#but oh how much this show uses expressions to convey things beyond the spoken word!!

[funarisjournal]

[yayteaberry]

*SFW* Wildflowers (Bakugou)

He hadn’t shown it, but he was very angry with you. An inordinate amount, yet there wasn’t room to do much about it without looking insane.

Your quirk wasn’t something he didn’t notice, it was manipulative and sneaky. The quirk was certainly notable in that he’d never heard of it before that point, someone producing pheromones to influence the people around them accordingly was a powerful thing to have on your side.

But for someone who was trying to become a hero, you had a seriously sadistic sense of humor. He didn’t notice it at first but now it was becoming a problem.

Obviously, you were toying with him.

The reason? He couldn’t say, there wasn’t any discernible gain beyond embarrassing him. Maybe that was the end goal then - keep him from his top performance by distracting him. In the span of two months he’d gone from refusing to memorize any names, to knowing your schedule like the back of his hand, and that was a major problem. It was an unintentional side effect, he wanted to be sure of wherever you were so he could try to prepare himself for your fuckery.

He spent a lot of time trying to recall if he’d known you in the past, why you would torture him like this. Though he never dredged up anything meaningful, at no point before UA had you even attended the same school as him.

At first it was a light annoyance, something he could dismiss as initial nerves brought on by someone who could have power over him. 

But it was getting unmanageable, he was wasting his time thinking about your dumbass when he was supposed to be focusing on his studies or counting the number of pushups he was doing.

You can’t be worth all this stress and attention, he knows there has to be an outside source.  Why on earth would he feel this way otherwise?  Somehow you’ve managed to become his greatest annoyance but also the one person he never minds being around.

Somehow, pft, it was obvious that you’ve been using your quirk to keep him from being a threat, keep him away from being better than you by softening him up.

The worst part of it all was your own passiveness.  You acted like you didn’t even know him while doing this to him, rarely looking in his direction and never speaking to him unless spoken too.

He was losing control of his own thoughts, getting visibly upset whenever Kaminari said a single thing about you. For his own sake he just chalked that talk up to Kaminaris delusional teenage antics, as if you’d ever give that freak the time of day. Why did he care? Why should he care? He never felt anything in that degree when Kaminari picked anyone else, what makes you so radically different?

Things were getting messy for him, blurry and confusing, too many questions piling up that had only one answer. You were ruining his mind with your stupid quirk. It’s your own fault! You’ve infested his soul at this point, rewiring him to brainwash him into doing whatever you ask.

Today was the last straw, he can’t take this anymore!  Every day he just waits for you to ask him for whatever you’re building up too, knowing in his heart that you’re about to take advantage of what you’ve been planting within him.  He’ll be damned if you turn him into a cowering sidekick.

The moment he knew for sure you’d be in your dorm, he made a plan. 

Well, ‘plan’ being the surge of adrenaline that filled him at the prospect of tiptoeing around you for the rest of his time at UA, potentially even once he became a pro. 

He decided he’d confront you, make you stop, and everything would go back to normal. After this he could finally resume his climb to #1 without your claws pulling him down.

It’s that thought he repeats to himself like a mantra as he speed walks over and kicks the door of your room wide open.

You yelp and nearly jump off your bed, the combination of being scared like that and seeing the boy responsible nearly ejecting your soul out of your body.

“I’m sick and tired of your fuckin’ bullshit!” He stomps inside, kicking the door a second time to close it.

You stifle the urge to scream, scrambling away until your back hits the wall, hands up as you try to defuse the situation. “Wait, wait! Hey now w-whatever you think I did, I swear I didn’t, if you’ll let me-”

“Shut the fuck up! There’s no hypothetical here, you’re fucking with me for fun and if you don’t stop it right now I’m gonna kill you!”, he curls his lip up, sparks lighting up in his palms as he tries to force a confession out of you.

“... What?” You’re completely lost, letting your confusion show as your shoulders drop.

“Don’t you ‘what’ me! Keep playing ignorant and see where that gets you!”, he raises his voice up another notch, taking a step forward. “I’m not an idiot like the rest of those extras, I see what you’re doing! You really think someone as smart as me wouldn’t notice!?”

“I never said you were an idiot! But I swear to god I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You spout anxiously, pulling your knees into your chest, feeling fully cornered.

He just rolls his eyes, closing the gap between him and the edge of your bed. “Oh so now you act all pathetic when I call you out on it to try and get me to feel bad? It isn’t gonna work! I-!”

When he inhales he catches onto the smell in the air, eyebrows knitting together as he feels an instant calming effect from it. “... The fuck?”

“That’s my quirk, that’s what it smells like when I want someone to calm down,” you shakily explain, still holding your hands out like you’re going to have to push him away, sending out as much relaxation pheromones as physically possible.

His shoulders roll back and he stops making his standard ugly expression, face zeroed out in a way you’ve only seen once or twice when he gets invested in something enough to forget he’s around others.

It’s cute, but right now it's more of a sign he’s no longer about to throttle you. “Yeah this is familiar in a way, when we’re in training I think. Guess I never noticed it could be pretty. Usually I’m just pissed that you’re trying to beat me.” For once he’s using an inside voice, which feels oddly personal since you’ve only heard him screaming. It almost seems like whispering in comparison. “So you can choose to make it scented? Masking it so people don’t see it coming is smart. But it’s not so smart now since I know what you’re doing.”

“Mask it? I kinda can’t, the point is that people breathe it in, if they can’t smell it then it doesn’t really work. I really do mean it when I say I have no clue what you think I’m ‘up to’.” You begin to ease off the output, not wanting to knock him out, which you’ve accidentally done before.

“No you have to be, it doesn't make any sense otherwise. You’re doing something or I wouldn’t be feeling this way. Don’t bother lying to me, I’ve already caught you.” He’s still passive but he crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head. 

You give an exasperated huff, “Feeling what way!”

“It’s so fuckin out there that I’m surprised you don’t use this tactic more in training. It’s totally obvious that you’re doing something to make it so I’m the only one who can smell your stink. You’re manipulating me, otherwise there’s no way in hell I’d be so dopey around you. Why the fuck else would I notice whenever you’re gone? Feel compelled to return your pens that you always drop since you’re such a klutz?”, he speaks as if it’s common fact, rolling his eyes as he continues, “You rope me in daily with these little details that you heighten by using your quirk, and then it’s like you have no idea who I am. Since you’re so comfortable living in my head, you should’ve seen this coming.” 

That's much more than you expected him to say, a light pink dusting across the bridge of your nose at the confession he has unintentionally given you.

“I-I can’t remember a single time you’ve done that,” is all you can think to say.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, lolling his head from side to side as he formulates a response. “It’s just like when return all the shit you drop but you pretend to not notice, and you’re doing the same thing right now. It was confusing at first but now I’m just getting irritated that you keep playing dumb. Stop working your dumb stinky magic to turn me into your lackey, get someone else to do your dirty work if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Bakugou I’ve never done that to you, I wouldn’t!”, you stammer for a half second, making a judgement call on how you should handle this, and deciding to come clean. “I actually… I really like you…. I-I respect your work ethic, how strong you are, confident as well, I wanted to gain your attention through the right ways!” You sit up on your knees and make eye contact with him, trying your best to convey how much you mean what you’re saying. “If I wanted you drooling on my shoes then you would be, but everyone around me would be doing the same, my quirk isn’t selective like that. But I wanted to get noticed by you more than I wanted to chance annoying you as a first impression… I really wanted to have a reason to approach someone like you first.”

“Well that’s a stupid way to go about it. I can’t afford to have these kinds of distractions so if anything you put a lot of effort into just, wasting my time.” He’s nearly hesitating on some words. But he pulls himself together, staring you down for a moment. “So I’m done with this. I’m not doing this anymore, I’m done playing games.”

You can’t understand the logic here.

He comes barging into your room, demanding you stop making him like you against his will, and when he finds out it’s organic plus you feel the same way, he somehow manages to reject you? It stings, a lot.

“Yes or no.”, he sternly interrupts your quickly spiraling thoughts.

“Yes or no..?” Flat out confused for the millionth time, you blink a few times, pulling back the tears that threatened to spill over at his initial rejection.

“I’m not asking again.”, he curtly spits out.

“But what are you asking yes or no for?” You squint at him, unsure and waiting for him to say something along the lines of ‘Yes to dying or no to living’.

“Are we dating or not! Yes or no goddamnit!” He’s blushing brighter than you at this point, eyes pointed to various places in your room where you aren’t, shifting in place uncomfortably.

Suddenly it dawns on you.

Even after hearing your returned confession he doesn’t think you’ll say yes.

“Yes, Bakugou, of course.”, you say with a warm smile, reaching forward to hold his hand. 

His sigh of relief as he relaxes his posture strikes you as intensely adorable, though your heart skips a beat when he shoots you a smirk. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” 

[thatonesadending]

Power of Words - Chapters 5

Molly is overwhelmed with how much has changed, including his body. Caleb helps him feel a bit more normal.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31056542

It could have been minutes, or hours, that Molly sobbed into Caleb’s neck. He didn't have a grip on time, let alone his current reality, so he let himself cry until his voice was hoarse, and his cheeks tight with dried tears. He wasn't sure when he had sunk to the floor, but Caleb had gone with him, holding him close, cradling Molly in his arms as he sobbed his way to exhaustion.

It wasn't that Molly was sad or unhappy really, but he was experiencing a sort of onslaught of grief of his own death. Of all the adventures he missed, the moments he didn’t get to share. Complicating it was that he knew that his friends, people he had grown to love over an impossibly short time, now had images of him hurting them that he didn’t have. Why else had they been scared of him, wary of his return?

And then there was the issue of him. This body. The coat had helped ground him, but it only lasted a short while. Every reflection in the glass that he caught, every flinch when he approached one of the Nien too fast, every time he looked at his own hands and saw the missing rings and golden caps on his fingers … It reminded him of the fact that he had been lost, and someone else had been piloting this body.

The mixture of all the upsetting feelings, with the beauty of all the ways he had been remembered - preserved - created chaos of spilling out feelings that he couldn't help but let out in embarrassing sobs. The only thing that was coxing him back was Caleb’s hand, drawing circles on his back, humming some lullaby he faintly recognized.

There had been a time before, when he had come out empty and hollow from the grave he had been left in, that the only way Yasha had been able to calm him was to sing him a song meant for the Gods. A prayer pressed to melody. Caleb was humming it now, while rubbing his back. When he was able to steady his breathing enough, Molly managed to ask him about the song.

“How do - did Yasha give you the song?” His voice was still quiet, more of a whisper, but the ever preceptive Caleb still heard him.

“Yes, she shared it with me on a particularly hard night, seeing as we both can speak celestial.”

Molly had never thought to ask what language the song had been in, so many languages and things had been forign to him at the time. It didn't surprise him that Caleb had memorized it. He wanted to thank Caleb again, but it wouldn’t have conveyed how actually grateful he was. He stayed there for a few more moments, his cheek pressed to the man's chest, horn resting on his shoulder, and his tail wrapped tightly against his waist. It was only until he felt the ache of tiredness in his own bones, and remembered who he was holding on to, that he let go.

“I am sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“It is alright Mollymauk, I only care that you are okay.”

Caleb didn't let Molly get very far in his self-conscious retreat, clasping him at the elbows and looking him firmly in the eyes. Molly wasn’t okay, but he also wasn’t not. He was caught in between glee at being alive again, and horror that someone else had been living for him in the meantime. And then there was that unspoken dread, the one that he was constantly trying not to think of, because what if Lucien ….

“It is alright to need time. I will do everything in my power to give you all the time you need to be okay.” Caleb’s words were like an incoming tide, slowly washing away at the edges of Molly’s worries.

“I am n- it’s just that…” He struggled find the words to try to express how he was feeling everything too much right now, and he really wanted to feel just like himself. Caleb stayed silent and just waited until Molly could compose himself to try again. “It’s a lot. The whole dying, being possessed by your former self - well a sad sack of a soul that was not me- and then living again to-” Molly gestered the gorgeous window and room that surrounded them. “-and still feel, I don't know, like I am not really here. Like I haven't earned the right to it.” Molly hadn’t really understood the weight of his emotions until he spoke aloud, and then he felt his eyes threatened to spill again. But of course, Caleb came to his rescue once more.

“Ah, I think I understand. I believe I can help, if that is alright?”

How Caleb could do anything more for him was beyond imaginable. He had already brought Molly back from his unconscious prison and a chance of life, given him a not only decadent room but one that represented his life, and most of all - Caleb had offered Molly an incredibly close embrace when he needed to cry out the most. Still, he chose to follow the human when they disentangled, and he had been led to the gorgeous red vanity he had admired before.

Caleb pulled out the overstuffed stool, and motioned for him to sit. He did so, admittedly a tad cautiously, since he didn't know what Caleb wanted from him. Nervous hands pulled out the top long drawer, but Molly couldnt take his eyes away from Caleb’s face, trying to see why the man was suddenly shy. He was used to Caleb being reserved, self-deprecating, humble to a fault, that was until he came back, and he found himself with a wizard that was more self assured and hopeful.

“My memory is not perfect, close, but - um - some things can be misremember, so if you would like any changes or if I got anything wrong …”

He looked down at the drawer as Caleb spoke. It was lined in a lavender velvet that almost perfectly matched his skin. Inside was every single piece of jewelry that he was currently missing, the outlandish bits of glitter and gold that Molly had used to set himself apart. From his earrings, the chains that had been in his horns, to the cuffs he had worn around his tail.

“I am not sure which set you would like. I tried to capture each I could remember.” Caleb was being far too modest. There laid perfect versions of every variation of his jewelry from when they had met in Trostenwald to when they left Hupperdook.

“The last ones.” His voice was still rough from crying, but Caleb ignored it and started to lift the various pieces from its place. Molly had wanted to say ‘Oh the ones that I was wearing when I died.’, but he didn't. He didn't want to taint why these were his favorite. How he had eavesdropped on Jester trying to convince Yasha to tell her which one he would like more, the horn cuff with matching  jade studs, or the crescent at the end of a teardrop earring that had a chain that would connect at the top of his ear. While Yasha had tried to convince her money would be better spent elsewhere, Molly could remember Nott sneaking up and simply pocketing both sets. She later presented them to Molly in front of the other women. “That shop was horrible, nothing worth taking, but they wouldn’t leave … so here.” He knew she hadnt meant it, that she was actually offering friendship, not earrings. He took and cherished them all the same.

Caleb was gentle, fastening the earrings with care, being impossibly soft with his horns while he placed the jewelry. Molly didn't say a word, Caleb knew where every bit went. He hadn’t meant to screw his eyes shut, but it was the only way to prevent more tears, those of anxiety, from falling. It wasn't until he felt a thumb slowly pressing gentle circles at the base of his horns, that he was able to blink his eyes open again. Caleb was kneeling in front of where he sat, hands still massaging this temple.

“Would you like to look?” he asked. Molly nodded, though only after a moment. Caleb pulled out a hand mirror, as though he knew that he couldn't turn to look at himself in the large one hanging above the vanity quiet yet. He took the matching ornate mirror and looked at just his horns, then to his ears, and then to his face. His horns and ears were familiar, grounding him in the memories that he felt were just yesterday. They gave him considerable relief compared to the reflections he had caught earlier, that looked nothing like him, but that of Lucien.

It was when he got to his actual face, did he feel the weight of sorrow again. It was still him, of course, but his hair was long and the curls greasy were uncared for. His lips were wind chapped and cracking. The hallows of his cheeks were more pronounced. It was only then that Molly realized how much weight he had lost, his already slender frame now reduced to just what was necessary. It was obvious that Lucien had not cared for his body, not with good food or consideration for its frame.

Molly tried not to let the disappointment show, because the jewelry really had help, and he appreciated Caleb’s sweetness, but there was still a part of him that was missing, hollow. Try as he might, Caleb apparently had the gods on his side.

“Not enough, ja? That is alright, give me just another moment.”

Molly didn't know how this man knew what was going on in his head, especially when he had only spoken a half a dozen or so sentences since entering this magical room. All the same, Caleb rose from his knees and crossed the room where a thick silk rope hung, and pulled on it twice. He couldn't hear what the other man said, but it was brief, and then Caleb was back his side, opening drawers again.

“I will admit, I do not know your preferences, but these are the cosmetics that Jester prefered, I only altered them to what I thought you might have enjoyed.” Molly chose to ignore the past tense, especially when Caleb pulled out several different vials of hydrating oils, scented balms for blisters, and …. A beautiful array of gold tinted make-up.

“God’s, Caleb! How much did you spend on this?!” Molly couldn’t help admonish while admiring a glistening jar of lavender body oil.

“Nothing but my imagination.” Caleb supplied, as though it was the most natural answer in the world. Catching Molly’s confusion, he continued. “This is actually a demiplane, it only lasts for 24 hours, and you can not take out what you did not bring in other than what you consume.” Caleb looked apologetic, as though that wasn’t work that only Gods should be able to do. “So while you may wear anything you want while you are here, unfortunately if it is made of magic, it won't survive outside of the tower’s walls.” Molly didn’t care, it was grateful just the same for what Caleb was giving him. The wizard handed him a balm for his lips, and opened another drawer and pulled out a delicate-looking comb.

“There is a bath on the other side of the dresser, if you have the energy for that. I am sure Jester would be willing to cut your hair, if you would like. But how about I comb it out first, and you can decide if you want that later?” Caleb’s offer warmed him, so he nodded and let the man comb through the knots of his hair, while Molly took advantage of the balms and lotion. They worked in comfortable silence for several moments. Caleb was careful and calm, relaxing Molly enough that he felt is eyes fall closed again, but this time to just sit and feel the small touches of fingers on his scalp and running through his hair. It wasn’t until he felt a small tap, that he looked and saw a cat he’d never met, somehow holding a bowl of fruits and bread and a large glass of water.

“Ah yes. Thank you.” Caleb took the bowl and set it on the table next to Molly. “If you are hungry. But please, drink this.” The glass of water was pressed into his hands, and Molly readily gulped most of it down. “If you need anything, do not be afraid to ask. The cats will bring you what you need.” How that was possible, was beyond him. But he had also been bitten by a wessel that was also apparently a god, so anything could be possible then.

Molly took a few of the grapes, and let himself relax again as Caleb finished with his hair.

“I am done. Does that feel better?” Caleb asked, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to look again. He did anyways, in the larger mirror on the wall, and was pleasantly surprised. His skin was still a bit pale, but no longer ashy with lack of moisture. He did even mind the longer hair, now that Caleb had worked out the tangles, the longer curls falling past his shoulders. He wondered if Yasha would braid it around his horns. His lips even looked more like his, smoothed and shining from the balm. He pressed his fingers to them and hummed a please affirmative to Caleb.

“Good, would you like me to call fetch Yasha for you?”

Yes. He missed her terribly, it felt like it was just yesterday that he had been terrified about how she was because she had been taken from him by slavers. But he still wasn’t quite ready to confront that.

“In a bit, stay with me?” Molly couldn’t read Caleb’s expression, it was a mixture of surprise and warmth. He didn’t say anything, but followed him to sit on the edge of the ridiculous bed. Caleb seemed to be looking to Molly for clues of what to do, so Molly sat close and rested his cheek on the wizard's shoulder. When he didn't flinch, or stiffen like Molly would have expected, he took it as a sign that this was ok. His tail wrapped lazily around Caleb’s ankle, and he drew little patterns on Molly’s knee. They stayed like that for only gods know how long, in comfortable silence, letting the tiefling clear out his mind from all the clutter and noise the day brought. He was beginning to feel like he could maybe, possibly, start process the day’s emotions.

[whumprincess]

World of Pain: Ch. 2 - Juliet Takes the Stage

Word Count: 2352 words

CW: Creepy/Intimate/Possessive Whumper, Lady Whumpee, broken bones, torture, body control/human marionette, dehumanization, death threat, begging, mild horror, True Fae

Summary: Clara learns the misfortune that falls upon anyone unlucky enough to attract the attention of a True Fae obsessed with theatre.

Related Content: Intro, Chapter 1

Clara’s wakefulness came as erratically as a skipping record. There was an unsettling tune playing in her mind, one that was both familiar and unknowable. It steadily grew louder and more intrusive with every passing second.

“Rise and shine, Juliet!”

Their speech was nothing more than a mess of music notes escaping into the air and yet she understood all the same. Her vision was blurry as her eyes fluttered open.

“My, my, how precious.”

She felt woozy and captivated with every… word. However, even amidst her haziness, it was abundantly clear that something was wrong. Horror sank deep into her body when her eyes focused on thin, translucent wires wound taut around her flesh. Instinctively, she fought against her bonds only to be interrupted by an aggravating pitch she just knew was a laugh.

“And such fun too!”

“FUN?!” Her voice pierced the air, addressing the presence that seemed to be simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“About you, Juliet!” The strings entangling her shifted to prop her up onto her feet and then concentrated around her elbows and knees. “Most of them don’t notice until…”

The sound of snapping harp strings accompanied the sensation of snapping bones. In an instant Clara lamented every object she had ever broken. The screech that left her lips was impossibly loud and pathetically quiet.

“Ah, such a beautiful song.”

Her joints gave way, but she remain standing. A delicate thread slowly creeped its way under her chin.

”Now… let’s take a look at your pretty face.”

Gently, her anguished expression was directed upwards. She nearly drowned in her own tears as she came face to faces with an abomination of reality.

“Perfection.”

