#he learned his lesson and once he got complacent learned it again

[magical-misfit]

Thinking about that one post that was like “Gerard wants to stay in the castle when war comes because he spent his formative years struggling to stay alive and survive and now he’s expected to do it again”

Like…yes you get it.

Gerard was ten.

And at ten years old he knew death better than others. He watched his first friend get eaten alive as part of the food chain at work, he nearly died at the teeth of a dog because he didn’t understand why it was weird for a talking frog to address a guard like a prince. A ten year old experienced near death for the first time and people still have the audacity to call him a coward.

He stayed in that pond for god knows how long (he states he’s thirty but we don’t know how long he and Elody have been married) and he waited for ages for someone to come find him, anyone really. That heron probably came by every day, same with the hunters and their dogs. How much death and injury did you think Gerard saw over those years in the pond? How much bravery and cleverness do you think he had to muster up in himself so as not to get eaten? No wonder he latched onto Elody and the castle life so quickly.

And when war comes at a time when he’s supposed to be free, a time when the curse has been broken and everything is fine, of course he flees. Of course he claims they can stay in their castle and be okay.

Because Gerard knows death. And he knows that if he leaves the castle again, he’s not sure he’ll make it back this time.

And he’s right. He doesn’t.

(At least that version of him anyway)

[haptronym]

Okay, I’ve been quietly enjoying MHA as it finished up. The fixation has waned and I’m generally not obsessed enough anymore to put the effort into making more fanworks. But it seems like I have a few beehives left to kick before I move on. On this episode: I got set off by this industrial-level optimism and am going to rant about misleading story shortcuts.

(Spoilers for the end of the manga.)

There's a very common phenomenon that crops up in stories everywhere. A character goes though an experience obviously meant to Teach A Profound Lesson. The character gives a wrenching speech about how they're so changed now. And then... they go right back to doing the exact same shit they were doing before. The story writes "THEY'RE DIFFERENT NOW! DOESN'T THIS FEEL SATISFYING?" on the character's forehead in big block letters, but doesn't bother to follow through. It just hopes that people will do exactly what that post does: i.e. not think very hard and pretend it’s what actually happened.

MHA does this a lot. And Izuku and All Might are both poster children for this phenomenon.

The post I linked at the top is not an example of amazing character development. It is extremely awkward proof that neither of these main characters have meaningfully changed at all. I’m also going to go on a brief tangent and argue that their behavior has absolutely nothing to do with quirklessness because the narrative itself has not given a flying fuck about quirklessness since chapter 1.

Let's start with Izuku. At the beginning of the series, his greatest dream was to be a hero. But he did nothing to achieve it. He muttered and he scribbled in a few notebooks. No training, no real effort. And then he was ready to just give up completely after talking with All Might. All Might had to chase him down and dump a miracle intervention into his lap before he finally put forth any real effort.

And at the end of the series, once Izuku lost the last of his embers, he... apparently gave up again, became a schoolteacher, and spent his days spouting cope so lame that even other teachers didn’t believe it. It seems obvious he was not truly satisfied, but we weren’t told he did anything to change his fate. He just sat around complacently, for eight years, until All Might once again swooped down and shoved a second Deus ex Machina into his hands.

Oh, and did he have a whole arc about how he shouldn’t run off alone and try to do everything himself? He should rely on the help of his friends? That’s cute. Well, anyway, he’s going to run off alone for his final fight until his friends chase him down, again.

Contrast how Izuku learned to be not so reliant on All Might's guidance. That was very cool, and most importantly, it had consequences - it got him to learn kicky kick instead of punchy punch and triggered many of the events of the Dark Hero arc. But man, it was a pretty minor epiphany for a main character carrying an entire series on his back.

I like Izuku! He's a great character. I think it's cool and realistic that he defies the typical gung-ho overcome-every-obstacle Shonen stereotype. But it’s clear he didn’t change very much over the course of the series.

And All Might? Man.

All Might sees and learns a lot of things during the story. Many of his assumptions are, seemingly, challenged. But in his badass final fight, does he show any indication that he's learned anything new over the course of the series? Any proof that he's changed as a person? Anything at all? He runs off to fight alone, like he always has. He (apparently) doesn't even tell anyone he had the suit up his sleeve! So much for working together and sharing burdens with others. "I thought your quirks were cool so I copied them for my secret robot suit lol" hardly seems like a meaningful act of connecting with those around him. And has he learned anything from watching Izuku's heartbreaking unnecessary self-sacrifice? Not according to his suicide-bomb attempt. He’s only saved by the bad guy's overpowering urge to monologue.

"But but but he learned that you can still be a hero despite being quirkless!!!" Here's the problem: All Might never says Izuku can't be a hero without a quirk. Here's what he actually says:

What does he give Izuku at the beginning of the series? Power. What does he give Izuku at the end of the series? Power, after letting Izuku stew for eight whole years. (What a swell dude. What a dad!) It is the exact same scenario.

Yes, at the beginning, he used the shorthand of quirklessness = no power, and by the end, he's eager to hand out Iron Man suits. Believe me, I wish this change happened because he struggled with his deep-seated feelings of inferiority due to his latent quirklessness and finally learned that even the quirkless are inherently Worthy and Valid. But the way the story handled it, this "character development" boils down to "Oh, right, my buddy's kid can make rad support items!"

I've pointed out before that quirklessness showed up in chapter 1 as a cool story hook and then went out for cigarettes and never returned. We learn all about heteromorph discrimination but nothing about quirkless people, even in the movie about bad guys trying to eradicate all quirks! All the story's main conflicts are about strong vs. weak quirks, "good" vs. "bad" quirks... not quirks vs. non-quirks. 

It doesn't matter to the characters either, to a truly bizarre degree. It gets dropped into Aoyama’s backstory to explain why AFO had power over him, but that’s about it. He even said it didn’t bother him as much as it bothered his obsessed-with-status parents. When Mirio is rendered quirkless... he might as well have torn his ACL. No existential grappling, no consoling speeches from Izuku or All Might, nothing besides Izuku briefly overthinking things and wanting to play quirk-hot-potato. And then Eri presses the undo button and nobody speaks about the issue again.

You'd think it would be a huge deal for born-quirkless Izuku and All Might. But they never talk about it. They never even think about it! They discuss it together for an entire two pages during the sports festival. It makes a surprise appearance in a single sentence in a single flashback of All Might's (which doesn't even make much sense... he says quirklessness means he "has no role"... after impressing Nana with the clear and detailed role he's invented for himself).

Its most important function is as a convoluted, unnecessary plot device explaining why Izuku and All Might were the most bestest OFA holders. Aside from the too-many-quirks-breaks-the-OFA-holder plot device, they could both have been born with unimpressive quirks and pretty much nothing would change about them, fundamentally, as people.

Even in the very last chapter, the part that's clearly reenacting the events of chapter 1... Izuku's mini-me symbolic stand-in is not a quirkless kid. He's just a kid with a weak quirk. You know, like 9/10 of Izuku's middle school class. The story doesn't even want to touch quirklessness in the callback to the scene where it mattered most! It treats it like an embarrassing promise it blurted out while blackout drunk that it wants to forget ever happened.

All Might still thinks of heroism in largely the same way. There are technically changes, but they’re all surface-level. He doesn’t go on about the ways you can be a hero by, say, using your huge influence and monetary resources for good. No, you’ve gotta have power. It could have been poignant that he expanded his definition of “power” from “quirk” to “cool technogadget,” but the story didn’t explore that. Izuku pays some lip service to the idea of alternate versions of heroism in the last chapter, but as soon as he gets the opportunity, he ditches his school job to go do real hero work. 

If anything, All Might’s biggest character development comes from understanding that his legacy will live on. His dream won’t die with him. The many lights of his students now burn bright with his inspiration and will see his work continued. 

But this realization is not tied to his quirklessness, and does not really affect his definition of heroism. And once again... no concrete evidence of change. Partially because the ending rushes past like a runaway freight train, but still.

This issue isn’t exclusive to All Might and Izuku. I’ve seen a lot of criticism thrown at MHA as a whole because this pattern has repeated over and over and over everywhere. Lots of poignant speeches and gripping scenes, and then the world and the characters just traipse on as if nothing happened.

After a lifetime of watching cartoons... I find it hard to get upset when serialized comics do things like this. It’s a bit like getting upset at episodic cartoons for resetting to the status quo every episode, or dinging a children's show for oversimplifying good and evil (MHA fandom: take note of this, too). Sure, there are story formats, like novels, that ought to have a well-thought-out, meaningful progression from start to finish. But that is overwhelmingly not what you’re going to get with stuff like Shonen Jump stories, where authors have to sacrifice story integrity for a million different reasons, like merch tie-ins or fluctuating character popularity or trying to ensure a high view count so they don’t get dropped. (Hi, eighteen billion explosion cliffhangers! You’re still stupid!) It is really, really hard to make a coherent story under conditions like these. I want to believe that everyone is trying their best.

But I still think it’s very important to at least be aware when this attempted switcheroo is happening. We should not let ourselves get fooled when someone goes "Yep! Lesson learned!" We need to remember that actions speak louder than words.

It's almost inevitable that certain genres, like this one, are going to take these shortcuts. It's a bit pointless to spike one's blood pressure getting mad about it. But it's still always important to pay attention. And then go write nice fanfic where things have actually changed.

[cleaning-has-its-benefits]

This month I decided to be more self indulgent.

So, this is a follow-up post to one from some time ago, that one about that shelved fic of mine about the last stranger. I thought of a possible ending to it and since it wasn’t leaving my mind I decided to write it down. I went with the most angsty route for this one, also I wrote this in one go so there isn’t much editing.

Tw’s for self-harm, suicide (kinda implied) and violent imagery.

-----

His steps made no sound as he walked through the Vast Forest, not fast, not slow, reaching into his bag, touching the different objects inside and choosing, mindlessly, which one to place next, his thoughts elsewhere.

First, it was The Wisest. She was given the cruel punishment of years-long solitude, completely secluded from the world, with nothing to hear, nothing to see, nothing to smell, nothing to taste, nothing to touch… How is a mind supposed to handle that? How is a ‘self’ supposed to remain in such situation? All for simply trying to help. The sage’s sorrow does not come from the wisdom itself, but from knowing the dangers, the consequences, the preventions and solutions, yet being shushed by those they meant to help, for their help is ‘inconvenient’… Her demise was our first lesson.

He placed a red bottle cap on the ground.

Second, it was The Oldest. He knew an ancient time, he grew with The dreamer. He listened to The dreamerwith fondness, near-sighted… or was he? He smiled at us, like he smiled at those before us, like he smiled while crunching the bones of our tiny, minuscule, insignificant selves. A millenary being, surrounded by fleeting, disposable beings… The beast was an example, a down-scaled model, easier to understand for us. Embodied our reality and foretold the end… but we could predict it already.

He placed a red puzzle piece on the ground.

Third, it was The Favorite. It stood were the paths of complacency and defiance diverged. It stood, and never moved, a paw on The dreamer’s head, while he hugged it’s fluffy belly. That was all it was meant to do, a plush meant to be hugged. All it wanted was for The dreamer to be serene, yet it stood, hoping for someone to help him better than any of us could. In the meant time, it would be a blanket, for The dreamer. But it wasn’t enough, so it became a pillow fortress. But it wasn’t enough, so it became a shield of cotton. What is a shield of cotton supposed to accomplish?

He placed a red knife on the ground.

Rule of three, The Guardian’s fate was no surprise.

He looked down at the bright red knife, stopping his walk. The knife did nothing while he looked at it. Tainted in so much blood, yet it didn’t do anything when he crouched and picked it up.

All his friends were killed with this knife.

He wielded the knife and it didn’t do anything. It was harmless in his grip.

One by one, they learned to see death reflected on the blade.

He grazed the sharp edge with his index finger. It was so sharp it cut the skin that so lightly touched it, and when he pressed a bit more, it easily cut through the flesh, drawing blood.

“Ow…”

Is this the pain they felt?

One by one…

Murdered.

With this knife.

He got up and sent the knife flying against the ground. “Murderer!”

The knife bounced once before helplessly laying on the ground again. All insults died in his throat as none were enough to convey the rage he felt and, with a swift movement of his hand, black vines broke out of his skin. Mid air, they grew thorns and he sent them down against the knife to hit relentlessly. Like whips, they were designed to tear flesh at high speeds, but all they did was rise a cloud of dirt. The attack was brief. The vines retreated into his arms and he let the dirt in the air dissipate.

Not a single scratch on the knife.

Black roots separated the ground and wrapped around the knife, tighter and tighter as they retreated back, ready to kill by suffocation either from their sheer force or from being buried underground. Before they could finish the job, he dismissed them. Not all of them left, as the knife had cut a handful. Just a matter of how sharp it was, it didn’t have the will to cut.

The knife remained as shiny as before.

Stubborn, just like his owner.

That didn’t save your owner, however.

This time, a single vine slid out of his sleeve. Akin to a snake, it made it’s way towards the closest tree. It climbed the rotten trunk to the first branch in it’s path, which it circled thrice before heading down for the knife, not as a vine anymore, but as a rope. It wrapped around the knife’s handle, tying itself into a noose. He pulled and the rope snapped in half, one retreating back from were it came, the other tightening the knot around the branch.

The knife swinged lightly with the wind.

He watched his work, the rage giving way to the numbness of before.

I hope you suffered. I hope your stubbornness made you suffer until the very last second.

The knife didn’t care. It didn’t care about the fate of it’s owner. It didn’t care for it’s sharpness or how many had been killed with it. It didn’t care for the screams of pain from the punished, nor The dreamer’s wailing echoing all around the decaying world, for what seemed like an eternity.

He had tried it all, from covering his ears to screaming his lungs out, the wailing just wouldn’t quiet down. It was maddening, but what could anyone do but tolerate it?

…His guardian dog isn’t around anymore, is he?

His nails digged into his palms.

The dreamer kept crying.

He made a sharp turn in the first direction his intuition told him to and set off, in a race to find him. It was impossible to locate The dreamer by hearing, the wailing equally loud everywhere, so he relied on pure instinct, his feet hitting the oily ground from where few patches of pale grass still remained. He ran pass sick trees with low, weak hanging branches, the rot reaching the leaves.

The dreamer let out a ear-piercing scream.

Why don’t you shut up?! You choose this, you and no one else! My friends warned you time and time again and yet you never listened, and now you force everyone to hear your whining?! I’ll show you what it feels like to be silenced! Who’s gonna show the face for you, now? Do you even remember how to defend yourself? You better learn quickly, I’m not letting you run away this time.

He imagined how The dreamer would react when he spotted him. He’ll lift his face from his knees, a pathetic mess, Whatever emotion there was in his eyes won’t matter, as his entire being will be overtaken with dread. The dreamer, as always, will try to run away, but a simple root in his path will be enough to make him trip. He won’t even lift a finger, roots are all he needs. The dreamer’s cries won’t make it far while buried.

The dreamer kept crying. His sobbing was hard to understand, but from time to time he managed to form words. He called the names of his loved ones, so far away, asking for their help, relief for this immense pain, a solution for this mess he had gotten himself into. Yet, none of them answered, none of them could hear the screams inside his mind. He was alone, even in his ideal world.

The image stopped him right on his tracks. The hatred that had driven him barely some seconds ago vanished completely. Disbelief at his own behavior took it’s place.

I’m… This is not what I’m supposed to do. I can’t attack Sunny, I’m supposed to help him…

The dreamer kept crying. The world he created kept falling apart all around him.

But how was he supposed to do that? How was he supposed to help? What could he do? His friends couldn’t accomplish anything in six years, what could he manage to do in… he didn’t even know how much time was left. Hours? Minutes?

…This was the perfect chance. With Omori gone, they could talk with The dreamer directly and with all the patience they might need, with all disregard for the ticking of the clock. No need to speak in short messages, carefully selecting each word to not set him off… It was the perfect chance.

Just… why had to be him, out of everyone? Why was this chance given to him…? Maybe one of his friends could have… managed to… anything. All he could think about was guiding The dreamer to the truth, but if he was crying like that, then surely he knew everything.

He didn’t have a clue on how to help The dreamer at this point… nor he was sure he wanted to. His friends and him knew the path The dreamer choose would end like this, and if they knew, The dreamer, deep down, had to know it too. He’s just facing the consequences of his actions at last.

…What would his friends say if they heard his thoughts regarding The dreamer? Could he even call them his thoughts, or was The dreamer’s self-hatred influencing his way of thinking? They warned him this was likely to happen… Were this hatred and rage actually his?

At some point he had began to rub his own arms, but it took him a while to notice. It felt nice. He kept doing that, while thinking on what he should do, what he was supposed to do, the point of his existence. Questions with blank answers.

What is one supposed to do when the world was about to end? When in any second now, everyone would die?

‘do whatever you want,’ his friends had said. When thinking of ‘should’ gave no guidance, maybe changing the wording would help.

What would he like to do in his last moments?

What would be of his liking?

What did he want?

He kept rubbing his arms. They felt a bit less cold.

A hug.

He just wanted a hug. Someone to give him a hug, he didn’t ask for more… but he would be grateful for a hug and a few words of comfort. What words? ‘you did what you could, all of you. Simply, the stakes were against you from the start. The chances of success were low then, and just kept getting lower. This situation was beyond your hands. You did what you could.’

He let out a shaky sigh. “We did what we could…”

Yet, it was the end of the world and he would face it completely alone.

He stopped rubbing his arms. He had to clean his tears instead. He cried silently, just like his friends had taught him to.

“Why d-did it all have to end like this…?”

He tried to cry silently, but there was no way to stop his sobbing, the more he thought of his solitude. From his creation to his death, he had the same yearning: a friend. Just one. Just one person in the entire world that he could feel a bond with. Just one person to accompany him now. Just one…

That was when he heard the whistle.

‘Locate, then run,’ was what his friends had instructed him to do in these situations. With the state of the Vast Forest, it was easy for him to spot three colorful figures: a Kel, an Aubrey, and a Hero, but only in appearance. It wasn’t the first time they had encountered him.

The Kel was quickly approaching, running full-speed, in that overly efficient way that made one wonder if he even remembered what it was like to run for simple fun. The Aubrey followed close behind, wielding her bat, which looked like it was used recently. The Hero stood still, watching him, analyzing every single movement he might made, to command accordingly.

There were a few seconds of advantage at his favor, before the Kel was too close to escape from him, crucial seconds, that he had to use wisely, specially now that he was alone and the others couldn’t do the relay-trick for him and confuse the chaser… but getting away from those three was always so complicated, so tiresome…

The Kel kept approaching.

No way he could run away from him now.

The Kel kept approaching, with that unnaturally-wide smile of his, teeth tainted and eyes bloodshot.

It was a bit scary… but on the surface he was still Kel, maybe a bit on the inside too, that goofy and easy-going friend who always brightened everyone’s day with his occurrences.

Kel was getting nearer, running so fast, he must really want to reach him as soon as possible!

He turned his way, to face him fully. The dark purple eyes met his bright ones.

Kel ran towards him, and Basil, too, ran towards him.

“My friends! You found me!”

Basil was so happy! He laughed, tears of joy distorted his sight. The end of the world was a scary thing, but with his friends- if he could be with his friends the last seconds of his life-!

Kel was so close him now, Basil could see he carried Hector in his hand! He wiped his tears with his forearm, extended his arms towards his friends and closed his eyes. “I missed- I missed you so much!”

His friends would rescue him from this nightmare.

Finally, he could go back home.

[shimmerbeasts]

I'm gonna break this ask in two, so it won't get too long From here

someone they fear (For Silco)

someone they would like to befriend (For Jinx)

My muse talks about...||Accepting.

Silco lowered the cigar, he had been dragging on. Exhaling a plumage of smoke and watching it drift towards the large green glass window where it got caught up in the frame's circles and barrier, he looked back at L with a smile, born from chagrin, as he said:

"I find the word fear a very difficult term, especially when it is applied towards people. By saying I fear someone, I am indirectly giving them power over me. I have never been one to fear other people. Was I traumatised by a lot of them and does this create a panic within me when I think of the respective person? Yes, but for me, that is not the same as fear. I believe being weary of someone and having a healthy amount of caution is always useful, but again, it is not the same as fear. Still, it is how you stay in power by being able to read the threats, surrounding you, and not letting an overabundance of fear blind your common judgement."

"The only person on the council of Piltover, whom I fear on a strategic level is Mel Merdarda", Silco spoke and gestured with his cigar towards the council building looming in the far distance, "From all the rich and complacent pigs, which run the City of Progress, Mel is the only one worthy of my attention. She is the daughter of a warmongering nation and the last thing you do, is underestimate a warmongering nation. Mel was raised and bred for war. She knows more about its craft than all the Enforcers combined. She is the only one, who could pose a serious problem for the Cause. Not Talis, even though, he loves throwing his weight around. It is the quiet, intelligent people in the background, you have to watch out for, for they have control over the surface of the water without disrupting it like splashing buffoons."

My muse talks about...||Accepting.

One screw turn, two screw turns...

Jinx stored the screwdriver away and tapped against the little mechanical spider, she had built. Its legs wiggled around and as Jinx turned it on its right side, the small toy began to scamper around. It was still far away from being a useful portable bomb, but it could already move, so that was a start. Jinx's sapphire-blue eyes locked onto the end of the legs. She had modelled the tiny claws after the sharp talons on Sevika's arm. The Loose Canon crossed her arms in thought and huffed, blowing her bangs away from her face.

"Cannot believe I am saying that", Jinx finally confessed towards L, "But Sevika. I wouldn't really call it befriending, just maybe being on somewhat better terms with her. While she reminds me of Mylo on the worst days, she still kind of.... raised me is maybe the wrong word here. I also wouldn't say that she took me under her wing because that would imply that Sevika volunteered to do that." She snorted a giggle and twirled her bangs around long, fine fingers. "She trained me on Silco's behalf. I could tell she wasn't very happy about doing this at first, but she did it nonetheless. And she made sure, I got every lesson she taught me before we moved on to something new.

"And even when I just started learning about gang culture and helping the Cause, Sevika always made sure I didn't fall too far behind." Jinx brushed a strand of blue hair behind her ear. "She reminds me of Vi in that case, which is super weird. But it's true. Despite clearly having problems with me, Sevika still treated me as a part of the gang. She may have viewed me as dead weight, but she never treated me as such around the others."

