#characters that if i think about for a fraction of a second too long ill start crying

[aidenwaites]

I've got zero clue how this book is gonna end but Eli lettherightonein if good things do not happen to you someway somehow,

[bitterbutblue]

our times

turns out, you're the fortune i want to keep most ☆ multi x reader

~ this is a multi x reader!! hatssun was talking about writing angst and i really said omg my turn! sorry hatssun ur idea was so good and it works so well w yukong and feixiao... ill credit u so hard bro i swear. WVERYONE BE PREPARED FOR WHEN THINK FAST DROPS🙏🙏🙏

UMM ALSO THE FEIXIAO ONE IS SOLONG FOR NO REASON LOTS OF DIALOGUE SORRYYYYY

characters: feixiao, yukong, ruan mei

 song: 小幸運 - Hebe Tian ~

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i was too busy chasing shooting stars in the sky ☆ feixiao

The day Saran ran away, something in you ran with her. The day Saran ran away, you didn't know if you would ever see her face break into a smile again, or if you would see her hanging the next day. The trace of her slowly faded with time, but even when you finally had the guts to bolt for it she was still the only thing on your mind. That day, you didn't mind if you died running, because it would've been better than staying there but alive. You didn't mind if you died running, because you died with her on your mind.

God knows how many decades had passed since the Luofu took you in. You only count days in how much your heart ached for her. Eventually it dulls down, it goes from a sharp thud to a muted nudge every time you see a dash of silver hair in the crowd or a sharp but soft smile on Jing Yuan's lips. You've heard of how far she had gotten, and you wished it didn't hurt so much to hear about it. You forced yourself to forget about her, because you couldn't keep living every day haunted by her. You were finally able to live your days how you wanted to, even if it meant without her by your side.

"Yukong, can you run these by the general for me?"

You were absentmindedly sitting at your desk, filling in whatever forms the general had sent to you about all the legality things they had to sort out for the Wardance. You spin your pen, signing your name down and ticking the last of the boxes. You huffed at the lack of response from the woman who should be sitting across from you.

"Yukong?"

"She's not here."

You look up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, and the world decides to take a break for a moment. In that small fraction of a second you feel yourself going back in time for decades until you are standing face to face with the young foxian, bruised and battered with an undying flame in her eyes. She is now much taller, her face pale but not the sickly kind that she harboured before. Her eyebags faded, hair flowing as if it had been just washed- a sight you never saw before in those camps.

She looked healthy, she had everything she wanted.

So why did she look like she was about to break down in front of you?

It wasn't fair.

"Saran?"

She only nods, standing with her arms by her side like a fool who doesn't know how to speak. She clears her throat, moving to cross her arms so she looked less awkward standing in front of you.

She wears clean clothes, she smells of petals.

Her scent of blood long faded, but you feel the pain behind her stance.

"How have you been?" Is all she asks as she eyes your desk warily, as if not knowing how to approach the conversation.

"Well. You?"

"Good enough."

Your old banter had long faded now, your previous ability to make each other laugh despite knowing the imminent death that looms over you two every day.

"Neergul died."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

It's like talking to a wall, or to just a mirrored version of yourself with how either of you refuse to look at each other.

"I never knew if you died or not until I came here."

Your shaky voice finally cuts the tension that has been simmering for far too long. She swallows, looking up and you know she is holding back tears because she has only ever looked up when the night sky is open and she can see the stars that granted her hope.

"I found out you became general. I was happy for you."

She says nothing.

"Why didn't you reach out?"

The edge to your voice has her breath knocked out of her lungs for a second as she tries to formulate an answer. She tries to weave incoherent thoughts and jumbles of emotions into a sentence and it's much harder to be done than she realised.

"I couldn't."

Of course she couldn't. Why would she admit to you how much of a coward she was? Knowing she had abandoned you after kissing you goodnight that evening.

"Why?"

But you want answers. It's not every day your presumed dead lover comes back to see you after years and years of crying yourself to sleep and hoping that in another future you could be in her arms without having to fear for your life.

"I was scared."

The general cannot be scared, or show any signs of fear in any situation- especially emotional situations where they need to stay calm so that people can feel secure around her but right now it all falls apart.

"Of who?"

"You."

"Why?"

You really did not like to raise your voice but you couldn't help it- she infuriates you. From the moment she flooded your heart you realised why love and hate go hand in hand because you hate that you love her.

"Why now?"

"I don't know."

Is all she manages to stutter out after an incredulous minute of silence and you just sigh.

"Why didn't you come find me?"

Her question has you going speechless now.

You were a hypocrite.

"I don't know."

She just nods with an unreadable expression on her face.

"I don't regret what I did that night."

You squeeze your now-fisted hand tight, taking a deep breath in to try to not only steady your voice but calm your racing heart that threatens to beat so hard it shatters in your chest.

"But why? Why make me love you for decades if you never planned to return?"

"I wanted to return. I always did."

Her words come out much more rushed than she intended it to come out. You feel your world shatter in that moment as you speak your next words.

"You never moved on?"

She steps closer.

"I dreamt about you every night. Under the sea of the shooting stars."

You shake your head, quickly wiping away at your own tears and she has to take a sharp breath in so her tears don't fall.

"Don't say that." You whisper "We can't. Please."

She looks at you, more intensely than ever as her voice quivers.

"Why?"

You shake your head.

"It'll only hold us back."

You still adorn matching scars from the torture you both had gone through in those camps. She is the scar on your heart, and you are the scar on hers.

"We can't." Is all you say.

She turns around and you want to pull her into your arms, you want her to be able to look at you but from that moment on, the look on her face as you ended what it was and what it could’ve been would be the face you see every night you close your eyes.

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somewhere in the sky i could not see, was you ☆ yukong

The evening Caiyi died in her arms, Yukong vowed to never see the skies again. That was the same evening you went missing, the same evening she breaks down because how can she lose two of what she loved most in her life within the blink of an eye? The reason for her to wake up every morning, the reason she smiled even through the roughest of the days- now faded into nothing but memory and a distant bitter taste in her mouth.

You were not presumed dead, only missing. The false sense of hope had Yukong staying at her desk for hours every day, going through files and files, records upon records to try and maybe find some trace of you somewhere but after years of searching she finally gave up. She had to care for Qingni for Caiyi, she had to keep loving you because if she doesn't then she feels like she's lost herself.

It was the day Qingni flew to the skies when she finally looked up once more. She looks to the planes to see her daughter flying the same path that doomed her from wanting to live but the sky was the reason she had the two people who made life worth living. It was that day a plane crashed and Yukong felt the familiar, sickening feeling from decades ago as she runs to the sight. She's panicked, flustered, heart racing and feeling like throwing up as she pushes past crowds amongst crowds-

She doesn't know if she should scream or sigh in relief when they pull the lifeless-looking figure out of the starskiff. The model was old, the same she used in the war where she lost....

You. The figure they pulled out was you and she feels like she's going to be sick. She runs up to them, asking if you're okay and the medics are telling her to back off but she needs to know. She puts her head down, ear against your chest and almost sobs when she hears your heart thud weakly. It's so soft she really could've missed it but she hears it.

"Oh baby..."

She whispers as she cradles your head on her lap.

She sits by your side in the hospital until you wake up. She doesn't move, doesn't eat or drink or anything unless Qingni drags her to the bathroom or to the cafeteria. She holds your hand weakly, squeezing it every once in a while to see if you'd respond.

A cough jolts her awake and she quickly scans the dark, dimly lit room to find you- blinking weakly as you scan the room wearily.

"Oh, oh my god."

She quickly gets off her chair, rushing by your side.

"Are you okay? How are you feeling? Nurse-"

"Yukong."

She never thought she'd hear her name fall from your lips, to hear her name mumbled out so softly and hoarsely again.

"I'm here, I'm right here."

You don't say anything as you close your eyes, taking in a deep but pained breath as you close your eyes. She can feel her hands go cold, trembling violently as she tries to calm herself down. Her fingertips feel like they've been dipped in ice water and her throat feels like its closing up violently.

"You're here."

Yukong couldn't help the sob that escapes her lips at your words.

"Yes, yes baby. I'm right here."

The tears are already falling before she can even bother trying to control them, and she can already feel herself slipping away when you smile softly at her because she had always been a fool for you. She put the whole world down for you and she would lift it up for you if you needed it to be lifted again.

"I- I came back."

"You did, you did baby, you're back." She whispers, finally moving to take your hand in hers. You feel so much smaller, your hand much rougher than it used to be and when she finally takes in how scarred you are she feels like breaking down.

"Wanted to see you..." you whisper weakly, voice shaking as you look directly into her eyes.

Your eyes were nothing like the eyes she used to look at every night before she drifted off to sleep. Now they were hollow, every trace of who you once were has faded into the past that only resides through her dreams.

You were back, but you'd never really be back.

She just squeezes your hand gently as she tells herself it's okay, telling herself that you're physically here and you were somehow still alive and that's all she's been praying for since the day you fell.

So why does it hurt so much?

If all she's ever wanted was to have you back in her arms, why does it hurt so much to have you back now? Looking at her with a smile that no longer meets your eyes and a sense of coldness washing over her like a suffocating blanket every time she sees you.

She still loves you.

She still loves you and it hurts that her lover has died, reincarnated into a broken version of who she once loved. But she doesn't care. She will learn to live with the cold if it means being able to hold you once more. She would spend as long as she needs, puzzling every piece of you back together until you are able to smile at her without the history of all that happened haunting your every waking move.

She vowed, from that moment on, she'd start looking at the sky again because the sky brought you back. Every evening she stares up at the moon, watching it dim the lights to another day, and whisper her gratefulness to have her lover back. Every evening, she brings you out to look at the moon, the same moon you looked at during the two decades apart where the only thing you had together was the moon draped in the sky that she was too scared to look at.

"I love you."

You just lean your head against her chest.

You just listen to her heartbeat, and with each thud the cracks in your body begin to renew themselves- you would never be who you were, but you would always love her.

"I love you too."

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every scene was you ☆ ruan mei

The day she left, she vanished. No note, no text, nothing. Ruan Mei had become nothing but a shadow on earth when she decided to leave your house and you questioned if it was even worth searching for her at that point.

She had always been obsessed with aeonhood, aeons, power- whatever. You knew she was. Yet you still loved her for it, and she always promised you that one day you two would be able to love each other for eternity, for as long as you wanted to and until time itself faded into nothing but what was a mere idea of the past. She held you close that evening when she promised you, your head resting on her chest as she wrapped her arms around you.

A week later, she vanishes.

Lab empty, notes packed away, it was like as if your house had gone back in time to before you met her with how empty it all was. You called her number, texted her phone, contacted everyone she knew which was not a lot but you still tried because you loved her.

The day she revealed herself as the 81st member of the genius society, you felt your entire being shatter into pieces of who it once was. That was why she left you. Ultimately, Ruan Mei was selfish, and she had always been a selfish person.

You were foolish for loving her.

But you couldn't stop.

By the time you finally encountered her again, your history had become just a speck of dust in her mind but it was still your reason for hurt. It was still the reason why getting out of bed was a bit harder and why looking in the mirror hurt just a bit more than it should.

"Oh, it's you."

Her monotonous voice has you wanting to squeeze her throat, strangle her until she can't speak but you don't move. You stare at her, her lack of reaction, her poker face and you just swallow.

"How are you?"

That was the only sentence you could manage out and if you looked closely enough, you could see her eye twitch slightly as her throat tightens- her composure begins breaking at the sound of your voice.

"Well." She nods. She sounds too composed to you despite all the pain she is desperately trying to hide. She hates you for making her feel this way. She hates how weak she feels when you make that face at her, when your eyes widen and your mouth tightens into a line, body tense and breathing shallow. "You?"

She notices how your body tenses even more at that question, how your eyebrows begin to furrow as your face grows pink from anger.

"Not very good."

"Oh."

Her response had you fuming even more. How she was so careless and thoughtless towards you and how you felt drove you off the walls. She doesn't give a shit about you, why would she even ask?

Because you don't see the guilt that eats away at her heart every night as she stares at the photo of you that she has on her bedside table.

"Congratulations. You did it. Genius society."

It came out bitter and harsh, and Ruan Mei doesn't flinch but she feels this twist in her gut that's too unfamiliar and too painful for her to fully register. She doesn't understand this feeling. She wants to, because she wants to know how to stop it.

"Thank you."

You scoff at her response, physically unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you stepped closer to her, jabbing a finger into her chest.

"You're a fucking bitch."

She hates how her heart leapt at the feeling of your touch, she hates how your words actually manage to hurt her when it really shouldn't be affecting her at all. She's been called so much worse, so why does this, coming from you, hurt so much?

"Is this because I left?"

How can she be so dense?

"You left without saying a word! You just disappeared off the face of the earth, I don't hear from you saying where you are. I don't know what happened, I thought I did something wrong, but no- I remember who you are. A narcissistic bitch who only cares about herself."

The last part hurt more than it should've.

"I don't only care about myself."

You can't help but falter at how soft her voice suddenly goes as she looks down, not making eye contact as she shifts her bodyweight from foot to foot.

"I really cared for you."

Those words shouldn't affect you. You should've moved on from what happened almost twenty years ago now but you can't. You just stare at her and you hate how you feel tears start to form in your eyes as you blink violently, trying to hold it back.

"Don't say that to me."

She goes silent.

"I hate you."

She looks down and you don't see the tears that well up in her eyes.

"I really hope you succeed. I hope you get everything you've ever wanted."

She doesn't even get to see your face for the last time, because by the time she finally gets the courage to look up you were already gone. Your last words to her haunt her every time she begins her studies, or every time she tries to focus on figuring out creating a new life species. She knows you didn't mean it, yet she can't help but want you to notice her just one last time.

Maybe this time, she could fulfil her long broken promise to you.

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@44rtem idk ifthis is the ruan mei content u wanted... but here u go <3

[snarkylinda]

I’m very glad you’re talking about spencer being parentified because it feels like people sometimes gloss over it a bit? or maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places. if this isn’t something you do in you’re blog feel free to just. not respond but do you have any more thoughts or. idk headcanons on how that might have affected him as an adult?

Hi anon! To be honest I have no idea what is essentially discussed alot on the fandom other that a tiny fraction of it I expose myself to because 1#I am too tired and old to deal with fandom discourse about my blorbo, and based on my previous experience with fandoms I KNOW that the most popular the character, the bigger the discourse so haha no- 2# I joined in late lmao literally a couple of months ago, so I am super out of the loop just screaming to the void in desperate needs for someone to scream back 🤲🏼 do this kind of asks actually made me so happy agahagaha 🥰🥰 Buckle up bois this is LONG-

Ok now to those that might come across this and ask themselves what the hell does being parentified means, it's a broad term used for the phenomenon of (at best) a child sharing parental responsibilities due to x circumstance, or (at worst) downright having the parent/child dynamic completely swapped, with the child being the caretaker for the parent and household. You don't have to know deep CM lore knowledge to realize the latter is Spencer Reid to a T. Hell, they aren't even subtle about it lmao:

Btw parentification is often mixed in with abandonment and while they share the "child being forced to grown up" too quickly, the former is often distinguished by the fact that, more often that not as is this case, the parent still cares for them but are unable to do so how it should be (tho there are several cases where parentefication is an part of willing neglect, sadly) and added to the fact that they have to look after themselves- they have to look after another.

This is a really complicated, broad topic and I just mentioned this to go full disclaimer and that I don't blame Diana at all for how messed her son ended up since she can't help it- and to make a joke about how Spencer was abandoned and parentified. Also harassed. Guys he wasn't even 18-

Anyways but back to your question, how do I think that affected Spencer growing up....well in everything basically lmao

But I will take on two instances that had stood up to me the most: emotional management and hiding secrets.

The second one is easier: you would catch this man dead before he vents to you over something other than his shitty dad (that I find very funny tbh) and when he does is because he is at his limit and about to fucking cry.

Now don't get me wrong: we all are entiltde to our privacy. These are grown ass adults and they have lives outside of their working circle....

Right?

Haha we have an problem-

So yeah, Spencer kind of actually needs to rely on his co-workers because he has literally nobody else to rely on-

And yet

Oh here is the thing- Spencer is one polite boi but he is also blunt, if he doesn't want someone on his business he says so (look back when Alex discovered him and Maeve) this is literally "I wanted to tell you but I feel like I shouldn't"- this is not season 1 mind you, this is season 11, and yet here he was one of his oldest friends literally grabbing him by the arm and having to tell him it's never a bother- I am the only one fucking crying at this?

Excuses seems to come to Spencer like it's second nature- "sorry a tube on my apparment broke" "Oh I....I tripped!" "There was a lot of traffic so..." "I was watching an movie" and I am not am expert on USA's history or some shit, but Child Protection Services had been a thing since at least the 60s, so I don't think that a 10yo living alone with his mentally ill mother would have flown well- you get the idea.

I think this scene summarizes the whole thing perfectly

Get it? it's irony. (I love how Spencer is about to say something like dismissive "thank you" but because this shit hit too close to home to comfort he just gave a polite smile and walked away. That silence was LOUD) Because Spencer had always had done the former but the latter er.... :D

And it's not only when it concern Diane btw, any problem whatsoever Spencer would rather lock himself up (literally lmao) that sit down and talk about it- it's only when his bs is exposed and he can't refutage (like that little scene after Gideon's death when Rossi asks him if he had been there all night- he points out the fact he is wearing the same cardigan as the day before) that he opens up....or he runs away, which leads me to the second big point that I think shows how much Parentification fucked him up:

Spencer has the emotional maturity of a teenager.

I talk about this literally all the time so I'll be shorter lmao basically Spencer... has an issue- ok he has lot of issues- and that is the way he dislikes direct confrontation, so whenever he is hurt or angry he would rather be dismissive and passive-agressive that talk it out with the person- even going as far as turning away and storming out of the room.

(Here is the part where I put the screencaps but him storming off would be out of focus so lmao er.... Elephant Memory, Memoriam, Proof, a little part in 15x2 and The Gathering)

Now... I do think that a grown-ass man doing this shit is hilarious, like I love Spencer's bratty side so much lmao but it's an clear sign of someone that never learned how to deal with his emotions on a healthy way, someone that 6 out of 7 days of the week had to interiorize everything in and because of that holds on so much....resement, so much repressed anger but also without an stable force on his life to help him manage that- so we are left with an teenager trapped in an adult's body, loss at how to handle shit like he always did.

....And want to know the worst part about an Parentified boy onto adulthood?

That they don't know better.

[xflashbastardx]

☯ + Crowley during Aziraphale's execution

Send me '☯ + a scene from my characters canon' and I will drabble it from my character's POV. | Accepting

"I think you're going to like this. I really do. And I bet you didn't see this one coming."

Well, I could say the same thing to you, Crowley thinks to himself, maintaining an expression that resides somewhere between neutral and pleasant---not an easy task when faced with the smug ear-to-ear grin of the archangel Gabriel. From behind, he hears the thump-thump-thump of heavy boots on marble floors and knows that it must be the "associate" the angels had mentioned previously.

"Don't get this view down in the basement!" the new arrival declares before summoning a pillar of Hellfire. Crowley watches the flames grow, expression never shifting, though inside he is seething. If they'd not caught that last scrap of Agnes Nutter's predictions, it would actually be Aziraphale tied to this chair, awaiting permanent destruction, rather than himself wearing Aziraphale's likeness. These absolute bastards would go so far as to completely and utterly obliterate---but of course they would. He isn't surprised. The cruelty of heaven stopped surprising him millennia ago.

"So. With one act of treason, you averted the war."

"Well, I think the greater good---"

"Don't talk to me about the 'greater good,' sunshine, I'm the archangel fucking Gabriel."

For a fraction of a second, the condescension aimed at "Aziraphale" almost makes the mask slip. Not that he thinks the angels would notice if it did. None of them know Aziraphale, not like he does, but there's far too much at stake to take any risks. His imitation of Aziraphale's amiable smile fades as Gabriel continues.

"The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all."

Crowley says nothing. Uriel steps forward, pulling his bindings away with ease and commanding him to stand, which he does in his best replica of Aziraphale's mannerisms. He rolls his wrists a little, adjusts his coat, straightens his bowtie. And then the smile is back.

"I don't suppose I can persuade you to reconsider? We're meant to be the good guys, for heaven's sake."

Just a touch of himself slipped out there, a note of judgement from the demon towards the assembly of archangels. You're. YOU'RE meant to be the good guys. How can you call yourselves good and do this to the best of your lot?

Again, Gabriel and the others don't notice. Relieved as he is that the hairline cracks in his façade have gone undetected, it's really driving home how little they know Aziraphale, how much they have looked down on and dismissed him all this time. And again, Crowley bites back anger.

"Well, for heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors---" Oh, Crowley knows. He knows that well. "---so. Into the flame."

Crowley approaches the towering inferno. What would Aziraphale do, in a moment like this? He doesn't have to ponder long. Aziraphale---endless font of goodness and kindness and forgiveness that he is---would surely not hold any resentment or ill will in his heart for the archangels sentencing him to destruction.

That's fine. Crowley can harbour enough for the both of them.

"Lovely knowing you all," he says to his would-be executioners, donning the smile he has come to know so well over the centuries. "May we meet on a better occasion."

"Shut your stupid mouth and die already."

