#but to deny his violence and capacity for violence also takes away something from him as a character

[golvio]

Sometimes I wonder if I write Ghirahim too butch or if the fandom is just completely wrong about him.

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (1): Suspension (Fem!Reader x Toji Fushiguro, 5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: One of your favourite students has been suspended for fighting, and Gojo has palmed off the meeting with his guardian to go through all of the paperwork and facts and conditions on you. “Don’t worry,” Gojo says. “It’ll be Megumi’s sister, she always takes care of this kind of stuff!”. Gojo is wrong.

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. dom/sub dynamics, light fearplay and predator/prey elements. piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

1.

“I’ve got all these other parents to deal with,” Gojo whines at you, pushing the papers into your hands. “And I hate paperwork, and I don’t have time to meet with Megumi’s family today – hell, if it were up to me, the kid wouldn’t even be suspended! Those guys had it coming!”

Gojo is not a very good teacher. Both of you know that – no matter how justified – violence never solves violence. Gojo, you think, would let these kids fight it out in an arena instead of solving things like an adult. You heave a large sigh as you look down at the papers detailing Megumi Fushiguro’s three-day suspension for fighting during school hours.

You’d seen Megumi before he’d gone home. He hadn’t had so much as a scratch on him; his face set in a frown, his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. You’d sighed at him and asked him if he was alright, and he’d shrugged.

He’s not a very talkative boy at the best of times, and you suppose that the suspension and the fight and the mini uproar it had caused in the school aren’t helping be any more verbose. You’d said goodbye to him and said that you hoped he thought about what had transpired today, your heart aching a little bit that you couldn’t be any more help to him.

You’d seen the three boys Megumi had got into a fight with, too. They had not gotten off so scot-free – they were bleeding noses, scraped cheeks, bruised eyes. At the very least, you don’t think any of them will get on Megumi’s wrong side again.

Gojo has to meet with all three of their parents tonight to give them the full story of why their children are so roughed up and what’s being done about it; a position that’s been doled out to him, you’re sure, because Principal Masamichi blames him for the incident and is punishing him. You can’t deny that seeing Gojo actually get punished for something is nice, but--

“Won’t they be mad to see me instead of you?” You ask him, biting your lip. “I mean . . . you’re his teacher. I’m just your aid.”

“Oh,” Gojo’s eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “No, it’ll be Megumi’s sister who’ll come, she’s a sweetheart! She’ll nod at you and say mournfully that she’ll talk to him and you’ll give her the paperwork, and that’s all – job done! Honestly, if I could palm this off on you and talk to Tsumiki instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat--”

“This is your job,” you tell him, exasperated, and he laughs wide and open. You’re not really supposed to get like this with him – if he were any other teacher, you’re sure that the exasperation and sighing and half-snapping you do would have had you thrown out of their class – but Gojo treats your irritation with him as if it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened. “You’re supposed to be good at dealing with this kind of thing!”

He shrugs.

“You’ll be fine!” He tells you, again. “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this has happened with Megumi and it won’t be the last. That kid’s got a right hook that could knock out an elephant!”

You do not ask him how he knows this. Asking too many questions of Gojo is always flirting with danger; you never know when his mouth will flash into a grin and you’ll suddenly be barraged with a flood of words and stories that don’t quite make sense and never seem to have a concrete end. But you can’t resist one last question – just in case it comes up. After all, it seems that Gojo has spoken to Tsumiki enough times for him to at least kind of know her--

“His sister?”

Gojo looks at you, and for a moment the shroud of capricious energy lifts from him, and he seems entirely serious. You’ve noticed this particular change in him only a few times – and often, those times have been about the more difficult backstories of students.

“His father isn’t around very often,” he says, eventually. “He’s some kind of something or other, Megumi never really says, but whatever he does, there’s a lot of travelling involved. Tsumiki’s his older sister – she’s twenty one, and she’s been more of a parent to him than it seems like his dad has.”

No wonder Megumi always seems suspicious and tired of Gojo. Something about his flighty nature probably strokes the back of Megumi’s psyche, where annoyances about an absent father are kept. You sigh, turning away and shaking your head to rid yourself of the idea of psychoanalysing the students.

“Alright,” you say wearily. “I’ll talk to Tsumiki.”

2.

You’re nervous as you set up for the meeting. You know Gojo had said that this would be easy, that Tsumiki was very sweet and would probably apologise to you for Megumi being a problem – but still! This is the first time you’ve ever met any of your students’ guardian figures in any capacity. You feel kind of bad that it had to be for this kind of news, actually – ordinarily, you like Megumi a lot. He’s very intense and serious and clever, and you think that he has a bright future ahead of him when the trials of being a twelve year old boy finally are over – but this meeting isn’t for saying things like that. This meeting is for giving details of the three day suspension that Megumi has gotten for – you check the paperwork again – fighting three boys by himself on one of the sports courts, making them bleed and . . . breaking one of their arms? No wonder Gojo had seemed so miserable at the thought of meeting with the victims’ parents.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, making sure that it still sits as neatly as you’d arranged it that morning. You check the clock to see you still have two minutes before anyone is due – you discreetly check your lipstick in a compact mirror (yesterday you’d had it on your teeth and you hadn’t realised until Mai had pointed it out with a laugh in her voice), smooth out your pencil skirt, tug at your stockings to make sure they’re pulled up and not wrinkling about your ankles . . .

And then, you wait.

The clock is straight across from you, so you’re able to see as Tsumiki is five minutes late, and then ten minutes late, and then fifteen. The tick-tock echoes in the room as your leg bounces against the floor, anxiety making you want to gnaw all of the carefully applied lipstick off of your mouth. From what Gojo had said, this doesn’t sound like Tsumiki at all – you’re just about to give up and pack all of your things away, figuring maybe she’d called into the office to say she couldn’t make it and telling you had been neglected, when the door slams open.

You rush to your feet, your sensible heels clacking on the ground.

“Miss Fushi--”

Your voice peters away.

The person stood in the doorway is, you’re certain, absolutely not Tsumiki Fushiguro.

For one thing, it’s a man. For another thing . . . well. You’re not entirely sure that a man with that expression on his face would ever be described to anyone as a ‘sweetheart’. Your frightened eyes linger on him for another moment, really taking in the broad shoulders and the muscles and the hair falling over his face, the dark, green eyes that are glaring at you like you’ve interrupted something very important. There’s a scar by his mouth that you also do your best not to stare at, just in the same way you avoid staring at how the form-fitting t-shirt he’s wearing clings to a muscled abdomen.

“It’s Mr, actually,” he says, which seems absurd in the face of him, standing there. He raises one eyebrow at you. “You were expecting my daughter, right?”

(You don’t know it, but Toji Fushiguro has gotten a read on you in less than a moment. He’s seen the wide eyes and the pretty mouth and the neatly appointed outfit, the pencil tucked behind your ear, the slightest tremble faced with his imposing presence – the fear as you’d seen the scar and the smoulder and the body. You’re adorable.)

“I . . . uuh--” Your cheeks are hot. You nod, weakly, and he walks into the room proper, the door swinging shut behind him with a deafening click. There’s danger in every one of this man’s movements, like a wolf who has finally cornered a little rabbit. You are feeling inexorably like prey, at this moment in time.

“I was expecting a man,” he says, shrugging. He sits at the chair in front of Gojo’s desk, pulled up just for him. He looks huge in the classroom; his shoulders too wide, his biceps bulging from the sleeve of the shirt. You don’t think this man was intending to be in a school classroom right now. “I guess you’re not Mr Gojo, huh? Gotta say,” he shoots you a grin that’s dangerous, everything about him is threatening. “I much prefer this development.”

“Oh,” you’re blustering, and it’s so cute. You sit back down in the chair with a quiet displacement of air, agitation in your fingers as you rake through the papers on the desk. Said desk is incredibly messy; Toji doesn’t think it’s yours. He ought to feel mad that they’ve palmed him off on some little assistant who’s probably not even fully qualified yet – instead, he’s watching your hands trembling and your teeth nibbling on your pretty mouth. “Y-yes, G-Gojo’s dealing with the parents of the other party--”

“My kid got into a fight, yeah?” He asks. “Decked ‘em pretty good, from what I heard.” You wince at his words, and that’s cute too.

“Megumi’s a good boy,” you say. “He’s just . . . got his own sense of justice, I think.” You look down at the papers, and your eyes seem to focus, back in a more comforting zone. “He’s been suspended for three days, and when he comes back, he’s on probation.”

“What’s that mean for him?” Toji asks, promptly, though something about the way he says it suggests to you he doesn’t really care. There’s a lightness, an airiness in his tone that sets you all off-kilter.

“It just means we’ll probably keep an especial eye on him. He’ll get a report that’ll need signing off on at the end of every period, someone will check up on it--” You see one of Gojo’s scrawled notes in the margin of the paperwork. You wince. “I’ll be in charge of it, actually. Making sure everyone’s happy with his behaviour for a few weeks--”

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

The question makes you jump. You’re like a doe in headlights, looking up at him. You blink slowly.

“I—I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Mr Fushiguro,” you say, prim. That’s cute, too. He likes breaking prim and proper things like you. “I’m—I’m doing my training. I’m working as an aid here for a year, and then I’ll be qualified to be in charge of my own class.” There’s a hint of pride in your words, there.

“Toji,” he says. “That’s my name. You haven’t gotta call me ‘Mr Fushiguro’. I’m not tryna’ be pushy,” but he’s inched forward. His elbows are resting on Gojo’s desk, in front of you – he rests his chin on his folded hands, sharp eyes regarding you as if you’re something he wants to devour. “Y’just look tense.”

“This is the first time I’ve met a student’s parent,” you admit, though the minute it’s left your mouth you’re regretting it. Like you’re admitting to some kind of weakness. This close to him, you can see there’s a dark red stain on one of his wrists, like dried blood. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. It’s not helping that his forearms are so big, ridged with muscle.

“That so?” His eyes gleam. “What d’ya think of me?”

You don’t actually need to answer him. He can see it in the way your eyes keep nervously skimming over him. The way your lips are shining in the light. The bob of your throat as you swallow.

“Mr Fushiguro--”

“I told you to call me Toji,” his voice is almost mocking. You watch him lean over the table like you’re somewhere far away from the action – watch his hand reach out and cup your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, like you’re a ghost in the corner of the room. His palms feel like they’re burning hot. “You’re tremblin’, little lamb.”

You had thought you’d felt like a rabbit – shy, ready to run at any moment. But the moment his hand is on you, you’re docile – too scared to scamper away. You suppose you are like a lamb, staring a wolf straight on in the face, too stupid or too pliant to use your common sense and run.

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you say, voice trembling just as much as the rest of you. Toji’s smirk hasn’t left his face. You’re saying you shouldn’t, but he just bets if he reached further down and unbuttoned your blouse, your nipples would pebble for him – he just bets there’s a wet stain on your underwear, right now. He can always tell when someone’s turned on by the idea of playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few weeks with you in charge of me,” he muses, and then chuckles humourlessly, correcting himself. “Sorry. Lemme rephrase that. I’d rather be in charge of you, but--”

Oh, he sees that. The little flash in your eyes, an imperceptible contract of your shoulders. If you weren’t behind the desk, he bets he’d have seen your thighs press together too. Girls like you are just so fucking predictable, and he loves it every single time. There’s just something that’s so much fun about breaking them – making them submit, admit that him being so close with the scent of something-that-might-be-death clinging to him turns them on like nothing else. Your attempts at being haughty and polite and proud have just made the stirring between his thighs harder to ignore. You’re such a cute, neat, demure little thing – by the end of this meeting, he’s going to have his way with you, you bet.

“M-Mr Fushiguro,” you say, trying to wrest back control of yourself – honestly, he’s pissed you aren’t listening to him, but the title’s kind of endearing. You’re trying so hard! Pity you’re going to lose all of your manners when you’re bent over this desk with his cock inside you. You haven’t even moved your face away from his hand. “I-I have to give you these papers.”

He stands up, pulling his own touch away from your cheek. Stretches. Your eyes are drawn to the brief expanse of his stomach, just above his trousers – the dark line of hair leading down to . . . Oh, God. You shouldn’t have thought about that. The grin on his face is cocky, and you know that he knows you were looking.

“I’m just gonna throw ‘em in the trash, sweetheart,” he says to you. “Now. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, yeah?” He steps closer to you. You totter to your feet, half-unsure, half driven by the low ache between your legs and the thrum of desire that’s been reverberating through you since the moment he’d carelessly thrown out how much happier he was to see you than Gojo. You have to tilt your head up a little when he comes closer. You’d thought you realised how massive he was when he’d walked through the door, but that’s nothing compared to how his size seems to dwarf you. Every unkind thought you’ve ever had about your body or your face seems to have gone out of the window as his heated green gaze hungrily drinks you in. You know it’s the stare of some predator who’s going to devour you, and you still feel transformed. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand idly comes to the top of your blouse buttons, a finger brushing the place in your throat where your pulse is beating its unsteady rhythm.

“Whaddya say, little lamb?” He grins down at you. “Gonna let yourself be caught by the big bad wolf?”

You’re supposed to be telling this man about his son’s misbehaviour, giving him all of the paperwork that Gojo had thrust at you, getting him to say he’ll talk to his kid and try and make sure that it won’t happen again. You shouldn’t be tipping your head back further, letting his fingertips lodge dangerously in the hollow of your throat, flirting with the place where your windpipe is. You shouldn’t be breathing out, all of your pretty prissiness and good morals and pride disappearing where you stand in the face of one of your students’ really hot dad.

“Yes,” you breathe.

And Toji wastes no time.

3.

He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning your blouse; just drags his hand down, and the buttons pop off, scattering on the floor. You gasp at the show of strength, and Toji is still grinning, clearly enjoying that you’re admiring him. His hand pulls at the fabric, until your breasts are fair falling out of it, the blouse wrestles off your skin.

“You’re wearin’ something like this at work?” He asks you, giving a tug to the gore of your bra. You hadn’t done enough washing this week, and the one you’re wearing is all filmy white lace. “Almost like you knew I was comin’ huh?” His grin is crooked. You tremble as you reach behind you, undoing the clasp – and for that, you get a murmur of ‘good girl’ that has your knees turning to jelly.

He whistles as the bra drops from you, his gaze admiring. He takes in the spill of your breasts, the little peaks of your nipples. He takes handfuls of them, squeezing them in his big hands, his fingertips digging in so painfully you can imagine that you’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The idea doesn’t disgust you.

He lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not gentle with you for a moment – his teeth immediately nip at your bottom lip, kissing you hungrily like you’re the first taste of sugar for a man who’s lived on nothing but bread for months. His tongue licks at your lips, begging entrance – dancing against your own when you helplessly open those same lips, demanding in the exact same way Toji is.

He pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger, delighting in how quickly the bud hardens. He rolls it between them, toying with it, enjoying the soft noises you make that get caught in his mouth. If he wasn’t kissing you, he thinks, you’d be bleating like a lamb right now. Huffing and whimpering. When he finally gets his cock in you, he’ll have to remember to clap a hand over your mouth so you don’t attract too much attention.

Your other nipple is given the same treatment, hot lightning bolts of pleasure ricocheting from the touch of Toji’s calloused fingers to the spot between your legs. You’re grateful for how solid Toji is – if he were any less so, you’re sure you’d be buckling over where you stand.

He pulls back with a final, marking nip to your lower lip, almost hard enough to make you bleed. You whine, and a dark chuckle spills out of his lips in response.

“Toji,” you whimper as he pulls away. You miss the feel of his body pressed against yours like a physical ache. His hands encircle your thighs, pushing you up onto the edge of Gojo’s desk, clever fingers already pushing your tight pencil skirt up so it’s bunched around your waist.

He kind of misses ‘Mr Fushiguro’ now it’s gone, but the sight of your stockings digging into your thighs soon chases the thought from his mind. He guesses your skirt is more than long and tight enough to make sure nobody gets a glimpse, but oh . . . that you’d be walking around all day, like that, with nobody to fuck you silly--

He can’t help but let his hands knead the soft skin, the flesh, his thumbs imprinting so hard in the plush that you squirm. He’s pressing your thighs apart, now – revealing the modest underwear, the soaking wet patch where he can see the outline of your plump labia lips.

With your legs spread, he can smell how turned on you are. Oh, yeah – he knows your type, alright.

“Ain’t you cute?” He says, chuckling. “You really want me to do you over this desk?”

“You can’t leave me like this--” Your voice is reedy, breathy, almost petulant – at another time, he’d make you beg for it. He’d take his time over you. But although the idea of being caught fucking the cute little teacher’s aid is briefly appealing, he doesn’t really want to make a whole load of trouble for himself when his cock is practically begging to be sheathed inside your wet holes. “Please--”

It’s the please that does it. It’s always the ‘please’ that does it for Toji. He chuckles, smirks, crooked grin – all of it feels like it’s mixing together in your mind, your throat very dry as nothing seems to matter right now except the fact that your sex is practically pulsing with how empty it is, and you think that the hot hard stiffness pressing against your thighs would really help alleviate some of that.

“Aww,” he says, fiddling with his zip and underwear, grabbing his cock and giving it a cursory pump just so you can admire the sheer size of him. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’ll give ya what you need.”

He gets what he wants. Your eyes, as big and dark as the eyes of a doe – the soft choke of breath as you get to see the size of it, so big his own fingertips don’t quite meet. It’s the kind of cock that could ruin you for somebody else – and you’ve had sex before, of course, but you’ve never taken anything quite like that--

“That’s cute,” Toji murmurs, pressing forward, nestling his slick cock-head between your soaking wet thighs. “Wish you could have seen what a picture your face made just then. Afraid I’m gonna tear you in two?”

He might – he might, you think. But you pout at him and Toji’s cock throbs, as he glides the slick glans through the mess of your arousal, wetting himself even further. Your breath hitches, your hips doing a cute little jerk as it brushes your swollen clit. He can’t help himself but swirl the head over it some more, making your breath catch and whine, bleating like a little lamb--

He sinks his hips forward, and your fingers flex on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, at the relentless sear of his cock driving you open. You feel so stretched out, and he’s barely a third of the way in – he can’t help but watch your expression. He always likes to see someone the first time they’re impaled on his cock – the glassy eyes, slack jaw, the pleasure-cum-pain in their faces. He wants to take a picture of you and keep it in his wallet so he can pump one out to the sight of you when he’s on business trips and too busy to go out and find himself a hole to fuck.

“How’s that feel?” He asks you, so soft and low that you barely catch it. Another slow inch. He lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every bump of his shaft. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“F-full—” you gasp.

“I bet,” Toji replies – and then, he bottoms out inside you. His eyes look down to where the two of you are joined; the slick fluid leaking out of you, all heat and needy. “You fit me like a glove.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, at the lewd way he’s looking at your spread open cunt – the way your hole is fluttering around him, the peeking pearl of your clit. He’s studying you like he wants to learn you by heart.

“Head’s up,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You’re about to open your mouth, and ask him what he’s doing right at that moment if he hasn’t started fucking you yet – but then, he’s dragged almost the entire length of his cock out of you in one savage thrust and is immediately spearing it back into you, his pace brutal. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back hitting the solid, flat surface of Gojo’s desk so that you’re flat out with your thighs wrapped around Toji’s hips.

If he weren’t so entranced by the feel of your walls fluttering around him, trying to suck him in further and deeper, so tight that you’re basically a vice, he’d grab you by your hair and force you to stay seated whilst he fucked you. But right now, you feel so good that all he can think about is his own release. The wet sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you, the squelch of your arousal and slick making every pump easier and easier. You feel so good. You’re tighter than he even imagined you could be, so good that he kind of wants to take you home and have you take up permanent residence in his bed.

You’re moaning, your back arching with every one of his thrusts – taking it admirably. There’s pain in your moans, yes – he supposes he could have prepared you better, had you come on his fingers a couple of times, if time were not of the essence – but they’re the pained moans of someone who likes to be hurt a little bit.

With every rock of his cock inside of you, he hits some new spot that you’ve never had stoked before, makes the heat and need inside of you swim just a little bit closer to the forefront. You don’t even notice you’re moaning and whining until a big hand slaps over your mouth, rough, hot palm against your lips, smearing your lipstick.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet,” Toji says to you, through those savage thrusts of his cock inside of you. “You don’t want your . . . your fuckin’ . . . anyone walkin’ in on you being railed by your student’s dad, do you?” You shake your head, but he feels the throb of your cunt around his cock, the way your walls contract, and he adds it to the store of things he’s learning about you. Always the quiet ones, right? Always the proper ones who look as though they’ve never even seen a cock--

The feel of him inside you is absolutely dizzying, so much and so full that you can no longer think. His cock batters against a certain place in your channel, a textured wall – and before you know it, everything is going dizzy and black and white like exploding fireworks, your chest bursting into heat, your inner walls getting so tight around Toji as you come that he thinks you’ll be the one to fucking break him.

Oh, you’re adorable, creaming on his cock – the slick gush of your arousal around him, the dreamy cast in your eye, the fact he can feel you drooling against his palm. He increases the speed of his own thrusts, chasing his release through the weak aftershocks and smaller pulses of you around him, through the over-sensitive squirming of your cute little cunt, the fact that tears are pooling in your eyes at how much everything is suddenly feeling--

He groans and the hand still clinging to your thigh is suddenly pressing so hard you think he’ll snap your bone, ragged breath;

“Fu—fuuuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna take it all, that’s right, good girl--” in between belaboured, ragged pumps, his cock twitching as he manages to pull out at the last moment and his release spills all over your thighs, luridly glistening wet in the overhead fluorescent lights.

That’s another moment he’d take a picture of, if he could.

He’s not the kind of man who waits around. He gives himself ten seconds, to catch his breath, to admire your plush thighs painted with his come, before he’s tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping zippers and doing buttons. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second – double checking he’s left nothing of his in the classroom.

Yep. All clear.

He turns to leave, air of cocky confidence back – you only just see the shifting muscles in his back as he turns to go, leaving you where you are. You’re lucky he’s so tall, or you’d probably barely have seen him in front of the door frame (you didn’t even lock the door, anyone could have walked in at any time! You don’t even want to know what Gojo would say if he’d walked in to his aid being fucked like a slut across his desk).

“W-wait,” you say, weakly, still sprawled over the desk with his come cooling on your thighs. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, but your entire body feels like it’s just taken a battering. He takes a look back at you from the door, dragging a big hand through his hair, his crooked grin still on his face. You look so pretty like that – all fucked out and messy, the shine taken off of you. “T-the paperwork--”

You’re not sure where said paperwork is. Underneath you, maybe? You hope it didn’t get soaked.

“Told ya’,” he says, dismissively. “I’m just gonna throw it in the trash. Thanks for the fun, sweetheart. See y’around, huh? I should do stuff for the kid’s academic career more often.”

The door slams shut behind him.

[angelasscribbles]

Bad Romance Chapter 23: Judgement

Series: Bad Romance

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: Multiple

Paring this chapter: Riley x Liam I guess

Rating: R, deals with sexual assault, violence, character death

TRIGGER WARING: This chapter deals with sexual assault. This is the hearing which determines if Drake acted in self defense/defense of others or if he used excessive force when he interrupted Tariq's assault on Riley. Riley testifies so what she went through that night is mentioned. Also mentioned is the assassination attempt on Liam.

Word Count: 2,926

My other stuff: Master List.

Drake had to hand it to her. When Riley said she’d make something happen, she made something happen. He’d had legal representation within twenty-four hours of her promise and for some reason it cost him almost nothing.

“Just a token amount, so that it’s a legally binding retainer.” Rashad had told him. He’d known Rashad most of his life, through Liam, but he was fairly certain that’s not why the man was helping him. He was absolutely sure that Riley had worked her magic and charmed him, just like she did everyone.

Rashad had ridden rough shod over the military judicial system, burying them in discovery requests, motions and complaints. A date had finally been set for his disciplinary hearing on the grounds that he deserved a speedy resolution, thereby putting a deadline on the investigation. The head investigator had tried to object but was overruled by Judge Advocate General Broadus. The JAG, aka the Judge Advocate General of the Royal Guard answered directly to the king, who had informed him that fast tracking the hearing would be in Cordonia’s best interests.

Drake shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the new suit Max had helped him pick out. Because apparently fashion was one of his superpowers. Drake had to admit that regardless of any animosity between them over the Riley situation, when push came to shove, both Liam and Max had been there for him. Either because they were that close, or because Riley made them. He wasn’t sure which. He suspected a little bit of both.

A murmur broke out among the spectators, and he looked up to find Liam striding down the aisle.

“Please, don’t mind me. Carry on business as usual. I’m just here to support my friend.” Liam clasped Drake on the shoulder, whispered something to Rashad, then took a seat in the front row, next to Max. The king sitting on the defendant’s side was sure to make an impression. It gave everything Drake claimed more credence.

The prosecution had very little to present. They hadn’t been able to turn up a single character witness for Duke Tariq Lambros. His own brother had declined to testify. Drake cut his eyes sideways at Riley. He had no idea if she’d had anything to do with that or not.

All of the members of the Royal Guard that had been present that night were away on special assignment and couldn’t be reached to testify.

The only evidence they had was the body itself and the fact that Drake had been covered in Tariq’s blood, but Drake had never denied that he had beaten the man the death. Just that it was neither intentional nor premeditated and that it had been in self defense as well as defense of others, both valid rebuttals for the charge. The only witnesses were Riley and Drake himself. He had already given a written statement and Rashad had advised him not to take the stand.

Rashad opened with Drake’s medals, commendations, and general stellar military record, in both the regular armed forces and the royal guard. Then there was a string of character witnesses. An impressive number, actually. He’d had no idea that many people liked him. He was sure that at least some of them were only there on Riley’s behest.

“I’m not here in my official capacity.” Liam said when it was his turn, “But I am here to tell you what kind of man Drake Walker is. A selfless man who has dedicated his life to the protection of others. A man from a long family tradition of service. His father, the late Jackson Walker, gave his life in defense of the royal family and Drake never held that against me. It didn’t stop him from pursuing the same line of work. Though, he did give up his chosen career trajectory for his country.”

“Could you explain that?” Rashad prompted.

“Yes. Drake joined the Cordonian Royal Air Force right out of high school, refused any special treatment because of his family’s connection to mine, and quickly rose through the ranks, earning his commission as an officer. He told me once that he was happy there and planned to stay in for life.”

“What changed?”

Liam shifted uncomfortably in the witness box, “I…uh…was the subject of an assassination attempt. The head of the King’s Guard, Bastien Lykel, went to Drake’s duty station and recruited him away from the Army and into the Royal Guard. He agreed for my sake, for Cordonia’s sake. He wanted to ensure my continued safety and that was more important to him than his own career aspirations.”

The emotion in Liam’s voice was real, the memory of that time period still burned in his soul. The helplessness he’d felt in the aftermath, the depression, the raging sense of the unfairness of the universe. The feeling of defilement at having had spaces that should have been safe violated. The humiliation he’d felt. Yes, he’d survived, but he’d been shaken down to his core. Like how Riley must have felt after her attack.

Liam jolted physically as a tidal wave of understanding suddenly washed over him. His eyes locked on Drake’s, then Riley’s and he was filled with shame for his inaction in the immediate aftermath of the attack and Drake’s suspension.

He squared his shoulders; he could do right by them both now. He drew in a breath and continued, “Even as child, Drake put others first. He stood up for kid’s that were bullied, he even advocated for animals.”

“What do you mean?”

“One time he brought home a stray kitten. Pets were banned from the palace due to the queen mother’s allergies, but he snuck it in and tried to keep it hidden. Which worked for a while. The palace is a big place after all.” He paused for the appreciative laughter.

“One day that cat got into the royal dinning room during a state dinner and the wife of the Hungarian prime minister had brought her shar pei and, well…next thing we knew the dog took off after the cat, who jumped onto the banquet table to escape, and the dog followed and-“

Laughter erupted throughout the room and the prosecutor jumped up, “Your honor, can we get back on track? This has no relevance-“

“Agreed, let’s move it along Lord Faheem.”

“Certainly, sorry, Your honor.” Turning back to Liam, he asked, “But first, I have to know…what happened to the cat?”

“Your honor, this had no bearing-“ The prosecutor began.

“Agreed, but I’m curious myself. What happened to the cat?”

“Oh, she was relocated to the cottage occupied by the head gardener and his family, where she lived out a life being spoiled rotten by his three daughters and the crown paid for her upkeep until she died a natural and peaceful death in her sleep.”

Rashad smiled and nodded, “Ah, that’s a satisfying ending. Moving on. Anything more to add to your statement about Captain Walker, Your Majesty?” Rashad asked.

“Just that Drake Walker understands duty and service as much as I do. He was raised by my father after the death of his own. The same values and ethics that were instilled in me, were instilled in him. Not that he needed it. Drake has an innate sense of right and wrong. I will be eternally grateful that he was there that night to intervene, when I couldn’t be. Captain Walker serves the crown, and he knew that had I been there, I would have done the exact same thing, I would have defended Lady Riley, my soon to be queen, my fiancée, the woman I love, by any means necessary.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your witness.”

The prosecutor stepped up to the witness box, “Thank you for being here today, Your Majesty.”

Liam inclined his head.

“Respectfully, Your Majesty, if you believed them, why was Captain Walker suspended?”

Liam sat up straight and glared at the man in front of him, “Because I was trying to stay out of the way and let the system do its job. I wouldn’t want to be accused of overreaching. My understanding is that Colonel Blainsworth made that decision without taking all available information into account, a grave error in judgement, don’t you agree?”

The prosecutor ignored that and continued, “You weren’t actually present that night?”

“No.”

“So, you don’t have any firsthand knowledge of the events that transpired outside of what Captain Walker and Lady Riley have told you?”

“That’s correct, Captain Leventis. And I believe my future queen.” Liam’s voice held a warning note.

“Of course, Your Majesty. But is it possible that….” The man met Liam’s eyes and gulped, “Never mind. Question withdrawn. The prosecution has nothing else for this witness.”

Riley took the stand last. Rashad approached her gently, “Do you need anything before we start? Some water, perhaps?”

“No, it’s ok.” Riley shook her head, “I just want to get this over with.”

“Can you please tell this court, in your own words, what happened that night?”

“It was the worse night of my life.” She drew in a shuddering breath.

“It’s ok, take your time.” He said soothingly.

Riley nodded, “Duke Lambros entered my room uninvited.”

“And how did he do that?”

“The lock had been tampered with.”

Rashad paused to let that sink in before asking, “How do you know that?”

“The investigators found out when they searched the room that night.”

Rashad nodded, “Did he say why he was there?”

She shook her head, “He didn’t say much, he just…he…he…” The tears that slipped down her face were real. She didn’t have to fake her emotion at the memory of that night, “He said he was there to take what he wanted.”

Riley dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders heaving with quiet sobs.

“Are you sure you can go on?” Rashad asked her, his voice laced with concern.

“Yes, I have to.” She sniffled and looked down at her lap while she got her emotions under control. “He…he wouldn’t take no for an answer, he grabbed me and started ripping my clothes and…and…”

“Is this really necessary?” Liam was on his feet, “Why does she need to relive that night?”

Riley wiped at her face, “It’s ok, Liam, I have to, I don’t want Drake punished for protecting me…like you asked him to….”

“Wait. The king asked Captain Walker to protect you?” General Broadus directed the question to her himself.

“Yes” She nodded as she sniffled.

“Liam…Your Majesty, is this true?”

“Yes, General, but it was an informal request, she had no official security detail at that time, and I was still crown prince, not king.”

“Still. As a member of the Royal Guard, assigned directly to your security detail, he is bound by Cordonian law to follow orders from the king, or in this case, the crown prince.”

“Your honor! It was an informal request, not an order!” Captain Leventis objected.

“Even so. An informal request from the crown prince, especially when he was assigned to said prince’s detail, still comes from higher up the chain of command. If Captain Walker was outside the room in question that night because of a request, even an informal one, from the crown prince, then he intervened on behalf of the crown. What happened to Duke Lambros wasn’t an assault, it was Captain Walker acting in his official capacity as an informal, but de facto, part of Lady Riley’s security detail.”

“Fine, Your Honor, the prosecution will concede that, but the issue of if excessive force was used or not-“

“There is no consideration of excessive force when it comes to defending members of the royal family, Captain, you know that.”

“But she isn’t…I mean, she wasn’t…at the time…”

General Broadus turned back to Liam, “Your Majesty, why did you ask Captain Walker to protect Lady Riley?”

“Because I knew even then I was going to marry her, and I wanted to ensure her safety.” He held a hand out to Captain Leventis before he could say anything, “And before you object, my engagement to Lady Madeleine and apparent rejection of Lady Riley was all staged, for reasons I cannot state in open court, because they are above your security clearance.”

The general reached for the gavel, “That’s good enough for me. I’m dismissing all charges.”

The prosecutor shook his head, “But Your Honor-“

“Captain Leventis, these charges should have never been filed in the first place! If you’d like to appeal my decision, go ahead, but the only person that outranks me is the king himself. Feel free to take your chances with that.”

“Ok, but what about the charge of disrespecting a superior officer?”

“All charges are dismissed and so is this hearing. Captain Walker is reinstated to full duty status effectively immediately.” General Broadus banged his gavel down.

Liam shot a glance at Riley, seeing that Rashad was helping her off the stand, he strode over to the prosecutor, “Captain Leventis, may I have a quick word?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“While I appreciate your dedication to doing your job to the best of your ability, I hope we’ve seen the end of this witch hunt. In the future, it would behoove your department to utilize a bit of discretion when it comes to members of the royal family.”

His brows furrowed, “But Captain Walker isn’t a member of-“

“Isn’t he? He was taken in by my parents after his father’s death. We were raised as brothers. I’m as close to him as I am to Leo.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we should look the other way if-“

“Certainly not. I’m merely asking that you take into account all of the facts before jumping to conclusions. Do you see that woman right there?” Liam pointed to Riley who had made her way back to the defense table and was smiling and talking with Drake, Max and Rashad.

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s going to be your queen, in less than a month. More importantly, I love her, and I would do anything to keep her safe. She’s my heart, my whole world. I don’t want to see her hurt. Not physically, not emotionally. These proceedings, making her relive that vile experience, that hurt her. I never want to see her go through that again. Do you have wife, Captain? Daughters?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then you understand.” Liam clapped him on the shoulder and walked away.

He walked back to the defense table and drew Riley into his arms, placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head, “Are you ok my love?” He asked softly as he stared down into her eyes.

She looked up at him with a smile, her face still red and puffy from crying, “I’m more than ok. Drake was reinstated, all the charges were dropped!”

“I know, I was here.” Liam laughed, then dropped a quick kiss on her forehead.

Liam released her and turned to Drake, he stuck out his hand but when Drake took it, he pulled him into a hug instead, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you sooner.”

Drake stiffened in surprise for a moment, then hugged him back, “You’re here now.”

“Now and forever. I won’t make the same mistakes again. I promise you. I promise both of you!” He said shooting a meaningful look at Riley.

He turned to Rashad next, “Thank you for taking his case. I always knew you were the best lawyer in Cordonia.”

Rashad smiled as he shook Liam’s hand, “Everyone knows that Liam.”

Liam laughed, “There’s that cocky attitude we all known and love. Are you ready to give up private practice and come work for the crown?”

Rashad shook his head as he glanced at Riley, “No, sorry. I have enough on my plate. Between my duties to Sloan Enterprises and my role as personal advocate to the queen in waiting, I really can’t.”

“Yet you made time to take this case.”

“On behalf of my future queen.”

“Well, this just further proves that my fiancée is brilliant, she locked down the best legal representation in the damn country.”

“Did any of you ever doubt my brilliance?” Riley asked.

“No.” Drake, Max and Rashad replied together.

“Not at all.” Liam responded. Turning to Rashad, Liam asked, “Will you be staying? At least for dinner? Please, we should celebrate.”

Rashad seemed to waiver, then Riley grabbed his hand, “You have to eat.”

He smiled at her as he squeezed her hand in response, “You’re right, ya amar, as usual. Fine, I’ll join you.”

Riley shot a look at Liam, expecting jealousy at the use of the term of endearment. She knew he understood that the use of “my moon” in Arabic was meant to compliment a woman’s beauty. But he just smiled at her and took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss, “You are beautiful, and I understand that I’m not the only one who sees it.”

Riley arched an eyebrow at him in surprise. She opened her mouth to sarcastically quip, ‘Who are you and what have you done with Liam?’ But then she was struck with the startling thought that this was Liam. The Liam she had known before everything went sidewise, the Liam she had fallen in love with. She snapped her mouth closed and wrapped her arms around his, “Ok then. Let’s go eat.”

She gave him a quizzical look as they walked, and he grinned back at her with a shrug. Ok, they’d talk later.

