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moni-logues · 1 year ago

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Across a Crowded Room

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Strangers-to-lovers, idolverse, smut

Word count: 10.7k

Summary: Dissatisfied and uncomfortable at a party where you don’t belong, in a country where you feel like you don’t belong, you see a man looking at you from across the room. Maybe he’s what you’ve been missing.

Content: alcohol consumption, fingering, oral (f. receiving), protected sex, multiple orgasms, I guess slight exhibitionism since it all happens up against a window lmao

A/N: Ok, so I 1000000% thought I had re-posted this here already?? but Lia has informed me that I have not and since I got a nice message about it on the old blog, I figured now's as good a time as any to repost!! The start of this fic is literally the first writing I had done for over a decade. I started writing even before I had a writing blog. Then the rest of it was written... last November? ish? idk. anyway, I read this myself the other day and it's alright! ETA: LOL, you can tell it's old because it's written in present tense LMAO

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You tug self-consciously at the hem of your dress; it’s a little too short for your liking, but Hanjae likes you in K-style clothes and, once you’re there, it’ll be fine. It’s always a little nerve-wracking the thought of going to a party where you hardly know anyone, but it always turns out fine. Fun, even. Positive thinking. You sigh and inhale deeply before leaving your apartment and heading down to the car he’s sent for you.

When you first met, you were both taken with each other. He was intrigued by your foreignness and enchanted by your clumsy negotiations in a foreign culture; you were reassured by his confidence and excited by the access he had to hitherto hidden worlds of luxury and indulgence. He wasn’t rolling with Elon Musk or anything (and you’d have had nothing to do with him if he were), but he lived with an ease and security that you yearned for. Which, you suppose, is why you’re still letting him parade you around at parties like this.

It was fun at first. You liked the attention – who wouldn’t? Instead of feeling freakish and out of place, you felt interesting and cherished for your differences. You felt like they were laughing with you when you told funny, embarrassing stories of when you’d got it wrong, or how you do things back home. It felt like people were fascinated by you and you were warmed by their curiosity. You didn’t mind when they reached out to touch your tattoos or asked personal questions, because they didn’t mean any harm. Hanjae gave you a social life that you hadn’t quite managed to create for yourself in this new place and got you out of your apartment, out of your comfort zone, and you clung to that.

Recently, though, you’ve been feeling different. When you show up to parties with him and see his friends you’ve met before, they’re surprised you’re still around. They joke to your face that they would’ve expected Hanjae to have moved on by now. They ask what his parents think (but you have never been introduced to them). They’re not so charmed by you anymore. These friends barely spare you a second thought once they’ve registered their surprise and the attentions of new friends aren’t as welcome as they once were. You started feeling uncomfortable with the way Hanjae paraded you around a couple of weeks ago and now, you’re frankly sick to your stomach. When people reach out to touch you, you flinch away; you don’t tell funny, embarrassing stories because you feel like you’re being laughed at; you stay quiet, for the most part, because your Korean is still not very good and, when they correct you or laugh at your mistakes, you don’t feel like they’re doing it kindly. Standing, mute, next to Hanjae while he laughs and drinks makes you feel like an object, a trophy, an oddity. If Hanjae were a Victorian-era Englishman travelling to the ends of the Earth to ransack a foreign place and bring home stolen goods, you were the buried necklace of an Aztec noblewoman he would give to the eligible girl in the manor house whose hand he is trying to win. He is showing you off because other people are impressed, but you no longer get the feeling that he is.

You hand over your phone and lip balm to Hanjae when you meet him outside the venue; this became a habit early on, so you wouldn’t have to hold a bag and he was happy to keep them in his pockets. Now, it feels a little bit like handing over your freedom.

“Cheer up!” he says as you lean back in your seat. “This’ll be fun, won’t it?” He smiles at you and tucks your hair behind your ear. He’s not a bad guy. He really isn’t. You’re not entirely sure if he even realises what he’s doing with you, if he knows that he doesn’t really like you but the idea of you, if he knows that there’s no future with you, if he’s realised that this relationship is rapidly approaching its expiry date. He’s been extremely good to you and you owe it to him to try. However much you want it to end, you don’t want it to end badly and you don’t want to hurt him; there’s no need for that.

You walk into the party amongst a sea of black suits. You scan the crowd, looking for other women you can compare your outfit to. A terrible thing to do, you know, but your insecurity needs reassurance that you’re dressed appropriately for this event. Hanjae is already leading you over to his friends, two of whom have brought their girlfriends, who are dressed in outfits similar to yours, so that’s something at least. You greet them brightly and Hanjae hands you a drink before launching into a conversation you can’t quite follow. That’s the other thing about these parties; they’re so loud, even if everyone were speaking English, you’re not sure you’d be able to hear them properly, so you hardly stand a chance in Korean. You’ve improved dramatically and can get by in your day-to-day life, but you don’t feel like you’re good enough yet to have a proper conversation, to really talk to anyone. It’s quite a lonely feeling and another reason you’ve spent so much time with Hanjae: he speaks fluent English; although he uses it less and less often these days and he gets more impatient when you need things repeating. You suppose it must be difficult for him, too, having to use a second language so much.

You gaze around the room, looking at nothing in particular. You sip your drink and wonder what everyone else is thinking about. You barely notice the looks you get anymore – most of them are meaningless anyway and people pass their eyes over you before turning back to their friends – but out of the corner of your eye, you see someone looking at you. You don’t recognise him, but you’ve never been very good with faces and the lighting is weird here. You raise your glass and nod slightly; even if you don’t know him, it’s nice to be polite. He looks a little flustered that you’ve noticed and quickly looks away, and then back again and raises his glass a little before turning and walking away. You smile, what a cutie.

Your glass is empty and your feet hurt from standing still for so long, so you tell Hanjae you’re going to get another drink. He asks you to get him a whiskey, so you traipse to the bar and order. You hand the drink to Hanjae without a word and wander off; there must be somewhere to sit in this place.

The main room is cavernous and you’re worried there will be no open doors to anywhere else. There is a small group of tables in one corner, but they are all already occupied. You look around as you walk, and suddenly bump into someone.

“Oh, so-“, you start to say, but you realise it isn’t someone; it is a mirror. The whole back wall is mirrored. For a moment, you are completely disoriented and slightly embarrassed, but as you edge along the mirror, you realise that the wall doesn’t reach the other side and the room continues beyond it. As you cross behind the mirror, the din of music and voices is subdued significantly. There’s another partial wall from the other side as though the room is zig-zagging. You’re wary of going too far, but the increasing quiet is soothing. You turn another corner and there’s a bench opposite a large staircase. You immediately sit down along its length and lift your feet. You wonder what the time is and how much more of it you’ll have to kill before you can go home. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, reminding yourself that Hanjae is a good man and you are very fortunate and suffering from very glamorous problems. A few months ago, you’d have given an arm and a leg to be at a party like this. Be careful what you wish for, you think to yourself.

As you fidget on the bench, you realise you are not alone. There is a man coming down the stairs. You take your feet off the bench and try to look like you’re doing something (what? What could you be doing? There is absolutely nothing to occupy you here!); you settle for just looking awkward. You nod your head and raise a hand as he reaches the bottom.

“Are you ok?” he asks. His hesitance reminds you of someone and you realise with a flash that he is the man who was looking at you earlier.

You clear your throat.

“네. 괜찮아요. 감사합니다,” you answer falteringly, embarrassed at having been caught hiding out. You rise to leave.

“오, 정말요? ……………?”

You don’t understand the second half of what he said and you curse yourself for having answered in Korean; if you’d just spoken English and pretended you didn’t know any Korean at all, this would’ve been much simpler!

“Sorry, I didn’t understand,” you tell him. “갈게요.”

“No, wait,” he cries, with more force than he intended. “You don’t have to leave.” He gestures to the bench. “I was also looking for somewhere quiet.”

He speaks shyly and you assume he doesn’t have much practice at speaking English and don’t have the energy for locking you both into a conversation where neither of you can quite understand the other. On the other hand, it would feel rude to just walk away now. You stand, not leaving but not quite staying, both of you trapped in an awkward moment that seems to last forever.

“You can leave if you want,” he says, finally. “I am going to stay.” He sits on the bottom step and takes a sip from his drink. “It’s ok, we don’t have to talk- but I can speak English a little bit if you want.”

You slowly return to the bench and sit down. You feel like you should say something, but your mind is blank. It’s like you’ve never had a conversation before in your life; what do people say? Does he even want you to say something? Why was he staring at you earlier? In the same way that everyone else always does or was there a specific reason? You feel your hands start to sweat and you inwardly roll your eyes at yourself and tell yourself to get a grip, literally nothing is happening.

He is looking out of the window and you are staring into the corner on the opposite side; you each take glances at one another, praying the other doesn’t notice. You can still hear the music from the party, quiet in the background, and you wonder if Hanjae has noticed your absence yet; you expect not. You glance at the man opposite you and catch his eye. You both chuckle awkwardly.

“I’m ________,” you say.

“Jungkook,” he answers.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jungkook.”

“I saw you earlier; I didn’t think we’d met before.”

“No, I’m not really invited to these things,” you explain. “I just tag along with my b-,“ you stop, the word ‘boyfriend’ weighing heavily on your tongue.

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

Dammit.

“Uh, Kim Hanjae?”

“Ah… Don’t know him.”

“He’s…” How on earth did you get to this subject so quickly? Do you really want to talk about Hanjae to this random man? More to the point, does this random man want to hear about your boyfriend and how you actually don’t want him to be your boyfriend anymore? Doubtful. “He’s nice,” you finish, lamely.

“Just don’t like parties?”

Part of you wishes you had just left when you had the chance. Then you realise how ridiculously you’re behaving; hating the party because no one will talk to you and, now, as soon as someone starts, you want to leave. ‘Get a grip, girl,’ you say to yourself.

“I like parties,” you answer, “but it’s-… I’m-… This-…” You pause as you try to work out how to give an honest answer that isn’t simultaneously dumping all your crap onto him. “These are all his friends; I don’t really know anyone here.”

He nods.

“I have a different problem: everyone knows me and wants to talk to me all the time.” He laughs. “I don’t like big parties. They’re… so much… too much.”

You nod. The two of you lapse into silence again, but it’s more comfortable this time. You’ve broken the ice a little. He seems nice and you feel a pang of sympathy for him: to be a big deal at parties like this sounds exhausting, especially if you don’t even like parties to start with. No wonder he’s hiding out with you.

“It’s hard for me to talk to people at these things,” you tell him. “My Korean isn’t very good and Hanjae doesn’t like speaking English when we’re with his friends because some of them don’t speak it.”

“I think your Korean sounds good.”

You laugh; that was a sweet thing to say given that he’s heard you say all of three words.

“It’s ok, but we couldn’t have this conversation in Korean. Sorry.” You smile weakly and feel pathetic; you knew it would be a process, moving to a new country and learning the language as you go, but you weren’t prepared for how embarrassed and ashamed you would feel all the time about your failings.

“Don’t be sorry!” He grins at you. “I can try my English! But, actually, it is not very good either. Sorry.”

You laugh again. Koreans and their modesty; his English sounds just fine from where you’re sitting.

“Did you move here recently?” he asks.

“About four months ago,” you answer. “I was… looking for something new, I guess. I don’t know… I needed new horizons, new experiences.”

“And how do you think about it now you’re here?”

You wonder if he knows what a loaded question that is. You exhale with a huff. Where to begin?

“It’s been harder than I thought it would be,” you tell him. “I feel very… different. Being looked at so much is not something I was used to… I think Hanjae likes it, but it’s awkward for me. I feel like…”

“An object.”

Your eyes meet and your chest is flooded with the warmth of familiarity. He’ll understand, won’t he?

“When we met,” you start, looking away self-consciously, “he was charmed by my foreignness, y’know? And he liked how different I looked and found it cute when I made mistakes in Korean and didn’t know things. It gave him clout, y’know? Dating a foreigner? I was spoilt by it, the attention; I thought it was for me and when he bought me dresses and took me to parties to show me off, I thought it was because I was special, not just because I was foreign. I loved it at the start.

“I think the appeal is wearing off, though,” you continue, stealing a quick glance to gauge his reaction. He’s looking at you patiently, intently, concentrating, probably, on understanding what you’re saying. “He gets annoyed sometimes now when I don’t know things and-“

You tell him everything. Once you start, you find you can’t stop. You don’t know whether to be angry or sad about it, so you vacillate between the two. Jungkook listens, never interrupts; he drinks and nods and keeps looking at you with those huge brown eyes.

“I know it’s over,” you say, resolute. “I just-” you realise it as you say it, “I’m scared that I won’t have anything if I don’t have him.”

He looks at you thoughtfully for a moment.

“But you met him in Korea, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, you still have the person who moved all the way here to start a new life; that seems like a lot to me.”

For a split second, you don’t know whether to burst into tears or fling your arms around him and give him a kiss. ‘Is he looking at me,’ you wonder ‘or staring into my soul?’. You feel seen, seen for the first time in months. You decide then and there that you would walk on hot coals for this man; he’s got you whether he wants you or not. His kindness streams out from him like rays of the sun from behind clouds. Such a bright, young thing, hiding in the dark.

“What about you?” You ask. “You’re hiding back here, too.”

