#especially when it was a poem he wrote

[undercoverbumblebeee]

I can’t lie, I’m glad they didn’t have Todd reading his poem in the final movie. Neil wasn’t there, and I don’t believe that Todd would’ve read his first poem without the guy who was the only reason he was even in the club to begin with there to hear it.

[dearlenore]

THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID

SUMMARY: when a serial killer obsessed with Spencer sends threatening letters to the BAU, they uncover mentions of a mysterious first love the unsub vows to kill. Confused, the team questions Spencer — wasn’t Maeve already dead? Left with no choice, Spencer is forced to confess the truth.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i was thinking about this concept forever and finally got around to writing it so this one might be my longest fic yet please bare with me <3

w/c: 3.5K (goddamn!!)

The BAU’s bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Phones still rang, keys still clattered, but there was an undercurrent of unease — that lingering tension that crept in before a storm.

Spencer Reid sat at his desk, flipping through a worn copy of Gödel, Escher, Bach. The logic should have grounded him, but his mind refused to focus. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of the page, folding and unfolding it absentmindedly. Something was gnawing at him — something he couldn’t quite place

“Reid?”

He startled, glancing up to see JJ standing by his desk, a thick envelope in her hand. Her expression was serious, eyes scanning him with quiet concern.

“This came in this morning,” she said, placing the envelope on his desk. “Addressed to you.”

Spencer’s eyes dropped to the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in elegant, looping cursive. No return address. The paper felt heavy, expensive — like something you’d use for wedding invitations. His stomach twisted.

“Did you open it?” he asked quietly.

JJ shook her head. “I wanted you to see it first.”

The bullpen felt quieter now, the air heavier. Spencer slid his letter opener beneath the envelope’s seal and carefully unfolded the thick parchment inside. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something floral — lavender, maybe.

And then he read the words:

A heart once shattered, sewn in gold,

Memories linger though years turn cold.

The girl who smiled with eyes so bright,

Will burn again before the night.

A book’s torn page, a crimson thread —

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

Spencer’s fingers went numb. His pulse thumped in his ears as his gaze lingered on the words — especially the third line.

“Reid?” JJ’s voice was softer now. “What is it?”

“It’s… it’s a poem,” he said quietly, his voice tight. He swallowed hard. “It’s referencing my first love.”

JJ’s brow furrowed. “Maeve?”

Spencer nodded hesitantly. “She used to write me poems like this — riddles, puzzles. But this…” He reread the words. Will burn again before the night. His stomach twisted.

JJ’s expression hardened. “I’ll get Garcia.”

“No.” Spencer’s voice was sharper than he intended. JJ froze, her eyes narrowing.

“Why not?”

“Just… give me a minute,” he said, folding the letter carefully and sliding it into his desk drawer. “I need to think.”

JJ didn’t look convinced, but she relented. “Okay,” she said softly. “But you’re not figuring this out alone.”

As she walked away, Spencer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingers to his temples. His heart raced — not just from the letter, but from the secret he had buried for months now.

Because whoever wrote that letter wasn’t just referencing Maeve.

They knew about her.

The team gathered in the briefing room minutes later. The envelope lay open on the table, its contents displayed beside it. Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her usual energy tempered by the tension in the room.

“Okay, so the envelope’s custom stationery,” Garcia reported. “Handmade, actually — imported from Italy. Not cheap.” She tapped a few more keys. “I’ve reached out to the company for a buyer list, but this isn’t something you grab at a corner store.”

Hotch nodded grimly. “This poem… you said it references Maeve?”

Spencer shifted in his seat. “I think so,” he said carefully. “The way it’s written — it’s similar to how she’d write riddles for me. But the wording…” He hesitated. “It’s different. Darker.”

Emily’s gaze sharpened. “You think the unsub’s mimicking her?”

“Or they knew her,” Spencer murmured.

“Maeve’s been gone for over two years,” Rossi said. “Why now?”

Before Spencer could answer, Garcia’s computer pinged. She clicked into her inbox, her eyes widening.

“Oh no…” she whispered.

“What?” Hotch asked.

“There was a break-in at a lab in New York. last night. One of the items reported missing…” Her fingers moved rapidly as she pulled up the list. “Several vials of thallium sulfate. Highly toxic, fatal in small doses.”

“Wait,” Emily said, her face pale. “That’s the same poison Maeve’s stalker threatened to use, isn’t it?”

Spencer barely heard her. His mind was spiraling — the poem, the poison, the threat.

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

“Spencer?” JJ’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I need some air,” he mumbled, pushing back his chair.

The corridor outside the bullpen felt too bright, too sterile. Spencer leaned against the wall, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs.

“You’re not okay,” JJ’s voice said softly.

He didn’t turn. “I just… need a minute.”

“You’ve been quiet since this morning,” JJ pressed. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I told you everything I know,” he lied.

JJ didn’t buy it — he could feel her gaze on him, sharp and unwavering.

“Spencer…”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. His voice cracked, betraying him.

JJ stepped closer, lowering her voice. “If this isn’t about Maeve…”

“It’s not,” Spencer admitted before he could stop himself. His breath hitched. “It’s not about Maeve.”

JJ’s expression softened. “Then who?”

Spencer closed his eyes. He could see her face — soft eyes, that satisfied smile, the way her hand lingered just a second too long when she passed him a book.

“Her name’s y/n,” he said quietly.

JJ blinked. “y/n?”

“She was… someone I knew years ago. Before Maeve.” His throat tightened. “I haven’t seen her in years, but…” He shook his head. “The poem — the way it references a ‘girl who smiled with eyes so bright.’ That’s her. She used to say that I —” He stopped, his voice breaking.

“You think the unsub’s targeting her?”

Spencer nodded. “I think they know about her. And if they’ve been watching me…”

JJ’s face hardened. “We need to find her. Now.”

Spencer knew she was right, but something cold coiled in his chest — the kind of dread that gnawed at the edges of logic.

Because whoever had written that poem didn’t just know about you.

They knew about him.

JJ and Spencer reentered the conference room, their faces shadowed with unease. The tension in the room deepened as they sat down.

“This…” JJ began softly, her voice unsteady. “This isn’t about Maeve.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence felt like a crack in the foundation — thin, fragile, and threatening to split wide open.

Hotch’s gaze sharpened. “Who is it about?” His tone was stern, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together. “Her name is Y/N.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like glass. “I knew her years ago… before Maeve.”

Emily’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered,” Spencer said quickly, guilt bleeding into his voice. “I haven’t seen her in years. I thought she was safe… that she’d moved on.” He paused, voice breaking. “I thought I’d moved on.”

“But the poem,” JJ pressed gently, “it’s about her?”

Spencer gave a shaky nod. “That line — ‘The girl who smiled with eyes so bright’ — that’s her.” His voice softened as if the memory itself had a heartbeat. “She always said…”

The room was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t tense — it was heavy.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer now. “Why would someone go after her?”

Spencer let out a long breath, reaching down to his bag. The zipper hissed as he pulled it open, his hand disappearing inside. When he brought it back up, he was holding a sleek black hard drive.

“What’s that?” Garcia asked, her curiosity tempered with concern.

Spencer stared at the device for a moment, as if gathering the strength to hand it over. “It’s…everything.” He slid it across the table to Garcia. “Every memory I have of her.”

Penelope’s fingers curled around the hard drive, her colorful nails stark against the black plastic. “Everything?” she repeated softly.

“I started keeping track after we lost touch,” Spencer admitted. “Photos, videos… voicemails.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to forget her. Not again.”

“Forget her?” Emily asked, her gaze narrowing.

Spencer looked down at his hands, his fingers tightly intertwined. “I met her when I was still a rookie with the Bureau,” he explained. “We… we kept things quiet. She wasn’t in law enforcement, and I didn’t want her to get caught up in what I was doing. But then…” He faltered. “There was a case — a stalker who fixated on me. He started following Y/N too.”

“Wait,” Morgan cut in, voice sharp. “You had a stalker back then?”

“I never told anyone,” Spencer said quickly. “We weren’t public. Nobody knew about us — except him.” His eyes flicked back to the hard drive. “I thought if I cut ties with her… if I made her think I didn’t care… she’d be safer.”

“You let her believe you didn’t love her?” JJ asked softly.

Spencer’s voice cracked. “I had to.”

“Did it work?” Rossi asked.

“For a while,” Spencer said quietly. “The stalker went dormant, and Y/N disappeared from my life.” His voice wavered. “I thought she was safe.”

Hotch leaned forward. “But now you think that same stalker is back?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer admitted. “But this letter… the way it’s written… it’s personal. Someone’s been watching me long enough to know about her. And if they know about her…” He trailed off, his chest tightening.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised firmly.

“I just…” Spencer shook his head, his fingers curling into his palm. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I do,” Garcia said gently. “This?” She held up the hard drive. “This is a map — memories, places, dates. If someone’s been following her or tracking you, I’ll find the connection here. I think it’s best we all take a look.”

Spencer managed a faint smile, though his eyes were still troubled. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Spence,” JJ said softly. “What was she like?”

His expression softened, memories flickering behind his eyes. “She was… kind,” he said quietly. “And patient — God, she was patient with me.” He chuckled softly, just for a second. “She had this laugh — this really loud, almost embarrassing laugh — but I loved it.” His smile faded. “She made everything… brighter.”

“You loved her,” JJ said gently.

Spencer exhaled shakily. “I do.”

For the first time in years, he let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — she still loved him too.

The team gathered closer as Penelope carefully plugged the hard drive into her computer. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of her system booting up the device. Spencer’s fingers drummed anxiously against the table, his eyes locked on the screen as folders began to populate the display. Each folder was meticulously labeled.

“You really kept everything,” Derek murmured, her voice soft with surprise.

“I couldn’t let myself forget,” Spencer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Alright, sugar,” Penelope said carefully, scrolling to the Videos folder. “Where should I start?”

“Anywhere,” Spencer said tightly. “I just… I couldn’t pick…”

Penelope clicked on a file labeled “Bookstore - November 17” and the screen filled with a grainy but warm video.

The camera wobbled at first before settling. The angle suggested Spencer had set it on a nearby shelf. The room was dimly lit — a small, cozy bookstore with stacks of novels lining the walls.

You appeared in the frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves, a book balanced on your knee.

“Spencer,” you called teasingly, barely glancing up from your page. “Are you filming me again?”

“You always read out loud when you think no one’s listening,” Spencer’s voice answered from behind the camera.

“That’s because I think no one’s listening,” you shot back with a laugh. “Now come sit down.”

The camera shook as Spencer joined you on the floor, his arm barely visible in the corner of the screen.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” you said proudly, tapping the book’s worn cover. “I wanted to understand what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Spencer teased.

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, “but this way I get to imagine you in a ridiculous hat and smoking a pipe.”

You both laughed — warm and unguarded. The kind of laughter Spencer hadn’t let himself remember in a long time.

The video ended, and the room fell silent.

Spencer swallowed hard, his chest tight. “Play another,” he said softly.

Penelope clicked on a second file titled “Movie Night - March 3.”

This time, you were curled up on Spencer’s couch, clutching a blanket to your chest. Spencer’s voice, from behind the camera again, spoke up.

“It’s just a horror movie,” he teased.

“You say that like you’re not the one who jumped during the last scene,” you shot back, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I did not jump,” Spencer protested.

“Oh please,” you giggled, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “You’re the genius — shouldn’t you know when a jump scare’s coming?”

The camera wobbled as Spencer sat beside you. “Maybe I just like the excuse to sit closer to you.”

The playful grin on your face softened. “You don’t need an excuse.”

The video faded to black.

“That’s adorable,” Garcia whispered, her voice unusually soft.

“Play one more,” Spencer said, his voice tight. “Please.”

Penelope hesitated before opening the folder marked “Voicemails.” The file names were organized by date, and Penelope scrolled down until she found one titled “Last Voicemail.”

“Spence…” JJ said quietly.

“I need to hear it,” Spencer insisted.

Penelope clicked play.

“Hey, Spence!” Your voice burst through the speakers, light and full of energy. “I know you’re probably knee-deep in some criminal mastermind’s twisted head right now, but I just wanted to say I miss you. Oh, and…”

There was a pause, followed by muffled shuffling.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready!” Your voice returned, playful now. “I have something important to tell you…”

Another voice — Spencer’s voice — cut in faintly from the background.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Recording your new voicemail greeting, obviously,” you teased. “Come on, it’ll make you smile when you check your messages.”

There was more muffled laughter, then you continued in your most dramatic voice:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about statistics, he loves that.”

“I do not love that,” Spencer’s voice mumbled in the background.

You burst out laughing. “Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail ended with a beep.

Spencer pressed his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the screen. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. The warmth of your voice — your laugh — it felt so close yet impossibly far away.

“You still have her number?” Morgan asked softly.

Spencer blinked, his hand slowly lowering. “I… yeah.”

“Try calling her,” JJ encouraged.

Spencer hesitated, but then slowly reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over the contact button — Y/N — for a moment before he pressed Call.

The room was so quiet you could hear the faint buzzing as the line rang once… twice…

Then came your voice — that same playful greeting that spilled from the speakers moments before:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about his statistics, he loves that…”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I do not love that,” his own voice muttered faintly from the recording.

“Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail beeped. Spencer just sat there, phone still pressed to his ear. His voice shook when he finally spoke.

“Y/N… it’s me.” His voice cracked. “If… if you get this, please — please call me back. I just need to know you’re safe.”

He ended the call and set his phone down, his fingers trembling.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised again, her hand squeezing his arm.

Spencer didn’t look up. His gaze remained locked on the screen, still frozen on your face — smiling, warm, and so painfully alive.

“The invitation… it looks like a wedding invitation…” Emily mused, holding it to the light.

“Yeah or a funeral if we don’t hurry. Wheels up in 10.” Hotch announced, walking out quickly.

The BAU’s jet cruised steadily through the sky, but Spencer couldn’t seem to sit still. He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering from the case file on the table to the phone resting in his lap — still silent. The unanswered call gnawed at him.

Across from him, Rossi watched quietly, fingers curled around his coffee mug. Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied Spencer.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Derek said finally, breaking the silence.

“What thing?” Spencer asked distractedly, still glancing at his phone.

“That thing where you’re in your head so deep you might as well start charging rent,” Derek teased, but his tone was softer than usual.

Spencer sighed and set his phone down. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admitted.

“Good,” Rossi said simply, setting his mug down with a quiet clink.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Derek chimed in. “If this guy’s targeting her, we need to know everything about her — who she is, what she cares about, what makes her stand out. That’s how we build the profile.”

“I know,” Spencer murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the file. “It’s just… I don’t know what’s relevant.”

“Then start from the beginning,” Rossi encouraged. “Tell us about her.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, unsure where to start. But once the memories began to surface, they spilled out like water breaking through a dam.

“She’s… different from me,” Spencer said softly. “Where I overthink everything, she’s spontaneous. She’s the type of person who’ll pull over just because she spotted a cute bakery and decided we had to try it.” He smiled faintly. “She doesn’t need a reason to be happy — she just… is.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty taken with her,” Derek said with a knowing grin.

Spencer’s smile widened. “I was — I mean… I still am.”

He glanced down at his phone again, hoping for a missed call, a message — anything.

“She loves color,” Spencer continued, his voice softer now. “Her whole apartment had these soft pastel accents — blankets, mugs, flowers… all delicate and warm. She always wore perfume that smelled like vanilla. You could walk in and just know you were in her space.”

Derek chuckled. “I can’t picture you in a pink room.”

Spencer’s smile turned wistful. “It didn’t matter. Anywhere was fine with her.”

“She sounds like she grounded you,” Rossi said.

“She did,” Spencer nodded. “And… she has this dream — one that always seemed so simple, but it meant everything to her.” He paused. “She wanted this little white house — nothing fancy, just something cozy — with a white picket fence and a big backyard. She wanted dogs — at least two, maybe three.” He chuckled softly. “She even had names picked out.”

Rossi smiled. “A dreamer.”

“She’s always been like that,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but warm. “She believed in fairytales — the real kind, where everything works out in the end.”

“You think she’d still go for that?” Derek asked. “The house, the dogs?”

“I know she would,” Spencer said with certainty. “Even when things were hard, she never stopped believing in that life — in finding comfort and love wherever she could.”

“Did she have a favorite place?” Rossi asked. “Somewhere she’d feel safe?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, his brow furrowing in thought. “She loved this café — Mason’s Corner. She used to sit in the back corner with her headphones on, sipping iced coffee and writing in her journal. She’d lose track of time there.”

“Sounds like someone who chases the simple things,” Rossi noted.

“She does,” Spencer said softly. “She doesn’t need much to be happy — just a good book, an iced coffee, and somewhere quiet to think.”

Derek’s expression softened. “That’s what makes her special, man — that’s the stuff that sticks out. Whoever’s watching her isn’t just targeting her because of you… they know her. The way she thinks, what she wants. Everything you just told us — that’s what’s going to help us find her.”

Spencer looked down at his phone again, the screen still dark.

“I just hope she still believes in happy endings,” he whispered.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP fanfic idea: A Pen Pal's Duty

It starts off with a single letter.

Danny has always heard about pen pals through TV programs, but Amity Park was too small to participate in exchange programs, including passing letters. It was a concept that was all Hollywood to him.

He figured it was also one of those dying practices, and someday, no one would bother writing letters, especially with the increased paranoia of speaking to strangers that overtakes the country after people start figuring out the more likely kidnapping tactics that criminals use.

Not to mention the increase in scams. No one even answers a phone number they don't recognize anymore. Pen Pals just becomes a pipe dream.

Then, he becomes a hallfa with access to infinite worlds. Each is set in different time frames, locations, and languages. He figures that he could become a pen pal with one of them, and goes home to write the perfect first letter. He even calls in favor of one of the universe's most powerful beings, Ghostwriter, who can affect the fabric of the universe just so the man can write an epic poem centered around a mailbox.

This mailbox would connect their worlds but not allow travel, as the living can not enter the Realms. Ghostwriter is beside himself, claiming the symbolism of longing, of friendships transcending life and death, and of the power of the written word to connect worlds was too grand of a writing prompt for him not to do.

Danny stops listening after a moment, his eyes glazed over just like whenever Mr. Lancer talks about class readings. Eventually, the ghost has his mailbox set to station itself as soon as someone attempts to write back to Danny. He even wrote in a clause that allowed whoever became his pen pal to understand English the second they touched the letter.

Danny would gain the same knowledge once their fated pen pal wrote them back. Apparently, Ghostwriter wanted it to be a "chosen one" trope.

He told Danny to fly around the Infinite Realms, select a door, and let lose his introduction letter so that his powers could lead the letter to where it had to go.

Danny flies around for a while, trying to pick a world to throw his letter in, and eventually selects the one that seems almost crystalized were it not for the lines of technology he can see running through it.

He had written his letter as if though he had always been Phantom. The reason was that Danny didn't want whoever his pen pal-to-be to find out about Halfas, due to first-hand experience of what people did when finding rare beings such as he and Vlad.

Plus, Danny was also raised on the "Don't talk to strangers. Don't open the door if home alone. Don't tell anyone where he lived or what his age is online" ideals of his generation.

He was comforted by the fact that Ghostwriter could only pass along written scripture, and thus, the pen pals could not share photos or videos.

He opened the door, staring into the swirling green of the portal, and threw in his letter. To keep his identity further hidden behind Phantom, he made it seem like he could not cross into the living world either and thus could not entirely open the door himself.

A few days go by before Danny suddenly gets a Ding sound goes off in his head, letting him know someone has responded. It's torture waiting for the final bell to right, but the minute it does, Danny is racing out of school towards the Ghost Zone portal as fast as his human legs can take him.