This wasn’t happening… it couldn’t be happening! What she was looking at wasn’t even possible. The only way she could interpret it was as three large masks that didn’t fit in her field of vision, made up of an ever-shifting number of eyes. Their eyes conveyed emotion by warping smaller ones into crescent brows. Each face was connected to a large smile that resembled a harp… or perhaps it was the other way around? The “teeth” were the very same wires that were holding her up. She had wanted to refute its existence, to tell it to burn in hell, but every time she opened her mouth her voice was replaced by cries.

“Still conscious and singing? You must be trying to impress us!”

Clara’s anger overrode her pain and fear, “I-!”

“Oh?”

The eldritch horror reeled her in, eagerly awaiting her response. She was lost in their presence, but made found by the countless amount of eyes that gazed upon her. The need to breakdown was immense, but she fought it with the entirety of her will.

“PUT ME DOWN!”

Their screeching laughter nearly made her pass-out, “Now why would we do that? You can’t even move without us!”

“I DON’T CARE!”

“Now don’t be cruel.” They let out a sorrowful note.

“CRUEL!?” Surely even in this godforsaken place irony must exist.

“We went through all this trouble to welcome you home. You should be grateful to be ours.”

The mere insinuation made her blood boil, “I AM NOT YOURS!”

“Of course you are!”

“I DIDN’T AGREE TO THIS!”

“Agree? You say the cutest things!” Their smile extended beyond their faces. “Surely you understand a plaything has no say over who owns them.”

The weight of their words sat heavy on her broken bones. She was preparing to retort, when they abruptly gave each of their cords a twist. Agony once again robbed her of her words and forced screams out of her throat.  

“We knew you’d understand, Juliet! Now, let’s get you ready!”

Clara must’ve succumbed to her overwhelming torment because the next thing she knew she was in what appeared to be an extravagant dressing room. Her earlier memories started to trickle back in causing her to panic. She jolted forward, attempting to escape, only to be met with the harsh reminder that her limbs were no longer hers to control.

The melody of her wail put them at ease, “Good, you’re finally awake! We were worried you’d be late for the show.”

The pounding of her aching body was ear-splitting; she shouldn’t have been able to hear that monstrosity as clearly as she did… there truly was little mercy in the world. Obstinately, she endured the rush of queasiness that threatened to send her back to sleep. She had to collect herself, she had to show them she would not be toyed with!

“What the hell do you mean: show?”

“Come now, Juliet, don’t be silly! It’s the reason you’re here.”

She was confused for merely a moment, before she caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. In the glass she saw reflected her fragile frame strung up and decorated like some hapless marionette. Her heart plummeted as she fought the invading realization, “No!”

“Yes!” They responded, all their eyes lighting up with joy.

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh, Juliet,” they sighed. “You’re so eager to make things difficult.” They puppeted her towards the mirror, ensuring they were visible right behind her. “You’re forgetting…” Their tone was low and accompanied by strings coiling around her neck, “we’re the ones who run the show.”

Her heart was beating like a hammer, she couldn’t run even if she wanted to. As her mortified eyes stared into their soulless ones she recognized death was as close as she wanted it to be. “I-“ She considered her next words more carefully than her outfits, “I don’t know the script.”

Their amusement echoed throughout the space, “Of course you do!” They spun her around and waltzed her across the room to where a script lie on a table. “Go ahead, pick it up!”

They extended her arm towards Romeo and Juliet. For whatever bizarre reason, whenever this thing moved her around there was no pain; in fact it was almost soothing. With a scowl, she took the paper in her hands and flipped through it. Surely there must be some sort of demented twist. It came as a complete shock when, not only did this appear to be an ordinary telling of the story, but she also did indeed know all of Juliet’s lines flawlessly.

“How?” her question was halfway amongst demanding and disbelief.

“I’ve known you a long time, Juliet…” They moved a string to rest on her shoulder. They delighted in the vibrations of her shudder, “You were made for this role.”

She felt lightheaded. She was stuck between wanting to pry for further answers and wishing she had never asked in the first place. However, one thing was for certain: All this stress would not be good for her performance.

“When is the show?”

“Whenever we want it to be.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their smug attitude, “Well then, could I persuade you to postpone indefinitely?”

They gave a deep chuckle as they caressed either side of her face with their cords, “Careful, Juliet.” They ominously inched closer to her pupils, “It would be a shame if we had to hold your pretty eyes in place too.”

Reflexively, she shut her eyes tight. She wanted this villain to touch her as little as possible, which was already a challenge considering they hadn’t let go of her since she arrived at this horrid place. “Right, well…” she cleared her throat, “What time suits you?”

Pleased with her change in demeanour, they rearranged their strings to maneuver her towards an ornate door. “Immediately.”

She had a sinking feeling that’s what they would say.

The stage was hotter than hell and the audience looked like they belonged there. Beings appearing even more sinister than her captor were among the crowd, fervently awaiting to witness a show, where she could only assume, no one was a willing participant. She felt sick considering she could be connected to all the other actors on stage via that thing. Her vindictive urge to ruin this damned play boiled to the surface, but before she could indulge it, its voice filled the auditorium.

“Fair folk and accompanying unfair folk, we thank you for coming to the greatest show in Arcadia!”

Cheering erupted from the crowd and in an instant Clara was reminded of home; her real home up on stage, where she was revered and she could do no wrong. A home where the applause harmonized so perfectly with the rhythm of her heart, she knew it belonged solely to her. Her instincts as an actress took over; she was determined to get her praise.

And she did.

Her performance was immaculate. Every line spoken from her soft, tantalising lips was angelic; every movement she was forced to complete was made her own by the flourishes of her fingertips and fluttering of her eyelashes; every minute she spent in the spotlight was blessed by her poise and passion. By the end of the show, she had undoubtedly earned the standing ovation offered by the cursed spectators. She fell so deep into the sound, the fame, the adoration that it was all she could remember, all she could dream of until…

They could never possibly tire of the sweet refrain of Juliet’s cries. As much as they loved seeing her be their perfect little puppet they were overcome with fondness whenever she writhed for them. They had waited with anticipation for the inevitable reminder that their kindness was a gift they had graciously given to her; one that could be easily taken away.

She didn’t even believe she was the one making those mangled shrieks until the unrelenting pain tore her from her dreams. All too vividly, she felt the twisting and turning of her bones as they attempted to fuse with something that was not her own. When she clamped her eyes shut, an intense image of thorny vines drilling deep into her flesh filled her mind. She watched as it scraped the length of her bones and spread out to contort around her broken parts.

“What’s the matter, Juliet?” They asked, teeming with glee.

As its sound danced its way inside her head, she attempted to close them out- to pretend she couldn’t hear them, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling of infinite eyes leering at her; making a spectacle of her suffering. She felt exposed. Exploited. Violated.

Overindulging their enjoyment, they pried her dripping eyes open, “Let us see those pretty eyes!”

She was utterly helpless as her last semblance of control was ripped away. Gawking at her nightmare, reality set in like cement: there was no escape. The violent convulsions of her healing body were the only means of protest she had left.

“Aw,” they cooed with mocking sympathy, “Is it too much for our plaything to take?”

Defiance mixed in with all the other hellish sensations housed within her. Her weak voice was dragged out of hiding, “N-o…”

“Hm, what was that? We couldn’t quite hear you.”

With all the energy she had left she shouted, “NO!”

“BRAVO! SPLENDID!” They played a congratulatory tune as they lifted her off the ground. “You can still sing!” They twirled and tossed her around from string to string until she was chaotically ensnared. “That means we can hear what we want.”

Being thrown around like some ragdoll should have aggravated her wounds, but it didn’t. Just like when she was performing, being connected to their cords brought her peace. Betraying her desire to flee from her tormentor, she let out a pleasant sigh of relief.

“There’s our Juliet.” They mused softly.

Although she was undeniably in less pain, she was sick to her stomach. The thought that it had any claim over her was revolting. She was seconds away from ordering it to unhand her before fear told her to hold her breath.

“Is there something you want to say?” They urged deviously.

She bit her tongue until it bled, maintaining a hateful glare. It was excruciatingly obvious they wanted her to lash out, to expel curses that would be used against her, so she practiced a new form of rebellion: silence.

“No? Just as well. It’s important you listen to what we have to say.” They intentionally began to rub their wires over her tender joints. “We have spoiled you, Juliet; Chosen to show you kindness without so much as asking for a please or thank you, however…” Without warning, they applied pressure, “We think it’s time you begged for our mercy.”

Unable to restrain herself, she spat blood and vitriol, “OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

Euphoric at her response, they cackled while jostling her around. Eventually, nothing but a single strand of string remained, precariously wrapped around her slender ankle. “That can be arranged!”

Vertigo set in as she faced the threat of plummeting to her death. Unfortunately, it wasn’t strong enough to overshadow the pain that impatiently returned to occupy its natural place in her body.

“So what will be?” They asked with a tightly strung note, “Would you rather beg or die?”

Just when she thought she might accept death, a pining voice resounded inside her mind:

“I’ll miss you, Doll.”

Why? In this world, where she was reduced to nothing more than an object; where she was certain to be subject to more misery; where there was no hope of escape; did she hear her? And why, oh why, did it fill her with such melancholy resolve?

With a heart torn more viciously than any part of her she sobbed, “Please…”

She remembered the brightness of her hair.

“I’ll do anything…”

The inviting hue of her eyes.

“Anything for you…”

The allure of her smile.

“So please…”

The warmth of her hands.

“Let me live!” Her desperation came to a crescendo. By the end of her pleading, she found herself enveloped in the villain’s embrace.

“Oh, Juliet.” They played with the red locks of her hair, “We didn’t know you loved us so.” They gently squeezed every cord surrounding her, “How could we ever let you go?”

[joonsmagicstudio]

Meet Me Where The Waves Touches The Sky: funny things happen i guess? (V)

Note: I put a keep reading break but I am unsure if it is working, if there is no keep reading link then please let me know! I do not wish to bother anyone with long posts.

Story Description: We all have our issues, but some of us are sub-consciously pushing it away without realizing how deep under water we are. You don't realize the things around you aren't what used to be until you meet a celebrity struggling to live. Like the hypocrite you are, you help others without helping yourself first. But no one told you about helping others gives you this exhilarating feeling of being a saint. So for how long are you going to keep being a saint in a doctor's coat?

Genre: Angst, fluff (if you squint) and smut.

Pairing: You x Namjoon

Trigger Warning: It revolves heavily around suicide, depression and death. Please don’t read it if it is a sensitive topic for you. Also keep in mind it isn’t like ‘13 reasons why’. It takes place in more of an adult setting hence mature. It also has mature (+18) scene, alcohol consumption and occasional use of foul language hehe.

I am writing about suicide, death and depression not because I romanticize it or engage in it for others to partake. It is strictly for the purpose of writing a story to convey a message beyond these three words.

Story masterlist is here: MMWTWTTS

Ever since you clocked in for a night shift, working didn't help. Not even the recent news of Jungha's death was able to get your head out of the thoughts of your brothers. You ended up zoning out a lot, your co-workers had to keep snapping you out of your daze every time they found you staring at the hospital beds. They all brushed it off as you being slightly disturbed by Jungha's case, but that wasn't it. You just kept seeing faint and wispy images of your brother lying in a hospital bed weakly, but never failing to shoot you a bright white smile.

That infectious smile that was forever ingrained in your memories. You felt sick to your stomach that despite the fact that death was always near him, he still had it in him to smile. To be happy.

"Doctor Y/N." Wooyoung tapped your shoulder, pulling your attention to him.

"Huh-yeah? Something wrong?" You stitched your eyebrows together in concern at him.

"You are distracted today huh, I guess Jungha must have hit close to home. After all you disappeared after they were cleaning up her body." Wooyoung rested his hands on your shoulder in a comforting manner.

"Ah yes, I-I just feel that I failed to do my job." That wasn't a lie. Failure was something you didn't handle well and your failure was in the form of actual living beings rather than numbers on paper, rather than the number on the ranking for accomplishing something, rather than the finished products for presentation or others.

"I get that Y/N, but it's unlike you. In the past few years of knowing you, this is the most emotion I have ever seen from you," He breaks into a small fit of chuckles and a wide smile, "it's unusual, we are all used to seeing you have a stone-faced expression Y/N and I honestly feel that despite the situation being a grim one, it's a small improvement."

You knew Wooyoung meant well, but your expression of pain wasn't a means of improvement, it meant that you were going to reinforce the wall a bit more now. To you, there was no need for other people to read into you and know you, especially the traits that you particularly disliked to show.

"Why not just stay at home though? Take some time off? Plus my shift is ending soon." Wooyoung asked as he retracted his hands from your shoulder.

"Didn't feel like it, I don't mind working a bit more though. It keeps my mind off things I don't want to dwell in." You shrugged your shoulders. "I'll be in my office then. See you." You hurriedly turned around leaving him stranded in the hallway, you didn't feel like talking to him anymore and you felt guilty over that. You pushed the doors open to your office widely to step in, letting the door swing shut behind you and welcomed the lavender scented air that you had purposely placed there for it's soothing properties and to ensure your patients could ease a bit in the room.

Without hesitation, you strode over to your desk and stood in front of the desk, your palms pressed flat against your desk to support your upper body weight that was hunched over it. Your eyes were shut tight and lips were pressed against each other tightly as loose wisp of your hair hung over your forehead lightly. The only sound that was heard in the room was the soft humming of the ventilators fixed overhead in the ceiling. You really wished you could go back into time to change a few things, maybe notice some more things and maybe just implemented action then and there only. Maybe not realize things too late, or maybe just-just be a better person.

It all started with him, your eldest brother after all.

〰️ 💠 〰️

A few days had passed by, you managed to curb the thoughts of your brothers by throwing yourself into work and Namjoon had come by your place once again and the two of you were sitting on the couch in your living room in silence. Audible clicking sounds of the keyboard from your laptop and occasional sipping sounds from Namjoon's steaming hot cup of tea resonated in the room. Nothing much changed except that Namjoon kept asking you questions, questions about yourself and every single time you managed to dodge them or monotonously answer it, until he struck a chord with one particular question.

"Are you in touch with your family?"

It was a seemingly innocent question, but it bothered you.

"Can you stop fucking asking questions about myself?" You stilled for a second, before continuing to type away at your laptop, updating the information on the recent patients you interacted with recently in your office.

Namjoon was a bit taken aback by your reply, you had cursed at him. He knew instantly that family was a touchy topic for you and backed off knowing that it was probably the best if he stopped asking questions for now. This made him gain a small understanding of why there were no pictures in the house, it was because you weren't on good terms with them, well that's what he had assumed.

The guilt started eating you away the moment when you swore at him for asking a simple question and you couldn't take it any longer considering you were a person who cared so much about what other people thought since it was literally your job to do so.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to swear at you Namjoon", you closed your laptop and pushed it to the side of your lap to give him your undivided attention. "It's just that I don't like being questioned nor do I like talking about myself."

Namjoon silently nodded, eyes trained on you as he sipped slowly on his cup of tea.

"As for my family, yes, I am in touch with them. I've got 2 brothers, I just don't live with them. They live in a house on the outskirts of Busan. I visit them when I have the time." You felt that at least giving an answer to the last question would compensate for your inappropriate outburst at Namjoon.

"Oh, that's nice." That new information almost immediately squashed the idea in Namjoon's of you being on bad terms with your family members. Namjoon didn't know what else to say because he was a little too scared to proceed with the conversation with you. You sensed that, so you decided to ask him.

"What about your family?"

"M-my family?" He sputtered on his tea, he hadn't expected you to keep the conversation going on, "Well they are good, I've got a younger sister. I just haven't been in much contact with them because I'm busy lately and I-"

"You are a celebrity, it's understandable. I'm sure they will understand why you couldn't visit them." You interrupted him, every celebrity you've encountered had a more or less similar issue, family. At least they had a family waiting for them.

"Yeah, you are right. I hope they do." Namjoon looked down in his cup of tea, his shoulders sinking in. You made a mental note to yourself that his family was also playing a role in his stress lately.

"Is there any issue other than distance and lack of time with your family?" You asked, tilting your head slightly at him.

"Well, not really, I just feel guilty for not spending time with them." Namjoon mumbled his reply.

"You should go to them, kind of obvious but what you are missing is the actual confirmation from their mouth that they understand you that you can't visit them." Namjoon looked up at you at last, setting his tea in his lap, "Correct me if I am wrong but you haven't spoken about this with your family, you haven't told them that you were really busy nor have you heard from them that it's okay and they understand it?"

Namjoon couldn't help but let out a painful chuckle, you had hit a dead spot-on the cause of his troubles. He hadn't realized that he never heard it for himself from his family that it was okay and you had made him realize that right now. You took his painful chuckles as a yes.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to pay them a small visit today Namjoon." You stood up and grabbed his mug after glancing to see if it was empty and took it to the kitchen, leaving him to dwell in his own thoughts and on your words.

"Would you come with me?"

You whipped around. You were surprised to hear him ask for your accompaniment but didn't show it on your face, "Me to come to visit your parents?" You repeated what he had said to double-check if he asked correctly.

"I mean you don't have to but it would give me some kind of support I guess."

You pondered over it, torn between going so you could give him some support or that you should stay behind and let him do it independently. The latter is what a therapist would have done and you decided to go against that. But then you already violated the rules since the beginning and no one noticed. By now you didn't know how many rules had you bent and broken.

"Sure, if it helps you." You shrugged your shoulders.

〰️ 💠 〰️

You had offered to drive the two of you to his home in Seoul, it wasn't too far and plus going by train would be difficult since he's the celebrity. Your car wasn't too bad considering you earned a lot as a psychiatrist in the hospital and of course you worked over time with intentions of earning more so you weren't too embarrassed or affected by taking a celebrity in your car.

The ride to his place was fairly quiet except for soft music playing over the radio and the constant hum of the engine and roadway noise. You glanced occasionally at Namjoon, he simply was fixated on staring outside the window, watching everything pass by him fast. He was busy in his own thoughts and you didn't want to disturb him so you let him be until the two of you pulled up by his house.

"Ready?" You unbuckled your seat after switching off the engine. There wasn't any audible response except for a small nod. It wasn't a confident nod. You were quick to react upon that.

"Namjoon, if you aren't ready, no worries we can go home. You can always do this next time when you are more confident."

"No it's fine, I'd much rather get it done now than to keep pushing it. It'll give me proper relief as you had said." Namjoon replied back meekly, as if he was trying to gather the courage for himself.

"Alright, that's good, listen, it'll be difficult but I'm here alright? Do you want me to come inside or wait here?" You rested your hands on his shoulder in a reassuring manner, you didn't want to make him feel pressured nor forced. That generally never worked out well.

"Well, just walk me to the door, you don't need to come inside." He opened the car door and stood outside in the cold, fresh air of Seoul, taking in a huge breath and exhaled sharply. You followed his actions too and locked the car before shoving your hands along with the key in the pockets of your coat.

"That I can do." You gave him a small smile and walked towards the wooden door of his parent's place, the front yard of the house was decorated with bunches of small flowers such as petunias and some unknown generic colourful plants you saw everywhere but never knew what it was called and the small patches of grasses were well trimmed. When you stood in front of the door, you didn't press the doorbell but instead you urged Namjoon to take the initiative. After all he was the one that needed to talk to them, not you.

Few seconds upon ringing the doorbell, an older woman with an apron tied around opened the door, this was unmistakably Namjoon's mother as you saw her. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth stretched into a motherly smile in a fraction of seconds she set her eyes on her son, Namjoon. Anyone could see that she loved her son dearly. All mothers would for their child, with of course some exceptions.

"Namjoon-ah, what brings you here my son?" She lets go of the door handle and takes a step towards Namjoon to bring his face in her hands, she didn't notice you nor greet you but that didn't bother you since it meant that she hadn't seen her son in ages. Namjoon didn't respond but kept looking at his mother, he was slowly losing his courage to actually have the talk with his mother, so you decided to leave him with no choice but to just do it.

"Mrs. Kim, it's a pleasure meeting you." You bowed slightly and pulled out your hand from your coat pocket to greet her, "I'm Namjoon's psychiatrist and I came with him today so that he could talk to you about some things that have been bothering him lately. I thought it would be good for him and I'm sure you would also agree with me." You glanced at Namjoon briefly and he looked like a child who was uncomfortable stuck in a conversation between his parents and teacher as if he had done something bad. "I'll take my leave now and let the two of you discuss it out." You bowed again to his mother and gave Namjoon one pat on his shoulder, "I'll be in the car when you are done." You whispered before heading back to the car, leaving the mother and the son to enter the house. You hoped that Namjoon would talk about it and get it sorted out soon, it would at least mean that one issue is gone and he has got one less problem to worry about.

〰️ 💠 〰️

3 sharp knocks against the car window was good enough to snap you out of your little nap session, the sun had already set and the lamplights were glowing brightly as if they were trying to banish the darkness within the area. Just how long had it been since Namjoon entered his house?

You looked out the passenger window to find Namjoon smiling in a more carefree manner, the talk must have gone well. You couldn't help but smile back too and unlock the car door for him to enter.

"I take it that it went well with your parents?" You watched him buckle up and set a white plastic bag comfortably on his lap.

"It did, thank you Y/N. I really needed that and you made me realize it. They understood my situation and said it themselves that it was okay." He spoke happily like a 6 year old telling their mom what happened at school today.

"That's good to hear. What's with the bag though?" You asked as you pulled out onto the streets leading back to the highway.

