his records, Earl being the only exception.

“Distracting enough to basically tear off my clothes?” She really couldn’t believe him that day. She was just minding her own business in her black skinny jeans, an oversized flannel shirt, five day unwashed hair held together by a claw clip, bangs pushed back by his workout headband so, her giant shiny forehead was on full display with all the pimple patches, screws held in her mouth as she was busy securing one of the hinges into place when he attacked her and it surprised her to no extent that Harry was already painfully hard.

He shrugs. “Speaking of that, how are the bruises today?” His hands come to rest on her hips, gently stroking the skin through the thin material.

“Considering it’s been less than twenty four hours. Still purple,” she replies.

“Shit. If I knew you bruised that easily-”

“I still would have asked you to hold on to me tighter.” She interrupts, reassuring him.

“Can I see, please?” He gives her puppy dog eyes, as his hands creep down to her thighs to grip the hem of her t-shirt.

She nods and he pulls up the fabric, holding the bunched up material under her boobs, leaving her in nothing but her granny panties. He drops to the floor on his knees to examine the dark purple bruises that covered her hips and waist. Bruises that were shaped like his fingers and palm. He presses a soft kiss to the one that looked the most angry.

Her hand, that wasn’t holding her garment, comes down to scratch at his scalp soothingly. “Doesn’t hurt. Didn’t hurt when you were doing it and certainly doesn’t hurt now. I quite liked  that you held me so close,” she smiles. 

“Yeah. But that doesn’t make me stop feeling bad when I see these,” he mutters, lips trailing across your stomach.

“So, don’t.” She pulls her top in place and pulls him to stand. “It’s funny how you have no qualms about leaving hickies on my boobs,” she chuckles, hands coming up to rest on either side of his neck. 

“True but with that I knew what I was doing and when to stop. I didn’t anticipate this,” he says.

“That’s because you were too busy otherwise occupied when I was too busy sitting on your face. You really couldn’t exactly see. Never mind, why did you bring one of your treasured vinyl downstairs?” 

“Well… you were putting together a shelf and I was alphabetising my records and when I came to this one in particular, I just knew I had to do this with you.”

“Do what?” She asks, as she watches him fiddle with his phone and stick his earphones into the port. 

“Dance to this,” he replies. “I don’t think I’m at the stage where I can stick this into a record player but-”

She silences him by sealing his lips with hers. “You’ve made wonderful progress so far. I’m proud of you.” She tells him, kissing him once again.

“I know.” He gives her his shy smile, as he pops one of the ear buds into Layla’s ear and the other in his, sliding his phone into his pocket after pressing play. 

Sweet girl starts playing and Stevie Nicks’ voice echoes through their ears as Harry wraps his arms around Layla. She wraps her hand around his neck and presses her face into his chest. His arms tightens around her waist as he leans down to place his cheek at the top of her head as they sway from side to side in the dining room.

////

“Edward and Vivian from Pretty Woman?”

“No! I’m not going to dress up as a hooker for your mum’s party,” she hisses. 

“Noah and Allie from The Notebook?” 

“I’m sorry to break this to you but I literally had to fight the urge to sleep with every cell in my body while watching it with you.”

“I thought you liked The Notebook! It’s one of the reasons why I liked you,” he exclaims.

“Too bad, fool. Too fucking bad.”

Earl was trying his best to not laugh at the tennis match that was happening in front of him. Layla was behind the till fluffing up the bouquets Earl had put together and writing them down in his log book. Harry was mopping up the floors. Harry had invited Earl and he was more than happy to come to the party, he needed to fill up on his social meter. He leaned against the back door frame; he’d walked into the two bickering when he came back from the greenhouse after checking up on the bug situation. There was a nasty problem with sawflies that kept nibbling on his leaves, and he is in the middle of treating it with horticulture oil. 

“Agatha and Zero from the Grand Budapest Hotel?” He asks.

“Not bad but let’s keep that as a back up. How about Coraline and Wybie?” She suggests.

“No!”

“Rapunzel and Flynn Rider?”

“I’m not dressing up as that jerk Flynn Rider!”

“He’s not a real person! Stop being so fucking jealous, you ding dong!”

“Fine, I’ll agree to another Disney movie where you don’t salivate over the prince,” he hisses.

“Flynn Rider is not a prince. He’s the king of parkour and charm.” She groans out loud. “Fine, what about Prince Naveen and Tiana from Princess and the Frog?”

“That would require us to both do a blackface and I’m not a racist.” He puts the mop back into dirty water, folding his arms.

“You don’t have to paint your face black just because we’re dressing up as characters who happen to have darker skin.”

“I’d like to commit to my costume and racism is where I draw the line.”

“You’re so annoying.”

 “Okay! What about Margot and Richie from The Royal Tenenbaums?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Mia and Wallace from Pulp Fiction?”

“Too mainstream,” she replies. “Victor and the Corpse Bride?”

“No! No characters who are dead or zombies. I’m not going to paint my face white.” He vehemently shakes his head. 

It was hard for Earl to believe that these two were the same people who walked into his shop an hour ago. Excited to tell him about their Vermont trip. Harry showed him a million pictures he’d taken of his girlfriend on his phone. Those two in the pictures looked like they were goners for each other, absolutely swept away with a certain fondness that reminded him of the connection he’d shared with his wife. Now they looked like they were minutes away from maiming each other. 

“Kids,” he steps in trying to diffuse the tension. Considering, they have a pottery date planned in three hours. “I’m thinking of dressing as Carl from Up.” The three of them watched that movie a month ago after dinner. He’d taken a liking to it, considering he was usually the last person to enjoy anything animated. “Maybe you two could dress up as characters from the movie. So we’d be a posse at the party.”

The two look at Earl as they process what he’d said. They slowly turn to each other and nod. 

“I want to be Russell!”

“I’m Russell!”

They both say at the same time and groan out loud in exasperation. 

“Carrie and Tommy from Carrie?” Layla asks after a few minutes pass. 

“Too much blood.”

“But I’ll be the one with fake blood on!”

“I know it’ll end up on my shirt by the end of the night. How about Doc Brown and Marty McFly? We both love that movie.”

“I’ll agree to it only if you agree to being Doc because I don’t want to wear a wig for grey hair.”

“Ugh, I thought I could be Marty. Nevermind. Let’s drop that,” he huffs out.

“What about Chucky and the Bride of Chucky?”

“You know dolls creep me out. No! I barely got through that movie with you, and I was practically in your lap when we watched it.”

“Wuss,” she says under her breath, but loud enough for Harry to pick up on it.

“You are so infuriating!”

“No, I am not! You keep wanting to dress as absolute weirdos. This is my first Halloween that I dress up for and I want to make it a good one,” she reasons with him.

“Yeah, it’ll only be good if you dress up as a hobbit,” he says, rolling his eyes, shaking the mop towards her.

“You take that back right now and get that mop from my face!”

“Fine! I’ll dress up as a hobbit,” he says in an exasperated tone. 

She smiles at him in victory. She puts the pen in the book and closes it, so it serves as a bookmark, and it would be easier for Earl to mark off when the deliveries get picked up. 

“But,” he cuts before she could do a little victory dance in her head. “I get to be Frodo.” The indents on his cheeks make an appearance. 

“That would be weird. Then there'd be two Frodos at the party. We can’t walk around as Frodo and Frodo. As much as I love Sam, I don’t want to be him.” She pouts. 

“Fine. You be Frodo and I’ll be Bilbo.”

“Then we’d be uncle and nephew. Thought you wanted to dress up as characters who are friends or a couple,” She tells him. 

“Baby, we’re going around in circles here. Let’s take five to settle down,” he says. 

“Good call. I’m about seconds away from ripping those stupid curls off your head,” he chuckles. 

“You know instead of all this hullabaloo, why don’t you have a theme for the party? Something Anne adores. This way everyone who’d come to the party can work in tandem with it,” he tells Harry. 

“That’s actually not a bad idea, Har.”

“Thanks Earl. Mum actually adores musicals. Wizard of Oz is her favourite.”

“It’s settled then. Now come on up. It’s time to lock up and head upstairs. Seeing you two argue made me hungry,” Earl says. 

“I'm hungry too,” Layla tells them, walking from behind the till. 

“I’m pretty sure we got that snippy with each other because we were both hangry,” he chuckles. 

“Highly likely,” Layla agrees. 

“Layla, honey, I bought a ton of zucchini from the farmers market and I need you to give me ideas on how to finish them before they go bad,” Earl asks. 

“We could make zucchini kimchi pancakes. I saw this recipe on Instagram and it’s really easy.”

“But I don’t have any kimchi.”

“How about I walk to the store and get one. You and Harry could start grating the zucchini by then,” she tells the two of them. 

////

“Lails?” They were both at a small pottery studio. Layla planned a pottery painting date for the two of them. They were in a room with six other people who were in the room with them. It was a wine and paint session but since Harry was not twenty one, Layla and Harry opted to sit far back in the room to paint on their own - essentially creating a small bubble of their own. They both each picked one premade clay object that was arranged neatly on shelves. 

“Hmm?” She hums inattentively. She was mixing colours together in a tiny plastic pallet that was given to them, trying to get the exact blue she wanted. 

“I just realised that I don’t know what your middle name is?”

“That’s because I don’t have one. It’s just Layla Sathish.” She answers, wiping her brush in a paper towel after she’d rinsed it in the mason jar. 

“Is that common?”

“Yeah. No one in my family has a middle name.” She yawns. 

“Oh. Are you the only one in your family with a Westernised name?”

“Pretty much. Amma (Mum)  named me after some actress who was in like four films,” she chuckles.

“Was she your mum’s favourite?” Harry asks, wanting to know what her name means. 

“Nope. It was the first name she could think of. It was supposed to be Laila but Appa (Dad)  wanted to throw in a cool letter. So they took out the i and replaced it with a y.”

“Interesting.”

“I love how you’re asking me this now.” She giggles, reaching forward to wipe a small splotch of red paint from the back of his hand. 

“Just popped into my head. Aren’t you gonna ask me where my name came from?”

“You have the most common of British names. I’ll pass.” She laughs. 

“Dickhead.”

She yawns in response, one hand coming to cover her mouth, the other coming to rub at her eyes but she immediately catches herself from doing that when she remembers she has eye makeup on. 

“You’ve been yawning a lot. Did you not sleep?”

“Heidi called and woke me up at five in the morning.”

“Is she still alive?” Harry teases, he knows better than to wake her before eight in the morning. 

“Yup. Dropped a bombshell on me and proper woke me up. Her dad asked her if he could start looking out for potential grooms now that she’s going to finish her degree in December.” She tells him. 

“She’s okay with it?” He asks. 

“Yeah. It’s going to take a while for her Dad to zero in on a few people and it’s not like they are going to force her to marry someone she does not want to.” She picks up the gold with another brush and she starts going around the edges of her dish, giving it a beautiful accent. 

“How long will that take?” He asks, he was curious how marrying someone before getting to know them works. 

“Depends really. Sometimes a few months and other times years. Plus, it’s going to be hard for her Dad to do it all alone.” She says. 

“Is her mum against marrying her or something?” He chuckles.

“Her mum passed away during our first year of college. Acute leukaemia. It was so quick, they barely had time to process the diagnosis. Aunty was so vibrant. She’d stuff us with so much food that I’d have to roll on the floor to feel human again. It sucked when we got to know.” She sighs. 

“I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“You didn’t know, that’s okay. I know you and my friends send each other memes on Instagram, so just a heads up, Heidi doesn’t like talking about it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And by the way, I don’t just talk to your friends. We have our own group chat where we send each other the freshest of memes.” He picks up some white directly from the bottle of paint and starts painting small circles. 

She rolls her eyes. “Why am I not a part of this group?”

“We unanimously decided that we’re too cool for you,” he shrugs. A breathy laugh escapes Harry when he sees Layla shake her head at him. 

“Yeah. I mean she is the goody two shoes of the group so it makes sense she says yes to  an arranged marriage first. She’s told her dad that she’d like to start working for a year at least before marriage and Uncle said yes.”

“That doesn’t seem that unreasonable,” he adds. 

“Yeah, giving a woman a false sense of agency is not unreasonable,” she says sarcastically.

“You’d rather she didn’t work?”

“I’d rather she works without the family giving her a grace period to have her semblance of autonomy,” she replies immediately.

“Sounds like you are projecting,” he comments.

“I totally am. She’s completely okay with the proposition. I feel like my generation is stuck in this limbo where we have to appease the people around us and somehow make it work with our wants.” She huffs out frustrated, dropping the paintbrush on the table. “Indian families are more concerned with saving face than listening to their own children’s wants and needs.”

“I used to think that it was a stereotype until we watched those short films on Netflix the other day and you told me that honour killings are surprisingly common and swept under the rug.” Layla was silently weeping at for the last two short movies, until he had to physically remind swaddle her in a blanket and rock her back and forth until she calmed down, it was then that she told Harry how her mother had told her that anything Layla accomplished didn’t matter until Layla listens exactly to what she says with no questions asked. She’d also made it very clear to Layla that she would not hesitate to kill her if she didn’t. It didn’t hit home for Harry until that day why Layla chose to be docile and subservient with her mother until that day. 

“Exactly. Can’t believe that I’m going to dress up for a wedding in the future and it’s gonna be Harshidha weds blank,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. 

“Harshidha?”

“Oh. Her name is Harshidha. Heidi is a nickname that her parents gave her because she was obsessed with that cartoon as a kid. It sorta stuck. On paper she’s Harshidha but everyone refers to her as Heidi.”

“That’s cute!”

“Very,” she agrees. 

The rest of the date goes by in silence. Not a thick silence that made people in the room uncomfortable but a comfortable silence, where the two would just bask in each other's presence. Not needing to say anything, soft glances exchanged conveying what they each needed to know. Grouplove’s Tongue Tied started playing through the speakers and Harry can’t help but smile when he sees Layla bopping about in her seat mouthing the words, focused on the way she smeared the paint from the brushes onto the dish. 

“Ooh, I really like what you’ve done with the hedgehogs. They look so adorable,” Layla says looking at Harry’s final product, when she’s done with hers, a satisfied huff escaping her parted lips.

“Thank you! I tried my best. I figured I would stick to the basics. I only asked you to help me mix the colours for the body. I’m proud of it,” he tells her. 

“And you were telling me how you had zero artistic merit. I think that would disagree,” she says, pointing to his mushroom ornament. He picked it so he could add it to his mum’s fairy garden. It was a small mushroom with a hole in the middle with a tiny hedgehog living in it and another small hedgehog nearby. He did a good job with painting, giving the base of the mushroom a cream colour with a bright red top with white spots. 

“Would you tell me what you are doing? Now that you’re done,” he gestures to her. 

“It’s a ring dish. For you.” She says with a shy smile, her dimple barely peeking out. She picked up a wonky dish and painted it beige before moving on to paint a combination of white roses and daisies, Layla’s and Harry’s favourite, along with some abstract blue flowers. She’d used gold for the edges of the dish, wanting to highlight its imperfections. 

“For me?” He asks her, surprised, the little craters in his cheeks come out. 

“Yeah. I thought it’ll be much easier to keep track of your rings if you have a place to keep them. You nearly turned your room upside down searching for your rose ring and later finding it wedged below your mattress,” she tells him. 

“Thank you, baby.” He breathes out earnestly. If they weren’t in a room full of people, he’d lean across the table, grab her by the back of her neck and kiss her passionately. He rarely met people who didn’t judge him with what he wore. The people he hooked up with or even dated would always look at his rings as something that emasculated him. He’d often not wear his rings and opt for plainer clothes going out with them. His clothes, his rings, and his OnlyFans weren’t effeminate parts of masculinity, it was his masculinity - devoid of the many toxicities that society created. Yet, here she was, aside from Mitch and Sarah, she was the only one who truly knew him and supported the way he presented himself. Often nudging him to do things he’d always wanted to but hesitated. So he settles, by bringing her hand to his lips and placing a kiss. 

“You can thank me after two days. That’s when we get them, remember? They need to put it in the kiln and cool it before we get to take it home,” she reminds him. 

“Right. I’ll be picking them up. Sucks that our date has come to an end. This was so much fun.”

“Well.. we could just go to yours after this and watch something. I need to be home by eleven though,” she tells him. 

“I reckon I could squeeze a proper cuddle out of you before then. Before we go, take a picture of me with the cutest thing I’ve ever made.” He’d already taken pictures of Layla and the two of them while they were painting. 

“Alright. Let me get my phone from my bag. Hold on.” She tells him, wiping her hands on a clean paper towel. 

“Here use mine,” he says, using his chin to point to his phone on the table. 

She picks up his phone and turns the phone towards his face for the FaceID. Once the phone unlocks, she turns the screen towards her to search for the camera icon. But she finds herself staring at the wallpaper. She’d never seen his home screen before, his lock screen was a beautiful picture he’d taken in Italy, cerulean waters over a rocky cliff. 

“You have my picture as your wallpaper?” She asks with a small pout. 

“Yeah.” He says in a tone that made her seem like she couldn’t comprehend that gravity exists. She’d been his background ever since the first night at their Hobbit hole getaway in Vermont. 

////

It was the second Tuesday of September, a promising sunshine over an expansive blue sky. Harry drove Layla to Cape Hatteras. The four and a half hour car journey was filled with giggles and deep conversation. Harry learnt that Layla had a bleak view on life and regarded life as a giant distraction from death. She also gave him a ten minute speech about how they were tiny little specks floating on another speck that sat in another speck in a constantly expanding universe. She went on to another speech about how Nietzsche was not a nihilist himself but simply wrote about solutions to combat this. When he’d told her on the philosophies he sided with, Layla called him a hedonistic stoic. 

They were the only ones at the beach, considering it was midday. A reluctant guide showed them in and around the lighthouse and explained how it was the tallest in the United States. After their tour, the two found themselves by the shore, Layla’s excitement to be at a beach after a whole month was palpable as she let the cool water kiss her feet as Harry bent down to pick up a few seashells. They were both sitting on the gritty pale sand, seagulls screeched in the distance, the deep blue majestic sea lapped the shore as white foams appeared, humid air flit past their faces as the smell of the sea cascaded around them. 

“So you’re telling me that rich people shouldn’t fund climate science research?” He asked her in an offended manner. Is she really going to tell me about something I know better, he thought.

“Yeah.” She replied with a cocky smirk, rolling the violet she’d managed to pluck, from a small herbaceous plant with scalloped leaves that sprouted in a crack on the cemented pavement, from the outdoor seating area of a local diner, where they had dinner. The flower had five petals that were upswept, two at the top were violet and three at the bottom had a light wash of blue with deep violet spots, the centre was a beaming yellow. 

“Please make your case,” he gestured with his hand, metaphorically giving her the stage to plead her case. They had just unanimously agreed that most activism for climate change by celebrities were highly performative and scrupulously curated by their publicists to gain more social currency and status.

“Easy. We shouldn’t give a few people the power to green light the projects they deem fit,” she said with a shrug, tucking her wild flying hair behind her ear as her gold huggie earrings glint against the light from the sun.

“So you’re saying is, rich people shouldn’t spend their money on what they see fit?” He clarifies mockingly, as his eyes linger on her ear rings. 

“No,” she chuckled. “Donating very little of what they earn to avoid taxes is questionable. But sponsoring research projects and grants are necessary. Unfortunately, money plays a huge part in advancing our scientific knowledge. But the problem lies when they get to decide what they want to fund. They will probably fund research that aligns with their motivations. I mean, as I’ve established, people don’t work from their inherent goodness. The more a rich person funds whatever, the more likely they are going to slap their names on whatever that arises from it and make more money from it. They feed this saviourism complex, giving these technologies to countries that cannot afford it but making sure they benefit in terms of the capital gains that arise from it rather than a local corporation who could offer the same solutions but not at a cheaper price. The more power they have the more likely they are going to indirectly sway the local politicians into creating reforms that would benefit them in the long haul. Essentially, being an active participant in neo-colonisation. Plus, it creates this narrative of equalness when it comes to the cause of climate change when it’s proven that the wealthy countries, individuals and the companies bear most of the load of emissions. This is just a way they get to slap a band aid on it and get free publicity.” 

“So essentially you are arguing for capitalocene,” Harry replied as he took in what she’d just said.

“I don’t know what that is,” she told him.

