#i’ve said this before and i’ll say it again

[quadal-the-qrabs-quool-blogarino]

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the real Santa is the friends we made along the way

Source

[woso-story]

Christmas

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The soft glow of Christmas lights danced around your shared Barcelona apartment, casting warm, flickering colors onto the walls. The scent of pine lingered in the air as you delicately placed another ornament on the tree. You stepped back to inspect your work, hands on your hips, tilting your head to decide if the balance of decorations was just right.

“You missed a spot,” Alexia teased, her voice soft but full of mischief. She was perched on the armrest of the couch, her legs swinging lazily as she watched you.

You turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “Where?”

She pointed vaguely to the middle of the tree. You followed her finger but didn’t see what she meant. Before you could say anything, she was at your side, her hands on your waist as she spun you around to face her. She leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear. “I’m just messing with you. It’s perfect.”

“Alexia!” you protested, laughing as she pulled back, a grin spreading across her face.

“I’m just saying, you’re taking this a little too seriously,” she said, reaching out to steal a piece of tinsel and attempting to wrap it around your neck. “Relax a bit, cariño. It’s supposed to be fun.”

You batted her hands away, your laughter spilling into the room. “I would relax if you weren’t distracting me every five seconds.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you work.” But her playful smile didn’t fade as she stepped back and perched on the couch again, this time laying back and dramatically draping an arm over her eyes. “Don’t mind me, the lonely spectator.”

Despite her antics, the tree was eventually finished, and it looked magical. The lights sparkled, the ornaments gleamed, and the star at the top stood proudly in place. You turned to Alexia, expecting another teasing comment, but instead, you found her watching you with a soft, almost reverent look in her eyes.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” she said, her smile gentle now. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

Your heart swelled at her words, and you crossed the room to sit beside her. She pulled you into her arms immediately, wrapping a blanket around the both of you as you settled into her side. The music playing softly in the background shifted to a slow, nostalgic carol, and the two of you sat in comfortable silence, watching the lights on the tree.

“This is nice,” Alexia murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Yeah, it is,” you agreed, your voice quiet.

After a while, the conversation turned to Christmas plans. Alexia talked about how much she looked forward to spending time with her family—her mother’s cooking, Alba’s terrible jokes, the chaos of the season. Then, after a brief pause, she asked, “So, are you going home this year?”

You hesitated, the familiar weight settling in your chest. “No.”

Alexia pulled back slightly to look at you, concern flashing across her face. “Why not?”

You sighed, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just... it’s not really home, you know? My parents never understood this life. Football was always just a hobby to them, something they thought I’d grow out of. They never took it seriously. Every conversation felt like a fight, and Christmas was no different. I just—” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t have the strength for it anymore.”

Alexia’s expression softened, and she cupped your face gently. “Cariño, I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it. Besides, I’m used to spending Christmas here. It’s quiet, but it’s fine.”

Her brow furrowed, and you could see the wheels turning in her head. “No,” she said firmly, sitting up straighter. “You’re not spending Christmas alone.”

You blinked at her, surprised by her intensity. “Lex...”

“You’re coming with me. To my family.”

“No, I couldn’t,” you said quickly. “That’s your time with them. I don’t want to intrude.”

She gave you a look—stern but full of affection. “Intrude? Are you serious? You’re part of my life, and they already love you. My mom’s been asking when you’d join us for Christmas for months. Alba will probably steal you away to make TikToks. And me? I want you there.”

Her words tugged at your heart, but you still hesitated. “I don’t even know your whole family. What if it’s awkward?”

“It won’t be,” she insisted. “I promise. My mom will have you cooking with her in no time, and Alba will make sure you don’t have a moment to feel out of place. Trust me, it’ll be perfect.”

Over the next few days, Alexia’s persistence didn’t let up. She brought it up at every opportunity, and her mother even called you directly, insisting you to come. “We already have your place at the table planned,” she said warmly. In the end, you couldn’t say no.

---

The drive to her childhood home was filled with Alexia’s excitement. She talked nonstop, sharing memories of past Christmases, her eyes lighting up as she recounted Alba’s antics and her mother’s traditions. By the time you arrived, you felt like you’d already been there before.