The smile falls and for one fleeting second, Crowley can't hide the complete and utter hatred in his eyes.

Oh, you'll pay for that someday, Gabriel. I'll see to it myself.

Dutifully, he steps into the Hellfire. As the archangels look on in a horrified sort of bewilderment, he luxuriates in the feeling of the flames. Just for his own amusement, he even hisses a little burst in their direction---not enough to actually hit any of them, no, that would be too risky (though he is sorely tempted). But enough to scare them.

Enough to make them think twice before ever bringing harm to Aziraphale again.

[cheesybadgers]

Narcos Fic: Old Habits Die Hard (Chap. 11)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Horacio Carrillo

Words: 5,778

Summary: In the aftermath of chapter 10, the consequences of the ambush are felt by all, whilst it’s a race against time to save Horacio. 

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Canon-typical violence, non-graphic description of a gunshot wound/being shot, flashbacks, near-death experience, survivor’s guilt, discussions of sexuality and unintentionally coming out, angst, swearing.

Notes: I had hoped to post this sooner, but life, (minor) illness and Christmas had other ideas! I was determined to get this up before the end of the year though lol. I’ve made a tentative start on chapter 12 already, so I’ll be cracking on with that shortly. Thank you so much to anyone still reading/interacting, it’s greatly appreciated 😊

Whilst obviously I do not own Narcos or its characters, please do not copy, re-post, or plagiarize this fic in any capacity on this or other platforms. If you wish to create any fan works inspired by it, please provide a credit or send me a message if in doubt.

Chapter 11: Second Chances

The last comms received were the distressed cries of Trujillo confirming the convoy was under attack. Despite several more attempts to make contact, it was no use. They were blind and deaf to what was happening, making it far too easy to assume the worst.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Javier slammed his fist down on the dashboard before scooping up the radio once more. “Jacoby, come in, do you hear me?”

When the transmission came through, though, it wasn’t Jacoby. It was Messina. “Peña, whatever you and Murphy think you’re doing, I suggest—”

“It’s an ambush! We need immediate assistance from all available units to 9th Street!”

“What the hell happened?”

“Look, you can hurl our asses home all you want after this is over, but are you gonna help, or are you gonna let us go into a fucking bloodbath without backup?” The urgency in Javier’s voice left no room for diplomacy or contrition. Not that he was sorry in the slightest, and he wasn’t in the mood to pretend otherwise. His ultimatum hung in the air for what couldn’t have been more than a fraction of a second but still seemed like precious time wasted. “It’s your call, boss,” he spat out, his patience obliterated.

Messina may have been many things Javier didn’t care for, but she wasn’t heartless. “I’ll alert Search Bloc now. You two need to stay put wherever you are until they’re on the scene. No arguments this time, Peña. We’ll talk about this later. Is that clear?”

“Clear. Over and out.” Javier threw the radio back down in disgust before turning to Steve. “Keep driving.”

“Javi—”

“I said keep fucking driving.”

Steve gave no response, but the speedometer steadily crept up as they travelled in sombre silence.  

Javier reached under the collar of his shirt and clasped the warmed silver of the crucifix in his chilled yet clammy palm. He regretted not returning it to its rightful owner before they left base, and out of sheer desperation, he wordlessly recited a prayer for the first time in years. Or rather decades.

Even when he’d knelt with Trujillo on the cold tiles of Carlos Holguín, he hadn’t asked for anything. But now, he pleaded and begged with everything he had that they weren't too late. Clinging to hope and whatever remnants were left of his faith as though they were a life-raft on the brink of the abyss. It was all that kept him afloat and from drowning in an endless sea of blind panic. He was willing to trade anything by this point; he couldn't care less. None of it mattered anymore. Just as long as Horacio was still alive.

As they approached the corner of 9th Street, clouds of smoke billowed high above the buildings in the vicinity. A miasma of charred rubber and fumes filled the night air, along with the all too familiar echo of gunfire.

No sooner had Javier and Steve stepped out of the car than shots skimmed past their heads and forced them to duck for cover behind the vehicle doors. Although the smothering mist hampered their visibility and made it almost impossible to distinguish which direction bullets were flying from.

Javier squinted and could just about make out the silhouette of two figures he assumed were Pablo’s men heading towards them. But something made him hesitate. As they drew nearer, it was obvious one of them was injured from his laboured gait and the way he rested against the other. “Wait, Steve, hold your fire!”

Before Steve could respond, Javier left the safety of his hiding place and ran towards the two men; their identities shifting into focus the closer he got.

“Peña, give me a hand. He’s been shot!” Trujillo battled to hide the alarm from his voice almost as much as he struggled to hold Horacio’s limp form up.

Without hesitation, Javier swooped into the other side of Horacio. His prayer had been answered – just, but overwhelming relief was soon tempered by Horacio’s apparent condition. “We need to get him to the car, it’s just up ahead!”

They stumbled forwards, miraculously dodging the relentless bombardment whilst Steve did his best to cover them.

They were almost home and dry, the car merely feet ahead, when Horacio’s legs gave way beneath him with a defeated groan.

“No, no, no, we have to keep moving. Just a few more steps.” Javier dropped to his knees on the rough asphalt, arm secured around Horacio in an attempt to break the fall. Dread skirted at the edges of his voice as Horacio lolled heavily against his shoulder with half-lidded eyes. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he whispered whilst cradling Horacio’s head for the briefest of moments.

“Come on, Colonel, let us help you to the car!” Trujillo soon joined Javier on the floor, the pandemonium surrounding them thankfully drowning out such a subtle gesture of affection.

With their combined strength, they heaved Horacio up and manoeuvred him into the back of Steve’s Jeep.

Javier had never been happier to hear grunts of pain as Horacio’s shoulder caught the upholstery whilst they positioned him across the seats. He shoved down the urge to clamber in alongside him, even though that was where he should have been. “Let’s go, Steve!” he signalled instead as he closed the door.

However, as he made to jump in the front passenger seat, something blunt and heavy punched into his chest and knocked him backwards to the ground.

He lay gasping for several seconds, wondering whose anguished howl he could hear before it dawned on him it was his own. It was as though all of the air had been snatched from his lungs and replaced with a lead weight crushing him down into the depths of the earth. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and he was only brought to his senses by Steve frantically yelling his name as he crouched by his side.

“What’s the damage?” Javier eventually puffed out, although each syllable was like a dagger plunging through his thorax.

“Well, the vest did its job, so that’s the main thing.” Steve hung his head as he let out several relieved breaths. “Can you move at all? We need to leave now.”

Bullets ricocheted off every surface, and it was sheer luck that Steve hadn’t been hit as well. Which was why Javier pushed past the sensation of hot pokers ripping through his rib cage as he was helped back onto his feet. From there, he was all but hurled into the passenger seat before Steve resumed his place behind the wheel.

Javier tensed and hissed sharply through his teeth as his back hit the seat from the sudden movement of the car, but distracted himself by peering through the rear-view mirror. “How is he?”

“Unconscious again. Still breathing but he’s lost a lot of blood.” Trujillo had rummaged under the seats for any First Aid supplies he could get his hands on. They were basic materials, but anything was better than nothing when it came to stopping the bleeding. “Murphy, we need to get to Hospital General and we need some of our men over there. Nowhere’s gonna be safe. Too many people on Escobar’s payroll.”

“Got it.”

Javier was vaguely aware of Steve taking charge of the situation and Messina’s voice on the other end of the radio. Her livid tones washed over him with ease as he kept his focus on the mirror. He could just about make out the rise and fall of Horacio’s chest – shallower breaths than normal but signs of life nonetheless – and was compelled to place his palm against it. Just to be sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Not that he deserved that privilege. Once again, he was reminded why alone had always been safer. Not just for him, but for everyone else involved as well. When people got close to him, they tended to get hurt one way or another. He’d always assumed the worst damage he could cause someone was to their feelings, but he’d really fucking surpassed himself this time.

“Javi? Can you hear me? Javi? Are you okay?”

Javier blinked out of his daze to find Steve staring at him with a quizzical look of concern. “Yeah, yeah. M’fine.” They both knew he wasn’t, but at least he was responsive, which was enough to satisfy Steve for the time being.

“A team’s been sent to the hospital to meet us there. All remaining units have been deployed to 9th Street to rescue any survivors. Messina’s losin’ her shit, but nothin’ new there.” Steve attempted a smile with his last comment, needing to find a release somewhere, no matter how trivial.

Javier understood, though and reciprocated. “Thanks, Steve.” For everything, he wanted to add. Along with Sorry that I dragged you into this shitstorm and nearly got us all killed, but he had neither the strength nor the courage.

------------------------------------------------------

Armed CNP officers were stationed outside the building by the time they arrived at Hospital General. A stretcher had already wheeled Horacio off to be assessed before Javier even made it out of the car. There was no time for anything. No time between them. No time for words of reassurance – or words of any kind. No time for potential goodbyes. Nothing. And it was all his fault.

There was a stretcher waiting for Javier too, which he’d initially waved off, but now he was without Horacio, he was glad of the soft landing when his head span and his legs buckled.

“Woah, easy now, Javi,” Steve reassured as he helped Javier lay back.

“I need to know how he is.” Despite his woozy state, Javier tried to sit up again with a grimace but was immediately halted by a gentle hand on his shoulder that forced him to abandon his feeble attempt.

“You need to let them treat you before you do anything else.” Right on cue, several medics arrived to move Javier. “He’s in the best place right now, Javi. You gotta hold on to that,” Steve continued, dropping his voice low enough for only the two of them to hear.

By the time Javier had been wheeled through the hospital – with Steve following behind the trolley – and into a treatment room, Trujillo was in the next bed receiving stitches.

“I’m gonna call Connie and fill her in, let her know I’m safe. Will you two be okay for a while?”

“Don’t worry, blondie, I’ll make sure Peña stays out of trouble.” There was that smile again; the same weary, grief-tinged one Javier had seen after the attacks on the CNP.

“Good luck with that,” Steve quipped before leaving them to it.

They remained in silence whilst the nurse finished suturing, which gave Javier more time to tie himself in knots contemplating what to say. Not that he was even sure his input was wanted right now.

“What you and Murphy did…” Here it comes. Javier was already bracing himself. It’s what he deserved, after all. “I just wanted to say…thank you.”

“What?” Not the response he was expecting.

“For going against your orders and coming after us. You saved our lives, Peña.”

Javier couldn’t stop a humourless laugh from escaping. “You really shouldn’t be thanking me.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Coulda happened to any of us.”

“But it didn’t, did it? They knew I’d fall for it and they were fucking right.”

“He’s in good hands.” Trujillo side-stepped Javier’s self-deprecation in favour of getting to the heart of the issue. They’d both avoided addressing the obvious until now, but Horacio’s presence was so loud between them, it was unsustainable to avoid the subject for much longer. “And the bastard’s too stubborn to die, anyway.” A sentiment which raised a knowing, wry smile from them both.

Whilst they talked, a nurse had carefully eased Javier out of his tac vest. She lay it at the edge of the bed, and he couldn’t help but stare at the bullet lodged in the fabric of the Kevlar. Why had he been so lucky, and Horacio hadn’t? All because he’d fallen for the old damsel in distress routine. Again. She’d played the part so well, though. How could he have allowed himself to be taken in so fucking badly?

Lost in thought, Javier hadn’t been paying much attention to the nurse’s actions. She’d given him a shot of pain relief and helped him peel off his shirt. The bruising to his chest was prominent and would no doubt develop further in the following hours and days. It wasn’t until he glanced down at his torso that he remembered the necklace. Shit.

He attempted a subtle glance in Trujillo’s direction, but it was too late. Javier caught every stage of Trujillo’s reaction as he stared at the no doubt familiar pendant at the base of his neck. What surprised Javier, though, was he didn’t note any trace of shock or disgust, but rather a look that screamed Of course. As if the final piece of the puzzle had slotted into place at last.

Before either man could say anything, the nurse informed Javier he was to be taken for an x-ray. Javier mumbled his thanks as he was wheeled out of the room, unable to bring himself to meet Trujillo’s eye again.

------------------------------------------------------

The x-rays confirmed Javier had sustained several broken ribs. But there was nothing more to be done for him other than managing the pain and resting. Something he was finding impossible to do whilst waiting to be discharged.

What made it even worse was, to the outside world, he was nothing to Horacio. Officially, he was just a colleague with no entitlement whatsoever to be consulted on Horacio’s condition. All he could do was lie there in the dark, in every sense of the word. Helpless and fidgeting, which did nothing to aid his own recovery. He didn’t want to sit still – couldn’t. He had the compulsion to pace in the same way he had done after the bombing in Madrid. In the same way that the monotonous ticking of the second hand on the clock above his bed hammered into his skull, mocking him with each hour that passed without news.

Eventually, he was saved from his sleepless nightmare by a knock at the door and Trujillo clearing his throat. It prompted Javier to sit up with a jolt as he fumbled for the light switch on the wall beside him.

“There was damage to his blood vessels, and he needed a transfusion, but he’s gonna be okay. And he knows you’re okay too. Just thought you’d want an update before I brief everyone else.”

Javier closed his eyes, his shoulders visibly sagging like a deflated balloon. “Thank you.” He looked up to say more, but the words died on his tongue in their usual fashion.

Trujillo dipped his head in reply and lingered in the doorway, sensing the conversation wasn’t done with.

“Listen, about earlier—” Javier tried again.

“It’s okay,” Trujillo interjected, his expression unreadable, but then he had learnt from the best. “I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

There was no hiding the warmth in Trujillo’s eyes, though, and Javier found his chest swelling for reasons other than pain or anxiety for the first time in hours. There were so many things he wanted to say – should have said – but the lump in his throat had other ideas. He swallowed it down and gave a firm nod instead. One that was returned in a silent acknowledgement that meant more to Javier than Trujillo would probably ever realise.

“He’s still coming round from the surgery, but as soon as he’s stable, we’re gonna have to move him,” Trujillo pressed on. “We can’t stay here for longer than necessary. Too many eyes and ears.”

“Right, yeah, of course.”

Javier’s mind raced a mile a minute as Trujillo excused himself to update the rest of Search Bloc and Steve. Escobar wanted Horacio dead and not just in a casual way, either. That was what the ambush had been about. Javier was the bait, and Horacio had taken it all too willingly. And now, it looked as though Horacio would need to go into hiding. All because Javier had yet again satisfied his pathetic fucking need to play the knight in shining armour. As though it was even his place in a country that wasn’t his.

He stared up at the ceiling illuminated by garish, clinical lights that made him feel like he was under interrogation, or rather that he should have been. No matter which way he looked at it, this was on him. And whilst it may not have cost Horacio his life, it might have cost him just about everything else.

------------------------------------------------------

As an interim measure, it was decided to transfer Horacio to Carlos Holguín. They were going against medical advice to transport him so soon after surgery, but they were left with no choice. It wouldn’t be long before Escobar or his men got wind of Horacio’s whereabouts, so the sooner they moved, the better.

Javier sat by Horacio’s bed in the school’s medical wing, which contained limited facilities by comparison to the hospital. There was still a drip line attached to Horacio, but the main damage had been repaired. Thankfully, the bullet had entered and exited straight through his shoulder, so there was no need for the surgeon to attempt to fish it out or leave a permanent reminder beneath the skin.

Horacio was still on the groggy side and the colour hadn’t returned to his cheeks yet, but he was at least propped up by pillows and able to talk now. He’d been sedated when he first arrived and with Trujillo’s help, Javier managed to go unnoticed at his bedside for some time before he woke. Long enough for Javier to rest his head against Horacio’s chest, soothed by the sturdy, rhythmic beat of his heart. At last.

They may have both been conscious, but words clogged in the back of Javier’s throat like choking tar. His chin rested in his clasped palms, heavy eyes drawn to the floor and unable to meet Horacio’s.

“This wasn’t your fault.” 

Javier scoffed against his hands, wincing at the shooting pain the action sent across his bruised chest. He still refused to look up, although the fact Horacio had read him so accurately rendered any attempts to hide pointless.

“Hey, come on, look at me,” Horacio continued, his voice weak but full of determination not to be put off by defence mechanisms he knew all too well.

Javier submitted and raised his head. How could he deny Horacio under any circumstance, least of all when he was in such a vulnerable state? But then they both were. Battered and bruised in all respects, they shared a look that somehow encapsulated the pain, rawness and injustice that had led them here. 

“I got played.”

“We all did.”

Javier shook his head with vigour. “No, you trusted me because I trusted her. I fucked up. End of story.”

“She probably got played too, remember. This is how he operates. And anyway, it was me he wanted. For coming back. For going after his business. For Gustavo. So, if you want someone to blame, this is on me, not you.”

“Bullshit. A lot of your men are dead, and…I nearly got you killed as well.” What started out as a sceptical huff ended with Javier’s voice cracking at the seams, the unforgiving lighting exposing the glossy sheen that had formed across his pupils.

“You saved my life and put your own at risk – yours and Murphy’s. What if I’d survived and you hadn’t? You think I’d be able to live with that?” Luckily for Javier, Horacio was in no position to judge as he struggled to finish each sentence, every glance at Javier only making it harder.

“We knew what we were getting into. And it was either that or sitting there listening to you all—” Javier cut himself off and took a deep breath, desperately trying but failing to blink back tears. “You think I’d be able to live with that?”

Horacio let out an exasperated sigh that doubled as an opportunity to regain a semblance of composure. It was clear this was an unwinnable and circular argument that they were both too wrung out to be indulging in. “What will happen to you and Murphy?” he asked instead.

“Haven’t spoken to Messina yet, but I’m guessing suspension and a flight home. Before you say anything, we knew it was a possibility. If we’d killed the fucker tonight, we’d be leaving Colombia anyway.”

It was the truth. A truth that Javier had accepted as soon as it became clear Escobar had slipped through their fingers again. He wasn’t sure if it was numbness caused by shock, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Good men had lost their lives because of his decision-making, and Horacio could quite easily have been one of them. Whatever punishment the DEA had in store for him, he doubted it could compare to the well-established guilt he bore for his role in the proceedings.

Horacio cast his eyes towards the linen bedsheet that cocooned him; the flimsy material now all that remained of his defences against the bombshell he was about to drop. “I’m stepping down too.”

“What? No, you can’t—”

“Wait, just hear me out. Please.”

Javier conceded with a reluctant tilt of his head, accepting he didn’t really have any choice in the matter.

“I can’t keep doing this. I – I can’t keep putting my job above you. Above us. Not anymore. Not when Escobar is prepared to go this far, and further no doubt.”

There it was. An admission he’d known he was going to have to make ever since he came round from the anaesthetic. When he’d found out how close to death he was.

He couldn’t recollect much detail of events, but he remembered how distant everything around him had become. How all he could sense were glints of light and a shimmer of silver in his peripheral vision. How bone-deep cold and dog-tired he was as the hazy image of a cross faded in and out of view. How easy it would have been to give in to the lure of sleep if it hadn’t been for the voices of comfort and strength pulling him back from the precipice. And how close he was to succumbing when he’d heard Javier’s cry of pain. How he’d had no idea what had happened when he awoke rambling incoherently until the doctors allowed Trujillo in to calm him down and explain that Javier was safe and well. No, there was no way he could put either of them through any of that again.

“I’m too much of a liability. And I’m pretty sure my superiors agree,” Horacio continued after a pause to let Javier digest everything.

“What are you talking about?”

“After Vélez’s news report, they made it clear they were looking for my replacement. Even reeled off a list of potential candidates when they called me. Some of the names I didn’t know, but one I did recognise – Martínez. His father served with my father. He’s well-liked, above board. A safe pair of hands compared to me,” he scoffed. “I think they’ll go with him if they can persuade him to take the job.”

“But what about Gaviria?”

“You think he’ll care after this? More dead officers on his watch and two DEA agents caught in the crossfire? It’s too risky for him and his party. I’m not worth it.”

As much as it pained Javier, he knew Horacio was right. Bureaucracy, political scandals, ratings, and reputations were the major players at this level. It didn’t take much to bring about a shake-up if the powers that be deemed it necessary. The DEA was no different, either. It was easy to imagine Horacio being viewed as too much of a hindrance and his conflict with Escobar overly personal.

“What are you gonna do?”

“For the next few hours, I should be safe here, but after that, I don’t know. I – I might have to leave Colombia again.”

Javier’s heart sank, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. It didn’t matter what comfort Horacio offered; if it hadn’t been for Javier passing on the intel, they wouldn’t be sat here now. And then there was the magnitude of Horacio giving up his job. For him. For them. The gesture should have left him elated, but he mostly felt sick, ashamed and unworthy.

“I’m sorry, Horacio. I’m so sorry. For everything. I—”

“No, stop that. I won’t let you do this to yourself.” Horacio leaned forwards, ignoring the shockwaves of pain as he gripped Javier’s face, gently coaxing his gaze upwards. “I’m not sorry we’re both still alive. You said this won’t be forever, remember? Maybe this is where it ends.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want us to have a future together, Javier. And I – I think you want the same. This could be our chance. A second chance.”

Flashbacks of his previous visit to see Gabriela filled Javier’s mind. What was it she said? There’ll come a day when the decision will be taken out my hands one way or another. Was this finally that day? Were they both getting out at long last?