“Ah.” He finishes his drink and places the glass next to him on the step. “I prefer quiet places. I like to keep things small and…-”

“Intimate?”

You blush furiously as he looks at you. That isn’t what you meant and you’re not sure how he’s taken it.

“Yeah, intimate. Big crowds are not my thing.”

“Not when they forget that you’re a person, first.”

He nods.

You stand and move to look out of the window, closer to him. He rises, too, and stands next to you. Your arm is a hair’s breadth from him; you daren’t move.

“Do you like the view?” he asks.

“Actually, I don’t really like a cityscape. I prefer country views.”

“What are the views like where you’re from?”

No one has asked you about home like that. They ask for funny differences between here and there or ask you to debunk or confirm stereotypes, but no one has really cared what you actually think. You smile, picturing in your mind’s eye cloudy, wind-swept beaches, rolling hills, pier arcades, church spires and so much green. You tell him everything. You turn your back to Seoul and, leaning against the glass, describe the house you grew up in and where your grandparents used to live; you describe the places you took holidays when you were a kid and the specific smell of the sea that isn’t the same anywhere else in the world. He’s been to your home country before, but he hasn’t been to your hometown; he asks questions and shows interest and you realise how starving you’ve been. Starved of this sort of attention – focused, interested, penetrating. You’ve had a taste and you want more and more.

You ask him about Seoul; did he grow up here? No, he tells you about Busan in the South. He speaks slowly and thoughtfully about his childhood and his dreams and moving here at such a young age, growing up so far from everything he’s ever known. He’s achieved more than he ever thought was even possible, more than he had ever dreamed, he explains; sometimes he still can’t believe it’s real.

While he talks, you study his face. He’s happy now, but you feel for the scared, little boy thrust into the industry machine before he even knew who he was. Now’s not the time, you know that, but you want to gently crack him open like a soft-boiled egg. Such depth in his eyes, so much soul. You resist the urge many times to put your hand on his arm, hold his hand for a second, reach out and physically touch him somehow. You feel connected to him in such a way that you need it to be physical for a moment, to close the circle, to just… touch.

You’re still standing by the window, deep in conversation, when a man appears from behind the wall and beckons to Jungkook. They talk quickly and Jungkook returns.

“I’m going to get a drink.”

Your heart falls.

“Do you want one?”

A wash of relief. You shrug, sure.

“Ok, wait here. I won’t be long.”

He leaves and you turn back to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. You wonder what time it is, where is Hanjae, what’s he doing, is he even still here, has he noticed you’re missing, is Jungkook actually coming back? You take some deep breaths.

With no watch, no phone, and no clock in this dark, little hideaway, you have no way to tell how long Jungkook has been. One minute? Could be ten. You wonder if he’ll make it back to you; after all, he was hiding back here to avoid being grasped in the clutches of all the many, many people out there. Maybe he’s been waylaid. He’s got stuck with a chatterbox who won’t be quiet; he’s got trapped into a business conversation that he can’t leave. Maye he’s seen some friends and is having fun out there.

You sigh, knowing that if he doesn’t come back soon, you’ll have to go out there, too. Hanjae will be missing you, you tell yourself; it’s rude to abandon him completely when he’s the reason you’re even here in the first place. You take a deep, resolute breath and stand, smoothing out your dress. You bump into Jungkook as you round the corner.

“Oh,” he says as he sees you. “Are you going?”

He hands you a drink and you take it, the cold glass sending goosebumps up your arm.

“Uh, well, no, well yes, I was but I didn’t know if you were coming back.” You hope you didn’t sound accusatory.

“I’m sorry, it is hard to avoid people out there,” he replies, continuing around the corner and sitting on the bench. You follow him and he places a hand on the bench, indicating you should join. You feel bad; he shouldn’t have to apologise. You sit next to him on the bench and sip your drink.

“You can go back out there, if you want, you know; you don’t have to stay here with me,” you tell him. His eyes widen and he shakes his head.

“No, thank you!” he laughs. “That was enough. Maybe I will show my face again a bit later.”

“Good.” You spoke without thinking and are just about to regret it when he smiles at you.

“Yeah. Good.”

You place a hand down on the bench and he reaches out a finger to touch your bracelet. When you packed your whole life into one suitcase, a lot of brutal cuts had to be made and there are so many parts of your heart at home, abandoned by you, but not this one. It’s a tiny gold chain, with a tiny gold J attached.

“That’s not the letter of your name,” Jungkook says, still studying your bracelet.

“No… No, it’s from my best friend’s name,” you explain. “She gave this to me a long time ago; I like to wear it when I feel like I need her, to feel like I’ve got a little bit of her with me.” You rub your wrist, self-consciously, and wonder what she’s up to right now.

“Does it help?”

“No, not really.” You laugh, a little sad. “It reminds me that there are people in the world who love me, which is nice, but it also reminds me that those people are thousands of miles away.”

“All of them?” His penetrating eyes beam at you and you feel like no matter what answer you give, it’ll be the wrong one. You shrug.

“I thought maybe you told me a fake name before,” he admits, grinning sheepishly.

“Oh, I don’t think that would’ve ever occurred to me! Why, do you do that?”

He nods. He smiles but it’s sad, the mirth not reaching his eyes.

“Sometimes. But I wouldn’t get away with it so easily if I wore one of those, right?”

You unclasp the bracelet’s fastening and it slips off your wrist and, taking an end in each hand, hold it out to him. He looks uncertainly at you and you nod. He offers his wrist and you fix the chain in place.

“There’s no getting away from who you really are,” you tell him, knowing full well that it doesn’t matter where you go, ’cause there you’ll always be. He grins. “For tonight.”

“For tonight, I can be your best friend?”

You laugh and nod, thinking, ‘god, can he be my best friend forever?’.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, gently moving the bracelet around his wrist; you wonder what he’s thinking and take a sip of your drink.

A few minutes pass in a comfortable silence until Jungkook speaks again.

“I don’t have anything to give you.”

“What?”

“In return.” He indicates the bracelet. “I don’t have anything I can give you.” He takes off a ring and considers it. “I think they will all be too big.” He holds it out and you offer up your hand; he slips it onto your index finger and you lift your hand up, swirling the ring around so that it very nearly flies off the tip.

“Too big,” you confirm with a grin.

He pulls his sleeve up to reveal a watch and you notice the tattoos running underneath.

“I think this will not go with your dress, right?”

You nod absently, trying to make out what you’re looking at. You take the edge of his sleeve and lift it a little higher to get a better look and then become aware of what you’re doing and drop it, apologising instantly.

“That’s ok,” he says and he undoes the cuff, rolling the sleeve up to his elbow. He turns his arm slowly so you can get a good look (or as good a look as you can manage in the dark light). You nod approvingly.

“That’s why I was looking at you earlier,” he says, a little embarrassed. “I was trying to look at your tattoo.”

Well, that explains the intensity of his focus earlier. You turn so that he can see. You feel, for a second, his hand above your skin and your stomach clenches, praying he won’t touch you like everyone else does: ‘just please don’t let him touch me; please, please don’t let him touch me’. But the touch never comes. You sense his hand moving across your back and down your arm and you twist your head to see his finger, an inch above the skin, tracing the lines of your tattoo. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“What do you think?” You ask, turning your body back towards him.

“They’re very beautiful.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he answers and you’re struck again by the feeling of being seen and not merely looked at. Neither of you looks away this time. You hold the moment between yourselves, pausing time just for a second. You break the connection and look down, tracing a finger over your bracelet on his wrist. You know it’s only a coincidence that they share the same initial – it’s not exactly uncommon – but something about it feels right.

“Do you want it back?” he asks.

No, you don’t. Not yet. You feel like he’s wearing a part of you while he’s wearing it; he has accepted a part of you as a part of himself. You feel warm in the glow of that tiny, tremulous thread between you. You think, and the thought shocks you, that you would be alright he kept it forever. It’s immensely precious to you, so much so that you brought it with you thousands of miles away into your new life, but, somehow, Jungkook’s wearing it brings more to you, more comfort, more confidence, more certainty in the knowledge that there are people in the world that love you. Love is not diminished when given away, it is doubled. You suddenly wish that you did have something of his you could wear, if only for tonight.

The silence lapses and you talk, nursing your drinks, knowing that one of you will have to leave if either of you needs another. You forget the passing of time and everything outside of this little bubble. It’s the most fun you’ve had at a party for ages.

The man who appeared earlier returns and, once again, beckons to Jungkook. Jungkook stands and goes over to him and they, once again, talk quietly. Jungkook returns and the man remains.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Jungkook asks and you feel shattered all of a sudden. You had forgotten all about Hanjae, truth be told, and you are overwhelmed with guilt and shame that you’ve spent the whole night away from him, talking to another man. He isn’t my boyfriend, that’s what you wanted to say: he’s definitely not my boyfriend, or even if he is, I don’t want him to be and he won’t be for much longer! Why is Jungkook asking? Whatever bubble you were in has been popped from the inside. A part of you feels heartbroken and a part of you feels betrayed. It was just you and Jungkook; there’s no need to bring anyone else into this.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” you stutter in response. “Probably… somewhere…”. You have no idea where he will be; you assume that he is still here (you hope he is still here because he still has your phone), but who can say for sure?

“Do you want to leave with me?” Jungkook asks and you are stunned into momentary silence.

“What?”

“Do you want to leave with me?” he repeats. “We don’t have to go anywhere; I can take you home if you want, but would you like to leave?”

You feel like that is too many mixed messages to cope with right now so you nod dumbly and stand.

“Hanjae,” you say abruptly as your brain sputters back into gear. “He has my phone and my things.”

“Ok, shall I meet you outside? I’ll wait.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Breathless, you walk as quickly as you can back into the cavernous room, the noise building to a roar, the throng of people overwhelming. You stand on tiptoes and crane your neck, looking for anyone you recognise, cursing the organisers for the dim lighting and all men for their interminably boring black suits which make none of them stand out. You notice movement in your peripheral vision and turn to see a waving arm, beckoning you. It’s not Hanjae; it’s one of his friends.

“Where have you been?” they exclaim as you approach. “Han was looking everywhere for you; thought you must’ve disappeared! Anyway, he had to leave earlier – some work emergency – so he told me to give you these if I saw you.” He hands over your phone, lip balm, and a lipstick you’re sure isn’t yours. “He told you you can order a car if you like, but he won’t be back so you’ll have to get home on your own.”

You see that his friends clearly have no idea of entertaining you or keeping you company for the rest of the evening, which is just as well, given you were about to leave with someone else.

As you make your way outside, you look at the lipstick you were given. You try to think what might constitute a ‘work emergency’ on a Friday night; it’s not like the guy’s a doctor or fire fighter! You try not to let suspicion creep in, because Hanjae has never given you any reason to doubt his fidelity before, but then, you’ve also never considered it, because you’ve never really considered the two of you to be in an actual relationship. Maybe he hadn’t either. And if that’s the case, then there’s no need to be hurt or angered by it. But there is a niggle. There’s something crawling, digging up, trying to plant its seed in your heart. You decide if it’s going to happen at all, it will have to be tonight. As you approach the doorway, you stand to one side and dial Hanjae’s number.

“여보세요?” he answers just as you were about to give up.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh. Where are you?”

“I’m still at the party.”

“Oh. Where did you go? I tried to look for you earlier; I’m not there anymore. I’ve had to come to the office.”

“Yeah, I know; I found Seongyoung and he gave me my phone.”

“Right yeah, yeah.” He sounds distracted.

“So, are you in the office now?” you ask.

“Yeah, but I can’t see you; there’s been a huge mistake and it’s going to take a long time to fix.”

“Please; it’ll be quick. I promise.”

He sighs heavily but agrees. You hang up the phone with a small weight sitting in your stomach.

You turn back to the entrance and walk out, scanning for Jungkook. There are a few dark cars sitting in front of you but you have no idea if any one of them belongs to him. You hesitate, not sure where to turn, standing awkwardly in front of drivers and security officers. A door on one of the cars opens and a hand waves; you approach and Jungkook beams up at you from inside.

“Quick!” He reaches out to grab your hand and pull you in. He speaks quickly to the driver in Korean and turns back to you. “Are you alright?”

“Um, actually, can we go somewhere?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I… have to do something. It won’t take long, please.”

“Of course, that’s ok. Where do you want to go?”

You give him the address of Hanjae’s office building and he relays it to the driver. You sit, slightly on edge, compulsively flicking the edge of your phone case off and on, off and on. The building isn’t far and you sit in silence while Jungkook hums along to the radio. You are barely even aware of what song is playing. The driver slows and you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Just give me like, five minutes. I’ll be quick,” you say as you open the car door.

“It’s ok; you can take as long as you like. I will wait.”

You wonder what Jungkook thinks you are doing, where he thinks you are. You wonder if he knows. Part of you assumes he does, since he seems to intuitively understand so much about you. You enter the building and approach the reception desk. The woman behind it barely looks up as she opens the barrier to let you in. You’re not sure if she recognises you from times you’ve been here before or just does not care about her job. If you had to man a reception desk in an almost entirely empty building on a Friday night, you probably wouldn’t care much either. As you call a thank you to her and walk past, the lipstick suddenly flashes into your mind. Could it be hers? You suppose it could be. It could be anyone’s. It might not have anything to do with Hanjae at all. Maybe Seongyoung handed you his girlfriend’s lipstick by mistake. Maybe not. It won’t matter soon.