“For someone who doesn’t know the word or the concept, you sure did a wonderful job arguing for it,” he chuckles, picking up the violet from the sand that had been accidentally discarded by Layla when she was wildly gesturing with her hands. He shook off the sand and tucked it behind her ear, feeling the heat rise in her face underneath his fingers. When he was sure he secured it he gave her a shy smile. He tried his hardest to be friends with her this past month but somehow his crush only got reinforced every step of the way. Having spontaneous intellectual sparring matches on philosophy, and capitalism currently, only cemented those feelings.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. “Would you mind taking a picture of me in front of the lighthouse before we leave? I’d like to post one on Instagram.”

“Want to showcase a lighthouse that matches your emo soul,” he laughed as he looked at the black and white lighthouse standing tall to their right.

“Obviously.” She’d giggled along with him, looking at the little valley that creased on both sides of his cheeks and the crinkles on the side of his eyes a little longer than she originally intended.

When they got up to leave Harry did take a few pictures of her. But his favourite one he managed to capture was the one of her laughing - at him, when a pesky seagull decided to shit on his hair, her hair was flying in the direction of the wind, the violet was a stark contrast against her long dark hair securely tucked behind her ear, hands in the back pocket of her denim shorts, a black tank crop top with an unbuttoned oversized cream shirt with thin crimson horizontal stripes. The same picture that graced the screen of his phone. The same violet that Layla had left behind on the dashboard of his car when they got home. She invited him sweetly over for a movie the next day that turned out to be Evil Dead, kissing him on the cheek as she mumbled out a thank you for driving her to and fro. The same violet that Harry had picked up and kept it pressed in between the pages of his leather bound journal. Little did the two know - if they would have if they paid a little more attention to the small chart that was hung in Earl’s flower shop - that the violet represented all things innocent and modest being the symbol for true and everlasting love.

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR / SEND IN A REQUEST!

[ji-yaaan]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲...

Yandere!Malleus x Reader Oneshot

Warnings: Mentions of death, blood, self harm, toxic relationships.

Note: Yandere time kids! \(óvò)/ time to debut as a yandere writer... Lolololol jk! But seriously, I think I enjoyed writing this too much- hmmmmm I don't know what to say anymore..... Anyways have fun reading ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Rain dripping down the skies. Heavens weeped their sorrows. Raindrops pitter-pattered on the glass windows, loneliness fills the room accompanied by a cold wind that gushed from the open windows. Ice cold raindrops hit your frozen face. How you wished to wail out your misery and despair... 

Life is unfair...When was it fair? When you had the 5 seconds in which your escape from this endless nightmare was in the grasp of your hands? Freedom was in arm's reach, yet the so called freedom was a lie painted in sweet colorful rotten words.

"God... Is this a joke? Is this a test? Is this a Nightmare? Why have you forsaken me?" You questioned the heavens pouring down heavily. As if to mock you, a loud boom of thunder echoed up above, lightning lit up the dark grey skies for a brief moment...

Empty eyes filled with sorrows gazed up the heavens, unironically, the abyss stared back at their lifeless soul. You scoffed as the heavens ridicule you, a scornful laughter escaped your lips. Only to be interrupted by a loud creak of the wooden doors that rang across the room. "Hmmmmm? Y/N darling, what are you doing by the windows? See.... Look at you.... You're drenched and you might get sick..." A deep sigh escaped the fae's lips as his eyebrows furrowed from worry. "You really have a knack for getting people worried, my love..."

How disgusting "If you're really worried, you should've let me go by now..."

Is what you'd like to say, but why make it worse for yourself? Instead of a truthful answer, you simply stared at the man you loathed most... Malleus Draconia... The great man of The Valley of thorns... The infamous man who's part of the top 5 greatest mages... The powerful prince, who's heir to the throne... Just why must he stoop this low to abduct someone with the stupid excuse of true love?

A pair of peridot orbs that seemed to glow in the dark sent shivers down your spine. Those very orbs that stared straight down at you suffocating your chest. "I'm sorry..." You have to keep it together... You worked so hard to earn this man's trust and favor, you planned your way out of this mess... The show must go on The fae walked towards your direction, inching closer and closer. The air around you seemed suffocating as it became harder to breathe. The man you despised the most... the man you detested most... held your chin up to face him as he towered over your figure. Malleus brushed away a stray hair in your forehead. His peridot eyes that looked like gems allured you, they shone brightly despite the fact that both of you were surrounded by plain darkness. You felt small in his precence...

The fae held unto both of your cheeks as he placed a small gentle kiss atop your forehead. Almost af if it was done in a loving manner... He rested his forehead in yours, darting his gaze back unto yours. "I love you, my darling..." His eyes pierced your soul as a cold sweat ran through your spine. You were speechless, tongue was tied, no words escaped your lips. Growing paler by second, colors leaving your face. A shiver went down your spine as the dark fae held unto your neck, grasp tightening as moments pass. Your pulse and your heartbeat ringing in your ears, your brain was set in a frenzy as hands tightened around your neck. Caught up in a moment of hysteria, the lack of oxygen caused you to gasp for air, as you stared at the glowing pair of eyes inches above you. Your stomach churns, adrenaline rushed up your body. You forced yourself to say the words that left a disgusting taste in your mouth... "I love you too..." Your lips curved up forming a weak forced smile as a pair of lips devoured yours. A distinct taste of bitter sour berries spreads inside your mouth, like a deadly disease blooming in chaos...

Rays of warm sunlight lit the stagnant bedrooms. Buried in silken sheets and velvet pillows, cold fingers held you tightly in slumber. Like a nightmare that paralyzed your body, the fae embraced you closely, merley inches apart from one another. How you wished to wake up from this nightmare... Staring blankly at the ceiling, thousands of thoughts lingered on your mind. You wanted to disappear from this sick fate that bounded you to where you are. You closed your eyes, wishing when it opens, you're back in the safety and comfort of your real home.

Day after day, you struggled aimlessly under the grasp of the fae. You felt like life was taken away from your grasp, making you an empty shell of your former self. Smiles became meaningless. Laughter became dull. Your vision painted gre, colors began to burn out... The only thing that's bound to keep you breathing is the hatred you bore for the man you loathed. So you made yourself a show to put on. A mere act of rotten love, like a lovesick songbird chirping lies after lies. The fae believed the deceptive love you showed, drunk in his delusions. With each fables that escaped your lips, a nauseating taste lingers on you mouth.

Now you've come this far. You felt broken beyond repair. The once colorful life you've lived feels like a vivid dream you hopelessly graps on. No means of escape under clutch of the sickening man you despised. How ironic life can be.... Hope keeps us breathing, only to kill us at the end. But this time hope is not the only reason for you to be breathing. Seething hatred you bore against Malleus plagued your mind day and night. How you wished your hatred and insanity bore fruit...

Morning dew drops dripped from the lush leaves of the white rose petals. In the garden of the diasomnia halls, there you stood caught in a daze not knowing what to do. You sat down in the lonely table in the middle of the lonesome rose garden. White flowers adorned the scenery as you pick up your cup and took sip of your bitter tea. "How dull..." You flipped  the pages of the worn out book in the midst of your fingers. You savor your sweet time indulging in your pseudo freedom while the fae is away.

In between the crumbling book you held, lies a small note stuck in between the pages. The note you've been reading for the past few weeks, contemplating on it's contents. A wicked smile plastered across your face as you peered unto the dagger that sat across the table. But your vision shifted to something far more interesting... The flask that accompanied the lone dagger. The flask with intricate designs and patterns that's bound to intrigue anyone. The very flask you stole from Malleus' study... "It's time..."

You took a last sip of the tea in your cup. The unpleasant taste still lingered in your mouth. You took the silver dagger beside the glass bottle, charmed by the metal adorned with dainty rose carvings. You sighed as you ponder on whether you're doing something right. "The right thing to do? What a joke..." A broken smile plagued your face as you look up the heavy skies threatening to pour at any moment.

The dagger in your hands pierced the smooth skin under your wrists. Scarlet hues dripped down your arms with each slash of the white metal. What a bore... None of this is painful... Has reality really became dull for you to be this numb to not even feel pain? How disappointing for yourself. Are you even human at this point? Oh right... You died once upon a time when you kissed the man you despised.

As the sunset melted in the dark grey skies, raindrops dripped from the heavens yet again. You felt like time was running out pointing the dagger in your chest. Metal prickling your collarbone, blood spilt unto your dress. A stab across the chest as sweet vermilion ichor gushed from your torso, staining your fingers bright scarlet red. The metal dug deeper under your flesh, followed by a wail escaping your lips. 

"What are you doing!" An ear piercing scream echoed in between the thunders and rain. Malleus raced towards your direction with raging fury evident in his eyes. burning peridot orbs devoured your vision as the fae loomed over your figure. Crouching unto the muddy ground, Malleus asked again "What do you think you're doing?" Possessive chartreuse eyes piercing you deeper than the metal in your chest. A scoff left your mouth as a loathsome grin surfaced your face, a sneer ridiculing the fae before you. A moment of silence passed, but the fae's fury began to grow more with each passing second. Green flames devoured the rose gardens. The very flames that suffocated you. "You're a monster" you said under your breath as a mocking grin graced your lips.

"Then make me the monster that will forever be your nightmare my love..." The fae pulled the dagger out your chest as more blood gushed and pooled under you. "How foolish humans can be... Didn't I tell you? no matter what you do, you cannot escape from me. Even if you ran away to another world.. I’d find you wherever you’ll go. Now let’s stop this twisted game we’re playing before I change my mind." Green flames engulfed your figure for a brief moment.  "ARGHHH!" A weep escaped your lips as you felt the pain from the flames burning the life out of you. The cuts in your wrists and your supposedly wounded chest is nowhere to be seen. Like a vivid dream that never happened. 

You looked at your pathetic state sitting down in the muddy grass as malleus hend unto your arms. Pools of red blood stained your white dress. The rain wailing as the thunders roared in the distance. Green flames engulfing the rose bushes despite the raindrops pouring. You stared at the dagger in your lap that stabbed your flesh, yet the supposedly wounded places are smooth and flawless. No sign of scar or wound to be seen. Nothing...

You stared at the man before you. Towering over your figure, Malleus put a hand on your cheeks as he dries off the droplets that hit your face. Peridot eyes stared down at you. The anger and disappointment still present in his eyes as green flames swallowed the gardens. Oddly enough, this moment you felt nothing, just an empty void inside you, no means of escaping this nightmare. Nothing... Absolutely nothing... No fear, No remorse, No hatred, No Love.

"You cannot escape me, my darling. No one in this twisted world will love you as much as I do. I am your one true love and  I hope you won’t forget that..."  Threats that are masked by sweet sugary words like cheap rotten candies... How disgusting... "Are you sure about that My Love??" Mocking the fae with your words, you inched closer to close the gap that seperated the both of you. Lips mingled with each other, but instead of a sweet reaction from an innocent kiss, The fae violently reacted as he pulled away grabbing unto both your wrists.

"What did you drink?"  Burning eyes that gleamed fury and anger... What a sight to see... The taste of bitter tea mixed with rotting flavors still lingered in your mouth. A wicked smile plastered across your face, you replied "I wonder what it was?" Sharp nails dug under your flesh. Scarlet liquids dripped across your arms. Eyes burning with rage stared down at you. Green flames that glowed surrounded the both of you. Booming thunders echoed up the sky. Loud raindrops hitting the grounds grew louder.

You reached for your pocket to hold out the note you were reading for weeks now. "Eternal slumber" 2 words made the great Malleus Draconia insane. 2 words that destroyed the pseudo world the both of you lived in. 2 words that set aflame to both of your twisted worlds.. 2 words that will set you free from this joke you call life.... Freedom tastes sweet.

"You’re not allowed to leave me... what have you done? Don't do this to me... stop joking around... Y/n you love me right" Eyes brewing with insanity darted their gaze unto you. The man drowning in delusion was drunken in madness. Pale hands made their way to your neck, ice cold fingers gripped your skin as black nails dug your flesh. "Even if I have to use every spell, every magic, I'll make sure to make you wake up and punish you. y/n you won’t escape from me." Tears fell from the fae's face as madness devoured both of your souls. Hands that gripped your neck tightly shook. As Malleus let's go of you. The fae embraced you rigidly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. A weep escapes his lips "Y/n dont leave me..." salty tears trickled down your neck. Alas, you cannot savor this victory for long.

A mocking grin graced your face for one last time. The sky seemed to settle down, but the flames burned brighter. Triumph....this was your sweet triumph... It's funny how you won but now you've lost so much. In fact, you've lost everything now, even yourself.....how sad.... Your eyes began to grown heavy, you simply felt tired. "Goodnight." Your eyes closed shut, never to open again. Unless with a kiss of true love, eternal slumber shall devour you.

The End....

HGNNNNN MALLEUS WAS THE EASIEST TO BULLY OK!? I wanted to do vil, but I'm sweating too much, I can't even think of a concept🤦🤦 oh wait I actually have one..... But that's for another day( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Hope y'all enjoyed this low quality yandere time!🥺🥺🥺🥺

Tagging: @ghostiebabey u said tag u if I make yandere content..... Shame on me for this😔✊

[stutterfly]

Swipe Right 02 | Crosstalk | JJK (M)

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, brot7 x friendship

Genre: E2L, fluff, angst [later on], humor, [eventual] smut, PersonalTrainer!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, Nerd!Jungkook, Nerd/IT!Reader

Word Count: 10.2K

Last time on SR01: Namjoon introduced you to his friends and you find yourself absorbed into their little group rather quickly. While on your way to a Halloween party hosted at Jimin’s beautiful condo, you admit to your best friend Jennie that you have a crush on the sweet, shy, nerdy Jungkook. This just happens to be the same night he reveals his true nature: fuckboy. Now that’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?

Tags: Fuckboy Jungkook, let’s play some drinking games, dirty jokes, innuendos, friendship feels, jealousy, flashing, sexual tension, dumbBitch reader is drinking her dumbBitchjuice tonight, Tae makes things weird for half a sec, hint of foot fetish?, flirting with Hobi, flirting with Jin, embarrassedJoon who is also a mediator part time, tsundere softYoongi, Jimin is a traitorous snake who lives for the drama, Jungkook is like the kid pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes, tiniest glimpse at softboyeJK underneath

CW:  excessive drinking,  filthy language

Series: Activate your SIMCard Fic: Swipe Right (2/?- Ongoing)

Do not repost. masterlist // previous chapter // next chapter

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It's been months since the fiasco with Jungkook. You do your best to avoid any opportunity to hang with the group in a stationary setting when he’s present, but he’s kind of an unavoidable obstacle at this point. Pissed doesn’t begin to cover your feelings towards him and hurt doesn’t quite do it either. You’re angry about the things he did, the things he said, the way he covered up his true self, but most of all, you’re furious that your feelings didn’t just evaporate with the shift in his persona.

You thought time would heal everything, but so far it’s only turned you bitter about the whole thing. He still smells so fucking good. He’s still got a body like the weightlifting champ he is. He’s still dorky and funny in ways you wouldn’t expect a tool of his calibre to demonstrate. But he’s also a player and a crass asshole. A crasshole. Has he ever stayed with the same girl for more than a few days? You’d wager a confident sum of money that he never has.

Even though you hate his guts, your brain still finds ways to remind you that even if he’s a dick, he’s a dick you’re still attracted to. He’s the kind of dick you suck one night after getting drunk on cheap beer, and in the light of day you are disgusted with everything about it. So don’t get drunk and don’t suck that dick. Easy peasy, especially since fury overtakes you any time you look at him.

Pissed at him? That doesn’t cover it. Pissed at yourself? That’s closer, but it's still not quite all-encompassing. It’s some sort of culmination between the two that has you absolutely livid with the entire situation any time you think about it. He made you feel like a fool. You genuinely liked the person you thought he was, and he embarrassed you. That made not talking to him the way you did when you thought he had the emotional capacity of an actual decent human being hurt even more. At least you know now that he’s got more in common with a lifeless, unfeeling rock.

Not that he hasn’t tried to get you to talk to him. He has, texting you jokes, sending articles on upcoming game titles, spamming invites to a party on xbox live any time you log on, making a point to stand next to you, interrupting all of your conversations with an obnoxious “Hi, Princess!” and pestering you until you acknowledge him. Thankfully Namjoon has kept him from sitting next to you when you carpool, whether it be for dancing, dinner, karaoke, or any other external hangouts. Nevertheless, he still finds a way to annoy you despite the barriers in his path, and you are ready to claw his eyes out at a moment’s notice.

To keep your mind off how your last crush, well, crushed you and continues to let you down, you’ve been downloading and trying out a few different dating apps. You figure it’s time to find someone to connect with, and this is definitely how people do it these days, but your experience has been less than stellar. Jennie helped you set up your profiles and mentioned it in passing to Namjoon, mistakenly believing you told your other bestie about it. He's been teasing you about it every week since, but has been sworn to silence around the others under fear of you telling everyone about the time you caught him making out with a couch pillow.

He doesn't crash on your couch anymore.

Ever since Hoseok and Yoongi moved into the apartment down the hall, he's spent more evenings on their comfy sectional than you can count, but always after binging Kung Fu movies and bringing gratuitous amounts of takeout over your place. You’re grateful for the solitude so you can attempt to converse with strangers via text — maybe even flirt a little. Most of your conversations have become stagnant, but there’s been one guy texting you back and forth for a month now. You’re waiting on him to ask you out since you’re too much of a chickenshit to make the first move.

Now, as you walk down the hall with Namjoon, he elbows your ribs. “So... how’s your Jay-Jay?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Jason is fine.”

“He text you this week?” he asks, stopping in front of the apartment door.

Kind of.

“Mm-hmm!” Your reply is overly enthusiastic and it makes him suspicious.

“Did you text him first?” he questions, pausing before his knuckles touch the door.

Yes. But only because I saw a meme I could use as an excuse to talk to him.

“No.” The tone is questionable so you shake your head violently, scoffing. “I told him I wanted to meet in person.”

“Good. Good. Either he responds or he doesn’t,” he surmises, as if what he said isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. He snakes his hand around the back of your neck, massaging his fingers in circles over muscles you didn’t realize you’d tensed up. “And either way, I’m 100% certain you’re way too good for him. So don’t worry about it so much, okay?”

He snickers when you cast your gaze at the floor with a shy smile. “Joonie… That’s really sweet of you to say. I... Thank you.”

He shrugs off the gratitude with a smirk, trying to not let it get to his head. It’s true and you need to hear it. He clears his throat and knocks, nervously glancing over at you with his other hand still working small circles into the back of your neck. You’ll figure out soon enough that he’s also buttering you up since Jungkook is definitely home tonight, contrary to your belief that he certainly would not be.

The door swings open and a very sweaty, very shirtless Jungkook stands with his leg propped against the door, showcasing every glistening muscle of his body in the dim light. He dons an innocent smile, spreading his stance to push the door open wider and making sure you get a good look at the muscles tensing in his thigh. Your eyes helplessly scan the sculpted lines of his stomach, even as he purposefully flexes to draw the tiniest gasp from your lips. Pert brown nipples threaten to steal your attention, but you drag your eyes to the ink splattered across his skin instead. The myriad of tattoos that line the right side of his body tell a story you don’t have time or desire to explore, and you hate the way that your brain notes the curl of black ink disappearing beneath the band of his shorts and reappearing across his thigh.

“Princess, you made it.” He clicks his tongue with a devilish smirk as he watches you look him up and down with your mouth hanging stupidly agape.

Feeling your fight or flight response kick in, Namjoon’s fingers clamp down hard on your neck to keep you from bolting.

“What is he doing here?” you hiss in your friend’s direction, too distracted to fight against his iron grip on your neck.

“I live here,” Jungkook snorts, crossing his arms. “What? Didn’t you come here to see me?”

The anger on your tongue short circuits the connection your mouth has with your brain. Your jaw snaps shut and you roll your eyes, mirroring his action by folding your arms across your chest.

Jungkook seems amused by your irritation, offering a small laugh. “Client canceled so I decided to do a little exercise at home. Problem?”

He lets his hands drop to his sides, knowingly hooking his thumbs beneath the band of his shorts. Your eyebrow twitches and your jaw tightens. He knows the effect he has on women. He knows the effect he has on you. You’re determined to deny him the satisfaction so you simply stare him down. Douche.

Namjoon forces a dimpled smile to cut the tension. “So... I brought jenga! Do I smell pizza?”

You attempt to push past Jungkook, but he makes sure to bump a sweaty shoulder into you. “I’ve gotta shower. Wanna join?”

If you roll your eyes any harder, you might sever your optic nerve. “Don’t touch me.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Somehow you’ve been stuck with the worst jenga player in the world as your teammate. Namjoon may be a good friend and smart as fuck, but he is terrible at anything requiring coordination. He’s been the only one to knock the tower over. Four times now. That’s four times you’ve had to drink the disgusting gin offered in the form of a shot by Seokjin.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” you declare, wiping the taste of evergreen trees from your mouth as you set the empty shot glass back down. “Jin, jump in for me?”