"Ah, this? Well, my mom was just a little bit concerned about me not eating properly so she made me take some packed home-made food for the dorm and our members. That's why it took so long because she prepared everything from scratch. I hope it didn't cause you any inconvenience." He patted the bag softly.

"Nonsense, getting home-made food from your mother is hardly an issue." You replied back monotonously. Things like this didn't bother you much since at the end of the day you knew that Namjoon would go back home feeling better, that's all that really mattered.

"My mother also made you something small, I didn't know what you liked so she packed a small box of Kimchi for you. Kimchi is her specialty so I hope you'll like it."

"That's-that's really sweet of your mother. Please do tell her thanks from me then." You were rendered silent for a second, you never really had home-made food since your parents passed away, all you ever ate was crappy ramen that Seonghwa made or just some convenience store packed meal. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence for the rest of the car-ride.

Later in the night, Namjoon bid you goodbye and headed off to his dorm, the small box of Kimchi laid on the seat where he sat moments ago looking cold and almost sad.

You didn't feel like eating it and that felt like being the biggest asshole on earth.

Back at the flat, you contemplated what you were going to with a small box of Kimchi. The food couldn't go to waste so you put the kimchi in a disposable box at the apartment and left Namjoon's box by the sink to wash and return. What were you doing to do with the disposable box of kimchi? You were going to give to someone you thought was more deserving of it than you were. The homeless, the ones who were struggling to get some food to eat..

The disposable box with the kimchi with a heapful serving of rice from your flat was later on given to one of the homeless person living in a poverty ridden area of Seoul. You normally would feel a small sense of gratitude for giving a homeless person a small side-dish to eat but you felt even worse, maybe because you were essentially giving away a home-made food made by a mother with care and love for you only, to someone else.

You definitely didn't deserve any home-made food.

〰️ 💠 〰️

Despite seeing Namjoon a few days ago regarding the parent issues, your mind was still occupied by what more problems you could find within Namjoon. You wanted to fix him as much as you could even though he wasn't officially your patient. You were unintentionally giving him more priority over the severely ill patients but that was because you saw something familiar but new in him. Familiar as if he reminded you of someone from the past and new because it was a different person, different face, different status in the society.

You knew for sure he had a camera issue, splitting his celebrity persona from the real persona. He had issues with his fans in terms of just wanting to go out and not getting bombarded by flocks of fans, but that one was something you couldn't do much about, it was inevitable, it was something that came with the package of being a celebrity.

You were distractedly looking through your schedule for the following patients in the next few days on your laptop. Your chin rested in your left palm as you hunched over the table and mindlessly kept scrolling through until a soft vibration pulled you out of your thoughts about Namjoon, a notification popped up on the screen, it was from your brother, Hongjoong.

'Wanna come over for a night? I know you have work tomorrow, but let's spend some time tonight!'

You rolled your eyes at the message, he knew that you still had work tomorrow and even going by a high-speed train, it would take approximately 3 hours, however your first patient tomorrow doesn't come until 11 AM...It seems possible to go. It's been a while since you had dinner with him anyways. It was 4:30 PM right now, so you grabbed your coat off the coat hanger and bags in a haste, the soonest train you could catch was at 4:50 PM.

'Alright Joongie, but I leave at 7 AM sharp.'

You sent a quick message before boarding the train, you managed to buy the tickets in a nick of time so you were a little out of breath. It didn't take you too long to find a seat by the window and sit down before the train started. Few seconds later, your phone vibrated, that must Hongjoong you thought.

'Yes! I'm so happy my lil sis is coming for dinner at last! Shall I make your favourite ramen?'

You chuckled softly, the two of you had a small ongoing joke over instant ramen, more specifically Seonghwa's ramen.

'Haha very funny, I still want Seonghwa's ramen.'

'Eyy how could you like that ramen? He keeps forgetting to put the flavour while the water is boiling, not when everything is done!'

'Crappy Seonghwa's ramen still is the best!'

'Alright alright, I guess we will be eating some take-out tonight.'

'Huh? Seonghwa isn't home yet?"

'Nope, this idiot is working overtime.'

'Again...?'

You sighed disappointedly, and sent back another text confirming the plans the two of you had made.

'Alright, I'll be home at 8 PM!'

With that note you tucked your phone away and laid back in the train seat, the headphones over your ear playing music loud enough to drown the soft chattering of other passengers and the rumble of the engine working at high speed. Staring outside the window as the scenery blended into one constantly changing motion picture that made you feel that you were breezing through life without ever having some sort of control over it.

〰️ 💠 〰️

The salty aroma of soy sauce along with familiar grease in the chinese take-out and the sounds of soft creaky wooden floorboards welcomed you home in Busan.

"Y/N! Is that you?" Hongjoong head stuck out from the living room door.

"No, it's me, God." You dropped your bag and coat to the side of the entrance hallway.

"That is so overused and not funny anymore." Hongjoong warmly smiled and walked up to you to engulf you in a warm bear hug. You sighed contentedly, closing your eyes and snuggled your head into the crook of his neck, "How have you been Y/N?" Hongjoong asked, softly caressing the back of your head before pulling away.

"Just so-so Joongie." You wrapped your arms around his arm as the two of you headed towards the living room where a considerably large-sized plastic bag laid atop of the table, containing all sorts of Chinese take-out Hongjoong chose.

"Well, I'm sure it will get better, whatever is bothering you, it'll go away eventually." Hongjoong handed you a pair of chopsticks as he pulled out few boxes of noodles.

"I guess so, like you for example, you are recovering now." You fell back into the couch in the living room and took the first bite out of the noodles. Hongjoong too sat down and opened up his take-out box, "Yeah I guess, I am recovering, the cancer is gone now." He swirled his chopstick in the box of the noodles, not taking a bite yet. That went unnoticed by you as you were too busy inhaling the noodles, after all travelling made you incredibly famished sometimes or maybe just eating with the family was better than eating alone.

"But, aside from that. Something else is bothering me." You stated, mouthful of noodles which made you look like a chipmunk for a moment.

"What is?" Hongjoong rose one of his eyebrows at you, urging you to proceed with what was bothering you.

"It's Seonghwa, Joongie."

"Not this again, you know Seong-" Hongjoong sighed sharply as his mouth opened slightly, tilting his head in a full circle before he took a good look at you.

"No, I mean like I am working now, I am earning well. I am able to support all of you aren't I? So why won't he just stop working?" You set down the empty box of the noodles and set the chopstick next to it on the table.

"Y/N, Seonghwa wants to work, let him-"

"Why? There is absolutely no sense in him working his ass off when he could have gone to University ages ago! It's been several years and he keeps working part-time, even when you got better and I started working." You interrupted your brother, you rarely interrupted your brother but this time it was getting ridiculous to hear Hongjoong constantly defend your elder brother over this matter. You guys have had arguments this many times and it always was Hongjoong defending Seonghwa. You couldn't quite grasp the idea of your eldest brother constantly over-working despite things being financially fine now.

"He should have gone and completed his university, it was his dream to become a nine-to-five office worker. He had that chance and now it's too late, you too, I finished university and the two of you could still apply for late admission." You were borderline spitting words at your brother, watching him become uneasy at your anger, it wasn't like you to get angry anyways.

"What is done is done Y/N. Just let it be. Maybe he likes working these kinds of jobs more than doing office work." He sighed, shoulders slumping down. You had nothing to say anymore, he still kept defending him for continuously working and you gave up. At least you respected his determination and tenacity to constantly defend Seonghwa.

The two of you sat in an uncomfortable silence that had steeped in after your small burst out. You glanced at his uneaten, now cold box of noodles, "Aren't you going to eat? You still need to eat Hongjoong."

Hongjoong simply closed the take-out box and pushed it further away from him on the table, "Look Y/N, I just wanted to have one simple dinner with you. No arguments or anything, but that seems too difficult for you I guess. I'm not that hungry anyways, the chemo messed up my appetite these days." Hongjoong stood up, clenching his teeth slightly in disappointment at you as his eyes bore tiredly into your head.

"I understand Joongie," You tried using his nickname to coax him a bit, to soften the atmosphere you had ruined, "Please at least eat something, I get it the chemo messed you up, but you are getting skinnier even though the chemo is over now. You are much more skinnier than I saw you last time. You need a bit of food in your system."

"You see, the way you are supporting and helping me, why don't you do the same for Seonghwa huh? Why not go visit his workplace and check on him, or see if he is eating well instead of coming here and ruining some time together by ranting about the past?" This time it was Hongjoong's turn to get angry. You were rendered silent by his words, you didn't say anything back because deep down, you knew he was right. As a sister, you should have at least been supportive of what Seonghwa is doing and at least check up on him whenever you were in the area.

"I'm off to bed. Sleep or go home, I don't care. Do whatever you want." With that, Hongjoong turn on his heels and walked back to his room in a solemn manner. The sounds of the creaky wooden floorboards got farther and farther away until you heard the door close, effectively ending the noise from the floorboards.

Guilt and regret coursed through your body as you gingerly cleared the food and chopsticks away to avoid disturbing Hongjoong from whatever he may be doing in his room. Then a small, but clear sound of light clicking off told you that he went to bed, without wishing you a goodnight. That hurt deeply even though it wasn't anything major.

〰️ 💠 〰️

You laid in your bed of your old bedroom in that house in the darkness, constantly shifting due to restlessness and uneasiness of today's conversation between Hongjoong plaguing your mind. If you had kept your mouth shut and enjoyed the meal, chattered about useless and miniscule stuff, maybe then the two of you could have been watching a movie together late in the night to wait for Seonghwa to come back home so it would haven't ended everything so abruptly. Your throat had gone dry from being awake for hours and a pounding headache came like an unwanted guest, so you went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

"Y/N?" A familiar husky voice called out your name, it was undeniably Seonghwa. Why was he back home at 4 or 5 am? Well, when is he not back at that time.

"Seonghwa, you came? Why so late though?" You turned around, gulping down the glass of cold water which quenched your dry throat.

"The convenience store, my shift was till 4 am." He walked up the sink and stood by your side to fill up a glass of water for himself.

The need to ask him why was he still continuously working so late built up again, you didn't want to upset him, especially when he came late and is definitely dead tired.

"You want to ask me something Y/N. Go ahead, I can feel it whenever you want to ask, there's no point keeping it to yourself." Seonghwa braced himself mentally, he had a gist of what you were planning to ask him, it was pretty much the elephant in the room, one way or the other, someone was going to have to address it. It would be more surprising to Seonghwa if you didn't ask about it.

"Why do you still keep working, that too ridiculously late when I can do this for all of you?" You blurted out, eyeing Seonghwa cautiously for any signs of irritation. Only thing you picked up was a deep and long sigh.

"I've told you before, I want to keep doing this. I want to keep earning for all of us."

"But I am earning now, you could have gone back to university and have gotten that job you have always wanted." You mused, you still hadn't grasped why he kept doing this, it seemed completely inconvenient to you.

"I get that, it's logical to you, but I don't mind doing this. I like doing this Y/N. I like working various activities till I am exhausted."

"So, you like this better than the office job?" You asked hesitantly, you weren't so keen on accepting his reply as an answer to his actions.

"Yes, I do Y/N. Funny things happen I guess. Just leave it for now, will you?" Seonghwa patted your head, much more half-heartedly than he used to a few years ago and more out of habit, initially that bothered you but then you eventually accepted it. It seemed like this was the best you were going to get for a long time now that the relationship between the two of you had soured beyond repair. It wasn't just the issue of him working late that got in the way of the two of you, there was so much more that had yet to be resolved.

With that, you were left alone in the kitchen, in the darkness. Sounds of the creaky floorboard faded away just like Hongjoong and the door closing ended it all.

Well that family reunion went well.

[queencarolinemikaelson]

Rootless Tree II

Hello lovers, here is a short second part to a drabble I wrote for a fandom event I think in April! Hope you like! You can read part one on AO3, FF, or here! 

/

Fifteen Years Later

Klaus was in a bar. It wasn’t a particularly uncommon occurrence for him, but he usually wasn’t completely alone, as he was that day.

He finished work, some meaningless hours before, and joined a couple of colleagues for an after work drink.

When they left for their homes, he stayed; waiting at his home was more of the same melancholy loneliness that had been nipping at his insides for a few months now.

He wasn’t there to drown his sorrows, by any means; he wasn’t particularly sorrowful for anything. Nor had he been having a rough trot of it. But the fact of the matter was he was staring down the barrel of thirty-five, and he wasn’t all together too sure what he had to show for it.

He had a family and group of friends who loved him – he was lucky. A well-paying, rewarding job – better than many around him. A house – check. With a mortgage – double check.

He had nearly all of the things a thirty-five-year-old should have, he supposed.

But Klaus was not a naïve man. He knew for all his bluster over the years about singlehood, he did want someone to share his life with.

His baby sister was to be married in a few months, and then it would be just him and his 21-year-old brother who were unmarried. Even Kol was tied by the ring finger to someone, and he barely stood still long enough to brush his teeth.

And it was fine, of course it was fine, but on that day, in that moment, Klaus knew he wanted something more.

Something real.

As he called for another drink, a smattering of applause broke his concentration on his own plight.

About an hour before, a folk singer and her guitar had become the soundtrack to Klaus’ musings. She really did have a beautiful voice, and the few lyrics he tuned in to hear were quite meaningful. Though he couldn’t see her, closeted away in a dark booth as he was.

She began speaking softly to the audience after the clapping was silent again.

“This will be my last song…” she said, a little nervously. “It was written by a truly incredible songwriter, and I strive daily to craft stories, and weave emotions the way he does.”

Klaus took a sip, and decided to tune in fully for the final song.

“I’ve been really feeling this lately,” she continued. “A lot has been happening in my life, and this song… really grounds me. Maybe because I heard it for the first time when I was still very young. Maybe because it has the kind of energy I want to convey. Maybe just because it expresses how I’m feeling. Anyway… here it is.”

The woman began to pluck her guitar strings in an effortless rhythm, and familiar notes washed into Klaus’ ears, and he could hardly believe it.

What I want from you, is empty your head

He grabbed his beer and left his booth.

But they say, be true, don’t stain your bed

He settled on a stool by the bar, and had a clear line of vision to the source of the voice.

And we do what we need to be free

And it leans on me, like a rootless tree

Klaus watched saw the light crease in the woman’s forehead as she sang through the words, and he could tell she deeply connected with what she was singing.

What I want from us, is empty our minds

He watched her fingers pick furiously, though noted how her eyes remained firmly closed the whole time. He wondered just how many times she played that song, to be so comfortable with it that she didn’t need to ever look at what she was doing.

But we fake, we fuss and fracture the times

Her voice was truly remarkable, Klaus thought, and he wished he paid more attention to her earlier in her set. 

We go blind when we needed to see

And this leans on me like a rootless

She shook her head from side to side as she played, causing her bob-length blonde hair dance around her face in such and enchanting way.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and all we’ve been through

The harsh words falling from her lips didn’t seem as wrong as he thought they might, for once again, he was struck with the emotion she was weaving into the song.

I said leave it, leave it, leave it, it’s nothing to you

He gazed on her face, still transfixed by the small crease in her brow that he noticed earlier. It signalled to him that she felt the song in the same way he did.

And if you hate me, hate me, hate me, hate me so good

It was almost liberating to know someone understood it. Someone knew what he felt so many times.

That you just let me out, let me out, let me out it’s hell what you’re around

Klaus listened in a trance for the remainder of the song, and couldn’t help but stand to applaud her when she finished.

“Thanks for coming, have a good night now,” she said, almost abashed into the microphone, before leaving the stage.

Klaus sat back down, feeling strangely empty.

He had gone to the bar that day to feel connected to something, and he found that connection. For it to be so fleeting, and for it to be now over…

He turned his back on the now empty stool where she once sat, opting instead of stare into his beer despondently.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting that way when he heard a soft voice order a glass of wine next to him. The voice was familiar enough for Klaus to glace up.

It was her.

He gave her a smile, one which she returned almost slyly.

He was a little taken aback, she had seemed far too demure to slyly smile at him.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” she said, and Klaus was suddenly awash with dread. Was he supposed to know her?

“I don’t know love, I’d say the same about you,” he said, cockily, hoping if he blustered through confidently enough he could give himself time to place her face. It was familiar, now he saw her up close he could see that, but didn’t know why.

She let out a tinkling laugh in response to his comment.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she giggled, her whole face alight.

“Is it that obviously,” he replied, grinning sheepishly.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, I think the last time we spoke I was like eleven, you played me Rootless Tree in your 1970-something Corvette!”

“Caroline?” he asked.

She nodded kindly, and took her place on the stool next to him.

“Has it honestly been fifteen years since I spoke to you?” Klaus said, bemused.

“Pretty much,” she replied.

“Time really does have a way of getting away from us all, doesn’t it?”

He tried to say it without the wistfulness he felt, but didn’t quite manage it.

“It sure does,” she replied, and Klaus was comforted to hear she too sounded wistful.

They both sat in silence for a few minutes, taking sips from their drinks, lost in their own thoughts.

“What have you been doing with yourself these past fifteen years, Mr Mikaelson?” she asked, pulling his mind away from more sombre things.

From there, the two of them began chatting away, as though they were old friends. Which really was at odds with what they really were – which was barely more than a much older brother who met his much younger sister’s friend once over a decade ago.

He shared everything from why he chose to go to law school in London, to his favourite breakfast cereal, all the way to the existential dread he had been dealing with over the past few months. She in turn told him about her career, her music, her fears of the future and everything in between.

Klaus had forgotten that, yes, it could just be instantly easy with someone. That someone could actually fully capture his attention.

He wasn’t sure what he would do when she inevitably had to go. No matter how much it felt like there was no world beyond them, the hours had marched on. How could he go back to a world where he wouldn’t see her.

“So will I see you at Bekah’s wedding?” he asked, hopefully.

Maybe she would be there, and they would dance. He could hold her, whisper into her ear, and everything would feel alright, just like it did now.

But, Caroline stiffened, her contentment dissipating, causing his heart to sink.

“I’ve been invited,” she said, simply.

Klaus turned his body so he could study her face. It was truly beautiful, but had well-covered sadness suddenly pinching at the corners of the mouth.

“Will you attend?” he probed.

She looked down into the depths her wine glass, taking a moment to answer.

“Bekah and I aren’t really as close anymore,” she said, carefully, still maintaining eye-contact with her wine glass. “I haven’t spoken to her much in the last few years.”

“Oh, really,” Klaus said. “I wasn’t aware.”

He supposed he had lived away from his family for a very long time, and of course people changed. But it stung somewhat that things couldn’t be easy, just this once.

“The two of you always seemed so close, and she and Stefan still talk about your college days often… I just assumed.”

Klaus caught an infinitesimal flinch on Caroline’s face as he mentioned Stefan, and suddenly wondered whether it was less of a losing touch between two friends, and more of a rift.

“Oh you know, life happens,” she replied, vaguely. “I feel as though I’m a bit of an obligation-invite. So I guess we’ll see how I feel on the date of RSVP.”

Caroline let out a tinkling laugh, and downed the rest of her wine, making a move to stand up.

“I better get going anyway,” she said, and it was Klaus’ turn to flinch, as he wished he never mentioned Rebekah, and that their moments together could continue. “Early morning.”

“Same here, love,” he replied, disappointment niggling at his insides.

She placed her hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze.

“It was really nice to see you, Klaus,” she said earnestly. “You gave me such an important gift back then. My music can be linked so strongly back to that car ride with you. And I think my life would look a whole lot different without it. Bye for now.”

He smiled at her, the kind of genuine smile he didn’t know whether he still had.

Their eyes locked, and for the most fleeting of moments, Klaus’ heart filled and his mind flashed through the life he could have with Caroline if things had been different, if she wasn’t his little sister’s friend, if he didn’t feel like his best years were gone, if they could be in the same place at the same time. 

“I hope to see you around, Caroline.” 

/

This is the song Caroline is singing. Listen, and love Damien Rice.