You reach Hanjae’s floor and can see him in his glass-walled office: jacket and tie off, sleeves rolled up, standing and on the phone. You walk with purpose to his door and wave. He gestures for you to come in, so you stand inside the door and wait for his conversation to end.

“What’s up?” he asks, putting his phone on his desk.

“I think we need to have a conversation,” you begin, your resolve holding firm for now.

“Right now? I really don’t have time-“

“I said I’d be quick and I meant it.” If you aren’t quick, you’re not sure you’ll be able to go through with it.

“Ok then, shoot.”

You hadn’t actually planned what you were going to say. None of the words sounded right; you wanted to be clear and direct but kind at the same time; is it even possible to tell someone kindly that you don’t want them to be in your life anymore? You clench and unclench your fist and decide to rip the plaster straight off.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I don’t think we should be together. I think we should end things. This is over.” The words tumble out without your being able to stop them. Hanjae’s eyebrows raise and he looks surprised.

“Oh.”

He looks a little dumb-founded but you had expected him to say more and aren’t sure what to do now. You open and close your mouth like a goldfish, waiting for something else to happen. You haven’t actually broken up with anyone before so you’re not sure how this usually goes.

“Can I ask why?”

“We’re not a good fit.” You hope that this will suffice but you know it won’t satisfy him.

“What does that mean? Don’t we have fun together? Don’t we like each other?” Ay, there’s the rub.

“Actually, I don’t really think you do, no.” You try to explain to him all the things you’ve been feeling recently; you try not to blame him for any of it because you don’t want this to turn into an argument; you tread as carefully as you can but you’re so desperate for this to be over now it’s started that you can’t stop your mouth running on and on.

“You’ve given me so much and I’m so grateful to you for that and I really value all the time we have spent together and I do think you’re a nice person and I don’t want to hurt you but… well, this is how I feel.” You feel a little breathless as you come to a stop. Hanjae doesn’t say anything for a while and you can’t read his face. You don’t know what he’s thinking and the longer the silence lasts, the sicker and sicker you feel.

“I’m sorry that you feel that my attention has been so unwelcome,” he finally answers, speaking slowly and coldly. “I don’t really know what else I could have done to show you that I value you: I buy you things, take you places, I introduced you to all of my friends, I show you off; is that not loving? You say you don’t even think I like you, but if that’s true, why would I bother to see you? Why would I waste my time with you if I didn’t? I hadn’t, until now, considered our time together a waste, but it seems as though my efforts have been just that. You’ve been feeling this way for weeks, have you? Well, why are you here, then? Why did you come tonight at all if all of my friends ignore you and all of my attention is so unwanted? If the time we spend together makes you feel so awful, why have you waited this long to say something? You disappeared very early this evening; I tried looking for you everywhere. You said you were getting a drink and then I didn’t see you again. Perhaps it’s not that my attention is unwanted but that you’ve found someone else whose attention you prefer? Were you just putting up with me for long enough to find a higher roller, someone richer, or more famous perhaps? Am I a step on your ladder to the top? You have never, until tonight, given me a reason not to trust you, but you have to admit that this is rather out of the blue and your behaviour at the party was… not very polite. You abandoned me-“

You scoff at that, unable to stop yourself. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. Hanjae raises his eyebrows and waits for you to explain yourself. You’ve no idea how. You say nothing. You’re the first to break eye contact and you look at the ground, then the window, the desk, anywhere but Hanjae’s face.

“Fine,” he says. “Have it your way. What a horrible boyfriend I was to you, to treat you to presents and dinners and parties, to be so impressed by you that I want to show you off to everyone I know, to speak English with you and help you with Korean, to help you get settled in, to give you a social life, to show you what Seoul has to offer, what I have to offer, to never treat you like-“

“A person. You didn’t treat me like a person, Hanjae. I’m not a prize to show off; I’m a person first, not an object.” Your heart is hammering in your chest and you can feel tears pricking in your eyes. How can you get him to understand?

“Oh, I objectify you?” It is his turn to scoff. “And yet I am the one who has been used.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“No, I- it’s- we- I-“

“Whatever, you can leave now.” He turns his back on you and picks up his phone again. He turns around with the phone to his ear and nods at the door, shooing you away. You turn around and leave the office on trembling legs. As soon as you step into the lift to go back down, the tears come. You’re not even sure why you’re crying; you wanted this after all. It was just horrible. You feel sticky with sweat all over, and shaky with the stress of it. You know that Hanjae isn’t right, saying those things about you, and he was lashing out defensively, but it hurt all the same. Or maybe he is a little bit right. You said yourself that he’s given you so much, access to things and people and places you wouldn’t have had otherwise; you said yourself that you enjoyed that. Maybe you are in the wrong, at least a little bit. You both are, you suppose. You exit the lift and walk briskly out of the office, not turning to look at the receptionist on your way out in case she sees you crying. You step out of the door and hide behind a pillar, catching your breath, drying your tears and trying to put on a happy face. Leaning against the cold stone of the wall, you close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“____?”

Shit. Jungkook is right there in front of you, looking concerned.

“Are you ok? What happened?”

You shake your head and hold up your hands.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” You stand up straight and give yourself a body shake. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

You can’t think of much worse than going home to your poky apartment to spend the rest of your night miserable and alone.

“No… Can we, can we get a drink? Do you want to get a drink?”

Jungkook grimaces slightly. “Ah, that’s kind of difficult for me. I can’t really just go to a bar on a Friday night, y’know?”

Your heart sinks; of course he doesn’t want to go to a bar with you.

“We could have a drink at my house, if you want?” he offers.

Your heart rises. God, yes, please.

You drive back to Jungkook’s apartment in silence. The presence of the driver makes you feel somehow inhibited, self-conscious. You feel conspicuous, even though you’re sure the driver couldn’t care less about who you are or what you’re doing there. He’s just doing his job. You, nevertheless, don’t want to say anything yet, not until you’re alone with Jungkook. He’s scrolling on his phone, and you take the opportunity to study him more closely. His face changes with the changing light: suddenly brightly lit as you stop at traffic lights under a lamppost, then hidden in shadows. He has a kind face, open and bright, deep, soft eyes… You wanted to reach out a finger to trace his profile, the line of his lips, study him as if you were about to embark upon a masterpiece of him. Not that you would be able to capture his spirit if you tried. There’s a light in his eyes that seems to lie so deeply within them but shine so close to the surface.

You can’t work out what you’re feeling – too much, honestly. You need a minute to step back, step out of yourself – out of your life – to sort through everything that had happened. You feel a little as though you have accidentally stepped on a travelator and things are moving faster than you can keep up with. You wonder if you’ll regret any of this in the morning, if sleep will clear your mind and show your actions up as mistakes. You hope not. You think not. You catch the glint of your bracelet, still around Jungkook’s wrist and you nod to yourself. No, this – if this alone – is not a mistake.

When you arrive at Jungkook’s building, he shows you in and your mouth gapes. This was much bigger than Hanjae’s place. Wow. Just how famous was this guy? You are reminded forcefully of how little you actually know about him, whatever your feelings might be saying.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks, crouching in front of a cabinet. He opens the door to reveal all manner of spirits and liquors.

“Oh, anything,” you answer, without thinking. He laughs and you’re embarrassed by your answer but making another decision at this point feels impossible. You feel like a swan, calm on top, but flailing wildly underneath. You begin to think that maybe you should have let Jungkook take you home, so you could’ve gone to bed, or stared out of the window blankly until the sun rose. He’s too stimulating. Questions constantly rise to the surface of your mind like bubbles in boiling water: what’s his family like? What’s his favourite film? What’s his favourite food? Is he single? What’s he thinking? What does he want out of life? He’s already achieved his career dream so what’s his next dream?

He hands you a glass and you take a sip without even looking. It’s strong, good. You follow Jungkook to the sofa and flop onto it, thankful to be sitting comfortably. He asks if the drink is ok and you just nod and take another sip. You’re torn with conflicting desires: to stare at him endlessly, to fall into his chest and listen to his heartbeat, to tell him everything, to listen to him tell you everything, to kiss him, to never kiss him, to be his best friend, to fall in love with him, to fall in love with him and love him from afar from the rest of your life. It’s exquisite, the confusion, the keenness of your muddled feelings. You wonder briefly if you are just drunk but shake the thought from your head: you haven’t had that much to drink.

You drink in silence for a while and when you’ve finished, you stand. Placing your glass on the coffee table, you wander over to the bookcase, full of not books but DVDs and figurines. You scan the titles, your eyes not really seeing. They linger on a small figurine of a tiger at the edge of a shelf. You pick it up.

“Year of the tiger?” you ask, brandishing the figure at him.

“It is.” He stands and comes closer to you, taking the tiger in his hand.

“This is me,” you tell him. 24 years old, you were born two tigers ago. You take the figure back and wiggle it in his face. He laughs.

“I’m an ox,” he says, kneeling down. He opens the door of a little cabinet and reveals figurines for each of the zodiac animals. You laugh picking them up and inspecting them. He takes the ox from the cupboard and the tiger from your hand and puts them both back on the bookshelf. Feeling silly, you move the tiger and make a sound that’s neither quite a roar nor a meow as though the tiger is talking to the ox. Jungkook laughs and responds in kind, lowing deeply as he turns the ox towards the tiger. This is the sort of nonsense you need to lift you from the deep water of your confused feelings.

You move to the window as Jungkook refills your glass. It’s probably a good view that he probably paid a lot of money for but you can’t be enamoured with so many lights and so much modern architecture. You can just barely make out the dark shape of the mountains beyond and you smile; that’s more like it. Jungkook joins you at the window. You talk quietly; you don’t want to tell him that you broke up with Hanjae, because it implies something that you don’t really want to imply, but it comes out in the course of conversation and you actually feel relieved. You don’t know what Jungkook feels about it, if anything, but he seems pleased for you. You feel like everything is so fragile, delicate, precarious. You stay talking at the window for what feels like hours (maybe it is) because you feel that to move will be to ruin the moment somehow, force a shift in the atmosphere that you don’t want.

Your eyes settle on the gold chain at his wrist and your fingers reach out for it, toying with it. Jungkook’s hand moves, into yours, his fingers dancing on your palm. You flick your eyes back to his and he’s smiling at you, shy and sweet. You let him take your hand and suddenly it’s a handshake and you’re snorting, laughing, leaning towards each other as your shoulders shake. You lean your head on his shoulder as your breath comes back and Jungkook moves his hand to waist, pulls you closer to him.

He’s still smiling when you lift your head to look at him and you’re staring back at him, wide-eyed and unsure. He pulls you closer still, his arm snaking around your waist and he kisses you without hesitation. His lips are soft but he isn’t; he’s sure and confident and he brings his thumb to your chin to gently press down, gently open your mouth and let him inside. You’re responding before you’ve had the opportunity to think. Your hands grab at the collar of his shirt and you move against him, a leg between his legs, his bottom lip between your teeth. You’re dizzied and light-headed, grateful to the cool glass at your back and Jungkook’s arms secure around you.

When he pulls back, with apparent effort, he rests his forehead on yours, nudges your nose with his and looks at you from under his thick, dark lashes.

“Honestly, I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he says, his voice hushed in the silence of the apartment, and then he barely brushes his lips against yours again, as if he just can’t help himself.

If you were confused earlier, you aren’t anymore. The world around you has faded to a fuzzy, black blur, eclipsed by the soft bloomings of want in your chest.

“I’ve wanted you to do that all night,” you whisper back, aware only as you’re saying it that it’s true. You have wanted him to do that. You want him to do it again and then a whole lot more.

He takes your face in his hands and kisses you, lightly, gently.

“I don’t usually do this,” he says, eyes alighting on yours for only a second before he’s looking at your lips again. “It’s not… This isn’t like me but…”

“I know,” you reply. “Me, too.”

“I feel…”

“Something.”

“Yeah.”

Your heart skips a beat when he looks at you and the world holds its breath; you almost feel time slow down, the seconds that it takes for his hands to fall from your face, glide down your body, and encircle you again stretch into minutes. The distance between your lips – not even inches – stretches far into the horizon. You almost feel each of the chambers of your heart squeeze, a rush of warmth heating your cheeks, your chest, your core.

And then his lips are on you and you’re like a Catherine wheel, spinning and sparking and wild. Time snaps back like an elastic band and you’re frantic now, all hands and lips and tongue.

You slip your fingers into his shirt, flicking open the buttons, running your hands over his body, soft and supple and flushed. His hands push your dress higher and higher, over the slope of your hips and he lifts you, pushing you against the glass and pushing his body into yours. You can feel the arousal pooled at your core and you can feel him straining against his trousers. You’re wet like you’ve been waiting all night for it, like you’ve been anticipating this very moment since you first laid eyes on him. You push his shirt to the floor, watching it float down like a white flag of surrender: surrendering yourself to him, he to you, to this, whatever this is or could be.

“Oh, fuck, fuck.”

Soft whispers tumble from you as Jungkook’s fingers slide past your underwear and press into your wet heat. Your cunt squeezes against them and your hips cant towards him as he presses his thumb against your clit. Your whimpering, whining, mewling barely drowns out the squelch of his fingers working inside you, arousal dripping down his hand. You’re climbing steadily to your peak, moaning against his mouth as he rolls his tongue with yours. You pull on his hair, his head tipping back, his throat exposed. He looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes and a slack jaw. Then he grins, thrumming faster, pressing harder and you’re squirming. You let go of his hair to clutch around his shoulders, holding on hard as your own head tips back, thudding against the glass.