You sit back in your chair and pulling out your phone to check your messages.The man grimaces at your request. “Do I have to? The odds seem stacked against me. I can only compensate so much, you know.”

Hoseok and Yoongi snicker into their beers and Jimin laughs out loud as he reaches into the communal bowl of popcorn possessively wedged between his teammate and himself.

“I think these teams are very fair,” Taehyung says, licking the salt from his fingers as he sets the last of the blocks back into position.

“I feel like my luck is changing. Different teammate, different energy, come on,” Namjoon assures him, making the first move.

The block slides out without issue and he drops it on top of the tower with a grin. Hoseok hums a thoughtful sound as he pushes a middle block with the tip of his pointer until it falls onto the other side of the table.

“I’m not sure you’re paying enough attention to be the referee,” Jin pouts.

“Are you really so mad that she’s not looking at you?” Jimin teases with a giggle while making his move. “This is one game where you can’t use your face as a bargaining chip, Jin. It’s all skill.”

The older man scoffs, rolling his eyes as he takes a side block and wagging it in your direction. “How will you know if someone cheats if you’re looking at your phone the whole time, hmm?”

“I’ll know,” you mutter, not bothering to look up. “Besides. How do you cheat at jenga? You knock the tower over or you don’t. Team that knocks the tower over does the shots. Those are pretty simple rules.”

Seokjin grumbles something unintelligible underneath his breath in response. You ignore him as you reach for your bottle of spiked root beer, trying to figure out some clever joke that might impress Jason enough to respond to you. You rack your brain, furrowing your brow in contemplation as you stare at the blinking cursor and take a big swig.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch the flash of white and subconsciously spare a glance up. Your stomach flips like it’s trying to win a gymnastics competition and you wish you could press undo on the double take your eyes have just performed without prompt. Maybe he didn’t notice.

Jungkook pauses in the hall, adjusting the white cotton towel around his waist. He’s grinning at you like the cat that ate the canary as he slowly drags his fingers over the edges of the fabric, peeling it from its resting place on his hips. Of course he fucking noticed.

You force your eyes back to the safety of your phone screen just in time, barely missing the flash of his glossy ink-covered skin. When he realizes you’re not watching the show he’s putting on, he fastens the towel around his waist and walks into the light of the den. You swallow, feeling his eyes rake over your form as he passes the table with a loud sigh.

“All clean,” he announces in a singsong voice as he continues towards the kitchen.

You hate the way your jaw threatens to betray you by attempting to drop at the sight of the rippled muscles carved into his upper back and the thick line creased into the meat of his spine. Even with the broad artistic strokes of color swathed across his back in the shape of a phoenix spreading its red-orange wings wide, you can still see the definition of his form chiseled beneath it. You try not to lose yourself in the flawless details painted into his flesh and grind your teeth to keep your jaw wired shut.

Wet, tangled locks of hair fall into his face as he reaches into the refrigerator. When he stands up straight, he arches his back to stretch his chest towards the ceiling. He’s got a tiny jug of banana milk in his palm and he’s working on chugging it down.

He pauses and licks remnants of the cloudy liquid from his lips. “Thirsty. Relatable, right, Y/N?”

You scowl, tapping furiously on your keyboard. “Put some fucking clothes on.”

Jungkook throws his hands in the air in defeat as he casually wanders out of the room. “Okay, okay. I’m going.”

Your eyes settle on the tower. Minutes pass and still it hasn’t fallen. Turn after turn around the table, the game has gone on far longer than anticipated. Namjoon is determined to not lose this time; it’s actually kind of impressive how careful he’s been. You’ve almost forgotten about Jungkook until he reappears, this time fully covered in black sweats and a long-sleeved shirt. The tension in the room is palpable. You’re afraid to even breathe in the direction of the wooden blocks precariously stacked on one another.

Hoseok is sweating as he prods the stack with his index finger, making a high-pitched whining sound as he tries to determine his next move. Jungkook wedges himself between Jin and Taehyung, forcing you to acknowledge his presence as he sits on the opposite side of the table and steals a fistful of popcorn.

After a few seconds, Hoseok sighs at Yoongi. “I give up. You do it. We’re a team. I’m gonna knock it over if you don’t,” he whines.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and quickly shoots his finger out at a random block. It flies across the table at Seokjin, causing him to dramatically duck out of the way just in time. The table erupts with laughter.

“Damn, that didn’t do it. I was hoping we could play cards now,” Yoongi mutters to himself.

“Hey, what are you doing? You almost hit me with that! You have to put that on top! Go get it!” Jin yells across the table, mind already heavily clouded with booze. At least he’s laughing so you know that heightened tone doesn’t indicate any serious animosity.

“It’s right next to you. Pick it up and give it to me,” Yoongi replies while leaning over the table, which causes the tower to immediately wobble. Hoseok dramatically gasps, bringing his hands to his mouth. Seokjin picks up the block and slides it across the surface as he gives you a pointed look.

"Isn't this cheating? Don't they forfeit since it was on Hobi’s turn?"

"They're technically a team.” You shrug.

"You are a terrible referee," he groans, rubbing his temple as Yoongi carelessly throws the piece on top.

Taehyung and Jimin fervently whisper to each other over their strategy before Taehyung reaches out for an easy-looking target. The slightest touch sends the blocks crashing down, causing the man to blink in disbelief.

“Time to drink up your handsome competitor. Gin served by Jin.” He snickers.

Jimin and Taehyung cringe as Jin slides two shot glasses full of the vile liquid towards them. They link elbows and tilt their heads back, downing the burning liquid in solidarity. Jimin seems unaffected while Taehyung’s face scrunches up and he coughs.

“It burns!” he sputters, clutching his chest. He walks into the kitchen, dragging his tongue across his palm as though it will remove the taste from his mouth.

“Thank god. I don’t think I could have stomached another,” Namjoon murmurs, rising to his feet. “Be right back.”

As soon as he heads off in the direction of the restroom, the others start cleaning up the mess of blocks scattered across the table and Yoongi begins shuffling a deck of cards. Jungkook takes the opportunity to slide into the empty seat beside you. You toss an annoyed glance his way in warning. “Can I help you, Jungkook?”

“You could if you weren’t so busy pretending like you don’t want to look at me.” His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he smiles innocently when you look up from your phone to glare daggers at him.

“You’re in Namjoon’s seat.”

He ignores your statement, peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your phone screen. “Who are you texting? Is it your hot friend?”

“She doesn’t want to bang you, dude,” you tell him in a flat tone, flicking the power button to hide the message.

“Oh, just like you?” he asks, unable to hide the amusement striking his features.

After years of practicing this song and dance with other women, he’s grown accustomed to everyone wanting a piece of this cookie. There’s no way you’re immune, especially after his performance on the ocarina a few months ago. He charmed you before you could sink your teeth into his neck and do the same to him, and now you're mad about it. That’s your category, right? Your spite is obviously a cover for your disappointment.

Unless it isn’t. His conviction wavers as your jaw tightens and you take a swig from the dark bottle on the table. People don’t get close unless they want to get fucked. Literally. But you are Joon’s ‘friend’ and you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him, at least for a little while. Most people are good at faking the first time, but it’s been a while and you’re still here. What if you’re actually hanging around his friends for all the right reasons? What if you had something other than shallow intentions? What if he actually hurt your feelings? He sinks back in his seat, silently stewing in his assumptions.

You set your phone face down on the table, a forced manic smile settling on Yoongi. “What are we playing?”

The man spreads the cards face down over the table in a circle, placing a single shot in the center. “It’s called the circle of death. There are a bunch of ways to play so I’m just gonna pick my favorites.”

He gets up, taking the magnetic whiteboard off the refrigerator and furiously scribbling notes on its surface. You crane your neck to get a good read, but it’s still fairly challenging to make out his chicken scratch.

“There’s a lot you can pick up after hours at bartending school. I had fun playing this with the other people in my class but it’ll probably be even better with you guys.”

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ  RULES:

A - Face

2 - You

3 - Me

4 - Floor

5 - Jive

6 - Forehead master

7 - Heaven

8 - Hate

9 - Rhyme

10 - Social

J - Never

Q - Eat

K - Rulemaker

Joker - Waterfall

Your eyebrows furrow at the words you can make out. “This seems complicated.”

Yoongi scoffs, setting the board on the counter and leaning it against the wall. “Trust me. It’s not as bad as it seems. Besides this will be right here in case you forget.”

“Does that say eat? Yoongi, what the fuck does that mean?” You tilt your head to the side and try to read the list in its entirety but still at a loss for what it means.

Hoseok scratches his head, equally as stumped by the list.

“I’ll go over the rules once everyone is back at the table. I have a feeling I’ll be repeating them enough once we start.”

You slump in your chair with a pout as you proceed to polish off your beverage. Namjoon returns and sees his spot has been taken.

"Kook," he warns, tapping his friend in the shoulder to try to get him to move over.

Namjoon isn't stupid in the slightest. He may lack common sense at times and he definitely is the clumsiest person in the room, but perception is his strength. What do you get when you add up the subtle glances, the nervous stutters, and shy smiles? Multiply that sum by the times you've tucked your hair behind your ear needlessly, gotten starry-eyed while talking, or claimed a seat nearby. Tallying your distracted behaviors yields a simple answer: a crush.

You don't have to say anything. You never have to say anything because you wear that shame so well. Even subtracting the stunt Jungkook pulled on Halloween and the distance you've put down since then, it's not enough to negate the total. You say you hate him, but those glances are still there. Pressing your lips tight to keep yourself from smiling has become your default defensive tactic. Playing with your hair quickly turns into tugging loose strands back into a ponytail. It’s almost painful to watch. He wonders if anyone else sees it for what it is because Jungkook sure doesn’t.

Staying out of it is tough because he knows both sides. But it’s not his place to spill the tea to either one of you. You’re both his friends and it’s hard not to feel like the mediator that he definitely doesn’t want to be. You’re adults. You can figure your shit out without him to take care of every little thing. Yeah, it would be easier just to do it all for you, but you’ll never learn that way and neither will he. However, that doesn’t mean he can’t drop some caution tape out every once in a while.

Jungkook digs his heels into the floor and huffs. “But I like this seat and you got up so it’s mine now.”

“Joonie, it’s fine.” You manage to keep the irritation out of your voice, talking over the man to your left like he’s not even there. “He’ll get bored eventually. Don’t feed the troll.”

Namjoon shakes his head and takes a seat on the opposite side of Jungkook, grumbling how you’re going to come crying to him later when Jungkook snaps your bra straps or some shit and his friend is gonna end up with a black eye but whatever not his problem. At least that’s the gist of what you get out of your friend’s griping. He may have a point, but you’re not going to acknowledge that. You’re busy looking at the plastic cup full of beer set down in front of you.

You crinkle your nose at Yoongi but he answers before you can ask. “Everyone is drinking the same thing. Even playing field. Not really fair if someone's got more alcohol in their drink."

You catch Taehyung's eyes across the table and mirror his disgusted expression, both of you sticking your tongue out at the liquid.

"Alright. There's only one rule you really need to be worried about in the beginning: my rule to keep you all from getting distracted. If you touch your phone, whoever catches you is allowed to send any message to any contact in it.”

Jungkook grins wickedly at you, noticing the way you drop your mobile device on the table and leave it where it lands face down. Yoongi goes over the rules one by one and gives an example of each being used. Everyone blinks at him stupidly once he gets to the Queen and delivers a deadpan explanation that whoever pulls that card has to eat it. None of you are drunk enough to believe him, so he scribbles the rule out on the whiteboard and writes a question mark instead. He sets the board back in place and continues with his explanation, looking at everyone expectantly.

He points at the board behind him, not bothering to look back at it. "This is here in case you forget what any of the cards mean, but we’ll go slow since there are eight of us.”

A full round around the table and you are all feeling pretty comfortable and giggly. Some of the more tame cards have made their way into the discard pile beside Yoongi.

Jin pulled an eight and made Tae drink until he said stop, which was hilarious and equally terrifying when you realized someone could do the same to you. Luckily the enemy beside you didn’t have the pleasure.

Taehyung pulls a King and tries to make a weird rule that any time a four is played and you’re all scrambling to the floor, the last one to touch the ground has to kiss the feet of the cardholder. When you collectively agree you are not doing that he huffs and makes a rule that for the rest of the game if you have to drink, you have to dirty talk your beer before taking a sip. This rule makes you determined not to lose any rounds.

Laughter erupts from the table when Yoongi calls his drink a filthy little slut before having to take a sip. Hobi is so thrilled when Yoongi pulls a five and starts dancing immediately after that he ended up cackling instead of focusing on the game. He’s less than thrilled about needing to drink after missing the opportunity to dance so he ends up glaring at his drink.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, you filthy bitch? You want me to put my hands around your throat, put my tongue on you and drink up? Alright then.” He coos a ridiculous sound at his cup and guffaws before taking a huge swig.

Jimin covers his eyes and laughs, downing the rest of his drink like it’s water without a thought of whether he was supposed to or not. He gets up to refill his cup as an excuse to hide the heat in his cheeks.

“Hobi’s upping the game. Woooooow.” Jin leans back in his chair, mouth agape with wonder before bursting into a squeaky laugh.

You gulp, hoping everyone is too distracted by their own laughter to notice the way your legs clamp together. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the actual. Fuck. Hobi. I gotta text Jennie. She’s not gonna believe this. No, don’t touch your phone. Don’t look at anyone. Just wait for your turn to pick a card.

Hobi pulls a three and has to drink again. “Ah. This slut wants more. Here we go, baby.”

You desperately scan the circle of facedown cards, a smile forcefully smattered on your features. You strain to reach the one you’re trying for. Hoseok slides it towards you with an innocent smile, as though those lips weren’t just spewing absolute filth. “I hope it’s a good one.”

Your eyes drop to the card as you flip it back on the table. Jack. You squint at the board, trying to figure out what “Never” means when Yoongi puts three fingers up.

“Alright, Y/N. This is Never Have I Ever. We all put our fingers up like this. You come up with something you’ve never done and say it out loud. If any of us have done those things,” he pauses and drops a finger so he only has two standing tall, “then we put them down. First one to have no fingers up has to drink.”

Oh no. What haven’t I done? What haven’t I done? The guys all expectantly wait for you to say something. You purse your lips as your mind blanks on every moment you’ve ever experienced.

“Never have I ever…” your mouth is dry. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi laughs. “Don’t think too hard. It doesn’t have to be anything crazy, but it does have to be true. It’s not fun otherwise. People have different goals. You can use it to learn or you can just try get as many people to drink as possible.”

Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in your head. They’re all men. “Never have I ever peed standing up.”

Everyone around the table puts a finger down. The mirth in Yoongi’s face becomes strained and his eyelids flutter as he sighs. “Careful. There are a lot of cards left and you’re about to make yourself a target.”

You press on anyway. “Never have I ever had sex with a woman.”

A few of them tut in annoyance as they’re all left with one finger up.

Jungkook pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek. “You’re not living your best life then.”

You furrow your brow while trying to think of another easy thing that could get them all to lose. Tapping your fingers on the table, you make an effort to focus on each one’s concentrated gaze. It comes to you and you filter your bottom lip through your teeth for a moment. Have they...? You’d bet they all have.

Jungkook rolls his eyes at you. “Come on, Princess. Just say whatever it is.”

“Never have I ever been to a strip club.”

There’s a collective sigh as their hands drop and they stare at their drinks. You grin like a maniac, taking in the garbled sounds of each one dirty-talking their drinks like it’s a goddamn orgy.

Jungkook looks over at you, making sure he has your attention as he offers an amused smile. “You really haven’t been to Wings?”

You’ve seen signs for that club, hating to admit the ads garnered intrigue. It’s split down the middle, supposedly one side angelic and the other hellish. “Nope. Drink up, Jungkook.”

He maintains eye contact with you, bringing his drink to his lips. “Maybe I can get you to come. Will you give me permission to taste you?” He tilts his head back and makes a show of closing his eyes and slowly slurping his beverage. You narrow your eyes at him before he puts the cup back down. “Delicious. My turn.”

He flips the card. “King. Ooh. My rule. Starting now, every time you say something you have to start with the word hashtag and end with dotcom.”

“Jungkook, that’s so stupid,” you say without thinking.

“Hashtag, drink up Princess, dotcom,” he replies with an impish grin.

You bite your lip and stare at your drink. How could you be so careless? They all lean in, waiting for the words to leave your mouth. You hold your hands up in a T-shape. “Hold up. Time out. Pause the game. I need some clarity. Do I have to say hashtag dotcom thing WHILE talking to my drink?”

Namjoon looses it, laughing like a maniac. “Hashtag, I think you fucking do Y/N dotcom.”

Jungkook just smiles, crossing his arms and waiting for you to continue. God, you fucking hate him. This is the dumbest rule you’ve ever heard. It’s going to get old fast. Still, you stare down at your cup. “Hashtag… Uh… I’m gonna... s-slurp your fluids out now, dotcom?”

Jungkook’s obnoxious laugh is piercing your eardrums as you down a few big gulps. The rest of the table roars with laughter and heat burns your cheeks, not daring to make eye contact with any one of them.

“W-What was that?!” Jin yells. “You sound like an alien! Can I give you some pointers, please?”

“Hashtag, Seokjin! You forgot dotcom!” Jungkook says, pointing to his friend’s cup.

Jin curses under his breath and stares at his cup. “Hashtag, this is how you do it, Y/N.” He focuses on his cup without missing a beat, raising it up to the sky longingly like he’s about to start serenading it. “You wish you could hear me say this every day, don’t you? You love how my mouth feels on you. I can tell by the way you’re dripping for me, my lovely. Dot. Com.” He makes a point to run his tongue along the rim of his cup and takes a sip.

Fuck these guys. But also… Fuck? These guys? You’re one dirty comment away from soaking your panties, but they don’t need to know that.

“Hashtag I’m sorry I’m not a slut like the rest of you. Also Seokjin, you’re a bitch, dotcom,” you grumble, gripping your knees to keep your hands off your phone. Jennie will absolutely scream once you tell her about this night. She’ll be sad she missed out.

Jin’s eyes go wide as though you smacked his ass in front of the world, a smile is taking over the corners of his mouth. “Hashtag, stop trying to flirt with me, dotcom.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t help the shy smile that creeps in. Jungkook sits up straight and sighs dramatically. “Hashtag let’s keep going so we can get the rest of this bread dotcom.”

Jimin pulls a king and has made the rule that hashtag dotcom is abolished. It comes as a relief when you’re a few more rounds in, and everyone has already consumed way more booze than expected because of Jungkook’s rule. An uneventful round of drinking passes before Seokjin pulls the last King out.

“A rule, hmm? Alright. When you ask someone to drink you have to hold their chin, stare longingly into their eyes, and ask them to drink.” He demonstrates, holding Taehyung’s jaw in his fingers. “Like this. Will you please drink for me, my dear friend, Taehyung?”

Tae bashfully giggles waving his hand away. “You’re too much sometimes. I think you need a girlfriend.”

Since it only applies for certain cards, you end up forgetting about it as multiple turns come and go without utilizing it. Your turn rises again and you slide the eight face up across the table. After kicking your chair with his feet for the millionth time, you completely forget about the rule Jin made and pick based on your irritation. Eight is hate indeed.

“Jungkook, go until I say stop.”

The words feel satisfying as they leave your mouth, but Namjoon grimaces, anxiously baring both sets of teeth.

“Uh… You gotta…” Namjoon taps his cheeks twice with his fingertips.

Horror replaces that smug satisfaction in the pit of your stomach and it churns a sickness deep inside that pit.

Jungkook cocks his head at you. “You really wanna put your hands on me that badly, huh?”

You exhale loudly and tightly grip his chin with sweaty, hot fingers. Your eyes threaten to burn holes into his. “Jungkook, go until I say stop.”

He’s stunned into silence for a second, adam’s apple bobbing ever so slightly. He blinks at you a couple times before regaining his composure. Who knew princesses can breathe fire? Grabbing his cup, he grins and chuckles an amused sound even as you’re tearing yourself from him.

“Don’t worry I can go all night when you taste so good, baby,” he says, tilting his head back as he drinks.

You keep an eye on his cup, watching the liquid slowly disappear. You have to be careful not to let him finish, but you kind of want him to suffer a little bit. Even though he drinks like a fish, he’s still not on Jimin’s level. This has to be affecting him somehow. He watches you through an annoyed side-eye when you don’t say a word, not allowed to stop until you say so or until he finishes his drink. Your phone chooses this exact moment to vibrate a long sound against the table and your concentrated gaze wanders for a second too long, allowing him to gulp down the remnants of his drink.