Jinx flexed her fingers and hugged her knees. She huffed against her trouser leg. "I think that is why a part of me wishes we had a better relationship. As complicated as it all is and as much as I see Mylo and Vi all at once in the brutish bear, she was still there for me. Maybe in a vastly different way than Silco, but she was still there. And I didn't really do much to get on her good sight. I admit, riling her up will never not be fun, but it does not change the fact that I caused some problems for us."

[spokewar]

"That's quite the loaded question, my young friend." Once, the answer would have been simple. The Jedi had been his religion, his family, and his art for all his life — and it took years of fighting a war to change his opinion to otherwise. It wasn't a testament to his stubbornness so much as it was to how deep the Order had carved itself into his bones. And their lessons weren't wrong, weren't evil, they had molded him into a fierce warrior, yet at the same time, a complacent pawn.

"These days, I suppose I learn most from community," he paused, the sentiment not quite feeling complete. "Ones from the present and some form the ancient past."

"The Jedi Order is very, very old and I've recently found myself intrigued by our original tenants.. They are very different from the ones we follow today." An understatement, but Kara was young and unfamiliar with their ways, it would be pointless spout ideals at her. And not only was she young, but she was from an isolated planet whose inhabitants either despised his people or were content pretending they didn't exist (and fortunately given how she hadn't run at the sight of him, she probably experienced the latter).

"I grew up believing I was . . . cultured. Believed it well into my adulthood too. I just spent so much time on different planets experiencing different things, I thought I was worldly. Only, recent months have proved otherwise." Obi-Wan shrugged, as if the crumbling of his morals and reality was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"So against the judgment of my peers, I left the place I called home and set to put my ears to the ground elsewhere." He'd meant to work his way from the outer-rim to middle rim, but got side tracked on his visit to Lothal rather early on, and it had changed his motives entirely. He was no longer a Wanderer, he was a Wayseeker (and the first of many more to come). "I know how to be a good Jedi, but the type of Jedi that is, well, it's one the galaxy no longer needs. So I'm trying to plan for what the future will look like and that means relearning just about everything I know.

"I fear I grew too comfortable working for those in power, so I'm learning how I can help from the common people themselves and not just those who rule them, as well as learning how to help my people recover, and learning how to undo the thousands of years of damage we've done. It all kind of feels like learning to walk again.

"Apologies, you probably aren't interested in hearing an old man ramble. I suppose I just mean to say I gain knowledge through those that I meet, from the conversations we have, and the ones we don't. As well . . . a lot, lot lot, of meditation and introspection."

"THE ANGRY SAID NO MERCY. KILL THEM ALL. ONLY WAY. OR ELSE THEY FOLLOW. HUNT US LIKE PREY." Her hand moved almost unconsciously, rubbing at the old scars around her wrist. There were more, hidden under the cloak she kept wrapped around her like armour, reminders of the torture they had the audacity to call training.

Obi-wan's question was met with a shake of her head, one she stopped the moment Maskim dug their claws into her shoulder for stability. "NO ONE. MOTHERS KEPT US HIDDEN. NO ONE ELSE KNOWS. IS GOOD THING. ANGRY SAYS KEEPS US SAFE."

Now that he was seated Kara has no problem joining him, crossing her legs like she was any other schoolchild. "NOT ALWAYS. PEOPLE COME SOMETIME. ASK SISTERS TO KILL. ONE LEFT DOOR OPEN TOO LONG. USED SONG OF HIDING. HID FROM LIGHT, HID OWN SONG. WAS THERE BUT NOT SEEN. THEY CAME HERE." Were she not tired from her earlier attempt Kara would have demonstrated, but without the blood pounding in her ears it wouldn't last for much more than a second. She didn't have the power to keep things going for long, and no matter how nice the jedi seemed Kara knew it was better not to burn herself out trying to push past her limits.

"HAD NOT WANTED TO. HAD TO. ONCE I GOT BIG. ANGRY HAD SAID RUN. TAKE MASKIM, RUN. HOME NOT SAFE. FIND WHERE NONE KNOW OF BLOOD-MOTHERS. GO AND LEARN." Kara still didn't understand what she could learn here that the Angry couldn't teach her, but it had never steered her wrong, and Kara didn't think it would start now.

A thought crossed her mind, perhaps encouraged by a little bit of instinct. Obi-wan claimed to be a scholar, another knowledge-seeker, perhaps what she had already told him was enough for a trade. "YOU ALSO SEEK LEARNING, WHERE DO YOU FIND IT?"

[hhjs]

forget me not.

♡ based on — "During times of war. I want to say: I only love you, And I cling you, Like the peel clings to a pomegranate, Like the tear clings to the eye, Like the knife clings to the wound." and the song nightlife by daydream masi.

♡ summary  —   Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

wherein, putting your heart on the line for the sake of doing favours isn’t a frequent component in your schedule. But what happens when this favour is asked for by the boy you may or may not have fancied for far too long?

 You accept it. 

 For a very embarrassing reason, really, which is — you think Hwang Hyunjin needs you.

♡ pairing— hwang hyunjin x reader

♡ word count— 8.8k whoopsies

♡ genre and alternate universe — angst, fluff + hanahaki au.

♡ author's note— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i sort of lost my fucking mind ehe...also this is easily the worst thing i have ever written im so sorry aaa but this is a lil present from my end hahaha

♡ warnings— suggestive content, vomiting, mention of blood. allusions to depression and heartbreak.

Amongst other things, you're extremely bad at saying 'no'. You don't mean the word per se...but the underlying connotation of this very monosyllable which may come at the expense of letting another person down.

It's sort of stupid, you understand, your friends have constantly voiced their worries for your extremely complacent nature more often than you'd think actually. But it all goes over your head. See — old habits really do die hard.

When you're eight, this very defect takes you to dreadful saxophone lessons your mum spoke so highly of. When you're 15, it gets you called to the principal's office for flashing Jeongin trigonometric functions in Mister Choi's pop quiz, when you're older, things are definitely no different.

The passenger seat is occupied, Hyunjin's holding a tangled muffler to his suede jacket clad chest. At 21, he's become someone you used to know. A friend of a friend, Felix's to be very specific. But the man in question, who was supposed to be his ride, passes off this duty for kegstands and you just happen to be the designated driver for the night, shuffling Jisung beside Changbin and Chan, who claims to be 'sober' even though he's half asleep.

Hyunjin is uncharacteristically quiet.

There's a polite smile on rendered your way as your eyes meet. A small curvature along his plump bottom lip, tighter around the edges. Still this simple formality is so beautiful that you feel something inside you come alive.

When Jisung starts snoring, you flip on the radio and Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here comes on.

Your fingers feel numb when they come to tap out a rhythm to the track. It's nice. Tingling guitar riffs swelling, David Gilmour's gruffy voice pours in from faulty speakers. The more the song progresses, the more you find yourself attempting to think about anything that will distract you from the boy beside you, in the flesh no less.

So late at night, the main road is eerily silent. Cobblestones reflecting the sound of tires thumping against its layout, streetlights blinking at you from their drooping heads. Across the street, a baker is tucking away leftover bread and buskers are packing up their beat up guitars, a man in his late 50's pulling his blanket to his nose as he rests a head full of gray hair on the cold pavement.

You glance at Hyunjin from the corner of your eye and find that his staggering smile has completely disappeared. Now there's a distant glaze in his eyes. It's like he's here, in this moment, with you, but at the same time, he's somewhere else.

Under the impression you've done something wrong, you immediately begin to panic. But the thing is, you don't actually know if you should ask. Would it constitute as crossing a line if you had anyway?

Hyunjin covers his mouth with a sleeve, muffled retching building beyond fabric.

The reasonable assumption is obvious. It's not abnormal to be nauseous when you've got one too many drinks in you. He motions for you to pull over, incoherent sentences practically melding together, words forming and dissipating between choking fits.

You scramble to dig out a bottle of mineral water you habitually deposit in the glove compartment, offering him the tissue first. Ears perking up in satisfaction when a garbled thanks escapes his parted lips. But then... something weird happens.

As your eyes flicker to unintentionally glance at the contents discarded on the pitch grey sidewalk, you freeze in your seat.

You were never a big believer of superstition, not someone who buys into myths only meant for the fiction genre. Sure, you can be gullible sometimes...but what's happening falls no way under the realistic category.

The lethal Hanahaki disease, only inherited by some unlucky descendants, every moment in your head prior to this one, was something that's obviously non existent.

Yet... there's so much blood, too much blood attesting to your blatant ignorance. The petals are of a white rose, smudging together in swirls of grotesque crimson in mimicry of a sheen of red sticking to the inner corners of his lips. It has happened before, you can tell, from just how unsurprised he looks.

Hyunjin's stare flits to commit every detail of your to memory, in what only seems a quick study of gauging your forthcoming reaction, though even before you can produce a coherent thought, he says,

"You can't tell anyone." His voice drops a few octaves as though he's afraid your snoring friends in the back might've noticed. "Please."

Hyunjin's face softens by the slightest, contrary to his firm demand, there lies a desperation you couldn't overlook.

In retrospect, what you're about to tell is ultimately a promise that'd come back to bite you in due time. However, see now, you're extremely bad at saying no. Somehow you're even worse when it comes to Hyunjin. So you blink, turn the radio off and say,

"Okay."

—

The pool is preheated. For that you're most thankful.

Frankly, you couldn't imagine what it'd be like being pushed into a chilly body of water mid winter. Not that it's pleasant otherwise, you can't swim.

Well at 15, you hadn't quite learned to. The other kids have scurried inside to hog freshly baked Snowman biscuits Seungmin's mum is renowned for.

Then and you think you'll never quite forget it, Hyunjin's wearing an orange power ranger t shirt, it's darker now that it's wet, his glasses are marked with uneven splatters. His face scrunches up at the sudden splash of wetness engulfing his body. He wasn't planning to get in the water.

"Hold on tight." He says, wounding your arms around his neck, your calves tighter to his sides to support your shivering body. Back then Hyunjin's hair was black, cropped short and swept to the side, he smells like fabric softener and skittles. A water donut is discarded in the middle of the pool.

Everybody you know and don't know, from the birth of superheroes stuck in comic books to valiant protagonists behind fuzzy television screens, has this inherent desire to be saved. From the world, from themselves. No, no, it doesn't have to be a grand gesture, swooping them off of their feet from the grasp of surly men in dark alleys, sometimes it's really just simple. Sometimes people save you in the most ordinary way there is.

The weight of your form on his bright pink water donut while he stood on his toes to merely rest his elbows so the item wouldn't flip, a small act, certified this very claim, had not the nimble touch of his cold fingers, brushing away wet hair from your face, to anxiously ask if you're okay met the purpose. He talks to you like the sound of his voice has the power to injure you.

You nod slowly. Like this, it feels like you're going to be.

Hyunjin pouts, looking perfectly unconvinced. He paddles the pair of you to steel stairs spiraling into the pool, so he can stand without just his nose peeking out of the water, he looks at you once again, a wrinkle between his dark, arched eyebrows and says solemnly, "Jisung's such an idiot sometimes, isn’t he?"

But isn't he your friend? You want to ask. Something stops you though —his tone tells you you aren't the only one to fall victim to Jisung's practical jokes. Not that they were offensive or anything. Han Jisung, the same person who twiddles his thumbs when he wants the last chicken nugget and cries every time you watch Howl's Moving Castle together, genuinely doesn't mean any harm. It's just that...when he's comfortable with people, who aren't many, he tends to do a lot of dumb things. Dumb, endearing things that Minho will kill him for someday.

"A little bit," You mumble under your breath. Heat rising to your face at the possibility of Hyunjin being concerned for you. He sounds almost angry. "Thanks by the way."

It's rather pitiful to remember. Because with time, Hyunjin's world becomes so big that your interaction stands to be too insignificant to not forget. Before you know it, he's the shooting guard of your school's basketball team, just a handsome face who dates better girls, makes better friends. It's superficial and a little sad.

No, no, a little sad is an understatement actually.

To see someone you understood intimately, a boy who always described details too much just to stray from the main story, a boy with too many emotions bubbling to an awfully animated surface; someone who was passionate, sensitive and so nauseatingly big hearted...change into a man who is indubitably untouchable...is tragic. At least.

Yet funnily enough — you can't quite imagine a world without Hwang Hyunjin. His ringing laughter rippling through loud ambiences, his distant humming of Christmas carols whilst he absently skimmed through spines of children's novels and his eyes glimmering in adoration whenever he spoke of something he loved — Without him, you imagine, there would be a massive deficiency in your world, in the world. Like if birthday cakes came with the biggest slice carved out.

Hyunjin grins, a big sort of candid grin that turns his eyes into upturned crescents. His previous temperament long forgotten. Suddenly, this utterly atrocious happening seems to not be so bad. Suddenly you don't mind that Jisung is an idiot sometimes.

"Of course."

—

Hyunjin is not perfect. Hyunjin is no prince charming.

People don't know this. They don't understand this.

He ends up paying for dinner when he's out with a big crowd even though they were supposed to split the bill, he ends up crying when he gets angry and he is an abysmal liar, in every sense of the phrase. Hardly ever succeeding to hide his emotions when he should. When he was a kid his parents reminded him that it's a good thing to be unapologetically himself, that being honest is a good thing.

But as your eyes meet from across an ocean of people quagmired by crunchy leaves, sticky remnants of rain and his ex girlfriend who he now claims to be okay with being friends with, on her toes to poke his cheek whilst Chan's arm wraps around her waist, the soft white roses ornamented on a bow she loves wearing all the time, he thinks it's far from an agreeable trait to have.

Actually whilst you balance a newspaper under your arm and bring your coffee to your lips, it's like you're looking through him, past his skin, his flesh, something secret inscribed on his bones, embedded into his soul. You know everything, you know everything, you know everything.

The thought itself... surprisingly enough, doesn't appal him.

Hyunjin raises his palm in the air, feeling the autumn prickling against his skin. He waves at you.

—

Working at a library can be taxing. But it sure has its perks.

You can just about turn the place upside down and put it all back together without getting in trouble. Albeit another reason, besides your profession could be that Minho owns the place. Frankly, he may or may not have been the only cause behind your employment. It's hard to tell now that your co-workers really do recognise you've a knack for arranging things.

But to you, your job is very personal. A precious thing which relieves you from various worldly tensions. Velvety spines under your roughened fingertips, the burst of minted pages hitting your face every time you walk in, your love for reading, for a world of stories is so immense that you think you wouldn't have traded it even if your life depended on it.

For a disease that's not very well known, it's ironic how an entire section of mythology is dedicated to it. Past closing hours, amongst many novels mounted on your desk, you fixate on the one that made most sense. There's a few things you've picked up in common from all of them though — the hanahaki disease is extremely rare, it doesn't affect all those who suffer from the qualms of unrequited love.

Possible remedy according to findings entail

growths can be surgically removed, if the patient consents to eradication of memories of their loved ones.

Clanking of keys alerts incoming and you pause your tapping pen to look up.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Minho leans against the doorframe, he's half yawning, half talking and fully concerned for you.

"Yeah, looks like I'm gonna be a while." Your monotonous tone provides that you are not paying a lot of attention. You blurt without looking up. "Are you leaving?"

"No, still haven't finished archiving for that Pfizer project...But I'm going to get a bite to eat..." His inky eyes remain on you as his tone falters, "You want anything?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Wow you're like...really uh invested." He tilts his head in thought, "You seeing someone again?"

You know Minho long enough to know he has a teasing side to him, from diaper days to play dates ending in pillow fights because he kept offering you his last Pringle just to pop it into his stupid smirking mouth — but you have no idea where he's going with this.

So you look up, finally. Furrowing your brows.

"No. What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugs, "I haven't seen you concentrate so hard since you dumped Jeongin."

Your right eye twitches. Because you know exactly what he's referring to, and simultaneously, for the sake of your well-being, you much prefer being in denial. "What?"

"C'mon. Remember how you always ended up doing his homework?" He reminds you. "It's like when you like someone, you go out of your way to do charitable stuff for them. But...this? Too much. Even for you."

You ignore Minho's comment. To the world, Hwang Hyunjin's place in your life is not significant. After all this is the most natural undulation in the vicissitudes of life — for someone who once was your friend to eventually drift apart, to become a has been. It's too hard to explain why you care. After all this time.

"I was just being nice." You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. "Clearly this concept is lost on some people."

"Sure you are, bud. If being 'nice' is synonymous with whipped." Of course, there's a smug grin gracing his pouted lips that tempts you to fling something at him. Not that you can though. Seeing as Minho breaks out into a full fledged sprint, his singsongy voice a thinning echo bouncing off of shelves and windows and doors.

Still somehow his footsteps manage to travel through walls, permeating into your office with such great amplitude that you could be bamboozled into thinking he hasn't left at all. Or maybe you've stopped paying attention, your eyes zoom in on any other helpful detail you can put to use in wrapping your head around what you have witnessed firsthand.

At the same time, you can't really ignore how hungry you're feeling just from the mention of a bite to eat. So when Minho's shadow forms again on the page you've been 'reading' for the last few seconds you sense a gigantic wave of relief washing over you.

"You know what I changed my—" slamming the book shut, you blink against scanty provision of light, with raise your head and a bleary vision, recognise him in an instant. Except...it isn't Minho. "mind..."

The only source of brightness is a small emerald lamp perched on the corner of your desk, light green catches onto one of the ornamented corners and speckles of golden caress his supple skin gently. You hadn't realised how cold it might've been outside until you see how heavily dressed Hyunjin was, a long overcoat worn over woollen sweater, a Santa hat and muffler pulled to his chin. It's no one other than your boss himself who has given him directions to your office, you know this, Hyunjin has never been inside before.

So when he marvels absently, you sense yourself feeling a little self conscious about not cleaning up. All around you, a comforter and love seat pushed against the window, cigarette butts discarded in ashtray and then...the books strewn before you tell him you practically live here.

For some reason, Hyunjin only seems to loosen up at the spectacle.

"Hi." He says finally.

"Hi..." you arrange the reading materials quickly to one side so you can rest your elbows. A small (successful) attempt made to hide your research. "Something up?" You say, but what you really mean is, what are you doing here?!

Did he suspect you were going to tell on him? Right that's it, that must be it, you tell yourself, believing, knowing, of all the years Hwang Hyunjin has known of you he has never been one to care about your whereabouts.

"I just...um," He starts, forwarding his mitten clad hands. It's the back of a crumpled coffee cup on which straight handwriting reads a bucket list...of sorts. You immediately understand that his coming is an act of impulse. Urgency of living every moment like it's slipping through it's fingers, that he just needed to tell the only person who knows, be it by accident.

Hyunjin clears his throat. "I wanna do all this before I die."

In lieu of giving an instant response, baffled, you gawp at him. Despite knowing, hearing Hyunjin say it out loud somehow makes everything...too real.

It's as though someone's reached inside your throat, pulled your heart out and crushed it with their bare hands. Hyunjin, the boy who smelled like fabric softener and skittles and wore power ranger shirts, the boy with the fantastic smile and cold fingers, is dying. You won't let him. You can't let him.

You thumb along the numbers scribbled in hasty penmanship, look up and blink rapidly, "Okay," you say, a small whisper, barely there words. "That's okay."

Even with the hat covering tips of ears, you could tell the same faint blush coating his cheeks had rushed to that particular area. His eyes drift off to the sight of pens discarded inside a wooden holder because he can feel your gaze on him. "and I...I need your help."

"Alright."

Hyunjin's eyes widen to a great degree, he sits straighter, as if he hadn't expected you to comply so quickly.

And honestly? Neither had you.

It's quiet. Awkward.

"You know it's not like I haven't thought about dying. I just figured I'd get to grow old first, settle down, have kids and all that," A wry laugh escapes his parted lips. "Everything's happening too fast."

You hesitate, thinking he's making a mistake. Frankly he shouldn't feel obligated to give you an explanation.

"You...you don't have to tell me."

"No—I mean...can I?" He gives you a sheepish look, disliking his own whimsical tone, somehow endearing still. You find yourself wondering how long he had to keep his burdens to himself, not just pertaining to his illness, but everything. His dreams, his hopes, his fears. Anything which requires a certain amount of depth. And you almost ask him, the question sitting at the tip of your tongue, yet the realisation rather simple, stops you. Maybe you've mistranslated 21 year old Hyunjin all along — moulding himself into someone who's convenient around people who only liked him for who he appeared to be, maybe even with all that popularity, parties and glamour, he's just...lonely.

You push your reading glasses into your hair, press your knuckles under your chin and hum in consent.

He shifts in his seat, "Have you ever... been in love?"

You release an amused huff. Let your eyes linger on him for a long minute.

"Once."

Hyunjin half expects you to laugh. Poke fun at him for his melodramatic backstory. That's the sole reason why he doesn't tell his friends (funny, for people he considers close, they seem to know not much about him or care to know, that is. ). But you... you look at him with something in your eyes that tells him the rubbish reasons he posited makes all the sense in the world. Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

—

 Midnight rendezvous.

As someone who has lived a fairly extraordinary life, Hwang Hyunjin's bucket list is bafflingly ordinary. He's more of a finding joy in small things kind of a person, punctilious at best.

Things change. People notice. They hesitate, whisper about you and last night while you were out on last minute cheap wine run, the grocerer, a girl who looks around sixteen asks you if you're dating Hyunjin. Underneath the thinly veiled curiousity, there's something like anger dripping from her words.

You furrow your eyebrows in simple insinuation that it's weird for a stranger to take interest in your life. Maybe it was written on your face, the fact that you're a dying man's beck and call is for reasons far more complicated than it looks.

You go to his parties. Greet him as a friend would and not just for the sake of maintaining formalities. He comes to the library more times than he does, waits for you to get off work so you can check something off the list at least. People notice. People understand. Hyunjin's different around you. He's bright, talkative when he forgets to contain himself. You sense your heart swelling with pride just at the understanding that he can be himself around you.

You drive to the beach, sit in your trunk and drink straight out of the bottle.

Hyunjin laughs a little. Suspends his feet in the air. With time, he's gotten paler, exhausted. "Rough day?"

You hum.

"Very. Our children's collection is usually low in stock around the weekends."

Hyunjin crosses his arms over his chest. Curious.

"And?"

"And if I say I got yelled at by a toddler would you believe me?"

Hyunjin feigns contemplation, even with the realisation that his body is becoming less and less cooperative, he manages to remain perfectly cheerful.

"I can actually," he grins, "At that age, I was a real pain in the ass."

"Were?"

Your smile is just a slight curl against the bottle's mouth as he grumbles under his breath about your 'insensitive' remark.

You think of your life after Hyunjin, think of his absence like a gaping hole you'll never be able to fill out. It makes you sick to your stomach.

—

Bake something from scratch.