Jungkook brings his face close to yours and nudges your nose with his, gently guiding your attention back to him. He holds your gaze as your legs quiver and shake, as your breath hitches and you close your eyes, so, so close now.

“Look at me.” His voice is low, soft, but demanding. “I want to see you… I want you to look at me when you come.”

And you do. Your eyes don’t leave his as you fall apart in his arms, pleasure coursing through you like a lightning strike. You’ve barely finished before he’s crashing his lips into you, urgent and needy and then suddenly neither of those things. He slows. He removes his fingers from your soaking wet slip and he holds you close to him, just barely grinding his hips into you. His kiss is deep, languorous, like he’s really tasting you now. The quiet moan he makes as his tongue rolls with yours makes your heart skip a beat and you’re weak. So weak that, when he drops you, lightly, your feet returning to the floor, you almost stumble, almost fall. But he’s got you.

He pushes your dress back down, smoothing it out so he can unzip it. He finally breaks your kiss as he pulls it from your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms. You’re braless and goosebumps sprinkle all over your skin, your nipples shivering to attention. You run your hands through Jungkook’s hair as he dips his head, lowers himself to kiss your neck, your chest, to run his tongue up the underside of your breast and suck your tight little bud into his mouth. The glass at your back is cold but he is so warm in front of you.

He drops to his knees, hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and pulls them to the floor. You step out and he flings them away.

“I want to make you come again.”

He looks up at you and his eyes are wide, imploring, asking, seeking, searching and it’s all you can do to just nod. You’ve had one-night stands and hook-ups and situationships and even boyfriends who haven’t said that to you, who haven’t cared enough to try for one, let alone more.

He’s still looking at you when he puts his mouth on you and runs his tongue through your folds. You let your head fall back again, eyes to the ceiling. Jungkook grunts, the vibration against you a little shock. You look back down at him and he nods, swirling his tongue around your clit, and you understand: he wants you to look at him, he wants to see you and wants you to see him seeing you, as you have all evening. Because he does. See you. He sees you like no one else has. You can already feel it bubbling up within you. You can sense his soul reaching out to yours as yours reaches back to him. You think to yourself that you would probably have fallen in love with him even if he weren’t so good at—

“Oh, fuck, Jungkook. Fuck. Yes, like that.”

He’s fucking you with his fingers again with his mouth sealed around your clit, the soft plane of his tongue pressing against it, sucking and then lapping. You grab onto his hair, hard, grounding you, something, anything to tether you to this world as you feel yourself floating away.

He groans and you understand his instruction, having to drag your eyes back to his. His brows are furrowed, eyes shining bright. Looking into his eyes at this moment is like falling into an abyss. Tumbling and twisting, your body writhes with pleasure, shuddering against the window as you come again, a cry strangled in your throat, legs shaking and then you’re literally falling, sliding down the glass. Jungkook follows you down, his fingers still pressing against you as he kisses up your stomach, your chest, and then he’s holding you. You’re in his arms and he’s kissing you, your own arousal all over his lips and his tongue.

“You ok?” he asks, his voice thick and low.

You couldn’t speak. Could only take his face between your palms and kiss him again. He lifts you up into his lap, so you’re straddling him, knees either side of his hips, and you can feel him, pressing against his trousers, trapped and tensed. You sit down a little further and roll your hips over him; he groans into your mouth and his hands on your glutes squeeze tight.

“Jungkook,” you whisper and he whispers your name back. “Please.”

He lifts you from his lap and kneels up, hands working at his belt and his zip. He stands to shuck them down his legs and kicks them off. You look up at him and ask,

“Do you have…?”

He nods, crossing the room to his wallet on the sideboard by the door. You press your hands against the cool glass of the window, but rather than cooling you, it warms, too. There is heat all over you, burning around you.

Jungkook returns and falls to his knees, condom in hand. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and mumbles, rolling his eyes at himself as he stands once more to push them all the way down and off. You giggle, reaching out for him, rising on your knees as he slides the rubber over his length. He pulls you to your feet and cages you in against the window, lips capturing yours.

He bites down on your lower lip and you can feel him at your entrance. He’s rubbing his length along your slick slit and you’re whimpering, walls fluttering, heart racing. He breaks the kiss to look you in the eye as he pushes into you. A soft gasp leaves you and your hands circle tight around his biceps. You can feel him slow, his eyes watching you carefully now.

“No, don’t stop, don’t stop. It feels good. Please.”

He continues, still slowly, and, when he’s all the way in, he kisses you again, pressing his body against yours.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, but whatever you were about to say disappears into a moan as he drags his cock out and then pushes back in. He moans back and brings a hand to your breast, his thumb rubbing light circles against your pert nipple. You’re already not sure how you’re still standing and then he lowers his lips to your neck and sucks at just exactly the right spot. Your legs tremble and your cunt quivers and you feel his hot breath against your skin as he chuckles.

“You like that, huh?”

“Yes.”

He says no more and his lips return to the sweet spot on your neck. You cling to him, gripping tightly, every pass of the head of his dick against your g-spot a test of your strength, fading rapidly as you start to drown in him. He thrusts deep and slow with little grunts of effort, like he’s holding back.

“Jungkook, I—”

“Yes?”

He’s looking at you again and, up close like this, he takes your breath away.

“I want more. More. I-… I can’t stand, but I wan—oh.”

He doesn’t even let you finish before he’s grabbing you, his hands at the backs of your thighs lifting you, taking all your weight onto him. You wrap your legs around him and he moves faster now, harder, looking down at where he disappears into you. He’s more vocal, louder, as he fucks you into the window and the sound of him, his pleasure, his pleasure in you, stirs you. You’re fucked out and weak but your desire renews your force. You squeeze your walls against him and he curses.

“Shit.”

You do it again and a tiny chuckle bubbles up in his throat.

“Baby, you are dangerous. You’re—fuck, hngh—you’re going to make me come.”

He’s panting and breathy and his hair sticks to his forehead. You wrap you arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, his jaw, bite at his earlobe.

“Isn’t that the point?” you whisper.

A shudder runs through him and he growls, his grip on you tighter, even painfully tight. You pull back to look at him and his eyes are black, his jaw set, his brow furrowed. But he’s still looking at you; his eyes aren’t glazed, aren’t elsewhere, aren’t looking through you. He’s seeing you and you feel naked but not afraid, not exposed. You hold his face and kiss him and he grunts, groans; it’s open-mouthed and sloppy, your breath mingling as your tongues slide past and over each other.

He pulls away and rests his forehead on yours and his stare is so intense, from that alone you would know he was close. He’s cursing lightly, repeatedly, fucking you hard, and then he’s coming, too, with a shudder and an animal groan, guttural and low.

He lowers you both down to the floor and lays you down, kissing you lightly, almost politely, as he brushes your hair from your face. He turns away and stands, disposing of the used condom and grabbing the blanket from the sofa. You just watch him return to you, settling next to you on the floor, covering both your bodies.

You look at the window where your heat and sweat have condensed in an already fading cloud. You laugh and point it out; he laughs, too.

“It’s almost gone already,” he says, watching it shrink, disappear, self-effacing.

You hum. This is usually when you’d feel awkward, make a show of being polite, get up and go but you don’t want to leave; you want to stay right where you are and watch the sun rise with him. You want to yawn and stretch yourself like a cat before curling against him and sleeping through the morning. You want to kiss him both goodnight and good morning. You look at him looking at the window and imagine an entire life with him, spanning years and decades in a second. Your heart beats heavy in your chest and you wonder if he can feel it, if he feels it, too.

When he finally looks back at you, you know. He kisses you like you’re precious, gently traces the shapes of your face with featherlight fingers. You shiver and he pulls you closer into his warm body, pulls the blanket tighter around you.

“Y’know,” he says, pausing to kiss you again. “I’m really glad I went to that party.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #bts x reader #bts smut #mmm repost

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terresdebrume · 22 days ago

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I think I want to point at the elephant in the room today

The problem when we have the ever more frequent conversation of how to keep a fandom alive after the show it's based on stops airing is that we tend talk about it in a way that ignores the very real differences between the juggernauts of old fandoms like Star Trek and newer shows like Dead Boy Detectives, namely:

1. The difference in amount of material

2. The accessibility of said material

Part of the reason why Star Trek or The X-Files still have active fans so long after they aired is because those shows had multiple seasons with an average of 20 episodes each. For the X-Files' 11 seasons that's about 200 episodes each with their own storylines, themes, interesting ideas and frustrating mistakes right there to inspire Fanart, fic, meta, and any number of fanwork. I'm not even going to do the math on Star Trek: this show got about a bazillion shows

Dead Boy Detectives, and a lot of genre shows nowadays have like... Eight episodes. Ten, if we're lucky. Fandoms for procedurals or more broadly appealing shows fare better (Lone Star comes to mind, or sitcoms for example) because networks tend to keep them online longer, but genre series get ever shorter with ever fewer opportunities to really grow an audience... Think of all the shows that got popular on Tumblr in the past few years and tell me how many got a proper season? Shadow and Bones was cancelled. My Lady Jane: one season. Gentleman Jack, two (three?). Good Omens: maybe 3, depending on how the network handle the Gaiman situation. The Umbrella Academy got four seasons. Stranger Things, with 5 seasons and 42 episodes managed to equate roughly 2 seasons of the X-Files (probably not even that if you account for episode length). The Witcher currently has 3 seasons for 24 episodes.

Contrast this to shows like Dead Boy Detectives with, again, eight episodes. Maybe 16 if we get really lucky, but I'm not holding my breath. This is just materially WAY LESS soil for a fandom to grow in. It's not that people aren't motivated, it's that as much as you want to keep it going, there's only so much to say about 8 episodes! George Rexstrew, who plays one of the leads, even recently admitted that he's running out of things to say about his performance, and who can blame him? So after a while, you gotta turn to AU which by definition are always going to be potential hits and misses, since they diverge from what brought people to the show in the first place.

I know we're all real good at spinning yarn but sometimes it gets really hard not to run out of fiber.

As for accessibility: the Big Olds benefitted from two things. One, they were broadcast on much wider-reaching channels, if not from the start, then when they eventually made it on public networks. They had a regular play time, and you could stumble onto them by accident, this getting interested and picking it up. And two: the popular shows had a decent chance of getting tape or DVD sets, which made them easier to own and show to your friends so they could binge the story and join you in the fandom

By comparison, look at the barrier of access for Dead Boy Detectives:

Need to have a Netflix account

Need to see it somewhere in your recommendation (good luck if you come in more than a month after it released)

Need to see people talk about it as they binge (need to be in the right place at the right time, and by that I mean where fandom happens since Netflix has a habit of doing zero advertising for new shows)

Need to keep paying for a Netflix account if you wanna rewatch, or figure out how to do a piracy, which is getting more difficult and riskier every year

Need to be willing to get invested in a forever unfinished story

And when on top of that the writing in the first episode is, let's say it frankly, far from the best, that is a LOT of obstacle to overcome for a pretty small sandbox

So like, yeah, sure, we should be willing to keep making a fandom happen after a show ends, but at some point we can't ignore that the effort it takes to keep fandoms alive is getting way more intense than it used to be

#On Fandom #dead boy detectives #x files #star trek #meta #my meta #10n #30n #40n #50n #70n

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youryurigoddess · 5 months ago

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Aziraphale’s secret investigation and overlooked Clues

Remember this frame from Good Omens S02E06? Apparently Aziraphale had been using the empty carton box brought by Jim to store things in. It became a new home to at least two out of three “Lost Quartos” — the supposedly lost Shakespeare plays briefly but hilariously mentioned in the Good Omens book — as well as a very mysterious legal document.

Thought probably half of the Good Omens analysts here, including the ever so wonderful @fuckyeahgoodomens, who managed to find some information about the deceased John Gibson from New Cumnock (1855 - 1905).

Unfortunately the most interesting thing about this early 20th century provincial postmaster was his youngest child James (1894 - 1973), a quite famous stage (West End!) and film actor immortalized on screen in The Master of Ballantrae (1962), Witch Wood (1964) and Kidnapped (1963).

After that particular discovery the fandom-wide search seemingly led nowhere and the topic died a premature death.

And I almost figured it out seven months ago.

“But Yuri, you’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”, you probably want to shout across a busy London street at this point. Well, let me tell you. Much like Aziraphale, I'm blindingly intelligent for about thirty seconds a day. I do not get to choose which seconds and they are not consecutive.

Only tonight the stars have aligned in an ineffable way.

For those of you who don’t follow this account, some time ago I’ve realized that John Gibson isn’t the only testator whose estate was being investigated by Aziraphale right before The Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeepers Association monthly meeting.

If you watch S2 finale closely enough, you should notice that Crowley not only stress cleans Aziraphale’s bookshop — he also goes through the books and papers on his desk between the last three angels leaving the bookshop and Maggie and Nina’s intervention. A seemingly permanent arrangement of the props post-shooting, visible in detail both on Radio Times tour and SFX magazine photo shoot, sheds even more light on this detail.