Jungkook slams his empty cup down in time for you to look back at him in horror before looking at your own full cup. The room fills with the sound of everyone “ooooh-ing” like this is the sixth grade. With a heavy sigh, you bring your cup to your lips.

“I was distracted. I would have said stop.”

Jungkook leans his elbow on the table and rests his head on a folded palm. His smile tells you he’s ready to dish it back. “Mmm-hmm. Go on. Oh… Wait.”

He sits up, cupping your jaw in his hands so lightly, like it could disintegrate at the slightest touch. He leans his head back slightly, soft eyes imploring you to move closer. He slides his fingers up your jawline, nestling them behind your ears like he’s about to draw you to his lips. “Will you be good and drink that for me until I ask you to stop?”

Jin scoffs. “Wow. Look at this guy.”

The others hold back their snickers. Your eyebrow twitches, smacking his hands away from you. Instead you focus on the cup in your sweaty palms.

“I can’t wait to feel you… dripping from my mouth,” you whisper to your cup, trying to redeem yourself for earlier and doing your best not to think about how fucking good it felt having Jungkook’s hands wrapped around the sides of your face. You don’t spare a look at any of them as you tilt your head back and start gulping the liquid down.

“Much better,” Yoongi says with a smirk, but you don’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Namjoon smacks his hand to his forehead. “Yeah... I’m gonna need you to dial it back just a bit. I still have to see you at work.”

Jin pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Ah, maybe our Zelda isn’t so bad at this after all.”

Jimin, Taehyung and Hobi all have their elbows on the table, cheeks in their palms as they watch your throat make its swallowing motions. They simultaneously grunt differing words of affirmation. About three quarters through, Jungkook puts his hand on the bottom of your cup.

“Stop.”

Mercy? From Jungkook? You don’t believe it, but you’ve been struggling so you’re kind of grateful. Just as you’re about to put the cup down, he taps the bottom of it, forcing liquid to splash upwards onto your chin. You slap his hand away as he cackles and you wipe your lips.

“Fuck you, Jungkook.”

“What time, sweetheart?” He grins when you glare at him.

“Just pick your fucking card before I strangle you.”

“Kinky. You know, I might let you if you asked nicely.”

You get the pitcher of beer from the fridge and start refilling everyone’s cups. He pulls a card that has him whispering dirty words into the rim of his empty cup, holding it out for you to fill. At least most of the cards seem to be gone now. You hate to admit you’re feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts, but you reason that it’s just a few more rounds, so maybe you just sip on water after this game is over.

Just as you get back to your seat, Namjoon throws a sheepish grin your way. “Joker.”

“There’s only one of these,” Yoonngi begins, looking around the room to make sure he has everyone’s attention. “Waterfall is when everyone starts drinking and you can’t stop until the person to your right stops. Namjoon can stop whenever he wants, but Jin has to wait until he’s done. Then Taehyung waits until Jin is done. Make sense?”

Normally the waterfall card is played in the opposite direction, but there’s so much tension between you and Jungkook tonight and he’s so used to his friend getting his way with women that he can’t help wanting to give you the edge on him. Everyone nods. The realization dawns on everyone that before this can happen, they all have to do two things per the rules.

One after another the guys ask the person to their left to drink while gripping their chins. It would be a fairly intimate scene if people weren’t giggling every three seconds. Still, your heart damn near skips a beat when Hobi’s slender fingers curl under your jaw, drunkenly pulling you closer to his face than you’ve ever dared to get. Heat builds in your stomach and travels up your chest, spreading across your back and prickling your neck. You hope it doesn’t move into your cheeks.

“You gonna take this drink, Y/N?” he aks, unable to hold the giggles in as he wags your head back and forth in his steady hands.

Oh… He’s fucking gone, isn’t he? “For you? Maybe,” you flirt, rubbing your shoulder against his as you turn away.

Jungkook sits up straight, muscles tensing as you twist your body towards him. Suddenly, he looks a lot bigger than you remember. Is he puffing out his chest? You wilt under his irritated stare but are determined not to let it show. You slip your fingers underneath his chin, just barely registering the stubble there. Your slow blink hides the flutter of your eyelashes, alcohol clouding your brain with desire. But damn if the room isn’t still spinning. He flashes you boyish grin when you clap your palm to his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Yes?”

“Drink up, buttercup,” you giggle, pinching your fingers closed beneath his jaw.

A choked laugh escapes him. “You should sit this one out. At this rate, you’ll be passed out with your face on the toilet seat in an hour.”

You spin back to your drink with fury in your eyes; if there’s anything you hate more than Jungkook, it’s being told what to do. Especially by Jungkook. I’ll show you, asshole.

Everyone turns to their cups and mutters a few dirty words before Namjoon begins the circle of drinking. One by one the cups come down, everyone seemingly grateful for the person before them showing at least some kind of mercy. You slow your gulping when you realize Jimin is dragging it out in an attempt to annoy Yoongi. Both of them still seem surprisingly sober for the amount they’ve ingested. Maybe they don’t wear their intoxication as easily as the rest of you. Hobi exchanges a worried glance at you, trying to not let it slip that he’s only pretending to down his beverage, but you can tell by the steady level of the liquid in his cup that he’s pretty much ready to tap out.

As soon as Jimin finally pulls his cup back from his lips, Yoongi stops, immediately followed by Hobi. Yoongi is keenly aware of his roommate’s inability to hold down liquor in large quantities. He doesn’t fare much better with beer. Saving his friend means you can be saved too. He looks at you, raising his eyebrows in warning. You spare a fleeting glance in his direction, but it’s long enough to catch his message loud and clear: Don’t be an idiot, Y/N. Don’t go overboard.

But you turn your attention to Jungkook, who is still effortlessly allowing his beverage to slither down his throat. You gulp in segments, a commendable attempt to keep yourself going. Even for all your efforts, booze spills from the corners of your mouth and leaves cold sloppy trails down your neck as you watch Jungkook. He’s not even struggling. Fuck. You finally give up, allowing the cup to smack down on the table with a messy splash.

He keeps going just to spite you, polishing off his drink with a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh. He rises from his seat, patting your shoulder as he gets himself more to consume. “It’s cute how hard you tried.”

The final round passes and you are ready to strangle Jungkook for the way he keeps knocking his knees against yours. It’s gotten to the point where you’ve moved your chair so close to Hobi’s that he’s put his arm around you, thinking you are just as sleepy as he is. Truth be told you kind of are. The room is a little too spinny for your liking, but you can’t seem to persuade your brain to make your legs get up and get yourself a glass of water.

“You want to nap too?” he whispers, rubbing the eyes he can hardly keep open. “Come here. Let’s sleep together.”

The innocent words make your stomach spin in place but you don’t have time to ruminate on them. Jungkook hooks his ankle around your chair and jerks it back towards him. Furious eyes flicker on him in warning just as Hobi’s cheek slumps over your shoulder and draws your attention away. Luckily Yoongi springs into action to keep his friend from falling any further into your personal space than he already has.

“Okay, Hobi. We get it. You need to sleep,” he chuckles, cradling his friend’s arm around his shoulder as he helps him to his feet.

Hoseok weakly grumbles a sound of acknowledgement as they shuffle down the hall into what you assume is a guest room. Their apartment is bigger than any you’ve seen so you find yourself wondering just how many guest rooms they could possibly have. Then you remind yourself that it doesn’t matter because you are definitely not staying because getting an uber is always an option.

When Yoongi returns alone, people have started migrating into the living room. Jungkook and Jin are still seated, heatedly talking about some game nearby, but you’ve elected to ignore them in favor of checking your messages. Jason has sent you a few messages that have piqued your interest, including one finally asking you on a date. Does ignoring guys really fucking work? Was Namjoon right about something in his life? You don’t want to believe it.

The words in Jason’s message blur together, despite how hard you’re concentrating on them. You’d told him you were out with friends. He must have known you’d be relatively unavailable so maybe it’s okay that you’re in no shape to formulate a coherent response. Still you stare at the keyboard, jumping when an arm reaches over you to place a glass of water on the table for you.

You blink a few times at Yoongi, who simply whispers a gruff “drink” before grabbing the shot left in the center of the table and downing it as he joins the majority of his friends in the other room. Jungkook looks over at you, eyes dropping to your open conversation when you absentmindedly set your phone down. You take the cold glass in both hands and narrow your eyes in Yoongi’s direction as you swallow down a good portion of the liquid.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It’s been an hour and if you’re honest you’ve just barely teetered back into the moderately drunk category. Yoongi had offered to take you home when he was getting ready to leave since he was already chauffeuring Namjoon. At the time you declined because you were certain that your natural predisposition to motion sickness would be amplified by the liquor in your system. You didn’t want to make Yoongi’s new car smell like puke. Namjoon has this habit of texting when he’s worried. Even after he left you’d been going back and forth about the night. Honestly it’s kind of helping keep you from passing out and you’re reminded how grateful you are for his friendship.

Sitting on the couch next to Jimin may have also influenced your decision since the man literally smells how vacations feel — and god do you need to relax. He’s also acted as a barrier between you and Jungkook, who has his legs stretched out across the cushions to Jimin’s right. Jungkook has been engrossed in his phone since you left the table, opting out of switching off with Taehyung when he dies in-game. You’re kind of thankful for it. Maybe he’s finally settled down for the night. Does he get more polite with drowsiness?

Jimin smiles softly at you, his arms draped over the back of the couch. The pair of you have been quietly conversing and giggling over the platformer Seokjin and Taehyung have been playing. Jimin’s face still looks a little flush with alcohol, but he only just finished his last beverage for the night. How the hell can someone so tiny pack away so much liquor? You hold in a shiver as his fingertips playfully dance along your shoulder, trying not to let on how the action affects you. His harmless flirting only bolsters confidence hiding in the depths of your mind and you stretch your arms up with a yawn and lean against him, knowingly giving him a better view of the cleavage poking out from beneath the v-cut of your shirt.

Jimin allows a devilish smile to curl at his lips as his fingers walk down your arm. He puts both hands back on the couch, like you’d made the move unprompted by his touching. “Hmm. You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?” His whisper is low and breathy, so quiet you almost miss it. What a tease.

“Hey. Jimin. Come here.”

The unusually quiet Jungkook knocks his foot against his friends knee, which pushes Jimin’s thigh up against yours. You softly sigh at the contact and the subsequent loss when Jungkook sits up and Jimin apologetically scoots away. You plant an elbow on the armrest beside you and prop your cheek up on your palm. Seokjin is carrying Taehyung through this level it seems.

“Do you think I should tap that?” The words are loud enough to distract you so you can’t help but turn your head in their direction.

“I think she might be out of your league,” Jimin giggles. “Besides she’s older than you. I thought that bothered you?”

“Oh. No way. I love it. When they have more experience I don’t have to work as hard,” he replies with a lofty sigh.

“Are you sure about that in this case? You’re very presumptuous.”

Your blood heats up the back of your neck. Why are men so disgusting? You grit your teeth, unable to hold in the sound of disgust that makes its way through them.

Jungkook’s head snaps up and he locks eyes with you. There’s something smug about his expression, like he’s stupidly proud of pulling that reaction from you. “Aw, are you feeling left out, princess? Here, see for yourself. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

When he flips his screen around your own profile is staring back at you. Straightening your spine and reaching across Jimin’s lap for him, you hiss, “Jungkook, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Why?” He tilts his head to one side, feigning confusion and looks at the profile again. “I think she’s pretty hot.”

“If you match with me, I will not swipe right on you. You know that, right? So this whole thing is pointless,” you reason, more for yourself than the two men beside you. “You’re not gonna get to me. It’s not gonna fucking work, Jungkook.”

Jimin’s shoulders tremble with soft, mellifluous laughter that spills from his lips as he takes in the exchange. It’s apparent that Jungkook has already gotten under your skin. Denying it is only making you angrier.

“Fine. Fine. It’s gone now, see,” Jungkook says, briefly flashing you the home screen of his phone before putting it away. The image of that big tiddy anime girl behind all those icons is going to haunt your dreams; you can feel it.

You get up to get yourself more water. “I hate you so much.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It’s late. Seokjin left a few minutes ago and Jimin rubs his eyes, unsure what to do. The selfish part of his brain tells him he should claim the other guest room. The horny part of his brain tells him he should suggest you share with him. The exhausted part of his brain tells him to just pass out in Taehyung’s bed and let him figure it out.

“You’re welcome to stay, too. We have room for you,” Taehyung says with a kind smile. “There’s another guest room.”

You still don’t feel well enough to drive or sit in a cab. You sit with your hands folded in your lap, pondering your shitty life choices. You’ve become pretty good friends, but a sleepover seems a bit strange without your bestie Namjoon to buffer out all of the awkward moments.

You smile as sweetly as you can manage, your voice small and borderline whiny in its need for sleep. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want to be a bother. Thank you, Taehyung.”

The man rolls his eyes. “I won’t allow you to sleep on a couch when we have beds.”

“Your couch is comfier than my actual bed,” you joke, patting the plush cushions on either side of you.

Jungkook walks in, shirtless and scrubbing a toothbrush furiously in his mouth. He tries to speak but it’s unintelligible, so he turns back around to finish up.

“It’s really okay. I should stay up and finish my water anyway and I don’t want to keep you guys up. I drank a little too much.”

“No shit,” Jungkook sighs as he rounds the corner and leans against the wall. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay up with you, Princess.”

Taehyung flashes his friend a pointed look and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when Jungkook continues.

“You guys go on. I’ll make sure she drinks up her water and gets to bed.”

You glare at him as Taehyung moves in to whisper something to him, but you lose focus as Jimin pulls you into a tight hug that you can’t help but return.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he mumbles into the fabric of your hoodie. “I’m glad you’re a part of our family.”

You squeeze his shoulder before he shuffles down the hall and disappears into the bathroom. “Goodnight, Y/N!”

Taehyung offers a boxy smile and a small wave, demeanor changed after his side conversation with Jungkook. “Don’t take off without having breakfast. Seokjin will come back and make something tasty. Also I put your keys in my studio so good luck finding them if you try.”

You half laugh, half scoff. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight,” he says, passing Jungkook a tight lipped smile on his way down the hall.

Jungkook waits until he hears the door close before he speaks and for the first time since you met him, his tone borderlines concerned. “Be honest with me. How sick are you right now?”

Your throat swallows down a thick mass of air. “I’m fine.”

“Tch. Okay, Princess,” he scoffs in disbelief, taking slow steps towards you with his hands buried in the pockets of his black sweatpants. “Do you need a bucket?”

“No.” You drink down your water, trying to focus on anything but the way your body is producing enough sweat to make you want to discard your hoodie as soon as he leaves you alone.

A door opens down the hall and Jimin shuffles out before disappearing into another room. The quiet click of the door closing causes Jungkook to sigh. 

Spinning. The room is spinning again. You hold the cold glass in your hands like it’s your lifeline, shut your eyes and throw your head back to rest it against the couch. You don’t notice when he leaves, but you definitely notice the cold cloth pressed to your forehead when he returns.

“Do you want comfier clothes?” he quietly asks, voice bereft of any humor as he sinks into the cushion beside you.

You open your eyes and glare at him like this is some prank he’s playing on you but you’re not sure how. “No.”

He rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself. I get hella hot when I’m drunk off my ass. Figured I’d ask.”

“I’m not...” you begin, trying to bring your head to rise. It feels heavy and plops back down on the seat.

“You’re drunk,” he states plainly. “And miserable. So drink up the rest of the water and I’ll show you to the guest room. It’ll be embarrassing if any of my friends wake up to you looking so pathetic. Come on.”

He helps you bring the cup to your lips and tilts your head forward enough to safely consume the rest of the water in your glass.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“If you think this is what nice guys are like, I feel bad for you.” He puts the glass down in the kitchen sink, briefly rinsing it.

“Jungkook,” you whine, an exasperated sigh passing your lips with his name.

“What? Your judgement of character is way outta whack. It’s just sad,” he explains, crossing the room while rubbing fresh lotion up his arms. Washing dishes makes his skin feel itchy.

“Alright. Come on. Up.” He waves his arms lets them weakly smack his thighs when you don’t move.

A whiff of sweet peaches and soft jasmine pervades your nostrils. Why does he have to smell so fucking good? He removes the cool cloth from your forehead, earning a whine from you.

“You’ll get a new one when you get in bed. I can carry you, if that’s easier.”

“Tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t get it. What do you want?”

“I want to go to sleep so I can be lazy tomorrow and do nothing but play video games.” When you don’t budge he sighs and sits down beside you again. “And... because... you’re Namjoon’s friend and he asked us to look out for you... And now you’re all of my friends’ friend… And I guess that makes you my responsibility.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting you to just decide you’re gonna be nice out of the blue,” you weakly smirk and let your head roll to the side so you can look at him. “Should have known it was Namjoon.

He hums an amused sound. “Yeah. Now are you going to let me get you in bed?”

You’re able to force your head up at that. “I can get myself in bed just fine thanks.”

He laughs. “Your loss.”

You stand on unsteady legs. “Where am I going?”

Jungkook grins, entertained by your lack of coordination. “That’s a good question. Where are you going, Princess?”

You stumble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself with a wall that is definitely too far to grab. Long, tattooed fingers grip your shoulders in an instant. The heat of his massive chest presses against your shoulder blades. Even through your layers of clothing you can feel how hot his skin burns and it makes you shiver, despite the way you’re soaked with sweat.

“Don’t make me ask you for help,” you plead. “Please don’t.”

“Do you want me to pretend like you didn’t beg for it, too?” he whispers, curling a muscular bicep around your back and guiding you down the hall. As he passes the thermostat, he makes a point to lower the temperature a few degrees. Jimin, Hobi, and Tae will survive. But then again, he’s not worried about them at all, is he?

“Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?” You voice cracks and you’re barely managing to hold back the tears threatening to spill out.

He doesn’t say a word as you cling to the strength of his body, looping your arms around his neck and waist as though he isn’t the last person in the world you want to tangle yourself in. He pushes the door to his room open with his shoulder, making sure you get across the threshold okay before helping you awkwardly waddle over to the unmade bed. You don’t seem to notice, and if you do, you definitely don’t comment.

Your hoodie is falling from your shoulders as you climb onto the mattress. Jungkook grabs the fabric and slings it over his shoulder. You’ve landed at a weird angle across the pillows and show no signs of correcting your position so he moves the pillows beneath your head to comfortably accommodate you. You slowly blink at him, but you’re not seeing him. Silent tears rolling down your cheeks as he grabs the thinnest sheet on his bed and pulls it over your form up to your shoulders. He chooses to ignore the way you quickly swipe them away and instead goes to get the cold towel he promised.

Standing in the sink with ice cold water running over the cloth in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the air around him, knowing no one will ever hear it.

When he returns he waits a moment, looking for the steady rise and fall of your chest. He smooths the hair from your face before pressing the cold cloth against your sweaty forehead, turning your head to the side just in case your body decides it isn’t quite ready to rest. He lightly pats your head a couple times and leaves the room, delicately closing the door behind him.

As he makes the journey back to the couch, he feeds his arms through the sleeves of your hoodie. He settles down on the couch, feeling the warmth of the space you’d been occupying all night beneath his head. Pulling down the blanket from atop the back of the couch, he brings his knees to his chest. He bunches the soft, excess material of your hoodie in his palms and turns his head into the fabric, allowing himself a subtle inhale.

Why do you have to smell so fucking good?

[jungkookiebus]

Hellblazer 2.5 | jjk

Genre: demon!au Pairing: demon!Jungkook x FemConstantine!reader Word Count: 2.6k Rating: PG Summary: Now that the true identity of the new Prince of Hell has been revealed to you, you are left back on Earth, wandering aimlessly through life hungry for another taste of him while being repulsed by his memory. You find your health failing and in one last attempt for help, you drag yourself to the Vatican only to find yourself falling deeper into the darkness surrounding you. Ever so slowly, you’re slipping towards a death you didn’t think would come so soon.  Author’s Note: I hope you guys still find this interesting. I guess this can be seen as “filler” to progress their relationship, but I find it really starts to expose true feelings here. More to come! 

Sluggish. Languorous. Torpid. Stagnant. Those four words and more were how you would describe your life right now. It had been three months since your last encounter with him. You had woken up in your bed just as before; sore and almost lifeless. Before, he haunted your dreams. Now, he was all you wanted and your worst nightmare. You felt pushed and pulled in two directions.