Hyunjin's face twists in apparent thought, eyebrows rising. A pink tongue poked against his cheek, whilst he chews carefully, trying really hard not to flash an accidental reaction whilst you clasp your butter and oat flour soiled hands together, some of the batter on your cheek, neck to anticipate his answer like your will to live depends on it.

You ask yourself how it got to this. Why you didn't care that you were awake so early on a Sunday morning with flour powdering every kitchen appliance in sight in spite of being awfully restrictive about who you let into your kitchen. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because it's nice like this.

Hyunjin has his hair pulled away from his bare face, a mole under his eye, a small birthmark on the back of his ear.

When you first met, you thought he was a kind of handsome that couldn't be real. Something formidable about it. Only destined to exist behind fuzzy television screens and flashy magazines.

But in retrospect, you realise, that that's not true at all. 

If you look close enough, if you really pay attention, there's a softness underneath, something goofy, something warm, the sharp jut of his nose circling into a soft button, his eyes are big, black and his mouth jutted out into a natural pout, he looks innocent, like he doesn't quite realise the extent of his charms.

"It's..." His soft voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you look up to find his eyes glimmering jovially. Every time it surprises you, the lack of regret in them and the abundance of nonchalance. You wonder what it means to love someone like that, to love someone to the point of martyrdom. It shouldn't be like this. "perfect,"

"This is like, the only batch we didn't burn, right?"

You snort, "Yeah." Fully turn to him, "You know what they say, fifth time's the charm."

Hyunjin's laugh, you think, is so contagious that it makes it an imperative to smile in return. In shaky compartments the sound comes, like being 8, laying wide-eyed in a paddling pool and staring up at a crayon blue sky, raindrop rippling beyond all that noiseless water. His eyes curve to upturned crescents, an unconscious hand covering up the seams of his lips whilst he shakes his head. You don't even notice when he starts speaking again.

"Huh?"

"I said you got a little...something..."

You almost lose a fraction of your sanity when his nimble fingers come to wrap around your wrist while you hold onto the spatula employed into the whole snickerdoodle batter mixing business, a liberated hand coming up to gently wipe your cheek. It means everything to you. And nothing to him.

Later, when you're alone at night, really alone, you put your palm to your chest and feel the unsteady beat of your heart. A warning, a reminder. I can't. I can't. I can't.

—

You hold Hyunjin's hair up. His hands resting on the cold toilet seat, he's whimpering and bleeding. It happens every time he sees Haseul, or something which reminds him of her. Like the song.

This time she's drunk. And it's because she impulsively rises to her toes and presses a tender kiss to Chan's lips.

Hyunjin's just a feet away, across students and solo cups and streaks of neon falling irregularly through his line of sight.

He can never confess, not to her. The last thing Hyunjin wants is for her to feel bad for him. To say she feels the same as an act of service. He tells you. You understand. Somehow... you always understand.

They met in college, Hyunjin and she. And Chan was an upperclassman who seemed to be good at...well everything. At first, he couldn't figure out why it never occured to him before, the fact they were getting together maybe before, after or during the length of their relationship.

Though the answer is simple.

Hyunjin thinks the pillar to good relationships is trust. Call him a sappy romantic or whatever but he had seen true love manifest from it through generations before him and his parents and their parents. To think a different fate was woven for him...used to be unimaginable.

How ironic is that?

Hyunjin presses his cheek against your chest because he doesn't want you to look at him when he cries.

Then for the first time....he tells you he's scared. He's scared of what will happen to him. Of what is happening to him.

He's falling apart.

You cradle him, press him closer to your body like you're trying to put him together. People can't fix each other. Not really. But sometimes... they're worth the try.

"Hey...hey...it's alright," You shush him, run your fingers through his hair. Your voice almost breaking, faltering. Still this, this you mean it with every fibre of your being. "It's okay to be scared."

—

Self bleach hair.

It's Christmas and you're late for a late night dinner he's putting together. (As reluctant as he was about getting along with Hyunjin, he seems all too eager to make invite him whenever a get together takes effect.)

His apartment smells like floor cleaner. There's a queen sized bed pushed against an electric blue wall, a Fleetwood Mac poster taped to his door, small reading desk where Canon EOS New Kiss rests, polaroids of things checked off the list littered all its wooden surface.

You pick up the only photo he hasn't labelled, it reminds you that your friendship isn't just based off a pursuit. This is natural. Pizza box discarded between you two, on your roof top. It's a little too dark, you're holding a cigarette between your fingers, you're laughing and Hyunjin looks like he's going to complain the minute he's done taking the picture. (And he does.)

You smile, pressing your fingers against it like the touch could transport you to a simpler time.

"Ready to go?"

Hyunjin rakes a tentative hand through his newly dyed hair, grey (a suitable colour he says.). You can tell he's put a lot of effort into cleaning up, his usual hoodies and sweats alternated with a red satin shirt tucked into dark dress pants and a coat of the same colour.  Hyunjin is beautiful. Perhaps even more like this. In fact, the extent of this quality is so Goliath-like that it obliges dolled up attendees to marvel up in awe.  While you fully agree with their unsaid ponderings, you really do, you find yourself missing a less sophisticated version of him. 

"Yeah, but first..." you fish out a wrapped squarish material from the depths of your pocket. Hyunjin's eyes widen, two bunny-like teeth showing for the extent of his grin.

"You got me a present!" He all but rips it out of your hand, shaking the material eagerly. He’s a Christmas person, a supreme holiday enthusiast if you will. The sheer excitement in him projects itself in every physical aspect possible. Slight jumping on the balls of his feet. "It's a cassette...?"

You speak too much, nervous he doesn't like it. "It’s a Christmas mix. I thought...since you like carols. I know it's a little old school, I'm sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for—"

Hyunjin pulls you into a big hug, wrapping his entire body it feels like; his arms around your waist, he squeezes you tighter against him, "Thank you." He whispers into your hair, it's not just about the cassette, you can tell. 

There's a small light bulb dangling from his ceiling, he hasn't fixed it since the first time you pointed it out. You can tell with your eyes closed, you've begun to know more intimately than your own home. It's safe here. A place that deludes you into thinking that he's not running out of time, that even in his absence in the world, whenever you should walk into this room, it would be an imperative to find Hyunjin lazying about in its confines. Familiarity can be quite tricky, can't it?

His gratitude is not unknown to you. It's in the guilty smile that threatens to show every now and then, it's in this and it's in that. In many ways, it is not something you're a stranger to.

And yet the words manage to tears your heart at the seams. Just a little.

—

 Make a snow angel.

From above, he imagines, he may appear to look like a chunk of cookie dough in an ice cream pint.

The snow is not as comfortable as it appears, its frigid temperature seeps into Hyunjin's clothes (and what feels like his internal organs, if that's even possible). He waves his hands and legs inward, outward.

Your head tilts towards him. Face twisted in annoyance. "You're getting on my wing!" You say. "Have you no respect for personal space?!"

Hyunjin narrows his eyes jovially. And people tell him he's the one with a penchant for theatrics. He leans closer in rebuttal, waving his leg around your design with more purpose.  You give up. Sit on your knees, fumble with the snow. He’s still in the same position. Smug as ever...

"This is what happens when you disrespect your elders." He fake-warns. "Oka—"

What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the snowball you launch on his stupid grinning face. Now it's your turn to laugh. You clutch your stomach and point at him whilst he glares at you having barely managed to blow the snow off of his mouth.

"Oh, you're gonna get it now!"

You let out an animalistic screech, Hyunjin’s already trapped you under his weight, his thighs wound around your waist, hamstringing your plan to escape, now you're merely squirming. His fingers come down to attack your sides, digging into the flesh so mercilessly to the point you’re not sure if you’re laughing or crying. It's like there's a wildfire inside your lungs.

For a moment you forget, you let yourself forget what's to come.

“Alright, alright I’m sorry!” you press your palms against his chest in an attempt to push him off, Hyunjin has a dumb smile on his face that seems to give the impression of a hanger  stuck inside his mouth. But... there's something behind his entertainment as the sound of his laugh dies down, chest heaving with exercise. His smile drops.

You can count each lash, each freckle and line on his face. The dark in his eyes. The pink of his lips. Your sweater's ridden to your ribs. And the warmth of his fingers shifting against your bare skin hits you with an earthshattering force.

Hyunjin kisses you. For a fleeting second, you freeze. Rigid with shock. Then it passes as soon as it comes.

 You let out a noise of content,indubitably grateful that your neighbours forgot to put on their porch light for the night.  See it’s like this, the act of kissing is not as special as is the person himself, you muse, you can kiss anyone, you can touch and be touched by anyone. But none of that truly compares to this. Not when they aren't him.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about it. Just like you’ve thought about a lot of things. But just the realisation that the boy you’ve harboured in your heart for more complicated reasons than you disclose, to yourself even, touches you with so, so much care...it’s tearing you apart. 

It’s too good to be real.

You suddenly push him away. The tugging and pulling at your heart too much to handle. For the fact remains — Hyunjin doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. You never expected him to. Actually, you've never felt what you feel with that condition in mind either.

See when the feeling of having everything you could ever want is cradled between your palms...it ought to be hard to let go. (Maybe he’s just doing this because he feels bad for you, the little voice in your head says. You listen.)

Hyunjin speaks up first.

“I love Haseul.”  he tells you, but it sounds more like he’s telling himself. “That’s why...that’s why, all this...I love her.” Not you.

You swallow, “I know.” Your hands come up to dust your pants. Hyunjin’s still on his knees, as if the answer to his conflicts are deposited under all the snow. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have done—”

Now you hear it, the hint of pity in his voice. You don’t mean to sound as bitter as you do. Seeing as you’re usually very good at keeping calm , breaking that very reputed front frustrates you even more.

“Look just forget about it, okay? We don’t have to talk about this.”

Hyunjin looks like he didn’t expect this side of you to exist. At least, you think, at least it got him to stop talking.

—

Learn to skate.

"If I fall, I'm taking you with me."

"You say it like I have a choice."

Hyunjin shoots you a warning glare even though you can't see. His choppy skidding steps supported by the vice grip he has on your arms. You haven't skated since you were in highschool. But when you're pretty good at it still, the smooth blade of your beaten skates gliding through ice with much dexterity, it's like floating, freeing, the wind hitting your faces, snow catching in your lashes. It's peaceful, you try not to think about the warmth of Hyunjin's arm circling around body, the vague rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His laboured breaths on your neck. It's torturous. But spending so much time with him has taught you to hide your feelings better.

The park welcomes a large crowd around holiday season, children with toothless grins, tugging onto their mum's coats, small chin resting onto a parents' head, teenagers moving in together in school uniforms. It's the happiest time of the year. When you move past an elderly couple, they smile and tell you make a wonderful couple.

You're just about to make a correction. This puts you in an awkward position... doesn't it?

But then Hyunjin grins toothily and says, Thank you, like it's the most amusing thing in the world. You ignore the wrenching inside your chest.

Hyunjin leans forward, his plump lips brushing against your ear. "Where did you learn to skate so well?!" There's something like excitement in his kiddish laugh aside from admiration. It's not much of a question as it is an exclamation.

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

He laughs, doesn't let you go. "Yes, yes...really good."

Out of breath, you slow down, move your feet steadily, careful not to lose balance.

"Oh my God! It is you!"

You raise your head, blink against flakes hindering your vision. Jeongin's voice used to be thinner before. As far as you remember. Now it has a weight to it.

You let out a nervous laugh.

"And it's you..."

Jeongin's eyes travel to the arms around your waist, to the stiffened figure behind you and you immediately liberate yourself. Moving to let Hyunjin use your arm as purchase, you don't fail to notice the pinch in his forehead, a frown on his mouth.

"This is my friend Hyunjin. Hyunjin, this is Jeongin—"

"We used to go out." Jeongin smiles, forwarding his hand, which is returned with an unenthused shake and a demure reply. Hyunjin never speaks to anyone this way, not even people he claims to hate.

The former male looks to you again, "I was, uh... wondering if you'd like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime."

Things between you and him ended amicably at the event of his departure for further studies, which deprives you of awkward tension which is expected when exes meet.

Besides, a cup of coffee never hurt anyone.

Right?

Without thinking, you nod slowly, "Yeah that sounds good,"

"Text me anytime."

"Sure."

 “I'll be out of your hair then," he beams. "It was very nice meeting you too, Hyunjin."

"Right."

Hyunjin, you realise, has released your arm. He leans on barricades fencing along the skating area, smiling briefly. You know it’s wrong...yet you sense that you almost need him to be upset.

Then he tilts his head back towards you, "He seems like a really nice guy," he whispers, genuinely meaning every word. Your heart sinks. "I see the appeal." Underneath the lurid glare of fairy lights brandished overhead, Hyunjin's ash hair glints like it's threaded out of silver. You wonder what he's thinking.

—

 Watch every Disney movie ever made.

You never end up texting Jeongin back. Just stalling for when you're ready, you tell yourself. Even though that's not true at all.

"This brings back so many memories. My parents used to belt out A Whole New World with me, like every time we watched Aladdin."

Hyunjin wipes his face with the back of his hand, technically you’re not very sure what he’s saying exactly because he’s mumbling into a paper napkin you've  passed over for the umpteenth time. You find yourself picturing a small but happy family of three, of Hyunjin in Scooby Doo pajamas and gap between his teeth. (Contrary to your previous convictions, he hasn't changed all at much, save for the teeth bit. ) It's cute.

He looks to you expectantly. Can't be the only one telling embarrassing stories.

You shrug, "I had a thing for Simba. Let's just say my mum and dad were nice enough to indulge me."

Hyunjin reaches for the remote and pauses the ending credits of Lady and the Tramp. He turns to you fully now, gives you a judgemental stare. "Simba...?" He says, "Like the...lion?"

"What? It's normal to crush on fictional characters, okay?!"

"Okay,sure," Hyunjin snorts, putting a pillow between you and him so you can't kill him. "furry."

A part of you is tempted, obviously. But the much bigger part is more invested in how he looks happier, healthier. You want to think that means something.

—

Hyunjin invites you over for movie night. It's getting colder and you keep poking him with your cold feet. There's an extra set of blankets in his cupboard, he informs you, he isn't sharing his with you — and that's when you see it.

The deflated pink donut folded to the side, his and yours sharpie inscribed initials on one side. 

"Found it yet?"

You don't even notice when he comes to stand behind you. So the question effectively makes you jump out of your skin. Hyunjin has a bowl of popcorn pressed to his chest, there's a pink hair band holding his hair away from his forehead. For the lack of a answer he takes it on himself to find the source of your silence. As if you've been caught red handed.

You think this is where he'll ask you to leave, that or he'll least scold you or something. You prepare for the worst.

Hyunjin just smiles, it's a big smile that succeeds in bringing out the small dimple indented on the side of his cheek. You've never noticed before. It's kinda weird. Because when it comes to him, your attention hardly ever falters.

"You probably don't remember. That’s from Seungmin's 15th birthday,"

You want to scoff under your breath. All this time you had told yourself that you were the only one to be affected by your estranged friendship growing up. Now...the same logic colours you every bit of ridiculous. 

You blink away, swallowing. Voice solemn.

"I remember." Hyunjin's gaze is heavy on your shoulders. An emotion you can't quite put a finger on crosses his delicate features. It's something between surprise and relief... something else too. You don’t understand it. 

—

It's disconcerting that he can’t remember the last time he got sick. Not the usual discomfort inside his chest, not the blood, not the thorns or petals. Hyunjin's just gotten so used to it, you know? What if he gets his hopes up for no good reason? What if it just comes back?

There's no possible explanation, he explains over a hasty 3 A.M message he had to leave on your answering machine because he's freaking out.

Then Haseul texts Hyunjin, tells him she misses him. Everything's adding up. Everything's falling into place. This is what he wanted, isn't it? She loves him, she finally loves him back. That must be it. He doesn't know what to say. 

But he tells you, and when he does, it sounds a lot like an apology.

— 

Kiss underneath a mistletoe. 

“Chan and I broke up.” She says it like it’s something he should be happy about. So when he remains quiet, it only prompts her to speak more, fill up the big mighty silences. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Look Jinnie, I know I made a mistake, but...can’t you give a second chance? Just this once?”

Hyunjin has thought about this particular moment a lot. Kissing her instead of producing a response, pulling her off of her feet and mumbling of course, of course, of course. Back then, there were little doubts in his head pertaining to her, back then he believed that she was the only one for him. The love of his life at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

Now...something doesn’t feel right. 

The thing about wounds, sometimes, of the heart in particular, is when they close up, it’s hard to make head or tails of the kind of person you become in their wake. Hard to adjust. Like when he suddenly shot up 7 inches in ninth grade, a late bloomer at that, and the weight of his new sneakers felt..odd.

He glances at her and also understands what it’s like to be lonely, the constant need to compensate for it by grasping at the last straw. He used to be in her shoes too. This isn’t any different.  Albeit, he isn’t exactly taken by her presence. Just that he doesn’t know if what he’s doing is right. He looks over your table a few feet away from where he’s standing. Having gone out to take a call. You notice his absence and then from your seat, do your best to locate him. (he thinks of kissing you on a bed of snow, thinks of the sizzle of your skates against ice, thinks of his list on a coffee cup and his pink water donut and it’s okay to be scared. Why did it have to be you of all people, through everything? It’s not really a work of coincidence. Not at all actually.

  Maybe he just wanted it to be you.)

When your eyes do lock...seeing him with his hands in his pockets, her standing beyond the barrier as she tries to say something, you smile, even if it’s a little sad. Hyunjin thinks to the conversation some nights before. Thinks of you reminding him that there's nothing to lose at this point, that he should do what his heart tells him. That it’ll be alright, if he just takes a leap of faith. Hyunjin smiles back. Through the glassy exterior and mini water fountains running down its slanted form. The realisation is not as dramatic as he thought. It’s just late.

 He tears off the false mistletoe decoration glued along the periphery of an arch.

And like always.

He takes your advice.

— 

Cohorts of guests pour into the colossal hotel, heads turning in quiet admiration for bejeweled arches breaking out against buttery white architecture, the roof is impossibly naked, translucent glass baring a starlit sky to your watchful eyes. Showing little mercy to a frail chute held over your head,costumed characters wade through oceans of gossamer, twinkling silver and swaying movements to slow jazz. You prop a heeled foot up on the bar platform, which strangely resembles a pedestal, in a futile attempt to catch your breath, with clammy digits settled atop the risky surface of a marbled counter. A soft voice speaks over the ambience, uttering your name with much care. You lift your head. And there he is.

Jisung is scouring through the Spotify playlist you’ve put together for New Year’s Eve. He’s complaining about the lack of Beyoncé while your friends go around the buffet table. When he calls you, you’re sipping your drink, laughing at something Changbin is saying, his eyes brighten just at the sound of your laugh.  Hyunjin isn’t surprised to see his friend taking a liking of you even though he hardly knows you. That’s just the effect you have on people.

Excusing yourself, you allow him to walk you to a less densely populated area where a stone pillar faces expensive paintings of nameless painters. With the effect of alcohol settling in and your inhibitions effectively lowered, your steps sway a little. You lean against the massive build rising from tiled floor. “So what’s up?” you murmur, the lump in your throat thickening just at the thought of him speaking the good news into existence. “I take it went well?”

 Hyunjin doesn't answer. He looks distracted for a bit. Then in an instant he snaps out of his daze. “What did you mean when you said ‘once’?”

Your brows come together in inquiry.

“What?”

"When I asked you if you have ever been in love, you said ‘once’." He persists, his fingers come up to your shoulder, grazing slightly as if they’re trying to carve out words against the skin. "You weren’t talking about Jeongin.”

He knows. He’s always known. Hyunjin can’t believe he’s been so stupid.

“Took you long enough.” You let out a sardonic laugh.“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

"It matters to me..." Hyunjin sounds offended, you gather, but he manages to quell his temper for the sake of coaxing your confession. Is he purposely embarrassing you?  "I don’t think...I love Haseul anymore...I didn’t realise...I haven’t for a long time."  

A big chandelier beams over withering plants pushed against the ceiling, in this poor supply of light, you can tell exactly how he looks, eyes glimmering adoringly, you've spent something-teen years of your life wondering what it's supposed to mean. And it still manages to confuse you.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask, albeit you already know.  Because funnily enough, before he got his braces removed and dyed his hair a scandalous blonde, before bucket lists and heartbreak, he was just the boy who told you he liked your stupid reindeer sweater even though it had officially made you the 7th grade laughing stock. You remember being fifteen and in love with Hyunjin. And you've never actually stopped. You need to hear it to believe it.

It drives you crazy. The way Hyunjin brushes his fingers against your cheek, shifting strands away from your eyes. But you can't help it, you've always wanted this. You lean into the caress, peering up at him as his large hand cups your jaw, thumb traversing from your tilted chin to your glossy lips like he's trying to smooth out all the creases. His voice is small, a whisper.

"Because I need you to know I think I’m falling in love with you.” he says. His palm opens and there’s a plastic mistletoe nestled between his fingers. You’re smiling and sniffling whilst his forehead comes to press against yours. Hyunjin grins. “And there’s still one last item on my list.”

“Are you seriously asking me to land one on you now?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

— 

"Move."

You press your fingers against the slick, sweaty skin.

In rebuttal, Hyunjin grumbles under his breath. Only half awake, half aware that he was mumbling in his sleep. His naked chest seems to be, if it’s even possible, glued to your bare front as he sprawls out like a starfish over your body, using his gangly arms to accommodate the strange position.

Though and you know he knows it too — it’s anything but uncomfortable.

See by now, you aren't exactly a stranger to Hyunjin's sleeping habits. Or really, any habits of his.

All the windows are cracked open, moonlight percolating through a thin sheet of curtains in rendering evidence that it’s still night time. You can make out the faint sound of  honking in the distance, a few stray dogs here and there, probably producing strings of complaints about the blatantly unbearable heat.

The strong stench of sweat and an aftermath of what happened before is a quick reminder of where you are, what you’re doing and that your arm’s going cold for a lack of circulation under his weight. Beads of sweat collected against his skin and trickle down the side of your face, the crook of your neck, which only prompts you to apply more force to the pads of your index and pointer — albeit it did nothing to move him, "Gross." You groan. "You're sweating like a pig!"

This comment, of all the things you've tried to get him to sleep on his side, succeeds in making Hyunjin raise his head, his grey hair matted down, a few rogue strands pushed out to fall over the unamused look in his eyes.

In an unprecedented minute of absolute clarity, something inside your stomach started to churn at the shocking sight. You’re impossibly, absolutely and nauseatingly in love with Hwang Hyunjin and the funny thing is, you don’t have to think twice to know he is too.