Even just thinking about it made his heart flutter and his stomach soar before he reminded himself that he didn’t know for definite what his own fate was yet. However, he couldn’t envisage a scenario where he and Steve were allowed to waltz back into the Embassy or Carlos Holguín as if nothing had happened. Not given how serious the situation was, or how they had disobeyed direct orders. Twice in one night. Which was why, just for a moment, he let his mind drift to a future of hope and peace.

He breathed deeply against Horacio, nuzzling their foreheads together with his eyes closed. “I do want the same,” he whispered, capturing Horacio’s mouth with his own. A soft, delicate brush of lips that acknowledged the fragility of the situation and each other.

Horacio pulled away, his eyes beginning to flicker with a dogged determination that Javier had seen on numerous occasions. “We need to get Trujillo and Murphy in here.”

Javier froze at the mere mention of their names. He couldn’t believe it had slipped his mind with everything else going on. “Before we do, I need to tell you something.”

“Go on,” Horacio urged.

“They both know. About us. And I, er, I’m pretty sure Connie knows too.” Javier’s eyes met the ground as he spoke, fearing the sacred moment they’d just savoured had shattered and broken in an instant.

Horacio gulped, the tension in his jaw solidifying his features into a statue of fear that no attempt on his life could ever instil. “H-how?”

“Trujillo accidentally saw my – your – necklace earlier when the nurse examined me. Steve…figured it out when I went after you back at base, but that’s hardly surprising with all the other near misses. And Connie, I’m not sure, to be honest. She went back to Miami before we could talk.”

“Fuck,” was all Horacio could manage after a heavy silence, his left hand raking through his hair.

“Yeah. Guess we weren’t as discreet as we thought.”

“What did they say?”

“Steve was, well, Steve to begin with, but he calmed down. And I think it’ll be okay. If Connie knows, you can trust her. Trujillo, you’ve got nothing to worry about there either,” Javier finished, the beginnings of a smile emerging as he thought back to his earlier conversation with Trujillo.

Almost as though they had been overheard, there was a faint knock from the other side of the room. Trujillo hovered awkwardly in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

A warmth spread through Horacio’s chest as he caught the eye of his right-hand man. Not just because of what he’d been told by Javier, but for everything they had been through. For his unwavering allegiance and bravery, even when Horacio asked far more than it was fair for a Colonel to ever ask of a subordinate officer. But then, their bond ran deeper than work colleagues, than compatriots, than even friendship. They had fought, killed, survived and grieved together. Not to mention, Trujillo had lost more than most in this war, and if anyone deserved to see this through until the end, it was him.

As Javier excused himself for a smoke, Horacio gestured for Trujillo to sit down.

“How are you feeling, Colonel?”

“Like I’ve been shot.” To a casual observer, it would have been easy to misinterpret Horacio’s dry humour for rudeness, but Trujillo didn’t miss a beat or the hint of a smirk pulling at his Colonel’s customarily pursed lips.

It was nothing Trujillo hadn’t witnessed countless times before. Although he couldn’t deny he never tired of watching him confuse and terrify new recruits with little more than a withering comment or look. New recruits who hadn't made it home again, he noted with a lurch to the gut, but there would be time for mourning when the dust had settled. Trujillo didn’t want to place an extra burden on Horacio now, although knew full well Horacio would already be carrying the weight of it regardless. 

“Better than I was, though, thank you,” Horacio continued with more earnest this time. “How’s your head?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Just a few stitches. I told you it was only a scratch.”

Horacio’s memories of the ambush were blurry and muddled, but he just about remembered that part of their conversation before he’d passed out. “You did. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without you, to be honest.”

“I was just doing my job, Colonel.”

“No, I mean it, Trujillo. I – I know I ask a lot from you. Too much sometimes. But you’ve always come through, even when most wouldn’t. So, thank you. For everything.”

Trujillo was stumped by Horacio’s uncharacteristic openness, but then, he knew what everything really meant. Horacio didn’t need to elaborate any further. Trujillo had seen Javier in here just before he arrived; there was no need to make a fuss beyond what had been said. So, in the end, he simply settled for a shrift nod. “I guess I must have a good teacher.”

That earned a full-blown laugh from Horacio. “Naturally.” As they joked and reminisced, it hit him how much he was going to miss this. And how he owed it to Trujillo to tell him the news ahead of anyone else. Which was why he took a steadying breath before he began.

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It hadn't been easy for Horacio to explain his reasoning for stepping down, but of course, Trujillo respected his decision. And given Escobar's thirst for vengeance, he agreed it was the safest option.

Javier had filled Steve in too, and now that they were all on the same page, the four of them gathered in Horacio’s room to thrash out a plan of action.

Steve also brought an update from Messina: as expected, he and Javier were suspended until further notice. “It’s way above her head, apparently. More like she wanted to save her own fuckin’ neck.”

“I’ll tell them it was all me, and you were just following my orders,” Javier offered. It was the least he could do in the circumstances. If he could salvage at least one of their jobs, it was better than nothing.

“Oh no, you fuckin’ won’t. You’ve never once pulled rank on me, Javi, so don’t start now. I knew what I was doing; you don’t need to protect me. And I’d do it all again.”

“Well, I’m grateful you did it, Murphy.” Horacio was just as caught off guard by his own response as everyone else, as all eyes fell on him. “I, er, I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did. For me, and for my men. We won’t forget it.”

For once, Steve was speechless, although was mildly suspicious Carrillo might have sustained a head injury in the ambush or was at least still high on pain relief. But any sarcastic jibe that was usually forthcoming didn’t materialise. Instead, he attempted something resembling a half-smile and a brief bob of the head. A truce and a mark of mutual respect between them that didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated by Javier.

“Colonel, are any of our safehouses still secure?”

“Hard to say by this point, given how much the cartel already seems to know. Probably can’t risk it.”

“What about your old place in Madrid?” Steve suggested in trepidation. Since finding out about Javier and Carrillo, he looked back on the Colonel’s redeployment in an entirely different light. He was reluctant to raise it as an option for obvious reasons, but needs must.

“My transfer was no secret. I can’t make my problems Spain’s problems.” A strange protectiveness surged inside Horacio as fond memories of Señora Romero leapt into his mind. He’d seen the aftermath of the car bomb in Madrid and couldn’t inflict that danger – or worse – on a country that had been so good to him.

Javier had zoned out of the conversation for the last couple of minutes as he stared into space with his fingers habitually stroking across his moustache. But he was roused by a sudden thought, a realisation, a moment of clarity.

He excused himself under the guise of needing to use the bathroom, shrugging off any offers of help given his current state.

He hobbled his way out of the medical wing, down several corridors and towards the nearest unmanned phone he could find. He let the receiver hover in his hand, the dial tone droning in his ear as he went back and forth on whether this was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever come up with. In the end, he concluded there wasn’t much alternative, and with that, he punched in the number he’d known by heart for as long as he could remember.

His grip tightened on the receiver as he waited for the familiar click. “Hey, it’s me,” he began once his call was answered. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” His right hand drummed on the desk in front of him as he stalled for time. Asking for help had never come naturally to Javier, but this wasn’t about him. Which was why he swallowed his pride and bit the bullet. “Actually, I need to ask a favour.”

[piccolina-mina]

Our girl is thriving this season, but what the fuck is this Wyatt plot? I need your thinks about this one. I just knew you'd be six posts in on this by now. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*sighs* For fk's sake, nonny. I don't even like talking about it because I get ranty.

What do you want me to say? Honestly, everything you can imagine I would feel about this, you're probably right. Because you know, I'm that b*tch always getting ranty about racism and stuff.

In short, I hate it. I think it's unnecessary, tone-deaf, random, pointless, lowkey offensive, and illogical. I legitimately find it triggering AF. And it doesn't make sense.

It's Unnecessary. There is a fraction of a chance that it will connect to something more significant, but even if that's the case, I'm confident that end result or connection could've taken place without this random reform racist Wyatt storyline. This series has struggled enough as it is properly utilizing all of its primary characters as well as providing them with decent screentime and arcs. It literally makes no sense to spend any of that time that could be used elsewhere on primary characters on a recurring guest star.

This isn't actually about Rosa, it's about Wyatt. Following up on the previous point, this specific arc caters to Wyatt. Revolves around Wyatt. Rosa is just a passive participant and vessel for this Wyatt storyline. So again, the arc itself is about a recurring character. At least when they did something similarly bringing back Cam to siphon time and arcs away from its main cast they found ways to implement it better and tied her to multiple main characters, so it wasn't a total waste.

The intended Wyatt/Rosa parallel is illogical. I know what they're intending to do with this storyline, drawing parallels between Rosa's experience coming back from the dead after ten years and trying to make sense of that and atone for things before and having this second chance to make things right and go down the right path and so forth and Wyatt losing his memory and his racist ways and having to reconcile with who he was to who he can be and all of that. I understand the concept they're trying to sell. It just doesn't work. Rosa's addiction is not equivalent to Wyatt's racism and violence. Her mental illness isn't either. It's dangerous to invite the comparasions with this storyline.

It's not successful redemption. True redemption is Wyatt knowing and remembering his actions and then trying to atone for them. It's not the convenience of amnesia wiping out his memory only giving him distance from his actions rather than really facing up to them. Because of the amnesia, to Wyatt, it's like he's hearing about another person. It's a cop out. He doesn't Actually have to do the work to redeem himself or atone or learn or grow. IF we're supposed to compare it to Rosa, she knew what she did and remembers and knows how she hurt her loved ones or whatever and she's actively trying to make amends for that as part of her program... a program that Wyatt isn't working or anything BTW.

They've contradicted themselves too much and are rewriting their own work and thus twisting everything up just to make this storyline work and it still doesn't. The timeline is all fkd up... what they established already all of it..The Longs were racist before Kate's death. Kate was racist. To suggest that a 10+ amnesiac blackout clean slates and erases all of Wyatt's racism is just wrong. As in it literally doesn't even make any sense. That is not how the amnesia works but they keep playing both sides of it trying to make it work. To sell us what they're claiming, he would have to have ALL of his memories wiped and have forgotten who he was completely.

Wyatt is behaving like he's shocked by racism in this town but they're also trying to argue that he was born into it. Wyatt was surrounded by racists and his friends come from racist families but he's acting like the very concept of him ever being ingratiated in it is some huge surprise. Wyatt looks affronted by things like Confederate flags. Wyatt being steeped in and surrounded by racism predates his amnesia period.

Kyle mentioned that line about Wyatt putting Whites Only on water fountains, and it sounded like a school prank. It also sounded like something Kyle was reminding Rosa of as if she was alive when that incident happened. Therefore, Wyatt was doing racist stuff before she died. Kyle would've been out of school by then so how else would he know that or why would he bother retaining it?

IF Wyatt and Rosa really were friends before (which holy retcon), then it makes no real sense that he would get psychopathically angry about his "friend" who does drugs getting into a car accident with his sister who does drugs. He would've mourned them both not jumped to severe racism and violence. But both he and Jasmine's family (who are MIA for all of this) did that... jumped to racism. So was Wyatt indoctrinated by his family or indoctrinated by message boards and shit? And if Wyatt and Rosa were friends than why was Kate such a racist bitch to Rosa?

They're backdrafting history JUST to make this storyline that we don't need with a character who isn't even a main one to work.

By not actually addressing that Wyatt has to unlearn racism and giving him an out through amnesia, there is the very realistic issue of that latent racism to come out at any given time. What happens when he's drunk? What happens when he's really angry at a POC?

Tying Wyatt's redemption with his clear affection for Rosa is again dangerous and irresponsible. I know we would all like to think that love is the way and through love it can heal racism, but that puts the responsibility on the disenfranchised person to be "lovable." Because if Wyatt WAS friends with Rosa once then that means the second Rosa did something unlovable she was just another *insert racist slur of choosing* right? It means that there's a possibility that if his feelings for Rosa dwindle or things go sideways in some way there's a chance that he could revert back to those racist ways. Loving Rosa(linda) and pinning all of his wanting to be better on her because of her makes his actively learning to be anti-racist conditional. Right now he's not doing this for him. He's doing it because of Rosa.

This entire storyline has placed the burden of forgiveness on Rosa, his victim. Without him ever having to actually make amends. It's this turn the other cheek BS that means there's nothing too big or harmful that can't result in forgiveness. It relies on Rosa and all that she represents to extend an inhumane level of mercy and grace to their tormentor and oppressor that was never once extended to them. It's such a consistent and problematic thing projected on disenfranchised parties that ONLY benefits the majority and makes them feel good. It's a narrative of meeting someone halfway when the playing field was uneven and the minorities are in actuality doing more work and making a longer trek. Halfway and meeting in the middle only works if both sides were even. They are not. It's the reaching across the aisle both sidesms when one side was clearly and actively more harmful than the other and than calling that peace and equity. It is not.

This storyline was meant to scintillate some viewers with this "what if" notion and teach others a meaningful lesson or be this poorly thought out gateway to exploring a complex storyline but it came at the expense of other demographics who actively have to deal with racist crap. And because of their problematic approach what is simply "just entertainment" to some who has the luxury of not having to think about it beyond that, is just gross and insanely triggering and uncomfortable to others. The others who deal with the reality of the subject at hand.

They wrote themselves into a corner with Wyatt so trying to dig him out of that no matter the cost or logic is absurd. This storyline could've worked better if Wyatt's racism didn't also include conscious, constant, extreme violence. But they spent all of this time making Wyatt the face of violent racism and now are trying to redeem him with no real effort. He wasn't just using slurs or making microaggressions. He wasn't some insensitive or aloof white person. He is a murderer. He has killed people. He technically murdered Liz in cold-blood. He knew she was in the crashdown when he shot up the place. The lights were still on. He beat up Arturo so badly he nearly killed him well after his friends even stopped. He attacked and intended to kill Rosa. And his handiwork was a constant thing, enough for Jenna to comment on it. And now we're supposed to ignore all of that because he has amnesia and has puppy dog eyes?

The fact that we can entertain (and for some succeed) Wyatt in all of his hot white dudeness' redemption after everything he has done slips into the inherent racism of society in the first place and is enraging. Because systemically and culturally and inherently society will bend over backwards to find a way to absolve a hot white guy no matter his actions. Flint and Noah couldn't get this type of redemption... So their intended storyline about evolving from racism STILL plays into the racist structures set up in society.

And because some people like it, there's this slippery territory of NO everyone who genuinely enjoys this aren't racist for enjoying it. But yes, this entire storyline and how it is playing out is at the very least racially insensitive.

In order for this storyline to work they would actually have to show Wyatt doing the work. They don't have enough time to dedicate to such a delicate storyline. It's been a C and D filler storyline with 45 second to a minute scenes. That's not enough time to explore this properly. We would've needed to see Wyatt returning home from the hospital. We would've needed to see Wyatt with his friends and it not feeling right and his discomfort. We would've needed to see Wyatt going through his yearbook and googling himself and the horror and disgust he felt. We would need to see this through his eyes. But we didn't have the time for that and we wouldn't have anyway because he's not a main character. We only get Wyatt through Rosa's eyes and they haven't even dedicated enough time to that for it to work. Rosa isn't conflicted at all. She didn't struggle to forgive him. She was reduced to a school girl with a crush and an insane level of grace and they just threw that at us with no buildup whatsoever. I don't know where Rosa's head is and how she got to this to place. Not really. And the only thing working about this is the chemistry between two actors who are allegedly dating so of course there's chemistry.

It literally feels like another instance of a favorite actor being shoehorned into a storyline just for the hell of it. Just because they didn't want to let Dylan go or something. Just to give him something else to do.

[jackrrabbit]

im glad your opening asks for haikyuu bc not to be a whore or anything but i want to be wrecked and degraded majorly by oikawa. like ill let that man stomp on me of he were real😌

Fanatic [pt. 1] /// Oikawa x f!Reader (18+)

A/N: Skipped ahead in my asks a bit to answer this yummy little req!!

Summary: Oikawa takes advantage of a devoted fan for some stress relief after a bad match. [Part 2]

Warnings: noncon, bullying, degradation, humiliation, manipulation/coercion, crying, basically Oikawa is mean to you, yandere vibes?, shy reader, oral fixation/saliva, all characters adults

You’ve been in love with Oikawa Tōru since you were 14 years old.

Well, love is a strong word—maybe admiration is a better description of the way you feel about him? Or maybe not. Is admiration enough of a reason to attend every game that he’s played for the past 4 years, ignoring the hours of travel and dozens of unexcused school absences? Would admiration explain downloading and rewatching every play and amassing a collection of all his press mentions and magazine articles, to the point where there’s a table in your bedroom devoted to him that your friends have jokingly dubbed the “Oikawa shrine”? Was it admiration that made you transfer high schools in the middle of your third year just so you could join the Aobajohsai cheering squad?

No, the word you’re looking for isn’t admiration. It’s fanaticism. Look, you’re not proud to be such a die-hard, but you can’t help it. It’s not even romantic for you. You’ve never wanted to be his girlfriend. The look of joy on his face when he scores is all the reciprocation you need for your feelings.

You’re not an admirer, you’re a fan. You could watch Oikawa score points until the end of time—which is why your heart breaks a little bit every time he loses.

Really, you just want to cheer him up. Is that so wrong?

“Do I know you?” Oikawa’s head is cocked to the side, but he couldn’t look less interested. You fidget under his stare—he’s even taller in person than he looks on the court—and wonder if maybe it was a bad idea to wait in the hallway for him like this. It’s not like you were trying to corner him or anything, you just wanted a chance to tell him not to worry about losing the match.

When you can’t find the voice to answer, Oikawa’s eyes narrow and he leans in toward you a fraction. “Oh…wait. I’ve seen you before. You’re on the cheering squad, aren’t you? That third-year transfer? You’re in Makki’s class.”

You nod rapidly. Who knew it would be so hard to talk to him in person? You really should have rehearsed what you were going to say.

“So…” he prompts.

“Um, I—“ Why is your mouth so dry? “—I just, I wanted to say, I mean I know you lost but, well—“

“Spit it out.” He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks annoyed. You’ve pretty much only ever seen him beaming out of your TV screen or concentrating during a game, so this is new.

And how can you blame him? Aobajohsai just lost brutally on a block from his serve, and now he has to deal with this random fangirl who can’t untangle her tongue long enough to eke out a full sentence. You’re an idiot. “I—sorry, I just wanted to say as a fan that you looked really cool out there! So don’t—don’t worry about…you know. Um, losing.”

He looks at you a second too long, and inside you’re kicking yourself. Just your luck that the first time you meet your idol in person, you’re incapable of talking to him like a human being. But after a long moment passes, he rocks back on his heels and smiles, his face so neutral and handsome that it’s hard to even remember he was almost glaring at you a moment ago. “What’s your name?”

“Um, it’s (Y/N)…”

“(Y/N)? Ah, okay. Thank you.” Oikawa tilts his head back and runs his fingers through his bangs, and your eyes trace the motion unwillingly. His hair is damp from his post-game shower, dripping cold water onto the towel draped over his shoulders. “To be honest, I’m in a bad mood right now.”

“Oh, well—of course! I mean, no one would expect you to be happy, not after you just lost.” Stop rambling. “And, you know, you should take time to think but if there’s something—anything I can do to help—“

His eyes glint and he takes a step toward you, close enough that you have to tip your head back to meet his gaze. “Anything? You’ll do anything?”

There’s something about the way he says anything that makes you want to take it back. But how could you? You’re his #1 fan. You’d do his laundry for a month if he told you it would make him feel better. Your chin bobs up and down in agreement.

“Really? Thanks, (Y/N)! I think there’s something you can do to help me out.” Your cheeks flush pink at his praise, and you’re so thrilled that you barely even notice him grabbing your upper arm with a grip so tight it hurts. You do, however, notice when he starts steering you down the hallway into into the men’s bathroom.

“Um…I think this is the men’s room,” you tell him nervously as he folds the two of you into a single stall.

“Don’t worry, there’s no one in here.” Oikawa backs you into the stall before turning and sliding the lock shut with a click.

“But why are we—ah?” Your statement is cut off abruptly as Oikawa reaches toward you, immobilizing your jaw so he can forcefully shove two fingers into your mouth. You don’t want to hurt him, so you stop yourself from indulging your immediate impulse and biting down. What are you doing? you try to ask, but with Oikawa holding your mouth open the question comes out as a series of unintelligible gurgles.

When your frantic gaze meets his, he looks…different. He’s smiling, but it’s not the innocent grin he shows to the press or his teammates or his fans. There’s something wrong with his eyes.

It takes you a second to place the emotion, but when you do a chill passes through you. Oikawa looks angry.

Your arms twitch at your side—should you try to pry his hand out of your mouth?—but before you can make a move his other hand pushes your shoulder into the door of the bathroom stall. You can’t move. You can’t break his grip. He’s so much stronger than you.

What is happening?

“Hey, want to know something?” As he speaks, his fingers swirl around your mouth invasively. “When I saw you in the hall, you looked really…pathetic.”

Pathetic? It’s nothing you haven’t said to yourself, but hearing it from the man you’ve idolized since you were in middle school is agonizing. You try to swallow down your unhappiness, but you can’t—not while Oikawa is still forcing your jaw open.

“Yeah…” he says, an air of dark amusement coming over him. “Waiting for me and begging for my attention like a little puppy dog. Thinking you’re going to make me feel better. What did you say you’d do for me?”