Lost.

Utterly lost.

You were seeing him more and more, standing under the massive altar in the Basilica, sitting at the same table at the coffee shop, just around the corner in the bookstore, and basking in the sun at Trevi Fountain. The few people you knew, because you didn’t have any friends, were noticing your declining health. You became withdrawn and idle. Just living each day, sometimes eating, getting out of bed when needed, and spending less time outdoors as the months rolled on.

Even the Pope came to see you, worried about your health. At first, you felt good knowing someone cared but then you reminded yourself he only liked you for information. His visit didn’t go quite as he had planned when the thought dawned on you and you cursed at him, demanding he get the fuck out of your house.

You had never planned on staying in Rome this long. Yes, it was the hub of your line of work, but you didn’t want to be here, yet you felt tied. You felt as if you left then you’d never see him again, but then again, you didn’t want to see him. Not really.

You were starving, but not for food. If you had a soul it would probably yearn. This was a different kind of pain; something deeply rooted into your heart. Your body was lacking something, and you weren’t sure what.

When you were ready to throw yourself off the nearest cliff, you trudged reluctantly in the direction of the Vatican. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand. People gave you strange looks as they passed. You knew you hadn’t brushed your hair in a hot second nor had you really been concerned about your personal well-being either. The closer you got, the worse you felt. You found yourself stopping and leaning against a wall more than once trying to catch your breath. It felt as if you had been running when you could barely walk. By the time you got to the Vatican Obelisk, you were stumbling, struggling to stay upright. A Swiss guard recognized you despite your unkempt appearance and rushed over immediately, calling out for assistance.

The bright summer sun, a flash of pink, and what you had thought was him were the last things you saw before you succumbed to that falling feeling. Peace. Finally, you were able to rest.

When you awoke again, your limbs were just as heavy if not heavier. You heard the faint beep of a machine and the whir of air conditioning, but beyond that was silent. Your eyelids felt as if they had weights on them as you struggled to open them. Finally, you were able to peer into the semi-darkness. Blinking a few times, you slowly scanned the room. It was very nicely decorated, with a fireplace, and your guess was confirmed when you saw the framed picture of the Virgin Mary. An IV stand was next to you and you followed the tube of fluids to your arm. Wiggling your fingers a little, you made sure you weren’t paralyzed for some reason. As if by divine intervention, a nurse came scooting in backwards with a cart. You watched as she blissfully hummed and then turned towards you, jumping back in surprise as you looked at her.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, holding her hand over her heart. She moved closer to the bed, first looking at the machines, and then back at you. “Hey, are you okay?”

You nodded. Your throat was so dry you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything.

“Let me get you some water!”

She turned away again and to a pitcher that was sitting on a table, filled a glass of water, and made her way back to you. She held the glass to your lips as she held a cloth under your chin. You drank gratefully and sighed as the cool water soothed your throat.

“What happened?” you finally asked once you were able to speak properly.

“The guards saw you stumbling around outside. You collapsed right in a crowd of people!” She threw her hands up excitedly as she recounted the story to you. The Pope had insisted you stay in the ”house of the Lord” in case what was happening to you was “demonic” in nature.

He knew better.

“How long?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she paused. “About a week and a few days now.”

No wonder you felt as if your muscles hadn’t been used in a million years. You still felt just as bad, if not worse than before. Before you knew it, you were slipping slowly. You wanted to stay awake, you feared falling asleep again, but your body was giving up. Slowly, darkness overtook you.

When you awoke again, you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. You half expected a paralysis demon to be perched atop you when you were finally able to open your eyes.

The room you were in was the same, but this time there were more machines. You looked down to see that your hair had grown a considerable amount. Panic washed through your body and you heard the rapid beat of the machine as your heart sped. A small alarm sounded as your blood pressure rose. You were being thrown headlong into a full blown panic attack. The same nurse as before came rushing into the room and was at your side, checking the readout on the machine, and then reached into a small refrigerator for a glass bottle. She pulled the cap off a syringe, pulled the liquid into it, and then pushed it into your IV line. Your body immediately relaxed. She held her hand on your forehead as she grabbed her stethoscope. After she determined that you were okay, she laid a hand over yours.

“He wants to talk to you. I’ll be right back.”

What? You had just woken up after god knows how long and she’s worried about someone wanting to talk to you? You were so thirsty.

The Pope came rushing through the door, dressed casually, and looking both distressed and surprised.

“____!” he exclaimed as he rushed to your bedside. “It’s been months.”

Months? Surely…not?

He turned his head to where you couldn’t see his face, but you saw the look of surprise on the nurse’s face as she nodded and then left the room. He turned back to you; concern written in his features.

“____,” he began again, as he pulled a chair to your bedside. “When did you meet him?”

Your brows knitted. You had already told him when you met the new Prince of Hell.

“The Archangel. God’s general.”

Your blood ran cold. How did he know?

“You have the sigil,” he said reaching out just a little, “behind your ear.”

For fuck’s sake. You were getting peed on by everybody in Hell. You wet your lips a little. Or tried to. Realizing that your mouth was probably dryer dirt, he grabbed the pitcher. Funny, one of your last memories was almost this exact same situation months ago. Once again, you were fumbling with your voice, having not used it for some time. He sat patiently as your mouth moved robotically. You were frustrated that you couldn’t just spit it out and you felt helpless as you lay there with your overly heavy limbs.

“He fell,” you finally croaked.

“What?” He didn’t believe you.

“The demons. In Rome.”

You saw him piecing things together with your minimal words. He had warned you that things were happening in Rome.

“You mean…,” he trailed off in disbelief.

“War.”

It wasn’t a secret that there was a war in Heaven before when Lucifer fell. You had met a few demons that fell with him, recounting the day in vivid detail to you. Now there was going to be another one. God’s greatest ally had betrayed him.

“But then…” He glanced towards the spot behind your ear. “Those are meant for protection.”

You half shrugged. You weren’t about to admit to him what had happened…twice.

“Get your rest, _____.” He patted the back of your hand, stood, and left from the room without so much as a backwards glance.

The Pope stood before the statue of the Archangel taking down Lucifer with his golden spear. His heart was tight in his chest as he prayed.

“Dear God,” he was at a loss for words as he gazed above him. His voice echoed in the cavernous expanse.

A low, menacing laugh filled the space as soon as his voice died out. The darkness suppressed around him and fear filled his heart. He clutched to the rosary in his hand as he turned around. The laugh seemed to be coming from every direction, bouncing off the walls, and doubling back in on itself. This type of darkness was one that he felt deep inside of him.

“There’s no point in that,” he heard whispered amongst the laughs that were slowly dying out.

Out of the darkness and through the pews of one of the service areas walked a man, dressed darkly, and even darker than the murkiness around him. The candles that had been lit on the altar went out one by one. A heat filled the basilica that had him sweating under his night robes. A smell so pungent that he recoiled filled his nose and it was soon replaced by the sickly sweet smell of roses.

He emerged into the dimly lit expanse of the area before the main altar and he was able to see his glowing eyes and pale skin contrasting against his black suit. His hands were clasped behind him as he walked slowly. His footsteps didn’t make a sound. His smile was malevolent. As he approached closer and closer, he began to faintly smell burnt wood. By the time he was within feet of him, it was as if someone had snuffed out the fire in a fireplace. The smoky smell filled the area and assaulted his senses. A usually comforting scent was now going to be reminiscent of this new fear he felt.

“Where is she?” he asked, leaning in close.

He saw the sigil on his lapel as it caught the light.

“A-are you…?” he stammered.

“You know exactly who I am. Now, answer my question, Your Holiness.”

He stared into his dark eyes and saw nothing there. Only emptiness.

“I’m not giving her to you.” He held onto his rosary tighter as he willed himself to be brave in the face of evil.

His smile spread, but then suddenly turned down at the corners. He could see where he was once beautiful, but now he was beautiful in a terrible way.

“If you want her to live, you will.”

He was shaking as he held out the hand that clutched the rosary. The Prince looked down at it in disgust before speaking again.

“Your trinkets won’t do anything to me.”

“Why do you want her?”

“She belongs to me.”

“Your sigil is meant to protect. What are you doing to her?”

He sighed as he brought his hands in front of him, intertwining his fingers and holding them to his lips. The Pope saw the tattoos that you had mentioned, and it further confirmed his fears.

“The real question is, what are you doing to her?”

He suddenly became defensive in the face of the Prince.

“I have been protecting her and keeping her alive for these last few months.”

“Have you, though?”

“Quit talking in circles, demon!” He was red faced now, utterly angry. He was angry that a Prince of Hell was here on hallowed ground and he was angry that he seemed to think he had some claim over you.

“This space you feel like you’ve created for her to heal is killing her,” he said simply.

You had no soul. Heaven couldn’t protect you and now that it was weaker, they would be no closer to doing so.

“The sigil…”

“She’s dying on holy ground. If I take her, she won’t.”

The Pope was torn. What he said made sense, but what if he were lying? He had no reason to tell the truth. But why would he want you?

He slowly removed the brooch from his lapel and suspended it in the air between them, but the Pope refused to reach out and take it.

“I promise you protection. On my word.”

“I don’t make deals with devils,” he said snidely.

“It’s in your best interest to do that now. There’s going to be a war soon and Earth will suffer just as many consequences. You’ll want to find yourself on the right side.”

The Pope walked briskly down the carpeted hallway with the Prince walking closely behind. None of the guards were around as they turned corners and he knew it was his doing. When they reached the door to your room, he looked back at him tentatively. He seemed eager for him to open the door. He pushed it open, stepping inside, and to the side. He watched closely as he crossed the room and to your bedside. You were asleep, laid back amongst the pillows, and looking as frail and drawn as ever.

“How could you let this go on for this long?” he asked as he undid the IV at your arm.

The Pope was frozen to the spot as he watched him quickly detach you from any and all machines, alarms going off left and right. The nurse came running down the hall in her robe. He held out his arm in front of her as she crossed the threshold and froze to watch the scene in front of her.

He was lifting you from the bed gingerly. You had lost so much weight that you were very easy to carry. He turned with you in his arms, curled against his chest, and the Pope saw a shadow of who he once was. His expression was soft, yet worried, giving him a glance at the Archangel he used to pray to.

“You have my protection,” he said before seeming to disappear into thin air. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving the Pope and nurse dumbfounded.

The next time you awoke, you felt lighter. Your breathing came easier and your mouth didn’t feel as if it were on fire. The pain in your head was starting to subside and overall, you felt as if you might survive whatever was wrong with you. You moved your fingers over the sheets beneath you and felt an all too familiar silkiness. Your heart raced with both fear and some unfound excitement. Slowly, you opened your eyes and you were met with the same grey stillness of the bedroom that haunted your dreams. You were afraid to move but you desperately needed to see if you imagined the presence behind you. You quietly and gently as possible turned your head.

He looked so peaceful.

Fast asleep, mouth slightly agape, he laid beside you, hand rested on the pillow. He had saved your life, but that was only because he had marked you. You hadn’t asked for this, but you were starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it was what you wanted all along.

[second-chance-stray]

RP Log: Cravs and Rising go on a disastrous hike.

Cravendy Hound has invited Rising to “relaxing hike through Sorrel Haven,” despite the area being infested by countless malboros and ziz. She leaves off that part - it’s not lying if you just don’t mention it. For now, she waits by the exit of the White Wolf gate for her companion.

Rising Lotus wasn't too far behind Cravendy, strolling through the gate a few minutes later and catching up to her. "Hey there!" as she was hurrying over her eyes gazed upwards toward the giant fallen tree. "Gods, it's crazy how huge they get out here, I guess by the company home too, but like," she outstretched her hands around her.

Rising Lotus: "Out in the forest forest the trees get so big here! "

Cravendy Hound: “Ye know, I’ve ‘eard that they’re just as tall below ground. What poor sod ‘ad to be the one to dig one up and find that out though, eh?” Cravs shrugs.

Rising Lotus rubbed her chin. "Maybe they dug out a littler one and jus' figured it was the same? Or not the same, but figured, bigger the tree bigger the roots." she returned the shrug, she was no botanist after all.

Cravendy Hound rubs her chin. “Mmh, that makes sense. But ‘ell if I know ‘ow trees work, specially out ‘ere in the Shroud.” She then absentmindedly fiddles with her gun as she turns to face the forest. “Anyway, let’s ‘ead out and ‘ope nothin’ interrupts our walk...though with my luck, we should expect the worst.”

Rising Lotus nodded, putting her hands behind her head afterwards. "I'm sure there ain't nothin' we can't handle. I /am/ back to full strength after all." she flashed a cocky grin. "Lead on!"

Cravendy Hound leads on, past stalking brood ziz and to the oddly named ‘Hopeseed Pond.’ She wrinkles her nose upon seeing the weird, planty...meaty? Plant-meat creatures wading around. “Ye know what, I don’t know what I was thinkin’ bringin’ us ‘ere. If one of those boros breath on ye, ye’ll be sick once again.”

Rising Lotus is calm despite the wildlife all around them. "Ugh..can smell their maws from here.." her eyes dropped to the bridge, then back to the pond full of ravenous giant plants. "Gonna go out on a limb an' say not many folk use this bridge no more." she pauses for a moment. "Hey! Why you so sure it's gonna get me sick!" she huffed a bit.

Rising Lotus: "I mean one ain't breathed on me yet and I wanna keep it that way, but it could jus' as easily hit you. Plus! Me being sick last week was jus'...a fluke."

Cravendy Hound playfully bumps Rising’s shoulder with her fist. “Aye, right right, a fluke. As for me, I never get sick. So if one of these boros come our way, ye can just stand behind me, heh.” She then takes a step on the rickety bridges and observes how...well. Gross it is? The whole area is pretty gross? Rotten wood and stagnant waters and looming monsters - but a little danger never hurt anyone.

Rising Lotus cracked a smirk. "Well to be honest I'm more worried about the smell then gettin' sick, but if you wanna take the brunt of it for me.." she was sure to follow behind Cravs as she started across the bridge, testing each plank with her foot before putting her weight on it.

Cravendy Hound is not nearly as careful as Rising, and strides forward with all the confidence in the world. She inadvertently steps onto a weakened plank of wood, which snaps under her weight. She falls, one leg stuck in the gap. “Goddamned shite piece of wood!”

Cravendy Hound: “I think ye were right about people not comin’ ‘ere often...” She grumbles under her breath.

Rising Lotus was caught off guard by Crav sinking down, more by her reaction than the actual board breaking. She carefully hurried behind her. "You didn't get cut up at all did ya?" She was right behind Cravs, looking over her shoulder and trying to peer down the hole. "Here lets get ya out of there.." kneeling down, she hooked her hands under Crav's shoulders.

Rising Lotus: "I'll pull ya slowly, you jus' make sure you don't get torn up or a nasty splinter on the way up."

Cravendy Hound: “I don’t need ye fussin’ over me like some freshfaced whelp, I got it,” Cravs stammers as she wiggles left and right in attempt to wiggle herself free from Rising’s help. “Don’t ye worry yer pretty lil’ face, it’ll take more than a splinter to down ol’ Cravs.”

Cravendy Hound - However, as she tries to pull herself up, she feels something keeping her ankle held down. That’s odd. And, more embarrassingly, she’s still stuck after being so confident earlier. The more she struggles, the deeper her leg sinks. By now, Cravs is sweating bullets.

Rising Lotus was still concerned, but she did get it, being incredibly stubborn herself at times. She released Cravs and stood back up. "Alright alright, I shouldn't of doubted ya." snickering a bit, she took a step back, giving her friend the space she might need to escape. "I'll make sure nothin' comes by to maybe take a bite of a delicious leg wigglin' under the bridge..an' I'll give ya a heads up if any travelers are comin' too."

Cravendy Hound - To this, Cravs only grunts in response. Coherent thoughts escape her under the immense embarrassment she’s currently dealing with. If Rising were to look under the bridge, she’d find a juvenile stroper idly tugging on Crav’s leg. Every time the Sea wolf tries to lunge out, it pulls her back down by the foot with greater force.

Rising Lotus was still waiting for her friend to free herself, keeping an eye on the bigger stroper's minding their own business thankfully. "Alright no need to make a big show out of it all, stop stallin' before you fall all the way through." she was biting her lower lip gently to stifle a bit of laughter. "You stuck on somethin'? Want me to peek under the bridge?" she started toward the edge, more so to try and catch a glimpse of Crav's leg comically wiggling under it.

Cravendy Hound: “‘Suppose the Navigator saw fit to destroy what little remains of me pride, right ‘ere and now.” Cravs crumples against the bridge and sighs against the wood. “Aye, yeah, it feels like somethin’s got my foot. Can ye see what it is?”

Rising Lotus quickly got to her knees and stuck her head over the side of the bridge, eager to see what manner of thing had snagged the Seawolf. "Oh! It's a baby one of these things!" she waved an arm out to the pond. "Luckily his teeths don't look too sharp yet, still has a good grip on ya though." Cravs would hear a bit of snorting and giggling coming from under the bridge. Rising grabbed her spear off her back, not bothering to start up aetherial blade, and started jabbing at the small stroper, not aiming to hurt it really, but just shoo it off. "Go on get ya lil bastard!"

(Cravendy Hound) you know what I'm feeling spicy )) (Cravendy Hound) Random! 19 (Cravendy Hound) aaahahha )) (Rising Lotus) Well then, bye leg!))

Cravendy Hound - The young Stroper turns to Rising and squirms in an attempt to dodge the jabs. It succeeds...that is, it succeeds in annoying it. It puffs up a bit and then charges at Rising in an attempt to knock her down. But as it does so, it fails to loosen its grip on Cravs, and the sudden motion tugs the Seawolf completely through the half-rotten boardwalk.

Cravendy Hound: “WHAT THE FU-” Cravs gets out before she falls face first into the slimy malboro.

(Cravendy Hound) I love a good bad roll )) (Rising Lotus) How big is it, like minion malboro sized or bigger?)) (Cravendy Hound) hmm I'm taking that Stroper nearby as adult, and the giant one as grandpa )) (Cravendy Hound) so teen = half of the adult size? )) (Rising Lotus) Okays! Also grandpa malboro x3))

Rising Lotus's eyes went wide as she saw Cravs fall through the bridge, all upside down from her perspective. "Ah shit!" pulling herself back up, she swung her legs over the side of the walkway and hopped down, shuddering as the mud she landed in seeped into her sandal boots. With Cravs so close to the beast, she didn't dare turn the blade to her lance on. Instead she reeled back then attempted to give it a good thwap across to the side of it's toothy mug

Random! Rising Lotus rolls a 224.

Cravendy Hound - Thwap! The beast is taken aback by Rising’s attack and, being young and inexperienced, decides to hightail it outta there. Cravs is taken along for the ride.

Cravendy Hound: “Overgrown, squid-looking plant bastard - argh!” As she’s dragged along the ground, she fumbles for her pistol and attempts to send a couple of rounds towards her captor.

Random! You roll a 55.

Cravendy Hound misses. Even worse, she drops her gun. Cravs goes limp, just...unable to take much more embarrassment.

(Cravendy Hound) lmao the RNG gods have something against me today xD ))

Rising Lotus grinned at the direct hit, quickly grimacing after it took off with Cravs in tow. "Oh gods damnit!" with a huff and a twist of her wrist the aetherial blade sparked alive. "Alright, uh, Cravs! Try to keep yourself high!" she was able to easily keep up with the stropper's wiggling legs, and when she got in range she aimed a mighty swipe across it's lower half, hoping to separate its top half from its bottom half.

(Rising Lotus) Random! 957 (Rising Lotus) That's causee the all the luck is mine \o/ )) (Cravendy Hound) all the luck!!! ))

Cravendy Hound - The swing separates the stroper into two. On both ends, its limbs continue to wiggle around like landlocked eels, but despite its continued movement, the monster is clearly dead. Or at least downed - who knows how malboros work.

Cravendy Hound gets up, completely covered in mud and malboro slime. She wipes her face clean with the side of her arm, revealing a very pissed off expression. For a moment, she simply stands there, dazed. She had said so herself earlier, that something bad was going to happen...but there was no preparing for something like this. Eventually, she glances over at Rising.

Cravendy Hound: “.............That happened.”

Rising Lotus quite pleased with her slice, she started to the the lifeless maw to help Cravs up, though didn't make much distance before she got up on her own. As she stowed her spear, she was doing her absolute best to not laugh as she saw the woman wearing a nice coat of ooze. It was when Cravs cleaned her face she lost her composure, snickering softly at first but quickly bursting into full out bellowing laughter.