[blucmoon]

━  ☾ ⊹  ( im jaebum, cis male , he/him ) say hello to AE YONGGUK, the TWENTY SIX YEAR OLD that seems to have a lot in his hands with HIS job as a STALL OWNER, DRUMMER AND OCCASIONAL BARTENDER! beyond that, they seemed RESPONSIBLE AND TRUSTWORTHY upon first glance. i heard someone say they’re sort of EVASIVE AND INSECURE though. HE seems to live in a 4 BEDROOM HOUSE in YUNHWA, SOUTH KOREA. anything else to add? oh, yeah! he also RUNS A STALL CALLED “KODACHROME” WHERE HE TAKES PHOTOS FOR IDS, SELLS PRINTS AS WELL AS BOOKS SESSIONS FOR PHOTOSHOOTS. 

basic information

full name: ae yongguk

nickname(s): guk, yonggu (hasn’t figured out why)

age: 25

date of birth: january 6th, 1995

birthplace: seoul, south korea.

hometown: yunhwa, south korea.

current location: yunhwa, south korea.

ethnicity: asian.

nationality: korean

gender: cismale

pronouns: he / him

orientation: demiromantic, bisexual.

occupation: stall owner and drummer of a band called “crux”. sometimes he helps at his aunt’s bar in busan for some extra money.

living arrangements: house #4012, hwesakgu.

language(s) spoken: korean, english (conversational)

physical appearance

faceclaim: got7’s im jaebum “jb”

hair color: like almost everyone, he has naturally brown hair but throughout the years he’s dyed it blonde or black a couple of times. right now, it’s black and he has managed to grow it to a length he really likes below his chin. yongguk can be usually seen with his hair down and every so often he puts it up in a half updo. whenever the band has a gig, he  exerts a little more effort (even if most of the time it doesn’t pay off).

eye color: brown. (likes colored contacts every now and then)

height: 179 cm

weight: 66 kg

build: lean person, with a good muscular frame.

distinguishing characteristics: two beauty marks right next to each other on his left eyelid.

tattoos: has a full sleeve on his left arm from shoulder down to a little above his wrist and another one his right forearm.

piercings: lobe and upper lobe in both ears, anti-tragus on the left one, double helix on the right, anti-eyebrow and nose on the right side of the face (won’t ever use jewelry during the day though).

clothing style: while he’s working at the stall he has a more casual style consisting of jeans, cargos, pants, button downs, sweaters. likes layering with denim shirts, flannels, jackets, windbreakers over t-shirts, etc. mostly in earthy colors, dark reds and blues, white, gray and black. no matter what though, he will always wear long sleeves, even in the hottest summer days and never roll them up, going to these lengths just to not draw any unnecessary attention. (he’s even gotten a fair amount of rash guards for those occasions when he feels like going for a swim.)

at the bar or at gigs, he’s usually clad in all black or dark tones. sleeveless shirts or those with short sleeves are his go-to, not nearly as concerned to conceal the ink over his arms from the public eye at night. he likes to choose style and comfort when performing, thus splurging a little more on his nightly outfits rather than those he uses on the daily. leather and denim jackets, bombers, sometimes harnesses, jeans in either black or leather, boots, sneakers, muscle shirts, graphic t-shirts, shirts with the first buttons undone and rolled up sleeves in dark, rich colors. style varies from street fashion to grunge to rocker depending on how he feels.  

health

sleeping habits: goes to sleep really late but has no trouble waking up early to go to to work, though for the first couple of hours he’s awake and if he has gotten 4-5 hours only, he’d be kind of silent and unresponsive until getting that first cup of coffee. will likely nap before his shift at the bar only for an hour and a half tops.

eating habits: eats 3 - 4 times a day and gets easily hungry between meals. often seen snacking whatever he can.

exercise habits: doesn’t really exercise much constantly, but on the weekends he likes hiking or running around town.

emotional stability: 6/10

body temperature: average

addictions: none

drug use: experimentally a couple of times, hasn’t done it in a while.

alcohol use: socially, medium-high tolerance.

personality

label: the opaque (unable to be figured out; hiding behind a façade; not transparent.)

positive traits: reliable, responsible, hard-working, trustworthy, loyal, thoughtful, generous, creative, passionate, artistic, caring, considerate, devoted.

negative traits: defensive, evasive, cautious, indecisive, defiant, self-doubt, fluctuating self-esteem, conflict-averse, private, self-conscious, sensitive, unpredictable.

hobbies: starting songs he never finishes, watching the same show every year (avatar the last airbender) as well as his comfort movies, cloud/star gazing, jigsaw puzzles, origami, video games, playing guitar sometimes.

habits: knuckle cracking, muttering under his breath, snacking between meals, rubbing hands together, jaw clenching, gesturing while talking, rubbing the back of his neck, running hands through hair, drumming fingers, sings along to songs and sings gibberish for the parts he doesn’t know, doodles on any paper at reach, dozes off when bored/daydreams, bobs his leg while sitting.

zodiac sign: sun capricorn, moon pisces, rising scorpio (read as: impending disaster)

mbti: infp

enneagram: 6w5

temperament: melancholic

hogwarts house: ravenclaw

moral alignment: chaotic good

primary vice: wrath

primary virtue: diligence

element: water

expanded personality

yongguk has a strong tendency to appear quiet and reserved and it might come off as standoffish or easily confused with snoberish, which makes it worse when he doesn’t go out of his way to change this preconception about him. he needs a great deal of personal space, both physically and mentally, and any attempt to control him or forcibly schedule his activities will only strengthen his need for time alone.

he’s responsible, trustworthy and hardworking. relies heavily on his intuition to guide him and knows how to patiently wait as well as how to adapt to any circumstances. in yunhwa, he’s been forced to learn how to interact with the townsfolk and through the years he’s mastered the front he puts on in order to remain below the radar and not get any unnecessary attention; polite, helpful, sometimes even considered as a sweet guy, yongguk has no problem lending a hand to anyone that needs it.

however, in busan, his adaptability is also handy when it comes to dealing with customers. at the same time, it’s in these moments when he feels a little less restrained and allows himself to be less calculative: flirty, playful, sometimes misleading… he’s gotten in several problems because of this and yet he has no plans to stop it anytime soon.

yongguk is a little insecure and with a fluctuating self-esteem: sometimes he’s very well aware and confident on his skills and assets, but other times he will second-guess everything about himself. this combined with an strong fear of failure that stems from poor past decisions, makes him hesitate when it comes to making important calls that could potentially affect his future, but he knows how to play it off… most of the times.

despite appearing simple at a glance, yongguk is more than what meets the eye. friendly but private, polite but passionate about his beliefs, calm and sometimes expressionless. it’s not that he doesn’t have feelings - he actually runs quite deep and strong - it’s just that he conceals them under a mask of politeness because he’s unsure how to deal with them; he’s restrained when it comes to conveying emotion, but has a very deep care for his peers. might be awkward and uncomfortable with expressing himself verbally, but has a wonderful ability to define and reveal what he’s feeling on paper.

yongguk is genuinely interested in understanding others, a good listener, but will exclusively share his sorrows and woes only with the friends he trusts the most, unafraid to display his best and worst with them. his natural intuition allows him to sense the mood without the need of words. however, he can be quite impressionable and be easily influenced by the moods of others, which may often lead him to feel overwhelmed because of this.

incredibly curious, yongguk loves to explore with his hands and his eyes, touching and examining the world around him with cool rationalism and spirited curiosity. he explores ideas through creating, troubleshooting, trial and error and first-hand experience. yongguk can be a challenge to predict, even by the closest people to him. can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but he has a tendency to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning, taking his interests in bold, new directions.

with a good memory, he can recall experiences from the past down to smallest details. this is both good and bad: remembering the good memories is a way to ease himself when in stressful or sad situations, but he’s also prone to dwell on previous mistakes and regret them for a long time.

he’s not consistently angry. will either let the anger build up and release it all at once in an outburst or let it out slowly through small, critical remarks throughout the day. sometimes, both. he’s very difficult when annoyed, but it usually doesn’t last that long. a perfectionistic through and through, his main source of anger usually comes from things not being up to their standards. not good at sparing others’ feelings when he does become irritable. doesn’t like conflict and will go to great lengths to avoid it. in those occasions where he does have to face it, he will approach it from his feelings and mistakenly place little importance on who is right and who is wrong. yongguk will react to the emotions he’s going through and won’t care whether or not he’s right, which makes him appear irrational and illogic.

background (tldr)

his parents work in the field with doctors without borders.

yongguk was born in seoul and lived there for six years before his parents sent him to yunhwa to stay with his grandparents while they went abroad.

seven years passed, his parents would rarely contact them, much less visit them.

in the meantime, his grandma taught him how to play many instruments, being a musician herself and he was enrolled in kwangsook academy.

at thirteen they returned and guk moved with them back to seoul. around this time he became more reserved and quiet, the conversation always focused on his parents achievements and interests.

he made it his goal to become a doctor in hopes of having something in common with them. it was a way to seek their attention and approval.

a year later, a new plan was announced and yongguk was back in yunhwa with his grandparents. he was actually pretty happy about this.

started taking his studies seriously in his junior year of high school, going to the extent of dropping music and every other altogether.

he successfully managed to get into pusan national university, school medicine.

however, the whole experience was something he wasn’t ready for at all. for a year and half he struggled to keep up with his classmates and was utterly ashamed to compare his simple goal of wanting to get closer to his parents to the drive of everyone else.

he drops out after talking with his grandfather, a successful doctor himself.

initially excited to get the chance of truly discovering what he wanted to do, a single call from his father deterred his enthusiasm. he was supposed to return to yunhwa, instead he decided to move in with a friend and stay in busan… where everything goes downhill.

at only twenty and under the fake pretense that he’d get his act together, he allows himself to make mistakes and act recklessly, secretly wishing that’d be enough to get his parents attention.

he found temporary jobs all around busan and never lasted too long, but he still made money and that’s the only thing he really cared about at the moment. things aren’t great, but they aren’t that bad, or so he tells himself.

at twenty one, he gets a full sleeve on his left arm as well as many piercings. a couple of weeks after this, his grandparents decided to pay him a surprise visit and the state of his apartment as well as life… is not optimal.

coincidence or not, his parents video called them at that moment. it was the first time he heard from them in a year, and it was the last time as well.

seems like only his appearance was enough to finally trigger some sort of emotion from his father, but it wasn’t really the kind he was looking for. it was anger and he could clearly see the disappointment in his eyes. a heated argument ensues, one that ends with “you’re not our son anymore.”

perhaps it came a little too late, but it was the much needed wake up call to get his act together. not in order to mend the relationship with his parents, he knew that’d be impossible. but more so, for himself.

he perks up at a suggestion from his grandmother, one that was about a long forgotten hobby of his: photography. he remembers an old shoe box filled with polaroids and undeveloped films under his bed.

thus, he stays in busan after enrolling in a community college for a year-long photography class. around this time, one of his aunts offered him a job as a bartender in her bar and since then he’s been helping her every now and then. he says it’s for extra money, but in reality is a way to repay her from hiring him when no one else would.

after he was done with his course and had saved enough money to get a decent camera, he decided it was time to go back to yunhwa.

he returned three years ago. luckily, his reputation there remained intact and he wanted it to stay that way thus hiding the ink on his skin with long sleeves and removing the jewelry whenever he was outside.

yongguk moved back with his grandparents, this time to help them out and take care of his grandmother who started to get a little ill. he picked up playing and making music after finding his long abandoned drum set in the garage.

with the help of his grandfather, he opened his very own stall called “kodachrome” where he takes photos for ids, sells prints of his own work (mostly of yunhwa’s scenery) as well as books sessions for photoshoots.

a year and half ago, however, he had to find a new place. his grandparents decided to retire and move to jeju. thankfully, he managed to get a deal to rent a house from one of his grandma’s friends. the house was a little too big thus he decided to post an ad online looking for roommates to share the space and ease the expenses.

in the present, yongguk is still running his stall and getting contacted every blue moon by small influencers and event planners looking for his services. three nights a week, he goes back to busan to work for his aunt at the bar and every other night he has gigs with a band, which was randomly created after having far too many drinks with his roommates.

background (full)

tw: mentions of needles, tattoos, substances but nothing too graphic.

ae yongguk was the name given to you and and your endearing smiles as well as adorable dimples seemed to be more than enough to have everyone coddling and cosseting you from the get-go. nonetheless, permanency was never on your parents’ agenda. by the time you turned six, they moved away and you were shoved into your grandparents’ household in yunhwa.

it’s difficult to comprehend the sudden change, being told that you’d be living with them for some time. how much? they don’t specify, but the next thing you know is that you’re wordlessly bidding goodbye to your parents, who promised to write and come back for you soon. they didn’t. being part of doctors without borders and making it their goal to offer medical aid where it’s needed most, they put their humanitarian labor before parenthood.

the first letter you got arrived eight months after they left. there’s disappointment and there’s also heartbreak, but they don’t last long. you don’t allow them to regardless of your young age. instead, you focus on how your grandfather, despite having severe and strict ways, squeezed your shoulder and offered the small smile that you know all too well now. or how your grandmother, a renowned musician, didn’t hesitate to shower you in unconditional love. your education didn’t cease and your grandfather immediately enrolled you at kwangsook academy.

one of your most prominent traits is how transparent you are with your emotions and your grandmother easily learnt to read this. it was no surprise that the first time you saw her playing a beautiful song on her baby grand and your irises sparkled with curiosity, she immediately beckoned you closer. “hi, my love.” the elderly woman greeted while shifting a little so you could take a seat beside her. you meet her eyes and you wonder if she’s looking for anything by the time an easy smile appears on her face. “do you like music?” you’re unable to respond, but she must’ve seen something because, after that, she started teaching you the basics of piano. a couple of days later, she asked again and this time around, the answer naturally slipped out of your mouth: i love it.

for your regular classes, you were constant and responsible. sure, you enjoyed learning, but your interest wasn’t inherently there. it was just something you had to do. however, when it came to that newfound love for music of yours, you were the one with the initiative to ask for more lessons and practice whenever you had free time; first the piano, later the guitar and a couple of years later you made the stubborn decision to learn the drums.

it was nice staying in yunhwa, it brought you a comforting sense of belonging. it was the beginning of finding your own voice; discovering your likes and dislikes, some of your talents and even the chance of making friends. however, there was always a lingering question in the back of your mind and a deep sadness you rarely showed: when are my parents coming back?

they do, but only for a short period of time.

you had only turned thirteen, but the moment you saw them you were but an excited kid, joyously yelling and running to hug them, but they greeted you rather… frivolously. you try to ignore the breach between you and them, which you felt the most when you were holding your mother’s hand; her skin a couple of degrees colder than your grandma’s. they ask how you were doing and, in your frenzy, you start talking about everything that’s happened all this time only to be interrupted; the voice you were starting to grow inevitably drowned in the sea of their own achievements and stories.

it’s then that they tell you they’d move to seoul and you’re to go with them. apparently, with the intention to settle down and give it a go to having a normal family. you say goodbye to your grandparents, and unlike your mom and dad, the promises of staying in touch with them are real.

you were silent and reserved around your parents. you had to after learning that no matter what you tried to tell them, the conversation always ended being about what interested them. for a while you pretended to be okay with it, but soon you started wishing they paid as much attention to you as they did to their cause. it made you think that, by immersing yourself in that world, you might be able to keep them interested long enough or make them proud, and your very own obsession to become a doctor started right there. simple questions that had your parents perk up are what made you believe that your plan isn’t too far fetched.

luckily, you were able to retreat to your music whenever everything became too overwhelming, but even this wasn’t enough to stop an ever growing beast called dissatisfaction from making your chest its home. it increases in size and sometimes it’s so big that you’re unable to keep it in your ribcage, coming to light with rebellious little acts such as not doing your homework or bluntly strumming your guitar late at night. eventually, unspoken words and jumbled thoughts find their way into old notebooks full of an amateur’s unfinished songs.

it’s exactly a year later that they announced their new plans of moving to the other side of the world, plans that didn’t take you into consideration at all. it was disappointing, but not really surprising. still, you were able to comprehend the nature of their jobs, after all they were brilliant doctors and only a handful were willing to offer the assistance your parents did. you stop expecting things to change after the farewells you exchanged with them. you wished them the best and truly meant it.

going back to yunhwa at fourteen is something you anticipate; your grandmother welcomed you with your favorite food and your grandfather with a blank notebook. “for your songs, son” he said with that smile of his, learning about this new hobby of yours from one of the many mails you sent them. both were happy about your return and helped you pick up your studies where you last left them.

it’s in your junior year at high school when you truly get serious about your studies, medical school was your single goal. even though you’ve come to terms with the relationship you had with your parents, a hopeful part of you genuinely believed that becoming a doctor would help breach the distance.

and so you do, dropping music altogether and every other hobby that “needlessly” consumed your time and energy. it was admittedly exhausting and you were obviously miserable without playing any instrument. the sleepless nights and the isolation you brought upon yourself paid off the moment you received the news of your acceptance at pusan national university. that very night, you got a call from your parents congratulating you.

for the next year and a half, however, things prove to be extremely challenging when you find yourself amongst thousands of students whose drive and ambition is stronger than simply wanting to get close to their parents. it’s shameful, you admit and the constant pressure as well as the competitive environment soon takes a toll on you, but it was much needed for you to start questioning everything; yourself, your goals and if it was really what you wanted.

the person who helps you to fully come to this realisation is none other than your grandfather, another renowned doctor in your family. it’s shocking to hear him encouraging you to drop out and follow your dreams. truth is you were far too concerned chasing after a hopeless goal than to craft ambitions and dreams for yourself. still, you follow his advice even when you are completely at loss about what the next step would be.

if news of your acceptance travelled fast, so did the news of your departure. you got a call shortly after and all you heard was “we’re very disappointed” followed by radio silence before your father hung up. you were nineteen, about to turn twenty, when they last talked to you.

their silence becomes one of your many excuses to make mistakes and act recklessly; if your good behaviour and your previous little act didn’t catch their attention, this surely will. it’s your shield against the disapproval in your grandfather’s eyes, and that very shield is what stops him from stopping you. even when you told him you wouldn’t return to yunhwa, instead moving to one of your friend’s apartment in the heart of busan.

it’s amusing how easily your grandfather believes your fake promises of trying to get your life together and you feel awful for being such a good liar. you find decent jobs, but never stay too long. unnecessary fights with customers or blatant irresponsibility are the main reasons that force you to find a new one every couple of weeks. you’ve been many things: a busser, a server, even a mascot. you didn’t mind much as long as you were paid.

you willingly dive into a void filled with indulgence and bad decisions. all in order to not think, to not dwell on the future. you used every situation you could possibly get yourself into as a distractor from the painful reality. you were lost, so utterly lost.

twenty one comes around and you decide that, for the first time ever, you’re going to gift yourself something. a permanent work of art, its canvas your skin.

three monthly salaries were spent on black and red ink which reminded you of your favorite place. the needle pierces your skin once, twice, hundred times until your arm is almost fully covered… maybe it was a metaphor, a feeble attempt to display something bright and wonderful on someone who otherwise had long lost every trace of that. it was not enough and a couple of piercings follow in trying to beautify the sheer mess you’ve made of yourself.

some nights you question your own strength and sanity. you used to be pristine, someone to be proud of and an exemplary resident of the town you fondly call home. you were constant, had talent and a midas touch that turned meaningless words into beautiful songs, scribbles onto paper into melodies that had every listener humming along.

what happened to you, boy? says a voice in your head… or is it from your chest? is it the dissatisfaction you’ve tried to keep locked for years? all it took was to be called a disappointment once for you to willingly become one?

it consumes you and every passing day it becomes louder, but you’re stubborn and simply take it as a challenge to find new ways to drown it. headachingly loud music, poisonous substances, liquid trust or the ecstasy under someone’s fingertips… the city swallows you whole and provides you with momentary sweet oblivion but… is the aftermath of impeding remorse worth it? it is, you convince yourself while running back into it’s arms night after night.

one day, without warning, three knocks come onto your door and when you’re about to curse whoever disrupted your game, you’re met with your grandparents. your appearance is deplorable; bloodshot eyes, greasy hair and alarming signs of lack of proper sleep. it hurt to see your grandmother, as crystal clear as you wear, worried and at loss of words. a thing the city taught you was to be a pretender and so you ignore every sign of concern in their faces while smiling at them. “long time no see!” you say cheerfully.

it’s a quiet visit. they don’t know what to tell you or where to start, and neither do you feel a need to fill the awkward silence when your grandfather’s phone went off. he answers without thinking to a videocall and the voice that greets him has you freezing on your spot. father. your face falls and your eyes widen in obvious panic when he asks about you. the older man in the room seems to be equally as frantic as you when he glances at you, taking in how you look before your father speaks again.

“oh, is yongguk there? let me talk to him.” his authoritative tone was enough to have your grandfather turning the phone towards you. it’s late, far too late to fix yourself or even try to hide the glaringly bright red ink on your arm. so, in your frenzy, you decide to play cynical. what else could you lose, right? “hey, dad.” you greet with a shameless smile upon your lips. “your timing is as impeccable as ever.”

the argument that ensues forces you to retreat to your room and you thank whatever universal force that your roommate decided to have a weekend-long trip. it’s a heated fight, and you realize midway through that this is the longest conversation you’ve ever had with your father. why is it that the most display of emotion you get from him is when you don’t follow his ridiculous standards? he gets louder, so do you and it escalates to irreversible words. the last thing he says is “you’re not our son anymore” followed by silence.

then you laugh.

you laugh over the irony of an absent father saying such a thing. you laugh because you don’t want to allow him see you hurting. you laugh at how fucked up the whole situation is. “doesn’t make a difference, does it?” you say between unabashed chuckles. “not like you ever acted like a father, anyway.” and you hang up, your legs giving in and only then did you notice that your whole body had been shaking this whole time.

you muffle a scream on a pillow while feeling so alone and like the butt of the cruelest joke. you want to hate your father and your mother. you want to despise them for their horrible behavior. instead, you find yourself crying like an abandoned kid wanting, yearning for the love that wasn’t given to him. you want to run, to disappear, to hide where no one can find you.

then, two arms wraps around you and even though your grandmother is a little smaller than you, you find yourself feeling protected under her embrace. shortly after comes a pat on your head from your grandfather. you look up at those brown eyes full of wisdom and, when he tells you “everything will be okay, son.” you wholeheartedly believe him

because, a year later, things started looking up.

[roc-thoughtblog]

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 15

Chapter 18, Pages 83-88

Past two weeks have been... rough isn't the right word, that implies a specific level of hardship. Mismanaged implies that I made management decisions at all. I think "thoroughly paralyzing" and "difficult to manage" were what it was. If I ever mention emails in the preamble again you can be sure there's a 50% chance I'm imminently falling apart and disappearing for a while under the pressure. I still haven't conquered them at the time of writing this, but I've made some progress..

Over the weekend two sets of friends dragged me out, so that's helped a lot in resetting my mind to a less frozen space. I got to see a bird art exhibit and pick up a friendly kitty! I have no idea where yesterday went but I finished DDLC the day before, which was fun and I'd like to write something about.