The close-ups published after S2 release are legible enough to refer us to a much more prominent historical figure, Josiah Wedgwood (1730 – 1795) — an English potter, entrepreneur and abolitionist. Founding the Wedgwood company in 1759, he developed improved pottery bodies by systematic experimentation, and was the leader in the industrialisation of the manufacture of European pottery.

Long story short, I transcribed the handwritten pages abandoned on Aziraphale’s desk, found out the source and the full text of what could be identified as Wedgwood’s last will and testament, took a walk to visit his Soho workshop, and proceeded to write a lengthy meta analysis about it.

I was today’s years old when I realized that there’s something else connecting those two dead British men.

The Scottish Post Office Directory of 1903 recorded John Gibson from New Cumnock as a “stationer and china dealer” (above) operating from the shop located in the town’s post office building.

Indeed, a close look at his post office shop window in the Henderson Building (below, bottom left) reveals an artful display of fine china and pottery next to postcards printed by Gibson.

There are multiple ways to connect this surprising link with possible S3 plot points, obviously, but it’s getting late, so let’s just name the two most important ones.

You’ve probably heard of the Holy Grail, maybe from Monty Python or Good Omens S01E03 1941 flashback. Depending on the version of the story, if can be a cup, a chalice, a bowl, or a saucer — but almost always a dish or a vessel connected personally, physically and metaphysically to Jesus (unless you’re partial to Wolfram von Eschenbach’s idea that the Grail was a stone, the sanctuary of the neutral angels who took neither side during Lucifer's rebellion).

A slightly more obscure dish related to the Son of God appears in the sixteenth chapter of the Book of Revelation as a vital part of His Second Coming. The Seven Bowls (or cups, or vials) of God’s Wrath are supposed to be poured out on the wicked and the followers of the Antichrist by seven angels:

Then I heard a loud voice from the temple telling the seven angels, “Go and pour out on the earth the seven bowls of the wrath of God.” So the first angel went and poured out his bowl on the earth, and harmful and painful sores came upon the people who bore the mark of the beast and worshiped its image.

The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became like the blood of a corpse, and every living thing died that was in the sea.

The third angel poured out his bowl into the rivers and the springs of water, and they became blood. And I heard the angel in charge of the waters say, “Just are you, O Holy One, who is and who was, for you brought these judgments. For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and you have given them blood to drink. It is what they deserve!” And I heard the altar saying, “Yes, Lord God the Almighty, true and just are your judgments!”

The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and it was allowed to scorch people with fire. They were scorched by the fierce heat, and they cursed the name of God who had power over these plagues. They did not repent and give him glory.

The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was plunged into darkness. People gnawed their tongues in anguish and cursed the God of heaven for their pain and sores. They did not repent of their deeds.

The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up, to prepare the way for the kings from the east. And I saw, coming out of the mouth of the dragon and out of the mouth of the beast and out of the mouth of the false prophet, three unclean spirits like frogs. For they are demonic spirits, performing signs, who go abroad to the kings of the whole world, to assemble them for battle on the great day of God the Almighty. (“Behold, I am coming like a thief! Blessed is the one who stays awake, keeping his garments on, that he may not go about naked and be seen exposed!”) And they assembled them at the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.

The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and a loud voice came out of the temple, from the throne, saying, “It is done!” And there were flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder, and a great earthquake such as there had never been since man was on the earth, so great was that earthquake. The great city was split into three parts, and the cities of the nations fell, and God remembered Babylon the great, to make her drain the cup of the wine of the fury of his wrath. And every island fled away, and no mountains were to be found. And great hailstones, about one hundred pounds each, fell from heaven on people; and they cursed God for the plague of the hail, because the plague was so severe.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #aziraphale #aziraphale’s bookshop #set design #good omens props #the good omens crew is unhinged #john gibson #josiah wedgwood #fine china #pottery #holy grail #seven bowls #second coming #yuri is doing her thing

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writing-whump · 3 months ago

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breathing in a bag: oh god oh god oh god, its here NO ONE PANIC.

I think Seline and Zaya are about to hit a wall of feelings thanks to him being a Silly Rabbit and not telling her "hey baby, i'm like. dying." soooo can I request some sweet sugary seline/isaiah before we're hit with the steamroller?

Date

Very sugary.

Seline was sure today was somehow special for Isaiah. She just couldn't figure out why.

He knocked on her door at 10 am in the morning, asking how many daydream sessions she finished and if she was in the mood for breakfast - in bed. That he knew that she woke up early these days only to fall asleep multiple times to daydream new story scenes or poems amazed her.

Then he brought the English Breakfast restaurant-style breakfast that made her feel equally cherished and underdressed for the occasion.

Usually, they always planned trips and days they wanted to spend together. Today, he was all, "I got a surprise. Trust me?" His excitement was contagious.

And she had to say it was quite the plan. They went to the Albertina gallery, which had two new exhibitions, one with hyper-realistic photographs and one with a political comic-style artist. She loved going to museums and galleries with Isaiah. He was literally the only person in the world who not only tolerated her long gawking and reading of every info, but also discussed the pieces with her. They stayed at each drawing for at least 15 minutes. Matthew would have blacked down after the first two.

Isaiah was not just patience manifested, he seemed to enjoy himself. Whenever he got really nerdy, talking about the psychological effect of using only three base colours or about the historical background of the photographs or about the atmosphere of certain series of photographs resonating with certain kinds of people and brain signals...

Oh god. It was the most exciting thing. She loved watching him. She loved listening to him. She loved that they both had stuff to say, but it didn't feel like a competition. She loved she didn't have to fight to get to say something, that he listed to her. She loved she was genuinely and truly interested in what he would say next. Because she wanted to know his opinions and get fascinated by all the new things he knew.

Isaiah was the only one who could impress her with the stuff he knew. Most people couldn't, aside her professors.

Seline found falling in love incredibly hard. Connecting with people in general, really. In primary school, she was popular for knowing all Disney movies by memory and for thinking up new plays for the kids to play. But since high school, she liked teachers more than any of her classmates.

And how the hell was she supposed to choose friends? Her peers kept falling in love every second day or talking about said crushes and she couldn't phantom what they liked. What was so interesting about that? The boys were little immature screaming bags to her.

Friends that weren't boring we eternally difficult to find. She didn't connect with anyone over anything. Social media weren't her thing, reading wasn't a thing for them. Really, people that shared any of her interests or love for writing were mostly online.

When she did have friends, mostly her girls from primary school and the few sciency friends from university field trips —people she actually didn't find a drag to listen to— they said Seline had too high expectations for a guy. Like, if he was as nerdy as her, he would surely be a head smaller and she better make peace with him not being a looker. Settle down, girl.

She tried dating people, but damn, was it difficult to catch feelings. Why couldn't she feel a thing? The looks weren't that important and if they were there, she figured cringing whenever the guy opened his mouth wasn't a good sign. And when he managed to get through her rigorous list of questions and plans, because how else was she supposed to test their value and interests compatibility? - the emotion was missing entirely.

Universe, could you please, please, give me a person I could admire and feel something for? Anyone like that out there?

And then she met Isaiah.

They had lunch at a small but incredibly good family sushi restaurant. For the cake, he took her to her favorite confectioanry, though, on the balcony with an awesome view, and let her order about four different desserts, when she couldn't decide. Christ, even the place was expensive.

But Isaiah had a twinkle in his eye and a constant smile. It was very rare for him to be in a good mood so openly, like watching her was the most fascinating showpiece.

She couldn't protest anything he said with that expression.

Caught in the moment of watching him, all dressed up in a dashing suit, black hair with that gentle waves to it, green eyes set only on her, she reached over. Her hand went on top of his under the chin, then gently up to stroke his cheek.

"What mask are you wearing today?"

Isaiah kissed her knuckles, too happy to even mind the PDA. "The one I wear with you. I like it the most."

Seline couldn't help the blush, ducking her head. He was more social than her, always alert, always perceptive and adjusting to the situation. Charming gentleman, yes, kind, absolutely. But he could be funny and relaxed, or serious and scary, or authoritative and confident. Every person and group, every situation, brought out a different side of him.

It confused her at the start. Now, she found it fascinating.

Once again, she was tempted to ask what today was. Why was it special? Was there an anniversary she didn't know about? It wasn't a year since they moved in together, that would be in two months. The month they have been together for a year...that would be four months. What was this? They haven't even been a pack a year ago.

The cakes were excellent, but the sweetness and intensity of the different flavours overwhelmed her quickly. She slid her plate with half of the Strawberry Mouse Cake towards Isaiah to go to the Coffee Meringue Cake. They also still had the Apple Strudel and her favorite Mango slice tart. It felt like her birthday.

Isaiah was chuckling indulgently, finishing the cakes for her. Never a better chance to try so many. And the hot chocolates they made there were to die for. When she couldn't decide between that and the Caramel Machiatto, Isaiah ordered both.

"You are spoiling me today."

Isaiah gave her a blinding smile of satisfaction.

They went by foor afterwards, through the two nicest parks and Hofburg all the way to the Danube river. It was like Isaiah had it calculated, cause the sun was just setting and they were at the perfect side of the river to see it without being blinded.

He took her hand, fingers intertwined gently, as they passed bikes and families returning from bathing, reaching a nice molo halfway across the river.

Isaiah guided her to sit down before joining her, suit and all on the wooden molo. She watched him curiously, getting a bit nervous at how heavy the moment felt.

"The sunset is beautiful," she burst out quickly.

Isaiah raised one eyebrow at the remark, smiling. He leaned close enough to kiss her, but only brushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear. "Not as much as you."

Seline bit her lip, looking at him from under her lashes.

"I know beauty isn't that high on your priority list. And I know that's not something you want to be admired for. Not for anything you were given, not for magic or for your looks."

She ducked her head. His fingers lingered in her hair.

"I know you don't go about perceiving the world through physical sensations. You relate through your mind. You want intellectual stimulation to feel connection and interests." His hand still in his hair followed the line of her head to her neck. He cupped her cheek.

"Which doesn't mean you don't have feelings. They are so intense that you prefer to save them for later. Process them in private. That's why you don't need that much stimulation, working through the little details. Understanding yourself inside out. Body comes last and you don't put emphasis on it. If you focus on it, you get bashful."

She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks under his touch. His voice was silky smooth.

"Not that it's anything to feel ashamed of. But you feel comfortable with contact only after connection has been made. I have been trying to go slowly."

Which was true. He always let her set the pace. Make the first move.

"I don't want to scare you. And I don't want you to feel like you have to say it back." That was the first time he looked down, suddenly a little insecure, before lifting his gaze to hers again.

Her breath caught in her chest, pulse picking up.

"I love how your mind works. Constantly hungry for knowldge. Your thinking is so abstract and so creative and you are never bored, always working on some kind of thought project. Always halfway somewhere else," he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"But I love everything about it. Your mind, your order rituals to keep yourself tethered to the real world, the way you read spoilers ahead to enjoy the same thing from different lenses, your broad view of things, your ability to look at things objectively but also understanding the emotion behind it..."

Seline was amazed how scarily accurate all of this was. She couldn't move under his touch, eyes getting wider.

"I love everything...about you." He looked to the side then. His fingers against her face were shaking. "Just thought you should know."

Seline shook her head, voice all stunned. "That's your new trick? You go all impressive psychology on me and analyse me, cause you know that will make you irresistible?"

Isaiah looked up, startled. "I wasn't-"

"You are ridiculous." Seline grabbed him by the collar and smashed their lips together. Her heartbeat was somewhere in her ears. It felt like she wouldn't be able to breathe if she didn't kiss him immediately.

"You know how hot I find it when you talk all smart. I had a feast of you today," she said against his nose, her hand reaching behind his neck to hold him more securely.

She said hot on purpose, cause that was a word she didn't use often. It was too vague and felt too...indecent. Some part of her was always scared of it, of being some kind of primitive animal only focused on the body.

But with Isaiah the body turned to a medium, the carrier of his soul. It was special because it held him inside, the lips that spoke to her, the spirit looking at her from his eyes. It meant something completely different, to feel this closeness. Touch became a way to express it, not threaten it.

Was she not saying it enough? How much she admired him, how much she enjoyed him? Being this smart and relaxed and doting?

"I'm a girl of words. I love words. And I love when you talk. You are never boring. I'm always learning something," she said, leaning forward to hide her face against his neck. "You have so many faces. So many masks. I want to know all of them."

Her lips brushed against the skin on the side of his throat. Isaiah shivered underneath her.

"I never felt this way...about anyone," she admitted quietly.

Isaiah took her face in his hands, making her look up at him again. "It scares me. It isn't fair to everyone else, how much I can love just you."

Why did that make her so incredibly happy.

Isaiah wrapped her in an embrace and just held her, letting their bodies take comfort from the touch while they both worked through the impact of those words.

Seline ended up leaning against his shoulder, his arm around her back as the sun set in front of them.

It was the perfect moment.

Isaiah's body jostled underneath her suddenly. His free hand moved towards his middle for a second before dropping.

Seline frowned, turning to look at him. She didn't have a good angle on his face, but her access to his throat was ideal. She could feel it bobbing as he swallowed.

She pushed her hand up into his hair gently. "Okay?"

Isaiah shook his head in denial. "Sorry. Just-urrrp-ate too much."

"Oh. All the cakes."