Her mother greeted you at the door with a tight hug, pulling you inside where the house smelled of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts. Alba appeared moments later, grinning as she teased Alexia about bringing her “better half” home for Christmas.

The house was filled with warmth and laughter. You helped Alexia’s mother in the kitchen, her gentle guidance making you feel at ease. Alba roped you into a game of charades that had everyone in stitches, and Alexia beamed with pride every time she caught your eye.

On Christmas Eve, you sat by the fireplace with Alexia, her arm wrapped around you as the family exchanged stories. You felt something you hadn’t in years—belonging.

That night, as you lay in Alexia’s old bedroom, she turned to you, her eyes soft in the moonlight. “I told you it would be the best Christmas,” she whispered.

And as you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in her warmth, you couldn’t help but agree.

[marscardigan]

too good to me

joel miller x reader

not a lot, just forever universe

summary: you woke up sick and joel takes care of you and clem.

warnings: mentions of sickness and throwing up.

You woke up suddenly, eyelids tired. Your throat felt like it was burning, skin and everything. You jumped out of the bed and almost tripped to your way to the bathroom. You were lucky you even had the time to throw up inside the toilet. Hurried steps were heard behind you, and the light from your hall made contrast with Joel’s large body.

When he found you almost passed out on the bathroom floor, with drool on your mouth, he got closer and grabbed your chin tenderly, cleaning you up with some napkin. “Can you hear me, hon?”

“I think I’m sick” you babbled, without breaking his gaze. “I feel like shit”

"Let me carry you back to be-" Your boyfriend couldn’t finish the sentence, because you vomited again. Joel grabbed your hair so you could be more comfortable. Minutes went by, and your urge to throw up disappeared. As Joel promised, he carried your tired body back to your shared bed.

“Do you need somethin’ else?” He whispered into your ear. You got closer to his touch, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Just you, that’s all”

He smiled at your answer, and after leaving you inside the sheets, he put a warm blanket on top of you. You protested, “Joel, you will be too warm”

“I don’t give two shits about it right now. I only care about you getting better” He responded, getting inside the bed and hugging your back. “You’re too good to me”

A couple of hours later, you woke up with Clementine’s little laughs.

“No, no, baby, come here” Joel was outside the door. “Mommy needs to sleep more”

You smiled, picturing your two-year-old trapped in Joel’s big arms. “You can come in” Your voice sounded weak and dry, but happy somehow. The door opened and hurried tiny footsteps came by your side, jumping on top of the bed. “Morning mommy” Joel came, sitting with your daughter by your side. “You two are going to get sick if you get any closer”

Joel grabbed Clem and put her in his shoulders, and her laughter filled the whole room. “I’m going to take Clem to school, and later I’ll prepare you some soup or something”

You groaned at the thought. “Sounds awesome. Thank you” You said goodbye to your toddler and kissed your partner’s cheek, despite your complaints about you being sick.

The next time you opened your eyes, your head felt less heavy. The smell of soup flooded your nostrils. Joel wasn’t on your sight, and the house was oddly quiet. You finished your soup and walked to the bathroom, just to see it neatly clean. Joel must have cleaned the mess you made last night, you thought.

When Joel came back, he found your sleepy figure sat on the isle of the kitchen. You had tried to complete the shopping list, but your head started to get dizzy again. He laughed, and lifted your body with ease and laid you down to bed again. You woke up just before he could close the door. You called him out softly, your throat dry. He cursed something about waking you up, and he knelt by your side. “Are you better?” He looked worried, almost pouting. It was a beautiful contrast with how he normally looked.

“The soup was amazing, you are amazing. Feel bad you have to do everything today, though”

“Well, don’t be. Maria was delighted to be with Clem for the day. And it wasn’t a big deal, either” You scoffed, “it’s gonna be a big ass deal if I get you sick” Joel shrugged as if it didn’t matter at all. “Ellie asked about you”

Joel swore your eyes brightened with the teen’s name. “What did she say?”