[aminiatureworld]

A Sea of Fragment VI

Word Count: 3.964

Warnings: Slight violence

Author’s Note: I’m back! This chapter was so enjoyable to write, I missed this series so much! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Also yes I did see the 2.1 trailer. Scaramouche’s JP laugh my evil beloved.

After your little interlude of conversation with Scaramouche you had succumbed once more to the blinding heat that was enveloping you. Having little sense of the world around you, waking up to bits and pieces of movement only to be stolen away by the darkness again, you found yourself completely disoriented by the sight that greeted you when you finally woke up.

You were in a tent, that much was sure, though beyond that you weren’t really aware of much else. The bed that you were lying on, though slightly damp, was clean, and the top cover, which remained underneath you, was folded over neatly. There was a large table next to you, filled with what could only be medical equipment, as well as a dresser, a chair, and a bench, presumably there for medical purposes. However the high quality material of everything, the tent, the sheets, the pillow, made the whole room seem much too fancy to be a simple hospital tent.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, too afraid to move in case the world started swimming again, when what could only be a medic walked in. The Fatui emblem was embroidered neatly above his breast pocket, but otherwise he seemed completely, almost unnervingly, normal. The only other thing of note was the Anemo vision strapped to his arm.

“Ah I see you’re awake. Good, I didn’t want to have to call the head medic in again, since she made it perfectly clear already that your case didn’t need her specific supervision. Still, when my lord Scaramouche came in shouting, she couldn’t very well say that, ignoring how banged up you were at the time.”

“Scaramouche was here?” You asked, head still slightly fuzzy.

It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear that, after all you weren’t the one walking to the medical tent by yourself considering the state you were in. Still the image felt like an odd one. You figured he would’ve found someone else to do it for him. Letting this information rattle around in your mind you mutely listened as the medic asked you to hold out your arm for pulse checking, barely listening to his halfhearted small talk.

“Your pulse seems to be evening out a bit,” he finally said. “Good, you were going berserk for a little bit there. We even had to call in a healer, didn’t want you to die. Thankfully the healing seemed to help, my lord was saying something about your state being magic induced, and we were worried that there would be no effect.”

“Thank you for your concern,” you replied, knowing full well that this level of treatment was likely the result of being dragged in by a Harbinger. Still, you couldn’t help but feel somewhat grateful.

“It’s nothing. Better have you alive then a dead body on our hands after all.”

“Fair enough.”

“Still, you’ll have to take care. Your iron levels were also somewhat wonky, so we’re going to give you a week’s worth of pills for that. Come back in a week and if everything seems alright you’ll be good to go. Okay?”

“Alright.”

The medic nodded before walking out. Feeling still exhausted you flopped down on the bed. A breeze seemed to be blowing outside and a part of it came in through the slits in the tent. Letting the wind fan over you, you closed your eyes. Soon enough your thoughts swam into incoherence and you were dragged down into the realm of sleep.

 “My lord.”

Scaramouche jerked his head up from the papers he’d been half heartedly studying. Seeing the medic in front of him he immediately stretched himself up a little taller. At least this wasn’t something completely worthless.

“I assume you’re here to tell me about the condition of the person I left with you.”

“Yes, they have just woken up. Their vitals are no longer in critical condition, and they appear to be alert.”

“Good. That will be all.”

“Yes my lord.”

Scaramouche waited until the medic had left before letting his thoughts roam. You were awake, you were finally awake. Though he wanted to deny it, the relief that flooded through him made it all too apparent how worried the Harbinger had been. When you’d first woken up in his tent he had felt worried, yes, perhaps even slightly frantic. Still, he had assumed that that would be the end of it. You collapsing again had made his blood run cold in a way that rarely, if ever happened. He was Scaramouche after all. The Balladeer, the Harbinger who had no room for mercy in his heart, no time to worry about the lives of other people. After all, does the winter blizzard care about whose house it destroys? Certainly not, it only has to fulfill its goal. Yet he had cared about what was happening with you, even more than that, he’d been worried, perhaps even terrified.

Acknowledging these things left a bitter taste in Scaramouche’s mouth, but he wasn’t idiotic enough to try and deny it. Somehow you had managed to become noteworthy to him, important enough to draw such a reaction out of him. Was this some despicable side effect of your ability? No, it was unlikely. There was no use in looking for excuses or denials. What the Harbinger had to do now was figure out what to do with his predicament. He ought to crush it, to treat you as he would any other low-level lackey, he ought not to have brought you over to his personal section of the medical tents, should have had someone else carry you to the general wing. Those sorts of regrets were too late now however. He had acted out of pure panic, hadn’t even thought of the strict hierarchy that ruled all the lives of those who lived under the Tsaritsa.

Not did your aberrant status help, you who weren’t from Snezhnaya, who had no sense of authority, who had no true place amidst the Harbingers. You were merely there, a shadow that Scaramouche had hoped to command who had instead appeared to have manipulated him in some way.

Yet he couldn’t get rid of you, not now. You were still needed in some capacity, needed to tell him of the layout of the village, the location of the artifact, you had said it was a mirror. Besides, Scaramouche still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not Signora would want to inspect you, having brought you to Scaramouche’s attention in the first place. It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility; Signora had a habit of going where she pleased, deriving satisfaction from the ability to draw irritation out of her fellow Harbingers. The mere idea of her sauntering in to inspect you brought a sour sort of taste to Scaramouche’s mouth. Now more than ever he loathed his coworker’s antics.

Still something had to be done, though what was still up in the air. Pondering this Scaramouche stood up. At the very least he ought to look after you, though whether this was tied into the emotions that roiled in him or simple logic he wasn’t yet sure of. At the very least there would certainly be more talking if he didn’t look on you than if he did. If there was anything that the Fatui loved it was erratic behavior. After all those who could be swayed into doing illogical things were certainly much easier to manipulate. No, better for him to make an appearance, to say that he was concerned you were on the verge of death which would have ruined his plans. This excuse in mind he stood up, urging his inner thoughts to silence as he walked out of the tent and into the afternoon sun.

The image he was greeted with upon entering your, or rather his, tent was all too reminiscent of how you had first looked in that forest where he had first met you. Face pale, a slight sheen of sweat visible on your brow, slicking your hair against your neck. Though your eyes had almost immediately snapped open upon hearing the voice of the medic they were unfocused, and for a moment it seemed as if you were squinting to make the Harbinger out.

It was a pathetic image of a person, and a mix of disgust, pity, and worry swept over Scaramouche. Silently hoping that he himself would never look so weak he sat on the only chair in the room, dismissing the medic with a wave of his hand, keeping his focus on you the whole time.

“So,” he began when you two were finally alone, “you have been saved from the teeth of death. If I had known the spectacle you were going to cause I would have never asked you to do such a thing.”

“Most visions don’t go that way,” you replied, voice husky and cracked from lack of use. “It was, it was because of the mirror.”

“You mentioned that before. This mirror, I presume it’s what we’re looking for.”

“I won’t look for it anymore,” your voice seemed to tremble slightly. “Even if my vision it was terrible. It warped the space around it, even from the future. If you were to get into the same room as it, were to try and touch it, I, I don’t know.”

“We must get a hold of it. If it is the Tsaritsa’s wish we would sacrifice a whole reserve for it.”

“How can you say such a thing?” you replied, voice quiet. The dispassionate tone sent a lance through Scaramouche, and for a moment he found himself unable to reply, knowing full well the answers he ought to be giving you, the total loyalty demanded by the archon he served.

“Still,” he finally continued, “you have showed me that you’re certainly not strong enough for this. From now on I will no longer provide you information about this mission, nor will I ask you to do anything to bring it about. All I need is a report about what you saw, if you wish you can write it yourself. There are other things that you would be better suited for.”

“What things? I don’t think you understand. I’m the only one who has seen what could happen, what seems very likely to happen based on the fragments that were lined up in front of me. The best outcome I saw was that you were unable to find it. The worst,” you took a deep breath in, “the worst outcome is that the village goes up in flames.”

“Ridiculous,” scoffed Scaramouche, feeling irritation rise up inside of him. “I thought you would be grateful to hear that you wouldn’t be required to look into the future again, instead you insult me, insult the Fatui.”

“I am glad that you aren’t going to try and force me into the future. I don’t think you could truly convince me to anyways, but I’d rather not fight about it. Still, I want to be there, to make sure that this doesn’t happen. I have to know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to know anything. I don’t owe you information or position, you’re only here at my pleasure.”

“Yes! I am only here because you forced me to be here, only here because you asked me to do something I didn’t wish to do. And now you take the advice I give you and trample all over it! Why, why are you acting so irrational?”

“You’re the one acting irrational!” Scaramouche shot back, feeling a wave of panic shoot through him. The idea that you had managed to somehow divine the odd emotions that he was currently experiencing seemed unlikely, but that you could sense something was out of place was alarming. “I just need the report,” he pressed, feeling his voice raise in irritation, wanting this to be over.

As you stared at him, silence being your reply, the thoughts that whirled inside the Harbinger’s head seemed to get louder. Why was this suddenly so complicated? All Scaramouche’s career he had easily ordered his way around and over people. Deals were only made with other Harbingers, who quickly stepped aside to let the Balladeer do his duty. Never had someone simply refused his orders. The idea that you would do so, would turn down something so easy and to your benefit, was absolutely infuriating.

“I would like to rest a little more,” your voice finally broke through the thick silence. “I’m tired.”

“I would have gone a long time ago had you just listened to me,” Scaramouche pointed out.

“Please,” you shot him a look, “I’m not in the mood. I don’t want to fight either. I really don’t. It’s the last thing I want to do. I wanted to thank you in fact, for bringing me here rather than letting me lie on the ground or trying to slap me awake or something. But, but you just, you never listen. That’s what makes it so hard, what makes all of it so hard. You never listen so how, how are you ever supposed to hear me?”

The plaintive tone of your voice struck another blow, as Scaramouche found himself suddenly, suddenly what? He found himself leaning out of his chair, the urge to walk over to you so intense it seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. He wanted to do something, though what he wasn’t entirely sure of. To apologize? To demand? To scold? To, to console? What a stupid thing to do. Yet all these things he suddenly wanted to do. Of course he couldn’t do nay of these things, couldn’t push you any farther, couldn’t pull himself back. All he could do was lean forward, as if that might in some way convey what he was feeling.

“Is there something you want?” You asked.

“No,” Scaramouche stood up. “There is nothing more I wish to say to you.” What a lie that was.

Making his way over to the tent flap Scaramouche stopped. Quickly, almost in rebellion with his mind, he turned and walked over to you. Taking your wrist he pressed his fingers to it.

“Your pulse is still irregular,” he noted.

Spinning around and walking out of the tent the Harbinger fought the urge to scream at himself, scream for such an irrational act. Yet part of him wasn’t thinking about that at all, was instead marveling at how warm, how comfortable your hand had been in his own.

 It seemed like an hour had passed by the time your pulse managed to right itself, though surely only a few minutes must’ve passed. You held your wrist in your other hand, staring down at it, as if willing the scene that had just passed to reappear before you. What was that, what in Teyvat was that? You couldn’t make heads or tails of it, could barely acknowledge that it had indeed happened at all. Scaramouche, the Harbinger, the man who had only moments before been berating you, that Scaramouche had walked over to you and checked your pulse, held your hand in his, if only for a moment. It seemed laughable, seemed so surreal as to have been a dream, yet it had surely happened.

Of course maybe to him that had been a completely normal thing to do. After all, the medic had told you that your pulse had been irregular. Surely Scaramouche would have noticed that too. Perhaps his self-righteousness had caused him to want to make his own judgement on the state of your health. Still that didn’t stop your heart from leaping into your throat the moment it had happened, hadn’t stopped you from feeling like you were, for very different reasons than before.

You cradled your wrist, still able to feel the slight pressure his fingers had exerted on it, as if he had somehow branded you. His fingers had been surprisingly soft, not at all rough as you had expected it. Perhaps that was only natural, you knew that he sported no sword hilt, and there were no sharpening stones in his tent, meaning in all likelihood he was a catalyst user. Still, it was unexpected. His fingers had been surprisingly gentle, his palm with which he held your hand was soft and warm. You wondered for a moment what it would be like if he were to hold your hand properly. A small part of you wondered if you might yet do so in the future.

Almost immediately you shook yourself violently, willing those thoughts out of your head. Even now the idea of doing something so domestic, so intimate, with Scaramouche seemed odd, almost heretical. He was a Harbinger, a bloodthirsty man, one who evidently had no problem with a village going up in flames. And yet, and yet…

You sighed, lying back down on the bed. You should sleep, you were exhausted. Everything was going fast, oh so fast. You couldn’t keep up, couldn’t keep up with your feelings, with Scaramouche’s logic. All you wanted to do was block it out, to sleep. As you closed your eyes one final coherent thought floated through your head. He had, despite it all, not asked you to do it again.

 You never realized you were dreaming until about halfway through your dreams. Even then you had no power to stop them, they pulled you along, like a riptide, waiting to drag you down into their depths.

You weren’t exactly sure how you got into the village, the all too familiar landscape. It was hot, and your thoughts seemed to melting along with your legs, as you tried to run towards the now blazing rooftops, yet found yourself hardly moving. Yet you kept moving forward, intent on something, though on what you weren’t sure of. Something very important to be sure. If only you could reach it.

Reaching some sort of back you shinnied your way between the burning. The flames licked at your clothes and at you, but you couldn’t feel them, they certainly weren’t any hotter than the rest of you. In fact the only side effect that seemed to be happening was how close the walls were becoming, so much so that you were barely getting through. Still you kept going, and eventually you found yourself out of the seemingly endless tunnel.

There were a few men in the distance, men who seemed to be barreling towards. Unease spiked through you, somehow you knew that whatever happened they shouldn’t catch you. Yet another part of you dismissed them as no important enough. No, this wasn’t how you wanted it to go, there was something else. As you thought that they seemed to suddenly fade away, or perhaps it was that you had suddenly found yourself somewhere else.

Walking down this road that seemed so busy and so desolate you found yourself in field. Not questioning the black sky above you, the fact that there was a field in the middle of a tiny village, you approached a figure in the middle of the field. Somehow you already knew who it would be.

You had never really thought about the space that Scaramouche took up before. He was simply there, a man, a Harbinger, a person. Just there. Now however he seemed all too small, almost puny. His head was turned to the side, so much as to be unnatural. A slight dribble of blood pooled from his mouth, and his eyes stared with the glassy intensity of the dead, the kind of stare that would forever haunt. You seemed to float above him, high, high above. Yet you wanted to lower yourself, to shake him, to see if he was just pretending. Everything felt glassy and distant, like a play that you were part of but not actively participating in. Soon enough he’d pick himself off the ground and start yelling at you. Soon. Yet someone was wailing in the distance, and for once the voice seemed eerily familiar.

 You opened your eyes, at first seeing nothing before the cloth ceiling of the tent finally revealed itself to you. Lying there, not daring to sit up or roll over or do anything, you replayed your dream. Before it had seemed so distant, so disconnected from you. Now however it close, all too close. Your back was sticky with sweat, and the sudden heaving of your chest, cause panic to flood through your mind, revealed how truly shaken you were. You had seen Scaramouche dead before, had seen his fallen frame in your visions. It had been so different then however. Then he had just been a Harbinger, just been a demanding man. Now however he was, something. Something else.

All this time you had worried about your feelings for Scaramouche, worried that they were just some figment of imagination that stemmed from your visions of the future. Perhaps that was partly the truth, perhaps those visions had indeed provided the fuse for your emotions. Yet somehow you had lit them, or more aptly somehow Scaramouche had. The image of him lying there, dead on the ground, filled you with such distress that it seemed liable to drown you. Even if these feelings were somehow made up, the result of some imagined Scaramouche in the future, some need to line yourself up with some possible path, they were still real. Painfully so, if this was a sign of anything.

Finally sick of lying in one position you sat up. Though the tent was opaque enough you could see little bits of light through the slits of the tent, and the slightly warm air had the distinct feeling of it being at least midday. Standing up you made your way, somewhat hesitantly, over to the flap of the tent. You needed to see Scaramouche, if only to try and convince him again not to go through with such a ridiculous plan. You needed to make sure that your dream didn’t become a reality.

Walking through the tented hallway you quickly ran into the same medic as before, this time pushing a tray with food on it.

“Oh good you’re up,” he said, voice slightly bored. “Maybe you’ll be able to leave tomorrow then.”

“I need to talk to Scaramouche,” you said, words tumbling out and running into one another. “It’s something of the greatest urgency.”

“I’m sorry but my lord isn’t here.”

“Isn’t here? Then, he…”

“He went off on a mission, he said if you were ready to leave before he came back to move you back into your tent tomorrow and to wait until he returned for further instructions.”

“He’s gone?”

“Yes.” The medic replied, seemingly slightly impatient.

Turning around you fell right back onto the bed. Ruining the hospital corners you ripped the blanket over your head, willing it to block out all the light. You needed to get out, you needed to go find him. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Even if you wanted to you doubted the medics would cross Scaramouche’s orders to keep you here until tomorrow. Even more so you had no information on what exactly he had done, though you were almost positive that he had gone to the village. Even if he hadn’t though you had to go check, go make sure. What he was doing was madness, running into a situation without fully comprehending it, what in Teyvat was he thinking?

Anxiety welled up inside you, consuming any and all thoughts you might’ve had. In their place was fear, pure distilled fear. Fear for the Harbinger that you didn’t want to die, and fear for the future that might not come to pass after all.

[fallencomrade]

                                                 ━━  𝟑s

                                                     please repost, don’t reblog.

𝟑 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐇𝐒

   ▘  LOYALTY   ➺   a  shining  trait  of  james  barnes  that  ( somehow )  survived  the  passing  of  time  and  tribulation.  since  his  early  brooklyn  days,  bucky  barnes  displayed  a  steadfast  loyalty  and  dedication  towards  those  he  loved  and  cherished.  growing  up  during  a  time  when  there  was  a  heavy  emphasis  on  duty  and  responsibility,  james  understood  his  role  as  the  eldest  and  only  male  child  of  george  and  winifred  barnes  -  and  assumed  that  role  with  ease  and  enthusiasm.  this  loyalty  extended  beyond  blood  though,  as  was  proven  by  james’  devotion  to  close  friends,  the  most  notorious  being  his  everlasting  friendship  with  steven  rogers.  hydra  had  tried  to  weaponize  this  gleaming  trait,  hoping  to  mold  it  to  their  liking  and  use  it  to  instill  a  unquestionable  loyalty  to  their  cause.  they  were  pathetically  unsuccessful  -  and  the  chair  and  cryochamber  were  fashioned  as  a  result.  after  his  time  spent  with  hydra,  TRUST  is  something  barnes  deeply  struggles  with.  his  trusted  inner  circle  has  certainly  grown  smaller  and  much  more  exclusive,  but  james  still  harbors  this  same  dedication  to  those  selected  few.  given  his  past  and  his  current  afflictions,  those  bonds  he  does  manage  to  forge  prove  all  the  more  stronger  and  resilient.

  ▘  TENACITY   ➺   the  serum  only  enhanced  that  which  already  existed  within  him.  childhood  was  spent  surviving  the  rough  and  tumble  of  brooklyn  city  streets,  made  all  the  more  grueling  with  steve  rogers  as  a  best  friend.  as  such,  barnes  learned  at  a  very  young  age  how  to  assess  a  situation,  adapt  to  his  surroundings  and  ( most  importantly )  how  to  survive.  dance  hall  skirmishes  and  back  alley  brawls  were  nothing  though  compared  to  the  brutalities  of  war.  still,  it  was  this  grit  that  helped  the  young  man  not  only  survive  but  excel  as  a  sergeant.  the  army  soon  discovered  that  this  notorious  flirt  from  brooklyn  exhibited  a  certain  aptitude  for  sharpshooting.  this  impressive  talent  along  with  james’  natural  charisma  helped  to  build  him  a  trusted  reputation  within  the  ranks  and  respect  among  his  comrades.  these  talents  were  also  what  made  the  man  such  a  formidable  soldier.  the  bastard - serum  amplified  these  strengths  and  hydra  WEAPONIZED  them.  years  blurred  into  decades  and  his  skills  were  hellishly  refined  thanks  to  rigorous  and  ruthless  training.  the  winter  soldier  program  reconstructed  the  man  into  a  living,  breathing  weapon  capable  of  handling  any  firearm,  blade,  explosive,  advanced  weaponry,  artillery  or  blunt  object.  &&  if  he  truly  found  himself  limited  and  weaponless,  the  cybernetic  arm  soldered  to  his  body  proved  a  more  than  capable  alternative.  in  combat,  the  soldier  proved  a  devastating  force  and  hydra  was  quick  to  take  the  credit  and  reap  the  benefits,  but  this  staggering  ability  to  adapt  without  pause  and  utilize  his  surroundings  for  his  advantage  stemmed  not  in  the  dirty  lab  of  one  arnim  zola  but  began  on  the  street  corners  of  the  city  james  barnes’  called  home.    

 ▘  VIRTUE  /  ETHICS   ➺   growing  up  during  the  depression  was  not  easy  for  anyone  and  neither  was  spending  the  beginning  of  young  adulthood  surviving  the  second  world  war.  his  childhood  was  marked  by  some  of  the  worst  and  most  difficult  times  in  history  -  and  yet  james  never  allowed  hardship  or  misfortune  deter  his  regard  for  hard  work,  nor  did  he  allow  it  to  pollute  his  idealistic  outlook  on  life.  both  his  parents  worked  hard  to  support  the  family  and  that  same  work - ethic  was  imparted  onto  james,  who  assumed  the  role  eagerly  and  naturally.  luckily,  during  this  time  of  strife,  his  family  always  had  enough  to  provide  both  him  and  his  two  sisters  a  comfortable  lifestyle,  with  various  opportunities  to  explore  and  take  advantage  of  -  which  was  more  than  some  families  could  boast  at  that  time.  after  the  death  of  sarah  rogers,  james  made  the  decision  to  move  into  an  apartment  with  his  best  friend.  as  young  bacherlors,  they  did  not  have  much  but  together  they  managed  to  scrape  by  and  make  an  honest  living.  despite  steve’s  skepticism,  james’  choices  were  never  made  out  of  pity  or  some  disgruntled  sense  of  obligation.  he  worked  tirelessly  and  did  what  he  had  to  because  that  was  what  he  grew  up  believing.  a  man  takes  care  of  the  people  he  loves,  no  matter  what.  whatever  the  cost  -  working  two  jobs,  skipping  a  meal  here  and  there,  some  months  spent  without  heat,  selling  unnecessary  belongings  -  bucky  would  do  whatever  was  necessary  -  and  did  so  without  complaint.  in  fact,  he  woke  up  each  morning  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  a  quip  on  his  tongue.  for  him,  there  was  no  better  reward  or  greater  comfort  than  knowing  the  ones  he  loved  were  taken  care  of.  he  believes  himself  unrecognizable  when  compared  to  that  willful  man  now,  but  certain  traits  of  the  old  james  barnes  can  still  be  found  within  him.  there  is  a  payout  for  hard  work  and  the  man  that  he  is  today  is  slowly  remembering  those  feelings  of  satisfaction  and  fulfillment  in  honest  labor.  

𝟑 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒

▘  RUTHLESSNESS  ➺   𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑢𝑚 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝘩𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑠.  𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡.  𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 ...    before  the  horrible  truth  was  unmasked,  the  history  books  painted  james  barnes  in  a  favorable  glow.  he  was  known  for  being  the  young  jovial,  dashing  side - kick  of  captain  america.  A  PATRIOT  -  dedicated,  noble,  brave,  honorable  ;;  an  honest,  hardworking  man  who  cared  about  family,  duty,  honor  and  sacrifice.  &&  he  was  many  of  these  things.  no  one  could  deny  james  barnes  of  his  genuine  heart  of  gold.  the  man  was  willing  to  do  anything  for  those  he  loved.  anything.  such  love  was  a  truly  powerful  thing,  capable  of  cultivating  great  beauty.  it  could  also  prove  to  be  equally  as  DISASTROUS.  at  its  purest  form,  it  inspired  strength,  selflessness,  kindness.  twisted,  it  became  a  deadly  incentive.  the  BRUTALITY  of  the  winter  soldier  was  not  born  solely  from  the  torture  inflicted  upon  him  or  the  serum  he  was  infected  with.  beneath  his  buoyant,  sprightly  exterior  existed  a  side  of  james  barnes  that  was  seldom  exposed,  unless  provoked.  there  was  a  violence  that  lived  within  the  darker  parts  of  his  heart,  a  ruthless  determination  to  protect  the  things  which  were  important  to  him.  &&  if  anyone  dared  to  threaten  those  things ?  well ...  those  details  are  far  less  known.  if  needed,  james  had  no  qualms  about  getting  his  hands  dirty  or  splitting  open  his  knuckles  to  send  a  very  clear  message.  he  had  an  ability  to  separate  himself  from  his  own  subconscious  and  used  this  talent  to  become  someone  almost  unrecognizable  from  his  more  charming  counterpart.  this  austerity  deepened  into  something  even  more  callous  during  the  war  -  when  the  enemy  became  much  more  larger  and  far  more  deadly.  to  switch  back  and  forth  between  these  personas  became  even  more  fluid  and  then  -  it  became  frighteningly  easy.  it  was  a  duality  that  many  were  forced  to  adopt  in  order  to  survive  the  TRAUMAS  of  war.  it  was  only  a  glimpse  of  what  he  was  truly  capable  of  though.  the  extent  of  his  CRUELTY  reached  its  full  potential  once  he  was  injected  with  zola’s  serum.  bucky  barnes  was  capable  of  great  horror,  even  before  he  became  the  winter  soldier  -  but  with  the  serum,  the  torture  &&  captivity  -  this  capacity  was  exposed  and  steadily  becoming  the  CRUX  of  his  entire  character.  despite  the  size  of  his  heart  of  the  pureness  of  his  intentions,  there  still  exists  a  violence  inside  of  him.  ruthless  and  efficient,  it  has  grown,  survived,  thrived  and  matured  over  the  years,  and  still  sits  within  his  core  today  -  its  potential  just  as  deadly  and  just  as  horrifying.

▘  DISSOCIATION / DETATCHMENT  ➺   an  extension  of  the  adverse  trait  described  above,  james  started  to  display  this  ability  to  separate  himself  from  his  more  repugnant  qualities  early  on.  he  was  never  known  for  being  VIOLENT.  that  brutality  was  extracted  and  molded  once  hydra  got  their  hands  on  him,  it  was  assumed.  the  historians  will  tell  you  the  winter  soldier  was  a  product  of  inhumane  warfare,  experimentation,  abuse  and  indoctrination,  but  james  knows  the  truth ...  in  the  beginning,  james  did  what  he  had  to  to  protect  the  ones  he  loved.  during  his  captivity,  he  did  what  he  had  to  to  survive.  &&  now  -  he  does  what  he  needs  to  to  live  with  himself.  &&  what  was  necessary  in  all  these  occasions  required  the  man  to  separate  himself  from  his  empathy  -  and  later  on,  his  HUMANITY.  he  relied  so  heavily  on  this  mechanism  during  his  time  as  the  soldier  that  the  disconnection  became  more  common  than  not  and  breaking  free  from  that  impulse  is  something  he  continues  to  struggle  with  today  -  and  something  he  is  hesitant  to  even  relinquish.  dissociation  makes  it  easier  to  exist  ;;  to  move  forward  -  as  is  expected  of  him.  one  day  bleeds  into  another,  into  another,  into  another ...  and  he  moves  with  it,  no  longer  a  phantom  existing  outside  of  time.  instead,  an  active  presence.   —  but  his  continued  reliance  on  this  crutch ?    he  exists.    but  is  james  barnes  living ?    IS  HE  REALLY  ALIVE ? 

▘  INDECISION  ( current day )  ➺   a  weakness  that  only  manifested  after  his  captivity,  barnes  deeply  struggles  with  the  burden  of  choice.  freedom.  autonomy.  ambition.  purpose.  all  the  small  ( yet  crucial )  decisions  and  preferences  that  define  a  person’s  character  oftentimes  feels  absent  from  his  makeup.  james  buchanan  barnes  used  to  have  strong  opinions,  about  anything  and  everything.  his  favorite  flavor  of  pie,  best  subject  in  school,  favored  season,  blondes  -  brunettes ?  hell,  he  even  had  a  favorite  color.  if  someone  were  to  ask  this  james  barnes  about  those  same  sentiments,  if  they  lasted  and  endured  the  years  along  with  him  or  if  they  had  changed  with  the  time,  james  would  falter  and  stare  back  with  vacant  eyes.  individuality  feels  like  a  withered  gravesite  inside  of  him,  a  bottomless  pit  of  nothing.  every  so  often  he  may  hear  the  flickering  echoes  of  what  once  was,  but  the  enthusiasm  -  the  passion  -  feels  distant,  far - away.  for  decades,  he  had  been  deprived  of  free will.  he  was  a  WEAPON  and  weapons  did  not  feel  or  think.  weapons  did  not  make  noise  unless  fired  by  the  hands  authorized  to  use  them.  unbounded,  given  a  NAME  once  again,  a  voice  -  and  he  knows  he  should  feel  grateful.  &&  yet,  the  only  thing  he  feels  is  overwhelmed.  his  mind  does  not  hesitant  when  it  comes  to  battle  ;;  TO KILLING.  his  hands  know  exactly  which  gun  to  reach  for  given  a  situation,  how  much  pressure  to  apply  to  snap  a  bone.  he  no  longer  needs  to  run  the  numbers  in  his  head  to  calculate  a  bullets’  trajectory  given  distance  and  wind  speed.  he  fires  without  thought  and  never  misses.  he  is  an  expert  of  wartime  tactics.  violence  is  second  nature  to  him,  right  behind  DEATH.  now,  alive  -  a  free  man ...  they  ask  him  what  he  wants  and  barnes ...  does  not  know  -  and  he  inadvertently  still  finds  himself  looking  to  others  to  supply  those  answers  (  that  instruction. )

𝟑 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒

▘  SHAMEFUL INCLINATIONS  ➺   to  admit  such  whims  out  loud  would  flood  him  with  repugnant  shame.  he  knows  it  is  wrong  to  reminisce  and  crave  the  inertia  of  subjection,  but  he  cannot  deny  the  nostalgic  longing  that  twists  inside  of  him  on  his  darkest  days.  to  think  such  things  ;;  to  feel  such  things  disgraces  the  efforts  and  sacrifices  that  were  made  in  order  to  free  him  from  those  chains.   —  but  james  barnes  has  always  been  selfish  like  that.  it  is  easy  to  brush  off  accountability  and  blame  hydra  for  everything.  𝗂𝗍  𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍  𝗁𝗂𝗆,  𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗒 !  𝗁𝗒𝖽𝗋𝖺  𝗁𝖺𝖽  𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅  𝗈𝖿  𝗁𝗂𝗌  𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽.   ▪    𝚑𝚢𝚍𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞.    ▪   🇾​🇴​🇺​  🇦​🇷​🇪​  🇹​🇭​🇪​  🇱​🇴​🇳​🇬​🇪​🇸​🇹​  🇸​🇪​🇷​🇻​🇮​🇳​🇬​  🇵​🇴​🇼​.    ▪    𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.    ▪   𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌,  𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎.    𝗒𝗈𝗎  𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍  𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾  𝖺  𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾.  NO CHOICE.   they  had  absolute  control  over  his  body,  his  mind. (did they?)  he  could  not  refuse. (couldn’t he?)   the  grim  reality  is  that,  as  years  bled  into  decades,  the  leash  hydra  had  chained  around  his  neck  started  to  loosen  considerably,  until  the  pull  barely  existed  at  all.  rarely  did  his  handlers  need  to  rely  on  the  early  tactics  to  keep  him  in  line.  he  COMPLIED  without  resistance.  both  masters  and  soldier  fell  into  an  agreeable  rhythm,  following  a  trusted  routine.  it  made  activation  less  agonizing,  muffled  the  scratching  of  chaotic  thoughts  into  soothing  white  noise.  it  made  his  orders  simpler  ;;  made  killing  easier  ;;  made  existing  with  himself ...  easier.  it  was  a  gift  ( they told him )  to  be  relieved  of  the  burden  of  choice  and  there  are  times  when  he  still  ( shamefully ) agrees  with  this.  to  feel  nothing  at  all,  after  having  felt  so  much ... ?  it  is  a  very  dangerous  thing.  the  numbing  high  of  indifference,  apathy,  inertia  -  can  feel  like  FREEDOM. 

▘  LIKELIHOOD OF RECOVERY  ➺   the  harrowing  truth ...  he  has  lived  more  of  his  life  as  a  WEAPON  than  he  has  a  person.  after  everything  he  has  gone  through,  james  feels  more  machine  than  he  does  human.  he  feels  the  corrosion  of  rust  spreading  through  him.  his  body  does  not  feel  like  flesh  and  bone,  but  more  akin  to  gears  and  wires  and  metal.  thoughts  are  mere  embedded  programming ...  implanted,  artificial.  his  heart  feels  like  a  gnarled  knot  inside  his  chest.  his  soul  feels  absent.  morality  is  faint,  compassion  -  oftentimes  hard  to  find.  to  choose  requires  great  effort  ;;  to  think  requires  effort  ;;  to  care  requires  effort  -  and  james  is  exhausted.  those  on  his  side  tell  him  he  deserves  a  chance  to  recover,  to  heal  -  but  he  sometimes  thinks  that  the  best  thing  they  could  do  given  the  situation  is  to  take  this  body  that  feels  more  like  a  weapon,  decommission  it,  place  it  in  storage  under  lock  and  key  and  allow  it  to  gather  dust.  can  he  heal ?  can  he  recover ?  can  he  exist  as  anything  other  than  a  weapon ?  after  all  this  time  and  after  everything  he  has  gone  through ?  he  isn’t  sure.  optimism  hasn’t  been  his  forte  since  1942.  he  considers  himself  a  realist.  &&  if  his  chances  follow  his  rotten  history  of  luck,  the  odds  do  not  appear  to  be  on  his  side.

▘  DRAFTED SOLDIER  ➺   he  will  never  admit  it.  ever.  &&  how  befitting  -  this  dark  secret.  how  it  reveals  the  nature  of  his  character ...   all  the  blood  on  his  hands,  all  the  lives  he  has  stolen,  the  atrocities  he  has  committed  -  and  this  is  the  one  thing  he  is  most  ashamed  of.  his  head  is  filled  with  dark  secrets  -  hydra’s,  his  own.  all  of  them  are  shameful,  ugly,  brutal  and  yet  this  one  secret  stands  out  the  most  in  his  mind.  this  is  the  one  that  GUTS  him  the  most,  because  it  was  before ...  everything.  before  the  war,  before  hydra,  before  the  soldier.  this  reveals  james  barnes  at  his  core.  this  is  his  blemish  ;;  his  most  reproachable  trait.  this  destroys  his  character  more  than  hydra  or  the  soldier  ever  did.  it  is  a  truth  he  will  never  admit  to,  to  anyone.  he  will  even  go  as  far  as  denying  it,  lying  to  his  dying  breath.   —  but  how  could  he  admit  such  a  thing ?  after  witnessing  the  bravery  and  determination  he  saw  in  others,  in  his  best  friend  -  to  serve,  to  protect  -  without  the  slightest  pause  or  hesitation.  all  the  while  he  tried  to  hide  from  the  call  of  duty,  hoping.  praying.  james  barnes  never  signed  up  to  serve  the  second  world  war.  it  is  a  secret  he  has  never  admitted  to  anyone.  not  to  his  friends,  his  father  or  sisters.  not  to  the  other  commandoes.  not  even  ( especially  not )  steve.  &&  it  is  a  secret  he  will  take  to  the  grave.   