This week's looking better.

Anyway! Previously, Edward Ferrars has returned, and makes his greatest spoken appearance thus far with all the sisters; and in the comfort of their familiar company he sounds very much at ease and how Elinor would refer to as "as himself." It's very sweet, but it also sounds like he's nursing something broody underneath it all.

Geez it's been almost two weeks.

It took me a good four hours today to get back into reading again, but I'm glad I did. This chapter was so sweet, and I feel like it's helping me get my life rolling again.

Readthrough below.

Chapter 18

Edward Ferrars is doing a good impression of me during social outings. Poor Elinor, he's so despirited she's not able to even read if he still loves her/wants to see her;

and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

Another for the nice line stack. I really know the feeling though; that you should or even are genuinely happy to be there but something weighs on you in a way that whatever you should naturally feel gets swallowed. Like happiness is a poor signal being intermittently obscured by static and noise. And other people can pick it up easily even if they don't know the cause; poor Elinor is feeling insecure right now being made to guess what it could be.

Edward's behaving oddly, not just in Marianne's opinion but in mine as well I think. Or at least, very detachedly. He skips breakfast with Elinor to go a walk around town to admire the scenery; I have to pause my train of thought for this actually:

"I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which out to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of hazy atmosphere. [...] I call it a very fine country - the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug - [...] I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me."

When Marianne tries to press Edward for the details of his aethstic opinion after his walk, he gets pre-emptively defensive over his inability to meet her standards of aesthetic appreciation. Asides from illustrating that Edward knows how to describe what he lacks, it's really helpful to me for being an incredibly easy to reference breakdown on the difference between observations made from aesthetics versus utility.

Steep hills, out of sight objects, comfort and resource presence are all practical concerns. Meanwhile, uncouth surfaces imply personality, a hazy distant skyline adds atmosphere, promontories are dramatic and grey moss and brush wood are appealing visual details. I haven't really stopped thinking about narrative voice, so I'm suddenly struck wondering about a detective/reporter dynamic where two characters cover the same scene but one is practical and the other is poetic, and seeing the difference... Well it's probably been done and I should nix this train of thought before it takes me interstate.

Amusingly, Elinor undercuts her beau by explaining to Marianne that Edward is not nearly as exclusively utilitarian-minded as he acts... he just masks the latent poetry within his soul because he holds a slight reactionary bias against aesthetics, because he finds some aesthetic appreciators to be fake and pretentious. Oh dear. :'D

Fortunately for Edward, Marianne agrees that florid language has been done to death. Unfortunately for Elinor, Edward refutes her claim that he has any hidden poetic appeal. He goes as far as to use language like "crooked, twisted, blasted trees" while doing so too, which, I think we can all agree it's a waste that he doesn't employ them more often. :'D

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed.

Same. :'D

Oh, oh no.

Next paragraph Marianne spots that Edward has a new ring and blurts out the observation for a conversation topic. Oh no, no that can't be any kind of good in general. A surprise new ring? In a romance novel? Murder! Bloody murder! It's like finding a bloody handprint in a murder mystery; Edward what have you done??

I might be having a little trouble following what comes now though. So there's a hair inlaid in the ring (what is it with people keeping each other's hair?), which Marianne asks if it's Fanny's. The hair's not the right colour to be Fanny's, but Edward makes an excuse while glancing (guiltily?) at Elinor. So now, both sisters think it's Elinor's hair, and he's lying about the source because he's embarassed? Marianne thinks it Elinor gave to him, but Elinor thinks he secretly stole it from her?

I think that's what happened?

Elinor doesn't even like... particularly mind that her hair might have been stolen to make a ring.

That hair is definitely not Elinor's though, which I think she will mind.

[Elinor] internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and satisfying, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the same as her own. [...] how little offense it had given to [Elinor].

Elinor's natural skepticism, at an 11 for Willoughby, is turned down to a 1 for her beau. In fact, her natural skepticism is playing second fiddle to her basking in attention; from the rest of the context it sounds like she's just using it as an excuse to admire her beau apparently wearing her hair. We've seen paranoid hyperaware Elinor, and this is definitely not her. This is a new Elinor, this is aaaaaaaaaa my beau has a secret memento of me aaaaaaaaa i can't betray my secret internal happiness aaaaaaaaaaa Elinor.

I don't even think I'm reading too much into the secret internal happiness thing, girl has feelings and biases. If it were Willoughby with the strange ring of hair she'd be driving herself up the wall with concern, but that it's Edward she's already half-convinced herself of his fidelity. Either it's not her hair, or he stole her hair behind her back, and neither is a good thing! In fact, the latter is quite a stretch, and Edward seems like an awful liar. And even though she assumes the latter option, that he stole her hair without her consent, she's not even upset! That's not just creepy nowadays, Elinor acknowledges in the text that she should be affronted! It's creepy then too! Poor girl has it bad.

Mama Dashwood are you gonna say anything? I don't think Marianne is useful here, she's just happy to see signs of love.

Oh boy, there's not even much of a reprieve before Sir Middleton and Mrs Jennings show up to meet the new lad in town. 0 seconds for Mrs Jennings to figure out Edward is Elinor's secret beau. Poor Elinor is gonna get her match made so hard. I expect exponentially increased amounts of unwanted advice.

Sir Middleton invites them to more parties, as he do, which may or may not be the coming chapters. Marianne is still despirited that Willoughby is absent. Edward catches on to all these mentions of a mysterious Willoughby and Marianne's despondent reactions, and pieces things to together to come out and ask Marianne privately... if Willoughby hunts.

He just made a joke, that cheered Marianne up. That's adorable, I love it so much. Bonding... :')

Not just him too, the entire narrative was setting that one up for the reader, trying to build it up into some kind of serious question or confrontation so that Willoughby could deliver the punchline on Marianne. On a dry technical level it conveys the same bare minimum of information that it otherwise could have (that Edward has figured something out and confronted Marianne about it), but on every other level it's so much more heartwarming and just adds such a fine, tender touch to an interpersonal relationship that really doesn't get all that much positive attention.

And beyond touched, Marianne is all of happy, anxious and certain that Eddie would be great friends with her Willoughby, which, I need many new sentences to express how incredibly meaningful that is.

Marianne's relationship with Eddie up until now has been marked by a frustrated inability to understand him, and mostly held together by the good words and attention of her sister. They're established to be friends and positive, but there's always a fraught element to it, especially since we've seen that she and Willoughby together have had a similar antagonistic relationship towards Brandon, and that doesn't play out well even with Elinor's defense. Given how much she insists that she shares her heart and mind with Willoughby, we can reach the implication that she treats her opinion or place as interchangeable with Willoughby's. If she can confidently opine that Eddie will like Willoughby, then I think this is that tender moment where we can see that, no matter how or if they fight or disagree, Marianne truly believes that Eddie deeply likes and appreciates her, because that's what's necessary to like Willoughby.

And Eddie reciprocates! "I do not doubt it." He has no reason to know that Willoughby and Marianne have appreciably interchangeable level singlemindedness, so he just likes Marianne enough to be ready to accept whoever it is that she loves.

It's such a lovely note to end an otherwise tense chapter on. That interaction alone might have made it one of my favourites so far.

[sabraeal]

Thaumaturge

Part of the Ascend (Series), inspired by @onedivinemisfit‘s Concubine AU

Written for the obiyuki kiss-a-thon, and massively, massively late. YET STILL JUST IN TIME. The prompt was Jealous Kiss

There’s an itch between his shoulder blades while Shirayuki talks with Miss Kiki, heads bent and voices low, one he knows won’t be satisfied with a scratch. It’s got nothing to do with the way his coat stretches over his shoulder, or the way his muscles long for a good spar, and everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t belong here.

Oh, Master might have given him a fancy title, and His Majesty might like dressing him up for these soirees, but none of that makes him one of them, a peer, and everyone knows it.

Sir Hisame smirks at him over the rim of his wine, angling himself closer to Kiki’s side. Obi frowns. Some more than others, it would seem. Doesn’t help that this monkey suit isn’t his, no matter how nice the tailoring. He’s not the sort of man who touches this much cloth-of-gold unless he’s stealing it.

He bites back a smile. Oh, to see the steward’s face when he learned that tidbit. The man wouldn’t put him in a room with so much silver, that’s for sure.

“I see.” Kiki settles back in her hips, mouth bent thoughtfully. “So you’re here to see Lord Eisetsu.” She flicks a wry look at him. “An unusual matter, indeed.”

Hisame hums beside her, wearing the sort of look a cat gets right before you smell the bird on its breath.

“Well now, Miss Kiki,” Obi drawls, “speaking of unusual matters...I’m sure the prince wasn’t invited, but that doesn’t explain the two of you.”

“When Lord Eisetsu visited Wirant to convey his regards, I was at home.” To his horror, Kiki exchanges a look with her...fiancé. “It seems he extended this invitation once he heard of our engagement.”

Once he suspected that Master had lost his long alliance with Seiran’s daughter, more like. “And are the Bergatts here?”

What a party of traitors that might make. Obi restrains himself from slanting a measuring look at the Vice Captain.

“They are not,” Kiki tells him, idly waving the fan in her hands. “Neither Lord Tsuruba nor Sir Tariga.”

“Even if they were invited, they wouldn’t attend,” Sir Hisame says, illustrating his most definitive quality: insinuating himself where he’s least wanted. “They are beyond the pale, so to speak. The only person who could publicly engage with them now is the prince himself.”

Not including the Bergatt staff, of course, or the pages that Tsuruba would be rubbing elbows with in Wirant. Funny how so little people seemed to count for personhood these days.

Obi knows better that to remark on it, not in this crowd. “That’s our young master for you,” he drawls, making a show of mulling over the Vice Captain’s words. “So majestic.”

Sir Hisame’s smile wears thin on his lips. “Quite.”

“And what about tonight?” His gaze cuts to Kiki, serious. “Has anything strange happened?”

“Hard to say.”

The last time a man spoke for Miss Kiki, she had laid him out on the dirt, standing over him with that calm smile of hers as she said, I know how to speak for myself. But the Vice Captain forges ahead, unmolested. A pity. “Although I will note, this is the first time since my debut that no young ladies have approached me.”

Obi knows that Kiki always fights her own battles, but maybe this once--

“Jokes aside.” Hisame’s expression shadows, growing sharp. “You should be aware that even though you have the power of the royals at your back, the fact that you are clustering at the edge of the floor is no doubt sowing seeds of suspicion around you.”

Obi stiffens, casting his gaze around the room. He’s annoyed to find that the Vice Captain’s observation is true; though the glances are surreptitious, tendered over champagne flutes or behind fluttering fans, nearly every lord and lady not occupied with the dance is watching them, watching-- her.

His wife.

“My lady--” he starts, reaching out a hand--

Only for it to be knocked aside by a shoulder. “On that note, Lady Shirayuki.” The serpent bares his fangs as he offers a hand. “Are you able to dance?”

Every line of Shirayuki grows tense, wary. They had met Hisame at a ball like this, years ago, when neither of them were worth more than a pithy comment about the prince’s new pets and an all-too knowing look he dragged up her body. His wife may be forgiving, but it seems she has not forgotten that particular encounter, not even for Miss Kiki’s entirely reformed fiancé.

Her hands curl into stiff fists at her side. “Pardon, my lord?”

“I thought we might emulate Their Majesties--” his hand slithers around hers, pale skin pressed to kid glove-- “and light up the floor with our majestic presence.”

He turns his back to them, ignoring Shirayuki’s stammered protests. “We’ll be back, Miss Kiki.”

And with only that, Sir Snake sweeps his wife out onto the floor, the skirt of her gown belling out behind her. She’s a vision beneath the lamplight, the chandeliers making the golden thread on her dress sparkle and shimmer, as if she were little more than a flame herself, guttering in the breeze.

She casts an alarmed glance over her shoulder, but it is not to beg him for help-- oh no, she spares it only for Miss Kiki, who waves her off with a bored expression. It seems Lady Seiran feels no particular proprietary sense over her snake of a fiancé.

He could stop this himself, of course; he’s her husband. He’d have every right to cut in, to demand this dance, but--

It would cause a scene, one that might make a lord think twice about entering into an already risky venture. Jealous husbands seldom made for easy negotiations. Especially with a man who already showed such enthusiasm for dressing the wife.

So instead, Obi grinds his teeth, watching a gloved hand slither about her waist, drawing her close. Too close. Leave it to a serpent like Luigis to steal a man’s wife for a waltz.

Sir Hisame lifts his chin, meeting his gaze over her shoulder, and-- and smirks.

Obi startles as a hand falls on his wrist. “Careful,” Kiki drawls softly, never taking her gaze from the pair, “that’s crystal.”

He eases his chokehold on the glass. “You’re not going to stop him?”

“He’s right.”

Obi nearly does a double take right there in the ballroom. Kiki Seiran, saying that this man had a point--

“You were drawing attention hovering at the edge of the room like that,” she continues, gaze fixed to where the dancers float across the floor, faint smile firmly in place. “Though I suppose the honeymoon might be over, after--”

“I just don’t like this,” he interjects, darting a pointed glance at the young boy between them. Ryuu’s not paying attention of course, only worrying the sleeves of his borrowed jacket as he eyes the crowd warily, as if someone might ask him to dance at any time. “It’s all a little...neat.”

Her gaze drags to his for a long moment. Sir Hisame, so recently embroiled in the Bergatt incident, now in the room of a man avoiding royal attention. She couldn’t miss the implication.

“He won’t do anything to her,” she says, looking back out to the floor. “It wouldn’t behoove him to lose his fiancée’s good graces so soon after he has won them, would it?”

He grunts into his wine. “Goodness, how highly you think of your betrothed.”

Her mouth hooks into a sharp smile. “He’s only slightly more likely to attempt something than you are.”

His jaw drops. “There’s a child here.”

Ryuu frowns. “I’m not a child, I’m fifteen.”

He has a point, but Obi knows exactly what he was doing at fifteen, and he wouldn’t discuss any of that in Ryuu’s hearing either.

Kiki’s brow arches, too amused. “Oh, is that the excuse you’re using now?”

Obi’s tempted to open his mouth, to inform her that she must have old information, for not only has Shirayuki been in his bed, but also--

Also, he knows the softness of her skin and the way she whines as his hands roam across it, how her breath goes shallow when he kisses at her thighs, the precise shape of her mouth as he licks between them, tasting the sweetness that lies there--

His breath huffs out harshly. He really shouldn’t be thinking of any of that right now. Not when he needs a clear head.

“In any case, he’s the safest partner in this ballroom tonight.” Kiki cuts her gaze toward him and Ryuu. “Present company excluded.”

“I’m not worried that he’s going to whisk her away,” he grumbles, taking another sip from his glass. His aching jaw can attest to how little Shirayuki has to complain. “I’m worried about the sort of poison he could spit in her ear.”

You might try searching a bed for your next assignment. It’s been years since the words were spoken, but they scald him still. That little prick of a clerk is clear in his mind, wielding gossip like a blade, trying to draw first blood. Too bad a clerk did not need his wit so sharp as a concubine in the harem; he’d think twice before trying to cross blades with Shirayuki again. But the Vice Captain...

Well, if his time at Sereg was any indication, Sir Hisame could wield more venom than one inconsequential clerk. And he had Shirayuki at the perfect distance to sink the knife in, with no one being none the wiser.

“Master Ryuu, Sir Obi.”

He doesn’t startle, but it’s a close thing; only the fact that he is here as a knight of the royal circle keeps his heels firmly planted to the parquet.

It does not seem to fool Lugilia’s steward. When he turns to face him, his smug smile is already in place. “Sorry to have kept you.”

He might be new to this whole knight thing, but he’s learned a thing or two from watching Master. Obi lets the apology hand in the air, getting heavy, stale, awkward.

Shou’s smile practically creaks from the weight of it. “He’s had many people keeping him occupied.”

Obi isn’t in the habit of pulling rank-- that’s a good way to get spit with your tea in the morning-- but standing here, dressed in this gaudy monkey suit at a party he’s been press-ganged into-- by proxy, no less--

Well, he’s quickly running out of fucks for this man’s tender feelings. “Meaning we can speak with him now?”

“Indeed.” He mislikes how amused the man sounds. “In fact, he’s already headed Lady Shirayuki’s way.”

“What?” Obi whips his gaze to the floor, but it’s too late, far too late. The band still plays, but the dancing has stopped, every guests’ eye drawn to where a young lord stands at the center of the floor, his arm outstretched--

Holding a flower. A rose, though its crimson petals pale compared to the hair of the woman he offers it to.

His glove creaks at his side. he’s an idiot, letting her leave his side. The steward had tried to separate them once before, back when he got them into these costumes, and Obi’d been wise to it then, but then he let that serpent just take her--

“Who is that?” A lady not far from his squints through the dancers. “That red-haired girl?”

To his other side, a man murmurs, “Does she know Lord Eisetsu?”

Shirayuki is no stranger to this sort of attention; her harem mask is well in place, smile welcoming and body open. But the rest of her is frozen, coiled for flight, like a vixen cornered in her den. And this particularly canny hound has no intention of letting her slip past.

“She must, she must,” laughs a woman, words pitched soft, “or at least, she will by the end of the night.”

“Oh?” It’s a man who answers, confused. “I thought she was already on someone’s arm tonight.”

With a hand that doesn’t shake, she accepts the rose.

“What does that matter?” snickers another guest. “A girl like that couldn’t do better than Eisetsu, and I’m sure her husband knows it!”

Obi shakes himself, loosening his fist. Let them talk. In a few months, all these old dogs will be saying her name like a new trick, this whole night forgotten like a bad dream.

Eisetsu looks up as she cradles the rose to her breast, meeting Obi’s gaze over her shoulder. He expects a nod, a polite acknowledgement of their connection, a tacit question about this approach--

But instead that horse-faced fuck smiles, smiles, like a man who’s already won, like she’s some sort of prize.

“Trust him,” Kiki murmurs, and for a moment he wants to ask her if she’s gone mad, if she can really tell him to trust the man who thinks Shirayuki is an object to be passed from man to man--

Until Hisame steps between them. Or rather, behind Shirayuki, his hand laid protectively over her shoulder, blocking Eisetsu’s gloat.

“He knows how to handle this sort of thing,” Kiki tells him, smoothing down his sleeve.

“I suppose he’d have to,” Obi mutters, “this is just the sort of move he loves to pull.”

Kiki’s mouth tugs into a smile. “Hush.”

Despite his timely help at Sereg, and the miraculous way he has wormed himself into Wistal’s good graces, Sir Snake could only be trusted as far as his leash. A length, Obi thinks, should only be long enough for him to hang himself with.

But he trusts Kiki, and if she thinks they can rely on slithering fiancé for this, well, he’ll--

Call her a fool, because there the fork-tongued little cuss is, fleeing away from the scene as Lord Eisetsu sweeps his wife from the ballroom.

“Son of a bitch,” he hisses. “That rat--”

“Obi, just wait. I’m sure--”

“Oh yes,” he shrugs off her grasp, stepping away, “looks like he clearly has it handled. You should marry him for that display alone.”

She casts him a warning look, arms folded tight against her chest. “Obi...”

“Ah, Sir Obi!” Hisame hails him with a raised hand as he weaves through the crowd, mouth quirked into a smirk. “Just in time. You should--”

Obi shoulders past him. “I don’t need to be told how to deal with my wife, sir.”

The snake’s mouth snaps shut, but there’s no time to enjoy his speechlessness, not when Eisetsu is nearly out the door, tugging a reluctant Shirayuki behind him.

“My lady,” he calls out, unclasping his cape. It slides easier than his others, he notes with no little annoyance. If he makes it through this, he’ll have to ask a man about some clasps.

Shirayuki spins on her heel, relief plain on her face. “Obi!”

He gives her a tight smile, just a bend of his lips. “My lady, you’ll be cold out there.”

With a flick of his wrist the cloak settles on her shoulders, smooth and even as if it had been hers to begin with, another part of her glittering ensemble. He takes a step closer, hands splaying out over her collar, feeling the way she trembles beneath them. “Please wear this.”

“Obi...” she breathes, heat fanning over his lips, and he lifts a hand, curling a smooth, kid-clad finger beneath her chin. Her mouth parts, just slightly, and--

Well, he knows an invitation when he sees one.

His lips brush hers, and that’s all he means it to be, a soft touch to let Eisetsu know that she was not some neglected noble wife, eager to let a more passionate man roll her, but--

But Shirayuki turns into him, clutching his tunic with her kitten claws, and whimpers.

This is, by all accounts, a formal occasion, a private soiree where the guest list has been scrupulously maintained to assure only the outcome most desirable for its host. Obi isn’t sure what they’ve done to earn their place among its honored press, what strange whim has seen them thrown into this kettle of conspirators, but whatever Eisetsu has planned, it can’t have involved a no-name knight and his wife sharing a passionate kiss in front of an utterly silent ballroom.

Good.

His arms cinches around her waist, drawing her tight against him. Her lips part on a gasp, leaving her soft, pliant, and it’s too much to ask him to behave when he remembers how she had looked in the lamplight of his bedroom, head thrown back in abandon as she chased the pleasure only his hands and tongue could give her.

His glove slips from her chin, the whole of his palm sliding along her cheek until he can tangle his fingers deep in the mass of her hair. It’s done up tight, a proper twist for a lady, but in his memory it’s loose, a shining sea of copper curling down the pale skin of her back, and he wants to lose himself it in it, in all of her.