Rising Lotus: " I-I-I'm sorry! I-I Am!" she started to snort a bit as she laughed, quickly cupping a hand to her mouth as her cheeks blushed a bit. "R-Really...aha... I'm glad you're alright!" she snorted once more before her laughter started to ease down.

Cravendy Hound is as still as a statue, save for the mud that slorgs down her body at a painfully slow speed. Cravs then lets her head go limp as a sort of mischievous intent grows within her. Once Rising is done laughing, she lifts her head back up with an evil grin on her face. “OH, oho...no need to apologize! After all, ye saved my ‘ide. Now let me give ye a proper thank ye.”

Cravendy Hound spreads her slime and mud covered arms, and then tries to hug (though it’s more of a tackle) Rising to the ground.

Rising Lotus "N-Now wai-" she had just put up her hands to try and halt Cravendy's assault when her muddy form smacked against Rising, both of them falling onto the ground with a splat. Rising laid there motionless for a few moments as Cravs pinned her down before. "You ass!" she finally blurted out, scrambling to push the sea wolf off of her now mud covered self.

Cravendy Hound is already one with the mud - she cannot be muddied any further. She cackles gleefully as she’s pushed over. “Thank ye kindly, oh noble adventurer!” It takes a good while for her to calm down enough to do anything but laugh from the ground. When she’s finally able to get up, she plods over to pick up her gun and flicks the mud off of it. “Ahh...haha. Hah.”

Rising Lotus quickly sat up after Cravs was pushed off, the entire back of her form coated in the sludge. The front was covered quite a bit too, front the tackle hug and the stuff the the ground that seeped over. As she tried to get up she shuddered, the openness of her outfit probably to blame. "Ugh...it's.. it's.." she shuddered once more. Needless to say she'd need a deep cleaning.

Cravendy Hound: “If we ‘ike to the end of the trail, all of this shits gonna ‘arden on us like a second skin. I’m ‘eadin’ back afore that ‘appens,” Cravs states as she gives her gun a good lookover. Poor thing had mud clogging up its every opening, and water was never good for metal. Better hurry. She turns to Rising. “A dip in the pools round the Lavender Beds should be enough.”

Rising Lotus nodded. "Aye.. probably don't want us trackin' this through the house either..." she started scraping off as much as she could. "Gods, it was bad enough the first time this happened.." she stomped through the muck to the shore, boots full of mud by now. "Though last time this happened it wasn't friendly fire." she shot a sneer toward Cravs, chuckling softly soon after.

Cravendy Hound - With every step, the two became less Roegadyn and more akin to mudmen. And on their way back to the FC, many civilians, just going on their day to day lives, would stop to stare. Thankfully, the walk wasn’t especially long, and the lake surrounding the Lavender Beds would do a fine job of washing them clean, though the stench lingered. A proper bath was certainly necessary after the fact.

[qveenspawns]

@lexpxrdus​

The heat of the jungle region was almost too much for Nevada to bear. He and the Children of the Wind and Rain had been in this location for going on two weeks and, in that time, the head had not relented. Nevada stood at the top of the stone steps that led into the Temple, his body clothed in a beautiful silk drapery that served to keep him warm in winter and cool in summer. If anyone asked him, he’d claim it did not work. Sweat beaded around his forehead and dampened his armpits and the backs of his knees. There wasn’t even any wind to cool his perspiration.

He hated it here, and he was growing ever more weary of the congregation as a whole. Or -- maybe not that... maybe he was just sick and tired of feeling like he belonged to them, like he’d never be his own person. He and his sisters were the gods of their people, held up in reverence despite their wishes otherwise.

It had taken them a long time to get here, to this special place their leader had told them about, and the two weeks they’d been here had been stagnant with nothing but silent waiting. No matter how hard Nevada tried, Edgar would not reveal a single hint regarding the ‘prosperous future’ that seemed almost within reach. But Nevada felt wary, still. His dreams had been a series of strange and fractured images until last night when he dreamt of himself and his sisters on an intricately carved dias, its pattern meeting to a hole in the center which was puckered inward. Their eyes were glassy and blood trickled from their bodies into the center, collecting in a bowl beneath it. The image had stricken him so fiercely that he had awoken at once and been unable to fall back asleep due to the harrowing vision and the suffocating heat.

Still, Nevada had told no one about the dreams, fearful of what they could mean or how they might be interpreted. He’d rather forget it, but he just couldn’t stop it -- glimpses of his sisters lifeless faces plagued him even as he was fully awake. He couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that clung to him like the film left behind from his sweat. 

Suddenly, he was pulled from his troubling thoughts by the unmistakable feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head slightly, a small smile on his lips to mask his true feelings.

“Enjoying the view?”

[edgymegatronus]

The Pits of Kaon

The lights of the arena where always blinding. Searing white light that chiseled its way into your optic nerves, washing away any other surrounding colours so much that one may think they’re joining with the Allspark once they step out onto the ashy plain. This is purposeful, of course, for the arena was a stage for the barbaric, where the onlookers can see it’s actors, but the actors cannot gaze back at them. Once you have shuttered your optics several times and they begin to adjust, only spots of bright light decorating your vision for a short while, the arena comes heaving into view, stagnant and intimidating. Massive, beyond comprehension, the blackened jewel of Kaon. You’d have to squint to see the opposite end of the Energon-crusted pit. The steep, cold grey sides rocketed up towards the skies, the heavens where the audience sat to eagerly absorb the slaughter. Every brandish of a sword, every amputation of a limb, every scream or victory holler, every spark taken was feasted upon by those hunger bound optics. In the lower areas of the arena, closer to the action, there were boxes reserved for the higher caste aristocracy from great cities like Iacon and Vos. Above them, with a more strained view, sat the rest of the Cybertronain populous. It was never correctly calculated how many the arena could house- it depended on how tightly the lower class worker mechs packed themselves together to watch the entertainment. There was always shoving and drunkenness, fights began over the limited space and smaller mechs often simply got crushed under pede if they didn’t move fast enough. Very few actually from Kaon ever got to sit in the golden boxes, where quality high-grade Energon flowed like ground oil as its famed patrons gawked down into the pit. The atmosphere was always rancheros, the first death spelled out the kick-off for the day's events to begin. In the mornings there were petty fights. Weak slaves pitted against each other, unarmed mechs left to the mercy of some of the most vicious beasts Cybertron had to offer. This got the crowd vying to see more Energon spilled on the ashy floors of the pit. As the hilarity reached its crescendo into the afternoon, we were brought out.

Titled ‘Gladiators’, we were prime time entertainment. Romanticised as strong mechs each with some characterisation the media invalidated us with to entice the onlookers into made up rivalries between us, adding passion to the murder. Some mechs actually sank into this, and took signature moves and mottos played into their characters, worked to gain support from those oppressing them. Usually, this was the quickest way to die. The arena owners would only allow a Gladiator in the limelight for so many matches and killed them before they became too boring, and to make the audience more invested as each match progressed. They died deluded, for we were just slaves with swords. Brought from all over Cybertronain, but most commonly hailing from places like Kaon, Tarn, and Praxus. Sold off from our previous services because we were no longer needed, a better model had been introduced, rule-breaking, being damaged, or because our masters had taken a general disliking. Being sold to the arena was most times a death sentence, an execution in front of the masses. Gladiators were ones who had won their petty matches by some flailing chance of Primus, and in turn proven their metal, and therefore their worth as a mascot. We were not Gladiators.

Our namesake competed by choice, for fame or honour or glory. For a fractured misconception of what they believed to be justice or righteousness. We were slaves, forced to kill our peers, and stare them in the optics as we did, giving a good performance. Refusal meant immediate death, and showmanship was integral. Most of us only lasted a few months before losing a match and being offlined, the longest-reigning mech making it just over a year before the Arena Owners decided he had nothing left to give, no new tricks, and threw him in the pit unarmed with four Krystar Iron-Bears. Some audience members genuinely cried when he passed. But by the next week, he was replaced by a new favourite Gladiator to root for.

I was on my fifth month. My last match had been a near miss. Bad damages all over my frame, lost an arm and my sword-wielding servo was crushed. Inches over and my spark chamber would’ve known the cold of a blunted blade. My opponent was of a bigger build than me, but still new, he had chosen the name ‘Ignode’ for himself after the Arena Owners had given him a flashy new red paint job, replacing his basic menial grey. For some appalling reason, he’d made the mistake of choosing two weapons, rather than one and a shield. An underestimation, I suppose. The new Gladiators, nicknamed ‘Pickrings’ by the rest of us, often got too cocky and suffered the consequences. The day I was declared fit for fighting it was a ‘Winner stays on Tournament’ these often drew larger crowds due to the anticipation and tension aspect that was attached to them. Clearly my medical bills were going to be well paid for by this grotesque procession. The objective to continually kill, over and over, to vanquish spark after spark until eventually, you grew so weak from each consecutive battle that you could no longer hold your own – and you were killed, your deathbringer taking up the mantel and the cycle continued deep into the night while the crowds drank and laughed and indulged.

The bellowing winds that spun like a lifeless tornado around the arena whipped uncomfortably over the exposed cables on the back of my neck. The piece of armour plating that usually protected it had been lost last round and was therefore subject to the treatment of the blowing grit and ash that made a point of invading every crack and gap in plating. Everything felt too heavy, most notably my spark. I had just completed round fifteen, downed fifteen opponents, and somewhere I doubted if Primus would accept me into his loving cradle. My frame was ex-venting in long, drawn out drags. An attempt to cool my shot systems. Every inch of plating was dented or scarred, with slices and holes, faintly missing main Energon lines or mobility joints. I smiled. Before entering the arena, each slave got to choose two tools to utilise during the match. Almost classically, I wielded a long sword with some form of age old forgotten crest on the hilt. I had nicknamed it ‘The Pick’ and it occupied my right servo. To my left brandished a thick oval-shaped silver shield, decorated dashingly with chipped paint and emblems. These things were my trademark, my protection, my symbol, and my saviours.

The spotlight swung intricately around the arena floor once more towards the pit entrance. The thick metal gates opening with the same slow dramatism to reveal my newest combatant. The light fell on him, illuminating his thickset grey frame for the crowds to gawk at, tantalising their optics with the slick view. He smelt like blood and burnt circuitry. They were enraptured, seeing that I was weakening and that this new rival seemed finely built to deliver onto me the final blow, one of those agile miner types. I sized him up immediately; hazarding a guess the Arena Owner’s hadn’t expected much to come from him, only bothering to add spiked red paint under his optics and the larger areas of his expansive grey plating. His optics were stifling, staring directly at me as I stood blatantly forward with my shoulders rolled back, awaiting. We couldn’t yet commence as the Announcer hadn’t yet called for us to do so. Most Gladiators took this brief interval to entertain the crowd, picking up the bodies of mechs they’d killed and throwing them, giving grand victorious gestures and shouts with their weapons, lapping the arena, cheering. I stood still and stared, unwilling to give them any more than the battle.

“Welcoming! Megatronus of Tarn! A heavy-hitting ground-build from the Mines of Messatine! During his petty match earlier this week, Megatronus won against two fellow contestants and a Decopodian in record time! Let’s see how he will fare against our reigning Knight! May Round Sixteen Commence!”

Of course- I had viewed that match from my cell screen. Looking at him now, his crimson optics dimmed. He seemed like a mech who had slaughtered millions, not just two. He made the first step forward, revealing to me his weapons. A small, lightweight shield and a ridged axe. A very decent choice for a mech of his stature. A bow or daggers would’ve been suicide, he was too stocky to be properly dexterous with them, and he was clearly aware. A mech overtly aware of his own capabilities was inherently more dangerous than one who overestimated, or even underestimated themselves. I resumed my ‘defensive stance’ as his larger frame drew closer, each step meticulous and powerful and calculated. He was so self-assured, confident in his ability to wield and kill on his first ever Gladiator match. His EM’s were almost suffocating. I struck the first blow, my long sword firmly embedding itself between his thick shoulder plating. The weapon felt so leaden in my tired arms, each movement causing a low static to run through my circuits as they protested in earnest. My frame was tired, and my processor malcontent. The grey mech swooped his axe low and he raised his smaller shield, directing it precisely so my sword repelled off of it, the force driving my abused frame backwards – into the sharpened blade of his axe.

The Arena began to swirl maliciously as I opened my optics, my HUD showing severe damages to my left leg, and to my back spoilers which had taken the brunt of the hurt as I hit the engulfing floor of the pit. Through the static shock that vibrated through my audial, the faint crazed shouts and cheering from the crowd, layered over the Announcer speaking in a hurriedly excited tone. They were joyful in the revelation of my oncoming demise.

He stared down at me blankly, lifting the axe while calculating the weakest points to strike in my neck or spark chamber. The lights of the arena shone brighter than ever, searing into my optics as they flickered and faded.

He took his victory unlike any other, simply lifting his arms and throwing away his weapons in retribution. They hit the floor of the pit with an almighty clatter, and the crowd cheered and chanted his name, making members of the elite recoil.

[novantinuum]

Hollowed Moon (Ch. 1-3)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T (for sensitive content in later chapters)

Words: 1.5K~

Summary: Stevonnie doesn't crash the Star Skipper onto that jungle moon. Instead, they crash on a craggy fragment of rock suspended thousands of miles away from its associated colony, long forgotten.

On that lonely hunk of rock is a domed garden.

And standing in that garden, just as lifeless seeming as the rest of it, is a pink Gem.

Okaay, so this is the beginning of a little series of drabbles I’ve been posting on AO3 over the last two weeks. It’s an AU that diverges from just after Lars of the Stars. I have seven chapters posted already on AO3. Link to that will be posted in the reblogs, for anyone interested.  

Ch. 1

The force of the impact nearly vibrates through their bones as the Star Skipper hits the surface, throwing them against the cockpit’s control panel at such speed that they barely have enough time to put up a bubble. Thankfully, ‘enough’ is all the time they need. In but a millisecond the world tints pink. Following momentum, their neck snaps forward, causing their head to smash against the solid barrier. Stevonnie yelps, vision going temporarily woozy. It takes a while for them to fully recover, with the wrecked remains of the ship spinning like a top from their perspective as they slowly lift a quivering hand to their forehead to check for wounds. They groan, nearly every square inch of their body aching something terrible, but there’s nothing. No blood, no easily distinguishable breaks, nada. Lucky them! Score, Stevonnie one, busted, broken spaceship zip.

It must be your healing powers keeping us in one piece, ‘cause that was one really violent crash.

Well, also my bubble is pretty strong!

“Hah, well... we’re lucky even a bubble got me outta this scrape,” they murmur out loud, and let out a shaky breath as they attempt to ground themself. Taking a cursory glance around, they notice that the cockpit’s window has shattered, leaving the ship open to the vacuum of space. At least, they’re assuming it is. Whatever hunk of rock it is they’ve crashed on, it doesn’t appear to have an atmosphere. “Oh boy, guess I gotta keep this thing up for a while,” they say with a nervous laugh. They press their cheek against the bubble’s rim, peering at the cracked display screen. “Now, I wonder if any of this tech is salvageable...”

Stevonnie shifts in the seat. Without any iota of warning the ship’s engines explode, launching their protective bubble hundreds of feet closer to the very stars they’re lost amongst.

Oh, what a day it’s been.

Ch. 2

This shard of planetoid isn’t particularly large, but it has just enough mass that its gravity pulls Stevonnie’s wildly spinning bubble back to the surface. Their heart pounds as the bubble collides hard upon the craggy surface, bouncing a few times before finally coming to a rest. They gasp for breath, pulling themself to their knees.

“Aughh, my everything hurts.”

Slowly but surely they rise to their feet, their knees still shaking. All around them, the remains of the Star Skipper (may she rest in pieces) are now barely distinguishable, nothing left but melted twists of scrap metal. Even if there was any possibility of fixing up the communication array earlier, it’s a moot point by now. 

Steven, how are we gonna-?!

“Oh, no, no no no no!” they cry out, gripping at their hair. “Oh, this is bad. This is so, so bad. How is Lars gonna be able to find us now?”

They adjust the straps of the backpack around their shoulders and begin pacing as they continue to talk to themself, walking back and forth across the dust and rock within the bubble like a hamster in a ball.

“Okay, Stevonnie, calm down,” they say, hugging their arms around their chest. “We’re fine. I’m fine! Let’s just work this out bit by bit. So. We’re stuck on some weird asteroid, or something. We have no ship. No means of communication. We’re safe in this bubble... for now. But... I honestly don’t know how long I can keep this up. I don’t usually use it longer than a few minutes at a time.”

What about when we first met?

“That’s different, though,” they stress, plopping down to sit crisscrossed. “That time he didn’t summon it voluntarily. And that time, we weren’t stuck in the vacuum of space! Although... Okay. Okay, we were stuck under the ocean, fair point. And I guess there’s that time Steven was marooned with Eyeball. But still. It’s only been a few minutes and I’m already... so... so tired.”

Stevonnie’s breathing grows shallower, each puff of air coming in staccato gasps in their exhaustion. They grit their teeth, hand clenching against the rose quartz gem at their midsection. Over time they’ve come to realize that maintaining any one of Steven’s shields or abilities for a long period of time is super taxing to them, more so than it is for the young half-Gem himself. Makes one wonder if that’s because they’re a 75% human hybrid, because of the nature of being a fusion, or because they simply haven’t trained enough together.

They moan, frustrated at this whole dumb scenario, desperately wondering if there’s anything they could’ve done differently to avoid it all together. Lars and his friends will find them soon once they follow their trail and do a flyby, hopefully, but there’s still so many variables to consider here. They quickly hop back onto their feet inside the bubble.

Stevonnie squints, for a moment thinking they can see dimmed starlight glinting off of a domed surface in the far distance. Perhaps there’s some Gem technology hidden away here that could prove useful. For now, all they can do is explore and wait.

Ch. 3

The dome encapsulates a gigantic garden. At least, what they can only guess was once a garden. All the plants have long since shriveled up into husks of their former glory, much like the hollowed-out moon hanging high above. There’s a single service doorway on the dome’s exterior, a feature Stevonnie is exceedingly lucky to have found before finally fading to exhaustion with their bubbling ability. Now freely wandering around the dome's interior, they approach a massive platform towards its center. Eyes glittering, they brush their hand against some eroded etchings in the old stone. They’re sure it used to be quite a sight to behold in its heyday, this whole complex. Such a shame time had to carry this place to eternal rest. What used to go on here, they wonder? What kinds of Gems would use this space? Did they all leave when the colony above was... fully drained of its resources?

Their nose crinkles just thinking about it.

Hey, they muse suddenly. Up at the top... I think that’s a warp pad.

Are you sure?

Pretty positive.

“Couldn’t hurt to look,” they mutter softly, climbing up the stairs. Their legs are still burning from the long walk they set upon to reach the dome in the first place.

When they reach the top they kneel in front of the warp, and place a palm flat upon it. They close their eyes, focusing their mind on the tangled web of warp stream signatures old users have left behind, almost like a fossilized travel record. Except it’s energy based. Well, kinda. They’re sure it’s far more complicated than that, but to be fair Steven wasn’t paying full attention to Pearl the day she was teaching him how to do this. His loss, Stevonnie thinks with a snort. They think all this Gem history stuff is pretty fascinating.

The web comes into focus in their mind’s eye, one particularly bright thread stretching further across the stars than any warp pad they’ve ever seen before can.

“Galaxy warp,” they breathe in giddy realization. “This is an actual, working galaxy warp! But- no!” they cry, grinding their hands into fists. “That means we can’t use it, because Earth doesn’t have an operationa—“

“Pink, is that finally you??” a high pitched voice cries in joy from the distance.

They whirl around in a flash, scanning the interior of the (perhaps not so?) extinct garden. The complex is massive, but it’s not long before they locate the origin of this new voice, trapped amongst the browned and hardened brambles.

Standing midway between the raised galaxy warp platform and the stagnant fountain at the center of the dome is a short pink Gem.

From this distance, they’d have to guess she’s maybe half their height, perhaps a little taller. Her gemstone is on her chest, a heart shaped type they don’t recognize. The Gem’s hair is pulled up into messy little buns, twisted to look like hearts themselves. She stands with her arms open wide, baggy eyes alight with anticipation as she waits for their response.

Mouth agape, Stevonnie skitters down the steps of the platform as fast as they can. Who is this Gem? Why is she alone in a withered garden, in the middle of deep space? And why are her feet literally bound by roots?? How long has she been standing here?

“Oh! Oh, hello! I, uh- I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for, sorry,” they say with an apologetic smile. “I’m Stevonnie. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here all on your own?”

“I’m playing a game,” the small Gem replies simply, clasping her gloved hands together.