𝟑 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒

▘  LOSING AUTONOMY  ➺   while  freedom  has  proven  tumultuous,  he  still  prefers  the  struggle  when  compared  to  the  alternative.  while  under  hydra’s  control,  james  barely  surfaced,  but  the  rare  times  he  did  he  saw  the  world  though  a  murky  sheet  of  ice,  drifting  in  the  inertia  of  the  soldier’s  compliance.  existence  felt  more  like  an  out  of  body  experience  -  a  resultant  of  trauma,  he  was  later  told.  he  witnessed  his  torture,  his  brutal  crimes,  the  creeping  advancement  of  hydra’s  power,  more  as  an  onlooker  than  an  active  participant.  it  made  certain  things ... easier  to  stomach.  the  torture,  the  experiments  ;;  stasis,  the  chair.  it  made  following  orders ...  simpler.  he  hardly  blinked  when  exposed  to  his  own  potential  for  DEVASTATION.  the  violence.  the  breaking,  rebuilding  and  training  of  more  soldiers,  the  little  spiders.  torture.  murder.  during  his  less  lucid  states,  he ( selfishly ) welcomed  the  disconnect,  but  every  so  often  -  his  old  sense  of  morality  would  give  a  kick  and  he  would  stare,  wide - eyed  and  horrified.  he  would  honestly  try  with  every  bit  of  strength  he  had  left  inside  of  him  to  stop  himself,  to  control  himself,  but  even  his  hardest  endeavors  failed  miserably  against  the  soldier’s  rigid  conditioning.  nothing  more  than  the  occasional  hiccup  in  his  code,  a  sudden  half - second  hesitation  -  quickly  roped  back  into  submission  by  screaming  static.  to  exist  in  such  a  way  -  condemned  to  watch  as  your  shadow  destroys  every  bit  of  light  within,  fated  to  feel  the  rot  putrefy  your  soul,  slowly  -  slowly ... it  is  a  terrible  thing.  &&  it  will  continue  to  haunt  james  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  he  may  struggle  to  find  purpose  after  his  liberation,  the  motivation  and  energy  to  pursue  a  meaningful  life,  but  the  last  thing  he  ever  wants  ( what he fears )  is  to  be  used  as  a  PUPPET  again.

▘  LIVING  ➺   he  existed  in  a  definite  state  for  a  very  long  time,  long  enough  for  him  to  find  comfort  in  routine,  monotony  -  THE EXPECTED.  there  was  an  equation  to  surviving  hydra  ( surviving himself )  -  and  hydra  proved  they  would  be  true  to  their  word  if  only  he  obeyed.   COMPLIANCE WILL BE REWARDED.   orders  were  clear  and  exact  and  non - negotiable.  missions  were  organized  and  coordinated,  objectives  defined  well  before  he  was  even  pulled  from  stasis.  he  knew  what  to  expect  -  how  much  pain  he  would  need  to  endure,  what  followed  activation,  what  proceeded  mission  completion  -  and  he  knew  what  he  needed  to  do  in  order  to  make  the  process  bearable.  ( ready to comply )  the  soldier  did  not  like  it  when  things  did  not  go  according  to  plan.  like  hydra,  he  did  not  like  surprises.  lose  ends.  it  required  him  to  make  decisions, to  think ...   orders  were  simple.  all  he  needed  to  do  was  complete  them  as  quickly,  as  cleanly  and  as  efficiently  as  possible,  AS INSTRUCTED.  any  deviation  from  the  expected  leads  quickly  into  CHAOS  and  chaos  can  be  as  dangerous  and  as  deadly  as  an  explosion.  after  the  failure  of  project  insight,  the  soldier  was  forced  to  adapt  to  his  situation  in  order  to  survive.  the  upheaval  of  sudden  liberation  almost  destroyed  him.  he  spent  those  first  few  months  in  a  mad  attempt  to  regain  some  semblance  of  order.  he  hid  out  of  sight,  living  as  a ghost  while  struggling  with  whiplashing  whims:  the  rigid  impulse  to  return  to  his  surviving  handlers  ( for  orders )  or  the  luring  urge  to  continue  to  run  and  observe  this  new  form  of  reality  he  had  abruptly  been  exposed  to.  it  was  a  constant  strife  between  soldier  and  man  ;;  compliance  and  curiosity.  the  longer  he  was  exposed  to  clean  air  though,  the  more  james  barnes  settled  to  the  surface,  the  stronger  his  voice  became.  the  soldier  slowly  started  to  come  to  terms  with  some  truths.  he  did  not  miss  the  chair  -  or  hydra’s  drugs.  he  did  not  miss  the  violence.  it  was  enough  to  justify  his  decision  to  run  -  and  slowly,  the  man  started  to  live.  to  be  alive  ( human )  opened  the  door  to  many  things  he  did  not  mind.  music,  knowledge,  the  warmth  of  a  blanket,  pizza ...  but  there  was  a  price.  james  learned  in  bucharest  that  he  could  not  continue  to  live  as  a  ghost.  he  could  not  continue  to  reap  the  benefits  of  living  without  also  bearing  its  obligations.  the  more  he  is  dragged  back  into  the  land  of  the  living,  the  more  responsibility  is  placed  on  his  shoulders.  he  is  forced  now  to  make  decisions  that  not  only  impact  his  life  but  others  as  well.  it  also  brings  into  focus  his  past,  forcing  him  to  start  coming  to  terms  with  his  crimes  -  and  his  guilt.  to  live  a  life  involves  many  things  james  is  not  yet  comfortable  with.  he  is  forced  to  move  forward,  to  make  choices,  to  collaborate  and  trust  others,  to  heal ...  all  new  waters  the  man  is  deathly  afraid  to  wade  into,  because  it  leads  to  uncertainty,  leads  to  the  unexpected.  cause  and  effect.  there  is  no  equation  to  guarantee  success  ;;  no  trusted,  proven  procedure  to  follow.  to  live  a  full  life  means  making  decisions  and  then  being  brave  enough  to  live  with  those  decisions.  barnes  still  deeply  struggles  with  the  fear  of  the  UNKNOWN,  and  when  overwhelmed  by  crippling  indecision,  finds  himself  clinging  to  old  comforts.  that  same  sickening  desire  to  exist  once  more  beyond  the  bounds  of  time,  a  chimera  relieved  of  the  burden  of  choice  all  together.    

▘  HIMSELF  ➺   his  potential.   his  mind,  body  -  everything  contained  within  this  cage  of  blood  and  bone  terrifies  him.  for  him  ( &&  those  made  like  him )  freedom  is  nothing  more  than  a  far - fetched  pipedream.  zemo  shattered  all  illusions  of  freedom,  and  all  it  took  was  the  whisper  of  ten  choice  words.  regardless  of  the  small  progress  he  made  in  the  years  following  his  defection,  all  of  it  was  reduced  to  rubble  the  moment  he  was  dragged  back  into  the  plane  of  the  living.  he  was  careless,  ignorant,  sloppy  -  allowing  himself  to  be  curious,  hopeful  -  and  six  agents  paid  the  price  for  it  in  germany  when  the  soldier  was  reactivated.  the  great  fist  of  hydra  is  indeed  a  terrifying  sight  to  behold,  but  james  understands  the  soldier  is  simply  a  byproduct  of  himself  -  and  that  is  what  truly  horrifies  him.  even  before  the  serum  was  introduced  into  his  body,  his  potential  was ...  concerning.  the  things  he  was  willing  to  do  back  home  ;;  the  things  he  was  willing  to  do  during  the  war ...  the  disconcerting  ways  he  was  able  to  manipulate  his  own  morality.  his  malleable  ethical  code.  the  serum  only  heightened  that  which  already  existed  inside  of  him,  but  it  did  pave  a  space  for  corruption  to  thrive.  it  made  him  even  more  dangerous,  even  more  LETHAL.  his  potential  for  destruction  was  exemplified.  his  ability  to  survive,  his  tolerance  for  pain  -  expanded.  the  serum  allowed  hydra  the  opportunity  to  find  that  seed  of  ugliness  which  existed  inside  of  him  and  feed  it,  cultivate  it.  they  helped  it  grow  and  thrive,  and  then  sowed  the  deadly  fruits.  the  things  he  found  himself  capable  of  -  the  violence,  the  brutality.  the  things  he  learned  to  stomach  ;;  the  horrors  he  found  himself  able  to  commit ...  revolutionists.  bright  minds.  visionaries.  humanitarians.  entire  families.  innocent  bystanders.  good  people.  children.  he  killed  without  blinking  ;;  without  flinching  -  and  then  returned  to  the  people  who  issued  those  orders  and  waited  for  more.  there  were  a  handful  of  times  when  he  hesitated,  questioned  -  but  for  the  most  part,  he  completed  his  orders  without  question  and  did  so  without  feeling  a  flutter  of  disturbance.   i had no choice.  hydra had control of his mind.  you couldn’t refuse them.  it wasn’t your fault.   he  can  hide  behind  those  excuses  all  he  wants,  but  barnes  knows  what  lives  inside  of  him.  he  knows  what  hydra  put  inside  him  and  what  was  already  there.  the  winter  soldier  might  be  an  exaggeration  of  the  worst  parts  of  a  person  -  as  captain  america  exemplified  the  best  -  but  the  soldier  is  only  a  reflection  of  the  darkness  that  already  lived  within  him.     &&  THAT IS TERRIFYING. 

𝟑 𝐆𝐎𝐀𝐋𝐒

▘  PURPOSE  ➺   ever  since  his  reemergence  back  into  the  land  of  the  living,  james  has  struggled  to  understanding  what  to  do  with  newfound  existence.  a  name,  a  face,  a  place  in  this  world,  an  identity  and  yet  -  on  most  days  he  still  feels  like  a  weapon.  recovery  feels  similar  to  deactivation,  and  the  soldier  finds  himself  waiting,  constantly  preparing  for  the  day  when  they  will  take  him  out  of  storage,  brush  off  the  rust  and  use  him  once  more.  the  expectation  looms  over  him  like  a  dark  cloud  and  hinders  his  progress.   —  but  what  else  does  he  have  to  offer ?  what  else  can  he  do ?  if  not  for  some  useful  purpose,  why  does  he  exist ?  if  the  only  thing  he  knows  how  to  do  is  fight,  kill,  DESTROY  -  what  other  direction  is  there ?  he  is  good  at  what  he  does.  he  is  good  at  what  hydra  bred  him  to  be ...  but  he  does  not  want  to  exist  for  that  purpose.  he  is  tired  of  war,  of  violence  -  but  without  the  constant  stimulation  of  battle,  time  is  a  slow  and  dragging  endeavor.  he  does  want  to  prove  ( to  the  world,  hydra,  steve,  to  himself )  that  he  is  more  than  just  a  weapon  made  for  war,  but  he  finds  himself  more  often  than  not  questioning  the  validity  to  that  statement,  especially  when  it  is  the  only  thing  that  feels  natural  to  him.  the  serum  defines  him.  his  skillset  defines  him.  his  past  defines  him  -  and  if  he  has  proven  one  thing,  it  is  that  he  is  a  good  fighter.  A GOOD KILLER.  he  excels  when  it  comes  to  battle.  he  is  hard  to  stop  ;;  hard  to  kill  -  and  these  types  of  strengths  point  to  one  obvious  path.  one  does  not  use  a  blade  to  paint  a  magnificent  masterpiece.  he  was  weaponized  long  ago  and  to  try  to  be  anything  but  what  he  has  been  for  so  long  seems ...  counterproductive.   still,  he  does  not  want  to  keep  fighting  -  and  his  doctors  tell  him  that  is  important  ( essential ).  if  he  isn’t  serving  though,  what  should  he  do ?  time  is  so  painstakingly  slow  and  without  stasis,  he  does  not  know  how  to  fill  in  the  stagnant  space  in  between.  he  might  lose  whatever  shreds  of  sanity  he  has  left  -  and  there  isn’t  much  left  to  spare.  he  needs  guidance,  instruction.  he  needs  someone  to  tell  him  what  to  do ...  they  tell  him  it  is  up  to  him  to  decide,  but  he  doesn’t  know.  he  does  not  want  to  go  back  to  hydra  ;;  he  does  not  want  to  be  controlled  or  manipulated.   —  but  when  time  starts  to  pull  and  drag  and  his  mind  is  left  free  to  wander ...  there  are  times  when  he  feels  desperate  enough  to  long  for  orders.  he  hopes  to  find  some  kind  of  meaning  once  again  to  his  existence  and  hopes  this  time  around,  it  is  fashioned  for  something  good.  

▘  A SENSE OF IDENTITY  ➺   he  is  not  sure  he  will  ever  truly  feel  natural  within  his  own  skin  or  inside  his  own  mind.  the  face  he  wears  now  feels  more  like  a  mask,  stretched  to  the  seams  to  hide  the  husk  beneath.  for  so  long  he  existed  as  a  puppet,  body  moving  on  command.  his  actions  never  felt  like  his  own  and  neither  did  his  thoughts.  for  far  too  long,  he  was  a  stranger  inside  his  own  mind  and  body.  the  strings  have  been  cut,  a  name  placed  back  on  his  tongue  -  but  he  still  feels ...  empty.   who  is  he ?   what  does  he  like  to  do ?  what  are  his  hobbies ?  his  interests ?  what  does  he  dislike ?  what  makes  him  happy ?  what  makes  him  sad ?  they  ask  him  these  questions  and  all  he  can  hear  are  the  voices  of  old  hydra  handlers  inside  his  head.  A  WEAPON  NEED  NOT  BOTHER  ITSELF  WITH  SUCH  MEANINGLESS  FRIVOLITIES.    —   it  is  not  a  part  of  your  code.   he  often  needs  to  be  reminded  ( reassured )  -  he  is  not  a  weapon.  he  is  not  a  machine.  beneath  skin  and  bone,  he  has  a  heart.  he  has  a  mind  and  both  these  things  belong  to  him.  he  is  allowed  to  want,  to  feel,  to  explore,  to  refuse,  to  challenge ...  freely.  it  is  a  hard  concept  for  him  to  remember  and  to  accept,  but  he  has  made  some  strides.  he  has  discovered  ( rediscovered ? )  some  things  he  likes:  the  feel  of  sunlight  against  his  face,  the  smell  of  coffee,  the  soft  scratch  of  a  record  player  and  the  fuzzy  music  which  follows,  a  trusted  knife,  pizza,  warm  blankets ...  he  has  also  recognized  some  things  he  does  not  like.  the  building  crackle  of  electricity,  paralysis,  the  stench  of  death,  silence  so  loud  it  hurts,  eyes  watching  him,  the  sudden,  sharp  hiss  of  ice  melting,  prolonged  pain ...   meager  progress  maybe,  but  it  is  a  start  -  and  james  hopes  to  some  day  feel  the  same  comfort  within  his  own  body  and  mind  that  his  past - self  seemed  to  epitomize  so  effortlessly.  TO  BE  HIS  OWN  PERSON  -  defined  by  passions,  opinions  ;;  propelled  by  confident  choices  made  with  conviction ...  the  idea  seems  so  unattainable  given  how  DAMAGED  he  is,  but  it  is  still  something  he  would  like  to  attain.  if  only  to  prove  to  hydra  ( &&  to  himself )  that  he  is  in  fact  his  own  person  and  that  he  does  not  belong  to  anyone  -  but  himself. 

▘  TO PROMOTE POSITIVE CHANGE  ➺   after  all  the  destruction  he  has  blasted  into  the  course  of  history,  the  idea  seems  almost ...  laughable.  dismissible  certainly,  for  what  other  purpose  could  hands  sharpened  into  blades  be  used  for ?  &&  perhaps  even  insulting,  to  those  whose  lives  he  ruined.  like  his  other  emotions,  after  his  desertion  his  guilt  was  initially  muted,  but  the  longer  he  remains in  this  plane  of  existence  -  the  more  time  allowed  to  heal  -  the  more  james  comes  face  to  face  with  those  directly  impacted  by  his  crimes,  and  each  time  the  discomfort  inside  him  grows  stronger.  the  memories  are  returning  and  most  of  them  are  HORRIFIC.  the  lives  he  cut  short,  the  families  he  ripped  apart.  the  orphans  he  abandoned,  the  parents  he  made  bury  their  children ...  the  peace  he  broke  in  order  to  secure  continued  chaos.  hydra  was  a  parasite,  feasting  on  the  corpses  of  war  and  conflict  -  gorging  and  growing  -  and  he  was  one  of  the  reasons  how  they  survived  and  thrived  throughout  history.  the  fist  of  hydra,  zimniy  soldat,  the  soldier,  hydra’s  bloodhound.  he  was  unseen  from  the  eyes  of  the  world,  faceless  -  but  his  actions  resonated  ;;  his  reputation  notorious,  even  if  only  as  a  ghost  story.  many  of  his  crimes  have  been  made  public  thanks  to  the  widow’s  data  dump,  but  there  are  many  ( too  many )  that  are  still  undisclosed  -  known  only  to  him,  his  victims  and  the  hydra  higher - ups  who  issued  the  orders.  he  knows  it  sounds  silly,  far - fetched,  childish  -  but  it  would  be  nice  to  have  some  kind  of  impact  on  this  world  that  isn’t  so  violent  or  destructive.  he  knows  he  cannot  make  amends  for  all  the  bad  he  has  done.  there  is  too  much  blood  ( far  too  much  blood )  but  if  he  could  do  something ...  to  prove  he  can  be  something  more  than  that  which  hydra  made  of  him,  he  would  like  to  try.  there  is  no  fixing  the  damage  the  winter  soldier  has  caused.  there  is  no  way  to  restore  james  barnes’  promising  reputation,  but  to  leave  this  world  knowing  he  could  do  something  good  -  after  doing  so  much  bad  -  would  feel ...  freeing.

tagged by :  stolen ! tagging :  @cxpt​,  @justicetempered​, @gcroinya​, @fatedfuturist​, @agntross​, @mxndwitch, @toscrve​​​

[perkynurples]

... May I ask you about the slow excruciating progression from Meng Yao to Jiggy?

also paging @holdmycaffeine and @cadencekismet, who asked me for the very same, and @acutebird-fics, who is my partner in crime deep philosophical discussions about these characters, and a great deal of this messy essay is informed by those

Tl;dr: JGY is a multifaceted character and the author struggles not to lose her mind trying to find the right words to describe that. Literally every single point of this rant is up for discussion, begging for it even, so please don’t hesitate to engage me, but, like... tomorrow, maybe. After I sleep it off.

Meta I used or referenced: THIS ONE explaining how JGS deciding to give him the name GuangYao is all kinds of wrong | THIS ONE talking about the red bindi-like Jin forehead dots, among other things | THIS ONE about his capacity for evil and his own recognition thereof

-

Alright, without any fancy preamble, here goes. Honestly, whenever I think about JGY for more than three seconds, it becomes painfully evident that there are two wolves inside me at all times - one wants to spend tens of thousands of words exploring his narrative, his choices, his abilities and his failings, his capacity for violence as well as his capacity for love...

And the other one just likes to call him a gremlin in chief in a fancy hat, and doesn’t want to go much further than that. I’m going to try and feed them both.

The thing that pisses me off about Meng Yao is just. The fact that he doesn’t stay Meng Yao, and we get to watch it happen in slow motion. You get a tiny little twink-ass kid who suddenly finds himself adopted into the Nie by the Sect Leader himself, and this is Meng Yao, the son of one of Jin Guangshan’s many mistresses, who doesn’t have a whole lot going for him aside from that, at that moment - his cultivation, weak. His opportunities, nonexistent. His dick, small. His political savvy, only just starting to show itself.

And this guy gets the chance of a lifetime presented to him on a Qinghe-silver platter. Like, we can argue about book canon and try and decide if he did anything at all to make NMJ notice him, but show canon makes it all the more hilarious (again, please refer to this gem of a post for a level of humor I’m sorely incapable of) - you’re seventeen, and the Batman of the cultivation world picks you up and elevates your status across swathes of societal norms, to a level you previously could have only dreamed of.

It’s interesting to me to try and imagine if this was the moment that Meant Something - in the grand scope of things, of course it did, because it started MY on the road to JGY, but also to Meng Yao personally, in terms of what he believed he could comfortably achieve. I do not for a second believe he started out wanting to murder people to reach his goal, or that he even had a good goal to begin with - being accepted by his father, maybe. Murdering the (at the time) greatest villain in the world, becoming a renowned spy, landing an incredibly beneficial sworn brotherhood, et cetera et cetera? I mean, the kid has wet dreams, but no way do they reach this far at this point in his life.

But so many things about him are unclear. Show canon changes his timeline, in that he met NMJ before he met Lan Xichen, and even accompanied NHS to the Cloud Recesses. Either way, his stint with the Nie is incredibly personally important to him. I firmly believe he loved and admired them, in his own way. He certainly flourished under NMJ’s tutelage and approval, but in the end, his motivations, his entire raison d’etre, clashed with NMJ’s too much. To Meng Yao, who’d gotten kicked down those infamous Koi Tower stairs for daring to ask for his father’s attention, murdering a guy for slandering him and his mother was a natural outcome of being slandered his entire life, and finally having had enough - to NMJ, it was unforgivable.

But this still isn’t where Meng Yao becomes Jin Guangyao, and it begs the goddamn question - how much of what JGY was perfectly willing and capable of doing to stay in power, had been present in Meng Yao that entire time? You see him make excuses that someone who isn’t NMJ, with his incredibly staunch morals and black-and-white view of the world, might have even accepted, but instinctively, you know - making excuses is just how it’s going to be with this guy.

Because Meng Yao, as well as Jin Guangyao, lies, and he is damn good at it. He is so good at it, that he lies his way to the very top of the Wen, all the way to Wen Ruohan’s side. His lying is what enables him to become Jin Guangyao. And like any good liar, he doesn’t only lie to the people around him - he also lies to himself.

And I can’t blame him, because - been there. Lying to yourself becomes absolutely necessary, when you want to keep everyone else around you believing in a mask you wear. You need to start believing it, at least a little bit, at least sometimes, for it to work.

At this point, you’re probably wondering - but Annie, what about the time he spent a year sheltering Lan Xichen? Did he lie then? Was he not just Meng Yao, a poor but cunning bookkeeper, then? I’m getting there, I swear. Slowly and in a roundabout sort of way, because honestly, I don’t know how I can start talking about the LXC of it all, without it turning into a novel.

Because whichever way you twist it, whatever canon you choose to follow, one constant remains - A-Yao’s feelings for Lan Xichen. I’m deliberately not calling him Meng Yao or Jin Guangyao, because it’s these feelings that divide the two, but also ultimately unify them, fatally so. But we’ll get there.

In one version of events, Meng Yao travels to Cloud Recesses at the behest of NMJ, and falls in love with a statue made of jade there. In another version of events, they meet during something LXC only describes as ‘the shame of a lifetime’. Both of those events lead to Meng Yao sheltering LXC, hiding him, saving his life and those precious Gusu Lan texts.

Whatever version of events you choose to see as the right one, one other truth also remains - Lan Xichen offers freely and without asking that which Meng Yao has had to struggle to attain, that which has been denied to him time and time again, based only on the circumstances of his birth: respect. Lan Xichen never looks down on him, never brings up his origins, and instead extends him respect and dignity in a way only he is capable of - no fucking wonder Meng Yao admires him. No fucking wonder, when this amazing guy, this perfect pristine handsome number one young cultivator, looks at him, smiles at him, and actually sees him, son of a whore or not.

No fucking wonder Meng Yao loves him, and Jin Guangyao continues loving him. No fucking wonder he never means to hurt him, but does so anyway.

But here’s the thing - lying to yourself to make things work only gets you so far. Do I think Meng Yao spends restless nights in cold sweat dreading who he’s becoming, thinking about all the lives he’s taken to further his goals? Absolutely not. Do I think he does good things, often even great things, because it helps him feel better about himself? Do I think he both loves Xichen and keeps him around because it’s beneficial to him, having the Lan Sect Leader in his pocket, but also personally speaking, having someone who so firmly believes in the goodness in him? You bet your overly adorned murderhat I do.

And frankly, reducing Jin Guangyao to one or the other - coldblooded murderer or a man plagued by his own insecurities, helpless and trying to be kind in a world that’s so evidently against him - is doing a character like him a huge disservice. You have to consider all sides, if you want to truly understand him. Hell, I myself am by no means claiming to truly understand him! He pisses me off daily, and I’m writing this stream-consciousness-y thing because he simply won’t shut up in my head.

This kid makes Choices, and here’s the catch - he doesn’t regret a whole lot of them. If anything, I’d like to think he regrets going along with his father’s plans for so fucking long before finally realizing that avenue won’t bring him what he seeks. Killing Jin Guangshan, by the way? Very sexy of him, that I’ll admit. Guy was a pig.

But even the obviously Good Choices he makes? Building those damn watchtowers? Letting Mo Xuanyu stay at Koi Tower? Seating Qin Su by his side at that same throne where his shitty father entertained concubine after concubine? (Frankly, please make up your own mind as to whether he was lying or telling the truth about learning about Qin Su being his sister before or after they’d consummated their marriage, I’m choosing to believe that he hadn’t known.)

How much of it really happens out of the goodness of his own heart, and how much of it happens because he wants to improve his own reputation, kintsugi away the minuscule cracks in his own image until he’s once again a perfect picture of Jin gold? Is he himself even capable of telling the difference, recognizing where his good intentions end and his desire to look out for number one begins? When you spend so much time crafting your own perfect mask, in your own head as well as others’, the lines blur real fast.

I think ultimately, he craves respect as much as he does pity, and those two never mesh well - the cultivation world never truly accepts him, his father certainly never truly accepts him, but Jin Guangyao is not Wei Wuxian, he can’t just look at all of these perceived injustices and slights, all of this gossip and slander, and say ‘Whatever’. No, Meng Yao takes one look at the world standing against him so very vehemently, and decides to fight it, fight tooth and nail for his place in it, until he comes out Jin Guangyao on the other side, gilded and pristine, ascending the stairs of Jinlintai to exact his revenge on anyone who dares not accept him.

The Guanyin Temple, in a way, is a perfect little vignette of his character - we observe him wildly oscillating between seeking out the aforementioned respect and pity, confessing boldly and laughing loudly one second, and pleading on his knees and clutching onto Lan Xichen’s robe the next. To him, that night, and everything leading up to it, is a series of footholds - the ground begins crumbling under his feet when he learns of the letter, and he has to act fast. 

He buys himself time, excuse after excuse, thinking on his feet, and here’s the thing - he’s not necessarily the best at that. Anymore. Up until that point, until the letter and Qin Su and WWX turning up, everything is going according to plan, and his plan at this point is, frankly, correct me if I’m wrong, sitting pretty at the top of his golden tower and making sure the truth about him never comes to light, which... Well, we all know the truth has a nasty way of coming around when it’s least convenient for you. 

And I think Jin Guangyao (not Meng Yao) is, at that point, unused to being inconvenienced. Everything he ever does, he calculates, he twists the public opinion of himself, he twists individual people’s opinions of himself, to suit him - nothing unexpected ever happens anymore, because he’s played the game long enough to foresee most things. Nie Huaisang beats him at that same game, not because he has a huge plan spanning decades of his own, but because he’s good at improvising, kicking the hornet’s nest and then knowing where to direct the fallout - but that is another essay all of its own waiting to happen.

For now, I feel like I need to wrap this up before I lose my mind. Personally (and please feel free to challenge me on this any time), I don’t feel like there’s a single defining moment, or even a handful of them, traumatic or otherwise, that irrevocably turns Meng Yao into Jin Guangyao. Sure, being kicked down the literal stairs leading to a better place for you a handful of times will have you feeling some kind of way. Sure, serving a maniacal warlord while playing an impossibly high-stakes game of spy poker will leave a mark or two. Sure, your sworn brother spitting in your face the very insults you’ve been hearing your whole life and never learned to shake off, will make one more vestige of patience inside you irrevocably crumble to smithereens. But.

Your whole life, you work very, very hard. You know to put your head down and get your hands dirty, but you also know that sometimes, the best way out of a hairy situation is turning on those puppy eyes and appearing just a smidgen weaker, a smidgen more frightened and helpless, than you actually are. And if, when you actually tell the truth and people still don’t believe you, lying becomes easier, becomes, eventually, so easy it feels as natural as breathing? Well. Might as well use that particular skillset to sneak your way through a war, am I right? Might as well use it to build yourself a nest among the very vultures who resent you, and whom you resent, and make sure that they have to respect you.

In the end, to me? Jin Guangyao is the guy who jumps from person to person, from callout to very personal callout, there in the Guanyin Temple, just to stall for time, just to regain some sort of foothold in the situation - he’s the guy who probably views losing an arm as a necessary sacrifice, shakes it off and still gets to work from there.

Meng Yao is the guy who wants to take his mother with, and who asks Lan Xichen the one question he’s dreaded knowing the answer to his entire life - not ‘will you stay and die with me?’, but the one that hides beyond that.

Is this what devotion is? Respect? Love? Is there, at this moment in time, enough of all of those things in your heart that you will, in fact, stay and die with me?

When Lan Xichen says yes, without words but still loudly enough to be understood without a doubt, Meng Yao is relieved, while Jin Guangyao is vindicated.

When Lan Xichen says yes, neither version of A-Yao needs to hear any more than that - the seventeen-year-old boy shooting a shot way above his station and loving a statue made of jade, who wants Lan Xichen to survive, and the man wearing the wrong name and the title of the first Chief Cultivator of his generation, who wants Lan Xichen to live with the weight of all his mistakes and misgivings, are both, for once, in accord. They’re both happy, and they both make that final push to save him.

In conclusion, if there even is one to this jumble of random thoughts... Jin Guangyao and Meng Yao are one and the same. Aspects of one can be found in the other, but neither feels remorse about his choices. Both of them, in turn, are capable of amazing things. Both of them are, in fact, capable of decidedly horrible things. One builds a wall around the other so thick, so impenetrable, you only catch glimpses, and only the ones he allows you to see. One learns very quickly that vulnerability is dangerous, unless employed proactively, and the other one perfects the craft.

Both of them believe they are perfectly justified in their actions. Both of them believe their own line of reasoning, their own excuses. Both of them want to be loved, for very different reasons, or for the very same ones, at the end of the day.

Both of them aspire to greatness, Meng Yao some vague idea of it instilled in him by his mother teaching him to believe his own worth, Jin Guangyao a more concrete vision of it, always one step ahead, one step higher up those gilded stairs. Both of them are willing to excuse a whole lot to reach it, too.

And when Jin Guangyao finally stands in Koi Tower, properly this time, wearing that coveted golden peony, wearing that red zhushazhi and a much nicer version of the hat his mother always told him to wear, but also wearing the wrong fucking name, one that barely gives him a spot in the family he belongs to by blood?

All he needs to do is take one look in the mirror to see Meng Yao staring back, always there with him, always ready to remind him where he came from. He’s seventeen years old, and he just buried his mother, and somewhere out there, the rest of his life awaits. His smile is all dimples, and that, too, they have in common.

Time to get to work, Meng Yao suggests, and Jin Guangyao agrees.

[my-bated-breath]

Revenge for a Memory

An essay on Katara’s relationship with grief, resentment, and closure

_____

“So… the torturer of one’s imagination, the monstrous figure against whom one had struggled for so many years, dwindled to this pitiful wretch, whose obvious need was not for punishment, but for some kind of psychological treatment.”

- George Orwell, “Revenge is Sour”

_____

Her element answers her call - a hundred icicles hang suspended in the air, dagger-sharp and aimed to draw blood. On the other end, the man brings up his arms in a movement that’s quick yet still too slow, crossed over his head as if to protect himself. He trembles. He shakes.

His death would be so effortless. She could maneuver around his pathetic defense in half a second; she could kill him swiftly and painlessly if only she wishes it to be so. Looking upon his small and curled form, she knows he would offer little resistance. He is powerless.

Katara hesitates, something slipping inside of her, through her stance, through her fingers. Rain pours on. Ice becomes water. Yon Rha is spared.

_____

When considering Avatar: The Last Airbender in its entirety, “The Southern Raiders” stands out as one of the most mature and morally ambiguous episodes, one delving deep into Katara’s relationship with love and loss, present and past, and justice and revenge. Within it, the story does not outline any right or wrong path for Katara to choose. Rather, the most she can hope for is to choose the path of least regrets.

By the end of the episode, Katara has found closure. She returns from her confrontation with Yon Rha having let go of her resentment towards Zuko, who once represented everything she hated about the Fire Nation, and forgives him. The reason why she forgives him is clear - he has earned it by providing her with the means to find her mother’s killer. But the reason why she has found closure is less so.

_____

“This is a journey you need to take. You need to face this man. But when you do, please don't choose revenge. Let your anger out, and then let it go. Forgive him.”

_____

“But I didn't forgive him. I'll never forgive him.”

_____

To forgive is to let go of resentment. And for Katara - for someone who was eight-years-old when she last saw her mother, for someone whose entire childhood was ripped away in the same second her mother’s life was ripped away from her body, for someone who was forced to mature far too quickly to fill in that hollow space left behind by a ghost - that is too much to ask for. Although violence may not have been the answer, a lack of violence does not mean a lack of anger on Katara’s part. Her trauma has wounded her too much to prevent her grief from spilling into anger, and Katara can let neither her grief nor rage go.

No, forgiveness is not the reason why Katara found closure.

That grief and that rage, however, no longer overwhelm her in the way they used to. Something gives way during that confrontation with Yon Rha, but what is it? What is the realization that frees her from her hurt, that paves the foundation for her healing?

_____

“I always wondered what kind of person could do such a thing, but now that I see you, I think I understand. There's just nothing inside you, nothing at all. You're pathetic and sad and empty.”

_____

After she spares Yon Rha, Katara tells him that he’s “nothing.” For the individual who clings onto the nebulous concepts of “meaning” and “purpose” for their entire lifespan, to be “nothing” is to be faced with eternal damnation. Someone who is “pathetic and sad and empty” is someone who lives but is not alive, running through the motions of each day mechanically and without feeling.

Perhaps the reason why Katara finds closure without forgiveness or revenge is that she chooses the ground in-between. She has found justice without needing to serve it because life, in its cruel and karmic ways, had already reduced Yon Rha to a shell of the man he once was. Had Katara been any more merciless towards Yon Rha, it would still have been merciful compared to how he suffers in his present life. Ending Yon Rha would be a waste of Katara’s efforts.

So Katara says, “I think I understand.”

And so we, the audience, think we understand too. Only then we remember what Katara had said before: 

“I always wondered what kind of person could do such a thing, but now that I see you…”

Katara is fourteen when she says “now that I see you.”

She was eight when she first saw Yon Rha.

In Katara’s flashback, the “kind of person [who] could do such a thing” is someone ominous, terrifying, and inhuman, a portrayal exemplified by the low-angle in which Yon Rha is framed in contrast to the high-angle looking down on Katara. In this shot, Yon Rha towers over Katara both in height and in authority. Thus, she has always imagined her mother’s killer to be the same way he has appeared to her when she was a helpless, vulnerable child - he appears as a militaristic man, an arrogant man, a powerful man.

The man Katara finds behind the door in the Fire Nation telecommunications tower is just that. As the captain of an elite Fire Nation scouting group, he embodies everything Katara would expect from the monster of her childhood, someone with a capacity for immense ruin and cruelty. So, lost in a memory where she is completely powerless, Katara’s grief and anger compel her to cling onto every iota of power she had gained through the years. Pushing her skills to the limits and past the limits, she inadvertently pushes herself to use the power she swore she’d never use - bloodbending.

“It's not him. He's not the man.”

Stricken, Katara walks away. Whether she is silent because of disappointment or shock is left up to interpretation, but no interpretation can deny the poisonous effects Katara’s hatred had on her. It consumed her body and mind, driving her to reach into someone’s veins and into their blood, tempting her beyond the one line she promised she’d never crossed. Stemming from hurt, grief, and rage, her loathing is intoxicating in the same way her memories of her mother’s death is so haunting. Because there was no humanity in the way Kya was killed, and so Katara dehumanizes her mother’s murderer in the same manner.

Maybe monsters deserve to die. Maybe monsters deserve to be bloodbended.

But monsters can only exist in memory.

_____

“Revenge is an act which you want to commit when you are powerless and because you are powerless: as soon as the sense of impotence is removed, the desire evaporates also.”

- George Orwell, “Revenge is Sour”

____

Before, when Katara and Zuko fly on Appa with Whaletail Island in their sights, Zuko awakes to the sight of Katara looking forward to the horizon, back straight and eyes hardened with determination. In response to his request for her to rest, she tells Zuko, “oh, don't you worry about my strength. I have plenty.”

Later, in her encounter with the captain of the Southern Raiders, her strength is affirmed by her ability to bloodbend-

-yet this is the experience that plants that first seed of doubt into her mind.

These doubts are in full bloom by the time Katara and Zuko reach the small Fire Nation village that Yon Rha, now a humble farmer, calls home. They hide in the shadows, trailing behind him as he walks back home, and then, they wait.

And then, they strike.

_____

“That was him. That was the monster.”

- Katara

_____

Katara says that Yon Rha is the monster, but their roles are now reversed - Katara is the aggressor and Yon Rha is the victim; Katara looms over Yon Rha at a low-angle while Yon Rha is looked down upon from a high-angle. Ultimately, a monster is more than their cruelty and vileness; a monster has power; a monster has control over a nightmare.

Only now it is not Yon Rha in control, but Katara.

_____

“I'm not the helpless little girl I was when they came.”