He flies as fast as he can as Phantom- which is very fast. He just topped his latest speed at 300 mph- and found the same crystallized door. Outside of it, now flouts a glowing mailbox with the words D. Phantom inked on the side. A little red flag is raised, letting him know a delivery has arrived. Ghostwriter's symbol is also flouting near the box, letting other ghosts know not to touch it.

Once again, Ghostwriter has a reputation in the Infinite Realsm: there was a reason it took all the willing ghosts on Truce Day to help Danny take him down.

Feeling giggly, Danny pulls open the lid and finds a blank envelope inside. He rips it open at once, for a second not able to understand the writing, until a soft type writer sound echoes behind his ears, and suddenly he can read it.

Dear Phantom,

My name is Jor-El of planet Krypton. I was delighted to be the one to find your letter, and I hope we can become great friends. I am fourteen years old and dream of becoming a scientist who can help my people. Maybe when I become a successful scientist, I can even invent a way to travel to the home planet you hailed from when you were alive. I am already searching for Earth in my skies.

A friendship is born. Over the years, Jor and Danny trade many letters. They learn everything about each other, from Phantom's battles to Jor's crush on Lara. They advise each other where they can, trading ideas of inventions and research.

Jor makes a compiled file of his planet's culture and technology, eager to show Danny everything about Krypton while Danny does his best to do the same about Earth and the Realms. Danny's decision to be only Phantom with Jor can be a little hard to maneuver, but he makes it work by explaining he came to form in the Ghost Zone- technically not a lie- and all ghosts created in the zone can and will age.

Danny is even one of Jor's honorary stone bearers at his and Lara's wedding, while Danny names a few of his inventions after the house El.

Then, sometime after Jor's son is born, tragedy strikes. Danny had noticed that his friend's letters had slowed down, but he figured it was primarily due to being a new father and getting a high-paying position in his dream field. Danny's adult life was just as hectic as he was a department head at NASA's research and engineering department.

He could barely find time to visit family, let alone date around. Sam and he broke up in junior year but remained close friends. Danny dated around in college but really buckled down to focus on his career the closer he got to NASA. He had no idea how Jor was able to balance everything when he was working in Krypton's version of NASA.

He should have checked.

By the time he got Jor's newest letter, Danny had realized too late it would be his friend's final one. Jor had discovered his sun was exploding, and although he tried his best to save his planet, no one believed him until it was too late.

Thus, he focused all his energy and resources on creating two escape pods strong enough to escape the sun's gravitational pull. It wouldn't be large enough to see his whole family, but his son and niece could live. Jor wasn't sure if his escape rockets would even work, but he did not have time or the means to test them.

He just did his best with his brother's help to save their children and set the coordinates for a planet that once housed a dear friend: Earth.

The letter ended with a final goodbye to Danny. After reading the letter, Danny attempted to open the door and fly to Jor's rescue, but when it swung open, all he saw was the other side of the zone. It was merely a floating doorway that led nowhere now.

The portal was gone because Krypton was gone. Danny's pen pal and friend of twenty years was no more.

A scream of angst rattled through the Infinite Realms as one of it's most potent members realized he was powerless against the circle of life.

He made a tough decision.

Devastated, he eventually visited Ghostwriter, asking if Kara and Kal had survived, and the writer let him know that Kal would land on that universe's earth in a week (Jor had been dead for four days.) while Kara was floating in space, frozen after a malfunction in her rocket's blast. Since they were apart if Ghostwriter's recorded story of the mailbox he would know that much.

Sadly, now that the letters between Danny and Jor would end, Ghostwriter would no longer know their tale. They were out of his influence.

Danny couldn't save his friend or planet, but he wasn't about to let the two children down.

"You realize to live in one universe, you must die in another?" Clockwork asks for the millionth time as Danny suits up his rocket, taking every letter he and Jor shared and any personal item he could fit. "The second I open a doorway to that world's earth, you officially die in this one? Your family and friends will grieve you. You will never see them again."

"I know," Danny whispers, sending Sam, Tucker, his parents, and his sister a silent apology. "But I have to do this. Can you make it look like an accident? One that doesn't put the blame of my death on anyone's feet but my own?"

"I'll design the scene like an explosion of one of your experiments gone wrong. No one will be to blame." Ghostwriter solemnly swears. His eyes gain a pitying light that Danny has recognized over the years. After all, the narrator knows one of his biggest secrets because he saw it the second he wrote that pen pal system. "You can not replace Jor-El with Kal-El."

"Of course, I can't," Danny laughs without humor, sealing up his rocket. He gives the two ghosts a sad smile. "I'm not in love with Kal."

Clockwork stares impassively before he turns and waves his staff. A portal opens up before Danny. "This will take you to the Earth five minutes before Kal lands. When you are ready, you may pass but know this Phantom. You can not return to the Realms."

Ghostwriter sighs, placing one hand on Danny's shoulder. "Love is one of history's greatest gifts and saddest tragedies. I look forward to your story being written out in your new home. Remember to live while you are there."

Danny smiles, pulling the writer into a hug and ignoring how he goes rigid. "Thank you for everything you've done over the years, Ghostwriter."

"Think nothing of it. You were a wonderful muse," The man whispers as Danny hops into his ship. He stands by Clockwork, who shifts into his elder form as Danny powers up his boat. His eyes show a sad look as he stares up at the man he watches grow until the ship vanishes through Clockwork's portal.

"Will he be alright?" He asks the time god.

"He will. I arranged for him to inherit a forgotten farm next to a kind couple. The Kents are more than happy to help an overwhelmed single father of two and will grow to become like a set of grandparents for Kara and Kal." Clockwork answers.

"That's not what I'm asking."

Clockwork hums. "Danny's has long ago accepted that Jor's heart was never his. His core knows it, and he's grown accustomed to the pain. But he will find peace on that Earth. He even finds a new love."

"Who?"

"Now, that would be telling. As a writer, you know it's best to let the story unfold than to give it all away." Clockwork twirls his staff "But know his adoptive son and daughter are less than pleased with a Gotham Butler."

Ghostwriter blinks. "What does that mean?"

"It means Danny will have to dodge some overly protective bats. Now then, could you tell me about your latest work? It's been a long time since I enjoyed a good story."

[espresso1patronum]

I think there's been a glitch

megumi fushiguro! x f!reader (best friends to lovers?)

summary: you were supposed to be just friends. yes, you and megumi. you were both supposed to be normal high school classmates, with nothing more than platonic feelings between the two of you. you were his best friend, and you swore you'd never fall for him. so how did you end up pinned against him on his bed? this definitely isn’t the typical situation for best friends, is it?

warnings: afab!reader, swearing/cursing, both the reader and megumi are eighteen, best friends to lovers trope, high school au, teenagers being totally oblivious, fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn?

word count: 17.9k (HELP)

a/n: based on a small drabble i wrote and ya'll requested if i could make it a fic, your wish is my command so here it is. this is the first part and there will be a second one. guys i'm totally in love with this one. it's rly cute and it's my bbg<3 i love how stupid and oblivious they are haha

"you asshole! give me my notes back!" you yelled as you ran and somehow caught up to megumi, pulling on his bag.

"your notes?" he scoffed. "they're mine, and you stole them from me," he said, yanking you off of him.

you rolled your eyes. "haha, yeah, they are your notes and maybe i did steal them from you, but still—why'd you take 'em back?" you said, trying to grab the papers from his hands, but he held onto your wrist, preventing you from doing so.

megumi sighed. "because they're mine? tsk..idiot; don't you have anything else to do other than annoy me every morning?"

yes, this was a typical morning for the both of you as you walked to school. you being the pesky little brat you were, and him being the nonchalant grump he was.

you’d practically known each other since elementary school, back when you were just six. you first met him when the teacher asked you to recite a poem, and you got stuck halfway through, while everyone else laughed—except for him. you were a stubborn girl back then, and you thought his lack of laughter meant he was being kind and wanted to be friends. but no, the truth was, he simply didn’t care.

but that didn’t stop you from becoming friends with him. in fact, he was the most mature six-year-old you’d ever met, with a sharp tongue to match. when he reluctantly agreed to be friends, you soon realized he had trouble connecting with other kids. yet, despite that, you two became inseparable, and ever since, you’ve been best friends. now, here you were, in the final semester of high school.

megumi was, without even trying, one of the most popular guys in school. despite being incredibly introverted and aloof, you couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to attract so much attention. his looks and academic performance turned heads, earning him the admiration of nearly every girl. and you? you felt like you might throw up. how could they like him? your stupid best friend? (you very well knew he was much smarter than you, but you couldn't help but despise all that attention he got)

you, on the other hand, were known as "the best friend of the cool guy"—the so-called cool guy. you absolutely hated that label. because you spent so much time with him, guys never showed interest in you, assuming you were dating him. it made you furious, especially now that high school was almost over, and you were already eighteen and you had never dated a guy. never. and you blamed megumi for that. maybe because he was always around you.

things have got to change or else i'll die single, alone and miserable. you thought.

"...and that’s how christopher columbus discovered america in 1492," your history teacher, professor yaga, announced. history was by far the most boring subject in your opinion. you could easily sleep through the entire class and never miss a thing. and that’s exactly what you were doing—dozing off while some students listened attentively, megumi being one of them, others pretending to pay attention, and a few, like you, already asleep. but of course, professor yaga had to single you out. "y/n! wake up, you sleepyhead!" he called out, tossing a piece of chalk at you.

"no, i didn't steal your candy-" you muttered, still half-asleep as you rubbed your eyes. the other kids couldn't help but laugh at your groggy response. professor yaga raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp. "you do realize this will land you in detention, miss l/n?"

you snapped awake, panic flooding your chest as you scrambled for an explanation. "please, sir, i swear i won't do it again," you pleaded, your voice almost a whisper.

fuck it, you fell asleep again.

he let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "fine. but you'll submit your report tomorrow as your punishment." you nodded quickly, relief washing over you. it wasn't the worst outcome, but it was fair enough.

you felt that the world wasn't fair to girls like you. you weren't very social, and on top of that, you weren't the best academically—good, but not enough to meet your parents' expectations. you had zero experience with dating, and to make matters worse, you were a bit of a mess and a huge crackhead, sure that you probably weirded people out.

you had watched those romantic movies that nobara had forced you to watch. in them, the female lead's problems were always solved with the perfect kiss. you couldn't help but wonder, when am i ever going to experience that? when?

with megumi tagging along all the time with you, you wondered if you'd ever actually get a boyfriend.

your thoughts were interrupted as the bell rang, and you felt a tug behind you. "what do you want, fushiguro?" you asked, glancing as megumi sat down beside your bench.

"you might want to stay awake during history lectures, or you'll fail, idiot," megumi said nonchalantly.

"why do you care?" you replied, crossing your arms. "it's not like you're concerned for me, right?"

he deadpanned at you. "gojo will probably kill me then- 'it's your fault she couldn't concentrate,' he'll say."

"ugh, i knew it," you groaned, leaning on the table with your hands pressed to your forehead. "you don't give a fuck about me."

no. in fact, megumi did care about you a lot. it’s just that you were oblivious, and he was particularly good at hiding it. of course, megumi would care about the one person who knew him so well and liked him for who he truly was, even if you two often bickered over small things. that’s what best friends are supposed to be like, after all.

"no one does care, do they?" you asked, your face propped up on your chin as you scanned the classroom. megumi couldn't have bothered less, but you thought there were still yuji and nobara who would care for you.

megumi sighed. "stop being like this and get your miserable ass up," he said, walking away.

"wait for me, megumi!" you said dramatically, pretending to struggle as you tried to get up from your chair.

you followed him out into the hallway, arms crossed and brows furrowed as you shot him a sideways glance.

"umm..do you think i'll ever get a boyfriend?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

megumi barely looked at you as he walked, but you could swear you saw the tiniest smirk tug at his lips. "i don't know," he said, his tone flat. "with that attitude? probably not."

you threw your hands up in exaggerated frustration, swatting at his shoulder. "shut up, asshole!"

just then, a girl from another class caught sight of you both and grinned. "are you two dating? cute," she said, and suddenly, the world felt way too small as you both froze—embarrassed, awkward, and a little bit… cringe.

"no!" you both yelled at the same time, quickly glancing at each other before looking away, the tension hanging in the air.

it wasn't the first time. "are you and megumi a thing? you guys look cool together," people would ask, and every single time, you'd feel that weird mix of frustration and confusion.

megumi. your boyfriend? yeah, right. the idea was so ridiculous that you couldn't even picture it. the thought of it had you laughing to yourself. the thing was, megumi didn’t see you as a... girl. you’d both grown up together, shared countless memories, and spent more time bickering than anything else. to him, you were just you—his childhood friend, someone he’d known forever.

it didn’t matter how many times people asked or joked about you two being a couple. in megumi's eyes, you were always just… one of the guys. no, his guy. that's all. and maybe that was part of the problem.

you didn’t blame him, of course. it wasn’t like you had any experience with relationships either. but the more you thought about it, the more you realized how complicated it would be if things did ever change. that's why you swore not to fall for him. you told yourself over and over that it was just too complicated, that things would never work out between you two. you had a good friendship with megumi. that's all you wanted, nothing more than that. you couldn't risk messing it up.

and it wasn’t just you. megumi, in his own quiet way, had sworn the same thing. he was scared—scared that if things changed, if feelings got involved, he might lose you. and losing you was something he couldn’t even think about.

"i almost gagged," you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief. megumi nodded in agreement, his expression unmoved. "i know, right? how can people say such absurd things?" he scoffed, the words dripping with arrogance. "you're a fool and i'm too good for you."

you shot him a glare, as you lunged towards him, practically trying to choke him.

"dare say that again, you—" you growled, stopping just short of him, eyes narrowed with irritation. megumi barely flinched, instead ruffling your hair, not bothered in the slightest way.

"like that could even do anything to me," he teased, clearly enjoying how easily he could push your buttons.

you groaned, throwing your hands up in frustration. "you're impossible," you muttered.

she looks kinda… cute when she's flustered, he thought, but then immediately froze, realizing what he had just thought. cute? her? what? his mind scrambled to make sense of it. what's wrong with me? he mentally shook his head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered, making him feel uncomfortably self-aware.

you pouted at him, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff. "you know what, megumi, if you keep acting like this, i'm going to stop hanging out with you," you said, trying to sound serious.

but megumi wasn’t paying attention. his mind was still stuck on that thought from earlier. why the heck did you have to pout like that? he couldn’t shake the image of your cute, frustrated expression. why was he feeling things? he frowned, trying to snap out of it, but his thoughts just kept drifting back to you.

just best friends. just best friends. he repeated in his mind, trying to ground himself. but then, the thought wouldn’t leave him. was it even possible to think your girl best friend looked cute? he wondered, his mind spinning. the more he tried to convince himself it was nothing, the more his heart seemed to disagree. something was definitely wrong with him.

trying to push the thought aside, megumi returned to his usual stoic expression. "what is it you were saying, y/n?" he asked, his voice colder now.

"unbelievable!" you crossed your arms, shaking your head in disbelief. "you know what, megumi? if you're being like this, i’m taking a break from you. i can’t spend every waking second with you. i have a life too, you know." you paused, frowning. "i’m going to agree with nobara, who’s been pushing me to go on a date. but i always said no before, why? because i thought you’d get lonely. but clearly, you don’t care. so don’t bother. don’t try to call me," you said, turning to leave.

you didn't know what came over you or why you said all that. maybe you really feared ending up alone and sad with zero experience in dating like a sore loser, just because you spent so much time with your best friend.

megumi's chest tightened at your words, but he couldn't hold it in any longer. "you’re the one who sticks to me. i don’t mind being left alone. you’re the one who bombards me with messages and calls. you keep saying you have a life? well, i have one too. so i don’t care if you go on a stupid date with some stupid guy," he snapped, his frustration bubbling over.

yes, he fucked up. and yes, he did care if you went on a stupid date with a stupid guy.

you scoffed, your voice sharp with frustration. "alright then, putting all our years of friendship at stake—this is what you wanted, right?" you turned and started walking away, leaving megumi standing there, his expression faltering.

he looked down, feeling a weight in his chest that only seemed to grow heavier by the second. really bad. the guilt settled in, a sinking feeling he couldn't shake off. what had he just done? why did he say those things?

why couldn’t he just say okay and move on like any other friend? why did it feel like his chest was tightening, like there was a lump in his throat every time he thought about you with someone else?

he hated the thought of it—hated how it gnawed at him, how it made his stomach twist. he couldn’t figure out why seeing you with another guy felt like it was something he couldn’t bear.

was it because he didn’t want to lose you? or was it something else?

ofcourse it wasn't. he was only genuinely concerned for you. sure.

this was the first time megumi realised that he was bad at lying to himself.

you didn’t talk to megumi for the next few days. every morning, you made sure to leave for school early, avoiding him entirely. you didn’t want him to have the chance to pick you up and walk with you like he usually did.

megumi, however, figured out your new routine quickly. he tried to follow your schedule, hoping to catch you, even just for a moment, but with each passing day, his efforts became less persistent. gradually, he stopped trying altogether. best friends don’t act like this, he thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. it felt wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more.

it had been a few days since everything had happened. it was a fight, but it lasted longer than you expected. sure, you and megumi had petty little arguments often, but you always made up quickly since neither of you wanted anything serious. but this time, it was different.

you were scribbling in the back of your notebook when the teacher's voice made your head snap up. "so, i'm going to be dividing you all into groups for this project. any volunteers?" the teacher asked as you returned to your scribbling.

"yn, what about you?" she called, pulling your attention back. you shifted in your seat, caught off guard. "uh, yeah, sure," you muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. the thing was, you didn’t mind projects, but you definitely didn’t want to be the group leader.

"any student you'd like to have as a co-leader?" she asked.

you scanned the room, your eyes briefly meeting megumi's. "no, i don't have a preference," you replied, deliberately avoiding his glare.

"alright then, i’ll make megumi your co-leader since you two worked well together last time," she said, and you nodded, sinking back into your seat.

you mentally cursed at yourself. no. this wasn’t supposed to happen.

the teacher assigned the rest of the groups, and you found yourself stuck with megumi and four other students.

you didn’t like this one bit. you had been hoping to avoid talking to him, but now, being in the same group, you wouldn’t have a choice.

"alright, I'm assigning the project file to you," megumi said, glancing at you.

you frowned.

he turned to look back at you. "what?" he asked. "nothing," you replied flatly. megumi had been quiet for a while, having tried to get you to talk to him, but with no success. to your frustration, he had started acting indifferent, as if you two had never been best friends.

you wanted him to worry. you wanted him to beg for your attention. but he didn’t even apologize, and that hurt. the reason for the fight had been petty, but you didn’t know what else to do. just then, nobara came running up, giggling as she threw her arms around your shoulders.

"woah, woah, calm down, bara," you said, holding her steady.

"omg, yn! guess what? i set you up on a date!" she squealed.

"what?" you blinked, narrowing your eyes. "what the fuck, nobara? why’d you do that?"

she looked at you skeptically. "you’re the one who told me the other day that you were going to date, or else you’d end up—"

you quickly covered her mouth, embarrassed. "yeah, yeah, i get it, but i didn’t mean right now."

you swear you saw megumi glaring at the two of you from a distance. "what’s up with you now, fushiguro? jealous that your ex-best friend finally got a date?" nobara teased, clearly annoyed.

megumi scoffed, his voice cold. "i'm looking at you because you’re making a commotion and being too loud," he muttered, walking away.

he didn’t seem to care. did he even listen to what nobara said? part of you wondered if he still cared at all, but another part of you felt like he didn’t—and that made you... sad.

you were walking down the corridor with nobara during break. "megumi didn't even apologize. i don’t know what’s wrong with him," you said, crossing your arms as nobara nodded in agreement.