“She bombarded me with questions about how could she help. She actually made - or tried to make - the soup”

“Can’t wait to tell her that was some of the beat soup I’ve ever tried, then” Your boyfriend’s gaze deepened with love, but he hid it and attempted to look offended,“Maybe I did help her a bit”

“You big ol’ softie”

Clementine appeared in your sight, with a colorful drawing. "I draw this for ya" She gave it to you, hiding her face in Joel's chest, a habit she took from you. "So you be good"

You smiled, gasping at the drawing. "It is wonderful, sweets" She then whispered something on Joel's ear, making him laugh. "Clem asks if she can give you a tiny kiss on the cheek"

You frowned, worried about the possibility of passing the fever to your toddler. As if Joel heard your thoughts, he rapidly denied, "she will be fine, she just needs her mum"

"Then I'm happy to help on that" Clementine's sweet lips left a kiss on your hot skin, and as an exchange, you stole her another kiss on her forehead, your daughter laughing at the surprise.

The next morning you woke up tired, but all clear from fever. You extended your arm to Joel’s side, only to find it empty and cold. You looked at the clock: eleven am. With a confused frown, you stood up and searched for your boyfriend, only to find him in the bathroom, grabbing Clementine’s little ponytail. Your daughter was complaining about the mess she was making, but Joel looked as if he couldn't hear her. He looked pale and exhausted, almost as if he hasn’t slept at all. Your head started to think about all the times you kissed them yesterday, even after your warnings.

“Please don’t tell me you two are sick” You said with guilt swimming inside your chest.

Ellie was the one who answered before Joel could, her voice coming from her own bathroom: “we all are!”

You looked at Joel, crossing your arms right beside your chest and lifting your eyebrows. "Told ya"

[reds-hoodies]

I will never be ashamed to admit how fine this man is

HES SO FUCKING HOT

He’s built like a BRICK HOUSE!! And that smolder of his!!! got me kicking my feet and giggling and shit🤭🤭

This IS a panty-soddening sex god design🤤😍

real jason lovers love jason in every form he comes in, not just the panty-soddening sex god ur favourite fanart makes him out to be

justice for gk!jason, my babygirl

[lunaritex]

𓏲࣪ ִֶָ ︎ִֶָ DRUNKEN WHISPERS 𖤐. — sim jaeyun

(*´▽`*) Ꮺ sim jaeyun + fem! reader non-idol au college/university au friends to lovers ᛝ warning cursing drinking partying drunken confession one kiss scene open ending so interpret it as how you would . . !? & 1249 — m.list

note. i've been itching to write something related to drunk confessions so yeah. also this is my first jake fic, hopefully i didn't messed up his character here. i might make a part two for this if this blew up hehe. and merry xmas! 🎄tagging @senascoooop

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. 

“Hello?” You picked up the ringing phone without checking the screen. Your desk was a sight to behold; a stack of books placed dangerously close to the edge of your desk with sheets of papers covering the surface. In the middle was your laptop, the blaring screen nearly blinding you. 

“Hey uh, do you mind coming over to pick Jake up? He’s drunk,” Heeseung said, sounding embarrassed. You could make out the faint booming music from the other line. 

“Again? Heeseung, this is the fourth time it has happened this week,” you sighed, already rising to your feet, swiping your phone, wallet and car keys off the table as you stepped out of your room.

You heard a laugh. “We tried to stop him, (Name) but you know how it always turns out.” 

You merely rolled your eyes, having known Jake long enough to visualise how the scenario played out. As far as you were aware, Jake was a persistent pillar in your life. You had known each other since you were toddlers, due to both of you being neighbours and how your mothers were friends too. Everywhere you went, he was sure to follow you. It was an endearing sight to behold for the public, like a puppy following its owner. 

“Whatever, I’ll be there in thirty minutes. In the meantime, please stop him from drinking again,” you replied, hanging the call after Heeseung texted you the location of where they were. 

It didn’t take you long to arrive at your destination and you stepped out of your car after parking it, able to hear the loud bass boosted music that grew louder as you got closer. Thankfully, you didn’t have to enter the club as you easily spotted Jake and the others seated outside. It was like Jake had heightened hearing, for he perked up at the sound of your approaching footsteps. His face lit up as he rose to his feet while swaying side to side, resulting in both Heeseung and Jay having to steady him. 

But Jake didn’t care. He staggered his way towards you, throwing his entire body weight on you. You would have fallen to the ground if you didn’t catch yourself in the nick of time. You scrunch your nose at the revolting stench of alcohol lingering on his body and you could smell it from his mouth too, much to your disgust. 