"Gross?" Hyunjin lowers his face to brush his pouted lips along your jaw, grinning when you let out a shaky but involuntary breath and as if he is looking to make a point with his digits traversing from your bare stomach, just along the hem of your underwear,   "After all that?"

"I hate you." You say — but more like, stutter. The sound of his giggles eliciting a strange sensation in you, reverberating against your chest, knocking against his ribs and your skin, like it’s trying to reach out to you, like your bodies insist on melding into one.

"I don’t think you’re being honest, baby." He laughs, squeezing your side, coming up to plant a warm palm to your butt to repeat the action, which in turn, drew a mewl from you. “Because you looove me.” Hyunjin smirks, his finger thumbing along your throat to your chin. You think this is what all those great poets meant in endless litanies of lovers torn apart by time and war woven together in a simple caress, like a longing, like a secret. Guarded from prying eyes, greedy hands, and you keep it, you keep it. For him. With him.

[holden-caulfield]

Explosive I

↪︎ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 (𝟐 - 𝟑)

Summary: reader ends up in detention and is forced to spend it with Draco Malfoy.

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x reader (can be considered an enemies to lovers kind of au)

Warnings: there could be a swear word but i'm not sure honestly.

Word Count: 3280

//

"DETENTION!" shouted a rather angry Snape as you froze on the spot, staring into his dark eyes.

You had just messed up a potion. Again. And it had just exploded. Again. And it had hit Snape, something he didn't quite appreciate. He wasn't very fond of you to begin with but now he surely despised you.

You gulped down nervously as you watched his face contort in anger, cleaning up the mess your failed potion had just made.

"You'll be serving detention for three weeks, miss y/l/n. Every day after the lessons."

"What? Every day?" you asked incredulously but you immediately regretted it upon seeing the scowl already etched on his face getting prominently deeper.

"Every. Day. Starting from today, i'll see you here at the end of your lessons and you better be on time."

The bell rang and you made your way outside of the class not once looking up. The rest of the day went by without mishaps, but the constant fear of Snape's detention was enough to incessantly haunt your mind.

Your feet seemed to walk on their own as they brought you back in the dungeons, the fateful moment having arrived.

You entered the gloomy classroom and saw Snape sitting at his desk, a foul expression painted on his face.

"Sit." you did as you were told and sat down without a single word, looking at your table.

Just then, another figure entered the class and you looked up to see. You didn't know him personally but his reputation preceded him: Draco Malfoy.

The boy nodded to Snape who simply acknowledged his presence and returned his gaze to you.

"You'll be organizing every single item in this room without making anything explode. Although i'm aware it's a very difficult task for you, miss Y/l/n."

The blond boy snorted lowly while making his way to the cauldrons present in one of the corners of the room, but you couldn't retort, having way more serious matter at hand at the moment.

"Is it clear?"

"Yes, professor."

Much to your surprise, Snape made his way outside of the classroom, his robes floating after him.

"If i see you slacking around, i'll be sure to detract points from your house as well. Get to work." and with that he exited the class, leaving you alone with the blond boy.

You were quite dumbfounded but a snooty voice reminded you of your task.

"You better get going, these vials won't rearrange themselves."

You shot him a glare and he simply smirked, turning around and settling his cauldron on one of the tables.

You got up and reached the first closet, analyzing the items present: a bunch of ingredients, many you'd never heard of.

You began dividing them in alphabetical order, it being the most logical division, but that same arrogant voice resounded in the room once more.

"You have to catalogue them first."

"I didn't see him putting you in charge of this place." you retorted under your breath, hoping he wouldn't hear you.

"You're the one in detention, not me. I was just trying to help." helping obviously wasn't what he was trying to do, however annoying you seemed a much more plausible answer.

"I didn't ask for your bloody help, did i?"

He chuckled darkly as he reached you, taking some of the ingredients for himself and knocking down a few in the meantime.

You managed to catch them in mid air, but he didn't seem too bothered. You simply ignored him, silently rolling your eyes and deciding that that would have been the best way to endure the long hour that was awaiting you.

"What did you do anyway?" he asked once he had returned to his table, setting the containers on the wooden surface.

You ignored the question and he just laughed, obviously amused by the whole situation.

"Did you speak during his lesson? He usually assigns detentions for that." he commented.

You kept on organizing the colorful bottles, keeping your back to him.

"Did you cheat? I saw one try and they say he never came back from here alive." you rolled your eyes at his attempts at getting you to speak and continued with your task.

"Did you try to seduce him to get a better grade? I didn't take you for the type but i'm not judging." he chuckled to himself. You took a deep breath, the urge to just turn around and choke him very strong but having an already lengthy detention was enough, you didn't need Snape catching you while trying to kill your annoying schoolmate.

"You put the Asphodel in the wrong place." you finally turned around, visibly pissed off, and saw him slouched on his chair, arms behind the nape of the neck as he looked at you with a pedantic air.

"And why would that be?" you asked, annoyance audible in your voice.

"You put it with the liquids when it should obviously be with the powders."

"I'm not dividing by consistency."

"Well, you should." you rubbed your temples in an attempt at calming yourself while turning around towards the shelves once more. "Did you hear me? I said-"

"I heard what you said and i do not care. Will you be talking the whole hour?" you asked marching towards his desk and slamming your hands on the table.

"I don't know, will you do something right and arrange them the correct way?" you were fuming. A scowl planted on your face while a grin appeared on his.

"I don't know, i usually don't take advice from arrogant know-it-alls."

"And i don't usually help oblivious girls with anger issues but i was feeling nice today." he grinned, inching closer to you with the same smug smirk on his face.

"Oh you stupid little-"

"Miss Y/l/n, i thought three weeks were enough for you but apparently they aren't." Snape barged in right at that moment and you quickly stopped, jumping backwards and back to the shelves.

"I'm sorry, professor. It won't happen again."

Snape sat at his desk, picking up some pieces of parchment you imagined were essays and began analyzing them.

The hour passed by agonizingly slow and when Snape finally released you, he stopped you before exiting the room, making you walk up to his desk.

"How did you organize them?"

"Alphabetical order, professor."

"You'll be rearranging them tomorrow afternoon. I want them divided by categories." and he waved his hand dismissively, signaling for you to go without even a second glance.

You walked past Malfoy's table and he whispered, "Told you."

"Shut up." and you finally made your way out, exhausted, relieved, mad and already tired at the prospect of the next detention.

The following day, you got ready as always and sooner than you expected, the dreaded hour had arrived. The only solace: not having to hear Malfoy's tiresome remarks every second.

"Good afternoon."

A complacent smirk greeted you as you arrived in front of the classroom. You couldn't help but stare and narrow your eyes at the bothersome boy that sat on one of the tables, obviously waiting for Snape to arrive.

"Do you live here perhaps?"

"Do you, princess? Or were you just missing me?"

You passed by him and sat down at the farthest desk from him you could find, setting down your bag.

He got up from his previous place and sank down in the chair next to you.

"Oh come on, do you still think you can ignore me?"

You remained silent and simply side-glanced at him, uninterested in participating in his games.

Draco was about to say something when Snape finally arrived, causing him to get up and set his cauldron just like he had done the former day.

"Miss Y/l/n, i suppose you already know what to do?"

You reluctantly stood up and started reorganizing all the products you had so neatly arranged the day before, but unlike then, you worked in complete silence, Draco obviously not commenting with Snape present.

When the hour finished, you started to get out but Snape stopped you once again. You turned around, already fearing having to change the order for the third time.

"I decided you'll be practicing from tomorrow afternoon in order to prevent another... accident. Mr Malfoy here will tutor you."

"What?!" you shrieked and Snape didn't seem to appreciate it.

Draco seemed as dumbfounded as you for he had a rather shocked look plastered on his face.

"But-"

"Yes, Mr Malfoy?" Snape raised an eyebrow inquisitively and Draco shut his mouth after muttering a single "Nothing."

"But professor, he's-"

"He's at the top of the class so you'll finally learn how not to make everything you touch explode. Hopefully."

You rushed out of the room after seeing Draco's lips curling the slightest bit upwards and made yourself a mental note to curse him right after Snape whenever you had the chance.

You long pondered about not showing up, faking a sudden cold, but you wouldn't have been able to avoid it forever so the next day you presented yourself. You sat down at the table and took out your Potions book from your bag, opening it in front of you.

Snape eyed you, displeased as usual, but said nothing as you waited for Draco to arrive. It didn't take long and when he did enter the room you didn't even glance up at him.

"I suppose that won't be needed today." Draco had moved to pick up a cauldron but Snape interrupted him. "We don't want the class to blow up just yet."

You were expecting a laughter, a chuckle, but it never came. Draco sat down next to you and took out his own book.

"I have more important matters to attend now. By the end of the week, I expect you to actually learn something, Miss Y/l/n, or detention will be the last one of your problems." and with that he stormed off, his usual black robes swinging behind him.

"I didn't mean to laugh yesterday, just so you know." there was almost a hint of remorse in his voice, but you knew better than to trust whatever came out of his mouth.

"I don't care."

"Are you always this sour? I was apologizing to you." the usual contempt came back.

"Are you expecting me to be happy about this situation? Oh my! My dream of being tutored by Hogwarts' most arrogant twat has finally come true!"

"Do you think i asked for this? We are in the same circumstances!"

"You can walk out of that stupid door whenever you like, i can't!"

"Just because i'm smart enough to know how to brew a bloody potion doesn't mean i don't have to stay here!"

Your cheeks were burning with anger and after his last comment with embarrassment too. You returned your angry gaze towards the book sitting in front of you.

"Where are we starting then?"

"I didn't-"

"Where are we starting?" your tone was firm even though in your head all you wanted to do was collapse on your bed forever.

"Which one have you had the most difficulty with?"

"Every one. Every. Single. One." you replied through gritted teeth, angrier than before.

"I'm just trying to help you but i can't do it if you don't cooperate!"

You closed your book shut and shoved it inside your bag, slinging it across your shoulder and striding out of the classroom.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? You can't go out!"

"Thanks for the information, Mr Obvious."

You knew you would have been in great trouble with Snape but you couldn't bare Draco Malfoy for another minute, not like that.

You considered just telling Snape you couldn't do it, that you would have preferred to fail than have him tutor you, but knowing Snape, he was already aware of that and assigned you Draco Malfoy exactly because you couldn't stand him.

"Miss Y/l/n, Mr Malfoy here has told me you made great progress yesterday and I expect the same thing today. I give you permission to make practical work but i want everything in order when i get back. Can i trust you on that, Mr Malfoy?"

He nodded firmly while you still tried to figure out how in the world the conversation you just witnessed could have happened and Snape left you and Draco alone.

"Well, we better get to work and get that progress done or else we're both doomed." he waved you over impatiently but you were still staring at him, brows furrowed as you tried to understand his logic.

"What game are you playing, Malfoy?"

"Do you really think Snape would have appreciated it if i told him you decided to ditch detention?" he asked raising his eyebrows at you. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, i didn't do it for you. Come here."

You sat down at the table, still suspicious, and started to skim over the pages.

"Amortentia."

"What?"

"That's the one that made Snape almost blow up."

"How did you manage to make an Amortentia explode?! That's impossible!" he exclaimed while laughing, but there was no superiority in his tone this time.

"Not for me apparently..."

Draco stopped laughing and the two of you began studying.

He was actually more bearable than expected, still a little vexing, but you finally began understanding Potions. Suddenly, those concepts that you thought you could never grasp became completely comprehensible.

And his personality was a surprise too: you and him actually talked together, without any sort of malice.

"Do you think you're ready to brew it?" asked a slightly smiling Draco as he looked up at you from his book. He wasn't the obnoxious asshole you thought. Well, he was, but not entirely.

The two of you were relatively nearer than you were before due to the fact that he had come closer to read with you and explain carefully every single passage. You were so close you could feel his warmth. You were so close you could see that there was a light tinge of blue in his otherwise grey eyes, making them appear almost silvery.

"I suppose we can try..."

He stood up to gather all the materials you'd need and you did the same to collect the ingredients, making sure you picked the right ones, reading carefully the notes you had just taken.

He set everything on the table and looked at you, waiting. You placed the ingredients and looked at him, waiting.

"Well?" he asked, crossing his arms in front of him. "We don't have all day, you know."

"I have to do it?!"

"Yes? I already know how to do it." he replied, chuckling lightly.

"Because you're smart enough to do it?" you asked raising your eyebrow playfully. His smile faded slightly but you quickly changed the topic. "It'd be better if i just watched you do it, don't you think so?"

"I'll be here all the time and believe me, i do not intend on visiting the hospital wing because of second degree burns." you sighed softly and filled the cauldron with potioning water, setting it on a low flame.

You began adding peppermint flower heads, neatly pestled, and peppermint leaves under the watchful gaze of the blond boy.

You went on slowly with every passage, looking up at him from time to time only to receive an approving nod until the bell rang and you had finished.

"We'll have to leave it here overnight and stir it every day. It should be ready in a week or so..."

"So it's ok? It's a potion and not a potential weapon?" you asked gleefully.

"It should be once done, if you've done it correctly." he raised his eyebrow defiantly and you smirked, gathering your things and getting ready to leave the classroom.

"Are you sure it's the fifth time i stirred it?"

"Positive, just two more and we can work on another one."

Working with Draco was incredibly easier: he wasn't as strict as Snape and he was by far more enjoyable now that he didn't act like a prick. You could even say you were becoming friends.

In these few days with him, you learned more about potions than you had ever had in years and years with Snape. You were able to recognize the different ingredients just by looking at them and remembered all the passages clearly. You learned an awful lot about your tutor too: his interests, his friends, his family and the meaning behind his name, which was as fascinating as the boy that bore it.

It was now the thirteenth day of detention, which meant that the brewing time had passed and that the potion was most likely ready.

You felt slightly uneasy at the prospect of uncovering your Amortentia and discovering whether or not what you had learned was effectively correct. Nevertheless you made your way to the Potions classroom after the lessons like every other day.

Snape wasn't present: he would have tested you at the end of your three weeks detention, but you still felt nervous at the thought of disappointing Draco. He had helped you immensely and it would have been highly dismaying for him if you hadn't been able to brew an Amortentia after all his teachings.

Still, you pushed those thoughts aside and joined Draco, who was already in the classroom. His face lit up when he saw you and stepped closer, but stopped himself from hugging you.

"Are you ready to see whether you made a potion or a bomb?" he asked playfully, successfully breaking the tension.

"You're hilarious, really. You know that, blondie?"

"I've been told. Come on... princess." he added the last word with a smug smirk displayed on his face and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"Finally asserting my superiority, are you?"

"You wish."

He set the cauldron on your usual desk and stared at you, signaling for you to uncover it. You took a deep breath and removed the cloth that was shielding it, revealing a smooth liquid with a mother-of-pearl sheen. Spiraling fumes started rising from it and you quickly covered it with the cloth once more.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked, confused by your reaction.

"It's fuming. It's not a good sign in my experience." he giggled slightly and took the cloth from your hands, brushing them in the action.

"It's supposed to be like this, in fact, i think you just brewed a perfect Amortentia."

He removed the cloth once more and at his words pride took over your features.

"Smell it, it's different for-"

"It's different for everyone, i studied." you eyed him proudly and inched closer to the exhalations emitted by the draught.

"So? What is it?" he asked impatiently and you smiled widely at his eagerness.

"Mint... something similar to shoe polish i think... and honey..." you looked up at him, his eyes never once leaving yours. "Your turn."

He leaned in, placing his face closer to the brim of the cauldron and inspired deeply.

His eyes met yours again.

"Tell me, what are you smelling?"

You had moved closer to him, itching to know what he most desired. The distance separating the two of you almost inexistent.

"I told you, you have to-"

He cut you off by grasping your face in his hands and connecting your lips together. You melted in his touch but something inside you made you pull away.

"What are you doing?"

He looked at you with panic in his eyes and started to back away. You tried to grab his arms but he receded even more.

"I'm sorry."

And he ran out of the classroom, leaving you alone with one question: why did you pull away?

//

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[anon-e-miss]

(Wavering like a crazy person) Hey Miss! I love your writing and the way you portray Prowl, as an autistic person who is shy, does not like crowds or new social situations I really identify with him.

Anyway, I was just thinking of an au where cybertronians have, like, an instinct to protect and care for gravid mechs. So any way Prowl (naturally) ends up carrying, and the autobots, especially prime, suddenly rally around him, protecting and caring for him. It would be even better if he was an MTO and/or the bots made it clear they did not like him before he got sparked up. Thanks (runs away to cuddle my cat)

Prowl hid. He was suspicious. His every instinct told him to be wary of the gifts of fuel and trinkets the endless stream of Autobots had been delivering him. Though he searched them for trackers and contaminants, Prowl found none. Still, he did not trust them. But though he did not trust them, Prowl gathered this latest rash of gifts and took them to his habsuite. It was a poor hiding place. Everyone knew where he recharged, but he had found no space more suitable for his nest.

Nest. Ratchet said his instincts were stronger than a forged mechanisms. He had no lessons or experiences surrounding carryings to leans on and as such Prowl was at the mercy of his messy, messy code. Nesting was normal, or so said Ratchet, and admittedly Prowl's own research. Gravid mechanisms sometimes started nesting before they even knew they were carrying, some only started nesting in the last stellar-cycles. Prowl was amongst the latter, which meant he had been nesting for stellar-cycles already. It had not been such a miserable thing, in fact Prowl found it rather peaceful. That peace had been interrupted, however, now that his condition had been made known to everyone.

"Hey, Babe," Jazz crooned to him when he joined Prowl in their habsuite, some joors after Prowl had made his retreat here. Since Prowl's forge had expanded the way Jazz spoke to Prowl had changed. His tone had taken on a more musical quality. It felt like Jazz was always singing to him and it had a way of making Prowl feel safe and warm. "Who brought ya gifts this cycle?"

"Prime," Prowl replied. "He brought a set of huge ursanakor snugglies for the bitlets. Wheeljack, Counterpunch, Arcee all brought energon and rust sticks and gifts..."

"Spooked ya?" Jazz asked and Prowl sighed.

"I do not trust it," he replied. "Their coding is masking their true feelings. Once I have given emergence, they will hate me again."

"Oh, Sweetspark," Jazz crooned and he hugged Prowl to him, Prowl sagged into the embrace and sighed.

"I will not be lulled into complacency," he said. "It will just be stripped away. I do not want to enjoy it."

"It ain't all code," Jazz said. "They just finally got their guard down wit ya. They're learnin' ya. They ain't gonna forget they like what they seen 'n learned. 'N when ya have those bitties in yer arms they're gonna be driven to protect all three o' ya."

"I let Optimus feel my forge," Prowl revealed. He nuzzled into Jazz's next. "He got this goofy face. I don't want him to go back to hating me."

"Ya gonna have him wrapped 'round yer lil digit, Prowler," Jazz said. "He's already learnin' what really listenin' to ya can bring 'm 'n us. He's not gonna forget feelin' our bitties move. He knows he's responsible for 'em, for us."

"I hope you are right."

[oswinpond]

Even after the new film, which certainly popularized Amy/Laurie in a way I’ve never seen before, I keep hearing a lot of the same old arguments: “Laurie never stopped loving Jo”, “Laurie didn’t really love Amy”, “Amy was a second choice/consolation prize”, “Jo should’ve been with Laurie” etc. And a lot of these people claim this is book canon. As I’ve just reread the book, I’ve got a lot of thoughts on all of this... 

(Note: This is all purely based on book canon.)

In the book, after Amy harshly scolds Laurie, he decides to go back to London and work for his grandfather to better himself. At first, he thinks he’s doing it for two reasons: Amy despises him and that hurts him, but also the idea that if he does something “splendid” Jo may love him (or at least respect him, as Amy put it). 

So Laurie decides to write a requiem for Jo “which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer”. But he can’t come up with anything because he keeps humming the dance music reminiscent of the Christmas ball in Nice which he spent devoting himself to Amy all evening. So then he tries to compose an opera with Jo as his heroine, but it doesn’t work. “He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects.” 

Jo no longer fits as his heroine, no matter how hard he tries. So he gives up on that, and his imagination promptly comes up with another heroine for him without even trying: 

“This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.”

While Laurie doesn’t realize it, the woman he’s imagining is Amy. Amy with the blue ribbons in her golden hair, who put roses in his buttonhole, who he watched feed the peacocks in Paris, and who he first saw again in a carriage drawn by ponies. It’s also a little prophetic, as he does escort the real Amy through future trials. (Bonus: at the same time, Amy spends her time sketching some faceless man who clearly resembles Laurie, but she doesn’t realize it either.)

Contrary to what some in the fandom would claim, Laurie isn’t at all forcing himself to love Amy just so that he can be part of the March family. He doesn’t even realize that she’s become the “heroine” in his story, that she’s the woman he’s fantasizing about. He thinks he’s doing this to improve himself for Jo, but it’s Amy that’s inspiring him. 

And then Laurie realizes that his feelings for Jo are disappearing:

“Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn’t understand it [...] Laurie’s heart wouldn’t ache; the wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burn into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.”

This passage alone pretty much puts to rest the idea that Laurie never got over Jo. He actually got over her so easily and quickly that he felt disgusted with himself, thinking this made him fickle. His romantic feelings are gone, and soon will leave only a “brotherly affection” when the last of the hurt is gone as well. Maybe he got over her so easily because he simply mistook his strong bond with her for romance, or maybe it was just a rash and immature first love that was never going to last long anyways, or whatever else... point being, he got over her.

And Laurie was actually trying, and failing, to rekindle any love for Jo (unlike his unconscious growing feelings for Amy, which he wasn’t pushing for at all). As a last ditch attempt to revive that love, he writes to Jo asking if she was sure about her refusal, and when she responds that she absolutely could never love him that way, he accepts it without sadness or complaint this time. He’s already over her, so there’s nothing to be heartbroken over. That was his closure. He takes off the ring she gave him and locks it away with her letters, and that’s that. 

And that’s when he’s ready to open his heart to Amy. He starts corresponding with her so often their letters are flying back and forth constantly. He wants to go back to her, but he doesn’t want to until she asks; she finally does after she hears about Beth’s passing, and Laurie immediately drops everything to go to her “with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense” (and this is after he knows she’s turned down Fred, so we know what he’s hoping for now). Amy is his first priority after Beth dies, even though Beth was dearest to Jo. Laurie meets Amy in Switzerland and, without saying anything, they both know their relationship has changed. 