- Katara

_____

In the end, the issue had never been about Katara’s strength - instead, it was about her weakness. As a child, she was vulnerable while Yon Rha was infallible, and so the image of Yon Rha looming over her is the one that persisted for years, plaguing her even as she grew up and grew stronger. Hence, the Yon Rha Katara saw as an eight-year-old is the Yon Rha she would have no qualms about killing. 

But that Yon Rha belongs to another time. He belongs to a time in which Katara was weak and Yon Rha was strong, and that time is the past and the past is unbreachable. Thus, revenge can only exist in the ghost of a memory; revenge can only exist in fantasies.

Perhaps the childish fantasy aspect of revenge is why the platitudes “revenge is empty” and “revenge is meaningless” are thrown around so carelessly today, so much so that they no longer hold any weight. Of course, these statements are true in many ways, but they also oversimplify complex emotional responses to trauma. For Katara, revenge is empty because it is not what she needs.

Consciously or subconsciously, Katara recognizes her needs the moment when they’re met - with her suspending shards of ice in the air, all pointed towards Yon Rha. Then, fantasies and illusions shatter, falling away like ice turning back to water and splashing on the ground, unused. Katara now has power, not only through waterbending and bloodbending, but through the present over the past. Stripped of all his height and authority, the monster that was the Yon Rha of six years ago had already been killed. Now all that is left is her, standing over the humble-villager Yon Rha, over her fear and grief and rage, over the past that once haunted her. Over her memories.

_____

“I wanted to do it. I wanted to take out all my anger at him, but I couldn't. I don't know if it's because I'm too weak to do it or because I'm strong enough not to.”

- Katara

_____

By the end of her journey, the ideologies at conflict during the beginning of the episode are still at war within Katara. Katara holds power over her memories, but she is not at peace with them. Katara is able to forgive some, but she is not able to forgive all. The loss of her mother still hurts, but the loss of Katara’s innocence is replaced by the affirmation of her maturity. She has not let go of her rage, but she is no longer blinded by it.

Still, no matter how bittersweet the ending to this story is, it is also full of hope and new beginnings: The hold old memories had over Katara is broken. Six years’ worth of hurt and damage, though it cannot be smoothed over the course of a few days, can finally begin to heal. The wounds have been cleansed; the ghosts have been chased away. Now, Katara is strong where she was once weak. Now, Katara has found closure.

Now, Katara is free.

_____

Works Cited

Revenge is Sour by George Orwell

As seen by how much I quote George Orwell throughout this meta, my philosophy on the meaning of revenge draws a lot of inspiration from this essay, a piece on how a shift in dynamics in the post-World War II world can lead to the oppressed becoming the oppressors.

The Cycle of War by HelloFutureMe

My analysis on low-angle vs high-angle shots and the role-reversal of victim and aggressor comes from this video essay, a piece on how the cycle of persecution and victimization perpetuates war.

Companion Pieces (metas) by yours truly

Rage, Compassion, and the Bridge in Between

An essay on Katara’s emotions and the reciprocatory relationship between her kindness and anger

Ideals and Idealization

My interpretation of Aang and Katara’s relationship in The Southern Raiders and an extensive study on how Aang idealizes Katara

selfish

A fanfiction that takes my analysis on Katara’s grief + the concept of revenge and explores it in story form (OR: a post-TSR conversation written from Zuko’s POV; implied Zutara)

Summary: Revenge is a fantasy.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Prologue

You Said You’d Catch Me (…If I Fall)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)       x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 3930

Summary for series: In which Steve is forced to solve an unsolvable dilemma and inevitably fails, Natasha is nosy in her attempts to be a good friend and it backfires and Sam Wilson is too old for that $#*!.

Also, Castiel is picking up strays from Heaven, leaving them to Sam and Dean to deal with.

Needless to say, it’s a mess, but when it looks like the God himself might be meddling, Team Free Will doesn’t have a choice. It’s not like they would just let the poor woman with amnesia wander off anyway.

(It is more angsty than it sounds, especially in the beginning.)

Warnings: swearing, very brief smut, violence, some blood, major character death (YEP), mourning, angst

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Don’t you ever bother, my child, trying to win the race against time. Truth is, my beloved, it is such a sore loser that it will never let you win.

-

Steve Rogers woke up with his head pounding so hard he was sure he must have drunk a barrel of Thor’s Asgardian liquor. Not that he remembered doing it.

With his brain in a haze, his hand went to sluggishly rise to his temple as if it could sooth the pain.

He had never sobered up as fast as when he found out he couldn’t do it, something holding his wrist by his side. His eyes snapped open only to be assaulted with a painfully sharp light. A half second later, he revealed he was strapped to a table.

Steve had no freaking idea what had happened, how had he got here or where ‘here’ was, but his instinct yelled at him to break the leather straps. He did so, easily, thanking god for the serum.

What the hell was happening? What the hell had happened?

He gritted his teeth with the effort to get his head on straight. Think, Rogers, think.

To his relief, the pounding headache was fading away, but it offered him no clarity. He couldn’t… he couldn’t recall why he was here and how he had got here in the first place. He wasn’t injured, he thought. If he had been, the serum pulsing in his veins, carved into every cell of his body, had done its job already. Except for his brain cells, apparently.

The last thing he remembered was you. Your laughter echoed in his ears, much brighter than the street and traffic lights illuminating your way as he was walking you home – his haven of the past few days as Tony’s frustration caused by a glitch in his system that he couldn’t figure out was penetrating the Tower’s walls, making the air harder to breathe in when anywhere in the building.

The memory of the twinkle in your eyes, when your gaze met his, automatically brought the briefest smile on his lips if even for a second as he had allowed himself to get lost in the past.

But then the brutal punch had come. Something had stung the back of his neck, an instant dizziness causing him to stumble.

Your horrified cry of his name and the darkness that had followed was like a slap, bringing him back to present.

He jumped to his feet, his eyes quickly examining the room. There was no one in sight. His stomach was squeezed by a cold fist of fear and not for himself.

Your name fell from his lips, silent and wavering.

Someone had drugged him. And you had been there when it had happened. Which, not to point a finger at anyone, but the fact he hadn’t seen anyone coming was totally on you, because when he was with you, he let his guard down, he allowed himself to relax, to forget. To forget who he was to the majority of the world, not to his friends and you.

With you, he was a plain old Steve Rogers, but people were always threatening Captain America’s life.

Fuck.

He prayed to God you were okay. He seemed more or less alright and he couldn’t decide whether that was a good sign. It could mean they had taken out their issues on you instead. His jaw clenched at the idea, the icy shiver that ran his spine in stark contrast to the burst of hot anger in his chest.

If anyone as much as laid their finger on you, he was going to rip their arm off.

Steve tried to shake off the dark thoughts and went to examine the room, this time with his heart hammering, feeling the pulse in his throat. There were two doors on opposite sides of the 40 x 40 ft. room, one to his right, the other to his left. Right in front of him him, there was an enormous screen, stretching along the whole wall. In the corner, there was a little camera. The red dot blinked at him, announcing it was on.

A fraction of second later, the lights in the room dimmed just a bit and the screen lighted up to life, showing a face of an unfamiliar man. He looked like he could use eating a sandwich or two, almost fragile body, deep-set tired grey eyes with wrinkles around them, greyish stubble covering his bony cheeks, contrast to the bald of his head.

“Captain! Good morning!” he greeted him cheerily. Steve squinted, trying to find a clue of what was happening. He could only see the man; not where he was or what was this about. “Good to see you awake. Some of us were getting worried you wouldn’t wake up. Isn’t that right?”

The camera shifted then and Steve’s heart positively stopped.

He lunged forward with his fists clenched on instinct only to realize it would help nothing.

It was you. You with a cloth tied over your mouth, strapped to a chair, a trickle of blood coming from your temple, a strap of messy hair sticking to it. Your cheeks were damp from tears, eyes bloodshot and full of horror. A bruise was forming around your right eye, your line of sight not meeting the lens of the camera aimed at you. Your dress and sweater were dirty and torn as if someone grabbed it too harshly and dragged you away; your nylons ripped, your knees bare and scraped bloody.

Steve didn’t even realize that the raging roar wasn’t only in his mind and actually escaped his mouth, his chest burning with hatred. You sobbed as if you could hear him and Steve understood he wasn’t the only one watching their soulmate.

“You’re a dead man,” Steve growled, causing your eyes falling shut.

While the image stayed focused on you, the man spoke up again.

“And yet I’m still walking…” the man hummed and to emphasize his words, he took several steps towards you – Steve’s feet twitched helplessly, wanting to stop him. But he couldn’t; he had no clue where he himself was, let alone you and that bastard.

He needed to think dammit. And he needed to think very fucking fast. His brain finally kicked in, immediately racing despite the trembles in his body – he couldn’t tell whether it was rage or fear.  When the man circled your chair and aimed the camera lower, Steve was suddenly certain it was pure horror.

There were explosives. There were explosives stuck to your chair and a timer set to two minutes; luckily, frozen. Steve was sure as hell it wouldn’t stay that way as a suffocating lump grew in his throat. He couldn’t breathe in.

The camera moved again, showing the man as he glanced at what Steve assumed was a screen like the one he was seeing, the one you kept watching. Steve didn’t bother wasting his brain capacity on trying to control his expression. The man smiled a toothy grin and Steve wanted to puke, his mind frantically fighting with the heavy stone in his stomach, screaming at him that this was you, his soulmate, basically sitting at a bomb.

“If you’re pissed off now, just wait for what’s to come.”

Pissed off? Oh, Steve was so beyond pissed off. When he was about to get his hands on this man, he wasn’t just about to rip his arm off. He was going to do so with all of his limbs and finish with the carotid, using his bare teeth.

The camera must have been set on a stand, still showing you, as Steve could hear the man shuffle around. The next thing he knew, the screen in front of him split in two separate images; one of you and the other showing nine frames of traffic cameras, all of them aimed at trashcans. Steve didn’t understand.

Yet.

Until the frame of you split into two, the other image showing another timer, simply lying somewhere in an empty room. It read two minutes. Frozen. Just like the one on your back.

Something ugly crept Steve’s spine, a hunch he refused to acknowledge.

“You see, you have two options now, Captain,” the man explained and Steve’s teeth grinded with effort to deny what was set in front of him. It wasn’t what he was thinking, it couldn’t be. “There’s a door to your left – close to your heart, of course…”

Steve’s hands trembled as the man walked to you and almost gingerly loosened the cloth over your mouth, only to tear a strap of your dress after that, revealing your soulmark. It was illegible from the distance, but it still sent a fresh way of nausea up Steve’s throat. A whimper escaped you.

“Pick the left door and save your soulmate. Or take the road to your right and be the righteous man everyone claims you are. There are nine bombs planted over the streets of New York. Busy morning, as you noticed, I’m sure. God, Mondays suck…”

Steve’s head was spinning.

The man was lying. He must have been lying.

“Oh and just so you know, your country is watching. Hacking is too easy these days. Ready to start the race?”

“Wait!” Steve blurted out instantly, catching the man’s attention. It was unfair how much Steve’s voice was shaking, but it was the least of his problems. “What… what do you want?”

The man frowned. “For you to choose. I’m sure you noticed the earbud I gave you-“ No, Steve hadn’t. Having a comm in his ear was a second nature now. “Don’t you worry. You’ll hear us the whole time.”

“No! Wait! There’s… there’s gotta be something-“

The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “The timer’s about to start, Captain. You better choose or you’ll lose both, her and tens thousands of lives I imagine. Life is full of hard choices, isn’t it?” he mocked him and this time it was definitely rage that overtook Steve’s mind and body.

Until someone new spoke up, scratchy, weak and weary voice that shattered his heart turned his stomach around.

“Steve? It’s… it’s okay. Go,” you creaked, your eyes shining with fresh unshed tears. It wasn’t the haunted look in your gaze that unsettled something deep inside of him. No. It was the dark resignation that laced the breath-taking colour of your eyes. “Go save lives. I… I knew I’d have to share you with the world. Frankly, I didn’t imagine it would be like this, but— you go and be hero. My life is nothing compared to thousands and we both know that.”

The world swayed off its place, Steve’s knees buckling, actually forcing him to stumble backwards and lean onto the table he was strapped to.

The fuck did you just say? With unshakable conviction no less?

“The clock is ticking now, Captain,” the man informed him swiftly, smile in his voice. It was like a punch to Steve’s solar plexus.

With his own shield.

“No,” Steve choked out, his glare darting from one door to another.

How could he even make such choice?! What kind of a twisted monster did this? Who was this man?

“Your soulmate is telling the truth, Captain, isn’t she? You are the hero. You always make choices to save people no matter how much it hurts you… if it hurts at all, of course. Maybe, maybe you don’t care-“

“Hey, I know you do!” you rushed to interrupt, a spark of life lightening up your face, but Steve’s hands only darted to his hair, fingers interlacing in desperation.  Your voice softened then. “It’s alright, Steve. I… I love you. And I’m so sorry it will hurt when I’m gone… but I believe in you. You can make it…”

“Yes, I can,” he growled, jolting to his right to disarm the bomb.

He could make it. He could handle the global threat and then rush to your rescue even if it meant he would burn to ashes shielding you from the flames.

His conviction only grew when he heard a familiar voice in his ear.

“Cap? Cap, can you hear me?”

It shook him more than the collision with the door. “Natasha?!”

“And company,” Stark supplied helpfully and Steve could cry in relief.

He wasn’t alone. He could do this.

“Can you disarm the bombs?” he panted, nearly faltering in his steps in relief.

Could Steve leave the nine explosives with one trigger alone and save you?

“Ah, look at him, Americans. The original Avenger, rushing to everyone’s rescue. Looks like he has some assistance, but that isn’t going to help. The choice was made. What is one life compared to thousands? Maybe she doesn’t even matter to him, does she?” the man interjected again and Steve gritted his teeth, pushing to his very limit to speed up.

The hall was narrow. No other possibilities – just running straight ahead. He felt like his mind was anything but straight, buzzing frantic images and dark scenarios. Your voice, ironically enough, was not helping.

“Steve, don’t listen to him. It’s okay. It’s okay…”

“Tony? Can you get rid of the bombs?” Steve repeated, gulping when the billionaire didn’t answer right away.

“No.”

Steve’s world crashed that moment and he wanted to scream.

Alone it was then. He had been alone before. He could do this.

“Romanoff can help you disarm it, we have… ugh, great visual of the corridors and of you thanks to the guy. I’m on my way, but it will be a really fucking close call.”

Steve mentally nodded, swallowing his fear. No time for fear now. Later. He could fold like a house of cards later. He wasn’t alone after all. He had freaking Black Widow and Iron Man at his disposal.

And finally, he reached another door. He burst into the room, his shoulder crying in protest when he broke down the door and stumbled in.

The room was plain, identical to the one he woke up – except there was the timer on a table.

01:02

01:01

“Natasha?” he howled as he sprinted to it. “Talk to me.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” She sounded confident. That was good.

That’s good, Steve’s mind echoed as he bent over the timer, swallowing thickly. Jesus Christ.

“Alright. I need you to rip off the blue wire at the same time you pressing the button on the left side of the timer. Got it?”

Steve only nodded, not taking a second to breathe in and think it through.

He just did it.

The red numbers of the timer flickered on 0:54 and died. Blood ran cold in Steve’s veins. He couldn’t hear any explosions, but that didn’t mean anything; God only knew how far from New York they were.

“Romanoff?” he hissed, already spinning on his heels and springing towards the corridor that had led him here.

“We’re clear. Run, Steve. Get that son of a bitch,” the redhead shot back, her voice sharp, but with a quiver of worry. Steve didn’t like that in the slightest; Natasha was rarely worried.

It was when the man who had assaulted you informed him he was still watching.

“Oh, silly, silly man,” he lamented, a patronizing note to his words. “Do you think you can make it in time? Don’t be stupid. You made your choice. Deal with the consequences.”

“Fuck. You,” Steve strained through his teeth, his feet barely touching the ground as he dashed through the hall, flashing the enormous monitor in his wake-up room a brief look as he headed to the second door.

It barely gave in as he ran into it, sickening crack echoing the empty space and vibrating his bones. Sharp pain jolted through his shoulder and arm; he was certain he just broke something.

It hurt. It would heal. He couldn’t fucking care less.

“You’re running out of time, Captain… you’re always out of time…” the man nearly sing-sang in mockery, making Steve push harder.

“Steve…” Tony’s heavy voice sounded emotionless through the comms and it felt like a slap to his face. “I won’t make it in time.”

Steve snarled, his lungs burning, his heartbeat pulsing his whole being, but he refused to throw himself off balance by even shaking his head in desperation. He ignored the icy fist that squeezed his insides.

He had to run.

Tony’s voice urged him then.

“Steve, there’s no way you can save her either. The lab’s gonna blow up in seconds. Get out of there.“

“Shut up!” the captain growled and as if it wasn’t enough, your captor let himself known too, counting down.

“Five.”

Shit!

Steve really would have to shield you from the explosion. That was gonna hurt a lot.

Well, though luck. He would burn before giving up on you.

He could see the door at the end of the hall now, his muscles crying with effort, his eyes burning with unshed tears or desperation.

He had to make in time to get you of the chair and cover you!

“Cap! Get the fuck out!” Natasha cried out in his ear, but Steve blatantly tuned it out.

He would have ripped the thing out of his ear, but that seemed like too much effort for now. He had more important goals.

“Four.”

He clenched his fists, bracing his body for the impact as he would throw himself against the door.

“Three.”

Pain erupted in Steve’s other shoulder as he collided with the metal, the door flying in the room with him.

“Two,” sounded on his right as he barely kept himself upright, quickly scanning the room. You were there, still on the chair, twenty feet from the door. The man stood by your side, hand on your shoulder, his head tilted to side with curious smile. “Hi there, Captain. One.”

Steve’s glimpsed the horror in your eyes, perfectly mirroring his own.

“Steve!” three voices yelled at the same time as he lunged after the man.

A fraction of second later, his body was thrown backwards with a shockwave, feeling as if on fire.

And then there was nothing.

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He nuzzled his nose to your hair, perfectly blissed out.

He learned to love Sunday mornings. Before he had met you, the day of the week had made no difference to him; he would wake up at 5:45 and get ready for his morning run and the only indication of something being different had been the amount of people he had been meeting on his route. Saturdays had used to be rather crowded, but not Sundays. On Sundays, people had idled. And you had convinced him to do the same.

It hadn’t required much effort from your side; especially after the first time Steve had got to make love to you. Since then, most Sunday mornings were reserved for lazy rolling in the sheets, exchanging sloppy and sensual kisses, wandering hands and lips and finding paradise in your bodies entangled.

He reached his peak shortly after you – because you always came first, an unintended pun, one Steve had made when he had been being absolutely sincere about your pleasure being the priority and you had laughed at it until your belly hurt – and now he wished for nothing but for cradling you in his arms for little longer.

His palm was sprawled on your stomach and he used it to bring you even closer, half-heartedly trying to convince a certain part of his body to stop reacting to your intimate position.

Too late, judging by your chuckle.

“Steve,” you whispered, rubbing your bottom against the hardness, apparently deciding to torture him sweetly. God, he would take every second of that torture and begged for more if it meant hearing you moan his name like that. Christ, this got him going.

You shifted in your position, catching his mouth with yours, fingers of your hand interlacing with his on your hip as you rocked into him once more.

Steve could die a happy man right there as he felt your heat, your tongue shamelessly twisting against his. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was insatiable today. He moaned to your mouth when your hands sneaked between your bodies to guide him in and a shot of ecstasy made him arch his back at the contact.

Your smile was lost to the moan that left your lips.

“I love you,” you whimpered and Steve didn’t waste a second before returning the words, even though they paled under the actual force of what he was feeling with you. Love had never felt this intense before.

That was when the alarm blared, annoying and intrusive sound that had you both crying out in frustration.

Steve had forgotten about the brunch you had arranged with Ryan and his boyfriend.

“Turn it off,” he whined, locking his arm around you to keep you close.

“You know I can’t, Stevie,” you replied, not less annoyed than him. “Looks like we need to go back to reality.”

The intrusive beeping continued as Steve slowly blinked his eyes open. His eyelids felt unnaturally heavy. So did the rest of his body, which seemed to be hurting in too many places at once.

It took him few moments to assess the space he was in – lying in a bed, a beeping machine by his head, wires leading to his body, an i.v. in his arm. He knitted his brows together, reaching for the needle – it must have been why his body was so heavy and his mind so fuzzy.

Sharp pain erupted in his arm and torso, low hiss escaping his lips.

“Careful, Cap,” Tony’s voice brought Steve’s attention to the door where his friend was standing, slowly making his way to the bed. “You got yourself a lot of burns. If it wasn’t for the serum… you’d be a toast.”

“Burns?” Steve creaked, his throat scratchy.

When had he got-

Burns. The kidnapping. The choice he had been forced to make. The explosion.

Everything came rushing back to him in a horrifying fastforward.

“Did-“

“You saved lots of lives, yesterday,” the billionaire informed him, serious and excessively soothing.

It didn’t calm Steve’s suddenly rapidly beating heart. This wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. This wasn’t what he was asking; he knew that much. His thoughts were on you.

Did you survive?

“Did… did she-?“

Tony’s grim expression and solemn shake of his head told him everything he needed but didn’t want to know. Everything he refused to acknowledge, because it simply couldn’t be.

“No,” Steve rasped, his throat burning as much as his eyes and the rest of his body when he tried to sit up, his stomach twisting.

No. This couldn’t be.

It couldn’t, but somehow he already knew it was the truth. You would have been here by his bedside, watching over him. Or you would have been the first thing Tony mentioned, updating Steve on your condition.

Steve remembered with painful clarity the terror in your eyes before everything had gone black. The explosion. You had been in the centre of the room, the bomb basically strapped to your back.

“I’m sorry-”

“No,” Steve repeated stubbornly, setting his jaw tight so it wouldn’t tremble. “She’s… she has to-“

“I’m sorry, Steve. I… I really am.”

The crushing weight on Steve’s chest made it hard to breathe in, his throat closing up in effort not to scream. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to spill.

No, no, no… someone please wake him up from this nightmare. Please. You had to be alive. You had to, because otherwise… otherwise-

Otherwise he had failed you. Otherwise he was alone in this world again. Otherwise his heart was shattered and he would rather if it stopped. Otherwise his life was thrown back to the shadows he knew after coming out of the ice and further, kicked down to a pit of complete darkness. Otherwise he lost his soulmate.

“Please, leave,” Steve strained through his teeth, not bothering to open his eyes.

You were gone. You were gone, your body burned to ashes in the explosion Steve hadn’t stopped in time. He felt like the bomb exploded right inside of his chest, ripping his heart to shreds, pulsing pain pumped though his veins.

He heard no protest, only a sigh from the other man and a click of a door.

Only then, the first sob shook his whole body and he let himself to break down.

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Part 1

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Well… that’s a really long prologue, I know. The chapters should be shorter from here.

Title – inspired by Halsey’s Without Me

Thank you for reading!

Please don’t hate me... it’s a Spn crossover, put two and two together ;)

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Tags: @cxptain @smilexcaptainx , @murdermornings @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall @eliza5616 @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish @skychild29  @elysianecho @simmisblog @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula, @sergeantrosabellaswan​ @songofcosplay​, @ilovesupersoldiers​ @wxstedhexrt​ @silver-winter-wolf​ @nova3312​  @guardian-tn @janieavalos, @vxidnik​

Hello there! Like I said I would, I kept the taglist. If anyone wants in or out, DM me or send an ask :-*

[cosmicjoke]

Banana Fish, Ash Lynx and the consequences wrought by the abuse of children:

One of the things that most fascinates me about Banana Fish is its dedication to realism.  

We see Ash at various points throughout the story slipping into the daydream of going to Japan with Eiji.  This whimsical fantasy of being able to change his fate.  As he speaks of it with Eiji, there is a faraway, hopeful look in his eyes and in his expression.  A moment of allowing himself to imagine what that might be like.

But there is always this pervasive sense that Ash never quite believes it.  In those moments of fancy, his expression also contains a deep and tragic melancholy.  An understanding, beneath the distant dream, that fairy tales aren’t real, and that his world, his life, has always been defined by cruel, unrelenting, uncompromising reality.

Eiji tries so hard to convince Ash that he’s wrong.  That he doesn’t have to exist in this world of pain and violence and hopelessness.  That he can run away from it all, to have his happily ever after.  But Ash’s life, the things he’s experienced in his life, tell him the truth of it all.  There is no hope there.  There is no redemption.  There is no salvation.  He never truly believes in the dream, because Ash, despite Eiji’s efforts, never truly believes in himself.  To the very end, he believes himself to be a monster, and herein do we see the true damage wrought by the abuse he’s suffered.  Ash’s inability to see himself as he really is.  A boy who loves and is loved.  He sees instead only the wretched animal he’s been beaten into believing he is.

The ending of Banana Fish is brutal in its honesty, and that’s why I think it’s so upsetting to people.  It isn’t a fair ending.  The exact opposite, in fact.  It’s unbearably UNFAIR.  And that’s intentional.  We aren’t meant to enjoy the ending, or like the ending, or feel satisfied with the ending, because Banana Fish is itself an examination of the unfairness of life, and, above that still, the consequences of child abuse.

Ash deserved happiness.  He deserved his life.  He deserved a reward for all he’d been through.  He was so young, and had in him so much limitless potential.  When you consider Ash’s character, and all the extraordinary gifts he possessed, unsurpassed physical beauty, an IQ so high he was among the five most intelligent people on the planet, reflexes almost superhuman in quality, and, above all else, a heart which, in spite of the endless and sickening abuses he’d suffered throughout his entire life, held in it a capacity for such deep and compassionate love, it makes his loss all the crueler still.  

In Garden of Light, and New York Sense, we’re given glimpses into the lives of all the other characters we met in Banana Fish.  Eiji has become a world renowned photographer.  Sing is going to Harvard Business school, and already runs and operates a successful shipping company.  Yut-Lung continues to rule the Chinese mafia.  Max and Jessica have rebuilt their lives together, and find continued success in their own careers.  Later, we see Sing finds love with Akira, and the two of them are married, and later have a son.  Reading these stories, I can’t help but be left with a sense of deep, unrelenting sadness, for how it forcefully reminds you that, for Ash, he’ll never have any of those things.  For all his extraordinary abilities, he never was given the chance to make something of himself beyond what his abusers decided for him.  

We see Sing in Garden of Light looking over and reading the essays Ash had written and left behind on his computer.  Essays written on subjects as far ranging as politics, history, the economy, etc...  Sing is left in a kind of jealous awe over Ash’s abilities, disbelieving that a child of 17, 18 years old, could be capable of such brilliant insight and understanding of the world.  Sing encounters here the remains of Ash’s genius mind.  It is a heartbreaking reminder of what could have been.  

For all the success we see these others characters achieve, the accomplishments they’ve built out of their lives after Ash’s death, we’re left knowing that Ash himself could have been so much more.  He had every quality required to be a truly great person.  A young man who literally could have accomplished anything he wanted.  We even see early on, I think it was Inspector Jenkins, say that someday, Ash was going to win a Nobel Prize.  We see Eiji talk to Ash about not understanding what it’s like for the “have nots”, because Ash himself is so exceptionally gifted.  Max tells Ash that he gave his paper on Banana Fish to a botanist, an actual doctor of science, and the man was so blown away by what he read, he wanted immediately to know who the author was.  Ash scores at something like 98.8 % correct on a battery of impossibly difficult tests meant to determine his IQ, and it’s revealed that scoring in that percentile means he has an IQ of 200+.  Again and again, we’re shown and reminded of just how truly extraordinary Ash is.  It’s a recurring theme throughout the story, never allowed to be forgotten by the audience.  

And then, at 18 years of age, he’s killed, his life taken away from him, and all of those gifts, all of those abilities, all of those incredible possibilities are just... gone.  Vanished like dust to the wind. 

Life, too often, deals those who deserve better a cruel and merciless hand.

Ash could have been anything he wanted.  He could have accomplished anything he set his mind to.  And yet, he never is given the chance.

It’s the very definition of unfair.  Unfair to Ash, for how all those possibilities were taken from him.  Unfair to the rest of the world, robbed as it is of such an extraordinary person, and all he could have contributed to it.

But then, that’s the entire point of the story, isn’t it?  The brutal unfairness of what happens to children like Ash.  Children who slip through the cracks.  Children who are forgotten.  Children who are abused.  Nothing in Ash’s life was fair, and so then, neither is his death.

Banana Fish refuses to undermine the true depth of the damage caused by child abuse.  And for that, I think it needs to be applauded.

Ash never learns to believe in himself.  He never learns to love himself.  He can never see past the life of pain and violence which consumes him, past what he is to the rest of the world, what he believes himself to be.  A street punk.  A monster.  An animal.  A machine.  A wretched self-loathing which shatters in him all hope, all sense of a real future.

This is the true damage caused by those who abused him.  The way they twisted his perception of himself beyond all reality.  The way they destroyed his ability to see the true value of himself, of is life.  The way they destroyed his ability to see the goodness in his heart.  The way they made him hate himself.  For it is in that very inability to see himself as he really is that Ash denies himself his own future.  He doesn’t take Blanca up on his offer to go to the Caribbean.  He doesn’t go with Eiji to Japan.  He doesn’t even allow himself to say goodbye.  He stays behind, condemning himself to the only world he’s ever known.  A world of violence and despair and loneliness.  The world he believes he deserves.  And by staying in that world, Ash too condemns himself to his fate.  He’s killed at the age of 18, never to grow older, never to make something more of himself, never to accomplish all he could have with his extraordinary gifts.  

In truth, it is the people who abused Ash who condemn him to this fate.  The consequences wrought upon a boy deprived of all love and care.  The result of endless, relentless cruelty.  A child pure of heart, who when he looked at himself, could only ever see a monster.

[starlightsearches]

Office Romance: Ch. 17 Predictions

General Hux and Kylo Ren have found themselves competing for the affection of a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer.

Series Warnings: Language, some violence, near-death experiences.

Masterlist

AN: Sorry this is late! I've been dealing with a lot of doubt—about my writing, this story, and general fears of disappointing people. I'm not saying this because I want any kind of validation or praise, I'm just trying to be more honest with people because I hope you all know that it's okay to feel these things, too. It's okay if you are having a hard time. Be kind to yourselves!

This is a Hux-heavy chapter, so sorry about that for all the Ren fans. He will be back soon. Warnings for general horniness and some angst, I guess? 

General Hux was beginning to understand why Irraide was a nocturnal society. The road through the capital city was a ghost town, the vendors along the side of the street shut tight, and there was no shade to be found anywhere as the two of you walked in search of your lodgings. The sun was unrepentant in its heat, beating down like it hated him in particular, and the feeling was mutual. If Hux had known that it was going to be this bad, he would have brought an umbrella.

“I think,” you said, stopping for a moment and fanning yourself with your hand,” the place we’re looking for is just up here on the right.” Your face was red and shiny with perspiration as you glared against the sun, trying to see into the distance, and Hux was sure he looked much worse. Maybe bringing you with him was a bad idea. You began moving again, determined to get out of the heat as quickly as possible.

The lobby of the hotel was cool and dark—an immediate improvement—and almost as empty as the street outside. It was a nice space, filled with low couches and metallic lanterns, none of which were lit. Hux wouldn’t have cared if it were some kind of trash-filled hovel. He was finally out of the sun. 

“Hello!” A voice called out from a desk near the door, and Hux made his approach towards the woman, who stood when you entered, flashing a forced smile. “You must be the Haws, welcome to Belarian, the crown jewel of Irraide,” she said as she shuffled through stacks of flimsi on the desk, searching for the correct documents, and handed the general a small key.

“You’ll find your lodgings on the highest floor. Lifts are down the hall and on your left. Festivities will begin tomorrow at moonrise. We hope you enjoy your stay!” She finished imparting the information and immediately sat back down, dropping the chipper persona. You looked to Hux, confusion written all over your face. She had only given you one key.

“I’m sorry but we had two rooms reserved,” you said gingerly, and the woman looked up again, annoyed.

“That’s impossible. There was only one room available when the reservation was made. You could try somewhere else.” She emphasized her disinterest by retrieving a data pad from the desk, raising it to a height that would block both of you from her view. You turned back to the general and shrugged your shoulders.

“I guess it’s fine,” you whispered, adjusting your bag and walking towards the lifts as the woman had directed. He may have been out of the sun, but General Hux was sweating once again. Now he really regretted bringing you with him; this whole situation was bound to be unprecedentedly awkward. The lift ride was quiet and short, and Hux had to stop himself from bouncing from foot to foot, full of nervous energy. You found your room without much trouble and, unable to avoid it any longer, Hux inserted the key and turned it in the lock, opening the door to the room you would be sharing.

“Huh,” you said as you entered, looking around the small space, “could be worse.” The room—like the lobby—was dark and cool, and fairly small. There was little in the way of furniture: a night stand with a lantern on it, and a small chest for clothing. Two doors sat on the other side of the room; he assumed one was for a closet and the other led to the refresher. Thick blue curtains covered what Hux guessed was a window, and matching fabric was draped over the bed. Singular. Shit.

“According to my data pad, moonrise should be happening in about seven hours, and we should probably rest,” you said, setting down your bag and finding a seat on the edge of the bed, “do you mind if I use the refresher first?” You looked up at him, apparently unphased by this turn of events, and Hux could only nod in response, his throat tight, and he waited as you walked through the door on the other end of the room, taking your bag with you before he dared to breathe again.

In an uncharacteristic display of anxiety, Hux found himself pacing across the small area of the room that was not taken up by the bed. He didn’t have many options, but he ran through each of them anyways, hoping to find a solution that wouldn’t end with him making a fool of himself. He could stay awake and let you rest. He’d gone without sleep for longer periods of time, but he couldn’t deny the exhaustion already sitting heavy on his shoulders. He had been tired before, certainly, but the heat had made it worse, and he needed to be at his best if he was going to eliminate the target as planned. He could try to find somewhere else, but it was unlikely anything would be available, and it would mean going back out into the hellish sunshine. 

He’d sleep on the floor. That would be the best option; allow him to rest without forcing any kind of discomfort on himself or on you. 

“All done,” the refresher door opened, and you walked back into the room, hair falling wet over one of the shoulders of the black shirt you had been given to sleep in. Your legs were covered as well, and probably for the best, although Hux was curious to see what other marks Ren and his Knights had left. Maybe the anger it would cause would wipe away some of his discomfort. “It’s all yours.”

Hux made his way to the refresher, trying to calm himself with some deep breathing. He shouldn’t be panicking this much. It was just a regular mission. You were just another subordinate. Except that it wasn’t. And you weren’t.

He turned on the sanisteam, leaving the water cold, and then stepped into the stream, letting it fall against his face and hoping it would wash away more than just the sweat and grime of travel. He wouldn’t think of you, sitting on the bed, stretched out over the covers, waiting for him. He wouldn’t think about that. He would think about something else. Literally anything else. Protocol droids. The plans for Starkiller Base. The exact steps he would take to assemble and disassemble his blaster rifle. None of it worked. You stayed on his mind.

After an unprecedentedly long time, Hux finally emerged from the refresher, finding you exactly as he had imagined you would look: stretched out on one side of the bed, scrolling absentmindedly through something on your data pad. You glanced at him quickly, before returning your eyes to the screen. He still couldn’t understand how none of this bothered you. Hux shuffled awkwardly to the edge of the bed and pulled a pillow off in a fist before dropping it on the ground. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, looking up at him with curious eyes. Hux did not want to explain himself, but he knew he couldn’t avoid it.

“You can take the bed, Lieutenant,” he said, and you rolled your eyes, crawling across the mattress towards him. You moved into a sitting position, folding your legs over each other and supporting your head with one fist. Apparently Hux wasn’t going to get away with his plan without some kind of pushback.

“General, there’s plenty of room for two of us here, and I don’t mind sharing,” you began, “but if that would bother you, then I should be the one to sleep on the floor. Since you’ll be doing most of the work tomorrow.” There’s a stubborn set to your brow, and Hux paused, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t going to force you onto the floor for his sake, but he also didn’t want to argue with you about the pros and cons of sharing. You could see his resolve crumbling, and you moved back to the other side of the bed, patting it with one hand. An invitation.

“If you’re sure it’s not an issue,” he said, placing the pillow back on the mattress and laying down. The bed was large enough that he could rest comfortably without touching you, or even coming close, thankfully, but he’s not willing to relax just yet. Satisfied, you lay back on top of the blanket, closing your eyes. The room was warm enough still that you could sleep above the covers, and he’s glad because there’s already an acute sense of claustrophobia sharing a space like this.