It’s her that opens her mouth, that lets the tip of her tiny tongue dart out, insinuating itself between his lips, and oh, he should have done this sooner--

Someone coughs, awkward. Ah, right. They have an audience.

He steps away, taking in her flushed face, bruise lips, the way her hair has nearly come loose from its clip-- her clip, the one they’d bought only a day ago-- and it takes everything he has in him not to pull her back to him.

“Well.” He retreats another step; a safer distance with the way his blood is thrumming so headily beneath his flesh. “I’ll be waiting inside, my lady.”

She blinks, the heat banking in her eyes as she realizes that they are not alone, that only steps away is the man she needs convince of the Phostyrias’ usefulness. Which she can’t do if her mouth is occupied with his, unfortunately. “T-thank you, Obi.”

He turns to the lord, mouth curving into a satisfied smile as he takes in Eisetsu’s deflated posture. “I leave my wife in your care, Lord Eisetsu.”

The lord startles, giving him a wary, wide-eyed stare. “Yes. I’ll....be sure to get her back before she catches a chill.”

He lets his smile go sharp. “See to it you do.”

[cats-pyjamas]

Family (2)

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Erasermic (Eraserhead/Present Mic)

Summary:

Family

ˈfamɪli,ˈfam(ə)li/

noun

1. a group consisting of two parents and their children living together as a unit.

2. all the descendants of a common ancestor.

Or maybe sometimes it’s just the people that love you most.

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Word Count: 2,804

Warnings: This chapter contains spoilers for the BNHA manga, and mentions of hospitalisation/hospitals.

AO3 link

Chapter 2 - Home

“God Shouta, you got her that? It’s awful! No wonder the nurses refused to let her wear it!” Hizashi recoiled away from the offensive item of clothing, dropping it back into the drawer as though he’d been viciously bitten by some kind of animal. Shouta could only roll his eyes at the horrified expression on his partner’s face, before his own gaze shifted to the matching set he’d bought Eri merely a few days ago. He leaned back in the hospital chair, a small huff leaving his lips.

He’d thought the matching leggings, skirt, and long sleeved shirt looked okay when he bought them. He’d hovered awkwardly in the kids’ clothing aisle for several minutes, clearly completely out of his depth, before eventually deciding to purchase the items after some internal debate. Fashion wasn’t his forté, and he didn’t particularly want it to be either. But he’d deemed the clothing acceptable for Eri- especially because of its cat design and bright colours. Children liked colourful things, didn’t they? The dark-haired man cleared his throat, squinting over at Hizashi.

“I thought she’d like them. She likes cats.” Shouta’s grumbled words indicated indignation, but as his eyes flickered back to the garments he’d chosen a small feeling of insecurity bubbled in his stomach. He ignored Hizashi’s loud exclamation that Eri was fond of cats simply because Shouta liked them, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly. These sort of clothes were considered cute, weren’t they? Eri wasn’t a fussy child after all, it’s not like she would complain about them.

After a second he grunted, sending a stale glare in Hizashi’s direction.

“They’re just clothes. Who cares what they look like anyway; as long as she has some it’s fine.”

“Do you honestly want her to end up having a fashion sense like yours?” Hizashi scoffed, though there was a playful lilt to his voice that conveyed he was only teasing. He reached over to lightly poke Shouta, who simply leaned out of his grasp, sending him a dry look.

“There’s nothing wrong with what I wear,” he retorted. “I’m an underground hero; my hero suit is logical.” He took another sip of his lukewarm carry-out coffee, letting out a small sigh as Hizashi continued as though no one had spoken.

“-Besides, she’s a little girl! She needs cute clothes! I doubt she’s ever had some before. Oh, I have to take her shopping-!”

“No,” Shouta interrupted. “You’d end up buying the entire store.”

“But Shouta-!”

“No, Hizashi,” was the frank reply his protest received. Shouta paid no heed to the whining and pouting of his boyfriend as he got to his feet again, disposing of his now-empty coffee cup and turning to give the other man a bored glance.

“Come on. Eri and Mirio will be back from speaking to Nedzu soon. We need to have everything packed up by then.”

Surely enough, it took little time for Mirio to arrive with Eri in tow. The small girl’s face visibly brightened when she spotted the two men, and Hizashi was quick to ungracefully drop the bag he was holding and rush over to her, emitting a sound that Shouta could only describe as a squeal.

“Eri-chan!” Hizashi fawned, stooping down to her tiny height with a blinding grin. “How’s my favourite little listener doing?”

“Mm...!” Eri gave a nod, offering a smaller smile in return. “I’m doing good Mic-san...! Lemillion-san and I were talking to Principal Nedzu...!”

“Did you have a good talk with him?”

Eri nodded again, and Shouta’s eyes flickered over to Mirio. He mimicked Eri’s nod, and Shouta took it as a vow that he’d recount the conversation to him later. Hizashi patted Eri’s head affectionately, and as he ruffled her hair his grin somewhat softened.

“I bet you’re excited to come live at UA, huh Eri-chan?”

“Yeah!” Despite her words, her shoulders seemed to slump slightly, and the small smile adorning her lips slackened. Hizashi’s expression sobered, his eyebrows furrowing slightly for a mere second. Shouta almost spoke, but then his partner’s voice graced the room again, softer than he’d ever heard it before.

“You don’t have to be nervous, Eri-chan. I know this must be scary for you, but UA is full of good people and heroes who will protect you. And the three of us are here with you, okay? You’re safe now.”

Eri blinked, once, twice, three times- then another gentle pat to the head from Mirio seemed to nurse her back into reality. Hizashi had already drawn himself to his feet again by the time her gaze focused on him, and he extended a palm towards her in offering. Then the smile seeped back into Eri’s features; more timid than before, but no less bright.

“...Okay, Mic-san.” Her tiny hand curled around Hizashi’s fingers, and his habitual grin quirked his lips once more.

“Alright! We should get going so we can show you your new home!”

“Yeah! You’re gonna love it at UA, Eri-chan!” Mirio scooped the girl’s other hand into his with a smile that caused Eri’s own to widen, and she nodded almost firmly. Shouta cleared his throat then, shifting his gaze between Eri and Hizashi before his eyes rested meaningfully on the latter.

“We should get going,” he said simply. “Eri-chan’s room should be ready for her by now.”

“You’ll be staying super close to us Eri-chan! You know where the teachers’ lounge is, right? That big room where all the teachers go?” Hizashi continued when Eri gave a tentative nod, a certain softness still adorning his facial features. “You’ll stay there during the day- that way you’ll always have someone with you! Everyone’s really excited for you to be there!”

Shouta’s small grunt was his only addition to his partner’s spiel of words. It was true that the teaching staff were happy to have Eri stay with them- or at least they claimed to be. Perhaps it would be refreshing to have such a small child around to entertain, since all of them were so used to dealing with much older adolescents. Despite that, he was sure that none of them would have been able to turn away a little girl in need, or question Nedzu’s judgment for that matter.

After eventually ushering the small group away from the teary-eyed nurses that decided to accost them as they’d headed over to sign Eri out, Shouta managed to steer them to the taxi waiting outside the hospital. As they slipped into the car, Shouta was suddenly glad of his decision to direct Hizashi towards the front seat beside the driver, as he almost immediately started chattering to the man. Shouta almost rolled his eyes, his lips twitching up in a fond sort of way. With Hizashi busy distracting himself, he had the opportunity to finally allow the tension to meld away from his shoulders and maybe doze for a few moments; however he found his eyes straying towards Eri, who was nestled in the middle seat between him and Mirio. The boy seemed to be telling her a story, and given the enraptured expression on Eri’s face, it was clear she was enjoying it.

Shouta’s mind briefly pandered to the idea of buying a few storybooks to keep in the teachers’ lounge, in case someone had some spare time to read to her. He found shopping dull, but for Eri he didn’t mind enduring a short period of boredom. It was the least he could do for her, after all. He wasn’t entirely sure how literate she was either, so having simple tales to practise reading with her would be beyond helpful. He was soon drawn out of his thoughts by a tentative tap on his arm, and he blinked as he turned his head towards the small girl beside him, regarding Eri with what he hoped was a inviting look.

“We’re here Aizawa-san,” she informed him quietly, and Shouta didn’t miss the way her expression fluttered with nerves. He merely hummed lowly in reply and reached over to unbuckle Eri’s seatbelt, then undoing his own as Mirio helped her to climb out of the car. Shouta offered a brief mumble of thanks to the driver and followed suit, eying Hizashi as he rambled for a few more seconds before loudly bidding his goodbyes and ducking out of the car too.

Then, his attention fell to Eri.

It was Shouta that took her hand hand this time when he reached her side, not missing the way she immediately latched onto him, and his expression remained neutral as he followed Eri’s anxious gaze towards the gargantuan building of UA High School. He felt her grip his hand a little tighter and he spared a glance down at her again, his features softening ever so slightly.

“Hey, Eri-chan.” He waited until she turned her head towards him before continuing, “After you see your room, we can go and get some food with Lunch-Rush. You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

Eri shook her head, and he was glad to notice that her hold on him relaxed a bit. She’d seemed to get along well with the cook hero the last time she’d visited UA, so he assumed she’d be relieved to see a familiar face. He began to walk, patiently pausing for a second while she began to follow. Mirio appeared at her other side, falling into step with them and scooping up Eri’s free hand with a hum and a smile so bright Shouta found it vaguely reminiscent of that of All Might. Hizashi appeared at his other side, and Shouta could practically hear his smile. Before he could elbow him, though, a familiar voice cut him off.

“Ah, you’re all here!” Nedzu’s cheerfulness almost made Shouta uneasy; no number of pleasantries could erase the keen look in the principal’s eye as he surveyed the small group. “I trust you had a safe journey?”

“Yes sir!” Shouta merely nodded along with Mirio’s enthusiastic reply, Eri mimicking him and Hizashi letting out his own chirp of “You bet!”

Nedzu pressed his paws together, watching the four of them with a smile and a look that Shouta couldn’t quite interpret.

“Wonderful! I am sorry I could not accompany you all back to UA myself; I just had a few last minute preparations to make for Eri-chan’s arrival.” His eyes focused on the little girl, and briefly Shouta felt her clench his hand. “I assure you you’re going to be very well cared for here, Eri-chan. Everyone’s very excited to see you again.”

Eri politely nodded again in reply, but then, like a small flower, wilted away from him to hide herself behind Shouta’s leg. Nedzu could only smile at the man’s almost confused expression, but Shouta’s mouth quickly straightened out into a faint scowl as Hizashi slung his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“We should probably get going now, huh, Nedzu-san?” Hizashi only received a hum in reply, and together the five of them began to amble through the corridors of UA High School.

Eri was a bit more familiar with her surroundings this time around, which served to quell her nerves a bit. However, she couldn’t help but keep her hands tightly linked to Mirio and Shouta’s as Nedzu leisurely guided them through the halls, occasionally pointing out the various rooms and explaining their function. Eventually they came to a halt, and Eri seemed to falter for a moment.

“Ah, here we are!”

Shouta glanced down at the small girl, and, after a moment’s pause, gave her hand a careful squeeze.

“It’s alright Eri-chan, don’t be nervous. You’ve met all the teachers before right?” Shouta was thankful for Mirio’s soothing words, as he felt Eri’s tight hold on him slacken somewhat, her pale locks dripping over her shoulder when she nodded slowly in response. Shouta was quietly pleased to notice that the small clip he’d used to carefully pin back her hair that morning was still present, and he felt slightly smug considering Hizashi had been mocking him over his clothing choice for Eri a mere hour ago.

“Welcome to your new home, Eri-chan.”

“Oh wow, I’ve never been in here before!” Shouta would have rolled his eyes at Mirio’s declaration if not for his attention being entirely invested in Eri’s reaction. She seemed apprehensive at first, but her eyes were wide with a timid sense of curiosity as they surveyed the large room. Eventually her gaze rested on a assortment of colourful books stacked on one of the desks.

“Ah yes, I purchased some books for you in case you like to read, Eri-chan.” The small girl almost looked ashamed then, her eyes averting away from him.

“Oh, I...I don’t...I don’t know how to read, Nedzu-san...I’m sorry...!”

“There’s no need to apologise, my dear. Would you like to learn?”

Eri slowly lifted her head, a tentative motion, as though she was afraid to have heard him.

“Learn to read...?” she blinked, and at Nedzu’s nod of affirmation a shy smile broke across her face. She too nodded; “I’d really like to, Nedzu-san...!”

“Well then, I’m sure we can arrange for someone to teach you.”

“Yes please...!” Finally she turned her attention towards the stack of books. She seemed to freeze for a moment, before she carefully scooped up the book at the top of the pile.

“It has a cat on it, Aizawa-san! See?” She pivoted and held the cover up towards him, her small body bobbing up and down as she rocked on the balls of her feet. Shouta hummed in response, trying to disguise his surprise at her enthusiasm.

“Yes it does, Eri-chan.” Carefully he retrieved the book from her and spared a glance down at her. “If you want I could read this to you some time.”

A small flush dusted Eri’s cheeks and she hurriedly nodded, before she caught herself.

“Yes please, Aizawa-san...!” She quickly glanced away from him to look at the other books in the pile, seeming almost embarrassed; though her discomfort seemed to ebb away when Nedzu cleared his throat and addressed her, and she abruptly turned to face him instead.

“Ah, Eri-chan, I’ve arranged a room for you within the teacher’s quarters.” Nedzu smiled, first to Eri, who gave a quick, thankful nod, then he looked up to Shouta, seemingly in anticipation. The small twinkle in Nedzu’s eyes made the man’s stomach coil in something akin to nervousness.

“I entrust Eri-chan with you, Eraserhead, if you’ll accept her as your ward.” Shouta could only blink slowly in response, his mind turning blank for a moment. Him, look after Eri? He couldn’t say it was an unexpected request that he assume the role of Eri’s carer, since he’d admittedly bonded with her more than she had with any of the other staff members. He was the logical choice, out of all the faculty at UA. Quickly he staved off his shock enough to muster a small nod, expression draining back to its usual neutral state.

“I’ll do my best.” he mumbled, bowing his head briefly. Hizashi hurriedly leapt in to the conversation, and Shouta could practically feel the excitement emanating from his body.

“He’ll definitely look after her, Nedzu-san! Don’t worry- I’ll make sure he doesn’t buy her any more hideous clothes!” Despite Hizashi’s words, Shouta allowed them to meld into the background as he once again found his focus to be solely on Eri as she conversed animatedly with Mirio. Clearly he had experience dealing with children- he was a teacher after all- so it was irrational for him to worry over being able to properly provide for Eri. But a part of him knew that this would be different than being in charge of his class, than merely chaperoning a school trip or looking after the well-being of his students.

This time, he wasn’t just a teacher, or a hero. He was a guardian- someone that Eri could trust and rely on to care for her.

“Isn’t this exciting Shouta?” He barely noticed Hizashi shaking him, nor Nedzu walking away, too lost in his own thoughts to even register his partner’s loud rambling. “We can take her out shopping to get stuff for her room tomorrow! I wonder what colour she’ll want to paint it? We should get her some toys too! I wonder what she likes-“

“Cats,” Shouta eventually interjected. Hizashi halted in his tracks, turning to look at him, completely dumbfounded.

“What?”

Shouta couldn’t stop the tiny smile that quirked his lips, merely looking past his boyfriend to glance at Eri again, absentmindedly slipping his hands into his pockets. His mind flickered back to her happiness when she’d spotted the cat book, the way she’d beamed and bounced with excitement, and finally his words rolled out as though it was the simplest thing in the world:

“She likes...cats.”

[lightningflash55]

I’m reading through this part again cause apparently I hate myself, but I just love, I just looove how Demizu Posuka fleshes out the kids in her illustrations so well

If you haven’t read up to chapter 30 in The Promised Neverland, spoilers under the cut

Ahh, this scene. Everyone’s favorite :/ The first page is mostly just here for context:

I noticed the first time around, and I noticed again, how Emma kept watching Norman speak, but Ray immediately put his head down in his hand. I love this just as much as it kills me, just cause it’s such a quiet but strong reaction? 

I was trying to break down the differences between the two here and then I realized all these wonderful details that all contribute to their personalities SO. PERFECTLY. There’s so much in Ray’s reaction itself alone. My initial feeling is that he’s just.done. He’s so overwhelmed the more Norman speaks, the more he realizes everything’s suddenly spiraling out of control, the more frustrated he gets at realizing everything he planned for ISN’T going as he planned. In that moment, there are so many things he’s feeling that he can’t even process them, so what does he do but make this sort of hopeless gesture? I also sort of think that Ray, being Ray and not one to show his feelings nearly as much as Emma or Norman, probably doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want the other two to see his face in that moment. He definitely bottles up a lot of his feelings and when you’re used to that, I think it’s hard to know how to respond around other people? 

But also, being Ray, you know that’s not it. As much as he’s feeling in that moment, you also know he’s going to immediately wrack his brain for any, any possible solution to turn around the present situation. He’s not only overwhelmed, but needs a moment to work things out. That being said, his posture somehow simultaneously conveys (perhaps it’s the amount that Norman is talking with no response from Ray) that this one is a REALLY impossible scenario and that he knows it. He’s thinking because of course he’s going to try, you know he’s good at connecting the dots fast and it doesn’t take him long to just give up(I think he’s actually logical to a fault, for it leads him to giving up super quickly when the situation is impossible, unlike Emma). 

Emma, on the other hand, is still standing and still listening to Norman speaking. The gravity of the situation hasn’t seemed to hit her yet, but cause she hasn’t let it? It’s not that she’s not hearing what Norman’s saying or doesn’t realize what it implies, I just don’t think she’s accepting it, nor is she analyzing the situation in depth like Ray and coming to an impossible outcome. Cause that’s not how Emma works. Her first instinct is to always find some glimmer of hope in the situation and hold onto it, even if it’s purely generated from her own faith in the world and not grounded in reason or logic. I swear there’s a “But...” coming after the bottom panel with Emma on this page. Further, her posture and expression just don’t have the same weight that Ray’s do, and that supports all of this.

Ugh, how does one little page say so much?

This page GETS me, cause just look at their posture?? Ray’s not even holding onto anything, he looks so lost and he’s only not falling down because Norman’s holding onto him. He was pulled into the hug but he’s completely lost all his strength to return it. I wonder if he feels slightly betrayed too, cause like Norman mentions on a later page I believe, Ray’s always so logical but he seemed to really believe that Norman was going to follow through with the hiding plan. His curled fingers still show weak frustration but also suggest that he’s trying to hold onto something but there’s nothing to hold onto?? Someone please save him, everything about his body language here makes me cry. 

And Emma’s feeling the weight of the situation just a little bit more - Norman just finished and is pulling them into a meaningful hug and Ray hasn’t spoken up yet, what are they going to do? She just looks a bit...sad. Like she doesn’t know how they suddenly got to that point and also why Norman didn’t follow through. It’s clicked a little bit more, and that this hug is real, and she’s probably going “what happened?” She’s still able to stand though, and is returning the hug more than Ray is. Her dropping her crutch seems to indicate a bit of shock though, too?

Most of the commentary I wanted to include was on these first two pages because the next just further support and expand on their reactions? 

The horror is finally striking Emma here, but she STILL, even in her dread is able to think there’s some hope left. I love that she takes so long to accept his words and that she goes right into hoping even if it’s weak, cause that’s what makes her Emma. Please don’t ever stop being your hopeful self (I love her agh).

And Ray’s getting more of a physical grip on the situation again but he’s at a loss cause nothing he’s thought of would possibly fix this scenario.

Oh yeah, this is the page I was referring to:

And in these last couple pages here, Ray has just given up because it’s the logical thing to do. He’s almost going back and forth between trying to think beyond this situation now and wondering how it got this hopeless in the first place. 

It’s interesting how they contrast, actually, because Emma won’t give up even though it’s useless and even dangerous to try and stop Norman from leaving now, and Ray is actually urging her to get over it. I think they’ve now both come to the same hopeless conclusion but even so, their reactions still reflect the biggest parts of their personalities?? Emma is an undying optimist at her core and Ray is ever focused on reason and moving forward.

Thank you for reading! I hope you get something out of this little character analysis aside from being sad :u Ugh, as always, the subtlety and detail in the art get me cause they contribute SO MUCH and it’s part of why this story is so heckin’ good. Every bit is always so, so on point and it takes skill to be able to pull that off when drawing such complicated emotions.  

Please feel free to comment/discuss, it’s always welcome! 

[ladynissa7]

The Beginning and the End.

“You say I took the name in vain I don't even know the name But if I did—well, really—what's it to you? There's a blaze of light in every word It doesn't matter which you heard The holy or the broken Hallelujah “ ~Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

Some words are more powerful than others, some cannot fully convey fully that which is felt and some that are designed for that purpose. There is a word, a word when spoken by those who believe, that transcends all emotion, it is an emotion, an exaltation beyond all understanding. Praise God, to feel joy in the praise of God. For Dahlia, this word would transcend its religious meaning and transcend into the pagan, into the forbidden, and the blasphemous

Hallelujah.

Behind an old Victorian House and deep into the woods there was a somewhat odd modern building, inside a pool of the deepest black. To the onlooker it was a void, only their reflection could be seen upon the surface and then, only for some. The stillness was disturbed by movement as someone slowly entered the water nothing reflecting on the surface of the water and then they, too, disappeared. All was still.