Isaiah suppressed another burp. "I'm sorry. Don't-don't mind it, please." His neck and cheeks went all red.

Seline chuckled, weirdly pleased. "I mean, it's kinda my fault. Kept pushing them to you." She leaned more into him, her whole side pressed into his.

Her hand went down around his back again while she sneaked her free one to his belly, tentatively pulling at his button up.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to ruin-"

"Shhhhh." She kissed his neck and then his jaw. "It's okay, baby. You couldn't ruin this in any way. This was perfect." Another kiss under his ear. "And it's cute, just so you know."

"You say the silliest things."

"I never say anything I don't mean," she corrected smugly. "You taking your walls down just for a bit. Around me. What's not to like?"

Isaiah huffed. "You can't-"

Her hand sneaked up to his belly, cutting him off. She let her palm rest on top of it, feeling the bloat under her fingers. Having him this close, his breathing a little ragged from the discomfort and emberssment made her insides dance.

"I love this. I love you. I love everything about you." Seline nuzzled her face against his cheek, feeling incredibly intimate. The contact, his sudden shyness. The little crack in that armor he still didn't quite take down. Or was that only her feeling?

"You don't have to say it so many times," he said, scratching at the top of his head self-consciously, turning his head to blow up the air from another breathy burp.

Seline giggled, drunk on the feeling. Feeling. She was feeling so much. She let herself feel it all in that moment, everyting she felt for him. It was a flood of mind-melting, honey-coloured happiness. "I can't say it enough."

#sickfic #fluff #comfort #werewolf wip #upset tummy #my writing #Isaiah #Seline

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eerna · 7 months ago

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i’ve been back on my hadestown bullshit (listening to the album on repeat) and you make such good points about the lyrics being dumbed down and how it does a disservice to the narrative and characters. it’s such an artful, creative show that constantly adapts and changes so why not take some risks with lyrics that may take a few times to sink in? that’s the beauty of listening to it through many times. i catch something new that just punches me in the gut each time (also love your hadestown art it’s so good)

Thank youuu glad you like my stuff :3 Yeah!! I think ultimately it comes down to two things, confidence and Broadway requirements. Anais Mitchell isn't hiding how much she struggled writing the show and balancing between artsy, well crafted, and understandable. She also stated many things have been cut because the show was too long for Broadway and they were required to trim it. To both I say, HUH?? First off, Anais Mitchell honed her craft to perfection. No other musical ever managed to drive me to tears with moodsetting "oohs". She wrote a godly love song that sounds like a godly love song. She deserves all the confidence in the WORLD. But she also never hid that Hadestown is a very personal story influenced by her experience as a free artist, so on the other hand, I totally get that no amount of success can ever truly heal your inner critic, and she will always keep trying to adjust her work. As for the second point, I know at least some of the dumbing down is because the audiences complained. I saw Hadestown live 5 years after seeing a bootleg of it, and in those 5 years they added so many cheap jokes and dishonest tension breaks it is Crazy. But I DID notice in older bootlegs that people laughed at inappropriate times, they seemed like they expected something funny to be happening in every scene because they went to a musical and so picked some really weird spots, which doesn't happen in any of the recordings of the new jokey edition. So in dumbing itself down, the musical mamaged to become more understandable to the audience at large. In fact, even after all the changes, at the theater I overheard people talking in the pause, and they agreed the show is "too confusing" and "they can't tell what exactly is happening and if it is real or not". I can imagine that is a frustrating experience when you paid a good chunk of money to see a show, but also bro, google is Right There. Most people just don't have the will to sit down and listen to a pretty piece of media multiple times to figure it out! And sadly shows can't survive only on those who do! To bring this long ramble to a close, we are right back to art existing under capitalism and how one can't simply make GOOD art, they need to make PROFITABLE art, and that is pretty sucky

#eernask #eernask talk hadestown #logicalmarshmallow #i love hadestown but it is def a piece of media about capitalism told in a very capitalist surroundings #so it automatically takes a hit to its integrity and meaning. not much but significant.#i totally understand why fans in 2019 were so sad abt it becoming a broadway frontliner

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dragon-creates · 7 months ago

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I’m looking for an artist to collab with for an AU

Hello! If you don’t know me already, my name is Dragon, the author of the TADC fics 5+1 and Royally Screwed (and also a funnybunny shipper). However, I am coming up with a totally new AU, something similar to the carnival and freakshow au as well as inspiration from Bendy and the Ink Machine, Poppy Playtime and Amanda the Adventurer.

I call it ‘The Amazing Digital REDACTED’ au.

In this au, you ‘the player’ play as Jax, an ex-employee of C&A returning to the abandoned building in order to find the rest of your work employees after a mysterious incident years ago. With hidden knowledge that he must enter the game in order to find them, Jax does just that while managing to retain his memories. Along with his accomplice Bubble (a helpful AI who wants to free the rest of the trapped souls) and some help from his friend Winter (yes Winter from 5+1 will be in this but that fic isn’t canon to this au) on the outside, Jax tries to fix his past mistakes and save everyone – especially a particular jester he loved and lost long ago.

Yup that’s right, Jax will be the main character of this au and you will be playing as him. Let me explain, there is a feature on AO3 that allows you to make multiple choices on how you want the story to play out, like a telltale video game if you understand what I’m saying. You will get to pick and choose how Jax goes about his adventure and receive more than one ending (with a canon ending as well). And yes, this au’s main ship is funnybunny as I believe that it deserves more recognition and I find that these two in this au are very interesting to explore (especially with their past).

However, this fic is going to take quite a long time to make and is going to be bigger than anything else that I have written in the past. That is why I want to team up with a fellow TADC/funnybunny artist (since I am not an artist and do better with writing and characters) and create a separate blog for this au to come up with comics and art together. If you’ve seen the blogs for the Carnival and Freakshow au’s, you know that with their comics and art they explore more of the world, drop some lore, do character sheets and explain the pasts of the characters. This is what I’m hoping for if I team up with an artist. This au will mostly be on tumblr however if it does well I might add it to twitter as well since I’m putting this post on twitter as well.

Here are what I have pictured for the characters so far.

Jax: Past name; Jack. Ex employee of C&A, main character and who you the player will be playing as. Before the ‘incident’, Jax used to work at C&A as part of a coding team, to make sure that there were no bugs before any games were released. While C&A wasn’t on his list of jobs to pick, it was the only one that seemed best due to the pay and the fact that they could pay for schooling for those with children. Since Jax has a little sister named Jane, and has no parental figures in his life, he takes the job in order to help pay for the both of them and to make sure that Jane gets a good education. Unlike his canon TADC counterpart, Jax is more quiet, tired and while sarcastic, isn’t all out cruel to everyone unless they are bad people (think Mike from the FNAF movie especially with his relationship with his younger sister). He becomes quite close with his boss’s daughter however, Penny (Pomni) with him starting to develop feelings for the shy girl. However, after the day of the ‘incident’ Jax is left with nothing but guilt since he knew things that contributed to that day. Now he has a chance to make things right and save everyone, and Pomni.

Pomni: Past name; Penny. Ex employee of C&A and daughter of the CEO Abel, Pomni is an extremely introverted and socially awkward person, due to being traumatised by her mother’s death. She and her father don’t have a good relationship, with reasons that will become clearer later. She was quite close to the past version of Ragatha, but other than her father, she doesn’t really have a relationship with anyone. She likes to work alone to focus on the numbers and accounting part of her job (she understands numbers more than people) until she meets Jack. Though Jack is usually a bit standoffish, he is sweet to Penny due to her shy nature and helps keep an eye on her throughout their jobs so that she doesn’t feel too overwhelmed. Overcome by his sudden kindness and protectiveness, Penny starts to develop feelings for Jax. However, after the day of the ‘incident’ she is now trapped in the game, forever a jester trapped in a box…until Jax shows up.

If you’d like to be an artist for this au and collab with me, you can send me a DM or @ me. Do either of these and a sketch of the characters and I will reach out to you and confirm that you can be my partner for this project.

Here are some visuals on how I envision the characters.

Jax:

Sans the goggles, think of Jax wearing this over his grey and dirty overalls, he could also be holding a makeshift weapon like a bat or a stick so that he can fight off enemies. This version of Jax is much more serious and he is ready to fight in order to get the job done.

Pomni:

(on the last pic, focus on the makeup rather than the outfit)

Overly baggy and childish, with blue and black instead of blue and red. This design is a reminder of her past trauma and as so, is implemented into her circus features. Due to it being too big for her, it makes it hard for her to run and escape, and the ridiculousness of it all is a huge slap in the face that this is her new life now and is fully erased of her past. Even the makeup covers up any kind of normalcy on her face.

Well that’s it for now, I hope you guys take this into consideration and I hope you all have a lovely day/afternoon/night.

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scienceoftheidiot · 4 months ago

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Tag game for fanfiction authors !

I was tagged by both @the-blue-eyed-firebender and @lassusog, thank you so much to both of you !!

The story you're proudest of:

I have two in mind, but I will be talking about the other one later, and I want to talk about a finished one. I’m incredibly proud of us, @qs63 and myself, for “My own worst friend and my own closest enemy” (does it surprise anyone that I am the one who chose the title? BTW fun fact, it comes from the same song as my username). I’m proud of us for writing a four hands fic relatively seamlessly, and managing to get to the end of it in a relatively short time. It was a blast from start to finish, and I’m also glad it seems to still get love a year after we finished publishing. Bonus, it’s still very fun to re-read for me because I only wrote 50% of it so I don’t remember everything and I get surprised every time haha. We managed to make a fic that also delves into character study for both BH and 03 Roy and Riza, and that was INCREDIBLY FUN. Best time.

Your story that's gotten the most love online:

We don’t talk about failures Murdocks Never Quit in this house so let’s talk about one I’m actually proud of (at least I did learn from my mistakes). Besides, it seems to have gotten that much insane love without me even knowing or being told it so uh. Nevermind. That just couldn't work, could it.

Of course since it’s a very long fic with multiple chapters the one which has received the most love is All the hope (not that people read more long fics but statistically more people are exposed to it thanks to the new chapters updates), which I am very proud and insanely happy about, because at first I wasn’t even planning to publish it. And now I’m gladly on the way to finish this monster of a fic and already planning the second part. Go figure XD but I am so so grateful for everyone who has given a chance to it and for those who keep on reading. Extra bonus for you who leave all these detailed comments at each chapters, all of you, you have no idea how you’ve kept me afloat all year. And kept/keep me writing. All the love for you. Thank you so much.

Tease a current WIP or idea you're working on:

I’m already thinking of what I could do once I’m done publishing All the hope, and I have some WIPs lying around. The most developed one has already been partially written, and I’m considering trying to start posting it with a long delay between chapters, to allow me to work on multiple things at once. Not sure it’s a good idea, though. This one, some of my followers might know about, has for working name “1923”, and explores the lives of the Roy and Riza of OUR universe that we don’t get to see in Conqueror of Shamballa. I couldn’t NOT have fun with sending Roy into WW1, I mean, ME. SENDING CHARACTERS INTO WW1? HOW SURPRISING. I even managed to find a historically accurate way to send Riza to war without making a nurse out of her (which. No. No nurse Riza for me, unless you count her nursing Roy back to health)(of course, who do you think I am, you know what I write). There’s of course all the other characters that pop up here and there. And yes of course this is 100% Royai lol (UPDATE : I don't know what possessed me. It's a Royai fic alright. However. There are surprises in it. If I don't mention that I know someone will come and kill me with her bare hands. Lol. Royai with a twist I guess?)

Your top 3 fandoms:

I don’t know if I can count FMA 03 and Brotherhood/manga as different fandoms lol so FMA, Daredevil (comics or show, but they ARE different characters)(I'm more of a comics Matt lover, to everyone's surprise), and Ripper Street (everyone watch Ripper Street please and you will thank me after wanting to kill me).

Your top 3 ships:

Royai, Havoroyai (didn’t specify I can’t have OT3), Havoroy yes there is a pattern here.

Wait was I supposed to talk about different fandoms? Then Matt/Karen and Edmund/his hat (and anyone who would be willing to give some love to this disaster of a man).

Rec someone else's fic:

Your Warmth Against My Scars by @lassusog. Just. It’s just so good. Perfect angst, perfect characterisation, and so, so, so good on all parts I just can’t seem to find the words and it makes me insane. Read it if you haven’t already, re-read it if you have, which is what I’m planning to do.

Pick one!