They spend weeks doing everything together and spend all their time out at the lake. Despite the sad tidings, they wind up being their happiest together in Vevey. They both know that they’re in love with each other without even having to say it (they really seem to develop an unspoken communication at this point). And while Laurie knows that she’ll say “yes” to his proposal, he’s still nervous so he puts it off to enjoy his time with Amy in Switzerland. He imagines proposing to her in the chateau garden at moonlight, but instead blurts it out while they’re on a lake in the middle of the day:

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. “How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to silence just then. “So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?” very tenderly. “Yes, Laurie,” very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.

And there’s so much to say about this little scene. While he had to beg and argue with Jo just to finally accept her firm “no”, he just has to ask a simple question with Amy and he gets his simple answer because they’re on the same page. The rather blunt metaphor of rowing well together, even when he uses one hand and she uses two, is all about how despite their differences they work. They keep time. And it calls back to Jo’s talk with Marmee where they both agree that Jo and Laurie never would’ve worked, in part because their similarities would clash horribly in a romantic relationship (but mainly because , y’know, Jo never once felt a single shred of romantic love for Laurie). 

Now, I can understand where people come from thinking Laurie was “replacing” Jo with Amy with lines like "Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy”. I get how this can be interpreted as Amy filling in for what was meant to be Jo’s place in his heart. But it makes a lot more sense in the context of Laurie’s speech to Jo towards the end when he explains his feelings:

“I never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that’s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn’t know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike; but I couldn’t. And when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places.”

Laurie didn’t settle for Amy. Amy took Jo’s place in the sense that they swapped places in how he saw them, from romantic to platonic for Jo and vice versa for Amy. And those wound up being their “right” places. He believes he was always meant to fall in love with Amy and see Jo as his sister, and that he would’ve gotten to this point naturally even if things had played out differently.

I’ll admit I wasn’t a fan of how the 2019 film portrayed Jo in this situation, because in the book she was absolutely thrilled for Laurie and Amy, and is happily surprised when Marmee tells her she’d been hoping for them to fall in love. But in the film, they take her sadness over her loneliness too far IMO, and make it seem like she was actually bitter over Amy and Laurie being together, which unfortunately fuelled the “Amy stole Laurie from Jo” crowd a bit. And after her conversation with Marmee where she admits that she only wants Laurie because she longs to be loved, and Marmee points that “that isn’t the same as loving”, this makes movie!Jo seem “silly and selfish” as book!Jo puts it (because in the book, that was only a “what if” she entertained and never wrote any letter). 

Anyways, to conclude on all of this, when Amy and Laurie are married at and home, we get the thoughts of other characters on their relationship, and the unanimous opinion is that they’re completely in love and happy with each other. Jo herself insists that their happiness will for sure last, and notes how proud Laurie seems to be to call Amy his wife. Laurie, meanwhile, can’t stop talking about Amy through to the end (and Amy is clearly just as smitten). I dare you to read the last half of Part 2 and not find Amy and Laurie adorable together. 

And to hammer that last nail in the coffin on Jo/Laurie as a romance, we get Laurie meeting Professor Bhaer. It’s specifically noted that while Laurie is suspicious of Bhaer and notices his interest in Jo, it was “not of jealousy” but a “brotherly circumspection”. Amy even asks him if he’s at all jealous and Laurie tells her “I assure you I can dance at Jo’s wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?” and it says that Amy’s “last little jealous fear vanished forever”. Laurie actually winds up happily supporting Bhaer once he sees he’s a great guy for his sister Jo, and suggests to Amy that they should try to help them out as a couple.

So no, Jo never loved Laurie romantically, Laurie absolutely did get over Jo, Laurie and Amy are so happy together it’s almost obnoxious, Jo is pro-Amy/Laurie and Laurie is pro-Jo/Bhaer, and Amy wasn’t a second choice, she was Laurie’s “meant to be” by his own words.

[talkingharrystyles]

When this finally ends and if Harry ever agrees to another pr thing again I hope he’s learned his lesson and make sure his team looks into the persons background if not doing it himself. Or even drop a rumor and let the fan base do it for them.

I’ll stand by my statement that Harry was complacent and blindly trusted his team and they were so far up O’s ass they threw H right into it. Because notice once it was revealed her and Jason’s timeline was wrong H disappeared and they had to rely on blurry “fan” photos and that creepy security video and I think O was pissed but it was very one sided and made her look really desperate and we got Italy.

I think H thought he’d get a break from her on tour cause she has kids and was wrong again and was completely over it in NY before he went to Sony.

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

I also think Olivia’s team lied to make them say yes and Olivia’s true colours has come through, I also don’t think Olivia expected her past to be brought back up either 🤣

H also threw Olivia under the bus. After the timeline dispute, Harry’s team said that Olivia told him she was single so Harry isn’t in the wrong. If it was real Harry would’ve defended her and the relationship but he didn’t

[vulturhythm]

the wolf den

this is literally so fucking horny i’m so sorry guys but hey jaskier/all witchers is sexy as fuck am i right @dinahdarling

- - - - -

jaskier is no stranger to combat... mostly in the sense that he has watched geralt fight countless beasts and fend off nearly as many angry bar brawlers or highwaymen. yes, it’s true that he was trained in sword-fighting when he bore the name of julian, but, well, that was years ago now, and surely he can’t be expected to remember all of those moves?

well, in geralt’s mind, he can, evidently.

when the witcher invited him to make the trek back to kaer morhen over the winter, jaskier hadn’t expected for said trek to be full of many, many self-defense lessons. not that he’s complaining - admittedly, there have been many times when it would have been nice to know some proper techniques when fending off angry lords, and, well... it is rather exhilarating, fighting geralt and letting him win.

letting.

obviously.

when they had arrived at the keep, nearly a full month ago, jaskier had thought geralt was merely teasing when he suggested eskel and lambert assist him in training the bard.

he guesses he should have known better.

- - -

jaskier has spent the last two hours of his life being beaten in combat in every feasible fucking way, and, quite honestly, he is tired of it.

he is tired of always being just a hair too slow for eskel as the scarred witcher lunges for him, knocking his dagger from his hand with a well-placed bow to the wrist.

he is tired of always being just too slow for lambert as the prickly bastard knocks him to the ground and pins him there, hands wrestled behind his back and wrists squeezed until his dagger falls.

“you’ve got to make use of your own skill,” geralt has said quite nearly a thousand times now, “you know you’re more agile than them,” and the them in question always snort and laugh at jaskier’s indignation.

it’s a game to them, nothing more.

they break for a few minutes at geralt’s insistence, and although jaskier insists he’s fine, really, he’s grateful for the respite.

he’s dripping in sweat, for one thing, but more than that, he is sore, and not in the good way.

it’s as he sinks straight to the floor, panting for air and wiping sweat from his brow, that he realizes lambert is watching him.

that in and of itself is nothing unusual, certainly, as the witcher has been observing his fights with eskel throughout the afternoon, but now... there’s something different in his eyes, something that takes jaskier too long to recognize simply due to how out of place it is here, now.

when realization finally strikes, he pauses, just as lambert cuts his eyes away and goes to trade his swords for a dagger much like jaskier’s own.

it’s lust.

not full-blown, not yet, but lust nonetheless, the kind born of prolonged exposure to something you can’t help but find appealing. he doubts lambert will act on it, particularly with geralt sitting on a stone bench nearby, watching them all like a hawk, but... there it is.

jaskier glances to his lover then, not at all surprised to find that geralt is watching lambert, golden eyes hard and wary. right, of course - geralt can probably smell it hanging off lambert’s skin. clearing his throat, jaskier waits until geralt’s gaze returns to him; the witcher cocks an expectant brow, and jaskier offers the slightest shake of his head.

don’t worry about it. he won’t do anything.

before he can gauge geralt’s reaction - a tired stare - eskel is rounding to stand in front of him again, bending low to catch his eye. “ready for another round?” he asks, grin sharp.

jaskier groans, but lets eskel pull him upright.

- - -

he has only just begun to fall into a rhythm of parrying eskel’s attacks and ducking and weaving to avoid the rest, and has only just begun to feel perhaps a little bit smug about it all, when, without warning, eskel spins away, and lambert’s dagger is at his throat.

jaskier stills immediately, holding his own blade where it’s plain to see. the youngest witcher has an arm braced around his upper chest, the edge of the dagger set to his skin. he breathes in once, then stops, eyes on eskel as the other witcher gives his sword a lazy twirl.

“never get complacent,” eskel is saying, the same sharp grin on his face once more. “you may think you’re fighting one-on-one, but you’d be surprised how often other people or monsters come out of the woodwork to get in on the fun.”

“lovely,” jaskier says, and his voice is a little strained, largely due to how out of breath he is, now that he’s allowing himself to acknowledge it. more than that, though, he’s gone tense, hyperaware of lambert pressed up flush against his back, of the way lambert has him drawn in close. “great, no... no complacency, got it, can we, ah - can we move on?”

against his ear, lambert snorts. the puff of air sends a tremor down his spine, and he breathes in sharp, feels lambert’s grip change. the witcher turns the flat of the dagger to press against his throat, and jaskier resists the very demeaning urge to whine, tipping his head back to avoid the pressure and finding all he’s done is lay back on lambert’s shoulder. “what do you think, eskel?”

eskel is watching them close, arms folded, sword once again sheathed. there’s a glint in his eye, one that makes jaskier tremble. “again,” he decides, and nods to geralt, off behind jaskier. “lambert, your go.”

lambert lets go of him with enough abruptness that jaskier stumbles on his feet.

fuck.

- - -

eskel fights with speed, twisting and slashing in a flurry of motion designed to catch his opponent off-guard - the type of movement jaskier is already beginning to favor.

lambert, however... lambert fights with strength. he makes up for his slight decrease in agility with powerful, debilitating blows that hurt like hell whenever they land - always the flat of the blade, always angled so it can’t truly harm, but goddamn, does it hurt.

jaskier thinks he’s catching on, though - thinks he’s learned that it’s best to fight brute force with nimble movements, thinks he’s figured out that copying eskel’s style is the best counter to lambert’s... and then, as he spins low beneath a sweeping blow, a blade slams into his lower back, and he falls forward, having the sense to drop his dagger before it spears his palm on impact.

there’s a heavy weight on his back within seconds, firm hands wrenching his own behind his back, one keeping them pinned while the other presses his head to the stone - not hard, not really, but firm. jaskier breathes in, recognizes geralt’s musk, goes still.

“yield,” his lover purrs, amusement plain in his tone. geralt shifts above him, and movement draws jaskier’s eyes upward. lambert is striding closer, only his boots visible. the second set of footsteps must be eskel, he realizes, approaching just out of sight.

jaskier says nothing. he closes his eyes, tries to calm his racing heart and heaving lungs... his aching groin, too, the thrill of being fought, bested, caught and pinned rushing south. knowing lambert wants him, imagining eskel does, too... having geralt above him, their hips almost aligned...

“jaskier,” geralt is saying, squeezing his wrists to draw him back to the present. he sucks in a breath, squirms beneath him, and, for a moment, geralt falters, but then his grip goes firm once more. “yield.”

“no,” he breathes then, and he can feel, just as much as hear, the moment geralt scents the air.

his witcher goes tense above him. “jaskier - “ he begins, voice rough and raw with disbelief and something more.

“no,” jaskier repeats, and this time, the way he draws away is entirely deliberate, straining for freedom in a way that has geralt’s thigh rubbing right up against his own. geralt’s grip tightens. “come on... come on, please, i want - “

“we’ll leave,” eskel says, sounding strained. there’s another edge to his voice, something that mirrors the tension in geralt’s own, and it makes jaskier tremble, fists clenching. “i didn’t think this would... happen, geralt - “

geralt cuts him off, his hand clenching tight in jaskier’s hair - no doubt to keep him still, but it serves only to make him whine. “neither did i.”

as his eyes fall shut, jaskier sees lambert shifting his weight, hears him clear his throat. “should we go?”

“no,” jaskier gasps then, and, fuck, he knows he sounds easy, he knows he sounds like a whore, but it’s difficult to care when he’s this high on adrenaline, this desperate for geralt’s cock, this eager for the other two to - fuck, to do what? to watch?

it’s as this thought crosses his mind that another spike of lust rushes through him, and, fuck, that’s it - he wants them to watch.

he fumbles out as much to geralt, tripping over his words, begging, “c - come on, geralt, let them - let them stay, please...”

“jaskier,” his witcher is saying, trying for firm and landing somewhere closer to disbelieving, but he’s not saying no, “we can’t do this out here, we - we shouldn’t - “

but jaskier cuts him off with a whine, rolling his hips into nothing, and, fuck, he’s already hard, already eager and ready and willing, and he knows he must smell like a fucking whore, so damn needy, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when geralt’s grip on his hands and head sends sparks of desire through his blood every time it tightens, not when he can hear eskel’s breath coming shorter, not when he can hear lambert shifting his weight in place.

geralt is quiet, his fingers flexing where they hold jaskier down, but do little to keep him still. he’s quiet, and jaskier takes that as maybe, not no, and jaskier arches and twists and moans, shifting in place as best he can manage to let his legs splay, open for geralt now. “please,” he repeats again, and then, “i s - saw them looking, they want me, geralt, you know they do, c’mon...”

his witcher curses; above him, eskel is already scrambling to explain, saying, “we wouldn’t ever do anything, you know that, it’s just - he’s so - “

“i know,” geralt grouses, and eskel knows when to shut up. “i know.” another beat of silence, another rough inhale, and then, at last, geralt readjusts his grip, holds jaskier more firmly by the hands so he can let go of his head. jaskier sucks in a nervous breath, holds it, releases it all at once when geralt gets to work on pulling his pants down past the swell of his ass. “watch if you want,” he mutters, “but don’t touch.”

“thank you,” jaskier is gasping, opening his eyes to crane and watch as the other two draw back a step; lambert is the first to settle, sinking slowly to the floor a few feet away, eyes on where geralt’s fumbling with jaskier’s underclothes. as eskel hesitantly kneels, their eyes meet; the witcher goes red, and jaskier purrs out another weak moan of thanks before he drops his head, brow to the floor, lips already parted as he heaves for air.

geralt is usually a kind lover, even his roughest nights full of murmured praise and reassurance; jaskier knows better than to think he’ll get anything of the sort now, not when he got here by pushing every button available, not when he got turned on by the most innocent fucking thing. all things considered, jaskier isn’t surprised in the slightest by the force with which geralt presses two fingers into him, dry and without warning. he knows geralt wouldn’t dare try it if they hadn’t had a bit of fun the night before, and even still, the pain has him gasping, arching away.

geralt holds him firm, leaning down to growl at his ear, “you’re sorely mistaken if you think this to be for anybody’s benefit but your own.”

“you say that,” jaskier breathes, laughter in his tone as he does his best to rock back onto the fingers buried inside him, “and yet you’re just as hard as me, geralt, you truly think i can’t feel it?” for the fact is that he can; geralt’s cock is a hard, hot line within the confines of his pants, pressed against the back of jaskier’s thigh where geralt has shifted to straddle it, keeping him pinned. “y - you can’t lie, a - ah...”

geralt’s fingers are twisting within him, crooking upward to rub cruelly over the bundle of nerves inside his heat as the witcher adds a third; white-hot pleasure flares up his spine, and jaskier bucks into the feeling, moaning aloud. he meets eskel’s gaze when he lets his head drop once more, turned sideways now so he can watch them watching him. the scarred witcher is frozen in place, but as jaskier holds his gaze, he moves at last, one hand pressing its way between his closed thighs. jaskier shudders at the implications, closing his eyes.

“i’ll fuck you once,” geralt is muttering, as if that’s meant to be a threat or deterrent, “and then that’s it. i’ll take you to bed, treat you properly there... let them have their show for now, but tonight, you’ll pay for this little stunt in full...”

jaskier gives a weak and ragged laugh, one that devolves into a moan when geralt spreads his fingers wide, twists them, pulls them away. “i expect to,” is all he manages to say, halfway distracted by the sound of geralt tugging his own pants out of the way, before he’s choking off into a little cry, fists clenching tight at his back as he feels the head of geralt’s cock press to his hole. fuck, it’ll hurt, he knows it will - geralt’s big enough that he’s hard to take even with proper prep - but he’ll be damned if he lets that stop him.

“are you sure he can - “ comes a voice, no, lambert’s voice, just to the side. jaskier trembles when he hears the blatant desire in the witcher’s tone, forces his eyes back open to glance over. a little whine escapes him when he sees that lambert is already fisting his cock, slow and nearly lazy, pants undone enough to take it out; his mouth fucking waters at the sight of precum beading at the head.

geralt’s answering laugh is nearly a snarl as he rocks his hips forward; jaskier moans aloud, eyes on lambert’s cock as geralt’s own sinks deep into his aching, empty heat. “he’s begged for it dry before,” he rasps, and jaskier can’t tell if he’s irritated or aroused, decides it’s both, decides he really doesn’t fucking care when he hears eskel’s voice break on a little gasp, a softer groan. “begged for it over and over...”

another sound from eskel drags jaskier’s blurry gaze back to him; the witcher is palming himself through his trousers, thighs still pressed tight, lips parted for breath. jaskier gives a high and reedy whine, squirms beneath geralt’s weight as his witcher draws back out, only to thrust in deep, setting a pace that’s just as cruel and brutal as it is slow. “most people can’t just take us like that,” eskel is murmuring, sounding so damn disbelieving that jaskier can’t help but be proud. “gods, geralt, how fucking often have you done this?”

geralt spits out a laugh, his hand coming back to tangle in jaskier’s hair; the bard moans out as his head is pulled up and back, as geralt thrusts in deep enough that he swears he can feel his cock in his fucking throat. “he’d take me every night if i’d let him,” geralt replies, and he still sounds agitated, still sounds like he’d rather not be doing this, but there’s something else in his voice, something almost like possessiveness, almost like pride. “he’d beg for me to fuck him senseless, wake up and do it all again...”

“look at him,” lambert breathes; with his head pulled back, jaskier struggles to cut his eyes to the side, his mouth hanging open as he gasps for air. lambert’s cock is big, not quite as thick or long as geralt’s, but big enough that he can’t help but whine at the thought of swallowing it down, of letting the witcher fuck his throat while geralt takes him from behind. “where’d you find yourself such a pretty little whore...?”

those words have jaskier shaking, an answering moan falling from parted lips as geralt thrusts in deep. his cock is aching, trapped between his squirming hips and the floor; the only friction he’s allowed is from the movement of geralt’s hips, fucking him into the cold stone hard enough that he’s seeing stars. “he found me,” geralt is correcting, though jaskier barely hears, “would have let me fuck him that first day, if i’d offered.”

jaskier gives a keening little noise in response, whimpers aloud when he glances back to eskel and sees that the scarred witcher has let his legs fall, has taken to stroking his cock through his half-open trousers as he watches geralt fuck jaskier into the stone. “bet his mouth is like heaven,” eskel is murmuring; he seems not to even remember that jaskier has eyes, his own fixated on jaskier’s open lips and eager tongue. at the thought, jaskier jerks and whines, strains against geralt’s grip on his hair, opens his mouth wider as if to beg for splashes of cum that will never arrive. “gods, geralt, let me - come on - “

“no,” geralt snarls, and it’s so forceful, so territorial that jaskier can’t help but moan, arching back into the next thrust because he knows he’s being mounted by a beast. “i said don’t touch.”

off to the side, lambert is panting now, working his cock faster to match the pace geralt has set. when geralt lets go of jaskier’s hair, lets him slump back to the ground and gasp into the stone, jaskier looks over again, holds the witcher’s gaze - watches with hooded eyes and parted lips as lambert’s fingers tease over the head once more. precum strings between his cock and fingertips when he sets back to work, and jaskier’s mouth is fucking watering at the sight, at the thought of swallowing him down...

he’s so lost in his fantasies that he doesn’t realize geralt’s adjusting him until, suddenly, he’s kneeling, ass up high, head to the floor, straining arms still pinned at his back. positioned like this, geralt can mount him properly, can pull out almost entirely and thrust back in with enough force to have jaskier sobbing his name. it hurts, it fucking burns, he should have never begged for this, and yet - and yet -

geralt is fisting his cock with his free hand now, giving him a tight sleeve to fuck into, and as he ruts mindlessly into the circle of his hand, he notices geralt’s skin is going slick. he’s that fucking wet, he realizes, cock weeping enough precum to lube his witcher’s hand. jaskier chokes out a cry as the head of geralt’s cock drives into his prostate, merciless strokes making him shake beneath the pressure. he can do little more than squirm and writhe, than fuck back onto his wolf’s cock and forward into his fist, than ride the high, and, fuck, already he’s close, and -

“let me clean him when you’re done,” lambert is saying, “come on, look at him, he’s so wet, let me - “

geralt simply snarls, and jaskier arches into him with a keening moan when his witcher leans down, sharp teeth sinking into the curve of his throat, just above his collar. he feels his wolf rock in deep, feels his cock jerk as he spills inside him - sobs for the feeling of geralt’s seed. he hears eskel break next, hears it in the way the witcher tries to stifle a groan, smells it in the air as he spills into his own hand.

geralt is spent, and jaskier is not - jaskier is not, and as he cranes his head to the side, he holds lambert’s gaze, whines for the way lambert’s jacking off to mirror geralt now, for the way geralt’s fingers twist and tug, the way lambert’s do the same. he breaks mere seconds later, thrusting into the tightness of geralt’s fist and moaning aloud as his orgasm finally crests. his eyes drop shut, every sense overwhelmed, but he doesn’t miss the way lambert spills simultaneously, coming into his fist as jaskier does the same.

only when jaskier begins to tremble and whine does geralt let him go, and even then, there’s cum-wet fingers pressing to his lips seconds later. eyes shut and world all hazy, jaskier merely groans, licking his spend off of geralt’s hand in a slow and lazy fashion. “good,” geralt murmurs at last, and jaskier winces when his wolf pulls out. he lays still there, hands at his back and ass in the air, only relaxing to the side with geralt’s guidance. there’s hands smoothing over his flanks and thighs, parting his legs so two fingers can push the leaking cum back inside his hole, but he lacks the strength to react.

“leave now,” comes geralt’s voice, seconds or minutes or hours later; jaskier doesn’t know. he’s aware of little more than the pleasant warmth of cum inside him, of geralt’s fingers still smoothing over his hole to keep it all in. as eskel and lambert stand, as their footsteps slowly retreat, jaskier lets himself sink, purrs out a breathy moan in response to the fingers that press inside him once more.

he knows he won’t rest.

he knows he doesn’t deserve to.