You said you’d do anything. How were you supposed to know he’d meant…whatever this is?

“Anything, right? You said you’d do anything for me?” His fingers probe deeper into your mouth. “Can you try to say it?”

“Eh— An— hin—“ you choke out, well aware that you’re not making sense. Your eyes squeeze shut so you can concentrate on not gagging.

“Mm-mm, not quite. You’re not trying hard enough.”

You try again, but you can’t make your mouth form the right syllables. Why is he asking you to do this? Why are you letting him?

And why is his knee nudging your legs apart?

The effort of trying to speak with your mouth held open is making your jaw ache, and you can’t stop your saliva from spilling over your lip and onto your chin. Oikawa’s thumb leaves your mouth to wipe the drool off your face. “That’s kind of disgusting. Can’t speak in full sentences, can’t control yourself…what exactly are you good for?”

Your cheeks burn and you almost want to cry. It’s not your fault you can’t swallow properly. You shouldn’t be tolerating this, you should just bite down and make him deal with the consequences…but you know you won’t.

“Say ahh,” Oikawa tells you, tipping your head back to face his. He’s leaning in—wait, is he going to kiss you? No way, that’s impossible. Why would he be so mean to you and then turn around and treat you nicely? Still, you can’t keep your stupid heart rate from speeding up as he gets closer and closer, his eyes never leaving yours—

Until he spits. Directly into your open mouth.

His saliva feels disgusting—warm and sticky and foreign as it sits on your tongue. Oikawa releases his hold on your jaw but you don’t move, instead just standing there with your back to the stall door, staring at him in shock. Your mouth hangs open like you’re…showing it to him or something. What are you supposed to do? Spit it back out? Or—

“Swallow.”

You shake your head. You don’t want to swallow. You don’t want to have his spit in your mouth at all. If you think of it as if the two of you had kissed, it’s not even that bad, but you didn’t kiss. He did this to you to make you feel filthy, and it’s working. There are tears springing up in your eyes, and you’re certain it wouldn’t take much for them to fall.

But he’s not moving, he’s not letting you past him, and you can’t keep your mouth open forever. Maybe if you do this you can apologize for…whatever you did that made him so angry, and he’ll let you leave. Logically, you know that swallowing his spit shouldn’t feel any different from your own, but it does.

Oikawa watches the movement of your mouth and throat carefully as you give up and swallow. This is weird…the whole situation is strange. It’s not like him to do these things to a fan, but he’d been upset about the match and you just showed up and said all the wrong things so sincerely that he was caught off guard by how much he wanted to bully you. There’s something about the contrast between then and now—your shy, eager expression when you were rambling to him in the hallway versus you swallowing his spit looking like a kicked puppy—that he finds adorable.

Adorable? Yeah, adorable. Your pitiful face is so cute it’s making him hard.

Well, what do you know. Looks like you’re going to help his bad mood after all.

“I guess that’s one thing your mouth is good for,” Oikawa says. Your eyes jerk up to meet his and then slide off to the side. You can’t even look at him. He’s grinning at you—laughing at you. He’s enjoying this.

“I don’t—“ You have to stop mid-sentence to swallow again, trying to pretend your mouth doesn’t feel repulsive inside. “I don’t understand? I just wanted to cheer you up…”

“Did you?” Oikawa steps back and tilts his head to the side again like he’s assessing you. “Let me guess. You’re trying to get fucked, aren’t you? Saw me on TV and thought this was your chance to try out the real thing in person? You’re not the first.”

“That’s not true!”

“Are you sure? You’re saying you never wanted me?”

You shake your head from side to side, but you can’t muster a verbal denial. Your intentions had been innocent when you approached him, but the truth is…you’ve thought about it. You’re not one of those fans who thinks they’re destined to fall in love with their idol, but it would be a lie to say you’ve never…fantasized, late at night when you’re by yourself, about him kissing you and touching you and treating you like a princess. And when the fantasies get a little more heated, you have a habit of letting your hands drift down between your legs…

In your imagination, Oikawa is kind. Gentle. He cares for you. It couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, and he reaches up under your skirt to rub roughly against your panties. “This pussy is begging to get filled up.”

“Wha— You’re wrong—“ Your hands are trembling when you grip Oikawa’s shoulders, intending to push him away from you, but then the fingers prodding at your panties find your clit through the fabric and it’s all you can do to stay standing up. “Haahh…wait…”

“Wow, you’re soaking through your panties. I spit in your mouth, and you’re getting off? What kind of dumb girl…”

“No I’m not!” But the truth is slicking onto Oikawa’s long fingers as he rubs the length of your slit. The friction of your damp panties between his index finger and your sweet spot is excruciating. Your toes curl inside your shoes, and you’re only half aware of the way your vice-like grip on Oikawa’s shirt is actually pulling him closer.

“Dumb…stupid little slut…trying to deny it but you want me to fuck you, don’t you? You wanna cum?” His breathing is getting heavier along with yours as his fingers swirl around your sweet spot. “Gonna cum for a man you barely know? Tell me you want it.”

“Ah—I—no, I—“ You bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning. Whether or not you can admit it, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself if he keeps touching you like this…

Except that he doesn’t. He pulls his hand out from under your skirt with you right on the edge, leaving you aching and tense and so frustrated that you want to hit him. “You-You’re stopping?”

“You don’t get to cum. You don’t deserve it.” He studies you for a minute—your flushed cheeks, rumpled clothing, and the unadulterated despair written across your face—and then places his hands on your shoulders and pushes you down. “Get on your knees.”

With him forcing you down, your knees buckle easily and smack against the bathroom floor, sending a spike of pain up through your legs. Your natural aversion to touching the floor of a men’s bathroom is overruled by the knowledge of what he’s asking (not that he’s asking) you to do to him, and you scramble backward until the back of your head raps against the side of the stall. The sharp impact stuns you for a second, and Oikawa wastes no time in twisting his fingers through your hair and dragging your face toward his crotch.

His dick is already out, stiff and throbbing red while he pushes your cheek into it. You try to recoil, but Oikawa isn’t letting you get away. “Open up, (Y/N). I’m going to put that mouth to good use for once.”

It’s hard to shake your head with Oikawa’s fingers in your hair, but you manage, at least enough that he understands your refusal. He clicks his tongue, the gesture almost playful. “You said you’d do anything to make me feel better. Was that a lie? You were fine with me fingering you—don’t tell me you’re going to back out now.”

That’s not fair. You don’t want to do this. He’s being so mean to you.

“Anything…” Oikawa says in sing song. The hand that was tugging your hair lets up a bit and he combs through it gently. It’s the first remotely kind thing he’s done to you.

You wish you had the guts to tell him to leave you alone. You wish you were confident enough that you wouldn’t take his insults to heart. But you’re spineless, and whatever courage you possessed before this has already been crushed. So you open your mouth.

Oikawa’s cock is…salty, already dripping with precum while he nudges it onto your tongue. He slowly leans his hips forward into you, pushing a little deeper into the irresistible warmth of your mouth. His hand, gently cradling the back of your head, doesn’t push you down, but it doesn’t let you pull back either.

Ah, this is wrong…it’s fucked up that he’s getting off on this. Regardless of what he said earlier, he’s well aware that he’s the deviant here. Your misery and shame really shouldn’t be a turn-on for him. But it had been such a bad loss, and he’d been in such a nasty mood, and the feeling of your tongue squirming against the head of his cock is really taking the stress right out of him.

Maybe he deserves this. You’re his new favorite method of stress relief.

“Mm…yeah…yeah, stay still like that and let me use you…that’s all you’re good for.” His voice gets progressively huskier as he fucks your mouth, his cock getting a bit deeper into your throat every time he tilts his hips into you. He’s so thick and heavy between your lips that even if your jaw wasn’t already sore from how he held it earlier, it’d still be aching now.

By the time his cock hits the back of your throat, you’re trying to push his thighs away from you. It’s useless, though—even with just a single hand in your hair, he has no trouble keeping you exactly where he wants you. His cock is just as big as the rest of him, and he’s almost triggering your gag reflex even with just half of it in your mouth.

Oikawa thrusts again and the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you seize up around him and earning a grunt from him. “Fuck…that felt good, do it again.” He holds you down and pushes himself deeper, forcing you to dry gag around the heavy mass filling up your throat.

The way you’re twitching against him must feel good—you can tell by his huffs of breath and the half-coherent backhanded compliments about how how were made to suck cock. His huge hand is rigid in your hair, fingernails scratching thoughtlessly into your scalp. “Yeah…taking me so deep, you really are a whore aren’t you? My personal cheerleader cocksleeve…gonna wait for me after every game and take my cock just like this? You know, maybe I’ll fuck you before I play…I think I’ll hit better if I know you’re in the stands cheering me on with my cum dripping out of your pussy…”

You want to be somewhere else, anywhere where you’re not forced to listen to him tell you how worthless you are while you hold back your gag reflex. Your jaw is cramping, and your pussy is still traitorously wet and unsatisfied. Is what he’s saying true? Are you really that useless? Why is it so wrong that you like—you liked him? Why are you being punished for being his fan?

Oikawa looks down when he feels your hands stop pushing at his thighs. Repressing a growl of annoyance, he pulls your head back off his dick so he can haul your body up and meet your eyes. God, you’re wrecked—hair mussed and tangled, spit dripping down your chin, eyes rimmed with red—and you’re crying. He feels a tug in his abdomen while you sniff and try to wipe your tears away. “You look ugly when you cry.”

The insult brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes and you furiously rub at your eyes and nose, but you’re only smearing the tears around. She’s not really an ugly crier, Oikawa thinks looking at you. In fact, you look oddly appealing with your nose all red and teardrops hanging off your eyelashes.

“I-I w-wanna leave—I wanna stop,” you whimper out between sobs.

“Oh...oh, did I hurt your feelings?” Oikawa folds your limp body into his arms and you hate yourself for taking comfort in him and melting into his chest. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”

“I-I-I—“

“Shh, shh.” He rubs your back in slow circles, steadying your trembling form. “You can’t be so loud, someone will hear. And besides…I’m not done.”

What?

Before you can understand what he said, Oikawa pushes you back down and palms his still-hard weeping cock. “I was looking forward to cumming in your mouth, you know? Since you’re so good at swallowing. I was going to make you show it to me first. But now—I guess you can’t take that, huh? My personal cheerleader is a little too fragile today! That’s okay though, we can save it for next time.” His voice is excited and his eyes are wide with boyish exuberance while his hand pumps up and down the length of his cock.

He’s jacking off. On you.

You try to move out of the way, but once again he holds you in place. “Stop that, you don’t want to cause…a mess…ugh, fuck!”

It’s all you can do to close your eyes and screw up your face before the breath leaves him and he lurches forward. You feel it rather than see it, just like when he spat in your mouth—a hot sticky liquid, this time soaking onto your skin…through…your shirt.

You open your eyes and there it is, a smear of off-white liquid staining your plain green cheering T-shirt.

He came on your clothes. He came on your clothes. He came on your clothes.

“Oi, Oikawa!” There’s an audible bang as the door of the bathroom is slammed open and someone—no, two people—walk inside. A shiver passes through you and you chance a look up at Oikawa, whose gaze is trained on the closed stall door as he tucks his spent cock back into his pants.

“Oikawa?” another voice calls out. “You in here? The bus is waiting for you.”

“Yeah, I’m in here,” he says. You shoot a terrified glance at him, bidding him to keep quiet, but he just winks back at you. As if you’re sharing some fun secret and not hiding with tears in your eyes and semen spilling down your chest.

There are two sharp knocks on the stall door, and it’s all you can do to hold back your squeal of shock. “Hurry up and get out, dumbass. What the hell have you been doing this whole time? Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“Sorry, sorry—“ He pulls you up one more time, this time by the back of your collar like a kitten, and reaches for the door lock despite your best efforts to shake your head violently and telepathically communicate please please please don’t open it— “but I promise I had a good reason. See for yourself.”

You’re seriously considering kicking him in his bad knee and making a run for it, but as always his instincts outpace yours by miles. When the door swings open, Oikawa pushes you out in front of him and directly into the person standing in front of the stall. Who is it? Tall, tan, spiky dark hair—you’ve never spoken, but you know from your extensive practice observing the Aobajohsai volleyball team that it’s Iwaizumi Hajime, vice captain and Oikawa’s best friend. His arms move up to grab you by reflex, steadying you before you’re forced to crash into him.

“Wha—“ Iwaizumi looks just as startled as you feel. Behind him, Hanamaki—the third-year wing spiker who’s in the same class as you—is wearing a similar expression of surprise. For a moment, everything is perfectly still: Iwaizumi holding you by your upper arms, Oikawa grinning back at you from the stall, Hanamaki watching all three of you with an eyebrow raised—

And then, like a scene from a horror movie playing out in slow motion, two pairs of eyes move from your disheveled face down, inch by inch, until both Iwaizumi and Hanamaki are staring at the cum stain on your shirt.

They recognize what it is immediately. Hanamaki grimaces in disgust and Iwaizumi drops your arms like he’s been burned. “Ugh, that’s fucking nasty. You couldn’t wait til we got back to campus?”

“Nah, my little cheerleader was too impatient. I can’t say no to her.” Your gaze swings back to Oikawa in betrayal, but he looks as effortlessly flippant as ever, no evidence of the lie on his face. He steps out from the stall and wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you closer against your will.

The awkwardness in the air is so thick you can barely breathe, but you’re not the only one affected. Hanamaki is resolutely avoiding looking at either of you and Iwaizumi looks like he can’t decide whether to be angry or disgusted. “I mean…still…you shouldn’t be causing trouble for the rest of the team.”

“Hear that, (Y/N)?” Oikawa pats your waist without releasing his grip. “Say sorry to Iwa and Makki.”

You want to escape. You want to run. You want to faint, even, because at least if you fainted you wouldn’t have to experience this humiliation.

“S-Sorry. I’m sorry for c-causing trouble.” The apology comes out hoarse from your raw throat, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that you’d had a cock stuffed down it just a few minutes ago. You duck down into a bow, hating Oikawa almost as much as you hate yourself.

Aaaand, you’re crying again. As soon as you feel the tear trickle down your cheek you swipe at it furiously, but with all attention in the room trained on you it’s impossible that they didn’t see it.

“Look, Iwa, you made her cry!” Oikawa easily pushes your hand down and his takes its place, dabbing at the tears spilling down your cheeks.

To Iwaizumi’s credit, he looks even more horrified at the fact that you’re crying than he did at the cum stain. He steps toward you a bit and then thinks better of it and moves back again, hands gesturing aimlessly in the air. “Whoa! Hey, it’s fine! It’s fine, okay? It was probably this loser’s fault more than yours anyway, I know what a dog he is.”

You have no idea. You gulp and try to stifle your tears. Oikawa’s constant contact (his thumb stroking your face, the arm pulling insistently at your waist—something about it is almost possessive) isn’t helping your anxiety.

“Can we get going?” Hanamaki says after a long moment. “They’re waiting for us.”

Iwaizumi scratches his head and looks at you. “Ah…sorry (Y/N), but I think the cheer squad bus already left.”

“She can ride with us, can’t she?” Oikawa says.

You don’t want to ride with them, but what’s your other option? Take the train for hours with a cum stain right in the middle of your shirt? On the other hand, that might be better than spending another second in Oikawa’s presence. “I...I can take the train…”

Then again, you don’t know why you’re bothering to have this internal debate at all. It’s not like he’s going to give you a choice.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re coming with me.” You flinch at the insult and then regret it, hoping the others didn’t notice.

“Ah, I guess that’s fine,” Iwaizumi says. “By the way, do you…want a clean shirt? I have an extra in my bag…”

He doesn’t meet your eyes as he says it, which is fine because you’re pretty sure you’re incapable of doing so either. Still, you open your mouth to say yes, awkwardness be damned. You’d do anything to get out of this filthy shirt—

“She’s fine,” Oikawa interrupts.

Iwaizumi frowns and looks to you for confirmation, but you can feel Oikawa’s oppressive stare pinning you in place and preventing you from disagreeing. You’re so weak. Pathetic. Just like he said.

You nod shakily to Iwaizumi and he sighs. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”

The three of them file out of the bathroom and for one hopeful moment you think they’re going to leave you there and you’ll never have to see Oikawa again.

But since when do you have that kind of luck?

“(Y/N)? Come.”

It probably sounds like a request to Hanamaki and Iwaizumi, but you know it’s not. It’s an order.

And you follow.

➠ [Part 2]

[sometimes-petty]

I’ve been thinking...

There's so much to extrapolate from the conceptualization of the Maralto and the Process. When I first watched 3%, I've noticed that the system was further explained and explored every season, each time showing a different layer.

First of all, it starts as being cartoonishly and sickly unjust.

However, for the entirety of Season 1, we only see the Process itself, and only a fraction of the actual life on the Inland. Although unjust, the whole trial feels functional to the plot. The Inland is shown as a grey and awful place where to live, so of course, we only root for the characters to pass all of the tests, or at least not to die trying.

It reminds me of certain criticisms aimed at stereotypical YA dystopian novels/movies, where the worldbuilding displays the society in it as generically unjust, but the characters are never shown truly struggling under the system.

Like in The Hunger Games, during the first season of 3%, the emphasis is less on fighting the system and more on getting out alive from the Process. It's a necessary step, being that it's the first season.

Secondly, in Season 2 the system starts becoming unfair.

It's slightly different than in the previous season, however, it's the first crack in the façade of the Maralto and starts showing how deeply human the system truly is.

Like I said in another post, Marcela considered giving Marco a second chance in passing the Process, because he's her son and she loves him, despite changing her mind in the end and prioritizing the Maralto's laws over him - after he failed another task. The OG Rafael tried to participate in the Process the same way his brother did one year earlier. André outright murdered his own mentor rather than losing the privilege he received in passing the Process. Not to mention the Founding Couple, who overthrew the entire society, causing countless people to die, to prevent their work from being stolen.

To sum up, in season 1 the Maralto can be reached only by one's own abilities and skills; in season 2, we're shown the collateral effects caused by this rule. The only point is not passing the Process, as much as getting to the Maralto, with any possible shortcut. Season 2 is all about the core of the selfishness that comes with the existence of the Maralto.

Thirdly, during season 3 the Maralto is shown in all of its ineffectiveness.

It all revolves around the Concha, of course, and all of the changes that it brings.

We know from season 2 that the Maralto guarantees regular vaccinations to anyone under 20 years old, as usual because they're the only ones who still matter. Nothing is done, nevertheless, to truly help them out of the horrible circumstances they grow up in. The most we see is in season 1 when Ezequiel goes (mostly) out of his way to take care of Augusto (Julia's son; she said that she chose that name for him as soon as he was born), though until it puts at risk his place at the Maralto and as the head of the Process.

Otherwise, kids on the Inland grow up poor, abused, and helpless, with the only actual support coming from the Church, that indoctrinates into worshipping the Maralto. As long as everyone lives like this, they'll all want nothing more than passing the Process and leaving that hellhole. We see it with Joana in season 1 and with Glòria throughout all the series. Thinking about it, the vaccinations are probably only there to make sure no highly contagious illness arrives on the Maralto through the Process' candidates. Elìsa herself never cared that much about the Maralto, on the contrary she didn't see the point in such a stark division, but she too was given the choice to either live in misery or well enough.

Then Michele and Fernando found the Concha. As it's shown at the front door and in practice, everyone is welcome there, and people start having a second chance. Of course it threatens the Maralto's position at the top of society.

It reminds me of the workers' struggles in various countries. I don't remember where I read it, but it was someone joking that, in the 60s, once people started having a TV at home and eating meat more than once a week, the Communist Party started having fewer militants. This is what happens when people's demands and needs are actually met. The point was never the revolution itself; it's only a necessary step after the government refuses for so long to act to improve people's living conditions.

Similarly, on 3%, once people weren't starving or getting murdered and finally had the chance to live a fulfilling life, they wouldn't turn anymore towards the Process for it. Even the Causa disappeared, since the reason for its existence became less relevant.

Finally, in the last season, the Maralto has long been stripped of any greatness it could represent for viewers, and all that's left to see is an illusion.

Once again, Joana face-plants into this new trial when she meets Veronica, and all her resolution starts faltering. Rafael and Cassia find a common ground in the way either the Causa or the Maralto's military gave them both a purpose when passing the Process wasn't an option anymore. André believes himself as the right heir of the Founding Couple and kills himself rather than living without this idea, even when the Maralto itself is gone forever. The same happens to Marco, Leonardo, and Naìr when it's time to flee. Even Natalia, the most determined militant of the Cause, ready to give her life for it, momentarily opposes destroying the Maralto when she sees how much knowledge is stored in their archives.

All in all, everyone is offered their greatest desire when coming to the Maralto - a mother, a purpose, happiness, culture - and only finds lies when they get closer.

The Maralto never worked. Laìs and Vitòr themselves had miserable lives when they'd rather choose the system they created over their only daughter.

The point is, the system was human-made, with all of the faults that come with it, and just as readily could be unmade.

To conclude:

"We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine rights of the kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings." - Ursula K. Le Guin

[sgrayonderii]

nom de guerre

SSM21 Day 17: a gentle man

In which some titles are more accurate than others. Samurai-esque AU

It is common knowledge that for a noble title and a swath of land, her mother was sold to a warlord.  