"i mean, it's true that you'd never get a boyfriend with him always hanging around you," nobara added, making you frown and shove her playfully.

"well, anyways—" you started, but were cut off when someone stopped right in front of the two of you. you looked up and froze.

"hey there, yn," a voice you recognised from somewhere, spoke.

it was asahi.

he was tall, with black hair, a handsome face, and a presence that made him impossible to ignore. as the best basketball player at your school, he was surrounded by tons of girls, all of whom seemed to fawn over him. you had a teeny, tiny crush on him, but you never imagined he'd talk to you like this.

"hello asahi?" nobara said, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"i fix you up on a date with her and you don’t even say hello to me? where are your manners?" nobara scoffed, and asahi chuckled lightly.

what? wait, a date?

suddenly, everything clicked. he was the one you were going on a date with?

"oh yeah, i forgot to tell yn that you're the one she’s going on a date with," nobara added casually.

you felt your face heat up. embarrassed, you scratched the back of your neck. "h-h-hi, asahi," you stammered.

he smiled warmly at you. "you have a pretty smile, yn," he said, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

boom. you heard it.

and in that moment, you could swear you heard your heart skip a beat.

"why did you even agree to go on a date with me when nobara asked?" you asked asahi, a hint of confusion in your voice as he smiled.

"well, you got it wrong, yn," he replied, still smiling. "i was the one who asked her if you were single. i was the one who approached first."

you blushed furiously, caught off guard by his words.

for a moment, it felt as though the whole world had paused. your hair gently flowed in the breeze, and asahi was looking straight into your eyes, just like in the movies. suddenly, those cheesy scenes made sense.

"well, I’ll get going, yn. i’ve got your number from nobara, so i’ll text you later. and remember, it’s a date," asahi winked before walking off to join his friends.

you wanted to giggle, laugh, cry—anything, really. you had gotten your first date, and not just with anyone, but with asahi. you were bursting to tell megumi.

"wait, let me go tell megu—" you started, but then you stopped yourself.

oh right, i can't. i forgot.

nobara sighed. "girl, just leave him for now. you’ve got a date, don’t you? now all you need to do is wait for his text," she said with a knowing smile.

you nodded, but you felt empty somehow. "yeah, i guess so."

that evening, you found yourself lying on your bed, working on your homework while listening to your favorite song. you felt anxious, wondering if asahi would actually text you or if you’d end up waiting forever, only to be played by him. but he seemed too genuine for that—that's what you thought, at least, in that moment, through the lens of your teenage mind.

suddenly, your phone buzzed, and you jumped up to check the message. it was from megumi.

megumi: hi, i was wondering if our group could meet tomorrow at the café at 5 p.m. to discuss the project. be there.

you hesitated for a moment before replying, but eventually, you typed:

you: ok, fine.

you wanted to tell megumi about your date with asahi, but a part of you wanted him to feel the sting of not knowing. i won’t tell him, you thought. he’ll find out eventually.

just as you flopped onto your bed and closed your eyes, your phone buzzed again. you peeked at the screen—it was an unknown number.

asahi: hey yn! you free tomorrow at 5? if you are, i’ll pick you up! we’ll go to the movies.

you shot up, eyes wide in shock. oh my god, it’s asahi. you squealed, kicking your pillows in excitement, then grabbed your phone to reply.

you: hii asahi! sure, i’m free… you don’t need to worry about picking me up though.

the reply came quickly.

asahi: nah, don’t worry. i’ll come by ;)

the next morning, you found yourself laughing and chatting with nobara, showing her the messages on your phone.

"oh my god," nobara said dramatically, leaning closer to the screen. "he said he'd pick you up? what a true gentleman!"

you giggled, feeling a bit giddy. "i know, right?"

the thing was, you were young, naive, and inexperienced. boys like asahi had been dating and having casual flings since middle school, starting as early as eighth grade. deep down, you probably shouldn't have trusted him so blindly.

"wait, wait, yn! oh my god, close your eyes!" nobara exclaimed suddenly, pulling her phone out.

"why?" you asked, laughing as you obeyed.

"don't peek at my phone," she warned, scrolling frantically through her gallery. "okay, open up!"

you opened your eyes, and there it was—a picture of asahi. but not just any picture. this one showed him shirtless, his abs on full display.

his abs were well-defined, and his face matched—handsome and captivating.

"oh my goodness, i can't unsee this!" you gushed, your cheeks heating up.

"i got it off his instagram feed," nobara said smugly. "how good of a friend am i, right?"

you laughed and nodded, still staring at the image as if it might burn a hole in her phone screen. but then, out of nowhere, your mind betrayed you. instead of asahi, you suddenly pictured megumi in that photo—toned abs, a lean yet well-proportioned figure... wait, what? jesus fucking hell.

you blinked in shock, realizing where your thoughts had wandered. your little brain was conjuring up scenarios you’d never imagined before. why him? you wondered.

though asahi’s physique was undoubtedly athletic, in your mind, megumi’s leaner frame somehow looked better, more effortlessly attractive. you cursed at yourself, shaking your head in frustration.

what’s wrong with me?

you chuckled awkwardly, feeling a bit embarrassed, as nobara sighed dramatically.

"i’ll get going now. i promised maki i’d meet her at the cafeteria. bye, yn! oh, and why don’t you go see asahi? he’s at basketball practice right now," nobara added with a smirk.

you smiled and nodded. yeah, maybe seeing asahi would help get your mind off megumi.

jogging down to the court, you spotted asahi practicing with his team. he looked incredible—playing effortlessly, weaving through his opponents, and landing perfect baskets. his confidence on the court was magnetic, and you couldn’t help but admire him.

as you moved closer, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes meeting yours. he smiled instantly, making your heart skip a beat.

"guys, i’ll be back in a moment. keep practicing—good game!" asahi called out to his team before walking toward you.

your heart started to race as he approached, chugging a bottle of water. hot. that was all you could think.

"hey, yn. what’s up?" he asked casually, his voice smooth.

you tried to compose yourself, replying in a cute but natural tone, "umm, i’m here to see you."

he raised an eyebrow, a playful smile spreading across his face. "aw, you came to see me? well, how’d i do out there?" he asked, wiping his forehead again.

"you’re really cool, i must admit," you said, smiling as you gave his shoulder a light pat.

he let out a playful scoff. "pretty cool? i’m the captain of the team, miss. you’re really hard to impress, aren’t you?"

you could feel your heart flutter again—or maybe it was the thrill of this new kind of attention. whatever it was, it was exciting, unfamiliar, and intoxicating.

what you didn’t realize, though, was just how much others admired you. you always thought guys weren’t that into you, but the reality was far from it. you were different, and maybe that’s why someone like megumi cherished you so much.

"oi, asahi, come back in two!" one of his teammates called out.

asahi nodded and turned to you with a smile. "well, i gotta run," he said, glancing back at the court. then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "don’t forget—5 o’clock. i’ll come pick you up."

before you could reply, he reached for your hand and kissed it gently.

you froze.

it wasn’t that you didn’t know how to handle yourself in normal situations—it’s just that this was not normal. your brain short-circuited as you stood there, watching him jog back to the court. you were so stunned that you didn’t notice the soccer ball flying toward you from the opposite end of the field.

it was only when the ball was dangerously close that you realized what was happening. you dramatically thought, this is it. my time has come. the end is near.

but the impact never came.

something—or rather, someone—stopped the ball.

megumi.

he was standing right next to you, the ball in one hand, his body positioned between you and the potential danger. his expression was as unreadable as ever—calm, stoic, but commanding in a way that made you feel oddly safe.

"umm..." you began, but before you could say more, megumi turned his attention to the kid who’d come running over, clearly flustered.

"watch where you kick the ball," megumi said flatly, his voice firm but not overly harsh.

the kid stammered an apology, but megumi didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he tossed the ball into the air and kicked it back across the field with precise force. the movement was smooth, powerful, and, dare you think it, hot.

you mentally slapped yourself. seriously? what’s wrong with me today?

maybe it was the hormones, or maybe it was the fact that everything megumi did lately seemed to stand out to you in a way it never had before. you caught yourself wondering how strong he really was—something you never paid attention to before.

then, you remembered the start of the school term when megumi had effortlessly lifted you off the ground during some chaotic moment. at the time, you hadn’t thought much of it. but now? if that happened again, you’d probably lose your mind.

"umm, thanks," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze—not because you didn’t want to look at him, but because your cheeks were burning red.

megumi didn’t look at you either. "you’re welcome, i guess," he said. then, after a brief pause, he added, "try not to be a fool next time. keep your eyes opened idiot."

he cares. you couldn’t help but mentally dance at the thought, even though you knew he wouldn’t show any further emotion.

"well, what are you doing here?" you asked hesitantly.

he chuckled, and it sounded… odd. exhausted, perhaps, but there was something different about it. "i thought we’d stopped bugging each other," he replied.

"it’s not like that," you quickly cut him off. "megumi, I didn’t mean it that way."

"then what?" he shot back. "all the times i tried to apologize, and you didn’t even care."

"apologize? excuse me? that was your version of apologizing?" you snapped. "i told you we needed a break from being friends, and you didn’t even try to approach me. you just gave up and started acting indifferent."

"you’re the one going on a date with some random guy now," he muttered, almost to himself. his expression twisted slightly, and you realized he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

"why would you bring that up now?" you asked, scoffing. "if you’re so into not poking your nose into other people’s business, maybe you should start with yourself."

megumi rolled his eyes. "i don’t want to argue anymore," he said with a sigh.

"you’re the one who started it," you retorted.

both of you fell silent as the basketball team finished their practice and began heading off the court. neither of you said anything, instead looking away and sighing in unison.

just then, asahi approached you, flashing his signature grin. "remember, yn. 5 pm," he said with a wink.

you blushed furiously, giggling at his playful tone.

megumi, however, stared daggers at asahi’s retreating back as though he could burn a hole right through him. "what was that all about?" he asked coldly.

"i thought you wouldn’t—" you began, but megumi cut you off.

"no. just tell me." his voice was steady, but you could sense a strange concern behind it.

you gave in. "well… he’s the one i’m going on a date with," you admitted hesitantly.

for a split second, you thought you saw megumi’s face drop. but the moment passed quickly, and his usual ice-cold demeanor returned. maybe he wasn’t affected. but deep down, a part of you wanted him to feel jealous.

"well, good for you," he said, his tone indifferent.

but then he paused, as if something had just occurred to him. "wait. what about our meeting at 5 pm today?"

oh. you’d completely forgotten. between thinking about asahi all day and getting lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t remembered the plans you’d already made with megumi before agreeing to meet asahi.

"i… i won’t be able to make it," you admitted reluctantly. "i only said yes to you for formality’s sake. i already agreed to meet asahi first, and i can’t cancel on him—"

you lied.

megumi sighed sharply, cutting you off. "of course you can’t. enjoy."

before you could say anything else, he turned and walked away. his expression was unreadable, and there wasn’t even a hint of disappointment on his face.

but you wanted there to be. you wanted him to feel something—jealousy, sadness, anything.

and then it hit you. why did you want him to feel that way? unless… no. that wasn’t possible. was it?

you shook your head, trying to brush off the thought. megumi was your best friend—or, at least, he used to be. that was in the past now. or so you told yourself.

evening came, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt settling in your chest. why am i doing this? am i hurting megumi? you wondered. but then again, he hadn’t shown any sign of being upset. he didn’t seem sad at all—maybe you were just overthinking.

you got dressed for your first date, opting for a cropped top that was just shy of being see-through. paired with baggy cargo jeans and some matching accessories, you looked cute—really cute, you had to admit. the only problem was the makeup. inexperienced and clueless, you turned to youtube tutorials for help.

"stupid mascara… ugh," you groaned as you struggled to get it just right. after thirty long minutes of trial and error, you finally managed to finish. the makeup was minimal but far more than what you usually wore. at least you didn’t look like a demon—you silently thanked the heavens for that.

when the clock struck the hour, you found yourself waiting at the nearby bus stop, where asahi had agreed to pick you up. He had a car. he had a license. he’s so cool, you thought to yourself.

just then, a sleek maserati pulled up right in front of you. he’s rich too? you thought in disbelief.

"yn, hi," he greeted you, his tone cheerful and confident. he exuded a cool and effortless charm, dressed in an oversized hoodie and casual pants. somehow, he managed to strike the perfect balance between not overdressing and not underdressing.

he stepped out of the car, opened the door for you, and extended his hand. blushing, you took it and got in.

the ride to the theater was fun—filled with lighthearted conversation about the movie and playful banter. before you knew it, you had arrived just in time, popcorn and soda in hand, ready for the film.

meanwhile, megumi was sitting in a café with the other students, working on the group project. he looked composed, as he usually did—calm and collected, the image of focus.

or so it seemed.

inside, his thoughts were anything but composed. the idea of you spending time with another guy, especially someone like asahi, made his blood boil. it’s nothing, he tried to convince himself. just brotherly feelings, that’s all.

this was the second time megumi realized how terrible he was at lying to himself.

the mental image of your soft, plump lips on asahi’s made his jaw tighten. his grip on his pen stiffened. what if he’s just using her? he wondered. what if she’s in danger? the thoughts raced through his mind relentlessly.

maybe i'm overthinking… but then, his mind conjured up something that made his pulse quicken: he imagined himself in asahi’s place, leaning in and kissing you instead.

damn it, he cursed under his breath. stupid teenage hormones. fuck them.

he shook his head, trying to banish the thought. no, this couldn’t happen. it didn’t matter if his feelings were “brotherly” or something else entirely. all he knew was that he had an overwhelming urge to storm into the theater, pull asahi away from you, and take you somewhere far away from him.

to megumi, you were still innocent—too kind, too naive to see through someone like asahi. he told himself it was concern for your well-being, nothing more. but deep down, even he wasn’t sure anymore.

his hand hovered over his phone, tempted to message you and cancel the meeting right now and run straight to you. no, he thought, clenching his fist. but the thought of you with asahi lingered, gnawing at him, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

asahi and you were completely engrossed in the movie. as you reached for the popcorn, you felt a pair of fingers brush against yours. ah, yes—you were sharing the same basket of popcorn. it felt so fitting, like a classic movie moment come to life.

both of you turned your heads at the same time, your eyes meeting. maybe you had done it on purpose, hoping for this exact moment. asahi's gaze lingered on yours, and you felt a blush rise to your cheeks.

"so, how’s it?" he asked, his voice warm and casual. the glow of the screen flickered in your eyes as you sat there, caught mid-bite with a mouthful of popcorn.

"umm, the popcorn? it’s buttery, but it could use some salt," you replied, earning a soft chuckle from him. ah, that laugh—it sent a flutter through your chest.

"no, silly. i meant the movie," he said, grinning as he casually draped an arm over your shoulders.

you laughed awkwardly, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep over you. "haha, yeah, i knew that," you said, trying to play it off. "it’s good."

"hmm," he whispered softly, leaning in closer. you could feel it—the heat between you. then, with one hand, he gently tilted your face toward him. oh no, he was going to kiss you. you had never done this before—at least, not with an actual person. your plushies and pillows had been your only practice partners, and even they wouldn’t prepare you for this.

as you leaned in as well, closing your eyes, the lights in the theater suddenly turned on, and people began getting up to leave. the movie was over. how embarrassing. asahi chuckled at your flustered state, his warm laugh making your cheeks burn even more.

"maybe next time," he muttered to himself, his voice almost teasing. you stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, when he suddenly got a notification on his phone.

"well, i gotta run to the washroom. i'll be quick, okay? wait for me outside," he said with a smile, squeezing your hand before heading off. you nodded and walked out of the theater.

the cold air outside hit you instantly, making you regret wearing just a crop top. the clouds had taken over the sky, dark and heavy, and it looked like it could rain any moment now. you stood there, replaying the events of the day in your head. it had been your first date—and asahi was perfect. just like someone straight out of a movie. but it had all felt almost too perfect, like it wasn’t quite real. the only thing missing had been the kiss, which was sadly interrupted. you couldn’t help but blush at the memory.

when you glanced at your phone, you realized it had already been ten minutes since asahi went to the bathroom. you weren’t trying to be impatient, but you wondered what was taking him so long. a knot of worry formed in your stomach. deciding to check, you headed toward the bathrooms.

what you saw froze you in place. there, just outside the bathroom, was asahi—kissing another girl.

you blinked, hoping you were imagining it, but no. it was real. his lips were on hers, his hands resting on her waist. there was no mistaking it. it wasn’t the movie-like moment you had hoped for—it was a nightmare.

your chest tightened as tears began to prick your eyes. you wanted to scream at him, to demand an explanation, to ask if you weren’t good enough. but no. he didn’t deserve that from you. you had something he clearly lacked—self-respect and pride. so, instead of confronting him, you turned and walked away.

but the tears wouldn’t stop. they rolled down your cheeks, hot and uncontrollable, as you replayed what you had just seen. your heart ached with betrayal. were all boys like this? trash?

no. not all boys. you thought of megumi. he’d never do something like this. he’d never hurt you like this. suddenly, you felt the overwhelming urge to go to him. to tell him you were wrong. to tell him you wanted him—not just as a friend, but as something more.

but how could you? after everything you’d said to him, after how you’d pushed him away? he probably wouldn’t even look at you now. that thought made the pain in your chest feel even heavier.

ha, how ironic, you thought. your first date and heartbreak on the same day. why did all this happen to you? you had been too naive to trust asahi. he was a playboy, and he played you. the one thing you had looked forward to was now the thing you dreaded. you didn’t want to date anymore; you didn’t even want to see anyone again. it had started raining, and you were running. where? you didn’t know. just running, hoping to disappear, to escape from everything and everyone.

megumi was done with the project work and had closed everything off. luckily, you had left your location services on. feeling an urge to check where you were, he opened the app, and to his surprise, you weren’t at home or the theater. you were somewhere in the middle of town.

"what the heck?" he mumbled, grabbing his jacket and bag before running out the door. he knew where you’d go. whenever you got sad, you always ran to the park downtown. his intuition told him something was wrong. not that he wanted to jinx it, but maybe he’d already called it.

he ran through the rain without an umbrella, his clothes getting soaked, until he finally caught sight of you. you were kneeling down on the wet ground, crying. he rushed over to you.

"hey, y/n, what happened?" he asked, concern clear in his voice.

the moment you heard his voice, you recognized it. your red and puffy eyes blurred your vision, but you didn’t care. you stood up and threw yourself into megumi’s arms, your face pressed against his chest. he held you closer, his warmth shielding you from the cold rain.

"what happened? tell me," he said gently, his voice calm though worry was evident.

tears were rolling down your cheeks, hot and uncontrollable.

"hic—uh… asahi… h-he hic… k-kissed… another g-g... girl..." your words barely made sense, but megumi understood.

"it's alright, idiot. stop crying," he said softly, his hand gently brushing away your tears. but inside, his anger was rising. he wanted to do something, anything, to wipe that smug look off asahi’s face. he wasn’t as calm as he usually was anymore. his protective instincts kicked in, and all he wanted was to make asahi regret hurting you.

you took a few seconds to calm down, still whimpering and hiccuping as megumi rubbed your back soothingly. he was there—always. no matter what, he stayed by your side, and deep down, you knew he always would.

suddenly, a pang of guilt hit you. you had hurt him.

"umm, m-megumi, well, i-i wanted to say sorry," you said, looking up into his eyes. they glimmered in the faint moonlight, his figure shielding you from the rain. his eyes softened as he met your gaze.

"sorry? why?" he asked, though you knew he understood.