Fluff or Angst (or both, they gotta earn the fluff)

Oneshots or longfics

Canon compliance or canon divergence

AO3 or FF.net

I tag @qs63, @wellbehaveddolphin, I think all the other royai people have been tagged already ? My memory is Swiss cheese so if you haven't and you see this, please do it. And I'll extend to @mabonetsamhain, @residentdormouse, @littleragondin and @riotbrrrd :)

#tag game #royai #writing

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james-stark-the-writer · 3 months ago

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terrible news, i tried to watch the Friendly Space Ninja Riverdale finale video again and i think i've pinpointed my problem with his videos, specifically the Riverdale ones but also just his general approach to media criticism, it's just the terrible wave of "objective criticism" we had on youtube with shitheads like Mauler but framed as just a more subjective opinion and it tries to pretend like that makes it any better, which it doesn't, like it really doesn't, because the underlying assumption that there is only one way to tell any type of story is just such a terrible thing for art but also he just fundamentally doesn't understand what type of art Riverdale is and there's just such a sheer lack of even attempting to treat it as a serious piece of art because the assumption is already that because popular consensus is that it sucks (the critical consensus has actually been consistently fucking great, you could just go look at the Rotten Tomatoes scores or even check out the legacy section on Riverdale's Wikipedia page), that means it automatically is trash, it never gets the opportunity to fight for itself because it's never given the chance to be thought of as a piece of art. it's an insistence that writing is the only way to analyze an audio-visual medium and like sure, writing doesn't "age" the same way other elements might, but audiences do age and change and evolve, media criticism does too, there's a reason people appreciate the Star Wars prequels more now than they ever did at release because we understand different ways of appreciating art now beyond the base insistence that conventionally "good" writing is the only thing to aim for (the prequels are actually well written but let's not get into THAT rn), that doesn't make the prequels "bad," it just means the prequels are different. i find the whole good/bad paradigm pretty suffocating in the first place but this is just so exhausting and i cannot believe that I've just managed to articulate it bc it seems shockingly obvious in retrospect.

also the video in question is just like factually wrong multiple times, he flat out admits he skips a lot of the season but then complains that the season doesn't make sense when he's jumping in at a random point, he complains that the previous seasons are meaningless but it's like has he forgotten that the audience doesn't forget stuff even if the characters have (and they even get their memories back in a thematically important and resonant moment the defines who the characters want to be so it's not really even entirely sound criticism) and that the show is intentionally trying to do interesting parallels and reversals of the stuff we've seen before, it's like commenting on itself because season 7 is a nostalgic look back at what the comics have been and what the show started from, and about the nostalgic feelings of that time and their appeal contrasted with the brutal truths of the reality of the situation, like this is just basic art criticism, i'm not even like trying to defend the season, like i don't even like season 7 that much, i think it's one of the more boring seasons and it ranks towards the middle for me, but like this is not like deep criticism where you're thinking and analyzing a lot, this is just seeing what the plot of the episodes is and what they're trying to communicate, it's just really irritating how fucking exhausting the objective criticism shit is but it's actually even more grating when you don't pretend to be superior about it because it makes it seem like you're not even bold enough to stand by your opinions and actually embrace the implication present in the shit you are saying, like it's just cowardice, honestly. but anyway, glad i figured it out, because it was honestly irritating me that i couldn't articulate why i didn't like those videos beyond just them being wrong about Riverdale on like a factual level and him just not understanding what it's trying to say as a piece of art.

the point of this isn't to say that i think he's making these arguments in bad faith or anything, i do think these are genuinely opinions he holds, and they are valid opinions for him to hold, i'm not saying they're invalid, you can prefer one aspect of a piece of media over other aspects because it's more important to you, that's okay, i'm just saying they're misinformed takes and generally display a shocking lack of imagination and respect for art and no desire to broaden his horizons.

anyway, if you actually want to understand the appeal of Riverdale, go through the Riverdale tag on my blog for my own analysis (but here's somewhere to get started), or if you want videos, the Super Eyepatchwolf video is pretty good, i still disagree with it a lot but at least the man tries to understand why people like the show and he even gets some part of the appeal, and we are going to get 4 5-hour videos from Lily Simpson over the next few months so i'm looking forward to those, bc Lily generally tends to at least understand the appeal of the stuff she talks about, and the title of the first video ("the captivating madness of Riverdale" [though i don't love the use of "madness"]) is already enough to make me feel like somebody kinda gets it and hopefully it'll be more coherent actual art analysis.

#james talks #riverdale #friendly space ninja #fsn #media criticism criticism #media criticism #James rants

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susiecarter · 5 months ago

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hi!! hope you're doing well!! just wanted to check in as you haven't updated your projects page in a while (not that you have to! but you're one of my fav writers of all time so just got worried) also, if you're seeing this, how goes the arranged marriage au? (and if u can sprinkle in some writing advice, that'd be great, tho srsly i feel like i'm asking a little too many things lmao so feel free to ignore)

/o\ :D Hi, anon, and thank you so much for checking in! No need to worry—I'm absolutely fine, I've just been ludicrously busy (my job changed somewhat at the end of last year and I acquired New Responsibilities; figuring out how to handle those and still have as much time as I need to write and to reply to comments has taken me six months :'D but I think I've mostly gotten the hang of it, hence me finally starting to catch up on my inboxes both here and on the AO3).

AND, ngl, I am absolutely delighted to hear that you were looking at the Projects page! :D That was honestly three-quarters me experimenting with the new theme I set up, haha (and the reason I threw a "last updated" date on there was 100% because if I got busy, I knew I was definitely going to start forgetting to update that sucker). I've updated it today, and the good news/bad news breakdown on the arranged marriage AU is: good news, I am still working on it; bad news, it is super not done. :'D I've got some other shorter stuff that should be done sooner than that (including some Bruce/Clark!), but I'm hoping to make that this year's Big Long Bruce/Clark Fic. Obviously I also have not made a whole lot of progress on some other things on that list :D but here's hoping I can fix that this summer!

As for writing advice, I've written a few posts in the past about my process, how I approach managing character identity, and my tl;dr thoughts on characterization, pacing, dialogue, and prose rhythm, if you haven't seen one or another of those! Honestly, working on my writing has been a real process of self-discovery for me :'D so I'd say my bottom-line "if you do nothing else, do this" of writing advice is: try things! Try different techniques, try outlining and not outlining, try doing writing exercises and not doing writing exercises, try sitting down to write a few hundred words each day and try only writing when you feel inspired to do it ... Everybody is different, everybody's brains and subconscious creative sources are different, and stuff that works for other people might work for you or it might not, but you won't know if you don't try it all multiple ways and see which approach feels the best to you.

Personally, I used to not outline at all, and I wrote the scenes that came to me in my head first and then went back to fill in the gaps—and that worked okay, it was fine, but as it turns out I'm MUCH better off when I outline every! single! time! and also my odds of completing a story I'm working on increase about 5,000% if I write it straight through from start to finish. I thought I knew what worked the best for me! I was wrong! :'D But I wouldn't have found out I was wrong if I hadn't decided to try outlining, and then decided to ditch how other people outline and outline in the way that worked for me, and then tried writing straight through, tried writing every single day and sucked at it BUT trying to write every day is actually good for me, it's just I have to let myself not do it if it's not working, &c &c. So, yeah, try stuff, don't get too stuck on doing anything one specific way, and sooner or later you'll figure out how you work, what gets your brain doing its best writing, and you'll be able to get it to do its best writing more and more often. :D

#asks #asks:anonymous #susie used to be an evangelist #like 'oh the best way to do this is—' all the damn time #but now she knows better at last

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softandwigglybones · 3 months ago

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And it's done!

@aromanticsky this one is for you, I hope its an enjoyable read. (also, thank you for the suggestions, they made one of the hardest parts of writing much easier)

If you want to read on not-tumblr, I've also posted it here:

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/75608/short-stories-for-practice/chapter/1731876/the-ogre-a-myriorama-inspired-short-story

Lastly, a few of my thoughts:

I'm starting to notice 2 issues with my writing.

One, about halfway through I completely lose the plot and have to make up something on the spot. I'm not sure if it's noticeable (it probably is), but I began having problems right around the second forest clearing.

And two, I keep falling into world-building. It would probably be a good tendency to have for anyone else, but I keep introducing random facts about things and creatures, and I'm afraid its detracting from the story.

And now for the story:

In the lands of Duskellfan, things were often not as they seemed. It was a land of fantasy and mystery, filled to the brim with various kinds of mystiques.

Well, for the most part, that is. Some places, places like the small village of Gnirsk, the day to day life was quite mundane. People ate, slept, worked and celebrated, and in general simply lived a good life. Yes, it wasn’t always perfect, nothing is, but the people of Gnirsk pushed through it all and held together during the tough times.

There was only one issue, one stubbornly persistent thorn in their side that the villagers couldn’t get rid of. One that they never managed to figure out the solution to. Every day, at seemingly random intervals, a deep and disconcerting rumble could be heard from deep within the forest. It happened multiple times a day, and nobody knew the cause of this disturbance. And worst of all, it wasn’t even unusual for it to sound out in the middle of the deep deep night, waking the whole village and causing unrest.

Frankly speaking, the whole of Gnirsk’s peaceful village life was turned on its head due to the forest’s strange rumble, so the villagers decided something had to be done. First, they sent a message out to a nearby town, a proper city. Surely, someone there would known what to do, right? But the messenger returned crestfallen, with no help whatsoever.

Deciding to take matters into their own hands, the people of Gnirsk assembled a small expedition, one to penetrate deep into the heart of the forest and see what was causing all the commotion. Once there, they’d put a rest to it, violently if necessary.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. For the first time in the village’s history, its complete and utter mundanity came as a detriment. As if by magic, the whole expedition got turned around within the forest and exit in the exact same space that they had entered it. But so convinced were they of the non-existence of the magical that they refused to believe anything strange could be afoot. So naturally, they tried again. After all, surely it must’ve simply been a failure on the navigator’s part, they thought. And yet, the same thing happened over and over again, no matter how many times they tried to mount an expedition.

Time passed, and the villagers were forced to get used to their daily disruptions. Simply put, the unfortunate situation would have to stay.

That is, until many moons later, when a new development occurred. As it so happens every now and then, a caravan was passing through the village of Gnirsk when the forest’s rumble resonated through the air. Now, the villagers had mostly gotten used to it by that point, some more than others, but the same could not be said about the caravanners.

Understandably, some of them panicked. Only once they saw the villagers going about their day as usual, as if nothing strange had happened and everything was normal, did they calm down. Things then continued mostly as you’d expect them to. The people form the caravan asked the people from Gnirsk some questions about what had just happened, shrugged their shoulders, then proceeded to go on with their trading.

But this is where we stop following the larger picture and instead focus on the story of one person in particular. A caravan child by the name of Sorramyna.

Now, Sorramyna wasn’t really a child. But being the youngest member of the caravan, plus having also grown up with the caravan not helping the matter, everyone else on it continued to refer to hir as kid, kiddo, or some other variant of that. But I digress.

Sorramyna had, naturally, also heard the deep rumble. How could ze not? After all, it rang out far and wide, louder than any bells of worldly make. And ze was curious. What could make such a strange and unearthly sound? A dragon, a creature ze had heard so much about on hir travels? Perhaps an otherworldly demon, trapped in the overworld? Or maybe even an Ancient, a true creature of legend?

It stood without a doubt that Sorramyna was curious. Curious and young, the deadliest of combinations. It therefore also stood without a doubt that, as a consequence of said curiosity, ze would want to find out more.

Later that night, when most of the others had already gone to sleep (some due to less natural causes than others), Sorramyna got up and quietly snuck outside. Outside the caravan, outside the village, and still further out ze went. It didn’t take long for hir to arrive by the forest, its deep depth almost physically alluring to the adventure-starved Sorramyna. With a deep breath to steel hir nerves, Sorramyna stepped forth into the arboreal labyrinth.

For a time, nothing much happened. Simply a normal walk through a normal forest. Admittedly, yes, it was night out which made it somewhat scarier, but still normal. As far as Sorramyna could tell, it was just a regular old forest. This illusion, however, did not last long.

With one slight misstep, Sorramyna’s foot caught on a protruding root, and ze fell. Surprisingly enough, at least for hir, the ground did not break hir fall. No, instead, just as ze would have impacted with the forest floor, something parted in front of hir and swallowed hir whole.

Now, worry not dear reader, for this is not the end for our intrepid adventurer. That being said, feel free to take this moment to pause, consider the story up until now. Maybe go and have a drink, get a snack, take any meds you may need to, or even go for a short walk. And when you’ve done that, return here and see the fate of Sorramyna.

A little bit of time passed and Sorramyna woke up in a strange and unfamiliar space. More unfamiliar than the forest already had been. The sky was, luckily enough, still dark, stars twinkling across it. Not much time could have passed. Nonetheless, Sorramyna grew worried. Ze didn’t know where ze was, and especially not how to get back back to the village. All ze could see were strange plants as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t particularly far this deep into the forest. It had practically transformed into a jungle. The plants, other than being strange, were also somewhat snake-like and covering almost every available surface. Moreover, about half of the snake-vines were also overgrown by a lush moss.

Still, there was no use despairing. As much as Sorramyna was unprepared for this adventure, ze knew from all the folk stories ze had grown up listening to that giving up was not an option. So, with a deep breath, ze stood up and once more stepped forth into the unknown.

This time, the journey was much more arduous. No longer was it a nice hike through a tame forest. Instead, Sorremyna had to force hir way through. Climbing over natural barricades, crawling beneath fallen trees of immense proportions, and in general avoiding all of the forest growth that somehow, inexplicably, always seemed to go into hir face.

But the young mind is nothing if not determined, so ze persevered. At last, ze broke through a truly dense wall of greenery to reveal a small, quaint little clearing. At the centre of which grew a truly majestic and enormous tree, thick enough that it’d take at least half a dozen people to encircle it.

Of course, Sorramyna approached it. And when ze was only a few metres away from the tree, the deep rumble that had lured hir there sounded out. Only, it was no longer a dulled and distant sound, coming from deep within the forest. No, it came from right above Sorramyna. Ze looked up, and stood shocked frozen.