Haruno Sakura had the great misfortune of being born as the daughter of a destitute samurai family. Their master had long been vanquished and their lands long sold to make ends meet. And yet still longed for days yonder. 

But her mother also had the great fortune of being born a beauty, so when the opportunity arose; a passing hegemon looking for a bride, Sakura’s parents took a chance. 

They say that the young warlord was so mesmerized by her mother that he immediately accepted the terms of the expensive bride price and took her as his wife. 

On their wedding day, mother was dressed in her finest robes while her father arrived late in a full suit of blood soaked armor. 

The ceremony itself was a soleum affair. Her parents pledged themselves before the gods and swear to their union.

And so Haruno Sakura becomes Lady Uchiha no Sakura, the wife of Lord Uchiha no Madara.

----

Sarada has faint memories of her father; more often than not her father is sent to the battlefield and only returns a few days to weeks at a time between campaigns. 

The Uchiha clan is one of the important noble families of the Konoha and known for its long history of bloodthirsty warriors. Her father is no exception. 

Whenever he returns home, Sarada hides behind her mother’s skirt. Her father is an imposing demon-like man, larger than life, and taller than a mountain. Someone more suited for stories and legends than real life. 

They call him a man more fearsome than Susanoo-no-Mikoto itself. So violent, so blood crazed, it is a wonder that Sakura lived as long as she did when a male heir had yet to be born. 

Thankfully, it seems that as a daughter, her father pays very little attention to her. Whenever he returns from the borderlands between here and Oto, he barely spares her a glance. 

However, whenever his eyes meet her mother’s through his helmet, he beckons her over. 

“Sakura,” he commands, voice deep and low, “bring some tea to my quarters.”

Sarada always remembers her mother looking angry but determined then. Sakura dutifully follows her husband into the inner chambers. She doesn’t emerge until late morning.

Sarada is usually having lessons during this time, but one day she sneaks out of her etiquette classes to find her mother. 

She searches almost the entire unusually empty manor before finding Sakura in the kitchen brewing tea. Her mother’s clothes are covered in blood and her hands are covering her tears. 

Sarada has never seen her mother sob so terribly before.

From then on, she decides that her father must be an especially cruel man. 

---- 

Whenever her father returns from war, her Papa also comes home. 

Today she finds him on the engawa overlooking the gardens. He is sipping some tea while looking over some scrolls. He appears injured, bandages wrapped around his torso, but otherwise in good health. 

If her father is the devil incarnate, then Sarada’s papa is a handsome devil. 

No wonder her Mama is so taken with him. Sometimes when she is supposed to be asleep, she can hear her Mama fuss over Papa. They hold hands when no one is looking and share secrets no other soul knows. 

Despite the cold manor they reside in, Mama is an affectionate woman at her core and her Papa is receptive to all she has to give. 

And Papa must be someone important too; after all he is allowed to leave and enter from the inner quarters that a normal Uchiha foot soldier could not. 

Sarada pads over to him, he looks up and beckons her closer. 

“Have you been a good girl, little peanut?” 

Sarada scoffs. “ I’m not a nut.” But she holds out her hands anyways. 

Her Papa chuckles and pulls out some dried persimmons from his sleeves. “Don’t tell Sakura.” 

Sarada smiles at their little secret before taking a bite. “What are you reading?” Her Papa allows her to climb onto his lap and drapes the scroll over her. Sarada squints, only understanding a fraction of the words on the paper. She points and reads aloud the characters she recognizes.

“Good girl.” He slips her another dried persimmon.

That is when her mother finds them. 

“Sasuke-kun!” her mama enters the scene in a huff, “I told you to stop that, you’ll ruin her dinner.”

Sarada quickly shoves both persimmons into her mouth. Her papa has the decency to look sheepish. 

“You can’t keep spoiling her like that! She is going to get an upset stomach!” Sakura continues.

“Do you want me to spoil you too?” 

Her mama sputters, all red and flustered. Her hands move to cover her flaming cheeks.

Sarada meanwhile uses the distraction to hold out her hands for another treat. Her gentle papa instead leans down and kisses her forehead.

---

For the past year, her father and his retainers had been defending the borders between Oto and Konoha. After the dissenters were finally defeated, a grand celebration is held in her father’s honor. 

She remembers that her father was hailed as the second coming of Madara, the legendary clan head from the distant past. The comparison is uncanny, both bloodthirsty and merciless but dauntless in the face of adversary. Soon it becomes her father’s mantle; Lord Uchiha no Madara, the slayer of the Orochi. 

Sarada hadn't been invited to the banquet due to her age but that night she is much too excited to sleep. She has never seen so many people gathered in one place in her life. And even though her father’s presence makes her nervous, she loves the tales about his exploits. 

The banquet hall is rowdy and the envoy’s drunken singing could be heard from down the halls. The fuzzy silhouettes of her father’s soldiers line the banquet hall, she has a hard time making out who is who. Everything is quite blurry even with the multiple lanterns.

The only one Sarada could identify for sure is her mother. Sakura’s features are distinct, like a lone flower against the night sky. Her mother sits obediently at the head of the table beside the man that is her father. 

He has forsaken armor this time, but there is still a sword at his side. From the distance, her father doesn’t look particularly like he was enjoying the festivities. 

He appears bored. Perhaps his blood is not used to peace, after all a beast belonged in the wild and a warrior to the battlefield. 

Sakura every once and a while would refill her father’s sake cup or serve him more of the feast in front of him. Occasionally, when her mother would lean over and her father would whisper something into her ear. 

Her mama would stiffen and her face would become strained. At first Sarada can’t make out the expression, until a small smile blooms on her mama’s visage. 

Sarada goes to bed soon after, not quite understanding their interactions. 

---

Her earliest memory of Papa is halfway past her fourth year. 

Father had been back for a few days now, not that she had really seen him. And to be perfectly honest, her father is a scary man and she would rather not run into him. 

But Sarada is also curious so she puts on a brave face and finds herself outside her mother’s quarters.

Peering through the crack in the paper screen door, Sarada spots her mother’s figure and a man she doesn’t recognize. 

Her mama is leaning on the man’s shoulder while he serves her sake with his free hand. Back then, Sarada found it a strange role reversal that a man dressed in such luxurious robes was pouring her mama a drink. 

Sarada has seen some men in her father’s army throw a tantrum when a pretty lady wouldn’t attend to them. Even Sakura during official functions knows to serve her father first before anyone else can even eat.

But this man sat with her mama so nonchalantly and closely, breaking tradition as if it was nothing!

Her shock was audible to where her mother and the man turned to see her crouched by the entryway. 

Sarada felt as if she interrupted a private moment, but man’s expression morphed into something soft and Sakura giddily rushes over to pick her up. 

“Sarada! Come, come! Papa is here, see?” Sakura hands her over the stranger’s awaiting arms. She doesn’t want to leave her mama’s embrace but the man’s is just as warm. 

“Hello little peanut, have you been good while I was away?” 

How is she supposed to answer him? She opts for a nod and reaches for the familiarity of her mother.

“Sasuke-kun…” 

“It’s alright, she probably isn’t used to my face.” He leans over regardless and kisses her mother’s forehead. Then he looks Sarada straight in the eye. “I am you papa.” 

Sarada thinks she likes this ‘Sasuke-kun,’ this Papa. Someone so kind to her mother can’t be a bad man. 

----

As she gets older, Sarada becomes privy to the rumors about the current acting head of the Yamanaka clan. How her son looks nothing like her deceased husband but has the same eyes as the court painter. 

And Sarada has her own theories about her mama and the man that is her papa.

She just hopes that her father never finds out. 

---

Even though her mother is essentially the lady of the house, Sarada still hears whispers of her lineage. Even more so now that Sarada begins wearing glasses. 

Before her father leaves for his next campaign, he gives Sakura his inkan. 

As the wife of the lord, Sakura officially acts as his surrogate in any official business even if some of the family retainers aren’t happy about it. 

Fortunately, many would rather swallow their pride that incur her father’s wrath. 

All except one. 

Uchiha no Shin, a rather minor branch clan member, always disapproved of her father and even more so now that he left his wife in charge of the estate in his absence. 

It all comes to a head when Sakura denies him funding for a rather ill thought out building project. 

“You dirty wench! ” 

Sarada can hear the screams from her room. She rushes to the scene. Sakura is still standing her ground when she arrives. 

“I don’t see any benefit in this strategy and I doubt my dear lord husband would either.” 

“What do you know?! You are nothing but a plaything you stupid bitch, I’ll teach you some manners!” Shin chooses that moment to raise his hand at her mother. 

Sarada feels the anger seep into her bones but her mother chooses that moment to retaliate and punch Shin square in the face herself. 

Shin falls back unceremoniously. Sarada is slack jawed. 

“How dare you!” he seethes. Shin tries to get up only for another person to rush to her mother’s aid. 

Shin’s screams are agonizing and it takes Sarada a moment to realize that not only had her father returned, but he had drawn his sword and stabbed it clean through Shin’s arm, effectively pinning it to the tatami. 

“Sasuke-kun!” 

Sarada blinks once. Twice. 

“Are you alright Sakura?” Her father, her papa asks, completely ignoring their screaming relative. 

Sakura nods and he turns to her as well “Are you okay Sarada?” his voice deep and low but the same kind cadence up close as her beloved papa.

Suddenly her father’s mysterious and distant features that were always hazy to her meld with the papa in front of her now.  

Sarada adjusts her glasses. She feels really stupid in that moment. 

---

This time, Sarada is invited to the banquet. 

It’s an annual harvest festival and her father is the guest of honor. The local leaders once again announce him as ‘Lord Uchiha no Madara’ much to his chagrin. 

“I really hate when they call me that.” Sasuke tells them later when the food is being served and drinks are flowing freely. Sakura is on one side while Sarada is on the other. Habitually he is discreetly putting any sweets that make it his way and the tenderest pieces of meat onto their plates. 

“Anata,” with time Sarada notices that her mother only ever uses this term in public when her father needed more placating than usual, “they are just just in awe of how great you are!”

“I wish they had chosen something different, Madara was such a pain in the ass.” 

“Sasuke-kun!” Her mother tries to be scandalized but can’t help but devolve into a fit of giggles. 

As her father continues to look on adoringly at his wife, Sarada can’t help but agree with him. 

A name like that is unfitting of her gentle papa. 

A/N: Happy Sasusaku month 2021! My brain is mush right now so excuse the multitude of grammatical errors. Thank you for reading!

And just to note in historical Japan, men tended to change their names depending on significant life events. For example, Minamoto no Yoshitsune's childhood name was Ushiwakamaru.

@ssskmonth

[maplecornia]

chapter 34

𝔞/𝔫: this chapter will be in 3rd person POV

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.45K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear | @mangminnie | @pixiekooo | @cana

When was the moment he realized things were broken?

Driving down the dark streets, his hand clenches on the wheel of the car. Memories of past smiles, foreign whispers of love, someone's hand holding his while he couldn't feel more alone...

Maybe he always knew.

Maybe he just didn't want to admit it to himself.

Pausing in front of a stop sign, he looks over as his phone buzzes, a message popping up on the screen. He doesn't bother looking at it, he knows it's not going to say what he wants it to say.

Watching the blinking lights at an empty street, he considers running it. There's nobody else around. No one would even notice. Even if he somehow did get in an accident would it matter? At this point is there anyone left who cares? Once the light changes green, the thoughts disappear as though they had never existed in the first place.

Jimin, you knew this would happen eventually.

You made this game.

"Yen, what's your secret?"

How is she able to smile so brightly? He sees the darkness in her eyes, he sees the way she disappears into herself, he sees the struggle inside her as she fights to be happy every day.

So why? How is she so strong?

Why can't I be that strong?

Jimin thought he would be able to forget everything. He thought it wouldn't matter. All he wanted was someone to be beside him. All he wanted was to not feel alone. He didn't think that having someone beside him, knowing that they didn't love him, knowing that they were using him for everything else but love...

He didn't think it would make him feel cold, almost isolated.

And yet, he still doesn't want to let go.

When his phone buzzes once more, he looks over at the passenger seat, not paying attention to the road. He doesn't notice as he comes across another intersection. He doesn't notice the crosswalk, nor the woman who is crossing. He’s too focused on the name that flashes on his screen. Debating in his strangled min whether or not to answer.

When he reaches her, just a few feet away, may it be fate or destiny he turns away from the phone just in time to see the woman. Adrenaline pumping violently through his body, his eyes widen as she turns, hearing the roar of the engine and the screech of the tires. Instinct taking over his body, Jimin slams his foot on the brake, the car managing to squeal to a stop, just a few inches away from the frozen woman. In the few moments it takes for him to register her face, he's able to discern one thing.

Bright luminescent green eyes.

In the silence that follows, Jimin breathes heavily, looking over his wheel almost hesitantly. He doesn't know if he hit her, all he's aware of is that she can no longer be seen through the windshield. Fear erupting in his nerves in waves, he frantically unbuckles with shaking fingers, opening the door and dashing to the front of the car. The buzzing phone now forgotten.

He pauses for a moment taking in the scene.

The good news is that he didn't hit her.

The bad news is Jimin quite possibly terrorized her beyond reality.

She’s fallen to the ground, bags of groceries scattered around her, her eyes wide and her entire body shaking. Her hands wrap around the gravel on the ground as she shivers, her lips moving as tears start to appear at her eyes, but no sound can be heard. Jimin notices the scratches her knees have endured from the fall, the way dark smudges of pavement have mixed with the tears on her cheeks, and the small drops of blood dripping from her hands so brutally ripping through the pieces of gravel and dirt.

Sighing, he kneels beside her, trying to gather her attention. It proves to be quite difficult considering the way her eyes are locked on the headlights of the car just a few inches away from her. She shivers as she contemplates how she could have died just a few moments ago and finds the thought far too horrifying to comprehend. Fear paralyzing her like a virus, Jimin has to take her by the shoulders to gather her attention.

And there they are again. Brilliant green eyes, golden flecks scattered within her irises. They meet his deep cinnamon ones, a spark reflected between the two of them. A spark only the heavens could have seen.

"Are you okay?"

Once Jimin speaks, in a soft hushed tone, the woman breaks out of her reverie. Her eyes well up in unspoken terror, and she starts to shake even more violently at the sight of someone next to her comforting her.

Why is it when we are at our most vulnerable, we find ourselves breaking when there is someone there to hold us?

Noticing her shivers, he removes his jacket and places it across her shoulders, trying desperately not to falter at the sight of panic in her eyes.

"It's okay, I'm here."

.

.

.

"Yes, I know I'm late but I'll be there soon."

Needless to say, Jimin finally figured out how to answer his phone.

He paces a few feet away from where he left the shivering woman, his heart clenching and unclenching in distress. When did it become such a chore to talk to her? When did he start regretting every moment spent with her?

Half listening to the pressed voice on the other line, he glances at the woman who pulls his coat tighter around her body, her face pale and eyes darting around in frantic panic. At the sight, his heart tightens in pain and he struggles to shove down his guilt.

It doesn't help matters when he hears the words on the other side of the line.

"What?"

As though he were stuck in a lucid dream he tries not to let the disappointment eat at him. It's not a big deal that she ate without him, after all, he was running quite late...

Why does it bother him so much?

Why does the thought make him feel alone?

Oh, I don't know Jimin, maybe it's the fact that she used you.

Again.

Your money, your love, your dedication, your time.

It was all a waste after all.

"No, it's fine. We'll see each other another time."

Jimin clenches his jaw at the sound of a male voice addressing her on the other line. Suspiciously close, dangerously close. Jimin doesn't bother asking who it is. He already knows the real reason. Taking a deep breath, he tries his hardest not to give in to the tears.

God, you're pathetic aren't you?

"Okay. I have to go now, but I'll see you soon."

No, you won't.

"I lo--"

The line cuts off before he can finish his sentence, and Jimin would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised. He holds the phone up for another moment as though waiting for a phantom to whisper the words he so longs to hear. Biting his bottom lip when it's clear they won't come, he pockets his phone and turns back to the woman on the bench.

Would she treat him the same?

If she were in this situation, what would she do?

Jimin knows these are desperate, ridiculous questions to ponder, but he can't help himself. He's too lost, too broken to wonder anything else. Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he walks towards her, settling onto the bench seat beside her. He knows she overheard the conversation, he knows that every time he looked at her she glanced away as though being caught in a trap.

At this moment, however, he finds it very hard to care.

"Was that my fault?"

At the question, Jimin smiles almost bitterly.

"No, it was mine." He leans his head back, sighing as he stares at the dark sky. "I should've expected it."

At the nearly dejected statement, the woman can't help but look at him with concern. She recognizes the look in his eyes. The dark swirling pit of nothing. She's seen it reflected in her own. She hesitates before speaking once more.

"If you need somewhere to be, I'll be fine." Jimin looks her way incredulously, at the glance, she smiles nervously finding it hard to meet his eyes. "I can wait for a bus on my own--"

When she glances back his way, she doesn't expect him to be so close.

His face nearly inches away from hers, she could almost swear that her heart stopped for a fraction of a second from the shock. It's not a normal occurrence to have a nearly perfect man inches away from you.

But then again, what part of this situation is normal in her eyes anyway?

Oh God, all I wanted was to get some groceries.

Jimin stares at her with an unreadable gaze, his piercing eyes staring deep into hers. Perhaps it's an attempt to see into her soul, to find some part of her character reflected within him. There has to be a reason she looks so familiar, some form of explanation for why he feels as though he's known her all his life.

Why is it so comfortable to be around her?

"What is your name?"

The woman looks up at him with wide eyes, the iridescent green nearly blinding Jimin of all reason.

"Jocelynn."

Sliding his hand on the back of the bench as he leans closer to her, she avoids his eyes. Inwardly she prays that he doesn't hear her heartbeat increasing every second he is close to her.

"Jocelynn." At the sound of her name on his tongue, her stomach turns in on itself. Looking back at him she is surprised to find that his gaze has never strayed from hers. "You know that when it's this late, it's not smart to be on your own right?"

His voice is deep and husky, drawn to a near whisper that is hardly distinctive but manages to move every possible emotion present in her heart. Raising an eyebrow, Jocelynn tilts her head slightly.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You were alone."

If she expected him to be flustered, she couldn't have been more wrong. Instead, his eyes darken once more and he smiles half to himself.

"Maybe I don't want to be alone."

Another second, maybe Jimin would have leaned further. Another second and maybe he would have placed his lips on hers. Another second and perhaps he would have been able to forget just how empty he was, as long as he was holding another in his arms.

But when he sees the sad conjecture hidden within her eyes, he can't bring himself to use her in that way. For some unknown reason, he finds that he can't hurt her even if it means he'll feel whole.

Coming to his senses, he pulls away. The same space that was between them a few moments ago, opening once more. He leans forward resting his arms on his legs, his hands clenched tightly together, his heart playing games with his mind.

She's just a stranger, someone he met by some strange coincidence of the skies.

And yet, he can't bear to see that look in her eyes.

"You never told me your name."

Jimin turns to Jocelynn, raising an eyebrow incredulously.

"You don't know me?" he murmurs, obviously surprised, and probably wondering if she's lying. Jocelynn in turn rolls her eyes at the assumption that anyone would be oblivious to who he was, and Jimin can't help but feel amused.

"So what if I do? It's polite to introduce yourself to strangers you nearly run over." Jocelynn responds, her eyes glinting mischievously and Jimin can't help it.

He laughs.

Jocelynn smiles at the sight, almost proud that she was able to leech that out of him. After a moment, Jimin turns to her and extends his hand her way.

"My name is Jimin." When she doesn’t take it right away, he raises his eyebrow at her. In turn, she rolls her eyes before intertwining her hand with his and shaking it. Jimin can't help but think that her hand is soft, comforting, almost made to fit with his. Inwardly, he chastises himself for thinking that way.

When will he remember that fate and destiny don't exist?

Hasn't he been taught that enough?

"It's nice to meet you Jimin."

When she says his name, it's almost as though some invisible bind around his heart has been released. He's able to breathe for the first time, he's able to forget everything he's been harboring deep inside. Almost as though a simple utterance of his name on her tongue has set him free.

"I'm sorry I ruined your date." Jocelynn apologizes before pulling away, and Jimin considers scrambling to hold her hand tightly within his own. In order to refrain himself, he scratches the back of his neck as he shakes his head.

"It's not your fault, don't worry." He reassures her, and she bows her head, smiling to herself. Sighing, Jimin looks back up at the stars, finding it fascinating the way they can shine so bright from so far away. "If I'm being honest it was probably ruined before I met you."

"Do you mind saying why?" At the thought of showing her that vulnerable side of himself, he can feel the darkness start to taint the inner corners of his heart.

Why is it so frightening to reveal one's weakness?

Smiling almost bitterly, he avoids her eyes as he answers her.

"Have you ever had a relationship where you know you're being used, but you stay in it because you're afraid of being alone?"

Jocelynn flinches at the description, being reminded of a time way back where she had exactly that. Painful memories she had thought she had since buried ever since he was removed from her life. Moments she thought she had left behind the moment she promised she would move on.

"That's my relationship." Jimin continues, Jocelynn listening quietly beside him. "I mean it started nice enough. The usual honeymoon phase. She was sweet and funny. To top it off she was just drop-dead gorgeous, I thought I hit the gold mine. The luckiest guy in the world."