“(Name)~, I’ve missed you so much,” his words were borderline slurring, barely comprehensible but you were still able to make out what he said. 

Thankfully, Heeseung and Jay pulled him away from you, eliciting a pathetic whine from Jake who struggles to free himself. You, on the other hand, ran a hand through your hair. “How many did he drink?” You asked. 

“Uh, like seven?” Heeseung replied, earning a smack to the arm from Jay, who shot him a glare.

“Seven? And none of you tried to stop him?” You asked, exasperated. 

“Hey, we tried our best but he refused to listen to us. He only listens to you,” Jay pointed out, a knowing glint in his eyes; a glint that made you look away, ignoring how your stomach tightened. 

“I’ll take him home now then, I’ll see you guys next week,” you sighed, bidding them farewell as you threw Jake’s right arm around your shoulder, having to grip onto him to prevent him from falling forward or backward. The others see you off before returning to the club, wanting to get more drinks before heading home. 

Needless to say, it was a struggle trying to complete the short walk to your car. You had to support the weight of a fully-grown man who is drunk, all the while maintaining your balance. With some difficulty, you managed to overcome it. However when you were trying to fish for your keys, Jake thought it was a good idea to bury his face in the crook of your neck. You groaned when his abyssal-like hair blocked off a good portion of your view, making a simple task harder than it should be. 

“Jake, what are you doing?” You asked, trying to push his head away but it was futile. 

He whined, still able to move his limbs despite his current state. You froze when Jake wrapped his arms around your waist. Physical contact is a common thing in your friendship but something about the way his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck caused goosebumps to form. You involuntarily shivered when he rubbed circles on your waist, through the fabric of your clothes. 

“Jake, seriously, stop this,” you said, your voice wavering at the end and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. 

“Noooo,” he whined, his hot breath grazing against your skin with every word he spoke. “I miss you so much.” 

“We literally meet every day, how can you miss me?” You sighed, finally pulling out your keys to unlock your car. You opened the backdoor, managing to get him in. 

Jake grabbed your wrist and before you could react, he tugged you down. You yelped, falling forward and thankfully, you didn’t hit your head against anything. You held yourself up in an awkward position, one knee digging into the car seat, one hand gripping onto the headrest of the driver’s seat while the other was pressed against the window in front of you. Your breath hitched in your throat when you realized just how close he was. 

You were so close that if one of you were to move, you would be kissing. You have always known Jake is attractive but it was another level to see his features up close. His eyes were windows to his soul. No matter how expressive he is or how he tries to hide his feelings, his eyes will never lie. And right now, you could detect nothing but pure love and adoration in them. It was enough to make you gulp nervously. 

“(Name), you’re so pretty. Wanna kiss you so bad,” he murmured, words no longer slurring and for a moment, you thought he had sobered up, only for him to giggle and the thought was washed down the drain. 

“Jake, enough. You’re not thinking straight,” you said, not wanting to ruin your many years of friendship. You didn’t want to let something as simple as your feelings for him ruin it. You tried to move away but his grip on your wrist tightened. 

“I’m telling the truth,” he whines, lips curling down in a pout. You were tempted to kiss him right there and then but you held yourself back. “Heeseung and the others know about how I’m madly in love with you. You’re always on my mind, no matter what I go. If only you know how crazy I am for you.” 

You were rendered speechless, taken aback by the utmost sincerity in his voice and the abrupt confession. Never in your life have you thought that your friend feels the same way. 

“Jake, I—!?” 

You weren’t given the chance to finish his sentence. Jake moved and with one smooth movement, he captured your lips in a kiss. You were too stunned to react and the kiss ended as fast as it started. He pulled away, looking into your eyes for a few seconds before passing out. All you could do was to openly gape at him, watching as he fell asleep, occupying the entire backrow of your car.  

What the fuck just happened? 

[highbabyofthenightcourt]

A little winter solstice story:

Feyre

The townhouse was quiet now, the remnants of the Winter Solstice celebration still lingering in the air—pine and cinnamon, the faint scent of wine. Rhys was upstairs, still sprawled on the bed we’d just shared, his hair mussed, his lips still swollen from our kisses. But passion made for thirst, and I’d slipped out, intending to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

As I padded down the stairs, the faint hum of voices drifted to me. I froze, instantly recognizing them: Elain’s soft, melodic tone and Azriel’s deep, gravelly murmur.