“A... game?”

“With my best friend, yes!” she enthuses. “She’ll come back any day now, I can just feel it.”

Her voice sounds chipper enough, but perhaps as a result of Connie’s lonely childhood and the walls a person learns to erect in those situations, Stevonnie can intimately sense the cracks in her facade. They may not yet understand the full scoop, but they can tell she's desperately trying to convince herself of her own cover story.

What on Earth happened to this Gem, here in this forgotten garden?

[theolddarkmachine]

Dead Space - Baby, I Ain't Holding Your Hand

It starts the day the hero falls. Crashing in a blaze of glory of twisted metal and burning ozone, he leaves a scar on the Earth that changes everything.

And Keith sees it all.

Chapter 6 of 11

Tags: attempted Horror Elements, Zombies, Violence and Gore, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending i swear

Also on AO3

A/N: Apologies for going a little MIA. I moved this month and it ended up taking so much more time and effort than originally planned lol Hopefully some elements of this chapter make up for that a bit lol

***********************************

Two weeks had passed since they’d landed themselves in New Altea, and the newly stagnant life was working its way beneath Keith’s skin in a way that constantly set his teeth on edge. While he could admit that there was a certain level of ease that came with having a place to rest their heads at night, it was met in equal measure by the constant thrum to get out and move.

Experience had taught him that nothing good came of staying in one spot, and especially not when it meant being trapped in a constant Garrison reunion by concrete and steel.

“Good morning, buddy,” Lance’s voice is loud and cheery as if he could hear Keith’s innermost thoughts as he helped himself to the seat beside him. A loud clatter punctuates his arrival as he drops his chipped plate on the table, accidentally knocking some of its oatmeal onto the metallic surface.

“Aw, man,” Lance whines, scooping up the lifeless tan food with a finger and shoving it into his mouth, causing Keith to blanche.

“Do you really have to subject me to your face this early?” He growls, dipping behind the lip of his mug and swallowing down a large gulp of black coffee. Stray grounds scrape across his tongue like sand as he forces the bitter liquid down his throat.

Lance makes a small humming sound as he shoves a spoonful of the sludgy oatmeal into his gaping maw.

“I know, I’m a real saint for letting you start the day with something so beautiful,” he says, words muffled by the dull metal between his teeth.

“Patron Saint of Pains in the Ass,” Keith says drily into his mug, the steam blowing back into his face before he sets the mug back down with a dull tap. Pulling the spoon from his mouth, Lance smiles and points it toward him.

“Thank you for using my full title,” he says, grin tilting further upward as Keith rolls his eyes before he turned his attention back to his food. Quiet fills the space between them as Lance hums quietly to himself between bites of the lumpy oats.

Taking another sip of his coffee, Keith traces the dark marks that scatter the top of the table.

“So,” Lance speaks up minutes later, lips smacking as he drops his spoon with a clatter. “Where’s Shiro at?”

A sharp pang rolls through Keith at the question as his hold tightens on his mug. When he’d woken that morning, it had been to Shiro’s still sleeping form violently tossing and muttering under his breath. It had taken several minutes to wake him, and even after he had, a darkness had still clung to his eyes leaving him looking almost lifeless. Fear had gripped him until Shiro had seemed to resurface, offering him a small smile of reassurance before ushering Keith on ahead of him.

“He decided to sleep in a bit longer,” Keith finally says with a noncommittal shrug as he slowly uncurls his tight fist from the mug. He doesn’t miss the quick, sharp arch of Lance’s brow, the silent question almost screaming in the quiet wrapped around their table.

“What?” He hisses, voice filled with challenge as his gaze snaps up to his companion. Lifting hid shoulders with a quick shrug, Lance places a finger on his plate and slowly turns it, keeping his eyes down as he speaks.

“Nothing, just thinking about how much it must take out of a guy to be stuck in space like that is all.”

Growling lowly, Keith snatches his mug and takes a sip, gaze still sharp and severe on Lance as he doesn’t answer. Settling his forearms on the table, Lance leans in, holding his stare as he sighs.

“So, as much as I’m really loving this cold shoulder thing you’re trying to pull off right now, I actually did have something I wanted to ask you,” he says, voice dipping low and serious in a way that catches Keith’s attention. Lowering his mug once more, he gives him a short nod to continue.

“We’re running low on some supplies, and Allura wanted me to get a group together to do a run,” Lance continues, pausing just long enough to see if Keith will interject. “Figured you’re probably going a bit crazy being cooped up in here. Wanna come with?”

The unbearable itch to be on the move seems to prickle through his veins as he pushes himself further up in his seat. Finding himself mirroring Lance’s posture as he leans forward, he mulls over the invitation.

“Yeah, alright,” Keith finally says with a small nod, “count me in.”

A self satisfied smile etches itself across Lance’s face as he sits back, crossing his arm across his chest and nods. Sitting across from him, Keith can’t help but notice the scars that decorate his forearms.

“Knew you’d be in. We leave at dawn,” he says matter-of-factly. Grabbing for his now empty plate, Lance pushes his seat back, going to stand.

“And Shiro?” Keith asks as he goes to kick the chair back under the table. A quick flicker goes across Lance’s face as it falters before he settles it back into that easy smile of his.

“I think Pidge had wanted him for some work tomorrow, actually,” Lance supplies flatly, void of any emotion in the same way as a doctor giving a diagnosis. He doesn’t say anything about the obvious fact that the colony has been keeping a close eye on Shiro since their arrival, but it’s all too clear in his voice.

Each day, Pidge summoned him for some sort of blood draw, yet they still didn’t know anything about what she was really doing.  

They may have had some semblance of freedom, but they both knew that Shiro, at least, was a prisoner shackled by his usefulness.

Slowly, Keith nods.

“Anything you need me to bring?” He asks, leveling his voice to match Lance’s.

“Just you and that angry face of yours.”

Mouth turning sharply down at the response, earning himself a bout of high laughter as Lance gives him a quick wink.

“Yeah, that one,” he says as he turns on his heel, walking away and missing the way Keith flips him off.

Sighing loudly as quiet settles around the now empty table, Keith drums his fingers on the table’s top, chewing on his thoughts like a hungry dog with a bone. Minutes pass before he grabs for his mug, tossing back the last of his coffee before standing to go find Shiro.

***

Keith finds him in the makeshift gym in the basement, surrounded by concrete and old, worn equipment. The solid sound of leather clad fists against plastic punctuates the otherwise silent space as Keith stands just inside the doorway. Eyes carving pathways along the solid lines of Shiro’s shoulders, he takes in the way the long sleeved shirt clings to his frame like a second skin.

While still not quite as well muscled as he had been, the time at the colony had helped to fill him out a bit more, leaving him looking a little less like a shadow of his former self.

Keith’s own hands balled at his sides as they ached with the need to touch.

Swallowing down the a soft sound, he moves across the untouched concrete flooring, steps silent until he was just at Shiro’s back.

“On your left,” he whispers, biting back a smirk as he watches goosebumps dot the skin across Shiro’s neck. Turning lightning quick over his shoulder, fist throwing toward him, Keith catches it easily with a hum. There was no real force behind it, nothing more than a challenging tease, and it makes Keith’s lips quirk higher into a full smile.

“Been awhile since we got to spar,” he says, voice bursting with its own challenge before he presses his lips to the back of Shiro’s captured hand.  Flicking his gaze up, he peers at Shiro through his lashes, eyes glittering with overhead lights as he says, “wanna go?”

Shiro holds his stare, firm and unyielding in a way that Keith feels at the pit of his stomach before an easy smile draws itself across Shiro’s mouth.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind reminding you of my skills,” he chuckles as he carefully pulls his hand from Keith’s grasp, instead settling it on his hip. “What are you going to give me when I pin you?”

Taking a step forward, Keith feels the near overbearing heat that rolls off Shiro’s skin. This close, he can smell the near clinical smell of the soap the colony had managed to salvage as it mixes with the heady musk that is inherently Shiro’s. Breathing him in, Keith drags his teeth across the full of his bottom lip as he hums in faux thought.

“I was thinking,” he starts as he traces a finger across Shiro’s chest, right over his heart, “that pinning me would be reward enough.”

Looking up at him, Keith sees something spark brightly in his dark eyes as he takes a short step back, falling into stance.

There’s an aching, heavy moment that hangs over the both of them as they watch each other before Shiro tilts his chin quickly towards Keith.

Your move, the look says.

Keith licks a line across his lip before dropping down into his own stance, not giving Shiro any pause before moving forward with a quick, testing jab. Dodging it easily, Shiro takes two quick steps back, eyes never leaving Keith’s lithe form as he mirrors the move to keep himself just out of reach.

With the thick heat building itself into a lightning storm between them, they eye each other, watching closely before both moving at once. Excitement colors Keith’s cheeks an alluring shade of pink as he loses himself to the ebb and flow of their movements. He can’t remember the last time they were able to push each other like this.

He’s sure it was before Shiro even left on that mission that had changed them both, but that had been a lifetime ago.

Lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as his thoughts spin through his mind, Keith’s gaze finds his opening. It’s nothing more than a split second of hesitation as Shiro shifts his foot to go on the offense instead of the defense, but Keith knows he has him.

Sweeping his foot out, he grabs for the center of Shiro’s shirt, fisting the material in his hand as he uses the opposing forces to tackle him to the ground. Keith lands with his legs straddling Shiro’s chest, his knees pinning his arms to the ground as he draws his hands up to entwine their fingers. Looking up at him, Shiro’s eyes are dark, the usual bright silver swallowed by his pupils as he watched Keith lean in close.

“So,” he says lowly, “what’s my reward?”

Shiro’s answering smile is knifelike as he presses up to close the distance between them. Catching his lips, Keith burns with the sudden contact, pressing down to bring their chests flush together. The sharp sting of teeth pulls a low moan from his throat as he tightens his grasp on Shiro’s wrists. Chasing the sound, Shiro continues to press forward, filling Keith’s head with a thrilling heat.

“Shiro,” he gasps, the name sugar sweet on his tongue as he rolls his hips, chasing the friction that is all too much and not enough. The move earns his a soft chuckle as Shiro pulls away, dropping his head back against the mat with a soft thump as he peers up at him through his lashes.

It’s a wicked look that Keith feels down to his bones.

“Best two out of three?” Shiro asks, voice a molten pool that he’s all too ready to drown in. Swallowing down the ache at the base of his throat, Keith pushes himself up before offering a hand to Shiro.

Ignoring the way Shiro’s touch fills his veins with fire as he takes his hand, Keith pulls him to his feet before taking several steps back and falling into a stance.

“Best two out of three,” he confirms as he brings his fists up in front of him.

It’s Shiro who moves first this time, taking several small, quick steps forward as he aims two blows toward Keith. Knocking them both aside easily, he turns over his shoulder, grabbing for Shiro’s closest wrist. Using his momentum, he pushes Shiro away from him before landing back in the same stance.

“Things are looking good for me if that’s the best you’ve got,” Keith laughs, bouncing slightly as he watches Shiro’s back. There’s a long pause, as if he’s gathering himself before he tilts his head to the side, a sickening crack popping through the air.

When he turns around, Shiro’s eyes are dark in a way that is all together different from earlier. Pitch black and roiling, his stare is filled with malice as he lets out a low, rumbling growl before launching himself toward Keith. Taken aback, Keith finds himself knocked back, his breath leaving him quickly as his back meets the mat.

A thrill rips through him, raising the hair on his arms as the quiet of the gym is disrupted by the sharp snap of Shiro’s teeth just barely missing his throat.

“Shiro!” Keith barks, using his forearm to push back against his throat.

Almost as if a switch was flipped, Shiro falls back onto his haunches, eyes going wide as he looks down at Keith.

“Keith, I,” he starts, cheeks going bright with the pink flush that marks his skin as his chest heaves for breath. Keith’s own breathing mirrors Shiro’s as he continues to stare up at him, unable to shake the savage look that had turned the man before him into something dangerous.

Something a lot like the monsters outside.

Opening his mouth to say something in response, the loud sound of someone clearing their throat shatters the moment.

Turning toward the intruder, Keith sees Hunk in the doorway, questioning gaze set on the both of them before he speaks.

“Pidge is looking for you, Shiro.”

****************************

[jafndaegur]

Good Company, Good Tea, Good Work

Jumin x MC

a/n : writing this fic was a bit of a self-reflection. In high school this was a very self-detrimental habit I had... and even now I still deall with its repercussions...and I wondered how Jumin would have reacted to it. Remember to eat your meals lovelies. Even if it's just a little something. You owe yourself that much

~*.•○°○•.♡.•○°○•.♡.•○°○•.♡.•○°○•.*~

Jumin's fingers drummed along the surface of his desk as he stared out the window at the snowflakes drifting from the sky.

Clouds hung in heavy frigid puffs while the atmosphere lay stagnant, grey and lifeless. The teacher droned on about chemical reactions, and the differences between hypo and hyper. Honestly, had these Americans not learned this in the tail end of their junior high? Apparently not.

Normally he was good about scribbling his notes, despite his distaste for lectures.

Why his father had him to his school's sister branch in America was beyond him. Other than it was just shy of sending him to boarding school at least. It was still miserable none the less. The students, despite this being a prestigious private school, were idle. Few worked hard in their studies. Even fewer worked with success for their efforts. It made the due diligence in his assignments over-praised, not that he complained, but it provided him with unfair issues. Such as a monopoly over the teachers' favor and a monopoly over the grading system. Screw any curves or adjusted grades, Jumin attempted and achieved nothing less than perfection. Those who could not keep up simply needed to amend their shortcomings and strive higher.

This mentality made his company among his peers, however, particularly undesirable.

He huffed when the chemistry teacher announced a partner-project for the next week. No doubt this would lead to him working solo. Or doing all the work and ratting out his fellow group member. Either or was likely.

"I will be assigning partners," the teacher continued. "Be sure that the both of you split the work load evenly."

Jumin restrained the urge to role his eyes and exhale with exasperation. As if his week couldn't get worse.

The teacher slowly went down the roster, seemingly picking names at random.

"Jumin and MC."

He wanted to drown in his own sense of self-preservation before stealing a quick glance to his partner. MC was a shy girl who hid herself behind wide wire glasses frames and a low cut fringe of auburn bangs. Her hair was kept long although she seemed to seldom brush it. Uniform was always baggy and her posture hunched and curled in as if she were afraid. He didn't understand her. However, unlike the others, she never backtalked him or gossiped about him. In fact she never even made eye contact with him.

Her negligence was mildly refreshing.

Except now. Even once the teacher called their names, MC never glanced his way. Just kept her head down and wrote in her notebook.

How rude.

Jumin stood in front of her desk during their lunch break, waiting for her to acknowledge him. When she didn't, he cleared his throat. That at least warranted a flick of her gaze to him.

"We will begin to work promptly on our assignment. The sooner we finish, the sooner you and I may terminate our partnership. Is this fair?"

She nodded.

"I expect you to meet me promptly at three thirty-five in the library. We will start our research and outline today."

Again she nodded and returned her focus to her notepad.

Lip twitching down, Jumin stalked out of the room to go find lunch.

When Jumin arrived at the library, he was surprised to see MC already hunched over a book. A bright emerald thermos sat on her right while her hand tapped her pencil on the left. Instead of her normal expression of shy cringe, her brow was furrowed and her eyes narrowed in intense concentration. She twisted and worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

For some reason, Jumin noted with almost endearment the strange shift of personality.

"What have you found?" He asked, scooting into the seat across from her.

"Nothing useful yet," she murmured, not indulging in anything further.

"Well let me know when you do. I'll work on the project's outline." He tried not to scoff, really he did.

MC shrunk in on herself a little more.

About an hour and a half into their session of brief and curt session, and amidst rising agitation, Jumin paused when he caught scent of a gentle flora.

The smell wafted toward him through a soft fragrance and it surprised him at the realization that it came from the the contents of the thermos. MC poured out a cup full of the canister's contents, after doing so giving a small hesitant sip.

"Is that tea?" Jumin asked softly, a small pang of homesickness itching under his skin. A long time back, his mother...before his father divorced her...used to make all sorts of tea for them.  Surely the simple smell of herbs steeped in hot water would not move him. And yet the scent of MC's beverage was simultaneously so familiar yet so alien, he felt his heart squeeze almost painfully.

She never answered him, but instead, offered the cup to him.

He gingerly took the small container in his hands. The liquid was a pale orange, and the silver bottom of the cup was still plainly visible. Yet the steam lilted with a sweet and mild perfume that made his shoulders relax a little.

"The smell is pleasant."

MC snorted. She actually snorted.

"Sweet, not pleasant," MC said, resting her head on her palm. "My mom is a florist. She had some left over edible flowers, so I brewed them with orange peel and came out with this."

"You like to make tea?"

"It's a hobby," MC said before leaning back in her chair and picking up her pencil again. "It keeps me occupied."

Jumin opened his mouth to reply, but she'd already gone back to working through her book sources, posture telling him she was no longer in the mood to talk. He sipped on the tea before returning to the outline.

He didn't give the cup back until their session was over, and told her that they would meet again tomorrow during lunch.

He brought with him a gourmet ham sandwich and a can of coffee. MC was waiting for him in the library again, her green thermos and two cups this time at her side. At her feet was her backpack and a small lunch bag.

He sat down and stared at the cups.

"I made ginger and apple tea..." she drawled while scribbling away in her notebook. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to try it..."

For the first time in a long time, Jumin smiled and gave a hum of approval...

Together they decided that apple and ginger was not her best mixture.

Still, he worked just a little slower, eager to see what she would bring tomorrow. When they packed up for the afternoon before the last half of their classes, Jumin realized that even though he had eased his work pace just a little, MC had worked as efficiently as before. He felt both proud and a little disgruntled by that. He wondered if she disliked their time together. Maybe she was tired of sharing her drink with him. That was probably all she had to go with her lunch...

Lunch!

He stared down at her seat to realize she'd left behind her lunch bag. Eager to see her again and return her item, he was surprised at how light the decorated bag was. Curiosity nagged at him, and chewing the inside of his cheek, Jumin narrowed his gaze as he stared inside.

Nothing. Not even a snack.

He knew with almost one hundred percent certainty that she had not eaten during their session together.

They worked after school together on the third day. That was when he noticed it. As she poured out a cup of blackberry and vanilla for him, her hands shook. Jumin accepted the tea with a hushed thank you, and spent their entire study time observing her. MC's fingers shook while she wrote her notes for their paper. She winced every so often, bracing her head with her hand as if nursing a headache.

She hardly touched her tea.

Jumin excused himself and made his way to the first floor where the vending machines were. He searched through his pocket for his wallet and easily accessed his card.

Frowning, he wondered if she would find this offensive. In the end he decided, he didn't care. No good reason could spur something like this, and while he didn't expect to change things - he at least hoped he could help.

So he bought two things: a bag of plain animal crackers for her and a tuna on-the-go kit for himself. Start small and work up, he told himself. When returned, he said nothing as he placed the animal crackers beside MC's thermos. He said nothing as she watched him with eyes wide and a pained expression. Instead he took a sip of the tea she had poured for him and then went back to work. He could feel her gaze burning holes into the top of his head as he leaned down to write.

Until the last possible day to work together, he brought her something from home. The finest minature apples. A bag of dates.

On the day before their project was due, her voice cracked and she glared at him. "Why do you keep bringing me food?"

"A simple thanks would suffice." Jumin raised his brow.

MC gritted out, "I didn't ask you to."

"You didn't have to."

"I did."

She stared blankly at him, her lips pursed. "Why? It's not like I should be eating."

Leaning over the desk, Jumin poured the tea into their silently claimed cups. "Good company, good tea, good work - "

MC tilted her head, bangs fluttering and nose scrunching as her lip began to wobble. He couldn't tell if she was angry or sad.

Still, he placed the cup in front of her and a plum. "What better way to celebrate than to enjoy a meal together?"

MC stared at him and then back at his offering. He scooted their assignment to the side and gently took her hand in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She never said anything, and averted her gaze, but Jumin smiled with relief when she reached with her free hand for the plum.

[lloronista]

chrysanthemum in the mirror, moon on the water 

(鏡菊水月)

Shisui/Itachi | Samurai AU Rated M (violence & eventual smut) | 1690 words Chapter 1/13 --- Prologue --- 

鏡花水月 (Kyōka Suigetsu) - ‘mirror flower, moon water,’ meaning something that can be seen but not touched, like an illusion, a mirage. 

                                                *

The whole world was dyed red.