"w-well, i was wrong," you began, your voice trembling. "i was selfish and inconsiderate, for both of us. i was just desperate to get myself a boyfriend… and look at how i ended up." tears threatened to spill again, but megumi hushed you, gently placing a finger on your lips.

"you little idiot," he said, his tone affectionate despite the words. "don’t you understand? sure, if you hung out with me, you probably wouldn’t get one. but… i think it’s my fault too. i didn’t give you enough space to breathe either. though…" he hesitated, a faint curse escaping under his breath. "no matter what, i’d hate to see you date someone else."

his words hung in the air. his eyes widened slightly, realizing what he’d just said out loud.

"what?" you asked, stunned, your eyes wide with surprise.

"never mind," he mumbled quickly, shaking his head. "i meant i’d be sad if you left me alone, that’s all. are you seriously so dumb that your mind clings to stuff like that?"

you laughed softly, the sound light and genuine despite everything, and pulled him into another hug. with megumi, you felt safe. you felt… okay. asahi didn’t matter anymore, and you realized it now.

you let yourself sink into the moment, listening to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain. the two of you were drenched, but neither of you seemed to care. the sound of water sliding down rooftops, trickling from the playground slide, and pooling in puddles filled the air.

then you noticed something else: your heartbeat. it was fast. thump-thump. had it always been this fast? no, it felt different. abnormal, even. but it couldn’t have anything to do with megumi, of course not. it had to be everything you’d been through tonight… obviously.

but then you caught the scent of his cologne. it was fresh, like dewy mist, and you couldn’t help but lean in a little closer, inhaling it deeply. wait. what was that?

you felt something in your stomach. a flutter. you blinked. parasites? you thought to yourself, trying to rationalize it. it’s definitely not butterflies. no, it couldn’t be. of course not.

you just hoped you were right—because the last thing you wanted now was to fall for your best friend.

megumi broke the hug and stepped back. "i think if you’re done, maybe we should go. and seriously, what the heck, we’re completely drenched," he said, glancing down at his soaked clothes. "my clothes are totally ruined now."

without waiting for a response, he grabbed your hand and started running. you followed, your feet splashing through puddles.

"where are we going?" you asked as he suddenly stopped, looking around.

"let’s just find some shelter and call a taxi," he replied. but then his eyes landed somewhere they really shouldn’t have, and he cursed the heavens.

you were wearing a thin, nearly see-through crop top that had clung to your skin in the rain. megumi swallowed hard and looked away immediately, his jaw tightening as he tried to stay composed. okay, this is normal. i’m a teenage boy too, he thought, though the pink flush creeping up his face betrayed him.

he was thankful, at least, that you were completely oblivious. thank god, he thought.

"cover up, you idiot," megumi said, his tone sharper than intended, but his voice still flustered.

"huh?" you asked, tilting your head in confusion, still unaware of the situation. megumi sighed, grumbling under his breath. why can’t she just read the room? he thought.

he swung his bag off his shoulder and tossed it to you. "here, use this. just—cover up."

you did as he said, though you still seemed confused. megumi let out another sigh, shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over both of you, shielding you from the rain.

you smiled up at him then—a bright, genuine smile. it was the kind of smile that could probably make any guy melt. but megumi wasn’t any guy. at least, that’s what he told himself.

until now.

seeing that smile made his cheeks flush even deeper, and he had to look away, cursing under his breath. damn. just hormones. nothing else, he told himself, trying to stay rational.

but then another thought slipped in, unbidden. why does she have to look so adorable... and hot? at the same time? he frowned, questioning his sanity.

fuck fuck fuck.

best friends. just best friends, he repeated to himself like a mantra, desperate to believe it.

but the truth was harder to ignore now. this was the third time something about you had struck a chord deep inside him.

megumi wished he was better at lying to himself.

after a while of waiting, you got into a taxi with megumi. "so, we’ll just head home now?" he asked, glancing at you. you nodded but hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"yeah, about that… my parents are out of town, and i-i was gonna be alone, so i wondered if i could bunk with you tonight? for old times’ sake?" you asked, your voice unsure but hopeful.

for old times’ sake? sure. but for his own sanity’s sake? absolutely not, megumi thought.

"yeah, works," he said, trying to sound casual. but deep down, he knew this was going to test every ounce of self-control he had.

the ride to his house was short, and as you sat in silence, you started reflecting on how the night had turned out. it had been such a mess, yet here you were, feeling strangely okay.

you glanced at your phone, which was still on do not disturb, and weren’t surprised to see 13 missed calls from asahi. you shrugged and sighed, shaking your head. none of that mattered now.

no one was home at megumi’s place either. the realization that you were both alone together made your stomach twist and turn, though you didn’t quite understand why. his sister, tsumiki, had a school function and was out of town as well.

"well, come in," megumi said, hanging the keys on the rack. the sound of the keys jingling filled the otherwise quiet house as you took off your shoes and stepped inside.

the place felt so familiar, as it always had. you’d been coming here for the past twelve years of your life. it was like a second home.

the two of you headed upstairs to his bedroom. as expected, it was neat and tidy, just like megumi always kept it.

"i think you should take a bath and change into something..." he said, rummaging through his closet. after a moment, he pulled out a hoodie and a pair of shorts. "...there you go," he added, tossing them to you.

you caught the clothes and stared at them for a moment. and then it hit you. this is exactly like one of those cliché book plots, you thought. the one where the girl has no spare clothes, so the guy lends her his.

while you were lost in your thoughts, megumi was having his own internal struggle. how cute would she look in my clothes? the thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it, and his cheeks turned pink.

both of you glanced at each other briefly, the blush on your faces obvious, before quickly looking away. completely oblivious to what the other was thinking, you stood there, awkward and flustered, two idiots caught in your own spiraling thoughts.

not even god could save the two of you from this moment. as much as you both hated the idea of picturing each other together, neither of you could completely deny the thought anymore.

you had taken a bath and were now sitting on the edge of the bed, towel-drying your hair while waiting for megumi. that was when he walked out of the bathroom.

uh oh.

he wasn’t wearing a shirt—just a pair of shorts, with a towel slung lazily over his shoulders. you froze for a moment, and before you could stop yourself, you realized you were checking him out. great, just great, you thought, internally screaming.

he rubbed the towel through his hair, his raven-black locks spiking in every direction, just the way they always did. only now, for some reason, you couldn’t help but notice how much you wanted to run your hands through it.

your gaze drifted lower—bad idea.

his abs were exactly how you had imagined they’d be. toned, well-defined, and everything else you shouldn’t have been thinking about right now. his frame wasn’t bulky or overly muscular, but lean and athletic, which somehow made him look even hotter.

you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you realized what you were doing. god, i’m disgusting. i’m a total freak, you thought, your cheeks burning.

still, no matter how hard you tried to look away, you couldn’t deny it. megumi looked… hot. and that was a problem you weren’t ready to face.

fuck it, am i in love with my bestfriend? you thought. ofcourse not, it's just some sort of a physical attraction that anyone my age would experience.

megumi glanced at you as you sat on the edge of the bed, still busy drying your hair. your damp strands clung to your face, droplets of water sliding down your skin. you weren’t even trying, but somehow you were driving him insane.

his mind short-circuited at that moment, and before he could think, he acted. something inside him snapped, or maybe it was always there, buried beneath layers of self-control. whatever it was, it was enough to make him forget himself.

he stood and walked over to you. you looked up at him, confused. "what?" you asked, your voice curious. "is there something—"

you didn’t get to finish. his hands were on you, pulling you close, and suddenly, his lips were on yours. your eyes widened in shock. megumi just kissed you.

but the real surprise wasn’t that—it was the fact that you didn’t pull away. instead, you kissed him back, meeting his lips with the same passion he gave you. this was your first kiss, and yet, it didn’t feel awkward or clumsy. no, it was perfect. megumi moved with a deliberate slowness, his lips guiding yours like he had done this a thousand times before.

you felt the bed beneath you as he gently pushed you down. his hand slid into yours, pinning it above your head, while the other rested firmly on your waist. everything about the moment felt intense, like the world outside had stopped spinning. you finally understood what those movie scenes meant when the girl’s problems melted away with the perfect kiss. because that’s exactly what was happening. everything—your heartbreak, your doubts—everything faded into nothing.

but then, reality hit you. no. i’m kissing my best friend.

you both pulled away at the same time, your breaths labored, your faces flushed. the realization of the position you were in hit megumi immediately—you, beneath him, your hair splayed out across the bed. and god, you looked good like that. stop, he told himself, forcing the thought away as he climbed off you, running a hand through his hair and fixing his shorts.

shit shit fucking hell you doof.

she’s going to think i’m a pervert, megumi thought, mortified. i messed up. i messed up big time.

on the other hand, your thoughts were spiraling in a completely different direction. oh no. i forced him into this. he didn’t even want this. you cursed at yourself, guilt weighing heavy on your chest.

the two of you sat on opposite sides of the bed, the silence stretching on for what felt like hours. ten minutes passed, the room filled with nothing but the sound of your breaths as both of you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"i—" you both started at the same time before cutting yourselves off.

"no, you go first," you said in unison again, your eyes briefly meeting before you both looked away, cheeks burning.

megumi cleared his throat and started. "i… i didn’t mean to. i was just… you know…" his voice trailed off, unsure of how to explain himself.

you nodded quickly, even though you didn’t understand a thing. "y-yeah. me too. it was totally accidental, and i get it. i understand."

but neither of you did. not really.

the silence returned, this time even heavier than before.

"so, uh, yn… you take the bed, and i’ll go sleep on the couch downstairs," megumi said finally, his voice stiff, his eyes avoiding yours entirely.

"yeah, yeah, sure," you said, nodding like an idiot.

he grabbed a pillow and a blanket from his bed and headed for the door, his movements quick and deliberate. he didn’t even glance back at you as he closed the door behind him.

as soon as he was gone, you cursed at yourself, sinking back onto the bed. what the hell did i just do? this is going to be so awkward from now on. megumi probably hates me now.

you stood up and walked to the door, resting your back against it before sliding down to the floor. you hugged your knees to your chest, resting your head on them as your mind raced. he completely has no feelings for me. and i… i don’t have any for him either. right?

on the other side of the door, megumi was sitting in the exact same position as you, his back against the wood, his head buried in his hands.

what have i just done? am i out of my mind? he thought, guilt and frustration swirling inside him.

maybe you were both wrong. or maybe you weren’t.

(umm yeah so that's it i guess? i'm sorry but yeah. i love em though like who's gonna tell them erm..)

lmk if ya'll wanna get tagged for the second part which i'll publish prolly<3

[xoxochb]

— here comes the sun ꣑ৎ‧₊˚.

warnings: just headcannons pairing: riordanverse boys x daughter of apollo

percy jackson loves how good you are with your bow and arrow. he sucks majorly at archery so when you found this out you did everything in your power to teach him to be just as good as you were. this took four months. but! the good thing was that he learned eventually. it took this long solely because every time you were explaining something his eyes would trail down to your lips and he’d zone out and one thing leads to another now he’s kissing you and now you’re kissing back and now you’re not even in the archery field anymore— it’s a whole thing. during the fourth month you got sick of his nonsense and forced him to finally listen to your words and he ended up finally learning basic archery (he later earned a reward for his obedience). besides your great archer skills you’re also skilled at painting. like usual, percy loves to fool around. you’ll have your canvas out and paint sprawled along your pallet but this dumbass takes a finger of paint a spreads it over your face. you both end up covered in paint and your work long forgotten. you made a mental note never to let him paint with you again, but knowing percy and his gorgeous sea green eyes you had no choice but to let him join you again. though you do warn him not to play around with your paint or he’d wake up blue (he probably wouldn’t mind this though)

jason grace is utterly obsessed with your singing voice— most to all nights this is the only thing that can soothe him to sleep. but not even just during the evening, it’s basically mostly throughout the day when you’re singing to him. sometimes you even play a variety of musical instruments to add onto the factor (he ended up learning how to play piano thanks to you). and!! another thing he loves about you is your poetry, especially when the poems are about him, those make his knees go all weak and his cheeks flush pink and he’s such a school girl, it’s ridiculous. but he loves your poems regardless if they’re about him or not, he likes listening to your sweet-like-honey voice and your extremely high vocabulary (gods, he loves your high vocab). along with your love for poems you also share a love for reading, often you’ll find old books to read together, whether it’s together, or separately then you talk about them later, he adores talking about nerdy books together. and since writing is something dear to you and your siblings you wrote your own novel some day with the help of your boyfriend (he’s your number one supporter), including a sweet dedication to him as a thank you and an I love you

leo valdez takes advantage of your healing abilities. every hour he shows up in the infirmary with a new injury whether it’s a small cut or something serious. after a while you started to realize he was purposely hurting himself so he could see you during your work. you scolded him for this and told him you’d much more appreciate his visits if he wasn’t hurt all the time. so after you told him this he started spending less time with his trinkets and getting hurt and more time bothering you in the infirmary (additionally bothering your patients). you’ve found, though, it’s not so easy to care for your patients when your boyfriend has permanently attached himself to you, you eventually had to restrict him from seeing you during your working hours. but do you think this would stop him? no it did not. every day he would wait for you outside as you work, your siblings scold him and tell you to take care of him so that resulted in you getting kicked out of the infirmary too. though with this new free time and all your siblings busy you were able to get the cabin all to yourselves!!

luke castellan is pretty sure every room you walk into instantly brightens up with beams of sunshine (not even figuratively, he really does believe this). your aura is enough the blind the regular man— but lucky for luke he is no regular man, he’s your boyfriend. unfortunately, this does have its downsides, which includes you waking up at the literal ass crack of dawn watching as the sun rises. slowly and carefully you slip yourself from his arms to sit on the porch of cabin eleven as you watch the sky switch from a dark purple/black hue to various colors including orange, pink, or yellow (sometimes all three if your dad is feeling generous enough). over time, though, luke realizes you aren’t in his arms anymore— the first time this happened he was confused and searched frantically for you, but eventually he gets used to you waking up early. on some mornings he will sit outside with you (he loves the way your irises get all bright and yellow at this time of day), he likes how everything is quiet and tranquil and this is one of the only times he’s able to spend alone time with you. he savors these moments over anything else in his life

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Emotions

other words for some emotions

Anhedonia - a psychological condition characterized by inability to experience pleasure in normally pleasurable acts.

Beatitude - a state of utmost bliss.

Chagrin - disquietude or distress of mind caused by humiliation, disappointment, or failure.

Compunctious - feeling remorse or regret.

Desiderium - an ardent desire or longing; especially: a feeling of loss or grief for something lost.

Dolorifuge - something that banishes or mitigates grief.

Espirit de l'escalier - wit of the staircase; repartee thought of only too late, on the way home. The stairs in question being those down which you leave a party or other gathering. The notion behind the phrase is that feeling when you think of the perfect response to another’s question or comment only once you’ve left the party and are on your way home. The French encyclopedist Denis Diderot (1713-1784) is credited with introducing the notion of esprit de l’escalier. The sensitive man, he wrote, when absorbed by the words of another, tends to lose his mind “and recovers it only at the bottom of the stairs.”

Forlorn - bereft, forsaken; sad and lonely because of isolation or desertion.

Leucocholy - a state of feeling that accompanies preoccupation with trivial and insipid diversions.

Listless - characterized by lack of interest, energy, or spirit.

Mortification - the emotional state of being made self-consciously uncomfortable.

Paramnesia - a disorder of memory. It occurs when something you are experiencing for the first time feels as though it isn’t really new.

Sullen - gloomily or resentfully silent or repressed.

Trepidatious - feeling trepidation (i.e., a feeling of fear or agitation about something that may happen).

Valor - strength of mind or spirit that enables a person to encounter danger with firmness; personal bravery.

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[pricklyjim]

First off, I love your art. It makes me all happy and giddy inside. But I must ask:

How do Orion's arms move? I mean the way you draw him, he's got this box like figure with little room for shoulders (unless I've just not seen his figure well enough). In theory if he tries to lift his arms past a certain point, won't his torso get in the way?

Sorry I'm just curious. Totally cool if it's just a stylistic thing too. I love them your honor I just like to know insignificant details.

[UPDATE]

Orian’s Design Explained

[Adding every bit of important information I’ve written about Orion here, as it makes it far more easy to find then looking through tons of links for information.]

[Why does Orion look like that?]

Some may wonder why Orion looks like how he does and the simple answer is his design was based around the idea of desk work.

His bulky capelet, gifted to him the first day he became a scribe limits his arm movement so much that he can’t even lift his arms above his head. Why?

Because as a clerk, all he would need to reach forward to is his computer. His design is all about efficiency and limiting distractions, nothing more.

His round blue shoulder pads act as privacy shields, like cubicle walls. They keep him focused, blocking distractions, and discouraging conversation as he worked side by side with his colleagues.

His smaller frame also fits perfectly into tight, government-regulated workspaces and uses less energon—hence why he was picked to be a scribe. He’s cheaper to maintain.

Orion has a hidden sword and shield built into his body, when not in use, his sword can bend like cloth and can be attached to his caplet, his shield also acts as a cape that clips onto his back.

Scribes, especially high-level ones like Orion, are trained in mandatory combat—not as soldiers, but as safeguards of knowledge.

The archives held secrets, powerful enough to shift the balance of Cybertronians society, and it is a scribe’s duty to protect them as instructed by Prima Prime.

As a high level Scribe, Orion made it a point to not only be the best at his work, but also the best in his fighting style.

He style is precise, strategic, and defensive. And though he was never meant for battle, He has became one of the greatest strategists Cybertron had ever seen.

Still, his frame is a constant reminder of his limits. In the archives, Orion would stare at the stars and try to reach for them, only to be stopped by his caplet. He was to be practical and grounded, an archivist—not a leader, not a dreamer.

And no matter how much his mind wandered, his caplet would keep him in his place.

However, That all changed the day he found Megatronus’s writings.

One day, after wandering around the archives with his younger friend Bee, they stumbled across a restricted section.

Hidden deep in the police confidentiality unit, there were poems that spoke of the suffering in the mines, of a miner whose sire worked herself to death for a system that saw her as disposable.

The raw anger and sorrow in those words struck something deep within Orion, and scared the younger bot Bee, who warned him to let the writings stay put.

However Orion has always been a seeker for knowledge, and thus, took these scriptures with him to read.

He read everything Megatronus ever wrote, every thought, every plea for change, every angry demand.

But while Megatronus raged in his writings, Orion, with his knowledge starting writing down solutions to his problems.

Inspired by this miner’s work, he began writing his own essays, about a united cybertron, filled with unity.

He argued that castes of all levels should work together to break down the system, not tear each other down. And once he has finished his essays, he sent them off to public forums.

His writings exploded in popularity.

Cybertronians from all castes backed him, seeing his writings as a voice of reason in a world that was currently divided and angry.

At first, he leaned into it, giving speeches, traveling to places ruined by the caste system to bring light to what needed to change. But before he knew it, he wasn’t just a voice anymore—he was a leader.

With the new of Rodimus prime’s death, Magnus stepped down, the government crumbled, and Cybertron, desperate for stability, turned to him.

Orion never wanted power. He had written those words, yes, but he had never expected them to place him here, at the center of it all.

But how could he refuse? He had to take responsibility for the situation at hand. However terrified he was, however much pressure he carried, he had no choice but to stand firm, otherwise Megatron’s power and need for domination would ruin cybertron’s chance’s of peace forever—

He needed to do it,for the people who believed in him, for the world that needed him.

When he became one of Iacon’s new leaders, his appearance sparked some conversation. Some assumed his bulky chest plate was armor, meant to shield him from assassination attempts. Others thought it was a professional uniform.