[testingcheats0n]

Tubbo is right and so is Techno

Just a quick disclaimer. This is entirely RPing. No, I’m not really mad at the youtubers mentioned here. No, I’m not insulting them. These are just my personal interpretations of the story, in which I’m very invested. I enjoy the content every single person on the Dream SMP produces, and I’m grateful for their dedication. Lets begin:

Tubbo did the smart thing and all the rest of them are a bunch of impulsive idiots who don’t know when to quit.

Should Tubbo refuse Dream DIRECTLY, and in PUBLIC, something the man has been so adamant about would have IMEDIATE REPERCUSSIONS. The four of them couldn't beat him (in battle yes), not permanently, not like that. Dream has all the power and he could've ended the entirety of L'Manburg in an instant. He had power before Tubbo exiled Tommy- THAT'S LITERALLY HOW HE HAD ENOUGH INFLUENCE TO EXILE ONE OF L'MANBURG'S FOUNDING MEMBERS. Tubbo didn’t give up anything, Dream simply thinks that Tubbo is easy to manipulate unlike Wilbur and Schlatt (And he isn’t!!). 

A half-baked plan and unreliable allies are not enough. They wanted to use Techno again ffs, I could go on on about how treating a person as an object, a blade- a literal weapon, will end up terribly but we already saw the consequences and they still haven't learned their lesson, have they!? Even despite that, that there's no trust nor common goals between them- there is nothing Techno could gain from them and they only want his power without returning the favor in any way. It would end in a massive, sudden conflict that Quackity and the rest would loose almost instantly with no allies to speak of and no plan B’s to fall on after that. They would loose, and with it end L'Manburg. Forever. If Dream were intelligent, which he is, he would exploit the mad scramble for alliances that would ensue and plant spies and double agents everywhere. History repeats itself and people never learn.

Quackity is a maniac that shouldn't be putting ideas in people's heads. First he wants Techno in his team- then he reveals his complete and deranged obsession with the man? I smell foreshadowing. He can't be trusted to lead- he planted the idea of overt rebellion into Fundy and Tommy's minds based completely on childish whims. And Fundy, a pretty smart guy played right into it like a ding-dong. Relying on the Blood God again AFTER he's gone into retirement and AFTER they've betrayed him while also owing him blood money (armors, weapons ,etc. which they never used as Techno intended- to kill tyrants) is beyond foolish, going straight into moronic. Funny they always come to him pleading.

Say what you will about Schlatt and parallels, but Tubbo's mentor was smart and the boy followed right in his footsteps. Tommy and Quackity were manipulative as fuck and it was so blatant that Tubbo saw through it, grew a spine and acted logically (Even Techno recognized it in his stream). The other three were so driven by their emotions it almost broke my immersion with how realistic it was. Tubbo did what was best for L’Manburg despite false accusations of giving up power, they literally tried to guilt Tubbo into joining them. And he did later on, but that was also smart of him.

Now that Tommy is exiled, he's safe and far, far away from Dream's clutches (Dream who appears to be loosing his grasp on his worst and most manic impulses. Overprotectiveness is the first step, and that soon turns into the cold indifference of a lonely god who only has toys to entertain himself with. That complete objectification results in a disregard for the loved ones' feelings and desires- sliding straight into unhealthy possessiveness). Tubbo probably didn’t exile him with that in mind, rather keeping Dream calm and dealing with the fallout later, but that’s it. There’s nothing that Dream could want from Tubbo EXEPT THOSE FUCKING DISKSAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGSHSH

Tubbo doesn't have to worry about the safety of his friend and instead has plenty of time to form alliances in secret right under Dream's nose who's so up his own ass that he's completely sure that he's got Tubbo in his grasp, completely complacent, and L'manburg with it. Tommy's just too self-centered (as MC's often are) as normal teenagers tend to be to see it. Only he had the power to levy armies in his name and wage wars. And that power has been suddenly and unfairly ripped from him, leaving him as a pariah in a terrible mental state. He could end up dying tragically, or living up to his full potential and prove Techno wrong about Theseus.

Tommy getting away, loosing his mind to the mighty logs and FINALLY getting some character development while continuing with Ghostbur’s plotline is so refreshing. Sigh. Most importantly it's good. Tommy's been flying by the seat of his pants. He NEEDS to focus and think RATIONALLY for once, with a CLEAR goal in mind. Techno and Phil WILL finally beat sense in his thick, pubescent skull. That is, if he doesn't completely loose his marbles- lunacy tends to run in the family.

I'm genuinely surprised at Fundy. He saw right through the plot. He knows exactly who are L'manburg's enemies and in which order. Dream is their final boss, true, but Techno is their ally against him, not a stepping stone. Funnily enough, Fundy seemed to genuinely care about Dream even when he knew he was a monster that needed to be eliminated. Now that Dream has betrayed him, he has the perfect motive (I’ve been told that it isn’t cannon so we’ll see).

[tatticstudio55]

Let’s look at these famous “parallels” between Dany and Cersei

(Because I’ve been re-reading AFFC and ADWD simultaneously and couldn’t help noticing these. This list might be expanded btw)

Dealing with a guest who’s pissing them off

CERSEI:

"Aye," her uncle said, "and from what I saw of Joffrey, you are as unfit a mother as you are a ruler."

She threw the contents of her wine cup full in his face.

DANY:

"Be that as it may, they do not trust you. The men of New Ghis feel the same. Words are wind, as you yourself have so oft said. No words of yours will secure this peace for Meereen. Your foes require deeds. They would see us wed, and they would see me crowned as king, to rule beside you."

Dany filled his wine cup again, wanting nothing so much as to pour the flagon over his head and drown his complacent smile. "Marriage or carnage. A wedding or a war. Are those my choices?"

Dealing with war refugees

CERSEI:

A hundred gold cloaks with staves and swords and maces could clear this rabble quick enough. That was what Lord Tywin would have done. He would have ridden over them instead of walking through.

[…]

"High Holiness," she said, "these sparrows are frightening the city. I want them gone."

"Where should they go, Your Grace?"

There are seven hells, any one of them will serve. "Back where they came from, I would imagine."

DANY:

"It shall be done, Magnificence," said Reznak mo Reznak. "What of these Astapori?"

My children. "They are coming here for help. For succor and protection. We cannot turn our backs on them."

Ser Barristan frowned. "Your Grace, I have known the bloody flux to destroy whole armies when left to spread unchecked. The seneschal is right. We cannot have the Astapori in Meereen."

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry. "As you say, then. We will keep them outside the walls until this … this curse has run its course. Set up a camp for them beside the river, west of the city. We will send them what food we can. Perhaps we can separate the healthy from the sick."

Dealing with people who knows too much

CERSEI:

Qyburn arrived before the food. Lady Falyse had put down three more cups by then, and was beginning to nod, though from time to time she would rouse and give another sob. The queen took Qyburn aside and told him of Ser Balman's folly. "I cannot have Falyse spreading tales about the city. Her grief has made her witless. Do you still need women for your . . . work?"

"I do, Your Grace. The puppeteers are quite used up."

"Take her and do with her as you will, then. But once she goes down into the black cells . . . need I say more?"

"No, Your Grace. I understand."

"Good." The queen donned her smile once again. "Sweet Falyse, Maester Qyburn's here. He'll help you rest."

DANY:

The Shavepate had urged her to put the man to death. "At least rip out his tongue. This man's lie could destroy us all, Magnificence." Instead Dany chose to pay the blood price. No one could tell her the worth of a daughter, so she set it at one hundred times the worth of a lamb. "I would give Hazzea back to you if I could," she told the father, "but some things are beyond the power of even a queen. Her bones shall be laid to rest in the Temple of the Graces, and a hundred candles shall burn day and night in her memory. Come back to me each year upon her nameday, and your other children shall not want … but this tale must never pass your lips again."

Dealing with criticism and thinly veiled accusations

CERSEI:

"The Red Keep has had no master-at-arms since Aron Santagar was slain," Ser Loras said, with a hint of reproach in his voice. "His Grace is almost nine, and eager to learn. At his age he should be a squire. Someone has to teach him."

Someone will, but it will not be you. "Pray, who did you squire for, ser?" she asked sweetly. "Lord Renly, was it not?"

"I had that honor."

"Yes, I thought as much." Cersei had seen how tight the bonds grew between squires and the knights they served. She did not want Tommen growing close to Loras Tyrell. The Knight of Flowers was no sort of man for any boy to emulate. "I have been remiss. With a realm to rule, a war to fight, and a father to mourn, somehow I overlooked the crucial matter of naming a new master-at-arms. I shall rectify that error at once."

**

"Night soil can be washed away more easily than blood, Your Grace. If the plaza was befouled, it was befouled by the execution that was done here."

He dares throw Ned Stark in my face? "We all regret that. Joffrey was young, and not as wise as he might have been. Lord Stark should have been beheaded elsewhere, out of respect for Blessed Baelor . . . but the man was a traitor, let us not forget."

[…]

"War is a dreadful thing. These atrocities are the work of the northmen, and of Lord Stannis and his demon-worshipers."

"Some of my sparrows speak of bands of lions who despoiled them . . . and of the Hound, who was your own sworn man. At Saltpans he slew an aged septon and despoiled a girl of twelve, an innocent child promised to the Faith. He wore his armor as he raped her and her tender flesh was torn and crushed by his iron mail. When he was done he gave her to his men, who cut off her nose and nipples."

"His Grace cannot be held responsible for the crimes of every man who ever served House Lannister. Sandor Clegane is a traitor and a brute. Why do you think I dismissed him from our service? He fights for the outlaw Beric Dondarrion now, not for King Tommen."

DANY:

The weaver raised her head. "Every day we told each other that the dragon queen was coming back." The woman had thin lips and dull dead eyes, set in a pinched and narrow face. "Cleon had sent for you, it was said, and you were coming."

He sent for me, thought Dany. That much is true, at least.

[…]

"Others blamed Daenerys," said the weaver, "but more of us still loved you. 'She is on her way,' we said to one another. 'She is coming at the head of a great host, with food for all.' "

I can scarce feed my own folk. If I had marched to Astapor, I would have lost Meereen.

[…]

"Even then some said that you were coming," said the weaver. "They swore they had seen you mounted on a dragon, flying high above the camps of the Yunkai'i. Every day we looked for you."

I could not come, the queen thought. I dare not.

[…]

"It is good that you have come," she told the Astapori. "You will be safe in Meereen."

The cobbler thanked her for that, and the old brickmaker kissed her foot, but the weaver looked at her with eyes as hard as slate. She knows I lie, the queen thought. She knows I cannot keep them safe. Astapor is burning, and Meereen is next.

[…]

"These are not apples, Ben," said Dany. "These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid." My children. "I should have gone to Astapor."

Dealing with prophecies

CERSEI:

She promised me I should be queen, but said another queen would come . . ." Younger and more beautiful, she said. ". . . another queen, who would take from me all I loved."

"And you wish to forestall this prophecy?"

More than anything, she thought. "Can it be forestalled?"

"Oh, yes. Never doubt that."

"How?"

"I think Your Grace knows how."

She did. I knew it all along, she thought. Even in the tent. "If she tries I will have my brother kill her."

[…]

It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead.

DANY:

When Reznak and Skahaz appeared, she found herself looking at them askance, mindful of the three treasons. Beware the perfumed seneschal. She sniffed suspiciously at Reznak mo Reznak. I could command the Shavepate to arrest him and put him to the question. Would that forestall the prophecy? Or would some other betrayer take his place? Prophecies are treacherous, she reminded herself, and Reznak may be no more than he appears.

Dealing with sneers or matters of disrespect

CERSEI:

"One more thing. A trifling matter." He gave her an apologetic smile and told her of a puppet show that had recently become popular amongst the city's smallfolk; a puppet show wherein the kingdom of the beasts was ruled by a pride of haughty lions. "The puppet lions grow greedy and arrogant as this treasonous tale proceeds, until they begin to devour their own subjects. When the noble stag makes objection, the lions devour him as well, and roar that it is their right as the mightiest of beasts."

"And is that the end of it?" Cersei asked, amused. Looked at in the right light, it could be seen as a salutary lesson.

"No, Your Grace. At the end a dragon hatches from an egg and devours all of the lions."

The ending took the puppet show from simple insolence to treason. "Witless fools. Only cretins would hazard their heads upon a wooden dragon." She considered a moment. "Send some of your whisperers to these shows and make note of who attends. If any of them should be men of note, I would know their names."

"What will be done with them, if I may be so bold?"

"Any men of substance shall be fined. Half their worth should be sufficient to teach them a sharp lesson and refill our coffers, without quite ruining them. Those too poor to pay can lose an eye, for watching treason. For the puppeteers, the axe."

DANY:

"We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom." Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face.

Strong Belwas seized him by the shoulder and slammed him down onto the marble so hard that Dany heard Ghael's teeth crack. The Shavepate would have done worse, but she stopped him.

"Enough," she said, dabbing at her cheek with the end of her tokar. "No one has ever died from spittle. Take him away."

Views on torture

CERSEI:

Even in the black cells, all they got from him were denials, prayers, and pleas for mercy. Before long, blood was streaming down his chin from all his broken teeth, and he wet his dark blue breeches three times over, yet still the man persisted in his lies. "Is it possible we have the wrong singer?" Cersei asked.

"All things are possible, Your Grace. Have no fear. The man will confess before the night is done." Down here in the dungeons, Qyburn wore roughspun wool and a blacksmith's leather apron. To the Blue Bard he said, "I am sorry if the guards were rough with you. Their courtesies are sadly lacking." His voice was kind, solicitous. "All we want from you is the truth."

DANY:

"If he is not the Harpy, he knows him. I can find the truth of that easy enough. Give me your leave to put Hizdahr to the question, and I will bring you a confession."

"No," she said. "I do not trust these confessions. You've brought me too many of them, all of them worthless."

 MISCELLANOUS

Dealing with adverse political faction(s)

CERSEI: gleefully send Loras off to Dragonstone to be killed, frame Margaery and Margaery’s cousins for adultery, publicly shame Mace Tyrell at Tywin’s funeral, insult the Tyrells at every turn.

DANY: marries one of their highest members, try to reach peaceful agreements.

Priorities

DANY:

“The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by proclaiming her a whore and demanding that she return Meereen to its Great Masters. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, which came by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled.”

CERSEI:

Can’t think of a specific passage here, but we know enough of Cersei to guess that if she were in Dany’s place, it would’ve been written more like this:

The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, that proclaimed her a whore and demanded that she return Meereen to its former rulers.

[madpanda75]

“Taking Chances Part 9: Love, Tequila, and Ice Cream”

And we’re back!!!!! So to give you a brief recap, Rafael and the reader left the Carisi house in a huff after the reader gave Sonny “the slap heard around the world.” Find out what happens next in this latest chapter. Words are said, sexy times happen. It’s fluffy, smutty fun....for now 😉💕

NSFW: Sex by the fireplace! Can ya’ dig it??? 😜💥🔥

Rafael adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as he drove across the Verrazano Bridge. Occasionally he would glance over at you sitting in the passenger seat with your head down and your hands gently folded in your lap. 

Rafael cleared his throat. “So should we go to my place or yours?”

You grunted out a monotone syllable in response.

“Ok, your place it is,” he said with a sigh, turning on the blinker and making a right turn towards your apartment.

Once back at your place, you immediately went to the living room and started a fire. Your apartment may have been a shoebox, but the wood burning fireplace was a definite perk. When you first moved in, the notion of a struggling artist pouring her heart and soul onto the canvas beside a roaring fire seemed romantic and bohemian. 

While you stroked the flames to life, Rafael stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Cold night, huh?” He inwardly cringed at having been reduced to commenting on the weather.

“Mmhmm,” you replied.

“Two syllables. That’s progress,” he thought. Maybe by the end of the night, you would utter an actual word. After several minutes of deafening silence, he made yet another feeble attempt at conversation. “Your mom is a wonderful cook.”

“Hmmm,” you grunted.

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.” Rafael crouched down next to you and took your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your eyes were still shiny with tears, your nose bright red. 

It was the first time since leaving your parents’ house that you had looked at him or even acknowledged his presence apart from the occasional mumble. “I know this afternoon was a complete disaster, but I can’t take this anymore. Please say something. Anything.”

Your bottom lip quivered before blurting out, “He cheated on me!” As soon as the words escaped your lips, you crumbled into a heap on the floor, sobbing. 

Rafael gathered you into his arms, running his hands through your hair, rocking back and forth. You clung to him, wetting his brand new Tom Ford dress shirt. But neither of you could care less. After all, he knew what it was like to be betrayed.  Once you calmed down, he asked, “So tequila or ice cream?” 

“Both,” you replied with a hiccup and a very loud unladylike sniffle.

Rafael got up and walked over to your kitchen to grab the bottle of Tequila Ocho Reposado you had hidden in your cupboard behind the cheap stuff before rummaging in your freezer for the pint of Haagen-Dazs’ Chocolate Chocolate Chip. He smiled when he saw the post-it note you had left on the frozen dessert.

“This ice cream is the personal property of Y/N Carisi. DO NOT TOUCH OR PREPARE TO MEET A VIOLENT SUDDEN DEATH!” 

He handed you a spoon and a glass. “Why do you have a death threat on your ice cream?” 

“Sometimes Teresa or Gina crash here after partying or a bad date. They’re notorious for stealing my secret stash of junk food.” You pulled the cork out of the tequila bottle with your teeth and drank straight from the bottle. 

Several smooth swigs of alcohol and an unfortunate brain freeze later, you and Rafael sat in front of the fire and swapped war stories. Although he had briefly mentioned being cheated on by his childhood ex-girlfriend, Yelina; tonight he shared more with you than he ever had with anyone. How heartbroken he was. The humiliation. How after such a betrayal he wondered if he ever could trust someone ever again. 

Likewise, you felt safe enough to stop skirting around the ex situation and finally tell the truth about Theo. “We were supposed to go to some bakery in Staten Island to sample cakes for our wedding, but Theo told me he wasn’t feeling well and asked if we could reschedule. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” You snorted a laugh as you scraped the last bit of ice cream out of the container. “How stupid was I?”

“Hey, don’t talk about my girlfriend that way.” Rafael wiped away a spot of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream on the corner of your mouth with his thumb. 

“Later on that day, I came home with some ribollita and tea.”

“Ribollita?” 

“It’s an Italian bread and vegetable soup. My mom would make it for us whenever we’re sick or sad,” you explained. 

“When I walked inside, I saw a trail of clothes and heard a girl’s giggle coming from down the hall. I followed the sound, opened the bedroom door, and saw him with Lacey. The 21 year old bimbo who worked at the dry cleaners down the street,” you said in such a bitter tone that Rafael could feel the acerbic bite in his bones. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.

 “It had been going on for months. Apparently, she had been doing way more than spot treatments and pressing his pants. I dumped the soup on his 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, threw the ring at his forehead, and left. He never followed me. He never fought for us.” You shook your head and took another shot of tequila when your phone began to buzz and dance across the floor. It was your brother. Since leaving your parents’ house he had called ten times-- a new record for him.

Rafael watched as you shut off your phone and tossed it over to the couch. While Sonny was not his favorite person by any means, he knew how important your brother was to you. The last thing he wanted out of this relationship was to come between you and your family. Not only did he firmly believe they would despise him for it, but above all else he had a gnawing fear that you would resent him for driving that wedge. “You know, you’re going to have to talk to him eventually.”

You scoffed, “I never want to speak to Sonny again. I hate him.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

You rolled your eyes. As usual Rafael was right, but that didn’t mean you had to give in and be the first person to offer an olive branch. Sonny was a colossal jerk and he needed to learn a lesson. 

“He’s just looking out for you,” Rafael continued. “In his own sick and twisted way.”

You arched a brow at your boyfriend. “So how much did you overhear when Sonny and I were in the kitchen?”

Rafael shrugged and averted his gaze, suddenly incredibly fascinated with the  pattern on your rug. “Not much. Snippets really.”

“So pretty much all of it?”

“Pretty much,” he confirmed. “Did...did you ever love him?” 

There was a pregnant pause before you responded. Rafael stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker, unable to face you. Of course he already knew the answer was yes. You were a hopeless romantic. But the idea of you loving another man, planning a future with them, made his stomach knot up.

 “I thought I did once. But it was different. I can see that now.”

Rafael nodded thoughtfully and grabbed the ice cream carton and bottle of tequila to take back into the kitchen. “How so?” 

“Theo and I grew up together. We were childhood sweethearts. The only reason we got engaged is because that’s what people expected of us. It was the next step. But looking back, I realized I was complacent and complacency does not equal love.” 

You glanced over at a picture on the coffee table of you and Rafael. You had taken it one lazy Sunday morning in bed, Rafael was kissing your cheek, his bed head sticking out in all directions while you were laughing hysterically. What the picture didn’t capture was that he was tickling that one spot right under your ribcage. You smiled fondly at that happy moment frozen in time.  “Love should be scary. It’s taking chances. It’s thrilling. I never felt that with Theo. I feel all those things when I’m with you. I love you.”

Rafael walked back into the living room, completely stunned by your declaration. “What did you say?”

“I love you?” you said with a shrug, feeling a wave of nerves. Perhaps you had jumped the gun.

Rafael plopped down on the rug beside you. He had realized early on in the relationship that he loved you, but always chalked it up to indigestion and brushed his feelings aside. He never believed you would reciprocate so soon. “Are you sure?” He turned towards you and cupped your face. “This isn’t just the tequila and ice cream talking. You’re not drunk or on a raging sugar high?”

You giggled and mimicked his movements, cupping his cheeks. “I promise I am not under any influence of any kind. I love you, Rafael Barba. With every fiber of my being, I love you.” 

A tear slipped down your cheek which he brushed away. “I love you too.” He leaned forward and captured your lips with a kiss. Parting your mouth with his tongue, his touch was gentle yet commanding. Your toes were beginning to curl.

A heat crept up your body and you started to undo the top few buttons of your dress. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafael spied a flash of emerald green against your skin and stopped his ministrations.

“What’s the matter?” you asked out of breath.

He ignored your question and tugged your dress aside a little more, revealing the silk emerald green corset. The corset that you had taunted him with when you invited him to lunch on Sunday. The corset that he had envisioned ripping to shreds with his teeth.

You giggled and blushed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “With all the drama, I forgot I had this on.”

“You mean...you wore this to church?” 

You slowly nodded your head. “And to my parents’ house.”