Though he doesn't look her way and she doesn't make a move to comfort him, somehow her presence beside him makes things easier for him. He doesn't feel as though someone is violating his memories, he doesn't feel as though she were a stranger. On the contrary, he feels as though this were a normal thing, as though he had been confiding in her all his life.

"Until I saw that she was only happy when she was taking from me. She used me for money, sex, love..."

It was all a lie.

Even now, Jimin can't bear to utter the words, instead they hang over his head. Unspoken but the reality hitting him like a grenade.

"Yeah, she was sweet all right. Like poison."

He laughs bitterly, shaking his head at himself. He never knew self-deprecation could hurt this much. Slowly building up each day until he threatens to break.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I don't even know you."

It's strange, he can't even confide in his friends. He doesn't even feel as though he's able to talk to Tae like he used to, why is it so easy for him to talk to Jocelynn? A person whom he met on a chance encounter, someone whom he didn't even know the name of until just a couple of seconds ago. They are little more than strangers, so how is this so easy?

At the question, Jocelynn smiles to herself, remembering something she had heard once before. From a mere child, and yet it was a child who was the first person to teach her she was never truly alone.

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to those you don't know. They don't have room to judge, they don't know what you did wrong or where you messed up. You may never see them again, so what harm is there in talking to them? That way you don't have to deal with the baggage following you around."

Jimin looks at her with surprise and finds that her gaze is far away. Those green eyes that are so calm and serene are now filled with unspoken tears and sparkling gems of pain.

"I'm not going to say some crappy thing like 'why don't you just leave' or 'she's toxic just drop her' because I know how hard that really is." She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves before continuing. "However, I know what it's like to be used and endure pain because you don't want to be alone. So I will say something to help you make up your mind."

When she meets his delicate tawny eyes with her tender green ones, he finds himself struck speechless. She looks at him almost as though she were afraid he'd break. As though he needed a shield to protect him at all costs and she would be willing to be that shield.

Since when was it Jimin who needed protecting?

"You deserve better."

"What?"

Jimin seems shocked, almost baffled at the notion. Jocelynn smiles almost bitterly to herself. Is that what she looked like when she was told the same thing? Was it so hard to believe that someone like her could deserve to be happy?

"No matter what you may tell yourself, you deserve love. You deserve to be loved. No matter what you think you may have done or how scared you are of being alone, you deserve to have someone reciprocate the love you give to them." Jocelynn holds her hands tightly together as she speaks, an attempt to refrain herself from reaching over and taking his within hers. Though she longs to give him some sort of comfort, she has to keep her distance. "From the way you're describing it...this relationship doesn't sound like it's love."

The silence that blossoms between them is one not easily broken. It's a silence filled with unspoken emotions, late realizations, and hard-won ignorance crumbling. When Jimin looks at her, he admires the way her face shines in the moonlight, her hair that tumbles down around her shoulders, the way she exuberates calm serenity that never thought he'd find.

Almost as if she were an angel sent for him.

When the bus pulls up in front of the two of them, Jimin finds that he doesn't want her to be a stranger. He doesn't want her to leave. He wants her to be around him, he wants her to know his burden. And above all...

He doesn't want to hide anymore.

"Just...think about it okay?" Jocelynn stands, sliding the jacket Jimin gave her not but a few moments ago off her shoulders and offering it up to him. "Here."

He sits there for a stunned moment, staring up at her and the jacket. Within his mind, he makes a quick decision, one that he sincerely hopes he doesn't regret.

Standing, he pushes the coat back to her and smiles.

"Keep it." He murmurs as her emerald eyes widen, a soft rosy hue threatening to erupt on her cheeks. Smiling to herself, she nods, holding the jacket close to her chest, before stepping back toward the bus.

"Thank you." She whispers back, turning on her heel and boarding the bus.

Leaving Jimin alone.

As the doors close, and the familiar hiss exuberates from the vehicle as it pulls away, Jimin stands there. He watches Jocelynn walk down the aisle, before settling into a seat beside a window. She presses her cheek against the cool glass before turning back to the jacket she holds in her hands. Jimin sees as she smiles to herself before holding it close to her heart, her face buried deep within the fabric.

He doesn't notice the grin on his face as he witnesses the pink blush on her cheeks, and the wide smile on her face as she pulls away. Her eyes sparkle with a joy he's only seen on TV screens, and in the back of his mind, he wonders if it's possible to keep that smile to himself. He wonders if she'd be willing to stay by him forever.

Then the bus is gone, she's gone, and he's left in the dust of forgotten memories and broken tears.

"No..." He murmurs, a smile playing at the memory of her green eyes.

"Thank you."

note: NEW CHARACTER ALERT!!! This character has a lot of background to do with Yen, which will be revealed later. I really like this chapter and enjoyed writing in a different POV for different characters. I think this is a nice view into Jimin's side of the story and hopefully we can expand on it soon. Anyways! Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoyed!

chapter 35 here

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[ethereousdelirious]

The bitch is back!!!! Finally!!!!

Fandom: C.ritical R.ole: E.xandria Unlimited

Characters: All except [spoiler for most recent episode]

Pairing: N/A

Tropes: College AU except with D&D races still

Summary: D.orian insists he's too sick to perform in the university's battle of the bands, then changes his mind and goes anyway. He was right the first time.

Notes: I was gonna take this in a different direction and make it longer, but I ran out of time and I really wanted to have it out today, so. Ta-da.

"I told you," Dorian rasped, pulling the covers over his head as if to shield himself from his friends' expectations, "I can't."

Dariax and Opal whined in tandem, nearly harmonizing through sheer, random chance. "C'mon, bud," Dariax pushed, "you're not that sick."

"Are you serious?" Dorian threw the covers off, the better to glare at his friend. "I have a 102-degree fever. I'm not doing it."

"A fever is good!" Opal said brightly, though her voice was a little muffled, as she was hiding the lower half of her face in her shirt to fend off Dorian's germs. "It means your body is healing."

"No, it means I feel like shit and I'm not going anywhere." Dorian huffed out a sigh that left his chapped lips stinging and scooted down the bed so he could lie down properly. His stuffed-up sinuses protested at the change, but he stubbornly ignored the throbbing and the post-nasal drip.

"Ohhh, I get it," said Dariax in a tone that suggested he very much did not get it. "So you'll come if you feel better?"

"Sure, Dariax." Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, wishing that his friends would take the hint and go away. Exhaustion made all his limbs feel heavy, made the idea of keeping his eyes open for even another second feel like the keenest of agonies. He shivered beneath his blankets despite the fever painting his cheeks an angry purple.

"You heard the man," Dariax said, turning to Opal. "Time to nurse Dorian back to health."

"You can't cure the flu in a day," Dorian said. The cough finally caught up with him and he rolled over, shaking with the force of it, covering his mouth with his hands. "Oh, god." He really felt awful and still, Dariax and Opal just weren't getting the message. Dorian flopped back over, gesturing weakly for one of them to hand him the glass of water on his nightstand. 

"Sure, we can buddy!" Dariax, seeing Dorian reaching out, took his hand in both of his own. "Let's see, how about I go make you some awesome healing tea, and Opal can…"

"I'll get all that hair out of your face," Opal said. Dorian's gradient locks were stuck all over his face, black and white strands plastered to his cheeks and stuck to his lips. 

"Great," said Dariax, making for the door. "Dorian, you're in good hands."

Dorian had never been more sure in his life that he was going to die. Leaving Opal to poke around his room for hair ties and a comb, he forced himself to roll over and grab the water glass. He was shaking so badly he could barely hold himself up to drink and even that slight movement took enormous amounts of effort. "Opal," he said, letting the glass fall as he flopped back onto his pillows. "If you're gonna stay, can you please--" He muffled a few explosive coughs behind his lips, sniffled. "Can you please get me some more water?"

"Sure!" said Opal, letting her shirt fall away from her face. "Maybe I should get you a plastic cup, though. 'Cause you don't wanna be cleaning up broken glass later if you drop this one. Do you have any plastic cups?"

"I dunno." Dorian hid his face in his hands, trying to rub away his headache. He had never considered Opal's voice annoying before, but now her words rattled in his head, drawing throbbing pain in their wake. "Orym might." That gave him an idea, albeit one he was almost too tired to pursue.

"I'll go look," Opal said. "Sit tight."

Dorian waited until he could hear the quiet sound of Dariax and Opal talking in the kitchen before forcing himself to sit up to search for his phone. He found it down by knees, thanking all the gods in the pantheon it wasn't dead, and sent a text to his roommate.

Dorian: IK you're at work but dear God pls come save me

Dorian: Dariax and Opal are here to "nurse me back to health."

Dorian: I May Die 

Then Opal came back with a plastic cup of water and Dorian shoved his phone back under the covers like a guilty teenager. The subsequent adrenaline rush robbed him of his breath until he felt faint.

"Oh, good," said Opal, setting the cup down on the crowded nightstand. "You're already sitting up."

Dorian's head swam. He opened his mouth to tell Opal that he'd prefer to not be sitting up any longer, but the words came out as hissing rasp. He cleared his throat. "Oh, fuck."

"Don't worry, Dariax's tea will help your throat," Opal said. She knelt by Dorian's bedside and started combing his hair out of his face. Dorian relaxed despite himself, happy to be rid of the unpleasant sensation. Opal noticed and smiled. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Dorian said begrudgingly.

"It's okay, I won't tell anyone if you moan."

"Jeeze, Opal." Dorian went to bury his face in his hands, but Opal stopped him with a quick tap to the chin. "Head up. How about a nice braid?"

"Whatever."

Opal was gentle with her touches, working out knots with a practiced hand instead of yanking through them like Dorian had feared she might. If it wasn't for the uncomfortable position and the chill in his limbs, he might have even fallen asleep. "This is nice," Opal said, stroking the nape of Dorian's neck. "I never get to play with other people's hair."

"Mm," said Dorian, his head cloudy.

That was when Dariax burst in cradling a mug of tea in his hands like it was something precious, and not over-steeped Throat Coat. "I made tea!" he announced redundantly.

"Can I drink it later?" Dorian mumbled, blinking slowly. Despite having been asleep for most of the morning, he still felt exhausted and sore. "Wanna sleep." He coughed a few times, too tired to even turn his head, let alone cover his mouth.

"But then it'll be cold," Dariax said. "And I saw you shivering, so I know you don't wanna drink cold tea."

Dorian thought he might have a rebuttal to that, hidden deep beneath the layers of fever-fog. Whatever it wasn't he couldn't reach it now. "Good point." He held out his hands for the mug, dimly annoyed that they were both still shaking. "I really don't feel good," he announced in case it might help.

It didn't.

"We know, silly," Opal said. "Drink your tea."

"Meds?" Dorian asked hopefully, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his nightstand.

"Gotcha." Dariax shuffled past Opal and dropped two pills into Dorian's open mouth.

Dorian nodded his thanks and washed them down with a mouthful of tea. "What time is it?" he asked, grabbing a tissue from the box tucked into the corner where his mattress met the wall.

"11:30," said Opal, who always had her phone within arm's reach.

Dorian blew his nose and dropped the tissue over the side of the bed. He had no idea where his trash can had ended up and wasn't about to lean over and look for it with his head spinning the way it was. "Ugh. Fuck."

"Orym's not off until 3:00, right?" Opal asked, cottoning on.

Dorian nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Don't worry, buddy." Dariax reached out to ruffle Dorian's hair, but stopped after a nudge from Opal, who glared pointedly at Dorian's braid. "You'll be aaaall better by then."

Dorian was most assuredly not "all better" by 3:00. After finally getting Opal and Dariax out of his room, he had slept fitfully until they had gotten bored and come to wake him to see if he was feeling better. Around that time, his fever had gone up and he had clawed his way out of his hoodie and tossed it aside, a move he would come to regret when he woke up to the sound of his friends joyfully greeting Orym at the door and found himself shivering again.

Unwilling to speak, he let out a long groan, hoping that the sound of his misery would draw Orym to his room. But this only made him cough, aggravating his stinging throat and sore chest.

"Jeeze," said Orym from the door. Dorian looked terrible and sounded worse, and there was nothing anyone could do about it but wait.

"Oh, good," said Dariax, "You're awake!"

"Are you all better?" Opal asked.

Dorian ignored their questioning and looked Orym dead in the eye. "Please explain to them that I'm too sick to go to the stupid battle of the bands tonight."

"But we need you, Dorian!" Opal exclaimed. "No other band has an electric lute player."

"Oh, and Fearne's so excited," Dariax added. "She's been practicing extra hard all week on those pan pipes you lent her."

"Guys, guys." Even Orym's gentle tones made Dorian's head pound. "If Dorian says he's too sick to go, then he's too sick to go. We should believe him."

"What do you mean 'believe me'?" Dorian demanded. "Oh my god, you think I'm being a pussy, don't you?"

Orym hesitated for a fraction of a second too long before responding. "No, no, of course not."

"You do!" Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, mortally offended. "I don't believe this!"

"Hey, hey." Orym put up his hands. "It's okay. You don't have to go."

"Nooo," said Dorian, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm going." He stood up and staggered over to his closet. He had thought he was being responsible and proactive, taking care of his illness instead of pushing himself too hard. But the idea of his friends thinking he was sheltered, soft, weak was unbearable. His hand trembled as he searched through his clothes for something suitably impressive to wear, and a dim thought occurred to him that he might be acting irrationally because of his fever. He wasn't usually quite so concerned with appearances. 

From the doorway, Opal, Dariax, and Orym watched. "Well," said Dariax, "that was easier than I thought."

"Yeah, Orym." Opal turned to him, impressed. "Where were you five hours ago? I could have gone home and watched The Bachelor."

"You still have" --Orym checked his watch-- "a good five hours."

"No, 'cause we're meeting Fearne for rehearsals at 5:00, remember? Once she gets back from visiting her grandma."

Dorian smothered a flurry of coughs into the crook of his arm, scowling when the colors of his shirts on their hangers began to blur in front of his eyes. "I need coffee," he announced once the fit was done, and marched off to the kitchen.

"Dorian, wait--" Orym said, but he didn't even pause. Orym looked between Dariax and Opal. "Is nobody else going to try and stop him?"

"Why the hell would we do that?" Dariax asked. "We've been here all morning trying to convince him to go."

"'Sides," said Opal. "You're the one who called him a pussy."

"I did not." Orym sighed and ran a hand through his hair. A sense of impending trouble prickled like static on the back of his neck. He really hadn't meant to make Dorian feel bad, even if he did think the genasi was being a touch melodramatic.

By the time they had finished with their pre-show dinner at Denny's, Orym sincerely regretted his harsh judgement of Dorian's condition. He had been quiet at practice, barely even saying hello to Fearne. She had given Orym a questioning look, and he had only been able to shrug helplessly at her. Dorian's cough got worse and worse all evening, culminating in a moment at dinner where he left for the bathroom and just didn't come back, leaving behind his mostly untouched plate.

Orym had found him leaning against the counter, breathing heavily and staring at nothing. The eyeliner Opal had so carefully applied was now smudged where Dorian had rubbed his eyes, and sweat stood on his brow. Orym had led him back to the table in silence after a few failed attempts at conversation.

By the time they got to the university's theater, Dorian could barely stand up straight. He was shaking so badly that his lute rattled in its case, and several passers-by did double takes when they saw him.

"Shit," said Orym, once they finally were backstage. "Fuck. I knew this was a bad idea."

"S'fine," Dorian rasped.

"I don't know," Fearne said. She studied Dorian's braid. "You're about the same color as your hair," she said, indicating the pale blue tips.

"Yeah, I think Orym might be right," Dsriax said, shifting uncomfortably. 

Dorian had to pause and catch his breath before responding, struggling to keep his balance on legs that suddenly felt too weak to support his weight for much longer. "You said…"

"Yeah!" said Dariax, turning to Orym. "You're the one who called him a pussy."

"Nobody called him a pussy," Orym said. He would have liked to have reached out to steady Dorian, who was still swaying dangerously, but could only reach about hip height. "Opal, Fearne, can one of you please get him before he--"

Dorian's knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, holding his stomach. "Oh, shit."

Noticing a few eyes on them, Dariax stepped away and began to pace back and forth in front of the group, daring someone to say something. "Fuck off," he muttered, replacing his concern with aggression at no one in particular.

"What hurts?" Opal asked, her fear of contagion forgotten. She knelt beside Dorian and put a hand on his back, and even through his thick leather jacket, the heat that met her hand made her gasp.

"Dizzy," Dorian said through clenched teeth. In a whisper, he said, "Please don't let me throw up in front of all these people."

"That one's kind of on you, buddy," Dariax said over his shoulder. "Try to hold still and look at something that's not moving."

Dorian swallowed hard and tried to focus on a distant guitar case. It was difficult to do with his head still whirling, and his stomach gave a dangerous lurch. He took a few deep breaths to try to steady himself and only succeeded in triggering a coughing fit that drove him sideways into Orym's chest.

"We need to get him out of here," Orym said, staggering back under Dorian's weight.

"Give…" Dorian's voice faded out. He cleared his throat. "Give me a second. I can walk."

"Here," Fearne held out her hand. "When you're ready."

After a few cautious breaths, Dorian grabbed Fearne's hand and stood slowly, blinking away silver spots. "Sorry," he mumbled into her shoulder as they started to walk out.

"Ah, don't apologize," Dariax said, swinging Dorian's lute case along with his steps. "Maybe we shouldn't have pressured you to come."

"More like definitely," Opal said. "We're sorry. I really thought we could have you feeling better."

"It's fine." Dorian gave a weak laugh and forced himself to pick his head up off Fearne's shoulder. "You're not the one who called me a pussy."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Orym muttered, privately grateful that Dorian was still mentally present enough to make jokes.

They all piled into Opal's beater, Fearne in the passenger seat and the other three crowded in the back. Dorian leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.

[storysofmyown]

Obey me! The passing of time

Plot: One by one, the brothers start to notice how Mc changes as time goes by.

Warning: None that I can think of

Word Count:2480 words

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

It started slow, very slow. You never noticed, of course you didn't. For you, this was something entirely normal but for the demons, it wasn't. After all, they could live for millenniums without suffering much but a cold but... for a human well... that's another story.

So no, you didn't notice as you grew older and started to look older, but the brothers certainly did.

The first one to notice was Asmodeus. The two of you were in one of those intense cuddling sessions; while he stroked your hair, he suddenly noticed a white hair. It made him froze in an instant.

Aging

It was such a slow process for them, for demons, angels and alike. But for humans, humans didn't even have a fraction of a demons life span. They all knew it. Humans were so fragile that even sleeping in a wrong position could hurt them. Yet, here you were. A human, surrounded by demons and still being able to hold your self with such confidence, sometimes even he forgot you were not one of them. Nevertheless, here you were mortal. Because you were human after all.

Asmodeus stared at your sleeping face, so peaceful... It made his heart ache, how has he gotten so close to you? To appreciate you as much as he does? To cherish you, to adore you...to love you? That night, he vowed to make the best of the time you two spend together. Occasionally, you noticed his sad face while painting your nails... but you never mentioned it.

The next one to notice was Belphegor; you usually napped together after classes every day, to get your energy up. However, he started to notice unusual sleeping patterns, the way you slept less at night and more during the day. At first, he thought it was probably Leviathan keeping you awake while gaming at night or watching some anime, but when Levi made a comment about you not connecting in a few days it sunk in.

He had researched human aging once, not because he cared or any deeper reason. He was just curious. He read that getting older, for some people, implied changes in their sleep routine. After that, he started noticing how tired you were often, the black circles underneath your eyes.

Ever since that day, he found himself thinking of Lilith, death, and mortality. Why? There wasn't any real reason, but just something in his heart that made him remember of how long ago his time at the Celestial Realm was every time he looked at you.

Ever since that, Belphie makes sure you go to bed at a reasonable hour, and even uses just a little of his demon powers to make sure you get enough sleep, and if sometimes he stayed awake just to look at you sleep... well that was for him to know and for you to never find out.

Next, was Lucifer. You both had fallen into a kind of routine; you would help him organize papers and such, nothing too important, just to help him around with minor stuff. Today was one of those days. He was looking at some papers and he gave you the ones that weren’t so important to either categorize or to dispose of. He lifted his gaze from the papers for just one second and noticed that something was off. The scene before him… it wasn't quite right. Maybe it was the fact that you had been looking at the same paper for 4 minutes trying to figure out where it belongs, or how your figure seemed... smaller for some reason.

As he stared at you, he suddenly remembered something. The Exchange Program you had participated in ended a while ago, but you had chosen to stay with them. He tied the knots by figuring that, yes, some time had passed since then and it was normal you didn't look the same. So, he kept reading a paper but then realization hit him…. the exchange program ended more than 15 years ago.

It cut him like a knife. It felt like yesterday you had just gotten into the Devildom and now... it had been more than 15 years. For him, it felt like nothing, but for you, a mere human, it must feel like a lifetime ago. Lucifer put the paper down, and suggested you two went out for dinner that night.

You found it odd, but not unwelcomed, and if this started to become a habit between the two... well you sure were not going to question it.

Then, it was Satan the one who noticed. You were reading with him, when he saw you struggling to read some words. You kept shuffling the book closer and then further from you, making weird faces and sighing in frustration. He put it down as you not being particularly interested in that book. So he suggested that the two of you took a break and watched the new episode of a detective show they were airing.