Hux knew that he should rest, but he found himself looking at you instead. You were asleep, or at least it looked like you were—your face relaxed an untroubled, one arm resting across your abdomen, rising and falling with your slow deep breaths. Hux has never been able to fall asleep that easily, but he’s not surprised that you could; you had a right to be tired after everything you’d been dealing with. Seeing you this way allowed him to relax as well, and he's lost in thought, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Why was he so afraid of this? Not just this but being with you in any capacity. It’s not like there hadn’t been other women, although that had been a very long time ago, when he was younger—and those had been transactional, business-like experiences. He had never shared a bed with someone before. 

For the first time, Hux was forced to confront his feelings for you head-on. Admiring you from afar was one thing, and working with you was another, but this, this was different. This was sacred. Hux had never been comfortable with the idea of love. It always felt . . . manipulative. Anyone who had showed any kind of care for him always wanted something from him. And now that he’s this close to something that could be love . . . what if he ruined it? What if he lost it? He had always known that it was possible that you didn’t feel the same way, but now he has to wonder what that rejection would do to him. How would he come back from it.

None of these thoughts were easy, but the discomfort was distant, blurred by the haze of sleep. These, Hux thought, were problems for another time. For now, he needed to rest. 

As much as you hated it in the beginning, you had to admit that Irraide was beautiful, once the sun had gone down. You woke up just in time to watch the it set outside the window of your room, filling you with a glittering excitement, and then you and the general were off to participate in the festivities before carrying out your plan of attack.

The night was cool on your skin, and a breeze blew by, raising goosebumps on your arms as you exited the hotel. The dress that had been provided to you was long and loose, covering your arms and legs, but the material was thin and fluttered in the wind, pushing its way up against your skin and wrapping around your legs.  All around you, the streets were filled with people, all looking as eager and excited as you felt. You and the general merged with the group, headed to the city’s main thoroughfare, where the real party was taking place.

The street was lined with lanterns that guided the way deeper into the city, and as you walked the buildings grew taller and more elaborate. You lifted your gaze skyward, staring at the structures as they reached towards the moon. The whole galaxy, all the stars in the system, were made invisible by its light, impossibly bright and bathing the everything below in a golden glow. You wanted this memory burned into your mind, and you drank in every detail, so focused that you lost your footing, stumbling over the uneven streets and knocking into the man ahead of you. You righted yourself, flashing an embarrassed look at the general, and he reached out to you, gingerly sneaking a hand around your waist.

“Don’t worry dear,” he said, “ I’ll watch where we're going.” You froze for a moment, before you remembered. You were engaged. Well, Valbry was engaged, and you were supposed to be her. Normally, you took pride in your acting abilities, but there was something about the way the general’s hand pressed into your side that made you feel too much like yourself—almost exposed somehow, and you could no longer focus on the beautiful sights around you, totally present.

Hux’s hand slipped gently away from you, and you looked up at him. He’s concerned, you could see, but you shook your head minutely, moving closer into the crook of his arm. You could do this. It was all an act. Part of a disguise, just another mission. So why was your heart racing?

You adjusted to the feeling of being Valbry, and the gentle pressure of the general’s body against yours, as you approached the center of the city. The walkway was lined with living statues, real people dripping in gold, grouped together on pedestals and depicting stories and people you had never heard of: Soz Granting the Final Wish, Kendra and Her Sword, The Attack of Gris and His Nine. Similarly painted people were moving through the crowd handing out small golden circlets to the guests.

“For you,” one said, as she approached, forcing a small golden band into your hand, “Soz honors all her daughters!” You admired the thin golden crown for a moment before placing it on your head, where it rested, surprisingly heavy.

“How do I look?” you asked, turning to the general with a flirtatious smile.

“Regal,” he responded, but you didn’t think he was acting. And the blush that spread over your face wasn’t an act either.

The festival was, in a word, dreamlike, like your feet barely touched the ground as you and the general wandered through the many streets. There were dancers, plays, street-performers and magicians everywhere you looked, each act more incredible than the last, and the food—you had never tasted anything like it. The meals on the Finalizer were fine, but now you were sure everything you ate from this point on would taste like dirt in comparison, and you sampled everything that you saw.

The night drew longer, and you began to feel the ache in your legs and your feet. Sensing your discomfort, Hux decided that you should split up, as he went in search of some fantastic smelling dessert you had seen another couple devouring, and you stayed in a little courtyard, resting your legs. It was a small area, about half the size of the hotel room you were staying in, and almost completely obscured from the main road by large, wild plants with leaves that rustled against each other despite the stillness of the air. 

You adjusted your shoes, wincing as they rubbed against the blisters you were sure had already formed, when you heard the sound of footsteps enter the small space.

“That was fast,” you said, looking up, but it was not the general in front of you. The woman who had entered stayed silent, studying you with a small frown.

“Hello child,” she said as she approached. Her skin was tan and smooth, and dotted with freckles, but despite her youthful appearance, you got the feeling that she was much older than she looked. Her form was covered completely in a dress made of thick silver fabric that shrouded her shape, but the way she moved spoke to power and strength. These details you took in with only passing interest; her eyes were certainly the most striking feature. Each was decorated with a painted design, three prongs slashed over her skin like rays of light, the left in white, and the right in black, which mirrored her actual eyes. One was entirely dark, and the other milky. You weren’t sure if she could see out of either of them.

“May I sit?” she asked, staring at you unblinking, and you nodded before you considered her possible blindness. Apparently she could see, because she joined you on the bench, resting her hands behind her and leaning back.

“Who are you?” you asked, studying her as her gaze flitted around the courtyard. You tried to decide if she was a threat, but there was something about her that defied any attempt you might make to define her. It left you stunned.

“I am a priestess,” she responded with a voice like water, “for the goddess Soz. And I am here to impart on you a wish.” The prospect sounded exciting, but you hesitated. Could you trust her? You still couldn’t say, but you leaned in. It wouldn’t hurt to stay for a little longer.

“What can I wish for?” You wanted to hear her speak again, hoping she would look at you again with those strange eyes. 

“You don’t wish for anything,” she replied, “I will give you what you need.” 

“What I need?” As far as you knew, you didn’t really need anything in the moment, except for maybe better shoes.

“What we all need,” she said, raising one eyebrow for emphasis, the white lines of face paint stretching, and for a moment, they looked like scars.

“I don’t understand.” Annoyance flared up in your mind cutting through the fog of her power; she was purposefully speaking in circles, trying to confuse you.

“I am offering you knowledge,” she said, “as a gift. No payment.”

“I think I’m alright,” you said, moving to leave the courtyard. Talk of payment made you nervous, even if she said it wasn’t necessary “I don’t believe in fortune-tellers.”

“But you believe in the force?” she asked, and you froze, every alarm system in your body screaming. How did she know? “I can sense that you do. Come sit with me, and I will tell you something. You have an important decision to make.” You had no idea what she was talking about, but now you had to know. If you left, it would certainly drive you insane.

“What decision?” you asked, and she reached for your hand. Her skin was cold against your own, so cold that you tried to pull away but her grip was strong as she stared straight ahead, as if she could see something in the distance that you could not.

“I cannot tell you that, but you will know soon enough.” Her response had you irritated all over again, and you tried to stand but she held you in place.

“Here is what I can tell you,” she said, looking at you once again, and you could see yourself reflected in both her eyes, “there are more choices than you might think. It is not always one or the other. Do not act rashly.” Her grip loosened on your fingers, left bloodless and buzzing from the strength of her hold, and you shook your hand out, trying to restore some of the feeling. When you looked up, she was already gone.

The alcove was empty once again, but there’s a strange feeling sitting with you now, like the place had been tainted—like it’s unsafe to stay there. You stood from the bench, hurrying out of the space and back into the crowded street, breathing a sigh of relief, but the fear still clung to you like a virus. The feeling dissipated a little when you see Hux approaching.

“Hello again,” you said, taking one of his arms in yours. Part of it was for the act, but you’re grateful that you were together again. You didn’t want to be alone anymore after such a strange encounter. “Any luck?” He smiled gently, shrugging.

“Couldn’t find it anywhere, but that’s probably for the best,” he said, leading you back the way you had come, “I think it’s time for us to be headed home.” You had hardly noticed before, but the sun was once again rising, glimmers of bright light streaking up through the night sky. It was time.

Tags: @acunningstargazer​, @itsa-pseudonym, @ddaeing, @dark-night-sky-99, @i-jus-wanna-writehappy​, @fresa-luna, @leiadelreyy, @averillian, @sunbanna

[starryeyedkoo]

Genre: badboy!au, gang!au, college!au, angst!!, fluff

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Warnings: mature language, alcohol use (including mention of underage drinking which i do not condone), violence, minor character death, brief mention of addiction, tsundere jungkook, (cheesy) angst around every. corner. (seriously it never stops i’m sorry)

Word Count: 22.9k (here we go again i’m so sorry)

“Do you regret it?” “What?” “Falling in love with me? It feels like I only weigh you down.” “I’ll let you pull me down to the depths of hell if that’s what it means to love you.”

a/n: this story is just cliche after cliche… because i’m a hoe for cliches, so hopefully it’s not too much hehe. this fic was really self-indulgent and dramatic so be warned !! also this fic was inspired by the dialogue i wrote above (which actually didn’t even make it into the story) and these songs: Harder by Oliver Riot and Someone to Stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic

You tapped the end of your pencil on the surface of the desk you sat at in an attempt to keep your eyes from drooping shut while you worked on the last few problems of your Statistics test. Your ears zeroed in on every sound present in the room, including the flipping of a page coming from behind you, the sniffling from the boy across the room that has been a persistent provocation for the last hour and a half, and also the boy sitting a seat away from you who huffed out a breath and sent you an irritated glance. You pursed your lips and quickly steadied the grasp of your pencil before it became an even bigger annoyance to him.

After what felt like an excruciatingly long hour and a half, you had finally made it to the end of your test with each problem filled out and just a few seconds to spare. Once time was called, you were quick to make your way to turn in your packet and then you turned straight towards the exit. Just as you were only a few meager steps in front of the professor’s desk, he called you over asking if he could speak with you. “Ms. _____, how was the test?” You stopped short, a little confused as to why he had stopped you from walking straight out of there. Before you could produce an easy answer to quickly end the conversation, he interrupted you, “Please feel free to let me know if you need some extra help. I know statistics isn’t easy, so I understand if you’re struggling a bit.”

Your brows drew together in confusion and you glanced around the room at the last lucky students making their way out before you could, each of them dropping their test packets on the corner of his desk and turning the other way. “What makes you think I need help?” You flashed a pleasant smile to maintain respect towards your teacher.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, the curriculum of our university is especially challenging, and I know it may be a bit of a strain for you,” he offered, gesturing towards you in what you were sure was of a demeaning nature.

The smile melted off your face and you found it difficult to keep your lips from turning down in disbelief. “It’s not too different from anything I’ve had to do before.”

“Is that so?” your professor inquired with a doubtful smirk creeping onto his face, and that had been the last straw.

“Actually,” you corrected, suddenly feeling brave and bold enough to defend yourself, “I believe my private high school’s rigor was much more difficult to tolerate than this, but thank you for your concern.” Your false thankfulness did not extend to your facial features, lips turned into a scowl. “Believe it or not, sir, I made it into this university through hard work, not just connections and thick stacks of cash.” You slammed your test paper down onto his desk, making daring eye contact with him for only a moment before turning to take your leave. “Have a nice day,” you bid him sarcastically, striding out the exit.

As soon as you were far enough to overcome the blinding frustration you had just unleashed, you quickly realized you would most likely regret giving your teacher that attitude, but honestly, he deserved it. Screw him.

After anger came the frustration that you had been facing since you enrolled in this university that had been beating down on you like heavy rain, slowly wearing you out the longer you had to withstand it. Nearly everyone you met would soon make the connection between you and your family name and make assumptions about you, several of them nasty. Your least favorite of the rumors however, and maybe it was because it was the most frequent, was that you paid your way into university. For some reason, people couldn’t seem to fathom the idea of you having a functioning brain, and you were getting sick of it.

During your walk, the sky creeped open and rain began to drizzle down, further dampening your mood. Then in the distance, quickly becoming louder, you heard the boom of the bass from the speakers of a car. Next thing you knew, you saw a convertible with its top down coming down the road, filled to more than its full capacity with young men, and just as you had expected it slowed as it was about to pass you. “Hey, little lady, why don’t you come for a ride with us?” one of the boys offered slyly.

You refused to even pretend to play along though, and instead you just put in your earphones and turned your music up to max volume to drown them out until they had enough fun and turned around. It definitely was not the first time that had happened. Frequently, actually, boys would cross over into this side of town and entertain themselves by messing with the snooty, rich folk. You couldn’t blame them, to be honest. Sometimes you felt the same way. Sometimes, you wished you could disassociate yourself with everything that had to do with this city and start something new where no one had any idea who you or your family were.

You were feeling bored, unfulfilled… You really weren’t sure what it was, but you were feeling just as gray and lifeless as the cloudy sky. The concrete streets and buildings of the city. Even the river’s flowing water displayed a dead, sooty color under the gloomy sky. You began to wonder if your eyes were one day going to reflect the same shade.

“No! Absolutely not! This is ridiculous!” Your mother barked, angrily pressing her finger harshly down onto the remote’s power button as the screen of the television went dark. The news anchor had just been reporting on today’s commencement of the new policy enacted by your city to allow ‘free entry of especially gifted students from less fortunate communities’ into the most prestigious university in your city. “I am paying way too much money to send you to this school to keep you away from these thugs, and now they get to waltz on in there for absolutely no charge?”

By ‘thugs’ she meant, of course, the people from the west side of the city. You barely suppressed the eye roll that crept up on you. “If you really wanted me away from them, you should have let me leave the city like I wanted.”

“Yeah, you far enough away where I can’t keep an eye on you? That won’t be happening.” She shook her head disapprovingly before returning her attention to her laptop, typing away at the keyboard. Suddenly, her phone began to ring, and she quickly scooped it up, composing herself before answering with a business-like greeting and excusing herself from the room.

You sighed, checking your phone for the time, the digital numbers indicating that you had thirty-five minutes until your morning lecture on photography, so you placed your plate in the sink, leaving it for the cleaning service to take care of when they came later in the day, as they did every other day. You scooped up your bag and slipped your shoes on, calling to your mother who was most likely already in her office, “Okay, Mom, I’m heading out!” No response. You gave a quick sigh before mumbling to yourself, “Bye.”

Because your house was conveniently located in the busy part of town, and the university stood just outside the business district, it was a relatively short walk, only about twenty minutes long. Your mother insisted she could have her driver take you to and from classes, but you denied. You would much rather walk than draw more attention to yourself and risk looking like a spoiled brat, even though your college was mostly comprised of students who came from wealthy families like you had.

You quickly decided that stopping for a coffee on the way to class was a poor decision on your part now that you were ever so casually speeding down the last block to get there in time. You were heading to the row just a few back from the front as you always did when you spotted an unfamiliar face in the very seat you had claimed since the beginning of the semester. The rest of the row was practically empty since this was a fairly small class. He seriously couldn’t have picked any other spot?

You slowly approached, careful to keep a friendly smile on your face, especially since he seemed to be a new student. You set your bag in the seat next to him before speaking quietly, “Excuse me, but would you mind moving down a few seats? This is usually where I sit.”

The boy looked up from under his black bangs that fell over his forehead. “Aren’t there plenty of other seats to choose from?” he deadpanned, looking up and down the nearly empty row of seats. The polite smile faltered for a moment before you exaggerated it even more.

“I suppose there are…” you reluctantly agreed through clenched teeth, picking up your bag and moving yourself down a few seats from the boy who was now fiddling with his camera he had brought to class. Just moments later, your professor came in, greeting the class and beginning the lecture. You quickly brought out your notebook and your own camera, and you noticed the eyes of the boy sitting next to you staring intently at your camera. Brows turning down in petty dislike for this new student, you brought your hand up to take the strap and pull it closer to you, not afraid to let him to see your scowl.

After another very long and confusing photography lecture, you were once again puzzled by the assignment you had been given and you reluctantly had to ask your professor for help before you left the classroom. You didn’t think this class would be so difficult. You only took it as an elective for an easy A, but instead it ended up being much more complicated than you had initially anticipated. No matter how much you played around, you couldn’t figure out how to get the perfect picture with the right details like everyone else could. “Professor Choi,” you called for her attention. She looked up from the stack of papers she was arranging at her desk while you slung your bag over your shoulder and approached her with hurried steps. “I just had a quick question about exactly how to use—”

“Ms. _____, I’m sorry, but I cannot keep answering your questions about the functions of your camera. This should be prior knowledge or something to study and experiment with in your own time. If you need help, you should consider getting advice from another student who is more well-versed with a camera.” She suddenly looked behind you and you followed her gaze, finding the same boy still lingering, finally leaving from where he sat. “Like Mr. Jeon, for example,” she gestured to him, and his head perked up at the sound of his name. “He’s one of our new students from the Prodigy Program, Jeon Jungkook, and he possesses extraordinary photography skills. He would be an excellent resource for help. Mr. Jeon, how do you feel about that?”

You were quick to wave your hands in protest, voicing, “No, that’s really not necessary.”

“According to your dropping grade, I believe it is necessary, Ms. _____,” she spoke over the rim of her glasses. You felt your cheeks burn red in humiliation, catching a glimpse of the boy fighting back a smug grin. “Mr. Jeon, please tutor her in the class. She would surely appreciate it. Ms. _____, perhaps you can show him around campus and get him accustomed to the new surroundings in return.”

You stayed silent, listening to the clicking of her heels as she left the both of you behind in the empty classroom. It was silent and stiff, and you were still chewing on your bottom lip in embarrassment, especially in front of the boy with whom you had just hit it off poorly an hour prior. Jungkook suddenly cleared his throat and began to speak, but you had no interest in what he was about to say, so you shoved past him and left without a word.

You almost considered not showing up to the next class, but you swallowed your pride and walked through those doors and quickly made your way to the back corner of the room. You were sure you felt Jungkook’s eyes follow you as you passed by your usual row, where he still sat in your seat. You barely even cared anymore, though. He could have it. You would much rather finish the semester hidden in the back of the classroom.

You took no time in leaving once class was over, heading out the door to quickly reach the fresh air of the outside where you didn’t feel like you had to hold your breath, not forgetting to shoot a glare to Professor Choi as you passed by her desk. You made sure you had enough time to get to class today by choosing to not get a coffee before class started, so you decided now would be the best time to do so. You crossed through the courtyard to get to your usual cafe just outside of the campus.

Once you sat down, you brought out your laptop and your camera in order to finally figure out how this thing worked. You should have done it earlier, but you were discouraged so you let the problem fester for a few more days before finally attacking it. You were fiddling around with a few of the functions that you were reading about on your computer, desperately trying to figure out how to make your pictures look professional. You were finally able to focus once your coffee was ready, but you were once again distracted when you felt eyes on you and you looked up to search around. That’s when you spotted familiar dark bangs under a black hoodie. You quickly looked back down, hoping he hadn’t noticed you, but you soon realized he was sauntering directly over to the table you sat at.

He dropped himself down onto the chair across from yours, but he only sat there, waiting for you to say something first. “Can I help you?” you offered grumpily.

“No, but I can help you.” He still stared with the nonchalant, blank expression, which for some reason made his presence even more irritating. You ignored his offer and instead became accusing.

“How did you even know I was here? Did you follow me or something?” You looked him over suspiciously.

An impassive smirk grew on one side of his lips. “I may have seen you come this way.” You scoffed, still wondering why he would have gone out of his way to come here. “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’m new around here. I’ve got no one to talk to.”

You raised a brow in disbelief. “So you came to talk to me?”

His lips suddenly turned down and his playful demeanor switched off. He leaned forward in his chair, his voice suddenly holding a deeper tone as he spoke lowly, “What, is the pretty little rich girl too good for me?” You were suddenly taken aback and your eyes went round. “Surprised?” he continued with an angry snort. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. People around campus seem to like to talk about you.”

Your shoulders drooped at the thought. “Yeah, they sure do,” you sighed, suddenly frustrated at your unavoidable reputation within your school. “I guess that’s what happens when your dad is the founder of one of the biggest tech supplier companies in Korea. Well… was. My mom took his place as CEO now, but technically it’s—” You noticed you began rambling and had already said way more than you needed to, so you quickly clamped your mouth shut, but you couldn’t stop yourself from opening it again to ramble nervously. “Sorry, I don’t know why I even brought that up,” you laughed lamely, leaning back into your seat.

Jungkook straightened himself up suddenly and his voice became strangely unnatural. “Tech supplier, huh?” You noticed something seemed rather insincere, as if his mind was preoccupied. “What about your dad? Where is he now?” He suddenly inquired casually.

Your brows shot up for only a moment before your form deflated when you answered his question. “He’s… He’s dead, actually.”

Jungkook’s eyes suddenly widened before he mumbled, “I’m sorry.” He looked remorseful, but his eyes were also unfocused and distracted, making you unsure if you should actually take his condolences seriously.

You squinted your eyes in confusion, but you ignored the weird feeling it gave you. You gave a quick smile, picking yourself up and moving on from the topic. “It’s alright. It happened a long time ago.”

Jungkook’s eyes focused back on you after he shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Anyways,” he began, steering away from the saddening subject, “I’ll help you if you need me to.”

You debated the decision for a moment, but with one look back at the indecipherable directions on the screen of your computer, you decided getting his help would be the best option. “You know what, I would actually love your help,” you sighed, taking the last sip of your coffee. You looked at the time and realized that it had been much later than you anticipated, and knowing your mother, you would soon be receiving frantic messages and phone calls wondering where you were. “But can I take a raincheck on that? I should really be going.” You gave an apologetic smile, quickly packing up your things into your backpack and waving goodbye before you hurried back home.

After the next class, you both walked to the cafe together where Jungkook would give his first lesson on how to use a camera properly and how to take the perfect picture. You smiled while sitting down after you both ordered a drink. “Again, I’m sorry that you have to spend your time teaching me how to use a camera. I can’t believe I have to get tutored in photography of all things.”

“There’s no shame in a bad grade,” he impassively remarked, hanging his leather jacket over the back of his chair before sitting across from you. “Also, not to call you out or anything, but if you want to learn more, it’s probably not the best idea to sit in the back corner during class,” he lazily raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged your shoulders, agreeing, “Yeah that’s probably true, but it’s not easy getting humiliated by your professor.”

Jungkook’s lips turned down in nonchalance. “Why do you even care what she says? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

You looked down and traced the lines in the wood that made the table with your finger. “Yeah. I guess I’m just tired of my professors thinking that I don’t belong in this school. Most of them seem to think I’m only here because I paid my way in, and that I don’t have any actual brains,” you scowled.

He sat there, face contorted in a mix of several different emotions, but he seemed apprehensive to express what he was thinking. Usually, you would feel like an idiot if someone reacted that way to anything you said, but there was something about Jungkook doing it that made it… not so bad? You had a feeling he wasn’t the type to be a fan of “deep conversations” like these, judging by the awkward hesitance as his face twitched in thought, seemingly unable to let any expression through his ever-calm-and-collected front.

Jungkook brushed it off and suddenly he reached across the table to bring your camera closer to him to examine. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He played around with a few of the buttons and twisted the lense this way and that, looking through the viewfinder, then he shook his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable! I knew I recognized the model. You’ve got the best fucking camera money can buy and you don’t even know how to use it.” You would have been offended, but then you saw the small smile that appeared on his lips, and it was the first time you had seen one that was genuine, so you stayed quiet and let him enjoy the moment. “God, I would kill for one of these…” He continued looking through the viewfinder and snapping a few pictures for what now seemed like his own amusement instead of figuring out how it worked.

“Yeah, you really seem to like it,” you smirked, waiting patiently for him to be satisfied. He froze at your remark and quickly set the camera down, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. You couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly he wiped that smile from his face when he was caught breaking his tough exterior.

He quickly wet his lips and straightened up in his seat as he began his lesson. “Okay then, let’s start with the basics.” You nodded eagerly, excited to finally gain some knowledge about a camera and hopefully be able to use it decently from now on. “The first thing you should know about is exposure. There’s three elements that make up exposure and those are aperture, shutter speed, and the ISO,” he slowly explained, pointing to each of the places on the camera that controlled each of these elements. You tried your best to follow along, but you found yourself getting distracted by the rings Jungkook wore on his fingers, and then your eyes traveled over his alarmingly good-looking hands and up the veins that ran up his forearm and suddenly you couldn’t hear a word he was saying. You shook your head lightly, trying to tune back in to Jungkook’s teaching, and this time you actually focused on his voice, but not necessarily the words it produced, but the velvety smooth sound of it.

No. This was not happening. You nervously downed the rest of your cooling coffee and looked at your phone in a panic, attempting to reel yourself back in. “You okay?” he asked in confusion, eyes flickering between you and your empty coffee cup when you unintentionally slammed it down onto the table.

Your eyes widened as you shook your head in dismissal. “N-no! I mean, yes! Everything’s fine.” He narrowed his gaze at you in doubt, but he didn’t bother to push it anyway. “Listen,” you began, eyes darting away from his gaze nervously, picking up your phone and looking for an excuse. “I actually am running short on time. I should be going.”

“I thought you had until—”

You gathered your things before standing up, chair screeching against the tiled floors. “I know,” you interrupted, wearing a guilty smile, “but my mom just texted me and she needs me.” You started toward the exit before skidding to a stop and turning back to him, still sitting there a little dumbfounded. “Can we meet after next class? No interruptions this time, I promise.” He answered with a simple nod, so you waved goodbye and pushed your way through the exit, taking a large sigh of relief once you had reached safety.

You felt bad that you had looked for an excuse to see him again, but you couldn’t help it. As much as you hated to admit it, he was undeniably attractive, and honestly, it was already driving you crazy. Besides, he still has to teach you about your camera, and you felt bad that you cut his lesson off, but you had to get out of there or else you may have lost it. You weren’t supposed to be getting distracted by a pretty face! No one had ever been able to so easily mess with your mind, but Jungkook wasn’t just anyone. He was mysterious and confusing and alluring and you were falling for it just like a cheesy romance novel protagonist. And that was terrifying because what would your mother think? You don’t know why you thought that really mattered, though. It’s just physical attraction and that can easily be ignored.

Turns out being physically attracted to someone is not so easily ignored. Here you were at the cafe sitting across from Jungkook, still completely and utterly blown away by the natural beauty of this man in front of you that you had never bothered to notice in anyone else. Not to mention, it only became more difficult to ignore that ticklish feeling in your stomach now that you’ve gotten to know him and the little quirks in his personality that he seems to suppress almost naturally, making you wonder how long he’s had to put up a front throughout his life.

“I’ve got you all figured out,” Jungkook insisted, pointing a finger in your direction, successfully snapping you out of your troubling internal monologue.

You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back with a challenging brow lifted. “Is that so?” You were much less timid than you had been the first time Jungkook had tried to teach you photography basics. You two had met several times now, and things had slowly become more natural between the two of you You came to enjoy his company, and you hoped it was safe to assume the same on his end. You still passed these meetings at the cafe off as “study sessions,” but you rarely got any tutoring done anymore, opting instead for conversation over a cup of coffee. Does that make you two friends? You weren’t exactly sure for yourself, and that was something you would never actually ask Jungkook, knowing he would probably find it awkward to actually talk about, even if he did consider you a friend.

“You’re just like the main character of all those cliche movies,” he explained, bringing you down from your cloudy thoughts yet again. “You’re the sheltered, well-behaved daughter who wants to rebel by doing something like getting a secret tattoo or falling for the bad boy. Tell me, am I irresistible?” He wore a cocky smirk that you were so tempted to wipe off with a slap to the face in your embarrassment, though you couldn’t help but laugh anyway. Your face burned crimson, which you hoped wouldn’t give you away, because right now, you were afraid he was dead on.

You searched desperately for a response to get him back, but as far as you knew, he was unbreakable, so you were forced to give up and retreat. “Yeah, right! I’m going to get my coffee,” you mumbled, standing up in attempt to escape and recuperate.

“Don’t worry. I already ordered it for you,” his voice came from behind. It was unusually soft compared to his normally gruff tone, and he looked out the window instead of at you. Was it just you or was he… shy?

“Oh!” you abruptly swiveled back, seeing a cup already placed on your side of the table. You picked it up to examine, looking for the markings to show its ingredients. “Is it—”

“It’s just the way you like it. I promise.”

You began digging through your purse in search of your wallet. “Let me pay you back, then,” you offered, pulling out a ten dollar bill when you were unable to find any smaller bills, not minding if he had to keep the change.

“No, don’t worry about it. My treat.” He shook his head, making no moves toward the cash held out in front of him.

“No, really take it,” you insisted, holding out the money, practically shoving it into his grip, but he only waved your hand away. “It’s the least I can do. You’re already helping me out for nothing in return.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got money—maybe not as much as you, princess—but it’s enough to keep me going.” You hated that his nickname had such an immediate effect on you, causing the same blush to reappear on your face. You didn’t want to draw more of his attention to you while your face was on fire, so you quickly gave up, retracting your hand and putting the money back into your wallet with a deep sigh. Jungkook perked up with an idea suddenly, leaning his forearms onto the table as he spoke. “Actually, I do have a way you could pay me back.” You nodded, waiting for his request. “I have a paper due for English 101 on Monday, and that class isn’t my strong suit. You’re good at English, right? Could you help me out with that?”

“Sure, I can look over that and help you revise it if you need me to. Have you finished so I can go ahead and look over it now?” you asked, already waiting for him to bring out his computer and show you his finished product.

You watched his tongue roll on the inside of his cheek and met his eyes that only held a blank stare. “I haven’t started.”

“What?” you shrieked. “Jungkook! That paper is due in two days, and you have none of it done? Those aren’t easy to rush, you know.” You scolded him, and he fluttered his eyes shut, exhaling slowly, as if he had expected that exact reaction from you. He only shrugged as a response, making you even more frustrated with the boy. “Okay, well I guess we need to meet up tomorrow to get that done, but the cafe’s closed on Sundays, so maybe we should meet in the courtyard.” You looked to him for any sort of confirmation or objection, but he only continued to listen uninterestedly, eliciting an exasperated huff from you. “Sure, we’ll do that. A little fresh air could do us some good anyway. Meet me at six.”

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t put just a little bit of effort into your appearance today. Definitely not because you were meeting Jungkook, though. You just didn’t have to wake up as early as usual, so you just happened to feel like putting on makeup and planning a nicer outfit as opposed to a hoodie and leggings like you wear for almost every single class.

You texted Jungkook to meet you at the right-most bench in the courtyard at six, but it was now almost a quarter after and there was still no sign of him. You slowly grew more impatient as each minute passed by and it took a considerable amount of effort to keep yourself from sending him a second text asking him where he was. Finally, you saw him jogging towards you from the path adjacent to where you sat, making you breathe in relief and you were about to berate him, but you quickly stopped yourself after one look at his dishevelled state and his slight limp that wasn’t hard to miss. Your eyes trailed him up and down in concern as you quickly stood up to meet him. “What the hell happened to you?” you asked, hands twitching by your sides as you fought the urge to brush away the hair hanging down in his face.

He beat you to it, luckily, as he swept his hair back and shook his head, dismissing the matter. “It’s nothing. I was just in a hurry. Sorry I’m late.” He plopped down onto the bench and you followed just after, still keeping your eyes trained on him in worry. When you put your hand down, you felt it land on top of his own, so you quickly picked it back and and instinctually looked down to wear his hand propped up his upper body and you didn’t miss the blot of scarlet on his knuckles.

You didn’t hesitate in taking his hand into your own now, bringing it up to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you. “You’re bleeding!” you pointed out to him, looking at the red that painted each of his knuckles.

He hummed, taking a careless glance before quickly wiping it off on his jeans, leaving a stain that your eyes focused on in disbelief before directing your rounded eyes back up to his face. He squinted at your reaction, clearly not nearly as interested as you were. “What? I was in a rush, and I fell. That’s all,” he insisted, opening his laptop to move on and get started on his paper.

Your eyes zeroed in on the skin just below his eye that was beginning to take on a dark hue. “I’d believe you if your eye weren’t turning blue right now.” His hand came up to touch his eye without thinking and you could see that he barely winced before he shook his head and continued to open up a document on his computer. You continued to stare patiently, but he made no move to relieve your concerns. “Are you gonna tell me what happened or not?”

He scoffed, clicking his tongue with eyes still focused on the screen in front of him. “I already did. The black eye is because my face hit the ground.” He turned to you to still find you scrutinizing him, but he chose to ignore it and get straight into writing the essay. He began to read the prompt aloud until he stopped when he felt a large drop of water fall onto his cheek, and at just about the same moment, you felt the same on your thigh. You both looked up and saw the dark clouds that had drifted in from a distance. Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch to go right on cue, the sky opened up and rain came crashing down on the city with a crack of thunder to top it all off.

After only a few moments, you were already much too wet for your own liking, so you dragged Jungkook behind you to the nearest awning of a building to stand under. “Great,” you murmured, already shivering from the chill of your damp clothes. “Now what are we gonna do?”

Jungkook sighed and looked out at the droplets that poured down just a few inches in front of him while drying off the screen of his laptop with his shirt. “You know, it’s okay. I’ll figure something out. You don’t have to help.”

“No. I want to help. I need to after how much you’ve helped me,” you insisted. You tapped your chin in thought of a place to seek refuge from the rain, and the only place that came to mind was home. Home, however, was a risk since there was the chance that your mother would be home, but she usually worked even on Sundays, and you didn’t think there was any reason she wouldn’t be working today, so you decided that would be your best option. “We can go to my place to write this.”

You heard Jungkook mutter behind you, but you couldn’t make out what he said as you built up enough courage and went back out into the cold rain. You glanced behind you to see Jungkook hastily stuffing his laptop back into his bag and reluctantly following behind. Your teeth began to chatter and you crossed your arms over your chest to maintain some body heat. You heard Jungkook’s quiet voice, not quite able to understand what he had said, but he pulled you closer to him and had taken his leather jacket off, now holding it over both of your heads to keep the heavy flow of rain from beating down on you any longer. You blushed at the thoughtful act and your whole body began to feel warmer within moments.

Suddenly what you were sure would be a long, miserable walk went by much faster than you had expected, except for the fact that a jacket could only do so much and you were both still soaking wet and cold. You unlocked the front door and kicked off your soggy shoes, and Jungkook followed, and you told him to wait where he was on the doormat. You came back with a towel for each of you to dry off with. You wrapped the plush cloth around you tightly after squeezing out your dripping hair. To be honest, you hadn’t really thought this far ahead, so now you both stood in the doorway wondering what to do with your still very wet bodies that could easily damage the expensive furniture in your house.

You heard the front door just behind Jungkook begin to open and he quickly stepped out of the way before getting hit with it. Your heart dropped. It was your mother. She took in the scene with a bewildered appearance, eyes drifting from you, soaking wet with eyes like those of a deer caught in headlights to the equally damp boy with the leather jacket, forming black eye, and blood stain on his jeans.

“_____, who’s this?” she inquired with a strained smile, eyes flickering between the two of you. You had a feeling Jungkook could easily sense the tension because you saw him shift awkwardly between his feet.

“Mom, I didn’t think you’d be home. This is Jungkook. I’m helping him with English. We’re in the same class.”

“Oh, you go to college with _____? Where are you from Jungkook?” You could see from the look in her eye that she was testing him. She already knew, but she never thought that you would actually be dumb enough to bring someone like him into her house.

There was a moment of silence where you could tell he was thinking carefully about what to say, and you tried to step in and answer for him with something safe that you hoped your mother would accept and maybe even make her think her assumption was wrong—although that was entirely unlikely—but he spoke over you. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with my part of town. It’s west of the river.” You shrunk when you saw the forced smile slide off your mother’s features. You glanced to Jungkook. You never would have guessed from the calmness of his voice, but there was a certain challenging glint in his eyes.

“I see. I never thought I’d see the day when my daughter brought someone like you into my home.” She gave you a once over and you fluttered your eyes shut in shame that you knew you had no reason to feel and shouldn’t be feeling, but that look on your mother’s face never failed to make you feel guilty for absolutely anything.

Jungkook’s tongue poked into his cheek and he laughed dryly. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll keep my grubby hands to myself.” Your mother’s eyes widened at his rebellious response, and you quickly ushered him up the stairs to prevent any other confrontation that might have occurred had you not intervened.

Once you reached the top of the stairs and achieved peace for the present moment, you led Jungkook to your bedroom and quickly shut the door behind you, dragging your hands down your face in embarrassment and guilt and frustration and... you weren’t even sure what you were feeling at the moment. Jungkook still wore a scowl on his face when you peeked through your fingers,  and he spoke, “No offense, but your mom’s kind of a bitch.”