Rafael was already rock hard, but now he was on the brink of coming in his pants at the mere thought of you wearing this sinful lingerie underneath your demure dress all day-- piously praying at St. Thomas; helping your mother with her marinara sauce in the kitchen. “Stand up so I can see you better,” he gruffly commanded.

You obeyed and slowly went back to the task of removing your dress. “Stop,” he said and replaced your hands with his. “Let me.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest at his request. A tiny whimper escaped your throat as he peeled your dress off. Rafael’s hands were trembling with each button. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen you naked before, but this time felt different. He was nervous. Locking eyes with you, he could see you were nervous too.

Once your clothes were shed, he drank you in from head to toe--from how that particular shade of green complimented your skin, to your hard nipples poking through the silk and lace, all the way down to the black thigh high stockings connected to your garters. “Eres perfecta,” he whispered, his eyes half-hooded with lust as he began to take off his clothes.

You grabbed his hands, effectively stopping him. “Allow me.” You arched your brow and began shedding layer after layer. You took your time, running your hands over his exposed flesh, feeling his firm muscles beneath your palms. 

Completely lost in the sensation of your fingertips against his skin, the clanging of his belt against the floor brought Rafael back to reality. His boxer briefs were the last to go. With a flirty snap of the elastic, you rid him of his underwear, his hardened cock springing free. He toed out of his socks and stepped towards you, nudging his clothes out of the way.

You stared at each other for a long moment-- your chests heaving, bodies pulsating. The tension between you both was electric. Not wanting to wait another second, you pressed yourself against Rafael, kissing him hard, nibbling on his bottom lip. He returned the kiss with vigor. You could feel his throbbing erection weeping onto your inner thigh, brushing against your lace-covered pussy.

In awe of this beautiful man in your arms, you began to work your way down his body, laying wet wanton kisses across his skin. “Oh Y/N, please,” he whimpered. Hearing him beg, you raked your teeth against his nipple, a particular sensitive spot for Rafael. He gasped in response. 

You smirked, reveling in the fact that you had reduced him to a begging, quivering mess. Kneeling before him, you took his cock in your hand and teasingly flicked your tongue against his slit.  

Rafael groaned at the sight of you looking up at him with big innocent eyes and a wide welcoming mouth. From this angle, he could see the way your garters rested on the luscious curve of your ass. 

You wrapped your lips around him, swirling around his crown as if you were sucking a lollipop, tracing every vein. 

Rafael threw his head back and groaned, “Ay Dios mío.”

His cock felt hot and heavy in your mouth, you relaxed your throat as you slowly swallowed him down, pushing his head past your tight ring of muscle. Your nose was tickled by his trimmed pubic hair. He held your head there for a moment, relishing in the sensation.

You smacked his ass and grabbed a handful of his flesh before pulling off him with a pop. “Fuck my mouth, mi amor,” you purred while stroking his length. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

He wrapped his hand around your long locks and fed you his cock. “You naughty little girl,” he growled before thrusting. “Going to put that mouth of yours to good use.”

“Mmmhmm,” you moaned. Tears were running down your cheeks as you gagged around him, taking everything he had to give. You loved when Rafael got rough. You craved it. Giving him pleasure brought you pleasure.

One of your hands reached up to massage his balls while the other reached in between his legs, pressing down on that strip of skin between his cock and his ass. That was all it took for Rafael to come undone. His cock swelled and released. His warm seed splashing against your tongue. Rafael came so hard, he was practically bent in half, clutching the mantle, grunting over and over again. You sucked him dry, not stopping until he gently pulled you off his sensitive cock.

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckled. “You have a mouth like a vacuum cleaner.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” you asked, wiping away some of your smudged lipstick.

“I nearly had a heart attack just now, what do you think?” He had an evil glint in his eye and took several steps towards causing you to scoot back. “I think I need to repay the favor. Don’t you?”

“Only if you insist.” You laid back down on the floor in your most seductive pose.

Rafael knelt down. “Oh believe me”-- he grabbed your legs and pulled you towards him causing you to squeal in surprise--“I insist.”

He ran his hands across your body, pressing against your form through the silk. Wanting to repay you for your earlier torment, Rafael took his time disrobing you--tugging at the laces of your corset, unsnapping your garters, peeling your stockings off. There wasn’t an inch of skin left unattended from the crown of your head down to the arches of your feet. 

You couldn’t catch your breath. “Payback is a bitch,” you thought as he sucked a mark onto your right hip. Rafael saved your thong for last, opting to tear it off you with his teeth. 

He parted your folds, revealing your glistening pink pearl, stroking your soft, wet, sex. You spread your legs wider, feeling his hot breath on your pussy, arching your hips toward him. He clucked in disapproval. “So impatient.” 

“Please,” you whimpered. “I need you.”

Unable to resist any longer (after all, he was only human), he began to worship your core. Offering his tongue as a prayer as he swirled around your lower lips and traced patterns on your clit.  

You grinded against him. “More,” you pleaded.

With a loud squelch, Rafael stopped and lifted his head. “You have such a perfect little pussy. I love it so much”--he playfully bit down on your inner thighs-- “and it’s all mine. Isn’t it?” With an intense, heated stare, he spit on your pussy. The sensation of his saliva on your swollen clit caused you to jump.

“Yes, it’s yours,” you wailed.

“That’s right,” he cooed while slowly making concentric circles on your bundle of nerves, watching how his spit mingled with your dripping juices. “And you’re gonna come all over my face, aren’t you?”

You arched your back and gasped. “Oh God, yes! Yes!

“Shhh, that’s my good girl,” he said with a smirk before devouring you once more. Your moans of “More” and “Don’t stop” spurred him on. 

With his mouth wrapped around your clit, he penetrated you with his fingers, stroking that spot deep within you that drove you insane. One crook of his finger had you coming with a shriek. 

Feeling your core pulse against his tongue as he fucked you through your orgasm unleashed something savage within him. He buried his face against you, groaning, his lips and chin completely coated in your arousal. Already hard from eating you out, he rutted against the rug, desperate for some relief.

His tongue was relentless while he fucked you with his fingers until he ripped another orgasm from you. By the third time you had come, you melted onto the floor. And yet you wanted more. With Rafael, it was never enough. 

You pushed him off you and straddled him, kissing him with such fierce passion he toppled back to the floor. “I want to show you how much I love your cock.” You nuzzled your nose with his before sitting up and dragging your center against his length. Hovering over his cock for a moment, you lowered yourself onto him. 

Rafael grabbed your hips to keep you in place as he rotated his pelvis, wanting you to feel every inch of his cock. Your whole body shuddered. Digging your nails into his chest, you began to rock against him. 

Rafael groaned, watching you fuck him. “Look down, querida. Look at how fucking sexy you look riding me.”

You followed his gaze down to where you were being impaled by him. Biting back a whimper, you experimentally flexed your muscles, squeezing against his cock. Rafael choked out a sob which only encouraged you to speed up your movements.

You lifted almost completely off him before slamming back down. 

Flames licked at your flesh as you continued to bounce on his cock. Rivulets of sweat dripped off of you, one drop running down your chest. Rafael sat up and caught it with his tongue, holding you close as he latched on to your nipple, suckling against the hardened bud before repeating his actions on your other breast.

Your bodies worked in tandem, pushing and pulling. You were reduced to a wild animal, clawing at Rafael. Red streaks covered his sweaty skin. He loved it, wanting nothing more than to be claimed by you, his own ethereal goddess.

“Rafael!” you cried out in a hoarse voice. He cut you off with a searing kiss.

“I love you,” he moaned against your lips.

“I love you too.” Tears began to run down your cheeks. Your heart was beating fast, blood pounding in your ears, pressure mounting. You were too far gone by this point. Can you die from pleasure? Oh...but what a way to go. 

He pulled back, forcing you to lock eyes with him. His eyebrows furrowed, mouth slack, panting and whimpering with every thrust. You pressed your forehead against his, your breaths mingling. This was beyond the physical. Your souls were melding, transforming one another. 

You simultaneously erupted, swallowing each other’s moans and grunts, stroking each other through your respective releases. When you finally floated back down to earth, you collapsed on the floor, your bodies still connected. 

“Holy shit,” you sighed.

“I know,” Rafael panted.

“If I knew saying ‘I love you’ would lead to mind blowing sex, I would’ve said it a whole lot earlier,” you teased. 

“I knew you were only after me for my body.” Rafael let out a breathless laugh and tickled that one spot on your side. Exhausted and not in any hurry to move, you both laid there as the fire weakened until only a few dull embers glowed.

You nestled against his chest, having never felt so happy. As cheesy and cliché as it sounded, you wish you could stay that way forever. That is until the events from earlier in the day came floating back into your mind. You had no idea what you were going to do with your family, especially Sonny. 

But that wasn’t a question for tonight. Right now you were perfectly content being wrapped up in your own little world. Just you and Rafael.

Tag List: @glimmerglittergirl​ @southern-magnolia​ @sweetcannolicarisi @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog @letty-o @sonnysdoll @lyssa1385 @sweetsummertime99 @burningsorr0ws @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @babypink224221 @livxrafa @esparza-army @obsessionprofessional @ottosuricato @mgarner1227 @dreila03 @tropes-and-tales @thecraziestcrayon @goodluckfindingone @scarletsoldierrr @youreverycolor @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii @imagine-all-the-imagines @imjustreallynosy @graniairish @ashley-chi @lolacolaempath @cocomel0613 @imagine-all-the-imagines @mysterioustrashadventures @that-girl-named-alex @scapricciatello @mrsrafaelbarba @zizzlekwum @katierpblogg @crowleysqueenofhell @caked-crusader @garturbo

[worldwidemochiguy]

Milk And Cookies, Part III of the Play Date Trilogy

➵ Jungkook’s sickly sweet ‘love’ tastes rancid on your tongue, as rancid as the lies you have to tell him to satisfy his immature moods. Perhaps, it’s time for another game of tag, but this time, you’re determined to avoid his capture…

➵ Play Date Trilogy Masterlist

➵ Warnings: Yandere Jungkook, Kidnapping, Molestation, Unhealthy thoughts, Hints of Stockholm Syndrome, Drugging

➵ Word Count: 5.2K

➵  Masterlist for all my other fics 

Every day Jungkook left you down there was pure agony. He could barely eat when thinking about you, alone, cold, most likely hungry by now. It’s a lesson, Jungkook told himself sternly, She deserves to be punished for her behaviour. If you don’t do this she’ll never learn.

Still, after four days in your absence Jungkook could no longer restrain himself from checking on you. He rushed into the basement, impatience hurrying his steps now that he had finally given into temptation.

When the light from the doorway fell on your body, pathetically curled as far away from the dead body as physically possible, Jungkook almost cried. The room was filled with the stench of death, the dried pool of blood now sticky, webbed across the ground like mould. 

“…Jungkook?” You croaked, your hesitant voice rasping against your hoarse vocal cords. Jungkook immediately shushed you, rushing to cradle your head in his hands, planting kisses on your squinting eyelids. 

You instinctively flinched away from the light spilling into the basement — burning your retinas after days of complete darkness — but soon you were pressing into Jungkook desperately, shamelessly.

“Please, please, please,” Even in this context, Jungkook burned with satisfaction hearing you so needy for him, “Please take me out of here, Jungkook, please. I can’t stand it, take me with you, please.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with Jimin?” The only response his probing tone received was a full-body shudder from you, pressing yourself even deeper into his arms — which was now possible due to Jungkook’s swift release of your restraints. You didn’t even notice it, you were so weak with hunger and fear and desperation.

“No, I don’t want to stay with�� it, please Jungkook. I want to go with you, please don’t leave me again.”

“Okay, baby.” Jungkook cooed, sweeping you into his arms now that he had fully released you from your restraints. 

You whimpered as he brushed against the raw skin of your wrists, but he ignored it, securing you tightly in his hold. It was so easy to carry you like this, Jungkook thought giddily, you were so weak and needy now that he had given you this lesson. It had been difficult, but it was more than worth it.

As Jungkook left the basement, he lingered with one last smug glance at your detestable former-boyfriend’s body. You were Jungkook’s, and he was determined that you would always need him as much as you do right now. 

You tugged on his shirt, drawing his attention back to you with an amused chuckle.

“Jungkook,” you whined, and he bit back a smile. You were so pretty, all broken and shaking, blood and dried tears crusted on your cheeks. However, you would probably feel more comfortable once you were clean. 

He carried you through the house, refusing to set you down as he moved upstairs to the master ensuite bathroom. Your eyes were screwed shut — so fucking cute — you were probably not used to the level of light after being in the basement for so long. Well, Jungkook didn’t mind carrying you everywhere while you adjusted, or even after that.

He placed you gently on the toilet, cover down as a temporary seat while he filled up the bath, pouring in sweet-smelling bath salts to help you relax. Once the warm water was flowing, he turned to you again. You were staring into the distance vacantly, and you didn’t protest as he began to lift your shirt over your head, undressing you in preparation for the bath.

Jungkook sucked in a breath as your body was slowly revealed to him, bruised and weakened after so long being restrained. He had never seen a more beautiful sight. He had to convince himself not to just carry you straight to the bedroom, but he did allow the indulgence of his straying hands as he lifted you into the now full bath.

He quickly shucked off his own clothes and joined you in the warm water, sliding in behind you and looping his arms around you, tugging you against him until his front was pressed flush against your back. You offered no complaint as he lathered his hands with soap and began washing you, not dissenting even when his hands roamed to your breasts and gave them a firm squeeze.

He let out a quiet groan. You were just so soft and perfect beneath him. He loved you so much. You were relaxed, completely plaint against him and Jungkook could just do whatever he pleased with you. The feeling was intoxicating.

Jungkook kept you in the bath until the water got cold, filling the time by rubbing shampoo diligently into your scalp and then teasing conditioner through the silky strands, planting apologetic kisses on your nape whenever his fingers snagged on a tangle. Once he decided you were fully clean, he stood up, guiding you out of the water and immediately swathing you in a large towel.

Jungkook just couldn’t get over how cute you looked, so delicate and fragile with your wet strands plastered against your face, all warm and tender after your bath. He sat on the lid of the toilet and tugged you onto his lap, humming to himself as he ran a brush through your hair.

You sat there listlessly, watching as the now-murky water rushed away, all the traces of blood and dirt Jungkook washed off you disappearing into the drain, like they never even existed.

Your days were different after that. You no longer woke up to the sound of Jungkook coming down the stairs, but with the feeling of his arms tightly woven around you, and his breath fanning across your forehead. You no longer lived in darkness, but in the bright rooms of Jungkook’s home, and now your home too, he said. 

He never left you alone, not even for a second. He was plastered to your side from the morning, when he would insist you come to the kitchen and sit on the counter while he made breakfast so that you were easily in kissing distance. The two of you finished each day with Jungkook curled around you in bed, softly brushing your hair back from your face and telling you he loved you. 

Eventually, you started to say it back. Started to believe it. With all Jungkook’s protective quirks, the way his attention was always pinned solely on you, and the tenderness with which he treated you, it was hard to believe he didn’t love you. And… he was all you had. 

Thoughts of escape began to drift from your mind like leaves in the autumn wind. But, unexpectedly, you found that spring had returned with a vengeance when you caught another glimpse of your long-forgotten ‘medicine’. 

The sleeping pills Jungkook used to feed you…back when he was holding you hostage…but wasn’t he still holding you a hostage now? You weren’t sure anymore. You hadn’t even touched the front door, let alone checked if it was locked. You knew that if you tried it now, even if it wasn’t locked, Jungkook would be curious as to why you had bothered in the first place. 

If you loved me, you wouldn’t care if it was locked or not, you could picture him saying, Why would you want to go anywhere when I’m right here? Who are you so desperate to see, if not me? In your head, his voice warped into the same bitter, deranged tone he had used when you told him about Jimin.

Jimin. You hadn’t thought about him in a while, you weren’t sure how long. Certainly not since Jungkook murdered him. 

When had you stopped thinking about Jimin? When had you stopped hating Jungkook? When had you become so… complacent? 

Without realising it, your fist had closed around the half-empty bottle, drawing it into you protectively. You didn’t realise most things nowadays, but you started to feel the kindling of a burning passion in your chest, a reigniting of the once burnt-out embers. 

You couldn’t let Jungkook win. You had to fight back, and now that he thought you were finally obedient, it was the perfect time to escape. 

“Jungkook?” Your took care to keep your voice deceptively sweet, fixing a smile to your face as Jungkook’s eyes fluttered open to look down at you, your head resting against his chest. He returned your smile with one of his own. The genuine happiness reflected in his crinkled eyes, and the way his front teeth stuck out endearingly almost made you second guess yourself. 

“Yes, baby?” His voice was thick with sleep, and you tamped down the feelings of affection it brought with it. Since when had you become so… fond of your kidnapper? You forced yourself to continue, thoughts tinged with disgust as you reminded yourself of all that Jungkook had done to you. He deserved this. 

“I… I wanted to make breakfast in bed for us this morning. I-is that okay?” Jungkook visibly softened at your stuttering, a sleepy nod giving you permission to leave. But, when you shifted off the bed and placed your bare feet on the carpeted floor, Jungkook began to get up with you. He pouted, confused as you pressed his chest back down again.

“Breakfast in bed, silly.” You forced giggle, hoping it didn’t sound as strained as it felt, “That means you have to stay here while I make it.”

“But what if you get hurt in the kitchen?” Jungkook questioned, worry colouring his tone, “Baby, you need me there to look after you.” 

You looked down demurely at the sheets, not having to fake a blush, your cheeks colouring of their own volition out of shame. 

“I, uh…” You laughed nervously, “I wanted to serve it to you in bed, like, I’d bring it upstairs and then I could sit on your lap while you fed it to me? I don’t know, it’s probably dumb, you’re right-”

“No, no, that’s, uh-” Jungkook swallowed hard, now fully awake, his eyes wide as they took in your flushed cheeks, nervous posture and bitten lips. He couldn’t believe you were real, you were so perfect for him. “I’d like that. You can do that, you know, if you want to.” 

Jungkook remained ramrod straight, watching you leave the bedroom with a final self-conscious wave. Ever since he had punished you, you had been such a good girl for him. He was so thankful that, even though it was hard on him, he had fulfilled it to the end, because it was clearly the best decision he had ever made. You were his, and you had finally, finally accepted that.

While Jungkook was musing on your perfection upstairs, you were fretting over the amount of pills you should use to drug him. You didn’t want to kill him with an accidental overdose, but you were sure it would take a lot of sleeping pills to knock him out long enough that you had time to escape, and swiftly enough that he wouldn’t be able to do anything before he lost consciousness. 

You peered at the pile of tablets cupped in your hand. Was it even possible to overdose on sleeping pills? You weren’t too sure. You chewed your lip nervously, caught in an unpleasant coil of indecision. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this anyway, a traitorous voice hissed in your ear. Just think of Jungkook. He loves you, more than anyone has ever loved you. More than Jimin loved you. 

“Baby!” 

Jungkook’s voice — raised so that you could hear it from a different floor — startled you. Your wrist tensed up, hand tilting ever so slightly. You watched as if from a mile away as, one by one, the tablets fell off your palm and into the eggs you had been beating. They laid there, suspended in the viscous mixture, incriminating little dots of white. 

“Jungkook?” You yelled back, trying to keep your voice free from hysteria as you frantically crushed the pills with a fork, blending the powder in with the eggs until all that was left was a frothy mixture. 

“Why are you taking so long?” You could hear the pout in his voice from a floor away, making you smile despite yourself.

“I’ll be back soon, I’m just… I want it to be perfect.”

“As long as you make it with love, it will be perfect, baby.” 

“And what if I make it with hate?” You muttered to yourself, dipping the first slice of bread into the tainted concoction, praying that it soaked up enough of the dissolved powder, before slapping it onto the frying pan.

“French toast!” Jungkook exclaimed as you walked back into the bedroom holding a steaming plate, covered with the fried slices. “I could smell it as you were coming up the stairs!”

Jungkook was sitting straight up in the bed. He looked like a child the night before Christmas, right down to the innocent twinkle in his eyes, and it was disturbingly easy for you to giggle at his endearing behaviour, reaching down to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

He looked up at you like you were his whole universe, and, not for the first time, you felt a small tinge of guilt.

You brushed it off, sitting down in his lap like you had promised, and his arms curled tightly around your waist just like you had expected. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing in an expression of bliss.

“It smells so good, baby. Thank you.” He punctuated his statement by squeezing you affectionately.

“You think so?” You questioned, faking self-consciousness. This was it, the lead up to the execution of your plan. Jungkook nodded, his face heartbreakingly open, heartbreakingly sincere. 

Soon, his face would be completely blank, relaxed and unguarded. Perhaps then would the demon that prowled underneath his unblemished skin be revealed.

“Try some of it then,” You forced a teasing smile onto your face as you brought up a slice to his lips. He smiled back, tilting his head at you.

“I think since my baby’s worked so hard, she should get the first bite.”

Oh God. He knows. Does he know? How can he know? 

You forced down the alarm with a practised sigh. 

“Jungkook,” You whined, pushing at his chest. “Please, I want to see what you think about it. I’ve never cooked for anyone else before…” 

Jungkook’s eyes widened in amazement. “You’ve never cooked for anyone else before? Ever?”

“No, just you.” You lied, praying he would take the bait. 

He leaned forward and took a mouthful of the poisoned food. He moaned around it, stuffed lips curving up into a smile, a few discarded crumbs falling out of his mouth. 

“It’s good, baby.” He praised your insincere efforts, muffled through the food. 

“Mm, are you sure? I tasted some of it earlier after making it and I think it’s bad…” 

Your face was the epitome of dejection. Just like you expected, Jungkook reached for the plate and began stuffing the slices in his mouth frantically. He was so predictable.

“See, baby?” Crumbs of the tainted breakfast sprayed across the blanket, “It tastes good, see?” His movements seemed to be slowing slightly, though his brain still hadn’t caught up yet, “I love it.”

The plate was empty. Jungkook slumped against the headboard, head tilted back and throat working as he tried to swallow the last dry mouthfuls. You watched as it all went down, into his stomach, into his bloodstream.

“…Baby?” Jungkook’s voice sounded distant. You didn’t reply. “Uh…baby?” His voice sounded slightly panicked now. “Wuh-W-What’s… happening… to me?” 

You remained silent, simply watching as he blinked a few more times, hands twitching like he wanted to grab you, wanted to stop you as you slipped off the bed and away from him. It was odd, watching the effects of the pills. You had only ever experienced them yourself. 

You well understood the nausea he was feeling, the odd filling of his stomach — in his case it was probably exacerbated by the French toast — the way his limbs became heavier, the growing panic that seemed to melt before it could form anything solid. 