But the scribes who worked with him know the truth: his frame is a relic of the caste system, a reminder of the constraints he broke free from.

He could change it—

refit himself into something sleeker, more fitting of a leader or give off the look of a Prime.

But he refuses.

To him, that chest plate is no longer a limitation. It’s a symbol. It proves that his leadership isn’t built on violence, that he doesn’t need to shed his past to prove himself. Instead of lifting his hands to fight, he leads with words, with action, with the trust of the people he’s earned.

His frame isn’t just about his job. It’s about his journey. It tells the story of where he came from, what he overcame, and the kind of leader he’s has chosen to be.

I know in most interpretations orion is given leader through the matrix, but i thought it would be interesting to make his leadership be one that he gains over time, and eventually leads to Primus approving.

[certifiedwhore4slashers]

Manipulative

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, past oc x f!reader.

summary: he’s fallen way too deep, and he knows that.

a/n: i am in no way romanticizing nor defending his actions, he sucks as a person, this is for funsies, keep that in mind. remember he’s literally responsible for mass murders of children. also this idea is cliche ik ik. but, if you want more I will do more with original ideas.

reader has somewhat long hair, BUT no other descriptions of the reader. and I don’t usually do that. just for this post:)

warnings: yandere themes, toxicity, manipulative behavior(manipulation) obsession, possessiveness, no fluff, implied/referenced murder, slight blood, narcissistic tendencies, delusion, unhealed trauma, implied stalking, mild violence.

The meadow was where you’d often go. Ever since the games, it was a stress reliever, humming some songs or even just listening to the birds chirp.

After Coriolanus was sent to be a peacekeeper, You were sent home. District 12 was your home. You sat down on the cold rock. You were more of an creative artist than musician. Sometimes you wrote songs, and sometimes you wrote poems or just stories.

But you didn’t feel like doing anything today, just admiring the breeze in front of you. You were fairly zoned out when you hear a twig snap, and turn around.

You sigh of relief.”Sorry. Still have those instincts from the games.” You rushed over, not doing much. Still in disbelief he really was there.

You didn’t expect him to be here. But here he was. “It leaves quite the impression, He chuckled. It was a long embrace, and you say,”You found me. Quite surprised.”

“You figured I would, He teased. “Not this fast, and really it was hope, You tease right back, lips on his, it was passionate and sweet, ideal for a reunion.

“The sun’s hot, come in the shade, You offer. He had some ice, now melted and offered it.”Here. For you.” “Thank you, You reply.

You were very thirsty. The moment the water hit your tongue you were in heaven. “This must be the only cold thing in November, he joked.

You laugh in response.”So, Coriolanus Snow, What are you doing in the Meadow?” You were half joking. You never were fully serious. At least until it came to your feelings for him.

“Spending some time with my girl, He replies. The word My, a possessive tone, You notice. But brush it off.

“It’s unbelievable, You admit.”Truly. But I was surprised they brought me back. I swore It was all me.” “But it wasn’t, he points out. You look at him.”Clearly they didn’t believe me.”

His lips were on yours again, long and passionate. You two hadn’t seen each other since the games ended.

“Well, It was hard to believe for me too, He admits.”Tell me what happened after.” It was difficult to recall everything. The games were a nightmare. Especially the Arena. And Mayfair.

As the two of you share the water, You couldn’t help but wonder as he told stories, exchanging them, if something was wrong.

“Poor Jessup, You say sympathetically.”He didn’t deserve that. It was you, though, wasn’t it? The one who killed Bobbin?”

“I had to, Coriolanus replied.”He tried to kill me.” “I’m not saying what you did was wrong, but I suppose killing is for survival in the Arena, You reply. Snow only nodded.

“I heard the others brag, You say.”So I know. I thought the worst happened. You know, that you were dead.”

Heading back up beside him, You still couldn’t believe he was here. Whatever relationship you had, seemed to grow.

“What have you been up to? He asks, curiously.”It’s been a while.” “It has, you laugh.”And truly, not much. A few performances here and then. At the Hob, Maude Ivory’s an amazing singer like Lucy Gray.”

For a mere moment, You were in complete bliss. And that night was a normal evening for the Covey. Your parents were killed, well, your adoptive parents. They took you in, then Maude Ivory came along, your younger sister.

You became a part of the Covey. Until of course, their murders. But you had her, at least. “You want one? A peacekeeper asks, referring to liquor.”You might need it for your performance.”

“Sure, You grin, taking a swig, not making a reaction to the bitterness of it.”You’re right. I might need it.” Lucy Gray was a beautiful singer, but tonight, let you perform.

“Are you sure? I’m not the songbird, You tease. “I’m sure, and Maude Ivory wanted you to, She sweetly says. Your cousin was always the songbird.

“Besides, I think he’d like to hear you sing, Lucy Gray smirked. You knew who she was referring to. Truly the one who knew of your relationship, but by accident.

You wore a yellow dress, not too short but not too long either, and sunflowers in your hair. You wanted to have a good impression.

You tease her,”I think he’d like to hear you.” But you went up there, guitar in hand. A talent that you and Lucy Gray both had. It was the genes, you swore.

But you amazed the crowd as you sang. You were no Songbird. But you had some talent. And the whole time your eyes were on him.

It made him feel more special, in a way. Like the only person could make you feel this happy was him. Him. You were his, at least in his eyes.

But you did a wonderful performance. You mostly did instruments and stood in the background. You didn’t sing much.

Even though you were aware he was there, you went on, even with butterflies in your stomach. It was later that evening that things went downhill.

You said goodbye, even to Coriolanus, saying,”I shouldn’t be out so late anyway. But I promise, straight tomorrow. I’m sure you have peacekeeper things to do, anyway.”

He smiles.”It’s alright. You must be tired from that performance.” You laugh, then nod, quickly kissing him, then moving along.

You didn’t notice that he followed you. He was quite literally, obsessed. Especially after hearing your sweet voice. Since finding your home in the Seam, it wasn’t hard to follow you, and pretend he was there for something else.

Sometimes, he’d meet you there. Other times, didn’t even know he was there watching. He’d call it protectiveness. But it was really a sense of possessiveness over you.

That’s what it really was.

He heard your voice in your room, you sang to yourself. You sang a love song. That wasn’t hard to understand.

He had a sense of jealousy. It was clear the lyrics wasn’t about him. A past one, maybe. It wasn’t Billy Taupe. He had Lucy Gray. So who could you mentioned?

He was bloodthirsty. Or at least, had a taste for violence. He’d never say it or admit it. It was like he was a rebel. And he hated rebels.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling this way. As you danced and sang a little. Coriolanus defended his behavior, he was being protective of you. That nobody would hurt you.

He had fallen way too deep. And he was aware. You might feel the same about him, just as equally obsessed as he was. But that night, he wasn’t looking for trouble. Not much, anyway.

Someone stood beside him, admiring your singing. “Peacekeeper, huh? The male laughed. Coriolanus turns.”Yeah. Punishment. Not a choice.”

“She’s always been a singer, the male explained.”didn’t have much faith.” He wanted to know how the male knew that.

“How do you know? Coriolanus asked, curiously. “She wrote that song about me, the male bragged and seemed proud.”One of these days she’ll get back together with me.”

You never mentioned your ex lover much. Only that he hurt you, and that he was still infatuated. You were right about that.

“She isn’t interested, Coriolanus says, coldly. His fists clenched, along with his jaw, both from the rage he was feeling.

Maybe it was his narcissistic tendencies that were showing. A feeling of shame. A feeling that, he was superior than the male standing in front of him. He’d do so much better.

And with that, he swung. He could’ve shot him. But it was the easy way. And he didn’t deserve the easy way. His blood thirst took over a little, and like Bobbin, didn’t know how far his strength would go.

He stands back, his knuckles bleeding and blood on his uniform he’d have to explain later. Maybe it was a mistake coming to visit you. Your singing had stopped.

He pants. What had he done? Standing over the body, Coriolanus realized what he truly had done. And what could he do? He didn’t want a career as a peacekeeper; but his future would be damaged even further. He had to do something.

The Lake.

It brought him good memories. Swimming alongside you and the covey. But he’d have to hide the body somewhere.

It took a lot of his strength; but didn’t wear him out to drag him to the lake. It wouldn’t be too hard hiding evidence. His body would eventually disappear and Coriolanus doubted anybody cared about him. You didn’t anymore.

And he just watched. After the blood washed off, He walked away. He left the Seam. He'd come back. But You'd be aware of it.

Morning came, and peacekeepers came knocking at your door. The whole morning was a mess. When you did eventually meet up with Coriolanus, you decided on telling him about it.

“Did you know? She asked.”I’m assuming every peacekeeper knew. The guy I used to go out with was murdered. Found in the lake.”

“We were informed today, but I wasn’t the one who found it, He lies. He did not like lying, but he had to. He held a tight grip on you.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

[byers-bowlcut]

The Cyrano Trope & Byler

The byler painting lie is such a clear example of a literary trope where a character receives some form of courtship that makes them feel "in love", however the character does not know the true identity of WHO they got it from. 

This trope has a full fledged name called "Playing Cyrano". It comes from a famous french play from 1897 about a character named Cyrano, who felt that the love of his life, Roxane, would never love him back because he was not good looking enough. Still, he tries to find the courage to convey his love to Roxane through a love letter (think~ painting) and this is what happens: 

(link to full article)

Will is the one "playing Cyrano" here for El, as a means to make Mike happy, help Mike and El's relationship, and also to secretly convey his own feelings for Mike in the process. 

This trope very obviously ends with Roxane (Mike) falling for Cyrano (Will) upon learning the true identity behind the letters (painting/van speech). 

And it's also precisely why Mike makes the expressions he makes at Will in the van; why his eyes shine with awe, why he takes breathless gulps as Will speaks, the whole nine yards. 

I've spent a long time wondering why Finn Wolfhard acted the way he did in the van scene (the expressions he makes are VERY distinct and emotive, he was given clear acting directions for it), and this is the most concrete reason why: The writers/directors here were trying to show us how Mike is perceiving Will's gift and words, and what it's making Mike feel. The van scene is not ONLY about Will, but about Mike's feelings too!!!

Mike's expressions in the van scene clearly tell the audience that he feels like he's falling in love all over again. It's giving him hope for his relationship with El. It's making him forget about his insecurities with her, and making him feel needed and loved. 

And the obvious catch here is that it's all Will doing that. Not El. And that's the missing piece to how they're going to segue into byler in season 5. 

--------- 

Beyond Stranger Things, obviously the idea of 'Playing Cyrano' has been adapted for literally over a hundred of years, into hundreds of stories, cementing it as a trope in romance plotlines. Here are just a few other examples:

Ben and Beverly from It

Ben gives Beverly a poem, but she thinks it's from Bill and ends up with Bill in the first movie. In the second movie she learns who the poem is really from and rightfully ends up with Ben.

Olivia and Sebastian from She's the Man

Olivia quickly falls for Sebastian while reading a sheet of song lyrics he wrote. But she thinks the lyrics are written by his twin who is disguised as Sebastian at the time. She spends most of the movie chasing after his twin, but eventually finds out the truth and ends up with Sebastian. 

Ellie and Aster from The Half Of It

Ellie agrees to help a jock named Paul write letters to his crush Aster. Ellie is in love with Aster and communicates it through the letters under Paul's name. This helps Paul and Aster's relationship a lot and they begin to date. Eventually Aster finds out the real person behind the letters, which leads to Ellie and Aster ending up together.

I especially love how the Cyrano trope is used in this story, because it shows how easily the trope can be molded to fit the queer perspective: in the original, Cyrano believes his love will never be reciprocated because he's not attractive enough. While in the Half of It, Ellie believes her love will never be reciprocated because of her gender.

Otis and Maeve from Sex Education 

Otis plays Cyrano for Jackson who is hooking up with Maeve at the time. Otis is in love with Maeve and knows everything about her, and essentially meshes with her perfectly. But he's too insecure to confess to her. Meanwhile, Jackson doesn't mesh with Maeve super well, and gets Otis to play Cyrano (eg. Otis telling Jackson Maeve's favourite books) . Maeve and Jackson end things when she finds out the truth about Otis's involvement, and her/Otis are the main couple of this series. 

---------

Overall the moral behind Cyrano's story is about how love at first sight is foolish and that appearances are not the basis of true love. 

Reading about this trope struck me with the thought that maybe this is why the writers forcibly shoved El and Mike into the love at first sight trope— even when it doesn't totally fit Mike's behaviour or words in S1E2 (after he sees El the first time, he does not behave like someone "in love" at all and plans to send her away). 

In most cases of the Cyrano trope, the love that exists between the "wrong" pairing is mainly based off of physical appearance and cyrano's masked courtship. There is little else holding them together. So by writing Mike declare that it was "love at first sight", it makes me question the whole basis of his love for El and how superficial it might be. I mean sorry Mike, how did you know you loved her the moment you saw her? You didn't even know anything about her. Meanwhile there's an undeniable depth to byler's bond— their friendship deepened and evolved over the course of many years, and it's anything but superficial.

(Side note: this trope sometimes involves Cyrano actively aiding the other love interest -Christian/El- but sometimes does not. In byler's case it does not. Will does not directly plan with El to woo Mike, and instead uses her name to an unknowing Mike to help their relationship. This trope can be executed a million different ways, but the main point is: the one in Roxane's role doesn't know who is causing their feelings of love)

[horrorenjoyer159]

here's a short list of headcanons i came up with for eddie and his weird girlfriend. i felt like the weird girls were underrepresented so i decided to write something for us lol

also i didn't specify a time for this. i was thinking the eighties when i wrote this bc i'm into that decade but you can read this with whatever time you're more comfortable with

so, eddie’s got this girlfriend. you. a freak like him and his friends; but not so much in the same way. while they nerd out on dungeons & dragons and lord of the rings (at least he does), you nerd out on horror movies and death. 

you’re so interested in it all. the movies are a comfort for you. a home you didn’t have. a belonging. with various stories and characters and the people behind them all. you can feel the love there. 

and death is just beautiful to you. doesn’t scare you much like it does other people. you find cemeteries calming, so you hang out there a lot. 

you aren’t very squeamish either, you’re alright with blood. fascinated by it, too. so most people find you weird. but not eddie’s friends. and DEFINITELY not eddie. he’s into horror too, but he’s fascinated with your fascination with the macabre.

you’ve been called goth many times before but you’re not sure if you are, you’re not really good with labels. you’re just… you. and you just happen to love black. 

and eddie adores it all. encourages it. he’ll plan picnics in cemeteries for you. he’ll buy you trinkets from antique or oddity shops as often as he can when he has the money. 

so you’ve got various animal skulls and vintage jewelry (and who knows what else) all over your house. 

if he doesn’t have the money, he’ll make you something himself. cards in the shape of bats or coffins or teeth or anything else like that.

he loves coming to your house and seeing all the flowers (especially red roses) wilted or slowly wilting away and placed all over the place.

he loves that you kept at least one flower from your first date in a scrapbook and he loves it even more that the rest of them rest on your nightstand.

thank you @storiesbyrhi for helping me out with this a little. and thank you to anyone and everyone who may read this and even like this! i'm pretty new to writing in this way. usually i write poems (i say very loosely) about my life and the way i'm feeling, etc. so please, bear with me lol

[mymindisneverhere]

Just Keep Breathing

Summary: Terry teaches you some important breathing techniques. 

warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), SMUT, anxiety, stage fright, drunk sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, use of the n-word (barely), dirty talking (forgive me if I missed any)

Masterlist

a/n: I wrote this at 4 in the morning cause I couldn’t sleep and I barely edited it chile. Enjoy!

Now back to writing Favors, Pt. 6 will be up in a few days! 🩵

You held onto your chest as you tried your hardest to catch your breath. Your mind was racing, so many thoughts were happening all at once. You felt a migraine sit in the back of your head and slowly begin to spread throughout your temple. You shook almost as if it were freezing where you were but the temperature was just fine. Another anxiety attack… 

It had been months since the last time you felt this way. You had picked up on a few tools and techniques that helped you to bring your anxiety down to zero when you felt it build in your nervous system. Along with the techniques, you had your boyfriend who did an amazing job at helping you stay grounded. Terry was patient and understanding, there was never a moment where he made you feel like your situation was too much for him. 

“Breathe baby, just breathe.” He coached you through this moment. 

You were preparing to perform your poem for the first time in two years. You fell in love with poetry as a teenager with help from your favorite English teacher who introduced you to different types of poetry and famous poets. Poetry was your way of expressing your innermost feelings, especially when you couldn’t find the strength to say them out loud. 

There were two people ahead of you, you still had plenty of time to ground yourself. You still had plenty of time to bring your mind into the present moment and stop worrying about the future because the future didn’t exist. 

“Inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight.” Terry walked you through one of the breathing techniques you learned from him. “I’ll breathe with you.” 

You did exactly what he told you to do, inhaling and exhaling at the same time as him. You looked up at him as you continued focusing on your breathing, completely unconcerned with the stage fright that had consumed you a few minutes ago. He stared down at you, having you repeat the technique until he could sense a calmness wash over your face. 

Your body began to relax as you continued breathing. Your heart rate returned to normal, your headache slowly began to fade and your body was back to its resting state. Closing your eyes for a few seconds, grateful that you had him by your side, you opened them slowly and looked up at him. 

“I think I’m okay.” You said, letting him know that he can free himself of the worry he had for you. 

“You sure?” He asked. He wasn’t trying to push you into doing something you weren’t comfortable with doing. All you had to do was say the word and he’d get you home where you felt safe and secure. Just the two of you. 

But you needed to face your biggest fear. Being seen in the spotlight, displaying your talents while allowing yourself to be completely vulnerable in front of an auditorium full of strangers. 

“I’m fine baby, honestly.” You smiled, watching his expression soften. “Thank you.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too!” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead as you prepared to go on stage. 

“Next up we have, (reader) coming to the mic.” The host announced. The crowd snapped as you walked onto the stage. You slowly walked to the microphone that sat on the stand. You sent a silent thank you to the creator above, grateful that it was already at the right height for you. Fondling with the mic stand would’ve sent you down another spiral and there was no time for that. 

Snaps filled the room as you thanked the crowd before disappearing backstage. Once you were completely out of the audience's view, you ran to Terry, jumping into his arms. He spun you around as you held onto his neck, legs wrapped around his torso. You did it! You had finally faced your biggest fear and you did it with no mess ups, no stuttering, no overthinking. It was almost as if the joy you gained from writing took over during your performance. There was no room for jitters when your passion was the only thing driving you during the few minutes you spent on stage. 

“I’m so proud of you!” Terry exclaimed, still holding onto you, squeezing you tightly as you laughed in his ear. 

“That was so fun, I wanna do it again.” You sounded like a kid, getting the chance to engage in the “big kid” activities for the very first time in life. 

After what seemed like a few minutes of you two embracing one another, you were placed on the ground again. Other contestants gave you well wishes and good jobs as they passed by, some who had already performed and others preparing for their performances. 

“I found two seats up front.” Terry said, grabbing your hand and leading you into the audience. 

You sat in the crowd listening to the other poets and man were they phenomenal. The passion that exuded as they shared their art, the emotions that filled the room as they spoke into mics. You were slowly beginning to shrink into your seat, already accepting your loss for the night. 

‘At least I faced my fears, that’s a win to me.’ You thought to yourself, preparing to lose so that it wouldn’t hit as hard when it finally became reality. Terry reached down and placed a soft hand on your leg, it had been bouncing for the past five minutes now. Your anxiety was getting to you once again. 

Thoughts of not being good enough, wishing you had worded it differently, paused a bit more for dramatic effect. Or maybe you paused too much and that made it seem artificial. The thoughts were consuming you as each contestant came and went. 