You groaned and kept your hands where they covered your face, too afraid to meet his intense gaze. “I know. I’m so sorry.” You finally let your hands fall to your sides, defeatedly. “I didn’t think she would be home, so I didn't think we would have this problem.”

You were at a loss for words, disappointed and embarrassed, until you finally let out in a small voice, “She’s not really like that, or at least she wasn’t always. She’s just hurt.” Jungkook didn’t even have to make a move before you elaborated, hopeful to give him some sort of explanation he would accept. “My father was killed by a gang member from the other side of town, and she just hasn’t been the same since.”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook said equally as quietly as his eyes shifted to the ground. You saw his jaw clench and realized you were probably making him uncomfortable, so you dropped yourself onto your plush bed and patted the space beside you to beckon him to follow.

“Let’s get started on this paper, then,” you began jovially, although it was obvious to the both of you that the change of mood was at least partially forced.

Jungkook took slow steps to join you where you sat and released a quick sigh. “We’re not all like that.” Jungkook’s fingers were intertwined with each other while his elbows rested on his knees and his head was facing you, yet his eyes did not meet your own.

A soft, guilty smile grew on your lips. “It’s okay. I know.” You chewed on your bottom lip, lost in thought after your failure to divert from the subject. You were determined this time, however, as you motioned for him to bring out his laptop, asking, “Alright. What’s your topic?”

He laid his computer on his lap and handed you a paperback novel. “It’s a character analysis on a character of choice from this book.” You observed the illustrated cover and read the title. Luckily, you had read the novel before, so you could better help Jungkook write the essay. “I don’t know which character to write about though.”

You hummed in thought and flipped through the pages, briefly looking for names to jog your memory. “Well, the main character is the obvious choice, so if you want to impress your professor, that’s not the way to go. Were there any particular characters that interested you?”

Jungkook stared for a moment, but only shook his head in response, saying, “No. I didn’t even like the book.”

You frowned to yourself for a moment, remembering how much you had enjoyed reading the same book. You thought of the most memorable character and suggested to him, “What about Maxine? She was a major character and her story can be interpreted in several different ways, especially with how her relationship with Vernon developed.”

Jungkook scowled shaking his head. “She was the worst character. She couldn’t even take care of her own kid, let alone someone else’s. That’s why the whole plot seemed pointless to me.”

“Well, she was an addict, but throughout the story you could see her battling with her addiction for the sake of her son and everyone else who cared about her. She wasn’t able to succeed in keeping her son in the end, but her good characteristics shine through and that’s what you can write your paper about.”

“She was a shitty character and she didn’t care about her son, but if you want to insist I write the paper on her, then you can just write it for me.” Jungkook dropped the computer on the mattress in the space between you and pushed himself up off the bed, turning his back to you.

Your brows creased in concern as you stood up just a few steps behind him. You tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. You’re just being annoying.”

He pushed your hand off of his shoulder and turned around to look at you, face still hardened. Your expression imitated his own, and you questioned impatiently, “Do you want me to help you or not?” Jungkook’s nostrils flared before his tensed arms folded over his chest dropped to his sides and he went back to his seat at the bed. You only observed him for a moment before you gave in and joined him once again, handing his laptop back to him and deciding to ignore the matter for now.

After a few hours of focusing solely on the paper, you both had finished and the final result was definitely worthy of a good grade. The majority of the time had passed in silence, with you leading most of the conversation and helping him with writing rules and him adding his own ideas to the paper silently. His quietness did not go unnoticed by you, though.

Jungkook was adding the finishing touches, and finally he closed his computer to pack it away. Meanwhile, you were debating bringing up the issue that had been weighing on you throughout the writing process of his essay. “Jungkook,” you began nervously, “I don’t know exactly what it was that made you so upset, but I’m sorry.” You glanced up to Jungkook, and you were sure you saw his hardened gaze become neutral as he noticed your eyes on him. “You can talk to me about whatever it is that’s bothering you, though. Just so you know.” One end of your mouth quirked up in an attempt to be comforting without overstepping your boundaries.

Jungkook rolled his head from one shoulder to the other, propping himself up on his hands. His eyes stayed on the corner of the ceiling as he explained. “I guess I just see a lot of resemblance between my own mother and Maxine.” Jungkook shuffled his feet on the ground before continuing, “I guess now that you explain it though, Maxine was actually better than her when it comes down to it.”

You watched silently as his brows pulled together in concentration on the floor below him. You could tell he had been hurt, though you weren’t exactly sure how, but you didn’t expect him to elaborate any further. You sighed in thought and melted further into your bed. “Don’t go feeling sorry for me, now. It never actually mattered to me.” You almost pointed out the mirthless smile that spread across his lips, but kept your mouth shut tightly in a moment of hesitation. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was suppressing his emotions, and you knew he would eventually pay for having done that for probably a majority of his life, but you were afraid to push your thoughts onto him seeing how he had a habit of shutting down whenever he had to express something real.

Jungkook cleared his throat, suddenly ushering you out of your thoughts and you hadn’t even realized that you had been staring the whole time. Your eyes darted away, but you didn’t miss the silent chuckle that came forth from Jungkook’s lips. With your face burning red, you diverted your attention to the time on your phone screen, gasping, “I didn’t even realize it had gotten so late.” You stood up, pulling back your curtains and peeking outside to see the sun had already set. “You shouldn’t walk home at this time of night. Do you want me to get you an Uber?” you worried, already pulling up the app on your phone.

He placed his hand on the rim of your phone, pulling it down to get your attention, chuckling, “I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

You pressed your lips together, concerned, still hesitating to let him go when you could help. He already picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder, however, so you were forced to digress as he began to walk away. You followed him down the stairs toward the front door, requesting, “Fine, but text me when you get home safely.”

Jungkook couldn’t hold back his laughter, throwing a look over his shoulder at you. “Don’t smother me.”

“I’m not!” you countered with a grin. You crossed your arms over your chest at the breeze let in as Jungkook turned to face you one last time on the front porch.

Jungkook looked over your shoulder and the fraction of a smile that had been present on his lips faded away. “I’ll see you later, _____.”

You bid him farewell in return and in the next moment he was descending the front steps and on his way home. You closed the door and you were once again surrounded by the warmth of the inside, but your goosebumps did not go away when you saw your mother who had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as he left. The both of you made eye contact for a few moments before she wordlessly turned and walked back into the kitchen, and you did the same, slinking back into your room as if you hadn’t seen her.

You laid on your bed, finishing up studying for class the next day, when your eyes shifted down to the numbers displayed in the bottom right corner of the screen. It was almost midnight. Jungkook should have gotten home by now, but the multiple times you had checked, even in the moment, you still received no message. You took it upon yourself to make sure he made it back alright.

‘Did you get home safely?’ You sighed throwing your phone down next to you, not expecting him to respond anytime soon since he was always very flaky with texting.

Your screen lit up within a few minutes however with a new message from Jungkook. You quickly slid your thumb across the screen and unlocked your phone to read his reply. ‘yes.’ It was short and simple, like his messages always were. He was a man of few words on all levels. However, for some reason, you couldn’t help the giddy feeling you got, your lip caught between your smiling teeth at the thought that—though highly unlikely—his quick reply meant that he had been waiting for you to say something first. You felt silly, like you were a freshman in high school all over again, but the feeling was nonetheless welcomed.

Your fingers speedily typed back, ‘Good. You had me worried for a second there.’ You patiently watched the screen for a while until the read receipt popped up under your message. However, there was no indication of a reply coming your way, and you rolled your eyes at the far too familiar scenario. You lifted your head up for a moment, letting your eyes scan around your room for no particular reason until they landed on a black bag in the corner of your room. It resurfaced a thought that had been lingering in the back of your mind for a while now, and you decided now was as good a time as any to confront it. Typing once more on your phone, you sent one more message to Jungkook. ‘Can we meet at the cafe tomorrow? There’s something I want to give to you.’

Suspecting Jungkook’s record-time reply was a one-time-only kind of thing, you placed your phone on your nightstand and closed your computer up, laying back in your bed to finally get some sleep for class the next day.

You sat at your usual table in the far corner of the cafe, waiting with both of your drinks already ordered and paid for in return for last time. Luckily, today, you weren’t kept waiting for long as Jungkook came walking in relatively on time with a black baseball cap pulled down tightly. As soon as he sat, you ducked your head and discovered the reason for his not-so-subtle accessorization. His eye had become darker than it was the day before. You clicked your tongue reaching over and lifting the cap to get a better look at it, fighting against Jungkook’s grip to hold it in place.

“Must have been quite a fall, huh?” you observed with an incredulous glare. Jungkook only silently nodded. You both knew that you knew he was lying, but no one said a word. After a moment of thought, you inhaled sharply and bent down to where the black bag sat next to you, pulling out the object of interest. “Right. I have something for you.”

Jungkook observed with a raised brow and watched as you pulled out your camera that he had seen countless times before. You placed it on the table and grinned, waiting for any sort of response, but Jungkook’s eyes only flickered between you and the camera cluelessly. “What?” he finally gave in and questioned.

You rolled your eyes dramatically and pushed the camera across the little table closer to him. “I’m giving you the camera!”

Jungkook’s eyes were suddenly huge and his mouth hung open for a mere second in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. This camera costs a lot of money. Why would you just give it to me?”

Your eyes trailed down and you shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, you just got so excited when you saw it the first time that I’ve been thinking about how much more you deserved it since then. After this semester ends, I won’t even want to touch a camera again, but you love photography, so it’s much better in your hands.”

“Why don’t you just keep it until the end of the semester, then? There’s only a few more weeks.” His eyes were glued to the object in front of him like a child looks at a candy bar.

“I’ll get a different camera, a cheaper one, and that way you can use that one for the final project.” Jungkook still looked hesitant, looking to you one final time for some sort of approval. Your laugh bubbled up inside of you. “It’s yours! Take it.” His hands took hold of the camera in no time, a beaming smile on his face, as he began snapping pictures of anything and everything in sight. He took one of the tree just outside the window, then a picture of the two coffee mugs placed beside each other on the table, stopping to take a look at the results for just a moment before diving right back into it.

You weren’t even sure what made you want to give him the camera all of a sudden, but as you watched him, you realized it was probably because of that childlike smile on his face. Every once in a while, he was unable to uphold his strong exterior and instead he just let it down and showed a completely different side of himself, one that very few were ever lucky enough to see. It made you happy that you were one of the few.

Suddenly, you noticed that the camera lens had been pointed directly at you. You tried to bring your hands up to hide your face, but Jungkook was already looking at the result, signalling you had been too late. “Delete that!” you whined as Jungkook laughed obnoxiously, jerking the camera away from you as you tried to take it away from him. When he looked at the picture, his laughing grin turned into a softer smile. “Jungkook, please get rid of that. I probably looked so—”

“You look…” he cut you off, stopping mid sentence in thought. He looked up to you for a mere moment and then back down to the picture. “...beautiful.” At that moment you were completely floored, unable to say anything else. In the dead silence between the two of you, it was as if Jungkook had just registered what he said, and he quickly set down the camera, looking out the window because he had no idea where else to look.

You bit down on your lip to hold back the smile that wanted so desperately to spread across your face, pushing a few stray strands of hair back behind your ear. “Thank you,” you mumbled. Jungkook still looked out the window, but you heard a laugh get caught in his throat, which escalated to both of you giggling and blushing like idiots. Anyone walking by would look at the both of you and think you’re just a pair of awkward teenagers falling in love. Maybe that’s exactly what you were.

Your mother would kill you if she knew what you were doing right now. Jungkook wanted to kick off summer vacation with something new. You were hesitant at first, but Jungkook was able to coerce you into it, so now you found yourself in Jungkook’s side of the city, a place you had never ventured to before. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little scared, especially because of the way your mother described it, whether it was completely true or not, but it definitely didn’t help when Jungkook told you to stay close to him, which made your heart beat faster for two completely different reasons.

After passing through a dark alley that gave you goosebumps, Jungkook led you to a beaten up little building. You read the glowing sign at the top dubbing the building Roy’s Diner. “You brought me all the way here to eat?” you asked Jungkook doubtfully.

“Trust me. It’s worth it. The food here is amazing.” Jungkook walked a few steps ahead of you and looked back to see you examining the restaurant. You weren’t one to judge a book by its cover, but you weren’t even sure how this place was passing any kind of building inspections. “Come on, it’s one of my favorite places. It was in real bad shape a few years ago and on the brink of closing down.”

“Well, if you love this place so much, you should work to fix it up and save it. I’d be willing to help, too, if you want,” you offered.

Jungkook looked at you like you were crazy. “Save it? What are you talking about? It’s already been fixed up. The place is thriving now!” He gestured grandly to the building, causing you to give it a doubtful second examination. You weren’t exactly sure what his definition of ‘thriving’ was, but it must be vastly different from yours judging by the flickering neon sign and the walls that desperately needed painting and, quite frankly, looked like they could very well cave in on themselves soon. You gave him a tight smile, but he only rolled his eyes. “Look, it may not look like all those fancy restaurants you’re used to, but I promise, I’m about to introduce you to the best fries and milkshake you have ever tasted in your life. Nothing beats Roy’s cooking.”

After Jungkook had grabbed your hand and practically dragged you inside, you were met with a much different atmosphere than what you were expecting. It was unexpectedly warm and cozy inside, and the loud chatter and laughter coming from all around almost made it feel like you were at a rowdy Thanksgiving dinner. Suddenly almost everyone that had been engrossed in a conversation turned towards the door to see the two of you had arrived. There was a deafening chorus of greetings to Jungkook, mostly from the older folks at the bar and surrounding tables whom Jungkook dragged you over to. Only after Jungkook gave almost each and every one of them a hug, which was much to your surprise, did some of the older women notice you were there. “Oh, Jungkook! You finally got yourself a girl and brought her here to meet us!” one of the women practically shouted as another tried to pinch Jungkook’s cheek while he quickly tried to maneuver away.

Jungkook rubbed at the back of his neck, finally realizing he still held your hand in his own and quickly released his grip, much to your disappointment. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend from college, and I brought her here so she could try Roy’s famous food for the first time and change her life forever.”

Several of them chimed in, greeting you after you introduced yourself shyly. Jungkook went to grab a menu for you, and the ladies took it as an opportunity to chat some more with you. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“No, I’m not actually.” You could barely even hear their responses since they all talked over each other, and although you had expected at least some of them to draw conclusions and figure out you were from the other side of town and treat you differently, they all still gave you friendly smiles.

Jungkook came back just in time to save you from more of their questions, thankfully, and brought you up to the counter to order food from the restaurant owner he introduced you to, Roy. You ended up getting a burger with the infamous fries and milkshake Jungkook kept going on about. Over dinner, much of the topic of conversation stayed on you and mostly Jungkook since, as many of his friends implied, he hadn’t visited recently. You ended up loving the atmosphere and how close everyone seemed to be. Even Roy would talk with everyone in between orders, and though you had never met anyone before, everyone was welcoming and open to talk with you. In fact, they were eager to see you and to see that Jungkook “has some friends his own age” as they teased.

You were finally finishing up your milkshake as the sky was just becoming dark, and the restaurant, while still buzzing, had quieted down considerably enough to have a conversation at normal volume. Jungkook had left you sitting at the counter alone while he went to the bathroom, and you couldn’t hold back the smile to yourself thinking about the way he interacted with all these people he seemed to be so close to. You looked up as Roy stood on the other side of the counter from you, cleaning a glass with a towel. “You seem like a great girl. I’m glad Jungkook met someone like you.”

You blushed, expecting him to only make some simple small talk while Jungkook wasn’t around. “Oh… I wouldn’t say it like that.” You laughed nervously, pushing stray hair back out of your face. “We’re only friends. We just talk sometimes.” ‘Sometimes’ was a bit of an understatement you realized, but it seemed most of the people got the impression that you were Jungkook’s girlfriend, which unfortunately wasn’t the case.

“Let me let you in on a little secret. Don’t tell Jungkook I told you this, but he doesn’t bring just anyone here. These people are like his second family, and if he thinks you’re good enough to meet them, then you’re pretty darn special.”

You couldn’t help the butterflies from fluttering in your stomach at the thought. A sudden thought came to you and you bit your lip, wondering if it would be appropriate to ask. You decided it probably wouldn’t hurt, grabbing Roy’s attention once again. “Sorry, you said this is like his second family?” He nodded easily. “Well, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s the first?” You questioned carefully, hoping it wasn’t too forward or prying of you to wonder about such things. You knew that Jungkook’s parents were out of the picture, so you tried to imagine who else he would be close with besides the people in this room.

Roy stayed silent for only a moment before both of you saw in the corner the door to the restrooms swing open and Jungkook wiping his hands dampened from the sink on his shirt. As Jungkook made his way back to take the seat next to you, Roy gave a tight smile and a quick nod to hastily end the conversation. Your forehead creased in confusion, wondering why there had so suddenly been something secretive come up. You smiled as Jungkook came and took his seat next to you again, but you couldn’t quite wipe the puzzlement off your face. “What’s wrong?” Jungkook suddenly asked, throwing his arm over your shoulder, which you were sure was only a product of him being just a little bit tipsy.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

After Jungkook had walked you home that night, you were met with a very displeased mother. You did stay out a little late, you admit, but you should have that freedom. You’re a fully functioning adult, yet here you are, getting lectured by your mother. Though it wasn’t all bad, especially since you weren’t paying an ounce of attention. Instead you were thinking about Jungkook walking you home just minutes before. He had a few drinks at the diner, so he was a bit more carefree than he was on a usual basis, so the entire way home, you had the pleasure of feeling the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours and for a moment everything felt so real.

And that’s when you realized there was no turning back. Your hand felt empty now that his wasn’t there anymore and there were too many lingering butterflies to be ignored. Again, maybe this is the result of the tiniest bit of alcohol that you’re hoping desperately your mother doesn’t smell on you right now since you were still technically underage.

The thought of your mother ruined it all though. The warm fuzzy feeling became cold as you remember that as long as she had a say, being with Jungkook was out of the question. You could take one look at him and easily see he was the epitome of a boy your mother would never approve of, with his all black clothes and leather jackets, his pierced ears, his dark yet endearing—at least in your eyes—humor. Your mother would keel over if you ever revealed you had feelings for him.

And this was assuming that Jungkook even felt the same way about you. But there had to be something there, right? You felt like with how you easy it was to talk to each other, and how much Jungkook has opened up to you, not to mention those few tender moments that you two never spoke about, it seemed pretty obvious there was something between the two of you. It couldn’t all just be in your head. Though you were still terrified, you came to the conclusion that you would let Jungkook know exactly what you were thinking and see what happens from there.

Making a decision that you would confess to Jungkook did not make it any easier to actually do it. You had never been the one to make the first move in the past, and Jungkook being the person of interest made it even scarier. Jungkook was coming over to your house so you could help him study for English, and your heart was beating erratically while waiting for the doorbell to ring. You couldn’t sit still and eventually began pacing in the living room, and you weren’t even sure if you were going to tell him today. However, today would be a good day, since your mom isn’t home and home is the best place to do it. If he turns you down, there won’t be any public embarrassment. So basically today is the perfect day to do it. So basically you have to do it. You began to pull at your hair in distress when finally the doorbell rang, and you probably answered it way too fast. As Jungkook greeted you, he smirked as he looked at the top of your head, smoothing down the hair that you must have messed up in your panic, and unfortunately you very obviously flinched away from his hand, playing it off with a nervous chuckle.

You silently led him up to your room, and he could most definitely tell that something was going on, but he didn’t say anything to acknowledge it, much to your relief. You let him into your room and closed the door behind you, taking in a deep breath. Luckily, as soon as you start to talk with each other like any other day, you begin to feel comfortable again and you finally feel relaxed.

After about an hour of studying, you take a break and you begin to wonder if this would be the time to say something. You began to go over the small speech you had rehearsed all morning, but before you could get anything out, you watch as Jungkook pulls off his hoodie, and as he does so, the short sleeve of his shirt on his right arm comes up, revealing a black image displayed on his skin which immediately piques your interest. “Wait, what was that?” you asked, tentatively pushing his sleeve up his shoulder to examine the image you had spotted hidden beneath it.

“Nothing,” he replied uninterestedly, brushing your hand away.

You locked gazes with him, wide eyes on display in an attempt to make him cave in.  “Well, it’s obviously a tattoo,” you reasoned aloud. “Any special reason?” Had you not had the suspicion that came into your mind, you would have let it be.

He quickly shook his head, breaking away from your curious eyes. “It’s just a tattoo. Nothing special about it.”

Your voice was soft now, and your eyes dropped to examine the lines in the wooden floors of your bedroom. “It’s a gang tattoo, isn’t it?” He only stared back, still with no intention of giving any answers. You figured that would be the reason why he was so apprehensive. Had it been any other tattoo, he probably wouldn’t have had any problem. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

He briefly exhaled through his nose, and his eyes fluttered shut before he gave a hasty nod. “I’ve told you before. I got mixed up with some bad people when I was younger, but don’t worry, it’s all in the past now.” You were glad he had gotten past it and hoped he was safe and out of that business now as he said he was.

Your gazes were locked on each other’s for far too long and you suddenly remembered what your original goal was, and you now realized you ruined the mood for that to happen. “I’m sorry,” you shook your head. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jungkook reassured softly. “I would have told you before, but I just didn’t want to scare you off.”

Your mouth curved into a small smile, arms hugging your torso. “You couldn’t scare me away. Don’t you know you’re stuck with me?” you joked. You suddenly realized now was the time. You had everything you wanted to say planned out, but now that it came down to it, you panicked and forgot all of it, so you had to say exactly what was on your mind. “Jungkook, you know you mean a lot to me, right? When I say that, I don’t mean as a friend either. I mean it as more than that, I guess.” You stuttered and slipped over your words and began to trail off in your last statement in nervousness, which became full panic as you observed the smile slip from his face.

“_____...” That was all he said before an agonizing amount of silence and out of all the scenarios you had thought up, this was probably the worst of them all. “You don’t mean that.”

“What? Of course I do,” you insisted, reaching out to him, but he only coiled back out of your reach. “Jungkook…”

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” He tried to walk away from you, but you grabbed onto his arm. You’d accept it and let him go if he had just rejected you, but you could tell something was wrong.

He shook your grip off and picked up his books and stuffed them into his bag in a hurry. “What is wrong with you?” you questioned desperately at his sudden shutdown. Then it all made sense. “That’s it. You’re shutting down again. You can’t stand it when you have to deal with any sort of real emotion.”

He scoffed, “Don’t try reasoning me out of this. I don’t want anyone to depend on me like that, not even you.”

“So, that’s it? You’re just never going to feel anything?” He stopped and looked up to you from his bag, locking eyes, and you hated how they had suddenly become cold and unfamiliar.

“No, _____, I’m not, and that’s why you should just give up on me. I can’t give you what you want. Go find someone else that’s not gonna hurt you.” You didn’t want to watch him walk away. You had no way of knowing what his true feelings were, but you knew that this wasn’t what he needed. He said he didn’t want anyone to depend on him, but in reality, he was afraid to depend on someone else. He didn’t want to put himself in a position to get left behind again, scarred by memories of his mother who had abandoned him.

All you could do was let him figure things out on his own. If he really did love you, then he would find his way back. All you can hope is that you didn’t just lose one of the best things that had ever happened to you. “Okay, if this is how it is, then I’ll let you go. I can’t keep doing this, Jungkook.”

He was already taking large strides out the door to get away as fast as his feet would carry him. “I know,” was all he said. Then he was gone.

It had been a week since Jungkook walked out on you, and you were beginning to lose hope of seeing him again. You would usually give it a bit more time before you began feeling doubtful, but you hadn’t seen nor heard any sign of him.

You laid pathetically alone on your bed on a Saturday night that you should have used to spend time with friends, but you ended up turning down any plans that were offered. You opened your phone and looked through old messages between you and Jungkook, and you began to type a message to ask him how he was doing, but just before you hit send, you ended up erasing it all and throwing your phone back down. As much of a bummer as it was, you decided to take tonight to go to bed and get some extra sleep.

You had already shut off all your lights and tucked yourself into your warm bed when a sudden, echoing knock came from your window, almost scaring you out of your wits. You quickly stumbled out of bed and turned on the lamp that sat on your nightstand, opening the curtains without hesitation because you already knew exactly who would be waiting behind them.

There you saw Jungkook hugging his jacket closer around him in the chilling night winds. This wasn’t the first time he had come to you through your bedroom window. He had done it several times before when he came over and saw your mother’s car parked in the driveway to avoid having to get through her to see you. You unhooked the latch, hurrying him in as he struggled to climb over the window sill. “_____,” he breathed out through chattering teeth. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face into the hair on top of your head. “I always fuck things up just when they’re starting to go right.”

“It’s okay, Jungkook,” you spoke gently, rubbing his back up and down as he stood still and inhaled your scent for a few moments.

He chuckled breathily. “How can you always forgive me even when I’m such an ass?”

“Because I love you.”

You had pulled away enough so that you could look him in the eyes when you spoke, hopeful that this time it would go right. Jungkook pulled you back to him, mostly so that he could hide his face when he told you, “I love you, too.”

Your mother had dragged you out of the house way too early for a Saturday morning to go shopping with her at all of her favorite designer-brand stores, which was already a shock to you since she hadn’t found time to spend with you in almost four years since she was always so busy with work. Now, out of nowhere, she was having you try on at least a dozen gowns at each stop.

“Okay, mom,” you sighed walking out of the dressing room wearing the last of several dresses she had picked out. “This is the last one.”

She smiled, motioning for you to turn around. “That one looks beautiful, too! Which one did you like the best?”

You turned around, scrutinizing the way the material draped over you in the mirror. “I don’t know. They all look nice.” You turned back to her, finally deciding to question the motive behind her sudden eagerness, hoping it wouldn’t ruin her rarely bright mood. “Why exactly am I looking for a dress?”

She folded her hands in her lap, crossing her legs over each other, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “I wasn’t planning on telling you yet, but I’ll be hosting a gala, and I want you to come.” She looked for some kind of reaction from you, but you only continued to listen, smoothing the skirt of the dress you wore. She cleared her throat. “There will be a lot of young men there, soon to be owners of their parents’ companies. You should try to meet some of them.”

You finally looked back to her reflection in the mirror. “I’ve already met plenty of them,” you pointed out, brows creased in thought. “Is this your way of saying you want me to make connections?” you accused, stressing the word “connections” to imply it may have a different meaning. You heard rumors that big business owners would sometimes send their kids to high class social events hopefully form a relationship with another heir to merge the businesses and increase profit, but you didn’t think it was actually something that happened.

“I’m not saying I want you to do it, but you should be open minded to some of the boys you meet there.” She smiled to try to convince you, standing to speak with you at eye level.

“So, what, you want me to charm them with a pretty dress?” you asked. You scrunched your nose, looking down at the dress that you had once thought was pretty, but after staring for too long, you began to hate it.

“And your wonderful personality,” she joked with a playful pat on your cheek, but you couldn’t find it in you to laugh.

You’d met all these heirs to wealthy businesses before, and you knew that they weren’t interested in your personality. They weren’t looking for any sort of relationship, they were either looking for connections or a good time, and when it came to the unfortunate girls at these parties, they were usually stuck with the latter. And as spoiled rich kids, they didn’t like to be told no, which made you even more nervous than you already were.

You walked back into the dressing room, peeling off the itchy material of the dress you had to wear for far too long due to the unexpected news that had been broken to you. When you put back on the t-shirt dress and sneakers you had originally been wearing, you stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment. You began to think you liked yourself much better this way. You knew Jungkook liked you better this way. You bit back a smile at the thought of him, and it finally occurred to you that your mother didn’t even know that you and Jungkook were officially… whatever you were. You hadn’t really addressed it yet since that night. You did know, however, that you loved each other, but your mother wanted to send you into a room full of men you probably couldn’t trust. You began to wonder about what would happen if you brought Jungkook to the gala with you. Your mother would be furious, but you would feel so much safer. Though, you didn’t even know if Jungkook had any interest in going.

You heard a knock on the door, zoning you back into reality and making you realize you had been staring into the mirror in thought. “Are you ready?” you heard your mother’s voice calling from the other side.

“Coming,” you answered.

Jungkook had come over in the afternoon for what was supposed to be getting help from you for English, but when he actually arrived and you told him to get his books out, he didn’t even have his bookbag with them, so he claimed he “forgot” it. You knew he was lying, though. Jungkook had trouble with being direct. He always had to have some sort of excuse to see you rather than just wanting to spend time with you. You knew he actually cared behind all of this, though, but for now you would just have to learn how to interpret his roundabout methods.

Since he coincidentally didn’t bring his materials to study, he ended up laying down next to you in your place in bed, opting for just talking for a while. Jungkook had been looking around your room that he had practically memorized by now since he’d seen it so often, making it easy to spot any little change. He saw an extra framed picture on your nightstand of you and who he was positive was your father. He pointed it out, “That’s new.”

You looked over your shoulder to follow his line of sight and your eyes landed on the object of interest. “Yeah. I found that in a box a few days ago and decided to frame it and put it up.” You smiled at him, but it didn’t hold up for long as you engrossed yourself in thought.

“What?” Jungkook asked, looking down at you as a frown deepened on your face.

You shook your head. “Nothing.” You looked back at it one last time before turning back to him and grabbing his hand to fiddle with his fingers while admitting slowly, “I can’t even remember what his voice sounds like.”

“Don’t you have any videos where you can hear his voice?”

You nodded faintly. “I’m sure we have some somewhere, but I’d have to go looking for them myself. I don’t wanna bring my mom into it. She gets really upset when he’s brought up.”

“If it means getting to hear his voice, then you should just ask her. She can’t keep it from you, and you can’t let her pretend it never happened.” He was obviously letting his bias towards you affect his solution, but you remember clearly what happens to your mother whenever she hears about him, and although you two didn’t always get along, you would never purposefully do that to her.

Also, to be honest, you were shocked that Jungkook had even said what he had. You barely laughed, lacking humor, “Should I even take that advice from you?”

Jungkook’s lips turned down and his forehead creased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You had a feeling this was leading into an argument you really weren’t looking to have, especially judging by his already irritable tone of voice. “I mean that you’re a prime example of ignoring the past,” you said as you tried to keep your voice even to remain peaceful without making him upset.

Jungkook sat up in the bed and you sighed, immediately regretting even bringing this up. “How have I ever done that? I fully acknowledge everything that’s happened to me.”

“It’s not that you choose to ignore the past itself, Jungkook, but you ignore the…” you paused to look for the right words as he waited impatiently, “the emotions you should be feeling from it.”

He scoffed, pushing himself off the bed, and he unintentionally rose his voice. “Who are you to tell me how I’m supposed to feel?”

“I’m not saying anything like that, Jungkook!” You began to shout as well, but you stopped yourself to control the volume of your voice, finishing calmly, “I’m just saying it’s okay to be sad.”

Jungkook held your gaze for a moment before shaking his head violently and dropping his eyes to the floor. “I’m not sad,” he spat.

You watched as he evened his breathing, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “Alright,” you gave in. “If you say you aren’t sad, then I’ll believe you.” You knew he was lying not only to you, but to himself, but you let it go, not wanting to argue with him anymore. You stood up, brushing his bangs away that hung down in his eyes, pulling him to sit back down next to you on the edge of the bed. You brought a hand to his cheek to lift his face to meet your eyes. “I want to ask you something, and I know it may be asking a lot from you, so feel free to turn me down.”

He waited patiently for what you had to say, and you thought for one moment, still nervous at the prospect of him actually agreeing. “My mom is hosting this gala,” you explained, “and I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

He squinted his eyes at you, finding it hard to believe you would even ask him about something like that. “You want me to go to a gala with you? That your mom is hosting?” You nod silently in return, though you can easily see where he’s coming from. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“I know it’s not exactly your scene, but, if I’m honest, I’m a little worried about it. My mom wants me to make connections with some of the young heirs there. They’re not the most trustworthy people, though. I just think I would feel a lot better if you were there.” You looked up to him nervously in hopes that he would understand what you were trying to say. With the way his jaw tightened, you were certain he had gotten the point.

He swallowed, placing a comforting hand on your thigh and agreeing softly, “Okay. I’ll be there for you.”

Later that night, you both decided you would go out to eat at Roy’s again because Jungkook was right, that was the best fries and milkshake you had ever tasted. It still made you nervous to go into the more dangerous side of the city, but nothing happened last time, and with Jungkook there, you had nothing to worry about. However, your fears suddenly returned to you when you heard someone from behind you shout, “Jeon!”

Jungkook quickly grabbed onto your hand as you both turned around. They didn’t look threatening when you turned around. In fact, they were around your age and you began to think they may have been friends of Jungkook. The same one who had called out to him spoke again, “Your dad called an emergency meeting. Another gang’s been looking to take some of our territory.”

You froze. You must not have heard that right. You felt Jungkook stiffen beside you, too. “What did he just say?” you mumbled.

Jungkook stared ahead wordlessly, his lips pressed into a thin line. That’s when you knew you heard exactly what you thought you did. Your lip curled up in anger and you shouted, “You lied to me! You’re in a gang!” Your eyes filled to the brim with tears, but you tried not to let them fall. You repeated, “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

Jungkook swallowed, knowing there was no way he could get himself out of this. He let the silence boil in an angry pot for a long while before he found his voice again. “Yeah, I did,” he breathed, nodding slowly.

You turned your face away from him, hesitant to ask what was on the tip of the tongue because you were terrified of what his answer may be. “What’s the name?” you barely choked out, but when he only stuttered as an answer, you screamed at him, “Was it your gang that killed my dad?”

“We’re not like that, _____. He was kicked out as soon as we found out.”

He confirmed exactly what you were afraid of. You knew the emblem you had seen on his shoulder seemed familiar for a reason. You felt sick. You felt betrayed. The tears you had been holding back were now free falling down your face. “You knew? You knew the whole time and you didn’t tell me?” You roughly pushed at his chest, but he barely moved an inch.

He reached out for you before retracting his hand right away. “I didn’t want this to happen.” You didn’t want to hear his excuses. You didn’t even want to see his face right now. You just needed to get away. When you turned on your heel, he called out your name, but you didn’t listen. When he tried to go after you, the men who came to get him held him back and hurried him away. He tried to fight to push past them, but he knew that if he chased after you, you would only hate him even more.

By the time you arrived home, you could barely even stand. You hadn’t even realized how much you were shaking, how violently your sobs had been wracking through you. When you reached the safety of solitude within your bedroom, you leaned on the post of your bed and sunk to the floor, burying your head in your hands. You weren’t sure how long you had stayed like that.

You heard a soft tap at your window and, knowing exactly who it came from, you pretended as if you didn’t hear it. Then Jungkook’s voice came quietly through the closed window, “Please let me in, _____.”

“Go away!” you shouted, not even moving to see his face. He didn’t leave though. Instead he kept tapping, which became impatient knocking, becoming louder and louder. You stood up and walked to the window and the sound finally ceased as he let out a sigh, but instead of unlocking the window like he had expected, you pulled the curtains closed and walked back to sit on your bed, staring emptily at the wall.

You could hear him growl in frustration. “Don’t make me break this goddamn window, _____!” you heard him scream from the other side of the curtains. You only shook your head and tried to ignore him until he left, but you jumped when you heard the crescendo of pounding on the glass, becoming more forceful by the second.

You hurriedly rushed to your feet again to open the curtains, only to be met with Jungkook repeatedly driving his fist into the glass. “You’re insane!” you cried out. You quickly unhooked the latch that kept him locked outside in fear that he would really form a crack in the glass. He immediately pushed through and took your face into his hands, pulling you close. “Get away from me!” You frantically fought, pulling his hands away from you and trying to put distance between you.

He placed his forehead against yours, whispering, “_____, please listen to me. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” You suddenly ran out of energy to continue fighting him, but you still kept a grip on his wrists as his hands still rested on each side of your face. Your sobs didn’t cease, however, and he slowly slid his hands down to wrap around your waist and bring you into his chest, pressing his lips to the top of your head as you reluctantly melted into him in exhaustion. “Please forgive me.”

“Jungkook,” you breathed weakly.

He stopped you quickly, reminding you of a conversation the two of you had in the past. “You’ve said it yourself before. You know that I’m nothing like that man.”

“Of course I know that.” You shook your head before you pulled away from him, but he wouldn’t let you go far enough to where he had to let you go. “I’m angry because you kept this from me. You knew it was something I needed to know, but you kept it to yourself anyway.”

He sighed and he was about to plead for you to forgive him once more, but the vibration of his phone is his pocket brought his words to a halt. You saw that he immediately became worried when he read the caller ID and answered the call without hesitation. You couldn’t make out the words on the other end, but the way his face contorted in worry let you know that it was bad news. He ended the call with a quick affirmative and when he hung up, he looked frantic. “Shit,” he hissed. “There’s an emergency back at home. I’ll come back later tonight, though. We aren’t finished here,” he promised, already making his way back outside.