Curious—and unable to help myself—I summoned a spell to silence my movements and crept closer. Behind the archway of the kitchen, I peered into the dimly lit living room.

They sat on the couch, angled toward one another, illuminated only by a few faelights drifting lazily above. Elain had her legs tucked beneath her, a knitted blanket draped over her lap. Azriel was leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his shadows fainter than usual around him. A mug of something steamed in his scarred hands.

“…So you’re saying,” Elain whispered, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her lips, “that you’ve never baked anything before? Not even once?”

Azriel shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Baking isn’t exactly useful in espionage.”

Elain laughed softly, the sound warm and light, and my chest ached at how seldom I heard her laugh like that these days. Azriel’s gaze remained steady on her, his lips curving just slightly more at her amusement.

“Well,” Elain said, her voice turning playful, “maybe you should try. You could bake for the next family dinner. I’d even let you use my kitchen.”

Azriel raised a brow, his tone dry. “You’re assuming I wouldn’t burn it down.”

Her laugh came again, wrinkling the corners of her big brown eyes. “You wouldn’t. You’re too careful for that.”

Something flickered in his expression at her words, a tenderness that had my heart softening. For a while, he just sat there, tilting his head slightly as if studying her.

Whether Elain noticed the intensity with which the shadowsinger was looking at her, I didn’t know. She spoke playfully, “You had three servings of food tonight. It made all the hours spent making it worthwhile.”

The words reminded me of a soup in a cabin. The thought brought a warmth to my chest. Elain would likely make her mate an entire feast if she were to accept the bond. Though considering who her mate was, I was not sure if that would ever happen.

Azriel’s expression seemed to brighten in a way i only saw around my sister. He said, in an attempt to lighten the moment, “I still don’t understand how you managed to bake all those biscuits without burning a single one. Cassian once tried and nearly set the house on fire.”

Elain giggled, a sound so light it seemed to make the room warmer. “Because Cassian doesn’t follow instructions. He thinks he can scare anything into submission—even pastries.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Azriel’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong. He did try to fight the whisk last time.”

Elain’s laugh carried around the room, her eyes sparkling. “He would. But maybe I’ll teach him.”

There was a beat of silence before my sister added, “I don’t understand how you do it,” a smile tugging at her lips. “You make it look so easy.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“Disappear,” she said, her voice soft but teasing. “One moment, you’re here, and the next, you’re just… gone. It’s maddening.”

Azriel chuckled, low and warm. “It’s a skill which took me centuries to perfect.”

Elain leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “And here I thought you were just avoiding me.”

Azriel’s hand stilled on his mug. For a moment, he said nothing. But then he looked at her, and there was something so raw, so unguarded in his expression that it made my breath catch.

“I would never avoid you, Elain.” His voice was quiet, steady. “If I’ve been distant, it’s because…I thought it was what you needed from me.”

Elain’s lips parted slightly, as if the words surprised her. Then she said—soft, genuine: “What I need is for everyone to stop assuming they know what’s best for me.”

Azriel blinked, and for the first time in a long while, I saw him falter. “I did not mean to—”

“I know,” she interrupted, her tone lightening. “But for someone so skilled at reading people, you sometimes horrendously misread me.”

Azriel’s lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through. “Is that so?”

“It is,” Elain said firmly, though the glimmer in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “But don’t worry. I’m patient.”

Azriel shook his head, the faintest laugh escaping him. “Thank you.”

Elain answered in mock pride, “You’re most welcome.”

Azriel remained quiet, his gaze on her, as if he was memorizing every detail of her face. His shadows had retreated into nothingness. They had always seemed to fade away when he was around her. As if, in answer to her light.

Watching the two of them, my heart warmed. They deserved this—the chance to simply exist in each other’s company without the weight of expectations or fear of judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his gaze still fixed on Elain. “Did you enjoy tonight?”

Elain’s smile grew. “I did. Though Cassian bursting into song was definitely unexpected.”

Azriel snorted. “You would think in the centuries he has been alive, he would have grown tolerant to drinking.”