The tree was not a tree at all, but the leg of a truly ginormous creature. There, right above Sorremyna, stood a humanoid that could not be described as anything other than giant.

It was an ogre, a people rarely seen in these lands. How could one have arrived here without raising a huge stir, our adventurer wondered. Ze didn’t have long to wonder, as it was right around that moment that the ogre itself spotted hir.

It started to bend down to get a better look at Sorramyna, but halfway through it stopped and let out a pained bellow. That was the sound the village had been hearing all this time. The rumble was the ogre’s cry for help.

In place of bending down further, it simply pointed deeper into the forest where a faint column of smoke could be seen rising into the sky. This did not answer many of Sorramyna’s questions, if anything, it only brought up more. Be that as it may, ze went on following the ogre’s directions regardless. Ze had come too far already to turn back now. Besides, following the ogre’s directions could only provide more of an explanation, and maybe ze would even be able to help out.

Only once Sorramyna was passing by the ogre’s leg, what ze had presumed to be the trunk of a tree, did ze see the ogre’s foot. Coincidentally, it had been entirely hidden behind the leg, but now ze could see that indeed it was no tree. The foot was so large it was almost comical, the only exception being the overgrown nails which did not look healthy at all. Still, there was no use dwelling on such things.

Into the dense jungle it was again. This time, even more obstacles came into Sorramyna’s path, and ze was sure that ze had already seen that one boulder at least a couple of times now. Yet, no matter what manner of magic and tricker was afoot, ze stayed on hir path and pushed forth.

Once more, ze pushed through a wall of greenery, and once more a clearing revealed itself before hir eyes. This one, however, did not house a huge foot disguised as a tree. At the other end of the clearing, a cosy little hut stood nestled by some trees.

The hut, more of a small cottage really, only had one single window next to its door, through which a warm light was escaping into the clearing. It would appear someone was home.

Sorramyna, ever the embodiment of the adventuring spirit, approached and fearlessly knocked on the door. For a second, there was nothing but absolute quiet. Then came some slow steps from the inside and finally, with a slow creak, the door opened.

There, in the doorway, stood a small and hunched over figure. A witch, Sorramyna thought. And while that may very well have been true, you never talk about the identity of witches, especially not in the presence of one. Sorramyna therefore smartly kept quiet about that thought and instead politely inquired about the ogre that had sent hir this way.

The witch that may not be a witch did not looked pleased by that at all. Seeing their crinkled face and gradually furrowing brows, Sorramyna did the reasonable thing and took a step back. And what good luck it is that ze did so, as in the very next moment the door slammed in hir face, and what followed would have certainly flattened hir into the earth.

Sorramyna was leaving the clearing, about to head back to the ogre, when ze heard a loud sort of cracking sound behind hirself. There, the old hut gradually rose from out of the earth, revealing itself to be stood on one massive chicken leg. The hut then promptly hopped away, heading in the direction of the ogre, bulldozing all the plant-life in its way.

When the shock wore off and the dust had settled, all that remained of the hut was a half-rotten stump of a tree in its place, along with a rusty old axe wedged inside.

Adrenaline pumping, Sorramyna hastily ran over to the stump, grabbed the axe, and hurried after the escaping hut. It wasn’t difficult at all to follow its tracks, what with the trail of destruction it had left behind, and soon ze had arrived back in the ogre’s clearing.

The clearing was almost unrecognizable. For one, it was much larger than the last time Sorramyna had seen it. Numerous trees along the edge had been torn out of the earth leaving behind naught but dirt holes. Only a lucky few trees even had stumps remaining, the rest were nowhere to be seen. In short, it was the sight of a wasteland that greeted hir.

The ogre itself, towering over the trees and now with both legs visible, stood near the middle of the carnage. It was scanning its surrounding, cautious and maybe even afraid.

When it spotted Sorremyna, it froze for a single instant. Sorremyna hirself was likewise rooted to the ground, shocked by what ze what seeing. After all, just minuted prior this had been a beautiful forest clearing and now, now it was this.

In that one instant, they both reached a silent understanding. Sadly, the moment would not last long. A familiar looking building sped out of the forest, hurtling itself at the ogre. It was the witch’s hut, propelling itself with its one giant chicken foot.

But a witch hut is not a normal hut, no matter how mundane it may look. And even once it has revealed its unusual attributes, like let’s say a chicken foot, there’s still always more to it than one may expect.

Just when the hut was about to collide with the ogre, it split horizontally in half and revealed a slobbering toothy maw. The witch was nowhere in sight. All that aside, the ogre was about to have a bite taken out of its flesh.

Or it would have, had it not known what was about to happen. The battle had been going on for some time when Sorramyna arrived, and this wasn’t the first charge the ogre had to fend off. It lifted a hand, revealing a hardy tree in its grasp, and positioned the improvised shield between itself and the hut.

The hut, unable to stop at the speed it was going, bit into the trunk of the tree. At that point the ogre lifted it alongside the tree and swung. Both of them, the tree and the witch’s hut, flew through the air far far away. There, they crash-landed and for a while, it was quiet.

Now, Sorramyna was understandably still quite shocked by this. Ze had been just a normal caravan kid not too long ago. Nothing had prepared hir for anything even resembling such a situation. Despite all that, despite being fully out of hir depth, Sorramyna acted.

Ze heaved the rusty axe and ran over to the ogre. Which was a poor choice and ze was lucky the ogre didn’t mistake that for an attack. Then, ze shouted as loud as ze could, “How do I help?”

Normally, such a shout would be futile. The ogre did not speak the language of humans, and even if it did it had not the vocal cords to reply. Normally, communication would have crashed right there and then. Normally.

But as we all know, few things are truly normal. And in it that moment, the ogre understood. What else could the little creature want but to help? What else could that hopeful look in the little creature’s eyes mean? Such did the ogre think, and so it acted accordingly.

It bent down, letting out a slightly muted bellow of pain, and held out its hand, palm up. Sorramyna tentatively laid one foot onto the palm, and when the ogre didn’t do anything, stepped fully onto it. Suddenly, ze was ascending through the air. With a groan the ogre rose to its full height, many times larger than even the tallest trees, and gently put Sorramyna onto its shoulder.

The view was incredible. All around, an emerald sea of trees extended until it met with the horizon. It as breathtaking. Except for one tiny imperfection. In one far off spot of the forest a dust trail that extended even further away could be seen. And it was getting closer. It was the witch and their hut.

With a startling realization, Sorramyna realized that all around the clearing, like the spikes of a sea urchin, there were numerous other dust trails that were only slowly settling down. The ogre must have fended off at least a dozen of those charges, ze thought.

The ogre, in the meantime, reached over to the edge of the clearing and tore another tree out of the earth. All the while it did not move from its spot one bit. Truly, ogres were a massive people.

Sorramyna was thrown out of hir reverie when the ogre made a gentle grunting noise, a decidedly different sound to its pained cries. It made a gesture with the tree, as if it was defending from the hut even though it was still minutes away. Then it pointed to Sorramyna and then to the phantom hut it was defending from. It repeated the motion a few times, making sure ze understood, before locking its sight onto the fast approaching dust trail.

Unfortunately, Sorramyna did not understand. Ze knew it wanted something from hir, but that may be was a mystery to hir. Ze wouldn’t get much time to consider it. Next thing ze knew, the hut once more dashed out of the forest, heading straight for the ogre.

Almost perfectly, the scene from before repeated. The hut split open to reveal gnashing teeth, the ogre positioned the tree trunk in front of it, and the hut bit onto the tree. However, the throw did not follow. The ogre made no move to fling the little monster house away, and the hut realized it too. Its nasty, big, pointy teeth began to churn, slowly chipping away at the tree shield.

The ogre made a panicked sound, urging Sorramyna to do what it had asked of hir, and with horror, Sorramyna realized what the ogre had been asking hir to do. But time was running out, the beastly hut was almost through the tree, and there was no room for hesitation.

Sorramyna closed hir eyes, and jumped.

The landing was surprisingly soft, the hut’s roof not the hard wood one would expect but an almost elastic material. Sorramyna took a moment to orient hirself. The hut was shaking in all directions as it was gnawing through the wood, causing hir to scramble to hold onto something or risk falling off.

With not much to hold on to at all, Sorramyna did the only reasonable thing ze could. Ze grasped tight the rusty axe and embedded it inside the roof. Then, two things happened.

One, an unexpected spray of a foul liquid burst out of the axe inflicted wound.

But more importantly, two. The hut went into a frenzy. The pain woke it up from its wood demolishing trance, causing it to realize there was something standing right atop it. Like an enraged bull, it let got of the ogre’s almost entirely demolished shield and started thrashing, trying to throw off whatever it was that had hurt it.

Meanwhile, the thing that had hurt it was not having a good time at all. Sorramyna, now completely out of hir depth, was doing everything to just hold onto the axe. Ze couldn’t even see what was going on around hir, the thrashing making everything a blur.

The ogre, on the other hand, finally had a brief bout of respite. However, it knew that if it did not do anything, said respite would truly be brief.

So, it did what it had planned to do from the very beginning. It took advantage of its huge size and neutralized the hut in one simple move.

One moment, an old hut on a chicken leg was raging around the clearing like a mad bull, the next it hung upside down, held by the very same chicken’s foot. Like that, it could not do anything, not even scratch at the hand holding it. Sorramyna, once ze calmed down, let go of the axe and dropped down onto the ground.

Seeing that its helper was safe and sound, the ogre lifted the hut higher into the air until it stood face to maw with the ogre. At which point it started shaking it up and down. Up and down it went, soon causing the hut to let out gurgling noise after gurgling noise. Still, the ogre did not stop.

Sorramyna watched on with wonder, and a fair bit of bewilderment. Mostly bewilderment.

At last, the hut had had enough. With one final gurgle, it opened its maw wide disgorging a small, shrivelled figure, along with a bunch of miscellaneous stuff. The figure, soaked in strange digestive juices, slowly stirred awake.

To Sorramyna’s shock, it was the witch from earlier. Except that they looked much weaker that before. They were even smaller than when ze had seen them in the hut’s door, their face much more wrinkled, and skin a sickly pale, almost green.

The ogre once more reached out, but to Sorramyna’s surprise it did not squash the witch like a bug. Instead, it gently took them and laid them on a soft patch of grass that miraculously remained untouched by the battle, away from the fluids the hut had regurgitated along with them.

Now, Sorramyna was truly confused. Had the witch not caused all of this? Should they not be punished, held accountable for the unrest they had caused? But the ogre knew the full story, and so it waited, hut still held high and prevented from doing a thing.

Time passed and sunrise came near. Sorramyna had long grown bored of the wait and retrieved the axe from the hut, to at least somewhat amuse hirself by chopping into one of the fallen trees.

At last, with the first rays of the sun, the witch awoke. They looked around confused at first, but once they saw the ogre holding the hut, a rueful look washed over them.

The ogre, on the other hand, let out a loud bellow. For the first time, Sorramyna heard it voice something other than pain or distress. The ogre laughed.

Only then did the witch spot Sorramyna. Ze hirself had no idea what to do, and by the looks of it neither did they. Luckily, the ogre was there to facilitate conversation.

The witch seemed to understand its strange grunts, moans, and bellows. But they did not reply with the same, nor in a language Sorramyna spoke. It truly was a strange sight for hir.

Eventually, they both reached some sort of understanding and the witch turned to hir. “Thank you for helping us, and apologies for all the trouble my mistake must have caused,” they spoke. “I can’t give much in return now, but if we ever meet again, hesitate not to ask for assistance,” they paused for a moment, as if considering, and then added, “In the meantime, remember this: Huts in woods are very strange, I beg you to not engage. Beware please of mimicry, lest it not go swimmingly.”

With that cryptic message, they and the ogre nodded at each other. Both of them turned towards Sorramyna, bowed, and the witch said one last thing, “I am the watcher of the forest, making sure none are left malnourished. ‘Tis my guardian eternal, protecting from the infernal. Remember us and speak our names, if you ever need some avails.”

Then, as if by magic, they disappeared.

It was another strange sight, one to add to the many ze had seen that night. With both the ogre and the presumed witch gone, or the watcher and the guardian as they named themselves, Sorramyna had no more reason to stay. There was utterly no trace left of them, not even the hut or its regurgitate. The only hint was the devastated clearing, but as ze watched on, even that began to slowly grow over.

Only one, well two, things hadn’t disappeared. The rusty old axe, and the piece of wood ze had been cutting into with it.

Perhaps it was unnecessary, maybe a complete waste of time, but Sorramyna brought both along with hir. If nothing else than to convince hirself that what had happened that night was not a dream.

Once ze returned to the village of Gnirsk, things quickly fell into old rails. Ze returned an hour or two after sunrise, when the caravan was slowly preparing to head off. The others from the caravan asked hir where ze had been, but Sorramyna simply half-heartedly shrugged and said in the forest.

So, the caravan left. They had done the trading they wanted and there was no reason to stay. It would be a while until the villagers realized the forest’s bellows had stopped, and even longer for Sorramyna to inspect the metal of hir rusty axe. But that is a story for another time, and the mystic rune that appeared on hir axe would remain hidden for some time yet.

#gelatinous post #writers on tumblr #writing #words #writers #write #writeblr #writing project #writerscommunity #stories #short stories #short story #story #original story #fantasy #fantasy story

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