You woke up the next morning surprised that you had ever been able to fall asleep. You hadn’t even bothered trying to fall asleep the night before since you knew that if Jungkook said he was coming back, then he was coming back. But he never did return, which worried you. You didn’t want to care, but no matter how hard you tried to hate him, the fact that he never actually came back made you think something bad happened, and that scared you. You tried texting him early in the morning, several hours after he had left, but now even after you had slept and woke up again, you still received no response, which was extreme even for him.

Knowing all that you knew about him now, you could only assume the worst, especially since you had heard about the apparent emergency that he had gone to take care of. You rushed to get yourself ready to go out and look for him only to be stopped when you realized you had no idea where you should be looking. Of course your first instinct was his home, but you didn’t actually know where that was. You found it hard to believe you hadn’t realized until now how much you still didn’t know about Jungkook. So, you went to the only place you knew of where you could find any sort of hint of where to find him.

You pushed through the heavy door that led into Roy’s diner, immediately met with several heads whipping your way to get a look at the visitor. Since it was the morning, there were far fewer people than there had been the first time you came, but you saw several familiar faces, including Roy himself. You walked in nervously, feeling a little out of place now that Jungkook wasn’t by your side, which everyone was quick to notice. “Do you know where Jungkook is?” asked one of the older men that he had been talking to during your previous visit.

“That’s the problem,” you sighed. “He left last night saying it was an emergency and I haven’t seen him since. He isn’t answering his phone either.” You shook your head, looking down at your phone one more time, hoping to be proven wrong. The news even made Roy stop what he was doing behind the counter to listen, worrying just like the rest of them. They all shared concerned, knowing glances.

Roy approached you slowly, setting his towel down, explaining, “We heard news early this morning that there was a dispute between gangs.” You waited impatiently for him to continue. You figured that much already. “Jungkook’s father was killed.”

The breath left your lungs and you now understood why he didn’t return. You knew him well enough to know that he must be out there somewhere trying to deal with what he’s feeling, and from what you knew about him, he probably wasn’t coping well. Now you had to make sure he was okay. “Tell me where I might be able to find him.”

They tried to convince you to let someone else look for him and find him knowing he might not be in a good state, but you insisted that you would find him yourself. They gave in finally and mentioned several places he visited frequently, one of them being his home address, which you were thankful they trusted you enough to give to you, and you decided you would start there. You entered the address into your phone for directions since you had no idea how to navigate in this area of the city. Finally, you came to the house that the map had led you to, and it was a house just like any other that you had been passing for the past few minutes. You weren’t sure why you were expecting anything different.

When you carefully knocked on the front door, it creaked open ever so slightly from the little bit of force you gave. You pushed it open just a slight bit more, calling Jungkook’s name, hoping to find him inside. You received no answer though, which prompted you to take a tentative step inside as you pray that you got the right house and you weren’t accidentally walking into a stranger’s home.

Only a few steps in and you heard the crunch of glass underneath your shoe, and you looked down to find a picture that had fallen of the wall and smashed onto the floor. When you took a closer look, you saw a boy with familiar round eyes and you knew you were in the right house. As soon as you rounded the corner, however, you see that the living room and the kitchen had been trashed and torn to shreds, displaying a mess of broken glass and papers and trash scattered across the floors. Suddenly you suspected that the picture by the front door hadn’t fallen by accident.

After you had called out for Jungkook several more times, you concluded he wasn’t in the house. You began to look through your small list of other possible locations while leaving the house and carefully pulling the door shut behind you. You stopped in your tracks just as you reached the bottom stair when you heard a familiar voice, and after you searched, you found just who you had been looking for. Only, you weren’t expecting him to be threateningly pinning someone up against a wall.

You approached quietly, listening for what you hoped would be an explanation. You saw Jungkook had pinned a man by the collar of his shirt to the outside wall of a building in an alleyway just on the other side of the road from his house. “Are you one of them?” he screamed, interrogating the terrified man.

“One of who?” the poor man questioned, fighting Jungkook’s grip, though you were surprised he couldn’t escape given Jungkook only used a single hand.

Jungkook bared his teeth in rage. “The bastards that killed my father!” You approached slowly, calculating the best way to deal with Jungkook while he was in such a fragile state. Though your knowledge about this was limited, you knew for sure that this man had no gang affiliations just by looking at him and how he seemed as if he hadn’t fought once in his entire life. Throwing a beer bottle down, smashing it to pieces that violently scattered causing both you and the man to flinch away, Jungkook cried out, “I promise I’ll obliterate every single one of them!”

You took the chance to lurch forward and firmly take hold of his arm, hoping to bring him down from his rampage. Jungkook’s head snapped to you and the man used this distraction to escape his grip and make a run for it. Jungkook noticed and wanted to push past you and chase after him, but you blocked his path, though he kept fighting to pass you, blinded by rage and, from what you could smell in his breath, intoxication. “Please, Jungkook, calm down! I know your pain, trust me, but this isn’t the right way to handle it! Let me help you!” you tried reasoning with him.

He pushed your hands off of him, backing away. “Who said I wanted your help? Who said I wanted you to force yourself into my life and try to fix everything?” he spat. You shook your head in disbelief. “I’m perfectly fine! What makes you think I need to be saved?”

“Jungkook, I know you don’t mean that.”

“I do!” he shouted. His shoulders heaved and then the tension in his face began to melt. “I…” He spoke more unsurely now. Then he had dropped himself onto his knees, hands pounding into the ground. Worried he was hurt, you slid down beside him only for his arms to wrap tightly around your waist. His face buried into the crook of your neck and he began to sob. You were worried and you hurt for him, yet somehow you were also relieved knowing that he was finally able to let go of the idea that he had to always be strong. You soothingly ran your fingers through his hair as you let him stay there for however long he needed. “He’s gone,” he choked out weakly.

Jungkook never told you much about his father. In fact, he said that he didn’t see him much and that they weren’t close. You couldn’t tell if that had been another lie to keep you from knowing the truth or if that had been true and he felt this way purely from the fact that he had lost both of his parents now. Either way, you could tell he was broken. “It’s okay,” you whispered.

“Promise me that you’ll stay with me, _____.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you assured him. There you both sat, in the middle of an alley, where Jungkook finally shed what very well could have been his first tear, and you knew that he needed you.

After seeing the state his house was in, you figured it wasn’t the best idea to let him return there alone for fear he might go off the rails again, so you let him come with you. You weren’t sure whether your mother would be home or if she would ever even notice if you kept him up in your room, but you were willing to face whatever she had to say if she were to find out, knowing this was about your only option. You had to support him on the way as he drunkenly stumbled through the streets at midday.

When you finally arrived home with him and led him up to your room, he collapsed in exhaustion on your bed. You looked over him in concern for a moment before sighing as you combed your fingers through his hair. You figured you would get him some water for when he woke up since he had consumed so much alcohol, but when you tried to leave his hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back to him. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled. You glanced back at the door, but you ultimately decided to follow his request and stay with him.

You sat down beside where he laid, pulling your wrist out of his grip and sliding your hand into his to hold it comfortingly. You saw a hint of red on his face and squinted to get a better look, but you had to gently nudge his face to get him to turn to you from where he had it buried in the sheets to block out the light. You saw his lip was letting out a fair amount of blood and you began to get up to clean it up, ignoring his groan of protest as you left his side.

You came back with a cold, wet rag to press to his lip to stop the bleeding. You sighed, giving his body a once-over, seeing clearly he was in bad shape, both physically and emotionally. You set the rag aside again after a moment and went back to softly stroking his head. You whispered to him, though you were sure he was too far gone in sleep to listen to you by now, “Please don’t do this to yourself again. Please don’t do something reckless and get hurt.”

To your surprise his eyes barely fluttered open at your words before they closed once again, but he exhaled heavily, assuring you, “I won’t. I promise.”

When you woke up the next morning, the bed had been significantly colder than it had when you went to sleep. As you blinked the sleep out of your eyes, you realized it was because Jungkook was no longer there, sleeping beside you with you wrapped in his arms like he had been when you fell asleep. He must have left sometime in the middle of the night. You couldn’t help but feel a little worried. You weren’t sure of he had completely sobered up yet, so you worried if he had gotten home safely or not. You called him, but he didn’t pick up. Then you texted him to ask where he was, thinking he probably wouldn’t answer that either, but to your surprise, he did. Although, all he said was ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m gonna be busy today.’ You knew something was going on, already, but you were immediately afraid for him when he followed with, ‘I love you.’

That was unlike him. He was possibly the least straightforward person you knew, so he only said that when he felt like he absolutely had to. And you were afraid of why he thought he had to tell you so suddenly.

Before you could barrage him with questions, you heard the bell ring at your front door, so you went to answer, hoping for some reason that it would be him. When you opened the door, it wasn’t Jungkook, but instead it was the man who had called Jungkook for the meeting and ultimately revealed the truth about him. He cleared his throat. “May I come in for a moment?” You hesitantly stepped back, opening the way fully for him to enter. “I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Namjoon. I’m a member of Jungkook’s gang.” He said quickly, lowering his voice at the last phrase. He seemed to be rushing through the formalities to get to the real reason he had come. “Have you seen Jungkook?”

The question took you by surprise. You had been hoping to ask him the same question, but since he didn’t know either, your nerves were anything but calmed. “No. When I asked him where he was, he texted me saying he was busy and not to worry about it.” You thought for a moment, licking your dried lips. “He sounded off, though.”

Namjoon nodded attentively. “I see. There’s a good chance my suspicions are correct, then,” he speculated, pacing noticeably.

“What suspicions?” You were almost afraid to ask. It was easy to see that Namjoon was tense, so you knew that it couldn’t be good news.

“I think he’s going to try to get revenge for his father.” Your jaw went slack in shock. “I think he wants to kill that gang’s leader.”

“What? What if he gets hurt?”

Namjoon exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin as he spoke, “If that’s the case, he’ll be going up against several members before getting to the leader, so the likelihood is high.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. What was he thinking going up against so many people all on his own? You began to panic. “Well, what are you doing here? Someone needs to go help him or stop him or something!”

Namjoon said with the tap on the screen on his phone, “I’m already on it. I’m sending backup for him right now. I’ll be going too.” He was already taking large strides to the door when he quickly turned back around to you. “Keep the doors locked and don’t answer the door unless either me or Jungkook have told you to,” he warned before shutting the door behind him.

Somehow his warning made you even more nervous. You were sure you had nothing to worry about for yourself since you were far away from where all the action would take place, but it clearly meant that he thought these people were dangerous. And Jungkook was going to face them all alone. You just hoped that his backup got there fast enough.

You had been trying to shake the thoughts out of your head for far too long until you began to feel cramped within the walls of your own home. Though you were aware of Namjoon’s advice, you decided to walk for a bit to clear your head and to get some fresh air. Surely no one wanting to hurt you would be brave enough to cross the river to the highly-secured side of the city. You had been wandering for a while, not paying much attention to where exactly you were going and instead following wherever your feet carried you as you watched the petals fall from the cherry blossoms in order to distract yourself.

Eventually you found yourself stopping just before the bridge. Just a few more steps and you could be crossing over to get Jungkook out of his mess once again, but he said it himself. It wasn’t up to you to save him. He’s going to be okay, you assured yourself. With eyes still glued to the opposite end of the bridge, you turned around to walk back home.

As you began the walk back home, you thought you saw a shadow of someone behind you, but when you turned no one had been there. You were sure it was only your imagination, but now you were starting to wish you had stayed at home as your nerves began to act up. You took up a quicker pace, finally deciding you were safe after you were walking with no interruption for a few minutes. Just as you were calming down, you jumped as the ringer of your phone blared in the thick silence of the streets. You breathed in relief as you brought it out of your pocket and read your mother’s name displayed on the screen.

“Hello?” you answered. She was asking where you were since you had told her you would be home for dinner with her. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m coming home right n—” Your words were smothered by the gloved hand that latched itself over your mouth. You tried to tug yourself free and cry out for help, but your arms were only swatted away and your phone tumbled to the ground still on call with your mother. You frantically swung your feet in attempts to escape, but they were swept out from under you and you fell to the ground, your head hitting the pavement and darkening your vision until you lost consciousness.

Your head was pounding when you finally gained some awareness again. You could tell there were voices around you, but they were difficult to discern since your groggy state made everything sound muffled as if you were underwater, with the way it was muddled in your brain. It took a while to finally come to, but when you did, you could finally make out one of the voices as the very one you had been waiting for. When your eyes came into focus, you could make out Jungkook standing across a large room from you, pointing his gun at something to your right. You tried to turn your head to look despite the shooting pain in your neck from how you head hung down unnaturally. Your eyes met an unfamiliar man, also holding his own gun, but instead of pointing it back at Jungkook, it was directed at you. You tried to moved, but your limbs were bound to the chair you sat in.

You gulped, realizing the situation, most of your mind’s fogginess disappearing. “Look who’s finally decided to join us,” he observed, smiling sinisterly in your direction.

Jungkook briefly met your panicked eyes, but he diverted back to the man keeping a stone cold expression. “How did you find her?”

“You’re very reckless. How do you expect to take your father’s place?” At that remark, Jungkook’s grip tightened on his pistol and bared his teeth in anger. His finger twitched on the trigger and he was going to give in, but when the gun in the man’s hand was pushed closer to your temple, he brought the gun back down slightly in order to stop him from hurting you. The older man only chuckled. “You had such great potential to become a cold-blooded killer, an unstoppable machine, but instead you hold yourself back with these distractions.” The man tilted his head in indication of you as said “distraction.”

“The only person I’m looking to kill is you.”

“Are you sure you want to say that to me right now?” he asked, teeth bared and all easiness void from his tone. The mouth of the gun was now pushed harshly into your temple and you squeezed your eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath. Only a moment later, though, you no longer felt its the cold metal on your skin and you saw he had lowered it out of the corner of your eye. His face took on another chilling smirk. “You know, I could go ahead and kill her now… but then again, she would make an awfully pretty prize.”

Jungkook was fuming and, raising the gun once more and taking a risky step forward, he growled, “Don’t fucking touch her!” The man only stared back at him daringly, analyzing his every movement, the way his feet faltered in their placement on the ground, his hand just barely shook as he held out his gun. There was no way he would risk anything as long as you were in danger.

Suddenly there was a faint shuffle somewhere within the walls of the large warehouse you were held in and everything went silent as everyone went on alert, listening carefully. Suddenly, you flinched and your heart beat erratically as a gunshot ran through your ears, and it took a moment of panic to realize it hadn’t been directed at you. You turned to the side, seeing the man had dropped his gun and grabbed onto his arm in pain. His groan of pain was cut short by yet another bullet lodging into his thigh, causing his leg to give out on him and he fell to the ground.

Then a crowd of men came from the direction of the bullets, led by Namjoon who had been placing a handgun back into his waistband. Jungkook ran over to you to free you from the ropes that held you down, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and cutting you free. When all of the ropes around you fell loosely to the floor you wrapped your arms around him, feeling his heart beating rapidly. He pulled away and his eyes travelled to your forehead. He carefully reached out to touch it and when his fingers barely brushed your skin, a pain shot through your skull. You brought your own hand up and felt what must have been dried blood. You hadn't even realized that had been there, but you deduced it must have been from when you fell to the ground during your kidnapping.

Jungkook lifted you out of the chair hastily with Namjoon by his side when commotion broke out in the back of the building. More men poured in from where Namjoon and the others had come, but they had their guns pointed at Jungkook’s men. Your feet slowed in their movements as you realized they were going to fight the men who had come to save you. Jungkook tugged you ahead and consoled you, telling you they would be fine, gesturing to the reinforcements coming in once Namjoon opened the front doors. As they passed by Jungkook, you figured they must be on his side. Taking once more glance back, you saw the other men retreating and dropping their guns as the soon realized they were far outnumbered and you briefly glanced at the leader who was still shuffling on the ground with his wounded leg. Jungkook had seen this, too, as he picked up his speed with you right beside him. You heard a gunshot go off and Jungkook roughly pushed you out the door. When you looked back inside as the three of you had finally reached safety outside, you saw no one else who had been injured, so you assumed everyone was safe.

You breathed heavily as the adrenaline began to wear off and your head began pounding because of your injury. You breathed a sigh of relief when you finally caught your breath, believing  the three of you had successfully reached safety, but you were quickly brought back to panic as Jungkook roughly leaned into the wall and let himself slide down to the ground, clutching his side. He hissed, lifting his hand and finding it stained crimson. You gasped and slid down next to him, Namjoon crouching beside you and examining the wound. You had been wrong when you thought that the gunshot had missed its target. No, it had hit exactly who it was aimed at, and that was Jungkook. A few men who had been in one of the many black vans parked outside the building came running over, carefully lifting Jungkook up from the ground and placing him in the back of the the van they had come from with a man with medical supplies waiting inside.

You followed behind them and stepped into the van when they set Jungkook down, not bothering to stop and wonder if they would even let you, but they did. The man grabbed scissors out of the case and cut open Jungkook’s shirt, blood seeping through the white material at an alarming rate. HIs shirt was pulled back to reveal the ragged gash in his side, and you had to look away. You found his hand in yours, however, and he squeezed it tight which felt like reassurance to you, but it was most likely because of the pain.

After a while of you silently staring out the window and Jungkook every so often hissing in pain, the bullet was removed and his torso was wrapped in a bandage. You finally looked back at him, relieved to see the job looked to be well done. Jungkook tried to readjust himself into a sitting position but immediately regretted it, groaning lowly and letting himself back down to lay where he had been before. You brushed your fingertips over the back of his hand and sighed as you watched his brows twitch.

Your head whipped towards the doors as Namjoon swung them open and climbed inside the back, sitting on the opposite side of Jungkook’s legs. He looked down at him with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes hardened as they were suddenly directed at you, and the unpleasant frown took full form when he met your eyes. “I told you to stay inside!” Namjoon scolded. “That was all you had to do, but then you just had to get yourself caught.”

Jungkook, who still looked fairly worn out, did not miss Namjoon’s comment. “What?” he questioned, looking at you, and under his stare you couldn’t keep guilt from bubbling up to the surface. “You knew what going on and you still put yourself in danger?” Your lips pressed together in a tight line. His voice that was still weak, but you could tell he was trying to raise it.

You huffed, retorting, “What was I supposed to do? You had me so worried! Jungkook, you told me just last night that you wouldn’t do something reckless and get yourself killed! Then I found out you were going on some crazy revenge mission. You lied to me! Again! How long are you going to keep this up, Jungkook?”

“I’ll keep it up however long it takes! Be honest, _____. If I had told you what you wanted to know, would that have changed anything? No! You still would have done something stupid!” His fists had tightened and the veins in his arms protruded.

“Why are you getting mad at me?”

“Because you almost got yourself killed, that’s why!” His hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, not enough to be painful, but it held you securely. His hands shook and you just now realized how fearful his face appeared. His voice lost its momentum and lowered to just above a whisper, “I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you today. I can’t let anything happen to you.” You could only swallow at his words, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand that was still clasped onto your own. He sighed, defeated and resigning, “I know I shouldn’t have lied. I’m sorry.”

“But that’s the thing. You keep doing it. You keep lying because you think you have to, but you don’t! Please don’t lie to me anymore. There’s nothing you have to hide from me anymore.” He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

That was the last of what you said to him. He couldn’t promise you that the lies would stop. You weren’t sure if that meant he still didn’t trust you or that you couldn’t trust him. You were in too deep for that, though. It’s not easy to give your heart away to someone without trusting them with your life. You tried to relieve your thoughts plaguing your mind through a deep heave of a sigh as you quietly closed the front door behind you. Your mother came running to the door at the sound. You thought she’d be at work.

She pulled you into a crushing hug before pulling away and inspecting the bandage that had been put on your head and interrogating, “Why did you disappear all of a sudden? And what happened to your head?”

You pulled her hands away. “Mom, I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“No, _____, you have to tell me what happened. I heard that over the phone! You can’t tell me nothing happened!” she rambled frantically, cutting you off once again before you could even anwer her. “I was so worried, you know that! I even sent the police out to look for you! Can you imagine how scared I was when they brought back your cell phone they found lying in the street, but they said there was no sign of you anywhere around it?” She slammed your phone down on the kitchen table without breaking eye contact with you. You could see her eyes become shiny.

You looked away and hesitated to give her an answer. “There were some problems… But I swear I’m alright. Jungkook—”

“I knew it!” she burst out. “I knew this had something to do with him! I’ve always known being around him would put you in danger!” You tried to speak up in his defense but she stopped you with a motion of her hand. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked since your father’s been gone to keep us at the top? I only want to give you the life you want, but you’re ready to throw your life away for some low life boy off the streets!”

You screamed back in retaliation, “Don’t say that about him!” She gave you that look that she always does when you raise your voice at her, but this time instead of cowering away, you used her stunned silence to say what you’d wanted to say for far too long. “Do you really think I care about the money? I couldn’t care less if I didn’t have this big house or these expensive clothes! I just want my mom back.” She was still silent to your surprise and the tension between her angry eyebrow faltered only slightly.

Her voice was much more level now as she turned away and pinched the bridge of her nose, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him.” She made her way out of the kitchen, only stopping once more in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. “Please. I can’t lose you, too.”

Your shoulders slumped with your labored sigh as you watched her retreating back. You didn’t miss her trembling lip. You supposed you never thought too hard on the emotional toll that encumbered your mother throughout this situation. In no way was she innocent, but you, too,  were far from being in the right. Maybe you had been the selfish one all along, you thought, making your way up the stairs to your bedroom with guilt weighing heavily on your shoulders. You found the dress you had finally decided on for the gala laid out on your bed. You rubbed the soft fabric between the pads of your fingers in thought. What were you thinking, asking Jungkook to come to the gala with you? Neither him nor your mother wanted that. It was only what you wanted.

You picked up your phone and quickly called his number without another thought. After several rings too many, the line on the other end connected. “_____?” he answered, his voice sounded gruff and exhausted.

“You weren’t asleep were you?” you worried. He made a small grunt which you were sure was supposed to mean no, but you knew it wasn’t true. He needed to rest to heal, after all. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m doing alright... Better.”

“That’s good,” you said, trying to make your way into the subject you had called about. “Listen, you probably forgot about it by now...”

“The gala’s on Saturday. I know. I promise I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

“Actually, I was going to say that you probably shouldn’t go.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, waiting, as it was suddenly silent on his end.

“Why?” he finally asked, sounding more aware and perturbed than you would have expected.

“Well, you need to heal. It would just be better if you didn’t go.”

“I’ve healed in less than a week before. I’ll be fine.” You didn’t say anything. He was suddenly so determined to go with you after you practically had to beg him when you first told him about it. “Why don’t you want me to go?” You could hear the frown on his face. You couldn’t understand why he was getting so upset.

You gave a weak chuckle in hopes to lighten the mood. “Why do you want to go so badly all of a sudden?”

He ignored your question. “Did your mom say something?” You clicked your tongue in response, but he knew you well enough to know that meant that you didn’t want to answer the question. He chuckled dryly. “Are you serious? I thought you weren’t gonna let your mom stop you from doing what you want from now on.”

“I know, but this is… different,” you found yourself whispering into the phone. It suddenly felt like you were talking behind your mother’s back.

“Oh, then what is it? Is it because you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me by all the rich heirs?” He now carried an accusatory tone. He always had a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.

“Of course not! You’re being ridiculous!”

“Then why don’t you want me to go?”

“I’ve just... been insensitive to my mom. I just don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“Insensitive to her? Have you forgotten how wonderfully she treated me?”

You’d had it then, groaning as you hung up the call. You threw your phone down on the bed and went to get changed in the bathroom. You heard your phone vibrate from its place on the bed and you could just barely make out Jungkook’s name across the top of the screen, but you didn’t make a move to answer it. It took three more missed calls until he finally gave up.

It was a petty, stupid fight, and yet it was Saturday and you hadn’t heard from him since your last phone call. You tried to tell yourself you were just giving him time to rest and recover, but in reality, you just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything to him. You wondered if he regretted it as much as you did.

The nerves fluttering in your stomach as you thought about the gala you were getting ready for made you begin to regret telling Jungkook not to go with you. You lightly brushed your fingers through your styled hair and took one last look in the mirror, scrutinizing the way the dress hung on your body. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as it had seemed before. It looked duller and you wished the skirt wasn’t so plain and lifeless. You weren’t sure what you had seen in it in the first place. You heard your mother call for you from the first floor, and on your way down you checked your phone one last time, but you still saw no notifications with Jungkook’s name on them.

You followed your mother into the limousine that drove you to the venue the gala would take place in, watching as you drove by the entrance to the bridge, wondering what Jungkook was doing on the other side. The rushing waters of the river seemed wider than ever.

You arrived at the gala much faster than you had hoped and found that many guests had already arrived. You walked in beside your mother, receiving several greetings and warm smiles, some looking more genuine than others. You made your rounds for a while, chatting with some of the other heiresses your age that you had known for years because of events just like these.

Eventually the crowd started to loosen up and the gala became more of a social gathering than a business meeting as most of the guests had already gone through a few glasses of wine. You chose to opt out of having any alcohol, though part of you wanted nothing more than to get drunk so the night would go by faster. After you finally got a break from conversation, you excused yourself and went down the hallway to the bathroom where it was much quieter and less crowded. You tried to pass by a man that you barely paid any mind to, but he reached out for your arm to grab your attention. “_____?” You turned and found that the face of the man that said your name was one that you were sure you had seen before, yet you couldn’t put a name to the face. “I’ve been looking around for you all night!”

You returned his charming grin with a polite nod of your head. “Oh yeah! I was wondering if I would see you tonight.” You were lying through your teeth and you were hoping it wasn’t painfully obvious.

“You’ve grown up quite a bit since I saw you last,” he said, looking you up and down. You chuckled nervously as his eyes lingered just a hair too long, especially now that you could smell the strong scent of alcohol on his breath after he had taken a step closer to you. “You know, we’re both set up to take over pretty powerful companies. I think we should try to get to know each other more—”

You frowned stepping back to regain your preferred personal space. “I’m sorry. That’s not something I’m looking for.”

You began to walk away, but his loud, gruff voice followed you, “You really shouldn’t cut someone off when they’re speaking! I think you should show me a little bit more respect!” He glared at you, clearly waiting for something, though you weren’t sure if what he wanted was an apology or just for you to say yes to him.

“And I think you’ve had too much to drink and that you’re a self-entitled prick,” you retorted. “I think you should get back to the party and leave me alone.”

He growled as you brushed past him, and he started to pursue you, but he was stopped short by a voice coming from behind both of you. “Hey. You heard her, man. Get out of here,” the voice ordered. You turned around to find Jungkook dressed in a suit and tie and with a flower in hand. The man only observed him incredulously until Jungkook sneered at him, making him finally give up and leaving only the two of you in the hallway. Jungkook’s glare finally softened once his eyes that had been watching intently as the man left found their way to your own. You hurried over to him, wrapping him in a hug and releasing a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “This is exactly why I wanted to come and I still let this happen. I didn’t want you to have to deal with guys like that.”

You stopped him, shaking your head to assure him you were fine. “No, no. I don’t even care about that. I’m just glad to see you again.” Your eyes trailed down to observe the black suit he wore, admiring how good he looked, but also chuckling at how out of character he looked. You weren’t complaining, though. Your gaze travelled to the flower he held in his hand and a grin spread across your face. “What’s this?”

You could see his cheeks slightly tint while he tried to explain himself. “It’s just an… apology, I guess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, holding the flower out for your to take. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad about something so stupid. I promised I’d be here and I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry, too.” You twirled the stem between your fingers. You grabbed his hand again and pulled him along with you. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this party.” You rounded the corner only to be met with your mother, skidding to a stop to prevent from colliding into her. “Mom.”

She sighed, and you were afraid you were going to have to face another lecture, but she surprised you by pulling you into her arms. “I heard someone raise their voice, and then I heard you… I got so worried.” She let you go and turned her eyes to Jungkook, looking upon him for the first time without contempt. “I’ve been thinking a lot recently after hearing how _____ talks about you. So I want to say thank you, Jungkook, for being there for her. I know there’s nothing i can say or do to make up for what I’ve said about you in the past, but I can tell that you love my daughter, and that’s all I want for her. I’m sorry for how horrible I’ve been to you.”

You looked between him and your mother. Jungkook’s words faltered for a moment, but eventually he just said simply, “Of course. I’ll always be here for her.”

Your mother gave a soft smile. She shook her head. “Don’t let me stop you. Go ahead and go. You’ve been here long enough,” she insisted, directing the last part to you. You smiled brightly and thanked her and the two of you headed out.

You two ended up sitting back in your usual seats at the counter at Roy’s. It didn’t exactly get you away from a rowdy, loud scene, but it was comfortable. You two were still in your clothes for the gala, so the old diners were teasing the both of you, saying you looked like you could get married right then and there. You were embarrassed, but you were also proud of how far the two of you had come. You were still by no means perfect. You two were a mess. A beautiful mess. The kind of mess that isn’t burdensome, that you don’t want to clean up because in it are beautiful memories of a time when all is perfect, like old family picnics with cream covered pies and messy little children who impatiently dig right in. “We’re kind of like a pie,” you looked up at Jungkook from where your head laid on his shoulder.

“What are you saying?” he broke out into laughter. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners and his nose scrunched up, it was beautiful.

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking.” You looked around. The neon lights that shone on the jukebox. The perfectly shaped swirl of whipped cream atop your shared milkshake topped off with a bright red cherry. The old couple sitting in a booth on the other side of the diner. It was all so beautiful. You’d never seen so clearly in your life up until this moment.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

January 8, 2021

Heather Cox Richardson

More information continues to emerge about the events of Wednesday. They point to a broader conspiracy than it first appeared. Calls for Trump’s removal from office are growing. The Republican Party is tearing apart. Power in the nation is shifting almost by the minute.

[Please note that information from the January 6 riot is changing almost hourly, and it is virtually certain that something I have written will be incorrect. I have tried to stay exactly on what we know to be facts, but those could change.]

More footage from inside the attack on the Capitol is coming out and it is horrific. Blood on statues and feces spread through the building are vile; mob attacks on police officers are bone-chilling.

Reuters photographer Jim Bourg, who was inside the building, told reporters he overheard three rioters in “Make America Great Again” caps plotting to find Vice President Mike Pence and hang him as a “traitor”; other insurrectionists were shouting the same. Pictures have emerged of one of the rioters in military gear carrying flex cuffs—handcuffs made of zip ties—suggesting he was planning to take prisoners. Two lawmakers have suggested the rioters knew how to find obscure offices.

New scrutiny of Trump’s “Stop the Steal” rally before the attack shows Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani, Representative Mo Brooks (R-AL), Don Jr., and Trump himself urging the crowd to go to the Capitol and fight. Trump warned that Pence was not doing what he needed to. Trump promised to lead them to the Capitol himself.

There are also questions about law enforcement. While exactly what happened remains unclear, it has emerged that the Pentagon limited the Washington D.C. National Guard to managing traffic. D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser requested support before Trump’s rally, but the Department of Defense said that the National Guard could not have ammunition or riot gear, interact with protesters except in self-defense, or otherwise function in a protective capacity without the explicit permission of acting Secretary Christopher Miller, whom Trump put into office shortly after the election after firing Defense Secretary Mark Esper.

When Capitol Police requested aid early Wednesday afternoon, the request was denied. Defense officials held back the National Guard for about three hours before sending it to support the Capitol Police. Maryland Governor Larry Hogan, a Republican, tried repeatedly to send his state’s National Guard, but the Pentagon would not authorize it. Virginia’s National Guard was mobilized when House Speaker Nancy Pelosi called the governor, Ralph Northam, herself.

Defense officials said they were sensitive to the criticism they received in June when federal troops cleared Lafayette Square of peaceful protesters so Trump could walk across it. But it sounds like there might be a personal angle: Bowser was harshly critical of Trump then, and it would be like him to take revenge on her by denying help when it was imperative.

Refusing to stop the attack on the Capitol might have been more nefarious, though. A White House adviser told New York Magazine’s Washington correspondent Olivia Nuzzi that Trump was watching television coverage of the siege and was enthusiastic, although he didn’t like that the rioters looked “low class.” While the insurrectionists were in the Capitol, he tweeted: “Mike Pence didn’t have the courage to do what should have been done to protect our Country and our Constitution, giving States a chance to certify a corrected set of facts, not the fraudulent or inaccurate ones which they were asked to previously certify. USA demands the truth!” Even as lawmakers were under siege, both Trump and his lawyer Rudy Giuliani were making phone calls to brand-new Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL) urging him to slow down the electoral count.

After Trump on Wednesday night tweeted that there would be an “orderly” transition of power, on Thursday he began again to urge on his supporters.

With the details and the potential depth of this event becoming clearer over the past two days—Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas’s wife, Virginia, tweeted her support, and state lawmakers as well as Republican attorneys general were actually involved—Americans are recoiling from how bad this attempted coup was… and how much worse it could have been. The crazed rioters were terrifyingly close to our elected representatives, all gathered together on that special day, and they were actively talking about harming the vice president.

By Friday night, 57% of Americans told Reuters they wanted Trump removed from office immediately. Nearly 70% of Americans disapprove of Trump’s actions before the riot. Only 12% of Americans approved of the rioters; 79% of Americans described the rioters as “criminals” or “fools.” Five percent called them “patriots.”

Pelosi tonight said that she hoped the president would resign, but if not, the House of Representatives will move forward with impeachment on Monday, as well as with legislation to enable Congress to remove Trump under the 25th Amendment. The most recent draft of the impeachment resolution has just one article: “incitement of insurrection.” As a privileged resolution, it can go directly to the House without committee approval.

In the Senate, Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) has no interest in further splitting the Republicans over another impeachment, or forcing them onto the record as either for or against it. Timing is on his side: the Senate is not in session for substantive business until January 19, so cannot act on an impeachment resolution without the approval of all senators. It can take up the resolution then, but more likely it will wait until Biden is sworn in, at which point the measure would be managed not by McConnell, but by the new House majority leader, Chuck Schumer (D-NY). A trial can indeed take place after Trump is no longer president, enabling Congress to make sure he can never again hold office.

Whether or not the Senate would convict is unclear, but it’s not impossible. Senator Lisa Murkowski (R-AK), for one, is so furious she is talking of switching parties. “I want him out,” she says. Still, Trump supporters are now insisting that it would “further divide the country” to try to remove Trump now, and that we need to unify. Senator Ted Cruz (R-TX), who led the Senate effort to challenge Biden’s election, today tweeted that Biden was not working hard enough to “bring us together or promote healing” and that “vicious partisan rhetoric only tears our country apart.”

Trump, meanwhile, has continued to agitate his followers, and today began to call for more resistance, while users on Parler, the new right-wing social media hangout, are talking of another, bigger attack on Washington.

Tonight, Twitter banned Trump, stating: “we have permanently suspended the account due to the risk of further incitement of violence.” As evidence, it cited both his claim that his supporters would “have a GIANT VOICE long into the future,” and his tweet that he would not be going to Biden’s inauguration on January 20. Twitter says that Trump’s followers see these two new tweets as proof that the election was invalid and that the Inauguration is a good target, since he won’t be there. The Twitter moderators say that “plans for future armed protests have already begun proliferating on and off-Twitter, including a proposed secondary attack on the US Capitol and state capitol buildings on January 17, 2021.”

Twitter also took down popular QAnon accounts, including those of Trump’s former National Security Adviser Michael Flynn and his former lawyer Sidney Powell, who is having quite a bad day: the company that makes election machines, Dominion Voting Systems, announced it is suing her for defamation and asking $1.3 billion in damages. After taking down 7,000 QAnon accounts in July, Twitter continued by today taking down the account of the man who hosts the posts from “Q.”

While Twitter officials might well be horrified by the insurrection, the ban is also a sign of a changing government. With the election of two Democratic senators from Georgia this week, the majority goes to the Democrats, and McConnell will no longer be Majority Leader, killing bills. Social media giants know regulation of some sort is around the corner, and they are trying to look compliant fast. When Twitter banned Trump, so did Reddit, and Facebook and Instagram already had. Google Play Store removed Parler, warning it to clean up its content moderation.  

Trump evidently couldn’t stand the Twitter ban, and tried at least five different accounts to get back onto the platform. He and his supporters are howling that he is being silenced by big tech, but of course he has an entire press corps he could use whenever he wished. Losing his access to Twitter simply cuts off his ability to drum up both support and money by lying to his supporters. Another platform that has dumped Trump is one of those that handled his emails. The San Francisco correspondent of the Financial Times, Dave Lee, noted that for more than 48 hours there had been no Trump emails: in the previous six days the president sent out 33.