“Now the winners of the 2024 Fall Aggie City Poetry Slam.” 

The third place winner was announced, a young girl in her early twenties. She went up on the stage and accepted her award, smiling from ear to ear. So you didn’t get third place, second and first were still open but they seemed too good to be true. You could settle for second and be 100% okay with it. 

The second place winner was announced, a middle aged man who seemed too cool for a poetry slam. He accepted his award, straight face, a quick thank you and hurried off the stage and back to his seat. You looked down at your hands, accepting your defeat before it came. Terry looked over at you noticing your energy shift but kept quiet. Even though you were accepting your potential loss, he knew it wasn’t over just yet. They still had one more winner to announce and although your faith in yourself was slim to none, he decided to carry the majority of it for you. 

“The winner of our 2024 Aggie City Poetry Slam. The grand prize goes to…

(Readers name)!” 

You sat unmoved, so disassociated from your reality, you hadn’t heard your name be called. It wasn’t until Terry called you by your nickname.  

“Baby girl!” You heard his voice loudly right next to you. 

Your head shot up as you looked over at him, total shock took over your expression. You looked around the room as the audience stood, clapping and smiling while looking at you. 

“Ms. (Readers Name), come and get your trophy girl!” The host announced into the mic. 

You stood so overwhelmed with emotion, you immediately reached over to hug your boyfriend. He had to remind once again to get your prize because he knew you’d hold onto him for as long as you could. You let him go and hurried to the stage, excitement written all over your face. 

You carefully took the trophy and looked down at it to take it all in. You didn’t know if you were supposed to give a speech or say simple thank you so you decided to keep it short and sweet. 

“Thank you all so much, this means the world to me.” You said, a large smile on your face. You walked to the end of the stage already noticing Terry with his hand out, helping you down the stage one step at a time. You held onto his hand once you hit the floor and walked out of the auditorium. Many ‘thank yous’ left your lips as you passed the audience, congratulating and complimenting you on your spoken word. 

“We can go wherever you wanna go baby girl, my treat.” Terry said, taking the trophy out of your hand as he noticed you struggling to hold it. As excited as you were to win your first poetry slam and come in first place at that, you had to admit that trophy that was damn near the same size as you. 

“Let’s go to Dave and Busters! I wanna play, eat, then drink and finally go home!” You smiled, remembering one of your favorite arcades was just down the street from where you were. 

“Let’s go.” Terry placed the trophy carefully in the backseat before jumping into the driver's seat and heading to D&B’s. 

The two of you were like teenagers again. There wasn’t a game you didn’t play together. From basketball, to flappy bird, to the dancing games, he made sure to make this trip to Dave and Busters worth your while. 

After an hour of playing games and taking cute pictures in the photo booth, you guys sat down and enjoyed a nice meal and some drinks. 

You were still off of the high from your win, you went a bit overboard with the drinks. What was usually a limit of two drinks maximum, you were already on your fourth margarita. You were definitely a lightweight so four drinks was really pushing it. 

“That’s the last one for the night baby, I don’t want you getting too wasted.” He grabbed the glass and brought it to his side of the table. Terry didn’t want to cut you off from drinking because you were enjoying yourself and you deserved to have as many drinks as you choose, you were a poetry queen. But as the drinks went down, so did your eyes. 

Your gaze slowly changed from playful and excited to lustful and seductive. The way your eyes refused to leave his sent him a message your lips wouldn’t quite be able to due to your condition. But there was no need to worry because he got the message loud and clear. 

“Mmhmmm, fuck this pussy daddy.” You were completely under a liquor spell that had you talking reckless to your man. Unlike you, he only had two drinks because he was the driver for the night. Also because he knew how you were when you were a bit ‘lit’. Who knew the same lips that uttered beautiful pantoums, turning emotions into art would utter such filthy demands all within the same 24 hours. 

“You feel that dick baby girl?” His body weight damn near had you sinking into the bed. Flat on your stomach, your eyes were barely open as he dug into you from behind, rolling his hips hitting every inch of your walls. 

“I feel it daddy, it’s so big!” You cried. You tried your hardest to hold your head up so you could feel his lips against your neck while he talked you through it. Even after the years y’all had been together, adjusting to his size was still a process for you. 

“Don’t run from this dick, take this shit.” You wanted to do just that but it was becoming harder and harder by the second. His arms were wrapped under yours, holding you in place, ensuring that you felt all of him as deep as he wanted you to feel it. He wanted the tip of his dick to kiss your cervix, triggering all of your creaminess to paint it, because you deserved it. 

You could feel yourself digging deeper into his rhythm, unable to hold it in any longer. “Yes yes yes!” Your eyes rolled into your head as he continued digging deeper and deeper as you released onto him. 

“That’s it baby, let daddy have it.” He said, sending more juices flowing out of you, never interrupting his rhythm. “Just like that.” He kissed you as he continued stroking in and out of you. He wasn’t letting up until your body collapsed in his arms and even then he still had enough energy to get another one out of you. 

Sitting up on his knees, he pulled out and grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your back. He yanked you closer to him causing a small yelp to leave your lips. He placed your feet onto his shoulders and pushed right back into you so easily before leaning forward to come as close to your face as possible. 

He hadn’t even started stroking yet and you were already crying out again from the feeling of his thick dick filling you up completely from this position. He stared down at you admiring your love faces, the way your eyebrows bent as he slowly pulled out of you only leaving the tip and pushing back into you until his balls pressed up against your ass. 

His strokes were slow and deep, rubbing up against your g-spot each time he entered you. You tried to look him in his eyes but they were piercing through you, he was a bit intimidating in this moment. No matter if you tried to move or move him, it would be a complete fail. He had you exactly how you wanted you and there was nothing you could do about it. 

The sounds of your wetness making a mess on his dick filled the room. You could feel your pussy growing wetter by the second. “You gone cum again for me baby girl?” His eyes were glued to you as you struggled to find the words to answer him. His long, deep strokes had your body reacting so wildly, your lips couldn’t utter any words in the moment.

“Talk to me baby.” 

“I c-can’t.” You finally answered, tossing your head left and right as he continued stroking into you, gradually speeding up the pace. He placed his hand next to your head as his body weight pushed your legs closer to your ears, allowing him to go even deeper than he was before. 

“You not gone talk to me?” He was taunting you. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was no way you would be able to find the words if he was gonna keep fucking you like this. He sped up the pace a little more, digging in and out of you like he had something to prove. Like you didn’t already know what he was capable of. His strokes weren’t too fast but the way he was hitting your spot and then some over and over again caused you to take in a deep breath without letting it out. Your mouth fell open as your eyes began to cross, this pleasure was way too much to be trying to focus on words. “Breathe baby.” 

You gathered as much strength as you could as your eyes opened and landed on him as he inched closer to your face. Mouth slightly parted, his lips brushed against yours. “Breathe with me.” He placed a soft kiss on your bottom lip. He was still so patient with you even as he ruined you. “In and out, together.” 

You did just as he said. The two of you inhaled together and exhaled together, gradually falling into the same rhythm. This nigga and his breathing techniques. He’d build you up just to have you fall apart then repeat. 

You continued breathing with him, this instant unison sent a strong feeling to your gut. He was stimulating too many parts of your body all at once. Your eyes widened a bit as you felt your orgasm coming full force. “Keep breathing baby.” He kissed your lips once again, then your cheek and landed on your neck all while maintaining his stroke. “Good job baby, in and out.” His voice directly in your ear was the icing on the cake. 

You stared up at the ceiling as all of your inner focus was centered right at your center. Your breathing became louder as he did his. “Ughh!” Was all you could manage as your legs began to shake, your walls pulsated around him causing him to curse into your ear. 

“Oh my god yes!” You screamed loudly, completely unconcerned about your neighbors and anyone else surrounding the outside of your apartment. “Fuck, I’m right there baby, just keep breathing.” He pumped into you as he grunted, releasing everything he had directly into you. Even after your orgasm, he was still stroking, totally emptying himself into you. You may as well have been his personal cumbucket. You let out another loud moan, as a tear formed in the corner of your eye. 

After a few more pumps he stilled his movements. His head buried into your neck as you felt his warm breath against your skin. Both of you breathing heavily as you felt the effects of your powerful orgasms. You stared up at the ceiling, fighting to keep your eyes open as you wanted so badly to fall into a deep sleep. 

Finally coming back to himself, Terry placed kisses along your jaw and on your cheek. He stared down at you as he reached up to wipe the tear that had fallen from your face. “I’m proud of you baby girl.” He said, placing one last kiss on your lips. 

“Thank you.” You barely whispered, throat dry from all of the breathing you were doing. 

“I love you.” He said, still placing kisses on your lips. 

“I love you too.” 

[coralinnii]

Hi! I saw that you were opening your requests for the next day or so to celebrate getting 2.7k followers! First off, I wanna say congratulations, and may you have a good day/night (almost wrote 'not' lol)!

Anyways, I read your rules, and wondered if I could get a fic with Leona, Vil, Malleus, and Lilia being in a relationship with a Venti! Reader? Essentially, Venti is a Genshin Impact character who plays the lyre, controls the wind, and has a playful personality.

‧₊˚✧ As Free as the Wind ‧₊˚✧

↳ Twst guys with a Venti!reader 

feat: Leona ❋ Vil ❋ Malleus ❋ Lilia  genre: humor, mild fluff note: no pronouns were used with the reader, Venti!reader is of legal age to drink, no spoilers regarding the Genshin Impact storyline, minor spoilers for TWST Book 7

Thank you reading my rules, always appreciate the extra effort people make! I deeply apologize for how late I am with this, but I hope you enjoy the post. Hopefully I captured Venti's personality well enough >_<'

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

Ooff, did he first thought you were a pain in his tail. 

Loud, cheeky, no fear of disturbing anyone for entertainment or favors… at least Ruggie has the decency to be useful. 

He scoffed when you smile and act as if he can’t sense a dangerous well of power within you, the playful persona you present may fool a common man but not Leona.  

He’ll play your game though. There’s no benefit to him to pry into your secrets. He finds this side of you, the one that would play a soft ballad for him for some booze money, much easier to deal with. 

This is a strange relationship, but Leona can respect someone strong and most of all, doesn't tell him what to do. You believe in free will and freedom above else, which Leona appreciates. 

“The concept of one king ruling over all... I can’t say I’m too interested in a land like that.” 

Leona laughed at your boldness. With you, there’s no sense about stuffy responsibilities and obligations. 

There are sweet days where you and Leona would spend the day in the greenhouse, Leona sleeping soundly as you play your lyre while humming your new poems, the wind carrying your melodic voice. 

“Huh, do you have a song for me? Hah, what do you want from me this time? Fine, I’ll let you play.”

Vil immediately clocked something powerful about you, your nonchalant persona is good, but you cannot fool a seasoned actor like him. 

No matter, though. Vil has no interest in delving into someone’s past like that. Vil assumes that if you must act so easy-going yet private about yourself, then he won’t pry into such things. One must have reasons, he supposed. 

However, Vil cannot let go of your pension for the “occasional” drink or two. Vil doesn’t care that you are older than your appearance suggest, alcohol impacts your body and health as you age so he rather you limit that little habit of yours. 

“Come now, Vil. Another bottle wouldn’t hurt~” 

“Hmmph, you don’t have to worry much about yourself when you’re drunk but I most certainly do, especially when you come to me reeking of wine.”

But you always managed to quell his anger by singing ballads and poems about your wonderful beloved Vil. That always lifts the Housewarden’s mood and you end up with a mere reprimanding. Hehe.

Vil will not, however, forgive you so easily if you get too mischievous with him. The beautiful man can respect your talent with wind and currents, but he doesn’t appreciate the gust you would conjure up if it messes up Vil’s appearance too much. 

“Don’t even think about running away from me. I know you were behind the sudden rush of wind, my mischievous one. Acting cute or sweet words is not going to work this time.”

However youthful you may appear, Malleus can sense an old soul within you which feels familiar and powerful. 

Malleus is often surprised by you, for your playful and bold nature while handling the wild winds as skillfully as you hold the lyre. You bear similarities to a certain someone that he can’t help but respect you and hold you to a higher regard than any typical being. 

Malleus doesn’t hate that easygoing personality of yours. On the contrary, he enjoys that spontaneous side of yours as you suggest the strangest of ideas to a powerful figure such as him. 

“Let's go jumping in puddles and see who can make the biggest splash!“

You are a sociable being, making friends so easily that it baffles the young fae. A few cute words from you and it was suddenly so easy to lower one’s guard around you. 

However, when you’re alone and don’t realize his presence, Malleus catches that gleam of loneliness in your eyes as you gaze from your tall resting spot. A look that Malleus feels a kinship with you in that regard.

”You would like to take a stroll with me tonight? Oh, a race in the sky, you say? Very well, but don't be conceited enough to believe I’m so easily bested.”

Dear Sevens, why would you ever let these two chaotic gremlins be in the same vicinity? Do you know no mercy for others?  

The two of you would hit it off so well, it’s almost concerning. Lilia finds you a delight to be around, almost a kindred spirit even. 

“So, you also took care of a dragon long ago.” 

“Yeap, but he sorta became a nation-wide threat when I decided to leave and go off on my own.” 

“Ah yes, those things do tend to happen.” 

(if you can’t tell who’s saying what, that really speaks to how similar a coincidence that was)

Jamming sessions ALL. THE. TIME. The campus has not known a single moment of rest as you display your musical talents in the courtyard while Lilia encourages you all the way, occasionally playing along with an instrument of his own.

Lilia is fascinated by your lyrical retellings of your world and would love to visit this kingdom that values freedom among all else, and of this dandelion wine you speak so lovingly about.

As a man with his own… history, Lilia isn’t the type to ask too much about you if he sees you dodging the question. He can recognize that familiar look of longing and loss, so Lilia doesn’t press further and instead indulge with you in one more glass of bittersweet wine. 

“What tales do you have to regale for tonight? I’m always captivated by these grand adventures of yours, it’s almost tempting for this old soul of mine, hehe.”

[peachy-skies-writings]

sdv bachelor's reaction to angry/upset farmer because (bachelor) forgot their relationship anniversary?

Thanks for sending in!! Hope you like :)

i'd like to think none of them would forget though ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stardew Bachelors - Forgetting Their Anniversary Headcanons

💚🏈 Alex 🏈💚

It would take him a little while to realise that you were upset and the reason you are. You might have to explicitly tell him that you’re mad if you don’t show it by stomping around and grumbling.

He would feel so bad. So sosososososo bad. Probably the worst he’s felt about anything. Especially if it was important to you.

Alex would make it up to you by buying you flowers or a gift that you really like. He’d go kinda overboard with it though. Like if you liked violets, there would be 100 violets in a beautiful vase by the end of the day - even if he had to pick them himself.

🧡📖 Elliot 📖🧡

He’d like to think he knows you pretty well and he can tell straight away that you’re upset and annoyed. He asks you straight away why you’re upset with him.

Once you tell him, the colour drains from his face and guilt sweeps in.

Elliot would make it up to you by writing you a poem, apologising profusely and offering to do any chores for you until you forgave him.

🤍🩺 Harvey 🩺🤍

Instantly, he knows you’re mad and he can tell straight away that he’s the reason. He’ll try to think why and it’ll dawn on him when he looks at his calendar. Like a ton of bricks.

Harvey would feel super guilty. He’d probably let it eat him up for a bit. He can’t believe he forgot.

Harvey would bring you breakfast in bed for the next week and he’d put extra care and attention into the meal. Definitely would do heart shaped pancakes. He’d never forget again though as he’d highlight it on his calendar properly and sets and alarm on his phone.

💙🎸Sam 🎸💙

Oblivious about why you’re mad at him. He knows you’re mad but he’s just hoping it’s not him.

When you ask him what day it is and he realises he feels so bad. He’d had it written on his hand to get you a gift for weeks… well, he wrote it a few weeks ago but clearly it washed off. The intention was there.

He’d write you a song to apologise and serenade you with it, maybe even record it for you. Sam would definitely buy a diary or something to write down important things so he never forgets again.

💜🎮Sebastian 🎮💜

Would stay in his room and stay out of your way when you’re angry. He doesn’t really deal with it well. Once you somewhat calm down, you’ll have to let him know what is wrong.

Sebastian would feel absolutely terrible about it, especially if he knew how important it was to you.

He’d quickly pull together a cosy movie night date for the two of you, using a bedsheet as a screen and borrowing a projector from someone in town. He’d pull together your favourite snacks and drinks, as well as giving you a selection of movies to choose from.

🖤🐓Shane 🐓🖤

Would kinda get out of your way if you’re angry and would head over to Marnie’s. Marnie would make an off-handed comment about what he had planned for the night since it was your anniversary and Shane would just stop what he was doing and whisper “oh shit.” 

He was worried that you’d leave him to be honest and he’d feel awful.

Shane would come home with flowers and your favourite snack. He’d make it up to you by promising to plan the best anniversary date later in the week.

[pynkhues]

I would LOVE to read your analysis of louis as byronic hero as apposed to his reading as gothic heroine. lots of the latter and zero of the former in the fandom.

Sure! Mmm, okay, so –

What are we talking about when we talk about Gothic Heroes?  

When we talk about gothic heroes, we’re really talking about three pretty different character archetypes. All three are vital to the genre, but some are more popular in certain subgenres i.e. your Prometheus Hero may be more common in gothic horror, whereas your Byronic Hero might be more likely to be found in gothic romance. That’s not to say they’re exclusive to those subgenres at all, and there is an argument that these archetypes themselves are gendered (in many ways, I think people confuse Anne being an author of the female gothic with Louis being a gothic heroine, but I’ll get into that later), but this is also not necessarily something that’s exclusive.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself, haha, so the three gothic hero archetypes are:

Milton’s Satan who is the classic gothic hero-villain. You can probably guess from the name, but he was originated in John Milton’s 1667 poem, Paradise Lost. He is God’s favourite angel, but God is forced to cast him out of heaven when he rebels against him. As an archetype, he’s a man pretty much defined by his pride, vanity and self-love, usually fucks his way through whatever book or poem he’s in, has a perverted, incestuous family, and a desire to corrupt other people. He’s also defined as being “too weak to choose what is moral and right, and instead chooses what is pleasurable only to him” and his greatest character flaw, in spite of all The Horrors, is that he’s usually easily misguided or led astray. (I would argue that Lestat fits into this archetype pretty neatly, but that’s a whole other post.)

Prometheus who was established as a gothic archetype by Mary Shelley with Frankenstein in 1818. Your Prometheus Hero is basically represented by the quest for knowledge and the overreach of that quest to bring on unintended consequences. He’s tied, of course, to the Prometheus of Greek myth, so you can get elements of that in this character design too in that he can be devious or a trickster, but the most important part of him is that he is split between his extreme intelligence and his sense of rebellion, and that his sense of rebellion and boundary pushing overtakes his intelligence and basically leads to All The Gothic Horrors.

And the Byronic Hero, who as the name implies, was both created by and inspired by the romantic poet, Lord Byron in his semi-autobiographical poem, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage which was published between 1812-1818. The archetype is kind of an idealized version of himself, and as historian and critic Lord Macaulay wrote, the character is “a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection.” Adding to that, he’s often called ‘the gloomy egoist’ as a protagonist type, hates society, is often self-destructive and lives either exiled or in a self-exile, and is a stalwart of gothic literature, but especially gothic romance. Interestingly too, in his most iconic depictions he’s often a) darkly featured and/or not white (Heathcliff being the most obvious example of this given Emily Bronte clearly writes him as either Black or South Asian), and b) is often used to explore queer identity, with Byron himself having been bisexual.