You watched it all, forcing yourself to be dispassionate, and the only reaction you let yourself have after he finally fell asleep was a sigh. 

You didn’t let yourself check his pulse. You simply strode out of the bedroom, closing the door behind you as if you were giving Jungkook privacy, as if he had just fallen asleep and you didn’t want anyone to intrude. To be fair to yourself, it was accurate on one account. Jungkook had just fallen asleep. Unless he hadn’t. 

Unless you had killed him with an overdose of chemicals that you didn’t know how to use.

Unless he was just feigning unconsciousness, and was about to come storming down the stairs to punish you for disobeying him, to lock you up again in the basement with the darkness, with the sleeping pills, with Jimin.

You dragged one of the chairs from the dining table upstairs. It was difficult, and took longer than you would’ve liked — your muscles were severely weakened after all that time in captivity. You checked briefly that Jungkook was still unconscious on the bed — he was — and then jammed the back of the chair under the handle on the outside of the door. At least that would delay him for a while.

You choked the little voice inside your head. The one that whispered, soft-spoken and yet harrowingly honest, There’s nothing on this Earth that could stop Jungkook from finding you eventually.

You grabbed as much cash as you could find, not naïve enough to steal a credit card, and left the house. It felt less monumental than it should have done. The sun felt like it had always felt against your skin, and the air smelled only a little stranger. 

You were in a suburban neighbourhood, and it did not take long for you to find a bus stop. It took even less time for a bus to arrive, and only a second’s hesitation before you stepped on.

It felt bizarre, the mere experience of being outside again. You could feel the eyes of the other people on you, looking at your oversized, ill-suiting clothes — Jungkook’s — your flinching figure and sallow complexion. It felt awfully vain to worry about how you appeared to random strangers when you had just escaped from the most traumatic event of your life, but you couldn’t help sniffing yourself subconsciously, just to see if you smelled bad.

You couldn’t smell anything, but perhaps you had gotten used to the scent of death after a week watching Jimin’s corpse decay before your eyes.

When you glimpsed the reassuring blue of the police station, you shot up from your seat. You practically flew off the bus, all the excitement you had expected to feel upon your escape hitting you in one exhilarating rush. You were out, you were safe. Everything was going to be okay. 

There was something so comforting about being asked to sit down in the waiting room, provided with a cookie and a kind smile from the receptionist. 

As soon as you walked into the police station, you had been ushered into a specialised department, They deal with all the abductions and kidnappings, the uniformed officer informed you in a hushed, sympathetic voice. You supposed that’s what you were now. A kidnapped person. A kidnappee? 

“Miss L/n?” A deep voice roused you from your musings and you looked up to see what looked like a supermodel in a police officer’s uniform. 

You felt embarrassment coil unpleasantly in your gut, imagining what you looked like to this Adonis in human form. You swallowed down the mouthful of your reception-administered cookie and desperately hoped no crumbs were left on your lips. 

“Yes?” You answered hoarsely, and he nodded to himself.

“I’m Officer Kim. My partner, Officer Min will be with us shortly. Now, tell me, what did you say your kidnapper’s name was?”

“Uh, it was… Jungkook.” It felt strange to say his name. Everything felt strange now, even your own skin felt artificial under the fluorescent lights of the department. 

Officer Kim had a file clasped in his oddly beautiful hands, but he didn’t open it, preferring instead to study your face intently, as if he was searching for clues.

“And how long has he held you hostage?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like I had access to a calendar down there.” You snapped, and immediately regretted it.

Officer Kim drew back slightly, surprise colouring his expression before it smoothed out into understanding.

“I apologise. That was a foolish question.” You accepted his apology with a grumble, taking another bite of your cookie, allowing the sugary sweetness bursting on your tongue to mellow yourself out.

Another Officer entered the room. You caught a glimpse of his office as the door shut — a desk covered in scattered papers, a phone lying next to the receiver, as if it had been discarded carelessly. You didn’t see any family photos on his desk. The door shut.

“Just got off the phone.” The officer — Officer Min, you recalled — murmured. His voice was quiet, almost relaxing if it wasn’t for the disconcerting lack of emotion. Officer Kim nodded at him, humming in understanding, before they both turned to you again.

They surveyed you almost clinically, like they were looking for the proof of the crime on your skin. You felt almost obligated to announce your innocence. 

“Were you calling my family?” You asked instead. Before, you probably would have thought of Jimin as your emergency contact, but now…

You had a harrowing realisation: You would have to tell Jimin’s mother what happened to him. 

“Yes.” Officer Min replied, “I called someone to collect you. They’re on their way now, they should be here soon.”

“Good.” You said distantly, thinking about the expression on Mrs Parks face when you told her what her son’s last words were. Should you lie? Should you pretend he was brave in his last moments? Or did she deserve to know the truth? Did you deserve to tell her?

You took another bite of your cookie, trying to fill the space in your head currently being overridden with things that made you want to cry in a police station in front of two strangers. You made a small noise of complaint when you realised you had finished your cookie, and Officer Kim — you could tell by the state of his immaculate nail beds — handed you another. 

“-long until he’s here?”

“Oh, only about another five minutes or so.” 

“Good. I don’t enjoy playing babysitter.” You heard as you tuned back into the conversation. You hadn’t realised you had tuned out in the first place. 

“You called… my dad?” You guessed, judging by the use of a male pronoun. As you spoke, your tongue felt oddly swollen in your mouth. Had you somehow developed an allergy to cookies whilst you were trapped in that basement? God, what else was Jungkook going to take away from you? 

A gruff laugh. Officer Min?

“No, sweetheart, not your father. Though you might call him daddy.”

“Ugh, Yoongi,” Officer Kim’s scandalised voice drifted in, “Gross. You’re too old to talk about stuff like that.”

“I’m just about two years older than you.”  

“Yeah but, mentally, you’re- like, fifty.”

Your mind was still caught on a segment of the overheard conversation — something you weren’t meant to hear, they were talking like you weren’t even there, were you really there? — like a record caught on a scratch, retracing the groove over and over.

“You… didn’t call my dad?”

“God, you’re slow.” Officer Kim muttered. 

A cackle. “That’s probably why he likes her so much.”

“…H-He? But… wait. No. Oh, please, no.”

“…And the penny drops!” Officer Min crowed. Officer Kim released a reluctant chuckle as your head swam, vision blackening as you lurched to your feet.

“I…I have to go.” You murmured, stumbling to the door. 

Neither Officer moved to stop you, perhaps they thought it to be pointless with the way your balance kept shifting, barely steady enough to keep on your feet, but they were wrong. You were determined to escape. You had to escape. Your hand curled around the door handle, the cool metal a refreshing hint of freedom, and then-

You stumbled back as the door opened, pushing you away and into someone else’s arms. Officer Min? Officer Kim? Jimin? Was it Jimin, come back from the dead? Were you in hell, and was he there to comfort you?

Your vision blurred dramatically, but not enough to conceal the face of the figure that was coming ever closer. Not enough to hide the eyes, once filled with stars, now tinged with hurt, and betrayal, and so much anger. 

The last sight you saw before you lost consciousness, half-eaten cookie laced with sedatives falling out of your grip, was Jungkook, coming once again to catch you.

A hand was carding through your hair, slowly, reverently, as if each strand was being meticulously counted. You stirred, a flicker causing the shadows casted by your eyelashes to shift along your cheek. The hand paused, then gave your hair a decidedly sharp tug. 

“Ow~” You moaned, your sensitivity to pain making itself known before common sense could muffle it.

“Oh no,” uttered a soft voice, a familiar voice, “did I hurt you, baby?”

“Uh huh,” You mumbled, absently nuzzling against the hand which had now trailed down to cup your cheek.

Even if the way it caressed your skin felt odd, and somehow daunting, it was warm, and it felt like it would support you. You let your neck relax fully as you leaned into the hand, head still fuzzy and muddled from the cookies. The cookies? Maybe you were just feeling the after-effects of a sugar rush. 

“I’m sorry, baby. Truly, I am.” The voice spoke, and it sounded sincere. Troubled. You cooed in sympathy. “I didn’t realise you were still confused, otherwise I would never have made it harder for you like that. You must have been so scared, all on your own like that, lost. You must have felt so guilty. My poor baby.”

“So guilty,” You murmured, knowing it to be true. You could feel the aftershocks of terror and pain still echoing through your body. You couldn’t remember what caused it, but you were sure the voice would tell you soon enough.

“You were very smart to find my friends. They helped me to come and get you, and you were there waiting for me like a good girl.”

“…Friends?” You mumbled. You remembered — a flash of blue. Reassurance. The sweet taste of cookies. They’ll make you feel better, love, trust me, now just go in and take a seat. An Officer will be with you in a moment. 

“Yes, baby, Yoongi and Taehyung, remember them? They gave me a call, to let me know I had to come and get my girl.”

I called someone to collect you. They’re on their way now, they should be here soon.

Officer Min had mentioned a person, but he had never mentioned a name. Come to think of it, how would he have called your parents? Their contact wasn’t on your file, your emergency contact was down as-

Your eyes snapped open, immediately focused on the spot in the corner, underneath the ceiling beam which rattled sometimes in thunderstorms. There was nothing there, except a dark brown stain, persistent enough to withstand a thorough scrubbing. He must have moved Jimin’s body. 

“Baby! Your eyes are open!” 

Jungkook gripped your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his own. Unlike when you saw him last, frantic and betrayed and angry, this Jungkook looked relieved, and the slightest bit upset. 

“I’ve waited a while for you to wake up.” Jungkook admitted, a sheepish smile directed at the floor, “The stuff they put in those cookies is much stronger that what I normally gave you — I never wanted to risk actually hurting you, of course — so you’ve been out for a few days now.” 

“I… what?” The futility of it all was pressing down on you, barely allowing a word to slip out of your mouth. All that planning, all of that freedom, and you were just… right back where you started. Caught.

Jungkook huffed an impatient sigh.

“The pills you used in the French toast? They’re weak. Very weak. Especially for someone strong like me.” He smirked, flexing his biceps proudly. You noticed his knuckles were blistered, like he had injured them recently. Like he had punched his way through a locked door.

“Baby,” His serious expression had returned, solemn as he placed both hands — matching bruised knuckles — on your shoulders, leaning in to press his forehead against yours. “If you were that upset, you could’ve told me. I don’t think you understand how important you are to me, baby. I’ll do anything for you.” 

He’d kill for you. 

“J-Jungkook,” You sobbed, tears springing from where they had once dried up the moment you watched the love of your life die before your very eyes, “Just- please, if you love me that much… if you want me to be happy, just let me go.” 

Rather than displaying hurt, or anger, he only looked confused, leaning away to tilt his head at you quizzically. 

“Baby,” He started, as if he was explaining something to a child, “Why would I let you go when I know I can give you whatever you need to be happy?”

He continued as your sobs worsened, speaking continuously as if he was in a trance, possessed by passion. 

“All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted was you, from the first second I saw you I knew you were mine.” 

His hands trailed into your hair again, pushing it away from your face so he could watch you without obstruction as you cried, and cried, and cried.

“I can make you so happy, you just have to let yourself be taken care of, and protected. You were happy with me, I know you were, you just had a little slip. You panicked.” He interrupted himself with a reassuring smile directed at you. With your head in his hands, you had no choice but to look at him, horrified to your core.

“Yes, you were scared, and that’s okay! Love is scary sometimes! But, it did show me that you aren’t ready yet. Don’t worry,” He quickly added as you began to shift restlessly, fear at being punished pumping through your veins.

“I know you will be ready soon! Just not yet. But I’m patient. I can wait.” Jungkook began to draw away from you, drifting back to that staircase that led away from the darkness, but at the same time, only led into another prison entirely. 

Jungkook smiled as he watched you thrash in the seat, desperate to not be left alone. A month should do it, Jungkook decided as he left, pausing at the top of the stairs, adding almost as an afterthought chucked over his shoulder carelessly:

“I’ll see you tomorrow, baby.” 

[kjmsupremacist]

talk me down (i wanna hold hands with you) (johnny/ten)

Ten and Johnny’s friendship turns sexual, but they’re not dating, cuz, you know, Johnny’s not gay. Ten’s in love with him, though, but how can he tell them when they never talk about any of it?

Chapter 5   |   Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 6   Masterlist

Characters: Ten, Johnny; the rest of nct intermittently

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining

Warnings: homophobia, internalized homophobia, mild violence

Rating: Mature

Length: 2.2k

Taglist: @parfaiitjoon​

Ten was never sure when he became aware that the world wasn’t safe for gay boys. There was no defining moment—it was just that somewhere early on in grade school, he got the impression that some people had an easier time of it, and he was never one of those people.

His recollection of his early years was faint at best, but his mother often recounted how he never had an interest in girls. Whether this was wholly true or not, it felt correct. And though he knew he’d had crushes on other boys from an early age, he never acted on them because he knew what would happen if he did.

But then high school rolled around, and he thought maybe it would be all right, as long as he could keep it under wraps. He started dating one of his classmates and for a couple of months, it was good. But the problem with good things is that they always lead to complacency and the desire for more over the regard for protection. They got greedy, and then the wrong people found out.

Ten got into his first and last fistfight that year. He didn’t remember exactly how it started, but all he knew is there was yelling, and his boyfriend was trying to pull him away, but—he’s not sure. Maybe he hadn’t gotten enough sleep that night, or too much. Or he was pissed about a grade he got already, or someone had bumped into him in the cafeteria—but he swung and he did not miss.

He got the shit beat out of him after, but it was worth it; the single moment of shock, of stillness, as one of those assholes stumbled back, clutching his rapidly-purpling eye. Ten split a knuckle on his cheekbone. He remembered being proud that he made that boy bleed.

His mother wasn’t home when his boyfriend dragged him through the door. Ten could barely keep himself upright. He was bleeding everywhere; he’d lost a couple teeth, broken a couple fingers, split his lip. His little sister was home, and she screamed when she saw him. But even at twelve, Tern was caring and dutiful. She brought him an ice pack and cleaned up his scrapes as best she could.

When their mom got home, she drove Ten to the hospital. She asked him what happened, and Ten told her.

“Did you throw the first punch?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Ten, I’ll never be angry with you for standing up for yourself,” she said. “But what you did was wrong, not to mention dangerous. Never ever do something like this ever again. If they hit you, you go ahead and hit them back. But you never start it, you understand? I won’t raise my son to be violent.”

“Okay,” Ten murmured.

When Ten was released from the hospital later that evening, hand in a splint and stitches on his brow bone, his boyfriend met him in his backyard and broke up with him. Ten couldn’t blame him, but once he was alone, he cried anyway.

After that, Ten didn’t really date. He’d learned his lesson. Not here, not now. Not for boys like him, not yet. Sure, he was still bullied for it—it wasn’t like there was any hiding it anymore—but it wasn’t so bad. He’d indulge in secret hookups with random guys at parties—guys who were straight except for behind locked doors. Ten didn’t mind. He didn’t really care about any of them, and it was kind of fun to have a couple of jocks indebted to him because he knew their secret.

But then, he entered SM and he met Johnny. At first, he tried to convince himself that he just really wanted to be friends with him. Yeah, he’s handsome, but so are a lot of guys here, he’d think. That doesn’t mean I like him.

But it was always in the back of his mind. Now, Ten knew—he’d liked Johnny from the moment he laid eyes on him. It’s just that it wasn’t safe, and he was more than happy to let it break his heart.

Now, Ten waited in Johnny and Taeyong’s room for them to get back after a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. He didn’t wait long; just as he was finishing his granola bar, he heard their voices down the hall.

“I’m gonna go grab some water,” Johnny said, only sticking his head into the room after Taeyong had entered. “I’ll be back in a few.”

The room was silent as Taeyong arranged himself on his bed. Ten decided to speak up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope you don’t feel like I was using you.”

Taeyong gave him a smile. “You were,” he rebutted softly. “But that’s okay. I was using you, too, you know.”

Ten blinked. “How do you mean?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, because you had enough going on as it was,” he said. “Doyoung and I figured it out in the end.”

“So when—when you said you might be interested in me,” Ten began. “Was that a lie?”

“When you said you might be interested back, was that a lie?” Taeyong countered. Ten shook his head. “So we understand each other, then.” He kicked his foot out gently, bumping Ten’s shin. “We both needed someone to hold on to while we sorted some things out.”

“Is that why you pushed me away?” Ten asked, feeling small. “Because you were done sorting?”

Taeyong, to his surprise, shook his head. “No, I only realized after I told you to talk to Johnny that it was high time I took my own advice.”

Ten nodded. “So,” he said after a moment of silence. “You and Doyoung.”

Taeyong laughed. “Yeah, us. We just didn’t know how to understand each other, that’s all.”

“You must have been sad, though,” Ten said. “Sometimes.”

Taeyong shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometimes,” he said. “But it was okay. I had you.”

Ten was about to open his mouth to say something, maybe apologize again, or thank him, but Johnny was back, water cup in hand. He sat down on the end of his bed next to Ten. “Are we… good here?” he asked, nodding back and forth between them.

“Yeah,” Taeyong said, smiling. “I have to go, anyway—the managers wanted to chat.”

“Okay.” Ten watched him as he grabbed his things. He was out in a matter of seconds, leaving Ten and Johnny alone.

“Hey,” Johnny said, after a beat.

“Hey.” For some reason, Ten felt shy. He knew they were going to have to talk, but now that he was confronted with it, he wanted to curl up and hide. The only thing left to say was that he was sorry again, and—and that he loved Johnny. But the old fear sparked in his bones. Was it safe? How could he even say it? Would Johnny say it back? What was he supposed to do if he didn’t? I love you; I’ve loved you for years but I never knew how to do it right. I love you and I want to keep loving you. I love you, what do I do?

“Do you want to start, or should I?” Johnny asked.

“Start?” Ten looked up at him, confused. Johnny’s eyes were sparkling, even though Ten could tell he was anxious. His hair was ruffled, messy from his beanie. He was perfect. I love you, what do I do?

“I’ll start then,” Johnny said with a nervous laugh. He played with his hands for a minute before he began to speak. “I—I’ve known for a while that I like boys. Even before I met you. But, you know, I don’t really look the part, so most guys don’t really see me. And so I think—I just got used to not really being seen. So when we first started—hooking up, I was fine with it because it was like—I mean, there wasn’t any attachment there. We were just doing each other a favor, that was all.” He sighed, brushing his hair back.

“But even so, I wanted more. Because I really like you Ten, and I wanted—want—all of you. But it was frighteningly real. I could manage it, in my head, if we were just friends with benefits, or whatever you want to call it. But you, actually liking me as I am? That was foreign. You looked at me and all I could think was that you should be with someone better. And I know how it must have seemed to you—that I didn’t care, that I was afraid of my own feelings, or whatever. But it wasn’t any of that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you, or didn’t like you. It was guilt.”

Ten could tell he’d been practicing this speech for a while. It left him feeling a little stupid, for multiple reasons. One, he hadn’t really prepared anything. Two, he couldn’t believe he’d been so uncaring. Johnny said it himself—he didn’t look the part. Ten had no idea where he was at with his own identity, had no idea what the details were of his inner turmoil. He’d taken one look and made up the rest, just because it fit how he’d decided things were supposed to go. Regret burned in his stomach, mixing with shame. It was just like with Taeyong—Ten was so selfish. This whole time, he’d been too consumed with his own heartache to have space for anybody else’s.

“I’m sorry,” Ten whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I thought—I mean, I’ve been with lots of guys who are straight except for with—when they were with me, and who don’t talk about it and don’t care and stay that way for the rest of their lives. And—and normally, that’s fine. So I thought, you know, what’s one more?” He looked up to find Johnny staring back intently. I love you, what do I do? “But it wasn’t fine with you. It hurt with you. And I thought, you know, that’s the price I have to pay, for choosing my straight best friend and—” Ten drew a breath. “—and then going and—and falling in love with him. That’s on me, and this is my punishment. And I—I was so wrapped up in all of that stupid shit—like, I was so busy being hurt that I didn’t stop to consider that you might be hurting, too.”

Johnny’s eyebrows crumpled. “You love me?” he asked, voice cracked and thin.

“Yeah,” Ten said, snapping his gaze back to his lap. Might as well. One way or another, it’s all over now. If my love can’t be safe here, then where? “Yeah, I love you.”

“Hey, look at me.” Johnny’s hands found his cheeks; he guided Ten’s head up until he was looking him in the eye. “I love you, too.”

“And that’s okay?” Ten asked.

“And that’s okay.”

“Do you—“ Ten swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Do you still feel guilty? Because you shouldn’t.”

Johnny faltered a little. “Sometimes,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, exactly. It’s like—if I’m gonna go ahead and be gay, I might as well do it right.”

“There’s no right,” Ten said. “Or—it’s all right. I don’t know. What I’m saying is—I’ll take you just the way you are, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” Johnny was leaning in. “Me, too. I choose you, all of you. I’ve loved you, love you, will continue to love you because I choose it.”

Ten couldn’t force the lump down anymore—it burst on his tongue and he found himself crying. He stretched forward anyway, kissing Johnny soundly. It was wet and weird, but it was also good and sweet. Johnny was shaking, too, crying with Ten, clinging to him, cradling his head in his hands. Ten had thought he would feel like he was falling, or flying, maybe, but instead he felt like he was being wrapped in a thick, warm blanket. The rot in his heart was gone.

They broke away laughing. Ten was already half in Johnny’s lap, but though his mind raced with all the things he wanted, it was all secondary. He was still sore from the night before, in any case.

Johnny seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Do you want—I mean, we have time, but…”

Ten shook his head. “Not now. Now, I just want—this.” He lifted their hands where they were clasped between them. “I wanna hold hands with you. I wanna lie next to you, and just… just have you.”

Johnny nodded and pushed him back, crawling up the bed so he was at his side, and then pulled him into his chest. “Yeah,” he said when they were settled. “I want this, too.”

Ten relaxed into Johnny’s body, wrapping one arm around him, nose pressed to the cotton of his t-shirt. “I kind of stumbled into it before,” he murmured. “Loving you. This time I’ll love you on purpose.”

Johnny just hummed contentedly, rubbing his back. Ten let his eyes flutter shut. Johnny loves me, he thought. It wouldn’t be easy, with schedule conflicts, and constant public scrutiny, and work, all kinds of work. But Ten was patient, and he wasn’t greedy. The comfort was real this time, solid and sure. Though each time they would have to part ways would hurt, Ten knew the blow would be softened by their inevitable reunion. He couldn’t wait.