This has been a horrific week. If it has a silver lining, it is that the lines are now clear between our democracy and its enemies. The election in Georgia, which swung the Senate away from the Republicans and opens up some avenues to slow down misinformation, is a momentous victory.

—-

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[herbertandlom]

January 8, 2021 (Friday) More information continues to emerge about the events of Wednesday. They point to a broader conspiracy than it first appeared. Calls for Trump’s removal from office are growing. The Republican Party is tearing apart. Power in the nation is shifting almost by the minute. [Please note that information from the January 6 riot is changing almost hourly, and it is virtually certain that something I have written will be incorrect. I have tried to stay exactly on what we know to be facts, but those could change.] More footage from inside the attack on the Capitol is coming out and it is horrific. Blood on statues and feces spread through the building are vile; mob attacks on police officers are bone-chilling. Reuters photographer Jim Bourg, who was inside the building, told reporters he overheard three rioters in “Make America Great Again” caps plotting to find Vice President Mike Pence and hang him as a “traitor”; other insurrectionists were shouting the same. Pictures have emerged of one of the rioters in military gear carrying flex cuffs—handcuffs made of zip ties—suggesting he was planning to take prisoners. Two lawmakers have suggested the rioters knew how to find obscure offices. New scrutiny of Trump’s “Stop the Steal” rally before the attack shows Trump’s lawyer Rudy Giuliani, Representative Mo Brooks (R-AL), Don Jr., and Trump himself urging the crowd to go to the Capitol and fight. Trump warned that Pence was not doing what he needed to. Trump promised to lead them to the Capitol himself. There are also questions about law enforcement. While exactly what happened remains unclear, it has emerged that the Pentagon limited the Washington D.C. National Guard to managing traffic. D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser requested support before Trump’s rally, but the Department of Defense said that the National Guard could not have ammunition or riot gear, interact with protesters except in self-defense, or otherwise function in a protective capacity without the explicit permission of acting Secretary Christopher Miller, whom Trump put into office shortly after the election after firing Defense Secretary Mark Esper. When Capitol Police requested aid early Wednesday afternoon, the request was denied. Defense officials held back the National Guard for about three hours before sending it to support the Capitol Police. Maryland Governor Larry Hogan, a Republican, tried repeatedly to send his state’s National Guard, but the Pentagon would not authorize it. Virginia’s National Guard was mobilized when House Speaker Nancy Pelosi called the governor, Ralph Northam, herself. Defense officials said they were sensitive to the criticism they received in June when federal troops cleared Lafayette Square of peaceful protesters so Trump could walk across it. But it sounds like there might be a personal angle: Bowser was harshly critical of Trump then, and it would be like him to take revenge on her by denying help when it was imperative. Refusing to stop the attack on the Capitol might have been more nefarious, though. A White House adviser told New York Magazine’s Washington correspondent Olivia Nuzzi that Trump was watching television coverage of the siege and was enthusiastic, although he didn’t like that the rioters looked “low class.” While the insurrectionists were in the Capitol, he tweeted: “Mike Pence didn’t have the courage to do what should have been done to protect our Country and our Constitution, giving States a chance to certify a corrected set of facts, not the fraudulent or inaccurate ones which they were asked to previously certify. USA demands the truth!” Even as lawmakers were under siege, both Trump and his lawyer Rudy Giuliani were making phone calls to brand-new Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL) urging him to slow down the electoral count. After Trump on Wednesday night tweeted that there would be an “orderly” transition of power, on Thursday he began again to urge on his supporters. With the details and the potential depth of this event becoming clearer over the past two days—Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas’s wife, Virginia, tweeted her support, and state lawmakers as well as Republican attorneys general were actually involved—Americans are recoiling from how bad this attempted coup was… and how much worse it could have been. The crazed rioters were terrifyingly close to our elected representatives, all gathered together on that special day, and they were actively talking about harming the vice president. By Friday night, 57% of Americans told Reuters they wanted Trump removed from office immediately. Nearly 70% of Americans disapprove of Trump’s actions before the riot. Only 12% of Americans approved of the rioters; 79% of Americans described the rioters as “criminals” or “fools.” Five percent called them “patriots.” Pelosi tonight said that she hoped the president would resign, but if not, the House of Representatives will move forward with impeachment on Monday, as well as with legislation to enable Congress to remove Trump under the 25th Amendment. The most recent draft of the impeachment resolution has just one article: “incitement of insurrection.” As a privileged resolution, it can go directly to the House without committee approval. In the Senate, Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) has no interest in further splitting the Republicans over another impeachment, or forcing them onto the record as either for or against it. Timing is on his side: the Senate is not in session for substantive business until January 19, so cannot act on an impeachment resolution without the approval of all senators. It can take up the resolution then, but more likely it will wait until Biden is sworn in, at which point the measure would be managed not by McConnell, but by the new House majority leader, Chuck Schumer (D-NY). A trial can indeed take place after Trump is no longer president, enabling Congress to make sure he can never again hold office. Whether or not the Senate would convict is unclear, but it’s not impossible. Senator Lisa Murkowski (R-AK), for one, is so furious she is talking of switching parties. “I want him out,” she says. Still, Trump supporters are now insisting that it would “further divide the country” to try to remove Trump now, and that we need to unify. Senator Ted Cruz (R-TX), who led the Senate effort to challenge Biden’s election, today tweeted that Biden was not working hard enough to “bring us together or promote healing” and that “vicious partisan rhetoric only tears our country apart.” Trump, meanwhile, has continued to agitate his followers, and today began to call for more resistance, while users on Parler, the new right-wing social media hangout, are talking of another, bigger attack on Washington. Tonight, Twitter banned Trump, stating: “we have permanently suspended the account due to the risk of further incitement of violence.” As evidence, it cited both his claim that his supporters would “have a GIANT VOICE long into the future,” and his tweet that he would not be going to Biden’s inauguration on January 20. Twitter says that Trump’s followers see these two new tweets as proof that the election was invalid and that the Inauguration is a good target, since he won’t be there. The Twitter moderators say that “plans for future armed protests have already begun proliferating on and off-Twitter, including a proposed secondary attack on the US Capitol and state capitol buildings on January 17, 2021.” Twitter also took down popular QAnon accounts, including those of Trump’s former National Security Adviser Michael Flynn and his former lawyer Sidney Powell, who is having quite a bad day: the company that makes election machines, Dominion Voting Systems, announced it is suing her for defamation and asking $1.3 billion in damages. After taking down 7,000 QAnon accounts in July, Twitter continued by today taking down the account of the man who hosts the posts from “Q.” While Twitter officials might well be horrified by the insurrection, the ban is also a sign of a changing government. With the election of two Democratic senators from Georgia this week, the majority goes to the Democrats, and McConnell will no longer be Majority Leader, killing bills. Social media giants know regulation of some sort is around the corner, and they are trying to look compliant fast. When Twitter banned Trump, so did Reddit, and Facebook and Instagram already had. Google Play Store removed Parler, warning it to clean up its content moderation.   Trump evidently couldn’t stand the Twitter ban, and tried at least five different accounts to get back onto the platform. He and his supporters are howling that he is being silenced by big tech, but of course he has an entire press corps he could use whenever he wished. Losing his access to Twitter simply cuts off his ability to drum up both support and money by lying to his supporters. Another platform that has dumped Trump is one of those that handled his emails. The San Francisco correspondent of the Financial Times, Dave Lee, noted that for more than 48 hours there had been no Trump emails: in the previous six days he sent out 33. This has been a horrific week. If it has a silver lining, it is that the lines are now clear between our democracy and its enemies. The election in Georgia, which swung the Senate away from the Republicans and opens up some avenues to slow down misinformation, is a momentous victory.

Heather Cox Richardson https://www.facebook.com/heathercoxrichardson/posts/2563012823842768

[deathtrapnest]

A Philosophy of Violence

fandom: DC / references to Smallville but not really Smallville characterization?

characters: Bruce Wayne & Lex Luthor (non pairing)

warnings: N/A general/no ships

summary: Bruce and Lex have a history with each other. (Bruce and Lex boarding school fic).

READ @ AO3

When Bruce was eleven years old, he’d punched a reporter in the face and smashed his camera. It was his first year at boarding school- Excelsior Academy, an elite prep school in New England where only the children of the uber rich were accepted. Bruce was a quiet and unhappy child then- stoic and pale and precociously fierce. It was not uncommon for him to get in fights with the other children when he’d first arrived. He was small, and an orphan, and children of privilege are cruel. But after some time he was more or less left alone, because it didn’t take very long for the other children to realize that no matter how much older, or bigger, or stronger the bully was, Bruce Wayne, short and thin and pale as he was, would rather be beaten into the dirt than ever yield and once a wrong was done against him, even if it was delayed, Bruce would find a way to retaliate against the person in equal measure. In no time at all Bruce only had to give his best glower to send his would-be tormenters running. They learned what usually followed his glares. More than that, Bruce was indifferent to the teasing and it was no fun to pick on someone so apathetic.

He had good grades but was not well liked by his professors. Was athletic but did not socialize well. An enigmatic student who talked to others very rarely but was talked about frequently. For most, the incident with the reporter faded into a tapestry of other similarly exciting and mysterious things Bruce did while at Excelsior Academy.

While Bruce’s behavior often seemed inexplicable there was one person at least who knew the truth behind the reporter incident because he’d been the key witness as well as the instigator, and that was Lex Luthor.

Lex Luthor was four years older than Bruce and also a scion to a large family fortune. Lex also had excellent grades and was also unpopular. Lex’s father was infamous in the corporate world and many of the father’s of the other students of Excelsior had been undercut or swindled by him in some way or another, leaving his son vulnerable to their intergenerational hatred. His unpopularity was amplified by the fact that Lex had lost his hair from some illness or accident that had left him completely bald at age nine. The gossip pages in the newspapers at the time had reported on it with a note of schadenfreude toward Lionel Luthor, maybe some thought it was retribution that misfortune fall his young son after a lifetime of evil doings. Headlines called him the ‘hairless heir’. Lex’s peers deemed him a freak of nature and from the time of his enrollment he was a frequent victim to the older, bigger, and more mean spirited boys. 

Whatever inner core of strength that Bruce had that made him impervious to the type of cruelty his schoolyard enemies tried to inflict on him, Lex was lacking it. While Bruce seemed immovable, Lex was quick to fury, and he hated to be picked on by people who were physically dominant to him but who were intellectually inferior to him- which was nearly everyone. What Lex had, instead, was an almost neurotic, strident, ambitiousness that manifested itself in the schoolroom, in their fencing matches, in chess club or debate team. But the desperation of this ambition, the neediness of it, only provided more ammunition to his classmates who could now add being a know-it-all to his list of flaws and who lived to see him fail. His high intelligence and drive was to them just another thing that made him a freak, in need of being knocked down a few pegs.

Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne lived in the same dorm building in Bruce’s first year but were not particularly friendly. That was why it seemed strange to the other students who’d seen it, that Bruce had punched that reporter for Lex.

It had been a grey Tuesday and they’d been walking with the rest of the students from the dorm to class, when a camera had flashed abruptly and Lex had blinked, disoriented. A few of the other kids parted out of the way or kept walking. It wasn’t so unusual for young Luthor to be ambushed by paparazzi who’d snuck onto the grounds. His father’s name was rarely out of the paper and a quote from or photograph of his sickly, freakish, son often added an extra draw to the article. But that day it was different.

The reporter shoved a tape recorder next to Lex’s mouth and said “I’m from The Inquisitor. Do you have a statement you’d like to make about your mother’s death?”

Lex didn’t speak. He didn’t look like he had the capacity to at that moment, though his lips parted. All the color had drained from his face.

“Our sources at the hospital confirmed her death at 5 A.M. this morning. Is there a reason you weren’t present at the hospital at the time of her passing? Have you spoken to your father? What are the plans for the funeral arrangements in Metropolis? Is it true your father was having an affair with her nurse?”

Lex’s silence continued. His eyes were set on some far away point, unseeing. Like he’d exited his body and it only remained upright by some quirk of gravity. Because it was the first he was hearing of it. So his mother was dead.

And then Bruce punched the reporter. He’d had to stand on tip toes and swing upward to achieve it but the blow was impactful. And the reporter doubled over, grabbing at his nose which was bleeding. And Bruce grabbed the man’s camera and smashed it on the ground. It shattered, leaving a corona of broken glass and black plastic across the pavement and a sound that echoed in the ensuing silence.

Bruce did this all wordlessly and with a detached, matter-of-fact, attitude.

The reporter began to yell in protest but Bruce had calmly taken hold of Lex’s arm and was pulling him behind him, and to the reporter he said simply “We have to go to class now.” And walked away.

He had blood on the knuckles of the clenched hand at his side, and the bruising on them that would linger for days would be the only evidence Bruce showed that anything had occurred.

Bruce and Lex continued to not be friends after that day. The next year they both switched dorms and lived on separate sides of the campus. Lex, being a few grades higher, only occasionally crossed paths with Bruce and their interactions were often unremarkable and furthermore, not very warm. In fact, despite that brief act of camaraderie that they’d shared on that day, the two had seemingly grown apart in opposite directions.

By the time Bruce was fourteen he was in talks to be advanced a grade, was excelling in his martial arts extracurriculars and spoke four languages. Lex, by then a senior, had developed his own power at the school. With a turning point at roughly sixteen, Lex had begun to grow into himself physically and at the same time developed a penchant for bad behavior.

With a keen business sense inherited from his father, it came as no surprise that Lex was highly enterprising but his newfound extracurriculars were far from school approved. In short, he was running a thriving import-export of cocaine, marijuana, and various prescription drugs between Metropolis and the dorms. Not that drugs on a prep school campus were anything unusual but Lex excelled at nearly everything he put his mind to. He’d effectively cornered the majority of the market of the campus and it was rumored that some of what he sold was even cut with something of his own creation, made in the chemistry lab after hours, something that was already starting to gain a reputation on the streets and in the clubs of Metropolis. That part may have been nothing more than a rumor, after all, Lex himself denied it when it was brought up- laughing off that he had no real interest in pharmaceuticals, adding cryptically that aerospace and engineering would be the front on which the principle corporate battles of the next century would be waged.

It seemed Lex was able to get away with all this because he was additionally running some sort of blackmail racket that had maneuvered the head of the science department as well as the dean of students, and who knew how many other adults at the academy, effectively under his thumb. The adults weren’t the only ones. The other kids still called Lex a freak, but now they were too scared to say it to his face. Lex had achieved what he’d always wanted- he wasn’t liked by the other students but they were in his pocket and many of them feared him- or at least the more impressionable of them did. But Bruce was hardly impressionable.

Bruce found Lex’s behavior distasteful and made no attempt to hide his distaste. It wasn’t that Bruce was a stickler for the academy’s rules, which he himself often shirked, but as could be exemplified by the incident with the reporter as well as many others, Bruce had his own personal code of honor and when it came to that, he was unyielding.

On the other side of it, Lex certainly never acted like he owed Bruce any favors. In fact, he resented him. And he hated having any competition to be the smartest person in the room. They rarely went head to head academically, being in different years, but the school hardly seemed big enough to contain the force of two personalities like theirs. And in the fencing club, they frequently sparred, with a wordless vigor they seemed to reserve only for each other.

If either of them were less were less apathetic about it, it could almost be referred to as a rivalry. But it never really reared its head in any decisive way until that last year, in the garden, and yet at that time there were no witnesses to verify it.

It was a spring day when the campus air was heavy with heat and the perfume of lilacs, when Bruce slipped the procession of students in their perfectly pressed khakis and oxford shirts on their way to class, and took refuge in a hedge of hemlocks, coming out the other side into one of the campus gardens. He checked over his shoulder, between the leaves, to see if he’d been observed but no one had paused or backtracked to find him. The gardens on the campus were beautiful in the spring, bursting in blooms of kingsblood tulips and hellebores in preparation for tours of incoming students and parents and the spectacle of commencement. A water fountain bubbled a few yards away and in the shade were placed benches baring the names of former donors on gold plates along with the school’s latin motto- “memoria pii aeterna.”

And on the bench shaded partially by a syringa reticulata shedding white petals, Lex was reclining, longs limbs splayed elegantly in a louche, overly orchestrated pose, his bare head cocked slightly askew in thought, a copy of The Genealogy of Morality balancing on his knee but translated in Mandarin. The whole scene looked staged. Like he was waiting for someone to show up to take his picture.

Just eighteen years old and a late bloomer, he was at the age where his body kept abruptly adding inches to his limbs without warning and his khakis ended a little short, revealing a glimpse of bare ankle. He’d always been slim but now there was an artistic angularity to his form whereas before he’d seemed so ungainly, almost colt-like. And Bruce knew from his experience of him in a duel that when he moved he was as lithe and swift as a snake. After years of being mocked for his appearance, he’d grown into himself and despite all odds, was… handsome. Even his baldness which had always made him stick out in a crowd among other teenagers, lent him a sort of mysterious allure and made him seem more mature. Only a slight softness at the curve of his jaw belayed how young he really was.

When he noticed Bruce he looked up and smiled, casual and lazy, like his mouth had nothing better to do so it might as well do this, though his eyes were sharp as they ever were.

“Wayne.” He said. “What are you doing here?”

Bruce gave a last glance through the bushes to see his classmates retreating, not noticing his absence, before turning.

“Hiding out.” he didn’t bother lying. Not to Lex. “I don’t want to go to English class.”

“Really? I saw Mrs.Timm in the hallway earlier today. She’s wearing one of those low cut cashmere sweaters that show off her cleavage. You might want to reconsider.” Lex mused without looking up from his book, dabbing his fingertip with the tip of his tongue before turning the page.

Bruce shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “Is that a matter of interest?”

“Or lack thereof?” Lex said, still pretending to pay more attention to his reading than on Bruce. But Bruce saw his eyes slide in his direction, searching for a reaction, before returning to the page.

Distantly, someone in the school building was doing a violin tutorial and the Bach Chaconne in D Minor echoed harsh and tinny over the grounds. Must have been a freshman. The sound was making Bruce’s jaw twitch.

He strolled further into the clearing, invading the invisible border of Lex’s domain, where the smell of the flowers was headiest. He usually avoided Lex but if he left now, he’d likely be caught by a teacher. Though, having detention might be better than having to make conversation.

“Nice reading choice.” he feigned interest. “Didn’t know you could understand Mandarin.”

The corner of Lex’s mouth curled, cat-like. “Oh, I just picked it up recently.” he said breezily, as if it was the sort of thing one picked up as casually as learning a new card game.

“Why aren’t you in class?” Bruce asked.

At this, Lex perked up, finally looking away from his reading. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve already been early accepted to Princeton and Metropolis U.” His chin tilted back slightly, his shoulders falling back, unconsciously preening for Bruce’s benefit. “Scholarships from both, of course. Not that it was much of a surprise. With my SAT scores, they’ll practically pay me just to go to their school.”

Unsurprising, Bruce thought, that Lex’s ego would flourish under such attention. He made a half hearted attempt to suppress a scoff. “Like you need the money.”

Lex acted like he hadn’t heard him, continuing in a bitter tone, “So I hardly bother showing up for class here anymore. The median IQ of the room usually barely tops 100. I’m sick of politician’s sons and society brats who lack the imagination to aspire to be anything more than a parasite that feeds on familial wealth. Taking on some nominal position under their father’s companies.”

Lex had always adamantly said he wanted to build something separate than this father’s empire, even when he was a kid. They had a notoriously bad relationship. While other children came back from spending holidays with their parents looking joyful and with arms laden with new gifts and expensive clothes, Lex always came back from holidays looking pale and fragile, ever since his mother passed.

“And you really think Princeton will be any better?” Bruce asked skeptically.

Lex waved his hand dismissively. “I already have the knowledge to be a graduate from any of these schools. What matters is the resources and connections they can provide. Once you’re an adult you have ownership over your own intellectual property, then you can patent, which leads to industry, and ultimately I have corporate ambitions.”

Bruce could easily imagine Lex as a mad scientist in a white lab coat or as a board room tyrant, both equally frightening.

“And what will you do?” Lex asked. “Gotham University?”

Bruce shrugged, giving him the same, half lie, answer he usually gave when the school guidance counsellor asked him the same thing: “Not sure. I’ll probably travel for a bit after high school. Maybe join the Peacecorps or something like that. Help people.”

This time it was Lex’s turn to scoff.

Bruce gave him a disapproving look. “What? You don’t care about making the world a better place?” he drawled, half joking. Knowing what Lex’s answer would be.

“I save my pity for myself.” Lex quipped. “Us poor little billionaires have enough tragedy on our own, don’t we?”

Bruce smiled wryly. There was a grain of truth to it. They were two of the richest boys at the school. And easily the most miserable. And miserable children, he thought, rarely grow up to be good people. He likely wouldn’t and he didn’t think Lex would either. They’d always been rather alike. More alike than Bruce would’ve preferred.

“There’s lots of other tragedies in the world, Lex. Besides yours and mine.”

“Yes. And you’ve always acted like it was your job to solve them, haven’t you?” Lex said and there was suddenly acid in his voice that Bruce hadn’t expected. But Lex continued, “You think there’s something wrong with the world and that you’re the one who’s going to fix it. But you can’t because there is no such thing as how things ‘should be’, there is only how things are.”

Bruce stared at him, not saying a word in response, but Lex seemed content to monologue.

“You’re wasting your time trying to make things ‘better’ in the world. Someone is always going to be suffering and helpless and someone else is always going to be prospering and in power. It’s preferable to be the latter. You have money, you’re sharp, I’ve even seen your GPA and PSAT scores, there’s no reason for you to have to be the former.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. “And since when do you know so much about me?”

Lex shrugged one shoulder. “I have an acquaintance in student records. He lets me look through whatever files I want. Not that I couldn’t have broken into the office myself if I’d really wanted to- the security here is laughable.”

“You shouldn’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Bruce warned him, but Lex looked completely unfazed.

“It’s not just you I’ve looked into. I’m curious about all of my competition at this school.”

“And did it sate your curiosity?”

Lex rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

“Then what was it you wanted to know?”

He paused for a moment, to think. “Your philosophy, I suppose. Why you act like you do. Why you are the way you are.”

“You mean why I’m not more like you?” Bruce asked.

Lex stilled, his smile caught in place on his mouth but his eyes dark, belaying nothing.

Bruce sighed. “I believe in things that you don’t. I believe in justice.”

At that, Lex brought his hand to his mouth like he was trying to stifle a laugh. “Well, I suppose you are still a child, after all.”

Bruce fixed him with a glare. “That’s childish to you?”

“Don’t be such a cliche. What is justice? To protect the innocent and punish those who would take advantage of them? It just breaks people up into a binary of people who have been wronged and people to seek vengeance against. But wasn’t it Bertrand Russell who said- ‘life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim’?”

“Are you done? With that debate club oratorial?” Bruce said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lex ignored him. “The truth is, there are no innocents. Everyone tries to get what they want. Some people use kindness to manipulate, or follow the rules hoping one day what they want will be delivered to them by someone stronger and benevolent because they’re too weak to take it themselves. Those people are only ‘innocent’ because of their weakness and their fear of retribution. There is no evil either. Evil is just the name people give to things that hurt them. Evil people are only those with the power and the will to take what they need. People like to say that ‘power corrupts absolutely’ but power means choices, it means freedom. And when people are given the power to choose their own destiny, anyone would choose to be self interested.”

He spoke with just the right touch of ideological fanaticism. It made his face flush slightly with excitement. It made Bruce’s stomach turn. They looked at each other and both knew they were thinking along the same lines- that Bruce hated Lex. And that Lex was glad that Bruce hated him, because there had once been a time when he didn’t and when Bruce had thought Lex was a victim in need of protecting. And Lex would rather be anything than that.

“So?” Lex said. “What do you think?”

“I think you read too much Nietzsche.” Bruce said evenly.

Lex laughed, tapping the cover of the book on his lap. “I would’ve thought this was you all over. Self conquest. Der wille zur macht. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, you have as much to prove as I do.”

“I’m not like that.” Bruce muttered, but Lex heard him.

“Well maybe you ought to be.” The ever present lazy smile on his face started to curl at the corners into a sneer. “There’s lots of students here who will never amount to anything. Because real life isn’t boarding school. If you want to survive and turn things in your favor, you have to adapt. Otherwise you have nothing to blame for your misfortune but your own shortcomings.”

Bruce looked at Lex and wondered if that’s what he’d call it- adapting. He could still see in him the boy who’d cried himself to sleep in his bunk every night because the other kids called him a freak. The boy who’d been older than him but who Bruce had felt sorry for. He didn’t think he would ever feel sorry for him again.

“You think that’s an accomplishment?” Bruce said. “To turn into your father?”

The slit of Lex’s mouth widened, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. “At least I have a father.”

It was not on reflex. It was a choice. But it was a split second one, and decisive. Lex had no time to block or avoid the blow. Bruce’s fist smashed into the center of Lex’s face, knocking him clear off the bench. The book on his lap fell open onto the grass, a drop of Lex’s blood staining the spine. He only hit him once, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Behind him, Lex grabbed his own face, blood pooling on his palm from his freshly split lip. “You’re a freak, Wayne!” He shouted after him. “You’re a fucking freak!”

Bruce clenched his hand unconsciously by his side, not turning around or slowing his pace. He had blood on his knuckles and he knew now from experience, that the bruising on them would linger.

End

( If you liked, please leave me some comments and kudos on ao3! my author’s notes are on there too. Thank you for reading! ) 

[linkspooky]

can you write about the paralles with the training camp raid and the meta liberation? these ended with both the LOV coming out victorious and I would like it if you point out simulaities with these

The main parallels all lie in Shigaraki’s character. That being Shigaraki is a person who always learns from his many failures, and the environment around him. He’s always used the other villains as stepping stones for his own success. The main parallel between these two arcs is that they are preceded by an arc where Shigaraki fails in a way.

In the Stain arc, Shigaraki was brought up against Stain who told him that he needed to develop a creed in order to accomplish anything.  The Stain confrontation was deliberately set up by All for One knowing that the two of them would come into conflict. 

These conflcits of ideologies always challenge Shigaraki to do one thing. To define himself, to make him say what he wants. However at the same time the people who he fights against wants to use him. Stain thinks that Shigaraki’s violence is senseless towards the world. Chisaki wants to use the League of Villain’s name and make them his pawns. Rikiya wants to eradicate him. 

In other words these characters challenge him. Not only do they oppose him, but the people who Shigaraki face point out his flaws, and most of the time they’re right. Shigaraki does throw a childish temper tantrum when Stain attacks him and tries to destroy him, only to completely fail. Shigaraki has let useful people fall out of his hands in the past. The key point here is that all of these people calling out Shigaraki are exactly right about his flaws.

Stain says that Shigaraki will not get what he wants, just destroying everything around him. That nobody will sympathize with his cause like this. When Shigaraki just throws another temper tantrum like Stain accuses him of doing, what happens is Shigaraki’s failure he’s denied what he wants. 

What happens to Shigaraki is literally exactly what Stain said would happen. That nobody would sympathize with his cause, because he had no cause. Everyone pays far more attention to Stain than the League of Villains and even the new recruits to the League are not there for Shigaraki, but rather they were inspired by Stain. 

Shigaraki then questions what he did wrong and tried to learn from it, and when he reaches out to Deku he realizes why. Stain had sympathizers, and he did not. What’s interesting about Shigaraki’s change here is that he doesn’t do what Stain told him to do. Shigaraki still remains true to himself, but at the same time he takes Stain’s strength and makes it his own. 

Instead of deciding he is doing everything for a righteous cause like Stain, he instead switches strategy and tries to find people who will sympathize with him. Shigaraki instead starts reaching out to other people. You can see that in the change in his next strategy, what he tries to do this time is find sympathizers among the hero community in Bakugo and turn them to evil rather than destroy them. 

Shigaraki’s focus has changed from acting on his own feelings, to the other people around him. What he wants to do now is provide for them the same liberation that he himself desires more than anything else. This change in Shigaraki allows him to actually cooperate with comrades this time around rather than his complete failure to do so with Stain. 

Shigaraki wins in the camp raid, because ironically enough he learned to put trust in other people to succeed and have faith in his comrades the same way that the heroes fight. His victory comes from what he learned in his failure in the previous arc. That’s the main parallel here between these two arcs. 

The next arc Shigaraki fails again. Even though he ultimately Eked out a victory over Chisaki what happened was he one failed to make use of the Yakuza’s resources or any alliance with the Yakuza, and two lost an irreplacable person in Magne due to once again his coming to blows with Chisaki. 

Chisaki criticizies Shigaraki the same way Stain does, and once again Chisaki is not wrong. Shigaraki’s league has dwindled down to small numbers precisely because before this, he’s let comrades disappear en masse in the fight against heroes. The old Shigaraki threw away people that were no longer useful to him like broken toys, and the current Shigaraki is paying for that childish behavior. 

Chisaki challengs Shigaraki to learn how to use people, or become a pawn himself. Once again Shigaraki doesn’t do what Chisaki says, but he does use him as a stepping stone to learn from. He doesn’t change in the way Chisaki suggests, because in the end Shigaraki chooses loyalty to his comrades over using them as sacrificial pawns for his own benefit in the way Chisaki does. At the same time Shigaraki learns that without organizational structure like the Yakuza had, or a direction of where he’s going he’s going to lose again.

Last arc, Chsiaki pointed out that Shigaraki had no plan, no organization. His response this arc then is two important things, first he shares his plan with the entire group when he’s questioned by Spiner. The second is that Shigaraki starts acting like a leader in his own right to the group. Shigaraki makes a plan, and then also makes everyone understand his decision, that they’re going to go in to save Giran. 

They won this time as a direct result of Shigaraki changing his plans up, and realizing what is important to him now as a result of what he has lost in the past. Shigaraki’s priorities which were unclear and vague as far back as the stain arc are now well-defined. It’s something Shigaraki has discovered himself throughout his many failures. 

Number one, he’s going to destroy everything with the help of his allies. Number two, his allies should get what they want, and they’re equally as important to him as his goal. 

Shigaraki was not acting like a leader in the same capacity Overhaul was in the previous arc with him. Shigaraki could not get allies to believe in him except for his small band of misfits. He could not ever hope to recreate the organizational structure of the Yakuza and because of that he kept letting people go to waste. So once again what he improves on this time is his proving his worthiness as a leader people will follow, and also realizing the importance of making allies. That he needs these things to get what he wants. Therefore we see once again, his victory hinges on his decision to make allies rather than destroy them. Shigaraki accomplishes two things which Chisaki criticized him on in his victory against Rikiya, first proving himself to be a leader that people will decide to follow, and second in realizing that he needs a plan, organizational structure, and to make best use of his allies to get what he wants. 

[enigmatic-elegance]

△ Name one thing from their past that they regret. ☠ Do they fear death? ♣ Do they believe the world is made up of good and evil? ♥ Have they ever acted out of heartlessness? ♒ If they could choose how to die, how would they want to go? ™ Are they possessive? (This'll take you awhile, I want to know for Mas, Annei, and Corban 😁)

Horrific Headcanons

@quai-mason

Putting ALL OF THIS under a cut to spare my poor followers. Answers from Mas, @fragments-of-fortune, and @fallen-graces.

△ Name one thing from their past that they regret.

Mas

Mas would tell others that she has no regrets. She calculates everything in her life, and adapts for what she can’t plan through. She sees life as moments that go her way and moments she will eventually have go her way. There are no failures, just opportunities to progress in other ways.

However, Mas does have a regret. One that is buried deep behind a lot of emotional nullification. One that occurred before she was fully the thing she is now. She was not there when her father died. And for no other reason than she couldn’t handle watching it happen. Her father was everything to her, and she was his world. He died of a lung condition that couldn’t be treated with Light or medicine. Mas last saw her father when he was already infirm, but still able to talk. Her mother was there when he passed away, but Mas remained home. She regrets that she was not there to hold his hand when he left the universe

She feels she abandoned him. And she will always see that as perhaps her only true failure and regret.

Corban

One of Corban’s biggest regrets, besides the fall of his house, was his treatment of his sister Lilac. Her magic is extremely unstable and dangerous, and in the noble world that is a ticket for people to use that against you and your whole house. He never wanted to hurt her, but he did essentially imprison her. He maintained her in her room, letting her leave to designated areas around Fairhold with escorts. Lilac does not hold that against him. She understands why it had to be that way, she is dangerous. But he still wishes he had not caved in to the pressure and let her be a free woman like she deserved to be.

Annei

Annei wishes she could have given her children a more normalized life. She raised them to survive. Both in the literal sense and also how to survive in a noble world. People can be brutal in Annei’s world, and will manipulate or use you. She trained her children to navigate that world at the expense of letting them just be children. She looks back on that and feels in a way she stole some of their innocence from them by doing so.

☠ Do they fear death?

Mas

Mas does not fear death. To her, it’s not the end. Just the next step in the cycle. Besides, she has contingency plans in place for that eventuality. And the contingency is named Serata.

Corban

Corban knows he will one day die. But he wants to know his death has meaning. Corban believes in the old warrior’s mentality of ‘earning’ a death. That you are only allowed to die after you have done something worth remembering. To him, he has not yet ‘earned’ death. He still wants to have children, raise a legacy, and leave behind a memory that his loved ones can be proud of.

Annei

Annei fears death more than she would lead on. If asked upfront, she’d say she doesn’t. In truth, when in situations of danger she gets nervous. She knows that there is no fate or plan. You might just catch a stray arrow and that’s it, game over. She is uncertain of what awaits her in the afterlife and she is equally uncertain that her soul is clean enough to not be dragged down for the things she has done.

♣ Do they believe the world is made up of good and evil?

Mas

Mas thinks that black & white thinking is the downfall of intelligence. The world is far too grey to be classified in such a binary fashion. She thinks that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are abstract and change based on your experiences and perception of the world.

Corban

Corban thinks much like Mas though he holds a little more stock in some universal truths. He sees some acts as almost always ‘good’ and almost always ‘evil’. Things like altruism, for example, are almost always good things while things like sexual violence or violence against children are always bad things. He thinks there is room for interpretation between the extremes, but he won’t deny the existence of those extremes.

Annei

Annei thinks almost the same as Corban does, though she has much looser definitions on what is universally good/bad.

♥ Have they ever acted out of heartlessness?

Mas

Very often. Mas has been called heartless by many people and it’s not far off. To Mas, there is only the task and the means to that end. She doesn’t allow emotion to even have a say. If something needs to happen, or a goal needs to be achieved, she will do whatever is necessary to achieve it.

Corban

He has, though it isn’t a source of pride. He is still a man and has acted out of jealousy, pride, or hate. It does not happen often as he tries always to be an honorable man but he accepts that he is still flawed as anyone else is.

Annei

Annei very often acts in self-interest. She has told seas of lies to get the things she wants, and has faked whole marriages for purposes of power and wealth. She’s still pretty heartless in that she looks back on those things with humor and pride. People were ‘too stupid’ and she just took advantage.

♒ If they could choose how to die, how would they want to go?

Mas

Mas, if she had to pick, would wish for a calm death. Silence. An empty room, a comfortable bed, and she could simply lay down and meditate until death came to claim her. She knows what awaits her when she leaves her corporeal form, and thus has no fear. She would like it to be a peaceful affair.

Corban

Corban used to desire a death in battle. He romanticized the event, seeing it as something people would tell stories of. He wanted to be a hero. But now he sees that he was being young and silly. He wants to die an old man, wrinkled and grey, beside the person he loves and surrounded by his children he’s yet to have. That’s his goal.

Annei

Annei just wants no pain when she dies. She doesn’t much care if she lives to an old age. Besides, to her, beauty is a large part of her front and thus if that fades with age she’d rather not live to see it. She would much prefer to be a pretty young corpse that perished in peaceful manner in her sleep. Fully dressed and decorated with jewelry. Unrealistic but it’s her hope.

™ Are they possessive?

Mas

Mas knows what belongs to her, and you do not touch it. If you touch it, she will get you. Somehow, in some capacity, it will come back to haunt you. Though fortunately there is not much that Mas considers ‘hers’.

Corban

Corban has been known to suffer jealousy, but he makes effort to control it. He often makes it a joke, laughing off his concerns and invalidating them. In truth, the man has a very difficult time with loved ones because he fears losing them. He worries whatever time he has won’t feel like enough and he will be left feeling empty.

Annei

Annei is -very- possessive. She has many things, and no one touches them without her permission. If someone gets close to her she will stamp her ownership on them and get extremely haughty if they try and spend too much time with others. Gods help you if you get romantic with her, as she does not like to share and will make that extremely obvious.