Red sky stained by a red sunset, the sun itself bleeding out into darkened clouds in the west as it sank into the earth, into its mirror image in the puddles left in the rainstorm’s wake. Puddles long as small lakes and shimmering red, the way only water takes in light when it hemorrhages so deep a shade as this and magnifies it. Makes the world liquid as an open artery.

At four years old, Itachi had watched a man die in such a way.

He’d watched as the boy carrying him on his back took up a sword and slashed a grown man’s throat. What frightened Itachi wasn’t the act of killing itself, nor the sudden hollowness in the man’s stare as his hands flew up uselessly to press at the wound. Eyes like a ghost’s, as if he could already see a landscape beyond this one. He’d hardly registered that a second later such a fate could have been his own; samurai children are not afraid of dying.

Water sloshed around the older boy’s calves as he trudged through one of these deeper puddles, slowly so as not to stumble over any limbs. Off in the trees farther away, cicadas droned on.

Death surrounded them on all sides, as inescapable as air. Mere hours ago, in the onslaught of battle and storm, the marshy field had been transformed to resemble a gash in the earth. He’d wanted to see it, not even knowing what it was. Wandering the wooded and rice-paddied area past his home’s borders was not unusual for Itachi; curiosity had guided him further that day. It was as if every living creature, the crows in the trees and insects in the grass, could sense something about to erupt. The impending storm, the pounding of hooves into confrontation. Itachi had underestimated the scope of the plain and ventured too close, ensnared once the clans’ skirmish blew into a full battle. Thunder roaring in the skies, from the feet of hundreds, inside of his chest.

None were as deafening as the silence that followed.

Itachi had never heard such a silence, like the air was paralyzed. All around them, the dead piling up, their faces rendered unrecognizable yet united in the same expression of lifelessness at the end.

Bodies are such fragile things.

The slosh of water crowded Itachi’s ears, growing more unbearable by the minute. Yet his voice would not materialize and beg the sound to ease. He could only continue to stare transfixed at the crimson sky’s reflection in the water, rippling with every step. Imagining that even the heavens were trembling.  

I am in shock, Itachi thought, testing the word out, like a foreign material between his fingertips. Like the farmer last week in the village, who’d only been able to sit paralyzed after cutting off his thumb and losing so much blood without dying. His father had relayed the story to him. How the man hadn’t been able to speak when someone finally stumbled upon him in the field, though his eyes had stayed open the whole time. Still witnessing everything around him. This is what it feels like.

Palm-sweat dampening the cotton under his hands where he clung to bony shoulders. Stiff and quiet as he held on. Just gazing out at the macabre scenery colored by a dying sun.

Itachi hated this color. This intense, unforgiving shade of red.

He hated this helpless feeling, the stench of corpses festering in the stagnant puddles and humidity. He couldn’t even feel grateful to this boy who’d shown up and saved his life, annoyed at how his messy hair kept tickling his nose.

“Hey.” The owner of the messy hair turned to peer over his shoulder—there that nest of curls went again, brushing Itachi’s cheek this time—his human voice dragging Itachi out of the depths of his thoughts. “You falling asleep back there? You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time.”

Asleep?

As if this place wasn’t a nightmare anyone would hope to wake from, reality waiting somewhere else?

Could he crane his neck more, the boy would’ve met quite a pointed stare from Itachi, brows knit in an unfittingly adult way for such young, round features. The muteness plaguing him finally cracked.

“Why would I be asleep?” he demanded, instantly regretting how sullen it came out.

The boy let out a mirthful huff. “Just wondering. You can go ahead, you know, if you want to.”

“No thank you,” Itachi mumbled. “Anyways, you should be quiet, too. Someone will find us.”

“There’s no one but us here. Us and the crows.”

The remaining warriors had retreated, groups from the winning side of the bloodbath chasing after them. Surely they’d return soon, to retrieve the fallen—those who were important, at least. Itachi watched the last of the sun’s ember glow cooling down, the color no longer so severe once it congealed. Shadows draped over the hills would soon expand fully into night. In the dark, figures moving among the battlefield had such a way of racing through the imagination.

“If they see us, they’ll think we’re looting.”

“We better reach the woods soon, then. It’ll be easier to hide there.”

Itachi nodded, conscious the older boy wouldn’t see.

“I’ll be able to find my way alone from there.”

“And risk having the Uchiha heir’s blood on my hands, if something happens afterwards?” The older boy chortled. “I don’t think so. Maybe next time don’t run away from home and find yourself in such a messy situation, huh?”

Itachi’s eyes flashed at that, unable to pinpoint if what dug under his skin more was the idea that he was pampered back at home, or if it was this boy’s know-it-all attitude when he was hardly more than a child himself. “What about you, you followed me here, didn’t you?”

His shoulders shook under Itachi’s hands as he let out a small laugh—the first pleasant sound to fall on Itachi’s ears that day. “What can I say, I couldn’t help but notice you.” He craned his head again, this time catching Itachi with the full weight of his glance. “You’re glad, though, right?”

Embarrassment flooded him. Dazed still, hollowed out by every awful thing he’d taken in that day, Itachi’s exhaustion was no match for the mortifying ordeal of being tended to by another radiating through him. The hands hooked under his knees had splotches of dried blood crusted on them; had held a sword when Itachi couldn’t.

Maybe that’s what it was that had frozen Itachi in that moment of fate—that he could not even fight for himself.

Hands too small to grip a sword-hilt, little limbs too weak.

“I can walk now.”

The boy made no move to let him down, soldiering on with careful steps up the slippery incline they’d reached. But his tone was gentle as he told him, “It’s alright. We still have a ways to go once we get to the forest. I won’t get tired.”

                                                *

Voices called for the lanterns to be lit as soon as sentries picked out two small figures approaching the gate. All at once, the Uchiha compound stirred from its uneasy slumber with lights flickering to life throughout homes and at every guard post. In a matter of moments people were emerging from their houses, tired faces illuminated by candles and oil lamps, their lights together speckling the darkness in a way Itachi couldn’t help but find reminiscent of a festival scene, only the whimsy had been overtaken by a somber and frantic tone. A commotion bloomed in the courtyard as his brethren rushed to surround them, ushering the two boys past the gates and into their swarm of questions and care.

“Lord Fugaku’s son is alive, go and tell him at once!”

“Thank the goddess Kannon he’s safe!”

“Look, they have blood on their kimono!” one woman cried upon seeing the dark stains on the fronts of both boys’ clothing. “Where are you injured, child?”

Throughout the fuss, Itachi stood numbly with his hand in the other boy’s, shaking his head, ‘no, I’m not hurt,’ or nodding ‘yes, I’m okay.’ Beside him, the other boy seemed overwhelmed, unused to the amount of attention. A muscle in his finger twitched, tightening its hold on Itachi’s.

Just then a rough voice, though no louder than those around it, boomed above the din. “Where have you been, Itachi?”

The worried aunts and other elders parted to let Fugaku through, their clan leader’s face a mask of fury. All eyes fell on them as parent and child reunited.

Itachi looked up into his father’s eyes, limned red and shining with relief despite the harshness in his stare. Recognized the fear and concern behind his anger, and felt ashamed. His own gaze dropped to the ground. “Forgive me.”

The tension seemed to thaw then.

“Come.” His father placed a hand at his back and urged him toward their house. “You owe your mother an explanation. Get inside.”

Before Itachi could open his mouth to speak, he felt himself pushed along, wrenched so swiftly apart from the other boy.

“Thank you, everyone, for helping to find my son,” his father addressed their kin, bowing his head forward. “On his behalf, I ask your forgiveness in causing such trouble.”

As they started toward the steps on the verandah, Itachi turned back toward the boy he’d spent the entire day close by, and their gazes caught one last time. What kind of look was that on his face, he wondered, that expression neither fully relieved nor sad? He thought about it while his mother helped him out of his dirty clothes and inspected him for cuts and bruises, the bathwater beside them pleasantly steaming. She didn’t cry when she laid eyes on him, but took his small body into her arms and just held him there, suffusing him with warmth more wholly than the hot water ever could. Yet still, Itachi couldn’t help but feel the ghost of heat in his palm from where that strange boy had been holding his hand.

[hopefulfestivaltastemaker]

September 6, 2020

My weekly view of things I am up to and thinking about. Topics include the future of Earth, housing in California, the national debt, carbon pricing, and software complexity.

Earth’s Future

The funder is interested in developing a timeline of Earth’s past and future and placing human history in the geologic context. It’s a bit off the beaten path for us, but a fun project, and I spent some time this week on it. It got me thinking about Earth’s long term future.

We all know, in at least a vague sense, that Earth’s days are numbered. I think most of us know that we expect the Sun to go nova some billions of years from now (about 7.6 billion I think is the best estimate), and barring intervention from a future advanced civilization, no life will be able to survive that.

I found this paper by O’Malley-James et al. to be an interesting read. It discusses the future of life from an astrobiological perspective, asking what biosignatures a distant civilization might observe from Earth in the distant future. Plant life that depends on C3 photosynthesis, and by extension most animal life, has maybe 500-600 million years left, beyond which point carbon dioxide is too depleted. Plant life based on C4 photosynthesis might make it 900 million years. From then on it’s only microbes. Eukaryotic life might last 1.2 billion years before the oxygen is depleted. Prokaryotic life was here first, and it will probably be here last. The paper estimates 2.8 billion years as an upper bound for any microbes at all to survive in caves or underground. For the remainder of its existence, Earth is a sterile, lifeless world without oceans, an atmosphere, or geological activity.

Before all that, Earth’s biosphere may go into an irreversible decline after the formation of Pangaea Ultima, about 250 million years from now. At that time, the combination of merging of continents, cooling of the Earth’s core, and increasing of solar luminosity will result in a falling of carbon dioxide to the point where today’s biological productivity cannot be sustained. Earth is now 95% of the age it will be when this happens.

It is an unspoken and open question of how this general picture might be altered by a civilization that is capable of effecting meaningful change over geological timelines. Human civilization is not at this level presently, and it is unclear if we will attain it.

I wonder too how contemplation of the biosphere’s mortality influences how we think of environmentalism and sustainability. Perhaps 250+ million years is so vast a time that it cannot be distinguished from infinity in our minds. For my part, I can admit that the prospect genuinely bothers me.

Housing in California

California’s legislative session expired at the end of August, and with it, another opportunity for statewide zoning reform. Scott Wiener’s SB1120 would have allowed duplexes on single family lots. It is a modest but valuable proposal which had majority legislative support, but some last minute parliamentary shenanigans from the party leadership ran out the clock.

I continue to think that the housing issue in California is intractable, and that with its current strategy, the YIMBY movement will not be able to attain any but the most marginal victories. The Bay Area needs to increase its housing supply by at least 50%, maybe 100%, to really solve the problem. To achieve those kinds of numbers, allowing duplexes and ADUs is not going to cut it. The region needs to be open to horizontal as well as vertical expansion. Something must be done to break the dysfunction in the construction industries that prevents buildings and infrastructure from being delivered at a reasonable time and speed. The movement should also stop diddling around with measures that feel good but will backfire, like rent control and vacancy taxes.

Meanwhile, the tech industry is continuing to make tentative moves toward remote work. I continue to be hopeful but skeptical that widespread adoption of remote work can finally get housing costs under control.

My suspicion is that the YIMBY movement has succumbed to the Shirky Principle, which posits that “Institutions will try to preserve the problem to which they are the solution.” An ever-growing share of its energy is devoted to playing the Reds vs. Blues game, which is more than redundant in California. They have no vision of what an affordable California or Bay Area look like, no credible plan for getting there, and ideological blinkers that foreclose many important aspects of the solution.

As I’ve done several times before, I go back to Citizens Climate Lobby, which I see as the gold standard for political advocacy done right. They have a clear vision of passing a federal carbon fee and dividend plan. They don’t dilute their efforts on ancillary priorities or play partisan games. They have commissioned detailed economic modeling of the plan and have made every effort to insure it works from both a technical perspective and from a range of value systems. I don’t know if CCL will succeed, but at least they can succeed, unlike most activists, and CCL is one of the few major organizations I feel good supporting.

Red Ink

The Congressional Budget Office released an unsurprising but grim report on the national debt. The debt-to-GDP ratio stands at 98%, the highest ever except for a brief time at the end of World War II. It should cross the 100% mark next year and reach 109% by 2030.

Deficits are a classic gnarly problem. They are harmful but not catastrophic, and the harms are mostly at some indeterminate point in the future and are not clearly visible. This makes them easy to ignore, and ignoring the debt, or at best using it as a partisan talking point, is now an established bipartisan tradition.

Japan somehow continues to function with a debt-to-GDP ratio exceeding 230%. I don’t know how high the US can go on this metric and hope not to find out. We’ve seen debt crisis in Europe and Argentina recently. What I think is more likely is that debt service will be another ball and chain, along with population aging, stagnant productivity, and broken housing, health care, and education markets, on the American economy.

Carbon Pricing

Resources for the Future has a new carbon pricing calculator tool out, evaluating several proposals from the current Congress.

At the $52/ton level, four of the eight proposals stand out as having a positive benefit/cost analysis when economic costs are weighed against CO2 reduction alone. In all eight cases, “secondary” health benefits exceed the CO2 benefit as well as economic costs. As economic intuition would suggest, benefit/cost ratio goes down the higher the carbon price goes, since as the price goes up, we move down the ladder from most cost-effective emissions reductions to less cost-effective.

For my own part, I’ve generally been using a social cost of carbon of $50/ton. A few years ago, that seemed like a reasonable median estimate. At some point I want to review the literature again to see if I should be using a different figure.

The large health benefits are good for making the case for carbon pricing, but they raise some questions. The numbers strongly suggest that we should be thinking about air pollution reduction as the primary goal with CO2 reduction as a secondary goal. But if we do that, is carbon pricing really the most effective policy on air pollution?

Software and the Collapse of Civilization

I found this talk from last year by the game developer Jonathan Blow. He details ways in which the software industry is unable to deliver fast, reliable products and analogizes to historical failures of technological reproduction that are associated with past civilizational collapses. The talk is about an hour. I have to say it is a bit odd, but I found it worth watching.

Several time throughout my life, I have made attempts to get into the software industry, and at other times such as now I have programmed on a hobbyist basis. While I don’t see bad software as a major existential risk to civilization, there are clearly problems. Blow identifies what could also be called the bloatware problem: programmers tend to reach for libraries and abstractions in their code, needlessly inflating size, complexity, runtime, and bugs. He worries that abstraction has become so pervasive that the industry is not even capable of delivering reliable software at this point, and the knowledge of machine code programming has been largely lost.

Blow’s argument is reminiscent of the success problem, as described by Samo Burja, or the notion of social reproduction.

I’ve toyed with the idea of trying to develop the analogy between software bloatware and policy bloatware, a term to describe the phenomenon of public policy being designed in ever more complex manners. An overly complex policy environment increases the difficulty of coordinating the entities required for a solution, and it causes solutions to look more like patches and kludges over problems rather than actual solutions. An example is the attempt to address housing affordability problems by developing complex, multi-government affordable housing subsidies. Kludgeocracy is the best term I’ve seen for this phenomenon so far.

Casey Muratori identifies the same problem, which he called the 30 million line problem, so named because he estimates that to write the most basic “Hello World” web app requires, between the server and the client, at least 30 million lines of code and probably far more, with present technology. He proposes a solution based on a universal CPU instruction set and restoring root access to developers. Ironically, the talk (excluding Q&A) is over an hour when I think 10 minutes would have been sufficient to convey the key points without loss of essential detail.

[vexaiton]

who you are | a taehyung fic

fluff  | angst  (ends with fluff ok!)

pairing: taehyung x reader

tw: reader is going through a lot so it focuses more on describing on what she’s going through

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7:08 pm

The digital clock stares back at you while you remain stagnant in your position. The room is filled with darkness with only the kitchen light from outside as the only source of brightness. You lay on your bed staring blankly on the wall in front of you as your thoughts start to swallow you whole. Your demons are back, and you fight back with lifeless eyes and a hopeless sigh. Just when will this stop? When will you breathe? These demons that come out from the depths of your soul from time to time to damage your whole existence and purpose, slowly seeping the life out of your body.

Emotions have left your body. Tears no longer fall to be shed, and not even a weak tilt of the lip, or a subtle glint in your eyes shakes your body off the state of emptiness. And this has happened too many times to the point that it’s tiring. God, it’s so tiring. It’s tiring to fight with your demons when these demons only come from your own self. It’s tiring to try and believe knowing that the only opponent of this battle is yourself.

It’s hard to feel happy for a second knowing what comes next. It’s hard to hope that everything will be okay when the same thing happens all over again like a cycle that never ends. It’s hard to be yourself. It’s so hard. But what’s harder is seeing the people around you look at you in endless worry, orbs filled with confusion and restlessness, especially if you see it in Taehyung’s eyes.

God, it’s hard. It’s hard to see him watch you as you lay down and stare into the darkness. It’s hard to hear the sighs he breathes whenever you don’t mutter a single word. It’s hard to see his face changing, falling, as your eyes that once beamed, lost its light. It’s hard to disappoint him because of your failure to be the lover that you should be. It’s hard to disappoint him because of your failure to ask him how his day was. It’s hard to disappoint him because of your failure to give them a sense of warmth. It’s hard to disappoint him because of you fail to give him a peck on the lips or a greeting of a hug whenever they come home. It’s hard to disappoint a him because of who your are and who you fail to be.

It’s been weeks, days, hours, minutes since you last talked to Taehyung, or even acknowledged his presence. He would always come home around late evening ‘til midnight and you would still be awake, but it would feel like he’s all alone in this apartment for two. He would stare at your body laying on the bed with your back faced to him, and whisper sad hymns of worry that you can’t see. Taehyung never saw you cry on days like this, but he is absolutely sure that you cry to yourself alone. All that Taehyung wants is to see your beautiful eyes shine once again, but he can’t seem to do anything but give you time.

 You never saw Taehyung cry because of how he gets abandoned. But you can hear him. You can hear his silent screams as he desperately try to save you from drowning. You can feel his helplessness with a glint of motivation as he holds you tight at night and kisses the back of your neck. You can hear his thoughts and troubles that wouldn’t appear if it wasn’t for you. You can hear him, feel him.

And God does it make you guilty.

__

Taehyung comes home to an apartment made for two but he highly doubts it from the silence that the walls encloses him into. Not even a single light is on and that how he knew, that is how he knew that you were not present within these walls. Instead, a note placed on top of the kitchen counter was the only evidence of you presence.

I’m sorry love, for being such a failure. I’m sorry for everything that I fail to be. I have always fought and now I’m tired of fighting. It’s like letting it drown me and swallow me whole without resisting. I’m sorry if I can’t make you breakfast or dinner when I know you’re always starving. I’m sorry if I can’t play with your hair ‘til you fall asleep. I’m sorry if I can’t even welcome you with my warmth with a promise of a good night’s sleep and a peck on the lips with whispers of comfort and love. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I’m sorry for not telling you anything. I’m sorry for not uttering a single word cause it feels like my throat is closing up on me and the darkness is strong enough to cover even the light of my voice. All I wanted was to ask how your day went but it seems like my lips are frozen and my voice is hidden. But please, all I wanted to know was how your day went, but I’m sorry if I can’t do just that. I love you. God, so much.

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A knock on the door of your own apartment was heard as you were in the middle of crying your eyes out. You slowly walked to the door while wiping any remnants of tears on your face as if it helped. You opened the door and was greeted with a glimpse of Taehyung’s face before you were smashed into his chest through a warm embrace. You couldn’t help yourself so your tears started falling again, making a mess on Taehyung’s hoodie.

“Who said I wouldn’t be with you even if they swallow you whole?” He whispered to your ear as he hugged you tighter.

 “But-“

 “Who said I was asking for an apology?”

 “Who said that I don’t love you enough to love you even when you think you can’t be loved?”

 No words were said as a reply because all that Taehyung said made you cry even harder. Taehyung held your shoulders and kept you at a short distance where your noses touched and your eyes are staring into each other’s infinity.

 “Do you know why people drown? It’s because they panic and they forget to breathe. If you could just breathe, your body would stay afloat and you won’t drown anymore. See Y/N, I am willing to drown with you. And I will help you breathe to prove to you that you can escape from that darkness trapping you.”

 “I love you too much to leave you when you fail to be who you are.”

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note: this is an old one and i wasn’t able to polish it well ;(( but anyway hello!! im back after a long ass time of uni swallowing me whole. im trying to get back to writing so i MIGHT start posting a lot more. it has been a long time since i have written anything that’s not an essay so please bear with me. anyway, i hope you enjoyed reading this! give it some love if you did. thank you, lovelies. ‘til next time.