“And Mor,” Elain added, laughter bubbling in her voice, “trying to convince Amren to wear a sweater. I thought Amren might actually bite her.”

Azriel chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

It was rare to see Elain so at ease, so… happy. And Azriel—my quiet, brooding friend—looked lighter too, as if her presence had chased away some of the darkness that clung to him.

I lingered a moment longer, then turned away, letting them have their privacy. As I climbed back up the stairs, the warmth of the firelight and the sound of their laughter stayed with me.

For tonight, at least, they had found a moment of their own. And I was glad for it.

Happy solstice, guys <3

[at-wicks-end]

in another life (you still would've turned my head) ; jw

vampire!john wick x reader fluff !! (lowkey a reincarnation au) ~2.5k words

notes: this fic is written for @treedaddymcpuffpuff for the keanuverse secret santa event hosted by @97keanu <333 i hope you like this!!! this is probably the longest thing i've written on this blog 😵‍💫 happy holidays🩷

John cares little for the snow. It’s not that he found it cumbersome or annoying; it’s just that when one has lived for as long as he has, shoveling the snow from the driveway becomes a little too tedious, even for one well-versed in tedious matters. Such was the nature of immortality—given enough time, even the most unique, spectacular experience becomes boring after a century. 

This task becomes herculean (or Sisyphean, John corrects himself) when said driveway was practically a third of the length of his entire estate, which was also in the middle of the woods. His eye twitches at the thought of the snow that would inevitably impede the driving of his beloved Mustang to the nearest town. With a heavy sigh, John casts one longing look at his car, as spotless and as pristine as the day he got it decades ago. He’ll wait for the winter to pass before he brings out his car for a drive. For now, he thinks reluctantly, he’ll walk. He has more than enough time anyway.

It doesn’t take long for him to get ready. All he does is put on his long coat and wrap a scarf around his neck before heading out. He has no need for it, but it’s easier to pretend to need it than to deal with the constant concerned looks from the townspeople as he walks around. It also helped him blend in with the rest of the people walking around, doing some last-minute gift shopping for loved ones at those ridiculously overpriced boutiques. John blows out the candles in the hallways as he walks to the foyer, running a mental checklist of the things he had to put out or turn off before leaving.

Dog—yes, Dog. Comments about his creativity are not welcome—approaches him with a wagging tail, the soft clicks of his claws on the hardwood floors reminding John that he had to trim them again soon. 

“Hello,” John says warmly, squatting down to pet Dog. “You can’t come with me tonight. I’ll be walking, and it’s too cold.”

Dog woofs once, as if to complain.  John chuckles to himself, ruffling his soft fur before straightening himself. “You’ll be fine. I’ve already fed you dinner, haven’t I? I’ll be back later.”

After one last brief round through the manor, John mildly regrets killing the last butler, if only so he had someone else to do the tedious tasks instead. But then again, the last butler turned out to be some vampire hunter wannabe who slipped silver oxide in his tea one night. That gave him quite the sore throat, John thinks bitterly, locking the doors behind him. The poor man was stupid enough to think that a little silver oxide would be able to take him down completely, and didn’t even bother to bring a weapon. Truthfully, it was a bit insulting.

John trudges through the snow, out of his estate and into the woods. It would take him half an hour to get to town, and by then it’ll be almost ten in the evening. The town and its warm lights strung through trees and lampposts will be winding down by then, shop lights shutting off one by one. All the better for him; the fewer humans around him, the safer it was. At almost three centuries of existence, John was already well-versed in resisting temptation, but it didn’t mean he was fond of placing himself in situations where he could potentially snap. 

Behind him, his manor fades into the darkness, looking abandoned and more dilapidated than it truly is. For a moment, John squints at one of the towers. Hm. he’ll have to take a look at the top window sometime soon; it looked to be on the verge of falling apart.

He walks through the forest in silence, with no other sound to accompany him other than the sound of crunching snow beneath his boots and the occasional birdsong. John allows his thoughts to wander, his mind flitting from events that had happened over a decade ago and wondering what he would do a week from now. The year was coming to an end, and Winston no doubt is itching to drag him to the Continental for the Winter Ball.

Yeah, right. John snorts. Invite a bunch of vampires to one place. Never ends well.