 Dahlia allowed herself to sink all the way to the bottom of the pool before becoming as fluid in form as the water around her. A perfect place of reflection and purpose. Here, some truths became clear.  She would never escape that which drove those around her and the passion that consumed them in the name of what they believed in. In the name of some cause, overcome with the drive to achieve if only to please whatever high power demanded of them. From birth to now she would be confronted with zealotry and it molded the girl. It dictates to the woman, even know. Hallelujah

Born not long after California became a state and the Missions had become either obsolete or simple Churches, Lorena Rodriguez found herself with no shortage of influence from Spain, Mexico and the Catholic church.  Mission San Juan Capistrano was her home and the place of worship. A theme that would go throughout Lorena’s existence, she passionately took hold of those teaches and set out to embrace them with enthusiasm. Upon her catechism she took the name Rosa as her middle name, emulating, Santa Rosa of Lima, patron Saint of South America and devout Catholic. She might not have married had her parents not insisted and upon coming of age she became Lorena Rosa Rodriguez Silva dutiful wife and soon to be mother of four. The dream of every young woman of the time (empty) She did not love him. But God wills it.

Hallelujah

An Angel had other plans for this young woman so passionately faithful. As though perhaps sensing the longing in her heart it destroyed her world, one by one, until nothing of what she clung to had mattered anymore. Until hatred for that faith and love of duty had been completely devoured. Then, and only then did he appear to her like a beautiful (and dark) answer to all that had gone before. He gave her new life, new purpose, and answers never understood.

The world of the Sabbat was, in retrospect, simply trading one religious’ zealotry for another. But it felt good to the angry and lost young woman, to our new Lasombra. To hate God and to be a servant to that which also hated him. She saw herself in what they taught and did not look back, it was not hard. She had been introduced to a path pure pain and rage, of pressing on into further aggression and lust. The choice of path would not be the only joy in sin to be discovered, Armitage (She/they/he) would take her into new realms of passion she had no idea existed. Among other things, the Sabbat were in a time of war, raging against the Camarilla and she was taught violence in all forms.  They made her into a monster. Forever.

Hallelujah

Nightmares plagued her though, horrible, and monstrous. Fire, death, rage, harm... every night. In one battle somewhere in the fields of Kansas, Lorena fell in battle and was removed by a Camarilla member. He would be her new Angel and the world would change again. Addiction is a cruel mistress, the rage and passion surfaced many times threatening her existence, threatening her press toward something different. Along the path to recovery she met Sokar, who brought her back into a world of drugs, passions and a new religion, ecstasy. She might have stayed forever and on occasion he tempts her back. He was not the only one trying to pull her back into that world. Nepos, despite being camarilla was on a path and often challenged her to remember that time. Many helped along the way. Roman, gave her a home a place among Lasombra who were not engulfed in such evils. Ezeanu, taught her philosophy and temperance. She taught him the joys of intimacy and the flesh. Amyntas, educated her on how to control that beast within. Talon, beautiful in her love, helped maintain those lessons taught. Lucius was the only member of her family that could even temper her. Even with all of these, if not for Pretty Boy and Buzzard she would have died at the hands of the Sabbat or rejoined them in that darkness, it was easier there. Dahlia, “A delicate fucking flower” was named with them and sanity kept. Then there was Armitage. The years spent together at created a bond that would not and could not easily be broken. Even though Lorena had fallen away and left the Sabbat behind Armitage managed to find her. Every meeting between them was a reminder, a test, oh they pushed each other, they fought, they attempted to kill each other and in it all they expressed their love in the only ways they knew how. It was the most she had ever felt for another and it was the most cruel, broken existence. Once there was even an attempt at diablery and then murder. Yet still they were drawn together. And when Nathaniel West died, he almost won that fight. The grief overwhelmed her.

Hallelujah

Times had changed by then and the Sabbat were no longer warring. Suddenly Serafino was in her world again and concerned for her. She felt drawn to him then and one would think that might have been the end of it, except he did not want her to go to him that way not in pain or anger. So unlike her embrace but fully and with peace.  The presence of the Sabbat so close was disturbing to her, fearing them, and those who would see her return she seemed destined to fall away again. There were few among them she would fight and if Vox showed up, her family’s patriarch, she would not tell him no. (and when he asked, she did not). Lorena’s story became about the lasombra then above all. A thing that never got openly challenged by others or tested, at least fully. She became friends with many, including Diego Amador who had become someone she admired.

This story might have had a predictable end at this point if not for the next person to enter her life. An unexpected presence. He was a sincere and relaxing calm that was almost disturbing in its genuineness. In many ways he drew her and made her uncomfortable all at the same time. Who was this person who should be hating her and judging her for her choices, for her life.  What could a Ventrue, Old Dog and proud Anarch want with a young overly feisty Lasombra who had left the Sabbat and probably done so many horrible things that would be unforgiveable to most? She did not understand and tried to make him go away to show some sort of hatred or dislike of her.

“Hate me.” He did not.

Hallelujah

John became her anchor and she began to settle her soul. Things, as they always do threaten that very peace. Pretty Boy’s death shook her hard, Roman’s ended her relationship with his family.  All throughout John was there. Until he almost was not. As normal in Lorena’s life, something comes along to threaten it and, in this case, it was Enyo. He did not remember, she knew, they had been lovers more even if she was to understand the entire thing. Doubt was expressed in this moment for their future and she might not have been okay. Damn his honesty in wanting to understand what he did not remember. Lorena might not have stuck by another person, but she helped him with his memories, whatever the outcome may be. Isn’t that what you do when you love someone?

Lorena left for a week for answers for herself and when she returned, she simply said “I want no one but you.”

His response ended all doubt, forever.

“Eternal and unchanging we are, finding each new day to slowly wear on us like the waves the sea. Little by little a piece of me is pulled away into depths, cold, bottomless, and void. Yet I do not despair, as much as I am the land upon which I have defined myself, the mass to which many may find a shore and safety, there is only one core, one center, that gives life to all things I touch, all tasks I do are because of this furnace, and forever it churns and beats with the name of you." (John Doe, as written by Daniel Goode)

Hallelujah

While the lines continued to blur between the Sects and the Sabbat seemed less the Sabbat and more the Camarilla while the Camarilla appeared to be more like the Sabbat every day, religion threatened Lorena’s life yet again. This time in the form of religious Hunters. There was a time when her clan would have simply handled that. It was easy in the days when everyone was God fearing and the Church was all powerful. When you look like an Angel, the world is yours to command. But the world had moved on and even the most fervent of Religious people would not be fooled by the Angelic Beauty her clan offered them. The Hunters were everywhere now and threatened everything the kindred of the world had built.

Kindred society had become sloppy and arrogant. And now a choice lay before her. Fight. Fight hundreds of very well trained and very experienced Vampire Hunters, who had been successful in nearly taking her out before or hide. Fighting had its appeal. It is what she’d been born into this life to be. But the price for fighting was high. The cost would be her humanity and everything. Not to mention, the death of Humanity, something she knew would cause problems among many others. Protect humanity, but humanity wanted to kill her. Hiding wasn’t an answer either. What was? She felt lost. The answer seemed to be to leave, to walkway from where they knew she was and to just see the world. The nomad in her preferred that.  It had been a life she led and John would go. He was already telling her of many places. Lorena was comfortable in the knowledge those left behind would be okay, they were capable and wouldn’t need her. They might even be safer.

As she lay contemplating all the water moved. Someone was entering the pool disrupting the water all around her and causing even the shadow of herself to move about. For a few brief moments she relished in the sensation of it and then turned slowly toward them. The shadows moved gently up toward the figure and then around it as though climbing before fully forming into a very solid Dahlia, looking up into John’s face with a small smile. She was momentarily caught by his beauty and said nothing. He smiled in return. “Are we going?”

The smile fell away and she pressed into him with a small nod. He obliged her by wrapping his arms tightly around her and for just that moment she felt perfectly safe from the world.  From everything.

The road lay ahead, neither knew what would be there, but they’d travel it, for as long as forever would allow.   Hallelujah.

  Nicole Ortiz

[cluster-a-pds]

What sort of things qualify as strange/unusual beliefs for STPD? And also what are some examples of disordered thinking/speech? I have no idea if what I experience is normal as I have no frame of reference for it..

Hey, thanks for the question!

I have a post where I break down and explain every StPD diagnostic criteria, which is here (link), and I think there are some examples and explanations listed there. But I’ll also list a few things here in my reply for convenience/covering it a bit more - 

~

Strange/unusual beliefs could be stuff like:

Someone thinking they have magical powers or influence over events

-

Someone thinking that there is an organization of people who watch them in their house or that they are living in a tv show

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A belief of being able to communicate with ghosts or control supernatural phenomena 

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Someone thinking they are able to read minds or predict the future

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A strong belief in odd conspiracy theories (not ones with like plausible actual evidence like ‘the sugar industry used to pay scientists to change results of studies to say sugar was better for you than it actually was’ but more outlandish things like: ‘there is a global conspiracy  of corporations planning to steal the mind content of humans through their dreams and I hate sleeping because I don't want The Organization to have access to my brain’ , etc. things that have little actual basis or are highly unlikely to be true )

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Having many unusual superstitions (’oh I try not to make plans on a Tuesday because that’s a Bad day and something bad will always happen if I do anything out of the ordinary on a Tuesday’ etc.) 

-

also note: the criteria says ‘which influence behavior and are inconsistent with subcultural norms’, meaning it should be beyond a ‘regular’ degree. Like many people will admit: “Well, yeah, idk I guess ghosts could be something that exist, it’s not impossible you know, I think I saw one once”, especially since minor belief in ghosts is fairly common in some pop culture and etc., but that wouldn’t constitute as an odd belief that’s strong enough to be influential on a person. Whereas if someone were to go off speaking about the many times they’ve spoken to Ghosts personally and felt the presence of ghosts and have many stories about times that their strong belief in ghosts has affected them personally and influenced their behavior or interactions with others or etc., then that would be beyond a ‘regular’ degree and they would likely qualify for having ‘odd beliefs’. It’s not just simply ‘believes in ghosts and aliens and likes occult things’ , an important part of it is also the personal connection, the feeling of being able to influence events or having these beliefs be strongly important to the person and shape their actions and behavior, etc.    Also things that are cultural norms wouldn’t count (such as someone in a religious family believing in the “supernatural” powers of their common god), unless to a ridiculously uncommon degree or in a strange way (like someone being mildly afraid to take showers because they’re fixated on the idea that holy angels are always watching them and jesus will hurt their family if they ever show their nude body to the angels , even during bathing, etc.) 

-

Basically just strange or odd beliefs that differ from cultural norms and impact the person’s life and actions to some degree. 

(Also: it is noted that these beliefs should be less than delusional in intensity, so even if someone believes them enough to have it influence their behavior and the way they interact with the world and etc. they would still be somewhat aware that they may be unlikely or untrue, mostly at all times. Like someone may mostly feel that the reason they got a phone call was because they have magic powers and wished for a phone call just 5 minutes earlier, but they would still be able to admit that it could likely just be a coincidence, and would probably still doubt that they LITERALLY have complete magical control over things, even if  they do consistently feel that way and hold the idea as important to them. This is because part of what distinguishes StPD from things like schizophrenia is that the psychotic symptoms are less pronounced/below the threshold, and you wouldn’t have long lasting full delusions or hallucinations or etc in StPD, this is explained in better detail/more at length-ish in the ‘ideas of reference’ section of the bigger writing I linked to, but I thought I would mention it briefly here since it is in the criteria ) 

~

And then odd thinking and speech could be stuff like:

Being overly vague or lacking detail in your speech (like even when talking about a topic where you would expect detail (such as one’s personal thoughts on a topic, or when telling a story) like just  ‘So what do you like to do?’ “stuff.” ‘Like what?’ “things.” ‘What in particular?’ “read”  ‘What type of books do you enjoy?’ “ idk, books” ‘Do you have a favorite genre?’ “yeah.” ‘Well what is it?’ “mystery” ‘Why is it your favorite? What do you like about it?’ “idk”, etc. (Also this wouldn’t just be only in the case where someone wants a conversation to end and they’re being short on purpose, it would have to be an actual common thing the person is not doing intentionally just to end a discussion or etc.) 

-

Being overly detailed and giving too much information, like if someone just asks a person about where they got their shoes but then they go on a whole tangent about what type of shoes they like and how they feel about the shoe industry and what it would look like if they designed their own shoes and how they have foot inserts for their feet problems and etc etc.

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Overly abstract or metaphorical speech that doesn’t help convey a meaning. So like someone using occasional common metaphors just to help explain things would be typical, but if someone asked “How did your meeting go?” and a person replied “As all meetings, the meeting of the elements, the intermingling, as the frost winded nights, and as the sun livened bright hours, there are times of warmth and times of cold, and we are doomed to forever fluctuate between the uncomfortable nature of movement”  or “hm… the meeting was very round but sharp feeling and not in a good way”, the other person likely would have to ask for clarification on what is meant by those things

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Generally disorganized thought patterns, like frequently rambling about things that have nothing to do with the topic at hand , being unable to keep track of a topic, often forgetting what you were saying, jumping from one idea to the next too fast for people to keep up and even see a correlation, etc

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Using odd words for things, such as someone stating they were not ‘talkable’ at work (which you can understand means that they weren’t very social or talkative, but the word choice is still strange)

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Mixed around sentences that aren’t entirely organized  ( “I was, or were, was, uh,, going get the cake was on the shelf, I had to , um ,, up to the shelf stand on the for the cake to get the cake since was feeling, you know I um,  not enough sugar in my body, so I thought to eat the cake” (you can tell it’s basically: ‘I felt like I needed some sugar so I thought I could have some cake and I had to stand on something in order to reach it to get it from the shelf’ , but it’s not very organized and a little strange))

-

Basically just speech and thought patterns that are hard to follow or seem odd, or may get in the way of expressing one’s self in an organized and understandable manner, may interfere with social interactions and etc. 

-

Also this is a thing here (link) that has some good examples written out, which can be useful to look at , but also keep in mind that some of these more severe ones like word salad would not apply to StPD, as meaning of speech shouldn’t be entirely lost. The thought/speech distortions in StPD are usually not severe enough to make the person fully incomprehensible. It may sound odd or slightly difficult to follow but is not extreme to the point that the person is actually incoherent.

-

also note: Odd thinking and speech would be present in multiple scenarios. Everyone can have disorganized speech and etc. if they’re very nervous giving a presentation or under the influence of something or etc., This would only count if it was something frequent and long lasting in multiple contexts, like most all criteria

Hopefully this helped answer your question! Some of this stuff can be the most complicated due to it being difficult to find a good frame of reference for what counts as odd or unusal or etc. but hopefully this helped some. We also have a lot more information in our Resources page here (link). Feel free to send another ask if you need clarification on anything! Have a great day, anon! - Luca

[fictionforstydia]

Seven Mistakes

Request: The Sadie Hawkins dance is coming up and of course Lydia wants to ask Stiles, but she holds off asking him so that he can sweat a little. She's enjoying watching squirm a lot until she sees another girl asking Stiles to the dance.

Rating: T

Timeline: 6A

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Jealousy, Canon Divergence, Missing Scene

There was only one person she’d even consider asking to the dance. That -- and that solely -- was the reason why she’s been putting it off since the dance was announced. 

Everyone knew she was going to ask him out. After shit they’ve been through and the way they’ve been acting ever since Stiles came back to the existing, it wasn’t even a question. 

That was, at least, what Lydia thought. 

“Are you going to the dance?” 

It was Friday and Lydia was helping Malia with school homework. The girl didn’t exactly excel in biology, whereas it was the redhead’s main strength. Besides being a banshee, of course.

Lydia looked up at the brunette, with a tiny smile forming in the corners of her lips. 

“Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” It came out as a blubbering mess as Malia had a highlighter between her teeth. “You still don’t have a date.”

“I do. I just haven’t asked him yet.”

“Who?”

“Stiles,” deadpanned Lydia. “I thought you knew.”

Malia shrugged. Her fingers ran across the page and a frown across her face, but she didn’t say anything. 

It was a tricky subject, for both of them. Lydia’s feelings were new to everyone and with Malia being Stiles’s only real ex, it was something they didn’t talk about. Lydia still felt guilty because of what happened between the two, even though it wasn’t her fault.

Sometimes she needed to remind herself that none of it was her fault. 

Lydia’s eyes flickered towards the werecoyote with caution, but Malia wasn’t paying attention to her. Her face was emotionless as she highlighted sentences in her book, but her shoulders were tense and her breathing was painfully even.

“Malia, I’m--”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” Her gaze found Lydia’s and she smiled, warmly. “It’s okay. My only problem is with you not asking him out.”

A breath of relief passed Lydia’s lips. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I want to, but I don’t want it to seem eager and desperate.”

Malia huffed, rolling her eyes. “I never understood human flirting games.”

“That’s because you spent half your life as an animal.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t have flirting games. We’d just mate. You should try that.”

Disgusted expression passed Lydia’s face, bringing a laugh from the other girl. Both of them placed away the books, binders and flash cards, deciding they wouldn’t do much work anyway.

Besides, now that the Stiles-related-tension was out of the way, Lydia was desperate for telling someone. There was no way she was telling Scott because he was a boy, and telling Hayden would be like . . . telling a five-year-old. 

They shuffled around Lydia’s bed until both of them lied on the pillows, ready for a sleepover. 

“When he came back, we just hugged. And that was all,” she said quietly.

It was the first time she said it out loud. 

Malia snorted. “Yeah, but it’s not like everything’s the same between you two.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He doesn’t know you like him back, Lydia. You better ask him out before someone else does.”

“Who’d ask him out?” Lydia chuckled; even the thought of it was irrational. “He’s going with me.”

Turns out, Lydia made several mistakes.

No. 1: Waiting to ask him out.

No. 2: Not actually letting anyone except Malia know she was going to ask him to the dance (turns out, it wasn’t as obvious as she’d thought.)

No. 3: Kind-of avoiding him. (That one was a complete miss; she thought he’d be all over her like a puppy, but turns out a ten-year-period of her ignoring him made him resistant to that.)

No. 4: Deciding to ask him out two days before the dance.

She was a scientist; she knew about chain of events. She knew that one thing led to another, but she thought she was better at this game than she thought. 

Four days before the dance and almost a month since it’s been announced it was a Sadie Hawkins, she passed him in the hall. His cologne was mixed with an earthly scent (he’d probably ventured off into the woods to try and find the Nemeton again) and her heart raced. 

He looked at her, but she only nodded. Their exchange was brief and for the first time since she started playing the game, there was something different in the way he talked to her.

No. 5: She didn’t realize what was going on. 

By the time she got to her locker, Stiles wasn’t alone anymore. 

“Hi, Stiles?”

“Hey?”

Lydia watched them from the corner of her eye. The girl was a senior, too -- her name was Harper something. Her brown hair cascading her back reminded Lydia of autumn, for some reason, and the big smile she wore resembled the way Stiles used to look at her.

And was now how he looked at Harper, too.

“Would you like to go to Sadie’s with me?” asked Harper quietly, but Lydia heard it anyway.

Bang. 

Bang.

You’re dead.

Lydia gritted her teeth; the pencil in her hand broke into two, stabbing her in the palm. Her glare would’ve created a hole in the back of her locker if that was her ability as a banshee. 

Speaking of which, she felt the need to unleash the anger.

She waited. Time moved painfully slowly.

“I was going to do something special to ask you,” Harper continued, “but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry. I thought you were going with someone already and I found out you didn’t, I just wanted to ask you before someone else.”

Oh, I’m so going to kill somebody.

Then, she heard it.

“Yes.”

Bang.

This time, it was the sound of her locker door slamming shut. 

When Lydia’s heels clicked against the linoleum, she could’ve sworn everything else stopped. No one dared breathe and everyone’s eyes were glued to the Queen Bee coming to reclaim her throne. It was a side of her no one’s seen in over a year.

Most importantly, both Stiles and Harper stared at her. 

It took an eternity to finally reach him. Once she grabbed his upper arm and flashed Harper a sinister smile, she said “Excuse us. We need to have an urgent conversation.”

The poor girl stammered in agreement and Lydia would’ve felt bad for her if she hadn’t messed this all up. 

No. 6: She blamed everyone but herself.

Had Lydia been thinking rationally, she would’ve been less abrupt about the whole situation. She would’ve come up to the two and asked if she could borrow Stiles for a minute without lashing out on Harper or grabbing Stiles and dragging him away. 

But she wasn’t thinking rationally. 

The two ended up in the janitor’s office -- a series of memories flashed before her eyes, receiving nothing but ignorance. 

He was waiting on her to ask him, she’d later come to find out. A dozen girls asked him already and he’d always say no, but when it came four days before the dance, he gave up the hope. He thought she was going with someone else or not at all.

That was what Scott told her when she asked, later. But she should’ve known it from the moment she saw him in the hallway. 

“You can’t go with Harper.”

He took in a sharp breath; but there was no surprise. “Why?”

“Because I want you to come with me.”

There, she said it. After weeks of debating when and how to do it, with a dozen plans on making the best proposal in the history of Beacon Hills High dances, she was degraded to a simple declaration of her wishes. 

Because she’d made seven mistakes.

No. 7: She should’ve told him as soon as he came back. She should’ve invited him immediately. This wasn’t the time for playing stupid, stupid teen games of love and hate. She was stupid.

“I already told her I’m going with her.”

“Change your mind,” she was quick to suggest. “It won’t hurt.”

His hazel eyes -- there was so much blue and brown and gold in them -- softened, and she could tell he knew it wasn’t the truth. They both did. 

But Lydia was selfish and she didn’t want to care about Harper, not right now.