However, it kept happening every time you read together. So, one day Satan surprised you with a trip to the human world… but for medical reasons, he took you to an oculist. While waiting for you, he was reading a book, and he saw an old person walk by him. He then looked at the book and the first word his eyes saw hurt him.

Death

He read around thousands of books explaining humans. From the way their minds worked on a psychological and biological way, to the way a human’s body rotted after dead. Quite fascinating, but the thought of that happening to you... made him land from his fantasyland. Once you came out you, to no one's surprise, announced that you needed reading glasses, he only smiled and told you to pick whatever style you preferred. As you looked around and asked for his opinion on the glasses, Satan noticed another thing.

Even if you were getting older, your spirit was still the same. And that made him smile genuinely. Afterwards, he seemed to be more and more interested in your health and stuff like that, you really didn't question it, your memory was already bad, so it was not bad to have someone remind you to take your vitamins.

Beelzelbub has been sneaking into the kitchen every night of his long life. But specifically, tonight he sneaked into the kitchen and found you, bent over the counter with just a glass of water. He smiled and asked if you were also hungry, but you shook your head, explaining that the dinner you had eaten earlier made your stomach ache and you just wanted some water.

Beelzelbub stared in confusion, after all it was not often food made him feel ill. But lately, this has been something that happened to you a lot. He figured his midnight snack could wait and gave you a hug, hoping it will make you feel better. You smiled and hugged him back, resting against him.

You felt... tired and it wasn't because it was almost midnight or because you had a tummy ache... no, it was a different type of tiredness. After a while, you smiled at Beel and went back to your room. Beel staid in the kitchen, not eating but thinking. He was worried about you; Lucifer mentioned the other day a little off of hand that you seemed weaker.

Beel didn't pay much attention to it, until now. His mind went from Lilith to you, how that affected him, and suddenly, the answer was clear. Beel slumped in himself and tried hard not to wake anyone up on the way to his room. Ever since that day, he asked you to work out with him, even for just a little bit, and the intense cuddling sessions were now even more intense.

The truth was he was scared of losing you too. Only Belphie knew that, and he planned to keep it like that. And if the nightmares ever shifted from Lilith to you well... at least he had you to hold his hand... for now.

It was 3 am... and if Belphegor knew you were awake at this unholy hour he might kill Leviathan and never let you sleep alone in your room again. But here you were, Levi had told you he would be binging one of his favorite animes all night, and you just had to watch it with him. So there you were, 3 am and both, you and Levi, watching anime.

Levi was all excited about the story, the characters, and the plot but you... not so much. So, you ended up falling asleep. Once Levi noticed, he muttered something about how your normie blood had taken the better of you, before falling silent as he kept watching the anime. There, right in the middle of the screen, the protagonist best friend had been killed. Blood was everywhere and the episode ended. Levi's eyes fell on you.

You were Levi's only friend, and the thought of losing a friend made him break a bit. He’s been noticing how you have changed in the passing of time, but he never actually stopped to think of the implications of that. Humans die, very, very easily. He wasn't certain on how much longer you would be around to spend time with him, do cosplays, and talk about anime or manga. He was going to be as lonely as the Lord of the Shadows was before Henry became their friend.

Leave his room? He never did such thing. At least not for a few days after that realization hit him... but then he realized that he was wasting SO MUCH TIME. So, after that, wherever you were, Levi was. He started to talk more about your own interests and stuff. It was nice, he learned new stuff about you, and while the thought of losing you always lingered in the back of his head, he wanted to be close to you no matter what.

Now Levi spent less than 4 hours in his room during the day, it was a miracle really... that was something absolutely no one has ever done before. And honestly, you were not going to question it.

Finally, Mammon, THE Great Mammon noticed. You two were walking in town after one of his photoshoots. He was going on and on about how amazing he was while you trailed behind him... really behind him. Once he noticed, he slowed his pace to match yours. You started talking about something else entirely when suddenly your D.D.D rang. While you answered he checked the hour, and upon looking at his background, he felt a part of himself die.

As his background, he had set a picture of you and him. Not taken too long ago, just a few years... or so he thought. You looked so different. Your hair was now entirely white, matching his; he noticed the wrinkles around your face and the glasses that you now had to use all the time. Mammon fell silent. You informed him that Lucifer had called and wanted you two home now. He just nodded and didn’t say a word for the rest of the walk. You found it weird because... well, because it's Mammon, but you didn't mention it.

That night, Mammon didn't go to your room. He stayed in his, thinking about everything. Thinking how he didn’t notice that you were growing old. He was always with you, ALWAYS. It was impossible for HIM to not notice. Yet here he was, wondering how time slipped between his fingers, and now who knows how much time you would spend together. Mammon cried... all night, no one knew because he made sure it was a silent cry... but the idea of losing someone he cared about so much. IT hurt when Lucifer confiscated Goldie, and he knew losing you would feel the same... who was he kidding? It was going to be worse, so much worse. And so, he cried, but only for that night, the next day he was his usual self just... now he was aware. Suddenly he was being super kind to you and buying you stuff.

It weirded you out but it was fine, you let him have it... you knew what it was about. You started at him with a smile on your lips, ruffled his hair and made snarky comment about him already being broke and to stop spending in you.

If Mammon never left your side before just imagine now. And he was not the only one. You were constantly followed around by a group of demons that wanted to spend time with you. You knew why, but you never mention it... why would you?

Mammon and the others had never talked about it, they refused to do so but whenever you didn't look, they looked at each other, and with sad expression, they made sure to take in the moment, to save it in their hearts.

It was night. You and the seven brothers have been having a horror night but you were tired already. Your entire body ached. And halfway through the movie you fell asleep.

You woke up by a hand shaking you, once you opened your eyes you saw Lucifer. You smiled at him, sat up, and, to everyone surprise, hugged him. Blame it on your half-asleep state, but you dared to hug him, and even give him a kiss on the cheek. Then proceed to hug and kiss every other brother.

No one knew what had gotten into you, but once you kissed Belphegor and were about to say good night, Beel and Asmo pulled you into another hug, and before you realized, you were in a cuddle mountain with ALL the brothers. Lucifer may have taken a little convincing but at the end, he joined you all. After an intense two hours of cuddling, you went to your room. As you laid down in the bed with a smile plastered on your lips, you felt... at peace. With how your life had been up to this point, with how much you loved those seven idiots. Yeah, you really loved them.

During breakfast the next day, none of the brother ate. Not even Beelzeebub, they all waited patiently for you, they wanted to wait for you, even though... all of them knew you were not going to come down the stairs.

That's how it was, humans are born and humans die in less time than any other creature. It was the sad reality of their world, and as the brothers waited for a human that was never going to come down the stairs, all they could think about was you. It was sad, but it was true. And even if they were never going to see you, again... they really were grateful for everything.

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Hello sweeties, this is actually the first fan fic I've ever made. I could not get this idea out of my head so I just had to write it. Hope y'all enjoy it!

[imagineimaginethat]

It’s Hard to Believe

Reader Insert Fic

Prompt: Shingen thinks you’ve died, but finds out you’re still alive

Main pairing: Shingen/Reader, but other characters are there too

Inspiration: Coming up for Air by Signals in Smoke

Trigger warnings: MC death (temporarily), Sad vibes (happy ending though), memory loss 

Shingen was desperate when he realized you had been kidnapped. The day had been so normal, no whispers, not even so much as a cloud in the sky. You had gone into town, more than likely to get fabric or just stretch your legs. Shingen had declined to go, he had so much work to do. Had he known.... had he only known how much danger you were in he would have never let you out of his sight for even a fraction of a moment. Your captors had been slick, but you had experience with these sort of situations, unfortunately. You left one sandal in the marketplace which tipped off Sauske when he and Yukimura went searching for you. Shingen didn’t hesitate to have as many men as possible look for you. He even sent a letter to Nobunaga who immediately wrote back that one, he would spare nothing in the search to find you, and two, he had no connection to your kidnapping.

Finally, after over two weeks had gone by with everyone worried sick, Mitsuhide picked up on something. Sauske followed up on the lead and sure enough found you. Unreachable and locked away in a dank moldy prison cell by a captor with a mean vendetta against the Takeda and Oda alliance in Kai. You hadn’t been given any food in your time there and very little water, Sauske knew time was of the essence and communicated that to the warlords. They mobilize quickly. Their frantic efforts made them more reckless than ever. The enemy knew they were coming. Shingen and Nobunaga reached you a split second too late. As they slid the door open your captor held you at arms length away on the edge of an open window which faced the edge of a towering cliff. You could struggle, one step would have sent you over the edge.

“Let’s see how well the Takeda and Oda clans cooperate now.”

And just like that you were dropped into the night. Shingen and Nobunaga raced over to find nothing but pitch black darkness. Yukimura was at his Lord’s side in seconds, stopping him from diving after you. It was dark, surely a search by the shore would be more fruitful. Kenshin arrived shortly after along with the other warlords and vassals. Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi were quick to have the captor escorted to a prison in Azuchi. They were anxious to get on with the search for you more than anything though.

All of the men, vassals, soldiers, and warlords alike spent all night searching for the lovely Princess from the Oda clan that had been so kind and helpful everywhere she went. It didn’t matter which side they were on usually all that mattered was finding you.

The water was frigid, if you were there you didn’t have much time. They all knew how perilous cold waters could be in the winter.

So, when the first rays of dawn reached into the sky and a somber Masamune came from the bank of the rushing river where jagged rocks lined the shoreline with a beautiful, but blood stained and soaking wet kimono, all hope drained from the search party.

He handed it off to Shingen to inspect to make sure it was yours. He already knew it was though, no one else made such lovely things. He closed his one eye walking into Ieyasu on his way back to the horses, he managed to put his hand on his shoulder and shake his head once.

“The little lass is gone.”

They knew times were rough. The world was dangerous, but they never truly prepared themselves to lose you. Even if you had one day disappeared back to wherever you came from they could dream, imagine, you were off on some adventure in your strange clothes using the strange terms that you and Sauske often used and you were alright.

Shingen looked away from everyone, but he was not quick enough to hide his tears from Yukimura who didn’t have any words for his grief stricken Lord. He looked to Sauske who seemed to have a shadow on his face. Yukimura could barely breathe when it came crashing down on him.

He could only manage to say two words:

“She’s gone.”

Coming in like a wild boar from the middle of nowhere, it was like a gaping hole had been left in his heart. He didn’t even know what to think. What had been the last thing he said to you? Was it something rude? What if you two had last argued? He tried to think but his brain refused to work.

Shingen remembered his last words to you with perfect clarity, it replayed in his mind over and over again.

“Shingen I’m going to the market, would you like to come with me?”

“Oh, wonderful goddess it pains me not to spend another moment more with you, but I must finish this work. Oh, to decline the offer to accompany an angel, I promise to make up for my absence at your side after dinner.”

“That’s alright Shingen, you don’t have to lay it on so thick, I’ll see you when I get back. Love you!”

“You are my heart.”

He should have went. He didn’t go and now he’d never be able to make it up to you, he’d never see her again, he would never love again. His heart stopped the when your  kimono was handed to him, it began to slow the minute you were thrown from the window. Maybe if he had dived after you? Had he arrived earlier? Had he taken less men? Perhaps if he had acted sooner? Maybe he should have waited?

Shingen played a million scenarios in his mind, but not a single one ended with you in his arms, he simply couldn’t imagine it. Even when he was at his very sickest, never then had he known such an ill than the one he felt holding the bloody kimono in his hands. It was cold and wet and he had a feeling the icy waters had taken your body far from him.

Shingen mourned for weeks. Everything reminded him of you. The snow, the moon, flowers, beautiful kimonos, none as beautiful as the ones you made, be wore nothing but the gifts you had made for him, and there was no consoling him. Yukimura spent his time divided between sitting with Shingen in silence, sitting with Sauske in silence, and finally sitting alone.

Kenshin drank alone bitterly, his sword aching to be used, but he had lost the motivation to wield it. The light of his castle was gone. He didn’t even realize how bright you had been while you were here, and now that you were gone it was as though someone put out every flame in sight. Not even the sun was warm or bright enough to break up the darkness.

In Azuchi the captor was executed. It didn’t make anyone feel any better though. They pushed themselves into their work even more than before. The Oda and Takeda alliance in the name of peace didn’t fall apart, but it wasn’t nearly as warm. Your old room was like a haunting memory of the time you spent there on visits and the short time you spent living with the Oda forces.

Nobunaga ran things as normal, but it was obvious losing you had hurt him in a way that seemed to be unfamiliar to the warlord. He knew loss, he had seen it, had felt it, but this... he didn’t know what to call what he was feeling.

You were gone.

Or so it seemed.

You were not actually dead, incredibly lost, suffering from a terrible head injury in a remote village? Yes, but fortunately very much so still alive. You remembered little tidbits of your early life and fragments from your time in this era. You would remember something every now and then at random, such as Sauske’s ground spikes and Shingen’s beautiful face. However, you didn’t actually remember their names and so the kind villagers who had found your body in the water thought you were delirious and did their best to nurse you back to health. This had been well over a month ago, but you weren’t sure when or how you had gotten so lost, sick, and beat up.

You were extremely grateful for everyone’s hospitality, but you wanted answers and to also get back to your old life as soon as possible even if you didn’t remember much of it.

One day one of the familiar faces you remembered came to town. The one with white hair and golden eyes like a fox.

His eyes widened upon seeing you.

“Y/N?”

“Hello,” you greeted him respectfully, not familiarly at all, “I’m afraid I know your face, but not who you are. I think I was in some sort of accident.”

Seeing you is literally like seeing a ghost. Not even Mitsuhide can hide his shock.

He could see that you were still very much so in recovery and the journey back to either lands that you once called home would not be best for you. Instead he did what he seemed to be the right course of action and promised you he’d send word to others that knew you well so that they could possibly help you. He sent two messengers, one to the Takeda forces, and one to the Oda forces to meet him in the village immediately due to a dire emergency. He didn’t include your name in it as he was afraid it would be picked up by someone that might have meant you well. He was not going to risk losing you again. Sauske was first to arrive on the scene as Kenshin’s right hand ninja.

When he saw you by the water washing clothes he thought for sure he was hallucinating. When he saw Mitsuhide, who had awaited their arrival rather impatiently, was looking at you as well, he raced over to you. When all you could give him were fragments of your time together his heart ached deeply, but the hole that was there from thinking you were dead had begun to be mended upon sight of you.

The rest of the Oda forces and Kenshin arrived next. They were quick with their greetings. You were happy to see them all, you remembered few scarce moments with them and admitted this, claimed you knew they had to be important to you because of how well you could remember their faces and random things about them. Kenshin demanded you never die again, which you didn’t fully understand, promised him to live for as long as you could.

Shingen hadn’t been out of Kai for a very long time. Not since you had left his world.

He and Yukimura took it slow, trusting whatever emergency lied ahead wasn’t totally out of control.

When Shingen first saw the quaint little village he smiled to himself, “she would have loved it in a place like this.”

“She loved it everywhere,” Yukimura tried to joke, “as long as you were there, she’d have gone anywhere and said it was nice.”

Shingen smiled at Yuki’s attempt to cheer him up. He rode slowly into the village and came upon the huddle of Oda forces, who upon seeing him began to disperse like a parted river. Shingen was not expecting what he saw before him. Never in a million years did he dare to think he’d see you again.

And yet, here you are. Smiling as though the world wasn’t dark, as if it hadn’t be cruel, and a place embedded with great pain and suffering.

When you saw Shingen, something in your mind tried to click, but refused. At once you felt overcome with emotions as tears sprang to your eyes.

He embraced you so carefully, as if you were an escaped dream brought to life for only but a moment. He could t bring himself to move or let go.

“My angel has flown back to me.”

“I don’t know your name, or as much as I think I should know about you, I’m so sorry. I know you mean a lot to me, I just can’t-”

“That’s alright.” Shingen placed a hand on your head, stroking your hair, “you being here right now is more than enough. You can come to remember me again slowly or we can make all new memories, as long as you’re alive that’s alright.”

You agreed to go back to living in Kasugayama after Ieyasu gave you his doctors okay with more than a few seemingly unnecessary herbs, ointments, and other medicines. You were sure this was how he showed you he cared.

Back in the castle you began to remember things a bit more, specific moments In time. Major parts of your time there were still fleeting which was frustrating. You and Shingen grew close again and he never left your side, when he absolutely had to Sauske or Yuki were assigned to watch you, and they tools this job seriously. You thought they were overreacting until Sauske broke down and told you all that had happened to you. With his refresher you remembered a few other times you had been kidnapped, but not the time he was specifically talking about, you weee kind of grateful for that.

Shingen spent time with you, he didn’t dwell on what you didn’t remember, just as he promised you began to make new memories. It was well into spring at this point and you were even more certain you were in love with him and glad to be so. Shingen didn’t push or prod about old memories he just patiently waits for days when you come bursting in and asking if he remembered something like attending a festival or a very specific conversation you’d both had. He’d happily confirm that he did in fact remember it and fill in any small gaps. He never tried to sugar cost things either, he told things as they happened. As nice as it would be to paint everything in beautiful strokes of never ending happiness that wouldn’t be real, and what the two of you have deserves nothing less than pure honesty and authenticity.

One day, Shingen was accompanying you to the market when you saw a beautiful fabric. It was the very same one you had seen the first time went somewhere with you. That same wonder filled your eyes and he smiled prepared to offer to buy it all over again. He wondered to himself if you’d make the same thing once again. However it was as though the fabric was woven together by memories, when you touched it, suddenly everything came flowing back. With each memory more and more tears began to fall. You held onto Shingen tightly and he was silent.

You bared your entire soul to him, from your first memories to your last, from Azuchi to Kasugayama, you remembered it all. Shingen was thrilled to be able to reminisce and build from even more memories.

“The power of my wonder pjs goddess never ceases to amaze me. Please, never levave me again, lest you take me with you lovely angel.”

You shouldn’t make promises you have no control over, it instead of coming up with something that was doable but also reassuring you simply nodded, “I promise I’ll never leave again, Shingen.”

It was hard for him to believe even for one moment that he had lost you. .

[goldenvoicedminstrel]

TGW prompt: I wanted to write something with Legolas and Beleg in Aman, but I didn't end up with the time - could you do it for me? :)

Sooo... first of all, thanks so much for this super interesting prompt! I never would have thought this up for myself so it was a lot of fun to come up with something. I hope you like it!  Link to ao3  here.

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They say never meet your heroes, but what if your hero wants to meet you?

He lifts his bow. 

There are no targets here in these unfamiliar woods of Aman, or at least none that he has not picked out for himself, but he would hate to lose his skill. Even if there is no use for his weapon in the Hallowed Lands, except for hunting and sport, 3000 years of battle readiness are not easily forgotten.

An understanding-he knows- that is shared widely in the Valinor he has come to know, where the elves of the First Age try their best to forget wars more gruesome than any warrior of Mirkwood could imagine. 

‘How strange it is to walk in the company of Legends’, he ponders. ‘To wander alongside the great Kings of the First Age, of whose valour little elflings beg to be told before they are sent off to bed. I do not believe I shall ever be used to it.’

Yet they had not been his bedtime stories, not exactly, as his father was notorious for his dislike of the Noldor, including their Kings and their great warriors, who had battled against Morgoth himself. 

No, it was not them the elfling in Legolas secretly wished to meet.

“Look Adar! Look at my bow! I’m Beleg Cúthalion and I will slay aaaaaall the orcs and rescue my friend!”

“I am sure you will, little one, but isn’t that bow a little tall for you?”

The little blond elfling pouts, while his blue eyes carefully measure the longbow that reaches a good few inches over his head and then, seemingly having come to a conclusion, he straightens his narrow shoulders.

“Then I will have to eat all the vegetables that naneth says will make me grow big and strong.” he pronounces gravely and his father struggles to keep an equally serious expression on his own face.

“That is a very smart idea, ion-nin. Your mother will surely be delighted and your friends grateful to have such a loyal and dedicated companion at their side.”

The elfling beams widely at his father’s approval and then takes off to get ready for supper with a new found determination. 

Legolas smiles at the memory. His resolve to eat his vegetables had not lasted, much to his parent’s disappointment, and neither had his father’s approval of his great role model. Not once he had befriended Aragorn and not once he had decided to follow him on the long path to Mordor.

“It is the right thing to do Adar, you know this. I cannot stand back when the fate of this world hangs in the balance.”

“There are others, who can care for this world. Your place is here with your people.”

“My place is by his side and I will not leave him. Not now, when he is to set out on the path of his destiny.”

“His destiny,” Thranduil scoffs but his scorn his tinged with desperation “And what will your own destiny be? Is it not enough they call you Cúthalion for you skill? Will you have to follow a mortal man into a doomed quest so they can call you Cúthalion for your fate as well?”

He notches another arrow and aims for a bundle of pinecones that hangs half-hidden behind a distant branch. 

Such a meeting would be most unlikely, he tells himself. After all, his, hopefully careful and discreet, enquiries had revealed that the elf in question does not often dwell in the great cities but prefers to roam the woods with his old companion and there is no reason at all, why he would come to seek out-

“You shoot well.” comes a voice from behind him and Legolas, who had been lost deep in thought and not focused on his surrounding- something that tells him he has become more used to life in Aman than he thinks- startles and let’s loose the string a fraction too high.