The previous year, the D’Antonio siblings caused quite a scene by bringing untrained, unmarked humans into the venue. The younger vamps could barely resist tearing the poor things apart. At the very least, it had provided enough entertainment for the rest of the evening, according to Koji, an old friend of his.

He should probably give him a call this Christmas if only to check in, John muses. And send over a gift for Akira. What does one give to a young vampling these days anyway?

He’s snapped from his reverie at the sound of grumbling. He freezes, straining his ears to understand what the voice is saying.

“...this is so stupid. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? God. I’m gonna get eaten by wolves…”

There are no wolves in the area, John can attest to that, but this human seemed lost. And most certainly not a local, if they were out in the woods at night. He purses his lips, turning his head from the direction of the voice to the general direction of the town. He should be close by now, and the blood dealer was likely there already. John could just leave the unknown voice there to fend for themselves and potentially freeze in the dark. 

But what the hell, he thinks. It’s Christmas. This can be his good deed of the year.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he takes a sharp turn to the right and makes his way to the voice. His eyesight meant that the dark of night wasn’t truly dark to him, but he supposes that to a human, this was close to pitch black. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a figure huddled by the root of a tree in the dark, angrily poking at what looked to be their phone. Humans and their smartphones, John sighs internally.

“Hello,” he says slowly, not wanting to scare them. “Are you lost?”

The human flinches, looking up at him with wide eyes. Moonlight shines on their face just so, and John swears his undead heart would be pounding if it still could.

Oh, he thinks, breathless. It’s you.

You really shouldn’t have come here, you think mournfully. Your roommate brought you along with her for the holidays, feeling bad that you were going to be left in the apartment by yourself. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until you got to her hometown and she promptly dropped you off at the local inn and said goodbye for the week. After asking around for fun activities to do (that had nothing to do with the holidays, thank you very much), one of the younger locals suggested geocaching, now that quite a handful of people were developing an interest in it too. He told you to download an app that should explain things better, and you spent the better part of the afternoon looking things up.

This is supposed to be your third spot to check out, but the signal got worse somewhere along the way, and now your phone is dead too. Just your fucking luck. Somewhere, someone must be actively praying for your downfall because what do you mean you’re now stuck in the middle of the woods at night? You groan, angrily poking at the black screen of your phone when a voice calls out to you. 

“Hello. Are you lost?”

It’s a true testament to your strength, your bravery, your iron will, that you did not shit yourself at the sound of the voice. You look up at the tall stranger with wide eyes, noting that holy shit this man is gorgeous and you probably look like you’ve been crawling through all sorts of nooks and crannies all afternoon. Which you have been. So. 

“Hi,” you squeak. Okay. He doesn’t seem like an ax murderer, judging by his nice clothing…? Every bit of information you learned in those true crime podcasts you listen to has flown out of your brain, leaving you looking up at the stranger with your mouth parted.

The tall, dark, and handsome stranger looks at you for a moment before offering you a hand. “The town is that way,” he gestures somewhere to the left. “I’m… John.”

You mumble your name, taking his hand in a daze. Of course, you would meet an absolute Adonis on the worst day of your life (an exaggeration). You try not to swoon at his firm grip, or how he easily pulls you upright without so much as a sharp exhale. Whew. This is a man, you think dreamily, nothing like those slimy finance bros back in the city. Perhaps it’s your turn for a Hallmark movie romance. You, the city slicker with a hatred for the holidays, and this man, the local who’ll teach you the true meaning of Christmas. 

He repeats your name quietly, nodding. “I’m headed to town. We can walk together, if you want.” 

“I’d like that,” you respond, feeling breathless all of a sudden. Get ahold of yourself, you think desperately. You can’t fold for the first hot man that you see in the woods!

Your dreams of a budding romance, are crushed, however, when no further words are exchanged. Stealing glances at John’s (very handsome) side profile does nothing for your flushed cheeks, and his shy smile whenever he catches you staring makes you melt internally. The distant lights of the town coming into view make your heart sink. 

He appears to take pity for your plight and breaks the silence first. “Are you only visiting here?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. You swallow thickly, trying to play off your embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, My roommate just brought me along, so…”

“I see.” He nods. “How are you liking this place so far?”

“It’s like a Christmas village,” you say with disdain. The corners of John’s lips quirk up.