“Lydia.” 

His lips enchanted her as they formed her name; vibrating in her chest like a spell. The way he said it, phrased it, felt it made her think he was the reason her name came to be. 

“If you asked any other day, I would’ve said yes,” he whispered. “But I thought you weren’t going to ask.”

“I was. I just--”

“Wasn’t sure?”

“No,” she whispered back. Her eyes were glued to his lips because if she looked him in the eye, all self-control would’ve vanished in an instant. “I’ve always been sure.”

His fingers found hers and warmth ran its way to her chest; he traced her palm, softly and gently, as if she were glass and he was embracing the masterpiece. 

“I don’t want to do this if you aren’t sure.”

You know, there was a time when Lydia wouldn’t think twice about words like these. When she would take them and go, not caring about the sincerity they were spoken with or the hidden layers of hurts that went beyond any words. 

When she wouldn’t be taken aback by the genuine care and concern and worry and fear. When she wouldn’t feel her heart shatter because of his disbelief in her feelings when lately, they’ve been one of the few things she’s been certain of. 

When she wouldn’t care he didn’t want to be broken. 

But this was a time where a different Lydia was here, and this Lydia fell in love with the boy before her. She’s been falling in love with him for over two years and it finalized at once. 

Right here. 

So she kissed him; violently, passionately. With every word she never said, every emotion words couldn’t convey. Where she tried to show him the intensity of her feelings toward him, knowing his feelings were as strong if not even stronger. 

“Is this sure enough?”

And when he kissed her back, she knew it was.

[renaroo]

Lost but Not Lonesome

Disclaimer: Transformers, Beast Wars, and related properties belong to Hasbro Warnings: Canon-typical language and violence, References to autism and ableism Rating: T Pairing: AirazorxTransmutate Prompt: ( @vo-kopen ) Just for the sake of asking, and feel free to reject this, but maybe a sequel to the Beast Wars stories I commissioned, taking place in a version of Beast Machines? Prompt - Tigatron is still missing along with Rampage's Spark and other members of the team, and Airazor has been trying to distract herself from mourning by teaching Trans-Mutate Chirolingual (Cybertron sign language by hand holding) During a session Trans-Mutate signs a very intimate phrase, and Airazor is unsure of how she feels.

A/N: Thank you for such an interesting prompt! 

For those unfamiliar, I have written two fics for this same series based in a Beast Wars AU already that developed a what-if for Airazor and Transmutate’s friendship in an alternate canon. So I’m going to build somewhat off of those for this fill. 

Returning home was not supposed to mean such sparkbreak. 

There was a part of Airazor, a bitter part down to her core, that was beginning to wonder what she and the others had done over the years to deserve their constant misfortune. To deserve every hitch in their path.

What she did to deserve losing her sparkmate.

Of course, it was unfair that she viewed it all with such limited vision. Improper, really, considering that her vision had always been her most pointed gift. But at the end of the day, it was difficult for her to see past the veneer of mourning she had veiling her. 

Never before would Airazor have believed that seeing Silverbolt and Blackarachnia could fill her frame with such jealousy. 

Why did they get to survive together, where she still did not know where her dearest Tigatron ended up? 

She had done something truly unfair that her spark was being eternally punished for, she was sure of it. 

Curled up into herself, still getting used to the transmetal body she had been molded into after their crash landing, Airazor was left to her usual queries. Where was Tigatron? Was his spark still beating? Was he where the other missing Maximals were? Was he missing her with the same amount of pain in his spark she felt? 

Would he still love her despite her feathers and softness being transformed to be more machine than beast? He had felt so strongly about the importance of Beastmodes and nature. 

Could he still see beauty in the way she was now?

Curling into herself tighter on her perch, Airazor hid her all-seeing optics into her knees and cycled them off tiredly. 

Her depression and anguish were beyond exhausting. 

But before she could fully get her rest, she heard the loud ad familiar approach of Optimus Primal. 

While she considered feigning recharge, Airazor knew that the only instinct in her that was still honed pointedly beyond longing for her spark-of-sparks, was her duties as a Maximal soldier. She looked up, optics cycling back on before she slowly got to her feet in her leader’s presence. 

“Hello, Sir,” she said with true lackluster. “Is there something you need me to do?” 

She hoped he would see her exhaustion and anguish and leave her be, leave her to mourn more. 

But again, Airazor proved to be eternally cursed.

"I know things are difficult for the Maximals right now,” he understated. “No more so than for you, I’m sure.”

Airazor lowered her head and squeezed her eyes closed. By the Pits, she loved Optimus like a father but he was increasingly bad at making her feel better in these most dire situations.

“But Transmutate is... crying,” Primal continued, and by the hesitation he gave and the expression he wore on his face, Airazor knew that he was not meaning any normal cry or anguish but the reverberating, dangerous sonics which Transmutate was capable of producing. “And the rest of our abilities to communicate with her are proving... woefully ineffective.”

Scowling slightly, Airazor looked meaningfully toward Optimus. “None of you have effectively communicated to Transmutate. None of you other than Silvebolt an myself have gotten to an understanding with her.”

He did not back down from her rebukes, accepting them all and standing his ground. Airazor found herself marveling at the mech she already respected so much. 

“You are right,” he said. “And that has been a mistake, a mistake that was excused repeatedly by myself and others as a less important issue to be addressed at later times that never came. We did not see the value of the effort and time which you and Silverbolt have managed.”

It was certainly a comment that took Airazor a moment to fully process. She lowered her head, somewhat bashfully. “That means a lot, Sir. Thank you.”

“I’m glad it does,” he explained. “Because I want you to take things to the next level and try to expand Transmutate’s capacity for communicating with the rest of our team -- her team. There are too few of us left now for us to not work to use what is best for each and every one of us.”

Confused, Airazor folded her arms. “I agree that it sounds like a good idea, sir, but... I’m curious about where exactly we are supposed to get there. Transmutate still has trouble communicating a lot of her feelings, and she’s very... kinetic in addressing people she’s comfortable with.” Subconsciously, Airazor reached for her wings, feeling the transmetal sleekness rather than the soft billows of feathers she loved. “She associates feathers with safety... acceptance. Love. And, unfortunately, on top of everything else we’ve lost, Silverbolt and I have lost the ability to give her that small comfort.”

Optimus Primal looked almost disappointed in her. “It’s not like you to give up so easily, Airazor.”

Airazor hugged herself. “Guess it was more than my feathers that changed after all of this, Big Bot,” she replied sadly. 

“All the same, you’re my mech for the job,” he assured her. “You’ve proven your relationship with Transmutate, you’ve proven your patience, and most importantly, you were the one that discovered that she prefers kinetic interactions.”

“Yes?” Airazor asked, tilting her helm. 

“So I think the logical step is for us all to facilitate her preference,” Optimus explained. “You should give her lessons in Chirolinguistics.”

At first, Airazor was just processing the suggestion, then her optics widened. “That’s... genius, Optimus! You’e wonderful for coming up with that! Thank you!”

“I probably would have been able to think of it sooner if I had been listening to you from the beginning, Airazor,” Optimus said humbly. “I trust you to take care of this.”

“Sir, yessir,” Airazor answered with a salute.

Chirolinguistics as at least as old, if not older, than spoken Cybertonian. It was meant to surpass dialects, class, and rankings. 

A language of intimacy, between friends and colleagues and more -- it was a language that was perfect for Transmutate. 

Transmutate, much like the rest of them, had received unexpected augmentation and upgrades when they transitioned from hyperspace and eventually crashed and lost much of their crew. Her body was more complete than it had been on the ancient earth, more coherent in its connections, though whether or not she had altmode this time around was still questionable.

Fortunately, she had much more dextrous hands than she had had while they had been on earth, and that was making the chirolinguistics lessons move along much better. 

“That’s right,” Airazor said warmly as Transmutate answered a question that had been asked in chirolinguistics. “You’re doing so well, Transmutate! Honestly I’m horrified we never considered this approach with you before.” She paused, a frown tugging at her face. “Well, I’m horrified that I never considered trying other ways to communicate with you before. I suppose I was... I was almost satisfied that you could talk to me, and I hadn’t made enough considerations for how you or the rest of the team were supposed to talk together.” She looked up sorrowfully at her friend. “I hope you can forgive me for being so shortsighted. I won’t let it happen again.”

In response, Transmutate smiled and ran a finger across Airazor’s knuckles. It was untranslatable to spoken language, but Airazor recognized it for its warmth and generosity. 

Forgiveness. 

“Alright then,” Airazor said, with a small, breathless laugh. “Let’s move on to the next lesson, alright? Now, this is a greeting -- the shorter it is the less intimate it is. A lot like most conversations in chirolinguistics. Dragging sensation and touch is a sign of familiarity, friendship. And the slower it is, the more you mean to convey the importance of the relationship to you.” She then made a quick few pecks of her fingers, fast and rapid, enough that it alarmed Transmutate and she pulled away. “Sorry, I was just hoping to show you what it feels like to go too fast -- that’s rude.”

Nodding in agreement, Transmutate looked far from pleased. “Rude,” she echoed. 

“For someone you think of as a deep, close friend, you use much longer strokes,” Airazor explained. “Like you and I, we’re each other’s best friends. We’re all each other has.” The entire time she was speaking, Airazor traced into Transmutate’s palms, running against the crevices, dragging into the curves and circling around her servos. “There are few people you would spend that much time speaking with, but I definitely think you and I qualify.”

“Oh,” Transmutate answered. She repeated the pattern but at first her movement was so slow, Airazor believed her to be hesitating. Transmutate drug her fingers, pressing deep and meaningfully into each stroke against Airazor’s palm. 

It was long, sensual, and by the end, the words took on a different meaning than what Airazor had written into Transmutate’s  palms. 

They were a confession, and Airazor felt her faceplate heat up. 

“T-Transmutate,” she said, flustered. When the other looked at her in slight concern, Airazor assured herself it was an error. That Transmutate’s speed was simply out of slowness to catch on. “It’s... I think you should practice that again.”

A knowing smile curved onto Transmutate’s face and she started to trace the words into Airazor’s palms once more. 

Somehow, Transmutate found a way to go slower. Airazor closed her eyes and allowed her breathing to match the sensual drag and drop of Transmutate’s words. She felt nothing but the chirolinguistics against her hands, slow and budding with tension. 

Before the final words could be spelled out, Airazor stopped Transmutate breathlessly, lacing their fingers together and squeezing Transmutate’s hands back. 

Her wings flailed behind her, fanning air her way as Airazor tilted her head forward, only for her forehead to be met with Transmutate’s. 

Airazor was so surprised, so speechless. 

Shaking her head, Airazor tried to look into Transmutate’s eyes but she couldn’t bring herself to part their foreheads. “Do you know what you meant when you did that?” she asked softly. 

Slowly, Transmutate spelled out yes into Airazor’s palms. 

Since losing Tigatron, since losing herself, Airazor had forgotten what it felt like to have such openly spoken love shown her way. She didn’t know how to feel, only how to spell it back into Transmutate’s hands.

They had loved and truly lost, but together, Airazor felt for the first time in her broken spark, they could maybe love again. 

[hey-i-wrote-a-story]

Chapter 38 Little To Show

It was already midday by the time Scott’s pack was gathered around his kitchen, leaning over the center island listening to Lydia’s cell phone, set to speaker.

           “So where are we?”, Scott asked. The others looked on expectantly. Kira, Stiles, Liam, Lydia, and Malia were all there listening intently.      

           Mr. Deaton’s voice answered back. “I’m afraid we have very little to show in our research, beyond what we already know. I’m uncovering more information about Orchard Ridge, the Willoughby family, even some news items about the night of the original monster attack. But beyond that…” His voice trailed off, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

           “Mom?”, Kira asked. “How about on your end?”

           Mrs. Yukimura’s voice came through from her side of the conference call. “It’s not for nothing that the monsters were known as The Unspoken. The vast majority of the lore has been either lost or is under protection by sources I couldn’t even begin to imagine, much less locate. Everything that I have found mostly tells us that the amount we already know about the creature is a miraculous amount.”

           “But not miraculous enough to tell us how to stop it”, Stiles observed.

           “There is only one thing that both Mrs. Yukimura and I have been able to confirm”, Deaton began. “But it’s the same conclusion we’ve come to before.”

           “I thought we were looking for an alternative”, Scott said quickly.

           “I’m not sure we’re going to find another way, Scott. Certainly not in the limited time that we have. ”

           “What are you guys talking about?”, Liam asked

           Deaton paused for a moment, then answered, “There is one way we have found to send it back.”

           “Good!”, Liam said, excited. “Let’s do it! What do we need? How do we—“

           He didn’t make it any further before Mrs. Yukimura said, “It would require a sacrifice.”

           The room went silent as the pack’s members stared at one another. This was not what they wanted to hear. Stiles finally broke the silence. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned we can go the route of toads or mice or a really big fruit basket.”

           Mrs. Yukimura’s voice was flat and humorless. “No.”

           Something occurred to Deaton. “The other three kids. Are they with you?”

           “No”, Lydia said.

           “I sent them outside to play”, Stiles said, glancing into the back yard to see the three of them seated around the base of a tree, apparently caught up in conversation.

           Lydia added, “We didn’t know what you were going to find, so we thought it best that we knew first.”

           “A wise decision”, Mrs. Yukimura said.

           In the back yard, their backs to the house, Kaitlyn, Aadesh, and Freddie sat transfixed on a small purple gem that Kaitlyn held suspended from a thin gold chain. Inside the gem, tiny crystalline particles were slowly evaporating. The gem glowed softly as every word spoken in the kitchen echoed through the gem for the trio of friends to hear.

           Her voice tinny and slightly distant, Mrs. Yukimura’s voice echoed through the gem, “A wise decision.”

           “Yeah”, Freddie said. “Wouldn’t want us doing anything stupid.”

           “Like summoning a killer monster from another dimension”, Aadesh griped, absently plucking blades of grass from the ground.

           Kaitlyn shushed them both. It was hard enough to make out what was being said without having to restrain their remarks. The voices continued coming through the gem, its interior crystals rapidly running out.

           “There’s more”, Deaton said.

           Stiles rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course there is.”

           “The level of sacrifice necessary to return a creature this powerful back where it came from would require something…more than human.”

           There was a heavy pause the hung in the air as they processed that statement. Scott said, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

           “I’m afraid so.”

           “What?”, Liam asked. “What is he saying?”

           Mrs. Yukimura explained. “The sacrifice needs to be someone supernatural.”

           Another pause. The three friends in the back yard looked at each other to verify they had heard that right. Judging from the look in their eyes, they had.

           Back in the kitchen, Stiles said, “So that could mean someone like a wendigo, or a druid.”

           “Or a banshee”, Lydia said.

           “Or kitsune”, Kira said.

           “Or a werewolf”, Scott said, completing what they were already thinking. In order to save everyone whom the monster could hurt, would the sacrifice have to be one of them?

           “The range is wider than that”, Mrs. Yukimura continued, “for what this is worth. In term of a supernatural sacrifice, that could also include anyone who has been touched by the supernatural in some way. Their connection would have to be significant, not just a passing encounter, but—“

           “That could mean any of us”, Stiles said, including himself in his statement.

           “Or anyone like us”, Liam interjected.

           “No”, Scott said firmly. “I’m not going to accept that somebody else has to die in order to stop this thing. There’s got to be another way.”

           “I’m sorry”, Mrs. Yukimura said. “But there is no other way.”

           As she spoke, Deaton’s eyes drifted to the book nearby on his desk. The monster guide book that Scott had lent him. The pages were still open to the illustration he had been studying earlier. A thought occurred to him. “About that…”

           “Yeah?”, Scott said. He could tell from his boss’s voice that the wheels were turning in his head.

           In the backyard, Kaitlyn’s gem burned out. Its interior crystals burned up, it was now a lovely hollow piece of costume jewelry, but of no use magically.

           “Damn it”, She muttered.

           “What do you think he was gonna say?”, Freddie pondered aloud.

           “Do you think whatever it was would make an difference?”, Aadesh asked.

           Back inside, Scott pressed Deaton. “What are you thinking?”

           “I’m thinking that I need to be sure about something before I say anything else. Stay vigilant and watch out for each other. I’ll contact you as soon as I know more.”  With that, he hung up.

           The mood in the kitchen went from doubtful to dismal. Their options, currently being only one, were less than appealing. Mrs. Yukimura spoke again, catching a few of the pack off guard. They had almost forgotten she was still on the line.

           “Dr. Deaton and I believe that it would be a good idea to return to the farm for one last search. You are looking for alternative solutions. You may find something there.”

           “Scott and I already checked”, Stiles said. “We didn’t find anything very helpful.”

           “But you didn’t have me”, Lydia said.

           “Our thoughts exactly”, Mrs. Yukimura agreed. “If any of us could pick up on something lingering there—“

           “—it would most likely be a banshee”, Lydia said, completing her thought.

           “I’ll go with you”, Malia offered.

           “Just be careful”, Mrs. Yukimura urged. “And take heart, It’s not over yet.”

           As the two girls moved to leave, Scott stepped closer to them. “We’re going to find another way”, Scott said, trying to reassure his friends. “We will.” Malia and Lydia nodded, then left. Those left behind found it difficult to agree with Scott’s statement, so they said nothing.

           In the back yard, the three friends sat in silence. After the quiet became too difficult to bear, Aadesh spoke up. “Maybe we should just let them do whatever it is they’re going to do. They always come up with a cool plan, don’t they?”

           “You gotta admit, they do”, Freddie agreed, thinking back on the stories of his heroes’ adventures. “Like slipping the mountain ash into those pills, or the time they—“

           “How’s everyone been sleeping lately?”, Kaitlyn interrupted.

           The boys looked at each other and their eyes conveyed that which they had chosen not to mention. They both looked at Kaitlyn to find that her expression matched theirs.

           “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Me too.”

           Aadesh bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “When things get really bad, it always comes out in our dreams.”

           “It’s been that way for all of us”, Freddie remarked. “Ever since—“

           “Ever since I started accessing my visions”, Kaitlyn said, nodding. She looked to her two remaining friends, locking her eyes on both of them. “It’s time to make some hard choices.”

           The two boys didn’t contradict her, but they didn’t jump in to agree with her, either.

 Stiles strode through the door of his house trying to stay focused and trying to stay as positive as Scott. The former was not that much of a challenge, as fear and desperation often honed Stiles’ focus. That latter? Yeah, that wasn’t happening. He figured he’d grab some food on the run and then get back to the business of brainstorming a way out of this impossible situation. I never thought I’d miss the days of obsessive homicidal grandfathers and psychotic alpha packs, Stiles mused to himself. It’s kind of hard to anticipate the thoughts of something that doesn’t exactly think.

           Stiles stopped midway across the room when a strong aroma struck him. Someone had been cooking. And it smelled really good. Stiles quickly made his way to the kitchen, where he found his father setting out food onto the unusually clean table.

           “Um…Dad? What’s going on?”

           “What’s going on is dinner. And your timing is perfect, which is rarely the case. Plates and silverware are there on the end. Set the table for three.”

           Stiles was already responding to his dad’s request before he even considered what he was doing. “Shouldn’t you be out monster hunting instead of playing Suzy Homemaker all of a sudden?”

           “We’ve got every man on this and there hasn’t been a peep about your flying whatsits in hours. I have no idea when we’re going to have the chance to eat again once disaster strikes—which it always does—so why not enjoy the fleeting moment of quiet while we have it?”

           Stiles found it difficult to argue with his father’s logic. “That actually makes pretty good sense.” He looked at the third plate even as he set it down, arranging the fork and knife on either side of it. “Who else is eating?”

           “Oh, Malia’s around here somewhere. She might be upstairs. I tend to just expect her now. It makes her unannounced appearances less jarring.”

           “I think she said she was going to grab a coat she’d left here before taking off with Lydia.” Stiles looked at the plate of steaming, well-cooked, and deliciously seasoned individual steaks at the center of the table. He sniffed. It smelled fantastic, but he still couldn’t place it. “That…looks suspiciously juicy and well-marbled, as well as having most likely been up and walking around at some point in the recent past. I thought we were eating healthy now. What is--?”

           The sheriff cut off his son’s question by setting a large spinach salad to the left of the steaks, and a dish of steamed broccoli and asparagus on the right. “We have plenty of greens, don’t worry. Call your girlfriend and let’s eat before something out there blows up or rises from the dead.”

           “Sure. But what kind of steaks are--?”

           Malia was at the foot of the stairs about to stride past the kitchen before either Stilinski knew she was there. “I’m meeting Lydia in a little bit. We should be—“ Malia stopped, her face was lit up with joy, her smile a mile wide.

           “Deer!”

           Stiles felt his eyes bulge. “I’m sorry, what?”

           Malia was in her seat in a second. “Oh, this is fantastic! Thank-you!”

           The sheriff smiled at his son. “Venison. I was getting a little tired of pizza.”

           Stiles smiled back and took his seat beside his girl. As breaks in the chaos went, this was most definitely a good one. And if this did end up being their last meal, Stiles would be hard-pressed to think of a better one. The sheriff passed the steaks around, Malia snatching the first one eagerly. As Stiles began to lift one of the succulent steaks onto his plate, Malia was already munching down hers with gusto.

           “Mmmm! SO good! I’ve never had one cooked before. This is great!”

           Father and son shared a look that signified a sudden decrease in appetite. Stiles set the plate down and slowly pushed it away.

           “Maybe I’ll start with the salad”, He said.

           “Me too”, his father agreed.