Okay, but what about the Gothic Heroine?

Gothic heroines are less delineated and have had more of an evolution over time, which makes sense, given women have consistently been the main audience of gothic literature and have frequently been the most influential writers of the genre too. The gothic genre sort of ‘officially’ started with Horace Walpole’s 1764 novel, The Castle of Otranto and Isabella is largely regarded as the first gothic heroine and the foundation of the archetype, and the book opens even with one of the key defining traits – an innocent, chaste woman without the protection of a family being pursued and persecuted by a man on the rampage.

The gothic heroine was, for years, defined by her lack of agency. She was innocent, chaste, beautiful, curious, plagued by tragedy and often, ultimately, tragic. Isabella survives in The Castle of Otranto, but she’s one of the lucky ones – Cathy dies in Wuthering Heights, Sybil dies in The Picture of Dorian Gray, Justine and Elizabeth both die in Frankenstein, Mina survives in Dracula, but Lucy doesn’t. There’s an argument frequently posited that the gothic genre was, and is, about dead women and the men who mourn them, and Interview with the Vampire certainly lends itself to that pretty neatly.

Of course, the genre has evolved, and in particular by the late 1800s, there was a notable shift in how the Gothic Heroine was depicted. The house became a place of imprisonment where they were further constrained and disempowered, she was infantilized and pathologized and diagnosed as hysterical, and as Avril Horner puts it in her excellent paper, Women, Power and Conflict: the Gothic heroine and ‘Chocolate-box Gothic’, gothic literature of this era “explores “the constraints enforced [by] a patriarchal society that is becoming increasingly nervous about the demands of the ‘New Woman’.”

This was an era where marriage was increasingly understood in feminist circles to be a civil death where women were further subjugated and became the property of their husbands. This was explored through gothic literature as the domestic space evolved into a symbol of patriarchal control in the Female Gothic.

Female Gothic vs Male Gothic

Because here’s the thing – the female gothic and the male gothic are generally understood to be two different subgenres of gothic literature.

While there are plenty of arguments as to what this entails, the basics is that the male gothic is written by men, and usually features graphic horror, rape and the masculine domination of women and often utilises the invasion of women’s spaces as a symbol of further penetrating their bodies, while the female gothic is written by women, and usually features graphic terror, as opposed to horror, while delving more specifically into gender politics. More than that though, its heroines are usually victimized, virginial and powerless while being pursued by villainous men.

The Female Gothic as a genre is also specifically interested in the passage from girlhood to female maturity, and does view the house as a place of entrapment, but she is usually suddenly “threatened with imprisonment in a castle or a great house under the control of a powerful male figure who gave her no chance to escape.”

That’s not Louis’ arc, that’s Claudia’s arc twice over, first with the house at Rue Royale, then with the Paris Coven, and Lestat and Armand aren’t the only powerful male figures who imprison her.

Claudia as the Gothic Heroine

Claudia in many ways is the absolute embodiment of the classic gothic heroine. Even the moment of their meeting is a product of Louis’ Byronic heroism – his act of implacable revenge against the Alderman Fenwick which prompts the rioting that almost kills her. She’s a victim of Louis’ monstrousness before they’ve even met, and while he saves her, he arguably does something worse in trapping her in the house with both himself and Lestat, holding her in an ever-virginal, ever-chaste eternal girlhood, playing into Lestat’s Milton-Satan by enhancing the perversion of family and ultimately infantilizing her out of his own desire for familial closeness.

Claudia has no family protection before Louis and Lestat – a staple of the gothic heroine – she is completely dependent on them in her actual girlhood, and again in adulthood, never developing the strength to be able to turn a companion, to say nothing about the sly lines here and there that further diminish and pathologise her (Lestat calling her histrionic, Louis making her out to be a burden, etc.). This is all further compounded again with the Coven, and when the tragedy of her life ultimately leads to the tragedy of her death.  

Louis as the Byronic Hero

Not to start with a quote, but here’s one from The Literary Icon of the Byronic Hero and its Reincarnation in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights:

“Generally speaking, the Byronic hero exhibits several particular characteristics. He does not possess heroic virtues in the usual, traditional sense. He is a well-educated, intelligent and sophisticated young man, sometimes a nobleman by birth, who at the same time manifests signs of rebellion against all fundamental values and moral codes of the society. Despite his obvious charm and attractiveness, the Byronic hero often shows a great deal of disrespect for any figure of authority. He was considered "the supreme embodiment [...] standing not only against a dehumanized system of labor but also against traditionally repressive religious, social, and familial institutions" (Moglen, 1976: 28).

The Byronic hero is usually a social outcast, a wanderer, or is in exile of some kind, one imposed upon him by some external forces or self-imposed. He also shows an obvious tendency to be arrogant, cunning, cynical, and unrepentant for his faults. He often indulges himself in self destructive activities that bring him to the point of nihilism resulting in his rebellion against life itself. He is hypersensitive, melancholic, introspective, emotionally conflicted, but at the same time mysterious, charismatic, seductive and sexually attractive.”

Louis as he exists in the show to me is pretty much all of those things, and I think to argue that he’s a gothic heroine not only diminishes Claudia’s arc, but robs Louis of his agency within his own story. Louis chooses Lestat, over and over again, he’s not imprisoned by the monster in the domestic sphere, he is one of the monsters who’s controlling the household, including making decisions of when they bring a child into it and when Lestat gets to live in it – he wanted to be turned, he wanted to live with Lestat in Rue Royale, and while there are certainly arguments to be made about their power dynamic within the household in the NOLA era, importantly Louis actually gained social power through his marriage to Lestat, particularly through The Azaelia, he didn’t lose it in the way that’s vital to the story of the gothic heroine.

Daniel Hart even said it in a recent twitter thread about Long Face, but there is an element of Lestat and Louis’ relationship that is transactional, and to me, for that to exist, they both have to have a degree of control over their circumstances and choices in order to negotiate those transactions. Claudia is the one who can’t, she’s the one who’s treated effectively as property, and she’s the one who lacks control over her circumstances.

While you could perhaps argue the constraints of the apartment in Dubai lend more to the gothic heroine archetype, I’d argue it as furthering the Byronic trope again by being representative both of Louis’ self-destruction and self-imposed exile. As Jacob has said a few times, Louis does seem to have known to a degree that Armand was involved in Claudia’s death on some level, and it’s that guilt and misery that has him allowing Armand his degree of control. The fact that Louis was able to leave Armand as easily and as definitively as he was I think demonstrates that distinction too – after all, to compare that ending to Claudia’s multiple attempts to leave the confines of the patriarchal house, both in Rue Royale and Paris, which were punished at every turn – first by her rape, then by Lestat dragging her back off the train, and then by the Coven orchestrating her murder.

Louis gets to leave because Louis can leave, he has both the social and narrative power to, and the fact that he does is, to me, completely at odds with the gothic heroine. Louis can, and does advocate for himself, Louis is proud, moody, cynical. Defiance is a key part of his character, just as his exile from NOLA society due to his race, and his chosen rejection of vampire society in Paris, is. He’s intelligent and sophisticated, travels the world, and has misery in his heart, guilt that eats him up, and self-destructive tendencies. That’s a Byronic Hero, baby!  

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, i. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. bangtan)

genre: angst

word count: 6.8k

summary: everything that begins also ends.

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

warnings: suicide ideation, yoongi has deep feelings that he hasn't felt in a long time, sexual innuendos, yoongi has brief dirty thoughts, alcohol consumption, talks of alcohol, social anxiety and feelings of anxiety in general, jungkook has mint hair, covid and the pandemic, talking to a dead loved one, jealousy, envy, anger, crying, yoongi's bad shoulder.

note: welcome to the brand new yoongi series! i can't believe this baby is alive and ready for you to read. i struggled with this a lot, since it's written in a way i've never tried before. yoongi's pov, first person—like what? i thought this chapter was pretty shitty as i didn't feel comfortable writing in this style, but i pushed through, felt like it was meant to be—which is why i need tons of your validation. i was also kinda sad today, so please send your love. :( fyi, jungkook may be a huge part of the beginning of this story, but this is not steam pt 2. jungkook won't be present as much later on. no polyamory here. *spoiler* he just brought oc to yoongi and then he will lovingly go away, dw. :) enjoy this first chapter, i can't wait for many more! kisses.

side note: happy bday to us! mwah.

It was a bang, what happened in our group. 

A bomb that blew off in Jungkookie’s trembling hands when he shared the news. A decision that wasn’t really collectively discussed, not even privately with Namjoon—but an information that erupted among us as we sat in the lounge room of the venue, refreshing ourselves with snacks and drinks after the tough soundcheck we had. I had a bottle of Hennessy in my hands myself, about to pour myself some liquid courage in order to chase away the bitter ire I had swirling in my veins, but hearing his words made me forget about the nectar right away. 

He was bringing along a female friend for the tour. 

The ire turned sour in my bloodstream. 

He must’ve lost his mind. 

And what’s worse, I was the only one who looked at him as if he were a lunatic. The members squealed and hollered, clapping their hands, shouting different variations of words of, “Jungkookie got a girlfriend!” that made him blush so profusely that he wasn’t able to reciprocate any of our eye contact. 

Especially not mine. 

I was fuming, taking breaths that hurt my lungs. The bottle of liquid courage damn nearly broke, but I didn’t feel a thing. How could I—when amidst the ruckus and the soft smiles of our staff my feelings parted and melted into a crossroad that I began to stand in the middle of. 

One way led to selfishness, the other to the very polar opposite of it. 

Jungkook didn’t deal with the pandemic well. His skin was invariably lined with a certain sensitivity towards forlornness and when the mandate forced upon him a pressure of being abandoned—by us and by his long time flirt that was the driving force behind his creativity, besides Army themselves—he didn’t take it well. Crawled inside himself, even deeper within when our management canceled our Map of the Soul tour and we had to stay bricked up inside our homes for a full year. 

He was crestfallen and despondent, a decaying human. No girlfriend, no Army. No band members to slap his back, cook him food and distract his mind from the loneliness. 

Except for me. 

I was the one who made time for him. Who visited him, despite our management’s strong disliking for it. I went around them and did it without anyone’s knowledge but Jungkook’s. With a mask and health in perfect condition that I took care of more for him than for anyone else. Our relationship blossomed to highs that overgrew the bricked walls of our mandatory, artificial castle. A peach honeysuckle vine that we watched as much as we could while I wrote poems to him in my heart to alleviate his ache. It was spring and one, singular  hummingbird would fly in to listen to my words while inhaling the sweetened perfume of those pale orange flowers or the fragrance of the natural honey I would buy him and pour over the pancakes I would make for him. A comfort food, a symbol of our secret meetings. A butterfly would sit on the small creature’s back, just to look over its wings and be a witness to a mind’s mending, an afternoon’s tea mixed with dark liquor that would always fade to noraebang. 

The key to Jungkook’s heart. 

I don’t know how the little fella found us, but I wish his wings would sense us here. There’s no windows for him to look out of, but the craving in me for it to fly in and save the day, remind Jungkook who’s been here for him this whole time, blossoms in me just like those peach flowers. 

The castle has collapsed a tiny bit, but the honeysuckle remains untouched. 

Or at least I hope so. 

The other, non-selfish way is simple. Our work had been put off for so long and now that we’re able to pick it back up—in a way that isn’t as satisfactory as I’d want it to be, of course, for the only faces we’ll be seeing beyond the stage are the ones of camera lenses, not the ones belonging to our beautiful Army—there’s a distraction, an external person who could never understand the gravity of that pain we all went through. 

This was supposed to be a precious time shared between us. Another mending of some sort—as our job is the chambers of our hearts. 

And now as I look at her, I feel her playing with those strings of my heart like a harp. And I have that terrible feeling that she will open the doors to each chamber and ruin everything we’ve worked so hard for. 

In spite of the fact that she didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a gut feeling that consumes me and I can’t do a thing about it, not even admit that it gives me the tiniest hint of a thrill that I’ve been craving for so long. 

Jungkook wasn’t the only one affected by the loneliness that came with the mandate. I gave my all to him and always walked out of his door empty—with no one to refill me. 

Performing again was supposed to do the job, but it seems as though she’s come in to hijack it.

Announcement, the ruffling of his hair and multitudes of teasing aside, we had an hour and half left until the beginning of our first show in Seoul. Jungkook left us, with cheeks as darkened as poppies in the summer, with a staff member and our bodyguard to pick her up at a designated meeting spot nearby. He hadn’t eaten all day—not before our dismal soundcheck and certainly not during our hair and makeup session. A ribbon of worry curled tightly in my gut that unfurled once he filled his plate with hotdogs after introducing her to us.

No shaking of hands, only Jungkook’s hand pointing at each member while his mouth gave life to their names. And she didn’t nod her head, not even once, as she moved to greet and smile at every face, which caused me to think that she either already knew of us, either due to our popularity or due to Jungkook’s stories—or both. 

But when it was my turn, her smile faltered.

I didn’t see much of her face, for she wore a black mask. And the only part of her features I was able to see spoke to me in a foreign language I was too pissed off to decipher.

Feline eyes. 

Round and wispy, so terribly cat-like that it cut through my heartstrings she played with and then abandoned. She held my gaze so unfathomably deeply and it wasn’t until she whisked her eyes away that I realized she, irrevocably, clutched time in her hands. It had stopped during that brief moment and resumed as if nothing happened. 

It unnerved me. 

As did my strange feelings as I took in the personality of her outer form. 

She wore a long silky dress, as black as her energy and her hair nearly akin to the length of that garment. Its hem brushed against her ankles with every movement she made and her feet were shod in a pair of heels that would puncture my heart if she so much as wished so. Over her shoulder hung a matching, leather purse and I noticed something that bruised, most peculiarly, my flesh. 

The clasp of her chain strap had a chubby Grookey Pokémon caged as a keychain. 

I found it as adorable as absolutely dangerous. Still do as my eyes can’t help but to watch it twirl. 

She’s a dangerous black cat, with her claws tucked in. And the entire night coils in her eyes, dressing her in innocence and a simultaneous seductiveness that make my lungs swell. 

A quintessence of beauty, she is.

After the introduction is over, Jungkook pulls out a chair for her beside him, sitting down and not wasting a second as he stuffs his mouth full with one of the hotdogs. The monkey bounces with her movement and it’s only now that my brain puts two and two together. The monster almost matches the minty tinge of Jungkook’s dyed hair with its plump, green body. 

None of them know that I match him, too. 

A leaf of the same plant swirls in my glass of whiskey. 

And the notion of iciness that it adds to the bitterness of the liquid turns to ash in my mouth as I take a sip. I, myself, sit on the armrest on the couch, alone—but not alone physically. Hobi rests, leisurely, next to me and she’s stolen glances at him more times than I like. Looked at him while completely avoiding the ring of protectiveness I’ve conjured around myself. 

She does good, but it spreads fire to the strangeness of my feelings that I can’t name. 

Is she throwing a rope around another one of the boys? Her claws itching to rise? 

Who’s next? 

I sigh as she laughs, softly, at something Namjoon says and it deepens my ire. Namjoon should’ve made order as the leader of our group. Should’ve said no to Jungkook at the unfolding of his news and keep the number of our group to seven. Especially when our time together is this precious. 

Not chatting her up and coaxing that wonderful sound out of her.  

“Can we get you anything to drink?” Namjoon asks, waving his hand in the direction of the alcohol station out far in the left corner of the lounge room. A mint plant mocks me as my eyes flick to it while I take another sip. The reason why it’s there in the first place is because Jimin likes his mojitos. 

He sips on it like it’s a Capri-Sun as I swallow the dark liquid after swirling it in my mouth for a moment, the bitterness doing nothing to stifle my ire. 

“No,” she says, feebly, brushing her fingers down the length of her ebony hair before tossing it over her shoulder, giving me a perfect look of one singular strand that has been dyed in the same pale green color that is suffused all though Jungkook’s hair. The shade, but darker, more sinister, imbues my blood with envy. It’s not that soft color, redolent of spring meadows, by any chance. It’s an ancient, vague memory of a forest once in full bloom that is now withering and dying at dusk. How long has he been seeing her that they reached this base? “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thank you.” 

Namjoon licks his lips, spreading his arms over the two empty chairs beside him. “Ah,” he laments, smiling at her, gently. “You don’t drink at all?” 

Jungkook lifts his head from his plate, laughing through his nose as he chews his food, his mouth forming into that bunny smile of his. He knows something I don’t and my green blood boils. 

The cat girl grins, her head twisted in Jungkook’s direction when she laughs, the skin under her chin rounding out, and my chest tightens in endearment at the sight of it. 

The cutest fucking double chin I ever have the eyes to see. 

Fuck. 

“Oh, she drinks,” Jungkook says, his words muffled due to his full cheeks, the food inside showing as he continues to be all smiles.

The cat girl pinches his arm, but owing to the thick fluffiness of his jumper, she doesn't reach skin, and therefore doesn't inflict the pain she intended. Jungkook pretends to moan in pain, anyway. My chest tightens again—this time for a beat longer. 

An oddity flies through my vision, slicing through my envy. 

Her claws sinking into my bare skin as I let her playfulness out—

I shake that picture out of my head as quickly as it arrives, running my fingers through my strands that had fallen in front of my eyes. The girl helps my effort by speaking, distracting me from the faint rush of lust that begins to course down my body. 

I can’t get hard. 

“Yeah, I only drink wine,” she reveals, coyness entwining around her tone, and she kneads her hands, struggling with her straight posture. 

Another distraction, one that softens, most peculiarly, my lust. 

If I were born with deaf ears, I would’ve known she was fighting through her shyness by one glance at her body language and I don’t blame her. 

She doesn’t have only seven pairs of eyes watching her. She’s the apple of fifteen more if I include our staff, sound engineers and our management. 

If I weren’t the person I was and if this wasn’t my job, I would have run the first chance I got. A certain admiration envelops my heart the more I study her toy with her fingers, soothingly, because of a reason that aches to admit. 

A reason far from plain. 

She’s the same as me. Uncomfortable by and disliking any public event with people involved, especially if you’re put in a position to talk. 

A bond forms and I can’t stop it. I can’t rip it apart even as I willfully try in my headspace to cut off that red string tied around my heart, leading to hers. I can’t because she eventually slouches, giving up, her spine protruding towards me through the open back of her dress, for she’s turned her body towards Namjoon, who sits at the head of the table, but I figure she did it in order to be closer to Jungkook to gain some comfort from him. The skin of her back is refulgent and tanned, scattered with little blemishes that connect, like constellations, to a night sky full of birthmarks, and that only add to her beauty.

Her whole back is filled with them, stirring my wonder. And, unknowingly, she let me see by sweeping her hair to one side. I wonder if Jungkook has seen them and appreciates them as much as I do—

Jungkook burps, obscenely loudly, setting down Hobi’s unfinished can of Sprite that he left on the table. I’m sure Hobi’s regretting making that mistake, but when I look at him, he’s smiling so widely that I can see his gums and I’m so astounded by that view that I’m thrown off my balance. 

Even more so, when I check the reactions of the other members and begin to feel shame descending down my own spine like cold sweat. Jimin has hearts thumping in his eyes, raising his hand in the girl cat’s direction, connecting with her as he says he loves a good bubbly. Taehyung, sitting on the direct opposite side of Jungkook by the table with his arms crossed and his face flushed intones that tonight after the show he will break his sobriety streak. Jin joins the table and flicks Taehyung’s forehead, tells him he doesn’t have to break anything while taking a huge bite of his banana. And Namjoon… he laughs, hands intertwined upon the back of his head. 

The whole table laughs, in fact.

Hobi does beside me, too.