Before he can huff out a sound of annoyance at the interruption and his own carelessness however, the stranger has already fired his own arrow, which now flies with great speed towards Legolas’ wayward one and brushes it slightly, forcing it down. The pinecones fall.

Legolas stares. 

Then he turns around.

And stares some more.

“You- who- what- ? No!”

There is a smirk tugging at the stranger’s lips. 

“I do apologise for the rude interruption, I have not even introduced myself. I am Beleg, I hope I did not startle you too much.”

In this very moment it is only millennia of training in diplomacy and a courteous facade that keep Legolas from a very undignified display of disbelief. He answers reflexively.

“Legolas Thranduillion. It is - an honour to meet you, Beleg Cúthalion, your name truly serves you as well as the tales say.”

His companion- Beleg Cúthalion- laughs. 

“Truly, you flatter me! But I shall never be used to being thought of as a character in a tale, it seems so strange don’t you agree?”

“I would not know for they are no tales sung about me.” Legolas answers a little breathlessly, still in awe of the apparition in front of him. Beleg raises his brows. 

“Are they not? And yet I know you to be Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, one of the Nine, who set out to destroy the Ring of Power and end Sauron’s reign once and for all. Your archery is much praised, and from what I have seen before I so rudely interrupted, for good reason.”

Legolas tries his hardest not to gape at the revelation that Beleg Cúthalion did not only know his name but had also just praised his archery skills. 

“I- thank you. It is a great honour, truly to hear you speak of me so. I never would have dreamt that-I mean I-“ he can feel the tips of his ears turning red as he tries to find the right words and is saved further embarrassment only, when the legendary elf puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

“Peace, Legolas. You need not be afraid of me. After all, we have much in common you and I.”

“I would never dare to compare my skill to-“

“No.” Beleg interrupts him gently. “I do not speak of archery, even though I have heard there are those, who would gladly grant you my title. I speak of the company we have kept and lost, though fate seems to have viewed your friendship with kinder eyes.”

Legolas falls silent as years of memories well up behind his eyes, and his companion is quick to speak up again.

“Please forgive me if my words brought you pain, I know your grief must still be near.”

“No, no it is quite alright.” He shakes his head slowly. “I have made my peace with the price of our friendship long ago. I can call myself lucky it has lasted many years in the span of mortals…”

He trails of as he realises who he is speaking to, but Beleg seems to have taken no offence and only nods in quiet agreement.

“Indeed you are fortunate.” He pauses, and as he speaks his gaze is searching. “Not many of our people understand why I chose to follow a mortal man, but you do, do you not?”

“Yes.” Legolas answers, and there is a lump in his throat. “I understand.” 

And he does, for he would have done the same. Had done the same. And it was only by luck that death had not been his reward.

“Their spirits burn so bright, perhaps because they have so little time. Always changing, evolving, flickering in a captivating dance that draws us like moths to the flame until eventually…” Beleg quietens as something flashes behind his eyes, and as he opens his mouth again his tone has changed to something that might be longing or might be resignation or might be something entirely else. 

“We Eldar merely exist throughout our long days, while the Edain…they live. They cannot stand still, for life does not wait with them, so they move and decide and we move with them until our fate is decided. I envy them at times.”

“They make us feel alive.” Legolas echoes in agreement.

“Alive and of use for their goals are measured in years not centuries.”

“But why fish for reasons.” Legolas contemplates. “We do not decide who we lose our heart to, be it in the fashion of Beren and Lúthien or in great friendship like-” 

He breaks off abruptly. In great friendship like Túrambar and Cúthalion that’s how the saying goes, but it feels ill-fitted in his present company.

Yet the other elf seems to know what he had wanted to say, for he smiles with a melancholy curve of his lips.

“Our tale was not ultimately a happy one but I am glad our friendship is remembered, at least.”

They fall into silence.

“They can be rather silly, though.” Beleg suddenly remarks, and Legolas startles at the sudden change of tone before he catches himself and snorts.

“Oh yes, I remember.”

“Always rather dramatic for a start.”

“Please, you don’t have to tell me. The amount of times I have had to search the darkest corners of an appointed meeting place for a shadowy figure, you would have thought I was playing hide-and-seek with him like a child!”

“And all the names! Collecting epessës like berries!”

“And Eru forbid you use the wrong name once!”

“And really they don’t wash often enough! Streams are there to be used, I would tell him! Only because we share the forest with the animals does not mean we have to smell like them!”

“Exactly! But no, it is too cold, he has only washed two days ago and there is no time to waste on such frivolities, his clothes are dirty anyway and he does not have a second tunic and have I mentioned it is too cold?” chimes in Legolas, remembering all the silly arguments that had turned into a friendly bickering, that had warmed them more than their fire during the long days in the forest.

“Truly a delicate species.” Beleg adds in a mock grave voice and it only takes a brief look between the two elves before they burst into laughter.

“He was a good man.” Legolas says, once he has caught his breath again, and makes to wipe away a few stray tears in which mirth and grief have mingled, from his cheeks.

“Yes, he was.”agrees Beleg with bright eyes and Legolas does not ask who he is talking about.

“We shall see them again. Someday. I believe that.” And only as he speaks this, he realises it is true. In Middle Earth death had been final, a sundering even for the elves for which the Blessed Realm had been a distant tale and their fate a mystery in the hands of unseen powers. 

But here in Aman, where the Valar themselves walk among them, the edge of this world seems so much closer and sometimes Legolas feels as if he can almost see behind it.

They sit like this for a while, on the tree stump they had collapsed on in laughter earlier, before Beleg finally shakes himself out of his thoughts and jumps to his feet.

“Now, earlier I thought I might show you a little trick I invented, if you’d like. A slight modification in the way you hold your drawing arm that will give your arrow a greater momentum, while also not compromising the pace of your draw. I found this quite useful especially when-“

Legolas follows Beleg’s movements and explanations with rapt attention and only as he holds his arrow drawn on the string, his arm in a slightly adjusted position, his mind turns back to his earlier words.

‘I cannot wait to tell you of this, Estel’, he thinks and smiles, ‘after all, what could be called impossible when the Legends themselves walk among us.’

The arrow flies.

[prodaira]

I used to be a Fairy Tail fan when I was a teenager and I really enjoyed it, so I decided to watch it again. I'll talk about some things that I've realized now that I'm older.

It's true that the author forgot where he was heading to. At some point, the fanservice got stronger and stronger, even in the Magic Games the strong Mirajane decided to do a swimsuit modeling competition against Jenny (is this her name?) and all the female characters suddenly decided to wear swimsuits too, because why not. That was the moment when I finally thought, "wow, he really forgot the main story just for that". Of course I had already realized since the beginning that the fanservice was too much, but I was still willing to let it go, since most old shonen were / are just like that (I don't know how shonen mangas are nowadays, it's been a while since I've last read manga). One Piece, for example, which is a story that I personally love, likes to give the female characters those 50kg boobs and they get bigger every episode; the author, though, didn't forget what his main story is. Bleach, a manga that I still want to finish just for the sake of finishing, also has the same 50kg boobs; the author was lost and couldn't create the story he originally wanted to, but at least that wasn't because of the fanservice.

Fairy Tail has a good main storyline. Their magic world and all the dragons and Zeref stuff were great for a nice and lasting shonen. Suddenly, though, the author must have lost his notes and memos somewhere, because the story just became full of random stuff with no endings or no correlation, and I'm not talking about fanservice yet. I won't talk much about the storyline because I haven't finished reading it yet, but that's what I've seen up to now.

Why do I still watch / read it? Some characters have really good concepts. Natsu's main story is interesting; Gray, Erza, Wendy, the cats, even Lucy have nice background stories. Though they are sexualized a lot, the women are as strong as the men. The friendship part is cool as long as it's not too much (it's exaggerated mostly, but that's another shonen troupe). The rest though is just a mess.

What does it have, then? A story to just chill and watch. If you turn off your brain and get into the "friendship, loyalty" vibe without thinking much, just like we did with Dragon Ball or Naruto when we were kids, you can enjoy it. I think of it as a childish animation (of course forgetting the sexual stuff) that I watch for fun. The women are sexualized to the point where I do feel bothered about it, but all the men are also maybe unconsciously sexualized too, because they have to keep up with the women. I am a person who hates when everything has to revolve around sex, but I think I can let it pass if I just turn off my brain.

The ships. They are obviously fanservice, some are even too much to handle. Juvia for example is unhealthy towards Gray, sorry. Gajeel and Levy, though, have a safe relationship if you forget his past deeds. Freed obviously likes Laxus. I write some stuff sometimes and I have the personal theory that, after you set up a storyline, main events, and the characters' personalities, the rest of the story writes itself. The characters act on their own and you are just the person holding the pen, just like (if you have a religion) God and humanity. That's what I owe NaLu to. Natsu isn't a character who cares about romance, but he grew up. Lucy, on the other hand, is always conscious of Natsu and dreaming about love. If you think about the characters in the real world, they make no sense. But in the world that they were developed in, even if, or because, it's a super sexualized world, they ended up maybe feeling a little attracted to each other. Attraction isn't something we can just explain with words, there are many types of "attraction". Maybe it's friendship, family liaisons, just "some" (not love, but not friendship), we don't know. Just like when we have that super close friend, and, even if it's just because other people keep teasing you about it, or because you have read it somewhere, or any other reason, we at some point, even if it's for a fraction of second, think "lololol what if we liked each other"; no matter what the answer is, "hell no, I'd never do that", or "hmm maybe?", or "I just don't know", or "let's not think about it, I don't care", the attraction is there, be it love or not.

Anyway that's all that I see with my adult eyes. I had never noticed anything between Natsu and Lucy when I was a kid. Now I see that there is something, and it might develop to love or just stay at what it is or vanish, and it might just be for fanservice, so what, if they get together or not is the fate written by that world's setup and god. So I don't agree with NaLu shippers, but neither do I disagree. I do disagree with shipping them just because they talk to each other though (Lucy says 'hey' and Natsu says 'sup' and everyone is like 'woooow NaLu!!!'), not everything is about attraction.

Wendy and Mest though??? I never noticed any weird feelings of him towards her in Tenrou Island, but I was surfing the Fairy Tail tag and found that people actually ship it?? Wtf??? That's so fcked up. I've always thought of it as him thinking "wow she's cute" but cute in the real CUTE sense, like innocent-meaning, just like I think she is a cute baby. He was horrified about her supposed death in Tenrou not because he had weird pedophile feelings, but because he felt guilty. He supposedly infiltrated Fairy Tail to destroy it, probably with the Council prejudice of "they all are loud dirty troublemakers", but he became friends with a nice kid who was just a kid and was kind to him, even helping him in the S class exam just for the sake of being kind. He felt guilty because he did nothing to save her and the guild, since she was just a gentle child and Fairy Tail was a cool place full of human beings who didn't deserve to get caught in the dark guild bullshit, not like what he must have heard at the Council. The fact that he is used for the pedophile jokes is the author's fault and sick mind, the character doesn't seem to harbor any ill perverted feelings towards Wendy.

[ladynightmare913]

Red Rose, Blood Moon

Welcome to Chapter 6! This is an original story inspired by the tale of  Red Riding Hood. I would like to say a special thank you to my best friend and co-author Olivia ( @asunshinepuff​ )for joining me on in writing this world onto paper. 

CW: This chapter contains mentions of drunks, blood and traps. You have been warned.

This story contains only original characters created by Olivia and myself. For those of you who want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask to me or Olivia on her blog. If you have any questions, theories, or curiosities about any of our characters or how the story will progress, send them to the ask box!

I hope you enjoy! Now without further adieu!

Chapter 6: The Golden Doe

Her eyes darted from the drunk man staring up at Red with terror filled eyes, to the blooded coated blade that laid on the wooden floor of the tavern, and finally to Red who wouldn’t look away. 

“What was that racket?” The voice of the old woman called out from behind the counter. 

The woman’s voice was enough to break Rosabella from her spell of shock. Rosabella bent over, quickly picking up the blade, she looked at the frozen drunk and cleaned it on his shirt before placing it into its sheath. She placed herself between the old man and Red, holding her hand out to push him back if it came to that. 

Her sapphire eyes locked hard onto his ice blue ones. And she felt it,She couldn’t move, her heart began to beat erratically, the hair on the back of her neck rose. His gaze was intense, his presence radiated authority and dominance, it demanded respect. She felt the need to run, to lower her gaze in submission, she had never felt this way before. She had felt his presence before, it drew attention to him of course, but it wasn’t at this magnitude, it felt different too. He only continued to stare at her, but not. As if he wasn’t looking at her rather through her, at the old man. 

“Red please, stop it. NOW.” She growled out. 

Finally, her voice reached him, Red’s gaze finally snapped away from hers to kitchen doors. The old woman had just walked out from the kitchen doors. He blinked slowly, trying to gather his bearings. The old woman looked down to the old man, she kicked him harshly. 

“Silly old fool, go home.” She muttered. 

Rosabella quickly grabbed Red’s arm, “Pardon madam, but I am afraid we must be going,” She tugged Red along, he only looked at Rosabella in hesitation, “now,” she stressed. The old woman tried to reason with them to stay since their meals were nearly ready, but Rosabella insisted they leave.

He didn’t fight her this time. She led them to any alley, looking over her shoulder. No one seemed to notice them. Red eyed her skeptically. 

“No one noticed us.” He spoke as if he expected it.

Rosabella took a deep breath before she looked back at him. 

“Are you a warlock?” 

“Firstly, I am not overly fond of witches. Second don’t ever compare me to witches. And Thirdly, no, I am not a warlock .” He all but snarled out at her.

She rose a brow at his clear distaste of the topic. “Well what are you then? And why such distaste for witches, I happen to know one.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, he stepped back from her. “I don’t appreciate you berating me with offensive questions.” He turned away. Walking out of the alley onto the open street. 

Rosabella groaned in frustration. Quickly following him. “Where are you going?” 

“Anyplace where you are not.” He muttered. She scoffed in offense. 

“Well that’s it then?! You’re just going to walk away?” 

“I had planned to from the very beginning.” He didn’t look back. 

“We are not finished here.” She marched after him. 

“Oh but we are mademoiselle.” He replied sarcastically. 

Rosabella glared at his head. “You’re really going to leave me without any explanation with what just happened in that tavern?!” 

He simply sighed as he turned a corner. “Good day Rosabella.” 

And he was gone. Rosabella’s eyes scanned over the streets, but she couldn’t spot him anywhere. She gave a dry laugh, shaking her head, she turned back to the Tavern. The carriage had arrived. 

She handed the gold coins into the driver’s hand, he was an old man, with a small beard. 

“Where to mademoiselle?” His voice was soft and gentle, like a grandfather reading a child to sleep.

“Paris if you would be so kind.” She smiled. 

“Aye, but I’d have to make stops, it’s a long way.” 

“It’s no trouble at all. Thank you.”

“Hop on then.”  

And so she did. The carriage ride was silent for the most part. They would stop at inns for the night they didn’t reach Paris. Rosabella offered to pay for the elderly man’s room, to which he politely refused to accept her generosity. Saying she should save her money for better investments. They traveled this way for two days. 

“I’ll have to stop at the next village, a traveler will be joining us.” The old man told her. 

Rosabella only nodded her head in understanding. So when the next village arrived, the carriage door opened to reveal the most handsome of strangers. At least that was what the swooning women were saying, not at all being discreet about their fancy towards him. 

“Ah, I did not know I would have the honor of traveling with such a belle.” The man was tall, his hair was a soft curly brown, lightly tanned skin, and the most striking pair of hazel eyes that seemed to have speck of gold in the sunlight. He had a light beard on his face, it was smooth and freshly shaven. He wore a black leather coat with a white shirt, black pants and boots. 

Rosabella flushed at the bold words from the man. She startled when the man gently reached for her gloved hand, placing a kiss on the back of it. He smiled. 

“I am Bardolph Sinclair. And who might you be?” His eyes looked over her. 

She studied him for a moment, at least while she tried to calm herself from his flattery. He didn’t seem to be bold enough to sit next to her at least. He was rather gentlemanly. Not at all like the way had behaved. 

“Monsieur, you are too hasty to ask for my name upon mere seconds upon our first meeting. Surely you will understand why I must not tell you. I do not know you.”  

“Of course, I apologize if I have offended you.” He bowed his head.  The carriage started to move again.

“It’s no trouble. I am pleased to make your acquaintance Monsieur Sinclair.” 

“Please, call me Bardolph.” He smiled, Rosabelle couldn’t help but feel she should smile back. And she did. 

When night fell upon them, the carriage stopped to rest at an inn. Rosabella and Bardolph both tried to offer their help to the old man, but again he refused. Shooing them away to go eat their supper. As they walked, Rosabella looked up to the sky, it was a waxing gibbous tonight. 

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Bardolph spoke. Watching Rosabella.

Rosabella only eyed him playfully before turning to the inn. Bardolph chuckled as he followed close behind her. When they entered the inn, the first thing they noticed was that it was packed full. 

“Perhaps we will be forced to share a room.” Bardolph grinned at Rosabella. 

She did her best not to roll her eyes as she scoffed. “I’d sooner sleep in the stables.”

“Oh, you wound me my fair lady.” He clutched his chest.  “But I would never allow such a thing, I would sleep in the stables while you sleep peacefully in a warm bed.” 

Rosabella only shook her head as she took a seat in a booth. Bardolph joined her. A waitress came and took their order, when the door burst open, a group of hunters staggering inside, carrying a wounded man. 

“Quickly clear a table! He’s wounded!” A man shouted, pushing aside the food and laying the hunter’s body onto it. Rosabella stood to her feet, briskly walking towards them. 

The wounded man’s foot was caught in a metal trap with metal teeth. Rosabella frowned, the man would have a limp for the rest of his life. 

“What happened??

“We were out hunting for venison, we had set up traps to help us catch one. But we forgot where we placed one and now his foot was nearly cut off. 

“We didn’t forget where the traps were placed! Someone must’ve tampered with it!” Another yelled out.

“Is there a doctor?!” 

Thankfully there was a doctor, who quickly sedated the young man and removed the trap. He was sent to rest in one of the inn’s rooms. The hunters all look haggard and exhausted. Rosabella sat next to the man who had helped drag the wounded man in. He was young, and looked terrified. It must’ve been his first hunt at night.  

“Why did you have to place traps? Surely there are enough deer to have caught?” She inquired softly. The poor boy was pale. 

“We tried just using our arrows and spears, but we would never see any. So we placed traps…”    

Rosabella frowned, she may not have been from this particular village but she could definitely catch the scent of a venison on the wind. 

“Why do you think someone tampered with the traps?” 

“Because we’re catching just any deer, we’re trying to catch the Golden Doe.”  

Her eyes widen a fraction. “The Golden Doe? Isn’t that just a legend?” 

“Aye, but my father swore on his mother’s grave he saw it once. A coat that shines gold in sunlight.” 

“If he saw it, why would you hunt it, surely such a wonderful beast would be left alone for its beauty.” She asked gently. She herself did hunt venison but she would never kill such a creature. “Do you plan to hang it up on your wall as a trophy?” She asked bluntly. 

The hunters frowns. “No, we are hunting it to heal someone from our village. Legend says the Golden Does’s meat can cure any illness.” 

Rosabella’s shoulders fell. So, a noble cause. If it had been for something as trivial as a trophy, she would have stopped them from hunting the poor doe. “I see… ” 

“Forgive me but, no has seen the doe in twenty years yes?” Bardolph spoke, Rosabella had forgotten that he was still awake. “Surely it must’ve died by now. At least that’s what I’ve heard from my travels.” 

“Aye, but the Golden Doe has lived for many centuries.” The hunter answered. The young boy looked up to the hunter.  

“Perhaps someone else has already caught the doe… ”

“No, someone’s protecting it. I’m sure of it. It’s all the same. A monstrous beast was never far from the Golden Doe, always  chasing away hunters.”  

“Perhaps the monstrous beast finally changed its mind and finally ate the doe?” Bardolph offered. He leaned onto the table. 

“It wasn’t a monstrous beast, it’s the Lady of the Woods who protects the doe.” The boy looks to Rosabella. “That’s what my mother told me, she doesn’t like hunters in her forests.”  

“Silly boy, it’s the beast! It tampered with our traps” 

Rosabella finally interjected. “If it was the beast who tampered with the traps, how could it have the intelligence to do so? It is a beast is it not?” 

The hunters all died down, they began to look at each other and whisper amongst themselves. Ah, they didn’t have an answer. Rosabella only chuckled. “Perhaps it is simply a normal person who doesn’t wish to see the doe harmed.” 

“But we need the doe’s meat to heal my wife!” The hunter exclaimed. 

Rosabella’s gaze softened. “Has seen a doctor?” 

“Yes…” His eyes were pained. 

Rosabella nodded her head. “I see,” She lowered her gaze. “Well, what if I came to your village, and tried to heal her myself.” 

“What?” The hunter looked perplexed. Then desperate. “How?”  

Rosabella stood to her feet. A smile on her lips. “I am well versed in healing, and if I can cure your wife, you must swear to never hunt for the Golden Doe.”  

The hunter nodded. Bardolph looked intrigued. 

“I swear it.”

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