I’m the only one who doesn’t, steeped in my uncertainty as I am. 

They all bask in comfort and gaiety. There’s no awkwardness, no unspoken words or silence that hangs heavily in the air. There’s no need for our hummingbird; no need to change directions, play pretend or act accordingly to the new situation because there’s absolutely nothing new about the atmosphere I find myself to be in. Everything is as if it were just the seven of us. 

Making jokes, lighthearted energy, connections lengthening and digging deep… 

I haven’t seen that, been a part of that in so long. 

I was wrong—and the shame, stemming from my wrong impression and unwarranted fear, washes out the envy from my blood. It stands, arm to arm, with my life-long emptiness and I bow my head down, licking my lips.

I wish to exit myself out of this room. 

I wish my heart wasn’t so sensitive. 

I wish— 

“It’s her birthday today and I bought so many bottles of champagne and wine,” Jungkook says, running his tongue over his teeth, and my head lifts; my heart enlarges before it shrinks, painfully, magnifying my shame until it grazes the flesh like a shard. It’s her birthday? “I’ll need your help, guys. We’re not celebrating here tonight. After the show, we’re going to my place.” 

It’s not peach honeysuckle that I’m thinking of. Not pancakes. Not our hummingbird and butterfly as the boys cheer all over again, wishing her happy birthday. 

It’s her that I’m thinking of. 

And how much I messed up. 

He brought her here to make her birthday special—to be with her on the day that carries her name, not to replace me.

It explains why she’s so magnificently dressed up; why she’s putting her feet through so much pain in those heels of hers. 

Just for one night. And I’ve managed to ruin it so majestically with my energy. No wonder she won’t look at me; no wonder her eyes won’t even sweep past me en route to Hobi’s chocolate fountain that his eyes emanate. 

Mine are nothing but death. I don’t blame the decline of her smile as her pools met it. A kitty cat that looked at the face of a skull. It symbolized the end of time and now I perceive that it epitomizes the end of me. 

The longer she’s present, the more I loosen the consuming negativity that I’ve lived for so long in compliance with—because now I’m soft. 

I’m gutted I made her feel awful to be here with my dark energy. 

“Jungkook, you should’ve told us that was the reason why you brought her along. We would have welcomed you with a happy birthday song,” Namjoon says, his palm lifted towards Jungkook and her while his other hand reminds behind his head. 

I can’t see her smile. Not even a hint of it in her eyes, for this time around she doesn’t turn around to steal a glance at Hobi. And I wish she would, with a strength that I’m in awe that I’m even possessing, because I find myself yearning to look at her face, amidst my softness. 

I misjudged her so terribly that the yearning doubles as she presses her hands against her cheeks amidst the overbearing attention. Becomes a need—a need to fix what I so unfairly have broken. 

And jealousy thunderstrikes in my system when Jungkook bumps his shoulder into hers, gently, his head tipped low, fixed in her direction as she struggles, once again, in her shyness. Straightens her spine just in time for Jungkook to curl a finger around her ear and take off her black mask. 

I’m so jealous everyone else gets to see her face fully that indignation supersedes my past ire and my softness and I’m quickly up on my feet, ready to walk out to breathe in some fresh air but something else steps into my plan. 

And it’s not her. 

It could never be her. 

Staffs members circle around us, guiding us out of the room to wire us up. But I stall my time, purposefully staying behind so I can look at her. I pretend to exercise my pain from my shoulder surgery by rolling it and making a face. Jungkook whispers something to her, her face pointed upwards as he stands before her while she remains sitting and I’m so bothered by it that it calls out the pain, incites it to come haunt me again. 

Everyone else had something to say to her—and yet I still haven’t, owing to my foolish mistake. Self-hatred fastens to my anger and I can’t breathe, my lack of knowing what to say to her when the time comes worsening my feelings. 

The boys leave the room and it’s just me and her. The staff member knows not to push me, but the pressure in her eyes is the driving force that takes my legs to the kitty girl. 

She sits so awfully forlornly in her chair, reminds me so much of Jungkook, her spine back to slouching, that marvelous pillar protruding again and my lungs do that thing they seem to automatically do whenever I see that part of her. 

She hears my footfalls as I approach her, but she doesn’t turn around. I ignore the way it makes me feel, the heaviness that comes with it, too. She, in most probability, thinks I’m walking out of this room without saying a word to her, but I’m not capable of that. 

Not anymore. 

I call out her name and, in surprise, she lifts her spine. Turns around, at last, the sleek fabric of the dress adding swiftness to the movement and I see her face. Her full mouth that compliments, most perfectly, her big feline eyes. And I think about how much her dark, sensual energy doesn’t mirror her personality, her coyness that hides inside until someone speaks to her. Her chin is so small that my fist would still be empty if I held it in the way my body asks for, but the look she gives me diminishes the lust that slowly begins to crawl again within me. 

It’s one that bears a different kind of shyness. It’s fear-induced respect and the hatred towards myself thickens. 

I don’t want her to feel this way, but I molded it in her. 

It’s my fault. 

It’s why I think twice before I tell my fingers no, for they ache to drum against the top edge of her chair in effort to linger in her proximity. I won’t encourage her discomfort when I yearn to wipe it clean. But when she inhales my prolonged silence and raises her thin brows in waiting, the tiniest sliver of a smile quivering on her lips, she doesn’t know it—but she somehow gives me the words I was lacking. 

“Did Jungkook tell you where to go?” I ask, softly, fearing her knees will turn away from me, her body language divulging to me the depth of her uneasiness around me. But she remains put, the pillows of her lips balancing at last as they stretch out in a small grin that I don’t deserve. 

Her slender nose crinkles. 

My heart forgets to beat.

“No, he told me to wait here and that Min-ji will take me to a room where I can watch you, guys, perform on the TV,” she says, her grin making it difficult for her to get the words out and she blushes. There must be some other, silent language shared between our bodies because I discover myself smiling, too, even though there’s nothing from her sentence that can possibly be the cause of it. 

The energy shifts, devastatingly, and heat clings to my skin, dispersing relief down my nerve endings. 

All while buzzing tingles chase it, hastily, grabbing it by the back of its shirt and consuming it. 

It’s strange, so terribly strange to be consumed by nervousness when I’ve been used to nothingness and emptiness for so long. 

And her eyes seem to grow bigger, despite the irrepressible dynamism of her fear. Is she gaining thrill out of it—to be staring at the face of breaking death like the small kitten she is and knowing it’s her power that influences me? 

Those eyes. If my ears weren’t bombarded by Hobi’s sound effects wafting down the hall and into the lounge room, mingling with the rise and fall of Jungkook’s voice as he warms it up, I swear I can hear the song of swallows in them. She’s a manifestation of a summer evening in her fear and nervousness, when those birds go mad in the tender blues and pinks of the sky—and I don’t know why I like it so much. Why I want to seize it in my hand and squeeze it. 

And she’s about to be all alone here with it while I go join the rest of my brothers. 

It’s something that doesn’t feel right. 

The staff member taps me on my back. Time is against me—why doesn’t she control it? I swivel behind me to catch her nodding her chin in the direction of the hall and I sigh, quietly. 

“Wait with her until Min-ji comes to get her, so she’s not alone here,” I tell her, then look down at the kitty girl again. 

Her raised brows create wrinkles on her forehead and once she sees that I’ve noticed, she relaxes, wetting her lips. Doesn't want me to see the surprise that comes from what she created in me. 

How cute. 

“Enjoy the show,” I murmur, moving my feet towards the exit. I gaze back at her, catch her lungs shuddering, and the words slip off my tongue before I scramble the courage to stop them. “And happy birthday.” 

Her blush reaches her neck and it’s all my vision consists of—even when I’m performing. 

Our interaction was too short. Too, too short. And my anger took on a new face. 

Hers. 

Every word I rapped as I stared into the camera, I felt it dissolving in me and transforming into a yearning so great that my verses gained new meaning. A yearning to see her again, talk to her, pinch that fear in my fingers and fling it away, make space for something in her that had the vigor to surprise me and make me soft again. And in my concentration, I didn’t have the fight in me to put a stop to it. I was doing my duty for the happiness of our Army and while I thought about her, it seemed right. Those two things went along and it spurred a pleasant feeling in me that was warmer than the adrenaline sticking to my inflamed body from all the performing. 

It didn’t hit me that she was watching me the whole time until my eyes regarded her unperturbed, flaccid posture in that white plastic chair, wading in my thoughts as I was. Her grin and the flecks of light in her eyes illuminate the room with orange, blazing fire. She’s barefoot, her heels kicked to the side, crooked, elegiac, yet still sensuous. Our show is being rerun on the TV and she’s watching it, transfixed, not realizing me and Jungkook were the first to come to her out of the group. 

A mental connection clicks in my brain at the sight of it. The peach blossoms of the honeysuckle, Jungkook and the genuine love I carry for him. It is that orange color—it’s a home that keeps it safe, the atmosphere that she exudes through her evident elation and I don’t really understand why I feel this way. 

I haven’t even known her for a day. 

And it’s forced to collapse when her pools don’t find mine, but Jungkook’s once we walk in, joining her. She holds up her hand in the air, curling down her middle and ring fingers in while the rest of her digits remain erect, small and slim as they are. Her nose crunches up in the way it did when our bodies spoke in that secret language. And when she laughs and the corners of her eyes crinkle, I realize she’s mimicking his gesture that he so often does on stage while showing off his Army tattoo. 

The finger-fucking gesture. 

Her blush beams on her face, even more so when she does a stroking movement with her curled fingers, and I can’t help but wonder, briefly, if that’s how she does it to herself when she’s all alone and the night sinks inside her skin to get a refill of her juices, only to smear it across the sky.

It’s what I need to focus on, so I don’t explode in anger that she ignores me. 

Jungkook cackles, sticking out his tongue and doing the gesture. I hide my face in my towel, getting rid of the sweat coating me—but it pours out of my pores again when I hear her giggle. 

And I need to leave, my imagination no longer strong enough to withstand the jealousy that poisons my blood all over again. 

I fling the towel out and away from me, not caring where it lands. 

I don’t meet any eyes as I walk out, keeping my sight fixed on the gray floor, streaked with black lines from the hundreds of wheels of carts that have drove down the hall and from all the sneakers that have walked past. I follow them and I don’t know where they take me until I’m suddenly face to face with the gaping night. 

And it’s not her. 

It’s my wound. 

No stars for a naked pupil to see. Merely an abounding canvas of blackness that stares back at me and questions me, questions my feelings when it knows full well how hard I’ve wept, many times, in its airy embrace. 

I sit against the wall, needing something solid to support me, the spaciousness of the roof enveloping me, but not tightly enough. There, but never close enough—always a safe distance apart, as if afraid of me. 

Everyone is so always fucking afraid of me. 

And when they lean in and graze my heart, they get repulsed by me. 

It’s an ouroboros that my life, like my legs, follows. Like a dog chasing its own tail—and it’s such a perfect comparison because I’ve always been alone, save for my brothers. Distracted for a while, then alone again. 

I’m weary of it, despite the fact my body tends to wait for the thrill of the attention, longs for it, even when I dislike it. I’m an oxymoron that won’t cease and I have to live with it. 

And I can’t exit out of it because I have millions of lives that depend on me, plus six more. 

I sigh and I think sucking on a cigarette, numbly, while I crawl on my knees through the forest of my thoughts and feelings would be a thing of perfection. But I can’t afford that. Not when we’re working again. Not when our boss lurks at every corner, has eyes everywhere. Jungkook has had his last hotdog for a while and I… 

I swathed my broken strings around someone he brought into my life. 

Through a little hole my brothers let me see by forcing her to sit through a conversation that was a pain for her. A moonlight stripe of her personality, encased by her social anxiety and shyness. One that has awakened my body to emotions it hasn’t felt the touch of in a long time. 

Why am I not fighting it? 

Why am I not coercing my soul into submission, into that abyss of emptiness and hostility? 

Why am I letting myself feel? 

She’s just a girl that he’s seeing. Many stories like these have been written before and we’ve read the lines, recognized words that limned us, only for the love interest to disappear into thin air after some time like she never existed. And she’d just be another character in his love chronicles, if her persona hadn’t spoken to me so much. 

If her body hadn’t spoken to me in a language no one knows—not even me. 

I can’t begin my sentences about her with ‘she’s just a girl’, because she isn’t. 

And I don’t understand how that’s come to be. 

It happened so quickly that I fear I wasn’t present enough. 

My wound tilts its head as my world does the same thing—slants on its axis. Coos at me, seeing me, seeing through me. Reminds me of what happened the last time I felt. 

The passing of my girlfriend gave me the gift of a gun to my hand—gave me the face of death that I’ve been carrying ever since because it nearly made my dream of time ending come true. And the kitty girl… standstill hangs off her fingers like a pearl necklace that’s too long. And I find myself wanting to wear it. Because it’s her decision, her consciousness, her will. 

Not mine. 

And it will bring me closer to my Sun-mi.

My wound begins to cry at the memory of her, raindrops pitter-pattering on the tin ridges of the rooftop and I cherish that she’s remembered and honored by such vastness, by such picturesqueness that I’ve always considered the night to be. And when the wind brushes along my fidgeting hands, I almost feel her touch all over again. 

Feel. 

I feel. 

And in my heart, I tell her. I sail to her, attaching myself to her again. Tell my Sun-mi that I am capable of feeling and that I don’t know how it came together in me. And I ask her, in utmost respect, to guide me on this unknown path. 

Because I am alone without her. Adrift, without rhyme and reason. No wits to me, no rationality, no clear perception of right and wrong. 

There’s only grayness to me. 

Maybe that’s why I, unknowingly, dyed my hair this color before the start of the tour. 

And it dawns on me, now that one chapter has closed in my life, that the passing of my Sun-mi a year and a half ago is the reason why I’ve clung to Jungkook so rigidly. Because I couldn’t spend my time on her, I spent it on Jungkook. Because I had all this love for her and I couldn’t give it to her, so I gave it to Jungkook. 

And the kitty girl has put a stop to it. 

Sun-mi graces me with the tepid, yet fuzzy impression that it’s good—that it was meant to happen. And I believe her. 

And with my belief, the rain thickens. 

A thunder rolls forward from a far-away corner of the canvas of the sky that I can’t see. And I dwell in the pool of the fountain of the love I still have for her and forever will continue to have. Kneel in it. Search for her. 

I imagine her. The button of her nose, the curl of her top lip whenever we ridiculed aegyo by doing it together and doing a good fucking job while at it. I imagine her small fist at her round cheek, but she connects my memories to the kitty girl. 

And she consumes me, wholly.

Sun-mi makes me imagine her doing a cat-like aegyo and as the corner of my mouth lifts, a particular fear devours my gut. 

A fear of closeness. 

A fear of doing something with her that I did with Sun-mi, even when she okays it in my spirit. 

A fear of reliving something so painful again. 

The rain inches towards me and I scurry to my feet, my hand trembling as I open the door to the staircase. And when I shut out the sound of hard rainfall and prevent the traumatic memories of my accident from slinking into my mind, it’s the only strength I have left. 

And I crumble. 

I mirror the rain I abhor so much. 

I sit on the top of the staircase and I sear my hands with my acid-suffused tears. Sob so devastatingly that I don’t recognize myself, drenching the denim fabric over my knees. And when I pull on my hair, numbness is all that I detect within me. 

Good. 

No feelings; only emptiness. 

I steel myself by taking a few deep breaths, letting the oxygen settle that deep in me. And I unattach myself from my Sun-mi, promise her I will get back to her soon. Go back to who I previously was before I scraped the skin of my knees raw on the hardened soil of my emotions and thoughts. 

Alone death. 

But Sun-mi doesn’t sail away back to heaven. Doesn’t let me go. She stomps her foot on the wet grass of my heart and I understand why. I asked her to guide me and what I didn’t know was that she would break the laws of heaven in order to do that. She wouldn’t whisper words of wisdom into the chambers of my heart. She would take my hand and show me wisdom, pointing me to the right decision. 

That is my Sun-mi. 

I let her because I need her. I bow to her and I would stoop to my stomach on this dirty, metal staircase floor to divulge my respect and gratitude to her if I didn’t hear a voice echoing up towards me. 

A familiar male voice calling out to me. 

Sun-mi pulls me to it and tingles vibrate down my legs as I fly through the stairs, skipping the bottom ones in order to get me faster to my brother. Sun-mi pumps blood into my heart, refreshing the grass she lays upon, and lightness descends upon my shoulders. 

Her work of art. 

Heaving, I meet Jungkook in the doorframe, glancing up at me, disappointment lidding his eyes. But I don’t fear, not when Sun-mi is with me. He opens the door wider for me to step through, but I remain fixed on my spot, panting, ringing piercing through my hearing sense. 

Too much adrenaline at once in a season of drought. My body is unable to catch up to the new acclimatization. 

“What’s going on?” I ask, my throat raw from my crying and I clear it, so there’s no evidence of my sensitivity. Sun-mi caresses the wall of my heart to soothe me and tears burn at the back of my eyes—from the simple fact that I can feel her. 

I’ve felt her only once before. A week after she died, I prayed to her, loudly, until I lost my voice. Begged her to come back to me. 

And she did. 

And it felt nice until it didn’t—so I made it my habit to attach and unattach myself because of my fragility. It is only a matter of time before the logic of your mind distinguishes a real person from a ghost. And the parting of that vulnerable mist, in the middle of your agony, isn’t for the faint-hearted. 

But Sun-mi, at this very moment, feels more real than she ever has. As if she truly was hidden in the rooms of my heart like a little doll, like a little angel that has the task from above to guide me. 

And because I need it, I’ll let more time pass through this transcendental connection. 

Jungkook flattens his lips, tightly, the tip of his tongue poking out to play with the thin metal pierced through his bottom lip. He’s changed back into the clothes he came in, minus the fluffy jacket. A black T-shirt, black pants and sneakers. It makes the green of his hair stand out—just like the wisp of the same color on that singular strand of the girl kitty’s hair. 

They have a tendency to match and shame boils in me, that Sun-mi is a witness to the jealousy I feel. I haven’t told her and I don’t know if I want to. In my momentary cowardice, I hope that she can sense it and validate it. 

But I gain nothing from her. 

Silence. 

One that Jungkook breaks. 

“Staff said that we have to wait until the storm passes.” 

My stomach sinks, the memory of the rainfall faint in my ears. “Good.” 

Jungkook pauses before he voices out the question that I can visibly see rising in him. Nibbles his bottom lip, the metal tilting to the side like my world. “Where did you go?” 

My breath shivers as I inhale, tasting my half-false words before I speak them. “I felt hot and I needed some fresh air.” 

I felt jealous that you made dirty innuendos with your friend, I don’t say. It led me to seek my dead girlfriend because I feel inclined to fraternize with that aforementioned friend. 

Jungkook frowns. “You went out in the rain?” 

I pass through the gap between his body and the doorframe, not able to stand the position I’ve been put in, anxiety prickling my fingertips. Jungkook lets the door shut behind him with a loud thud, following closely behind me until he falls in step beside me. 

“It felt refreshing until it didn’t,” I decide to mutter. Typical words of mine—I can’t stand them either. 

Sun-mi is still silent.

Maybe I should unattach myself, protect myself from further pain. It was a moment of weakness, anyways—

Jungkook rubs my shoulder, gently, the fixed one, barely touching me, but the gesture is there. And I grasp why I love him so much. 

His gentleness is everything to me. 

“The rain will stop,” he says and I take those words to heart, giving them the meaning that they are the wisdom I needed to hear, the wisdom I sought from my quiet Sun-mi. 

The rain will stop. 

The sensitivity will stop, too. 

And time will stop soon, one day. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff.

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