“I’m hearing some distaste in your tone.” He notes, amusement in his voice.

You scrunch your nose. “I don’t like Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t like it,” you shrug. “You?”

John pauses, thinking for a moment. “I don’t mind it. I don’t think too much of it.”

“Pretty hard to do when it’s so… in your face,” you quip. 

“I’m good at focusing on what truly matters,” he says coolly, his gaze suddenly serious. Your cheeks feel hot again. 

“Oh. That’s nice.” You mumble, looking away, feeling strangely flustered. Are all handsome men just way too intense for their own good? “Are you a, uh, local?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, tilting his head towards you with a small smirk. “A local of the Christmas village.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” You laugh, caught off guard by his sudden teasing. “It’s just not for me, I’m sorry!”

He laughs with you, his deep voice almost melting into the cold winter breeze. Something inside you feels warm at the sight of his smile, and it’s not just because you think this man is hot. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, you think curiously. He feels strangely familiar, as if you’ve known the sound of his laughter for years. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that’s begging you to take his hand, to savor the warmth of his skin against yours and⁠—

“We’re almost there,” he states, looking straight ahead.

Oh. Right.

“Thanks,” you say softly, looking at him. “For helping me back there.”

John only shrugs, his features warmed by the light from the lamppost just straight ahead. “I have a knack for helping strays.” He smiles as if joking. “And I think you’ll find that you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “‘Cause I met you, is that it?”

He gives you that smile again, as if he knows something you don’t. As if you should know what he’s talking about too. It should unnerve you, but it doesn’t. “Something like that.” 

The two of you eventually stop walking just in front of the stall selling mulled wine. “Well, this is me,” you say reluctantly. As charmed as you are by this man, you’ve retained enough of your common sense to not reveal just where exactly you’re staying for now. (If he wants to come up to your room for  a late night something, well… maybe you’re not totally against the idea.) “I’m gonna go walk around before I turn in for the night. You?”

“I’m meeting an acquaintance,” he replies, putting his hands in his pockets. Strange. He isn’t wearing gloves. 

“Good night, John.” You smile, reluctant to leave his side for some godforsaken reason. “I’ll see you around?”

“You will see me around the Christmas village, yes,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good night, solnishko.”

Little sun. 

How do you know that?

You wave goodbye, dazed, watching as he disappears into the crowd. Your chest aches at the sight of him leaving, but you ignore it, deciding it’s time to turn in for the night after all. It’s been a long day of gallivanting, and getting lost in the woods did no favors for your poor feet. Sighing softly, you imagine the relief of finally taking off these godforsaken boots and warming up by the fire. You’re gonna sleep so good tonight.

Giving one last longing look in the direction John went, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see him again. It’s just because he’s hot, you tell yourself. Yes, that’s just it. Nothing to do with how his voice makes your stomach do somersaults. 

(You will see him again, one way or another. Like John said, you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, even when you don’t remember him. John only allowed the night to slip from his grasp knowing that the universe will inevitably bring you back to him, as it has many times before.)

(As it will continue to do so, for as long as your soul remembers him even when your mind does not. For now, John is determined to make you fall in love with him all over again until you have to leave.) 

John watches you walk to the local inn from afar, hidden in the shadows. So you hate Christmas this time, he chuckles to himself. That’s alright. So long as you still like him, he can make it work.

He’ll make it work.

post-fic yap: there we go!! i have never actually experienced snow in my life so i'm sorry if it's not super accurate :')) i really wanted to add some more stuff but my health has been in the dumps so i just did my best🥲 again, happy holidays! i hope i did your prompt justice🥹

[watarfallar]

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! *holds out this post*

Grian, grinning: I have a knife! Scar: Put it down, Grian. Grian: Make me! sprints away

Grian: What's the most illegal thing you can do with one dollar? Scar: Exchange it for a hundred pennies, put them all in a sock, and then beat someone to death with it.

Scar: Can you be serious for five minutes? Grian: My record is four, but I think I can do it.

Scar: Are you an F5 key? Because that ass is refreshing. Grian: Are you a software update? because not right now.

Grian: Hey, can you do me a favor? Scar: Sorry, I have to go do literally anything other than this. Grian: You don’t even have a legitimate reason? Scar: Oh, no, I do. Grian: Well, what is it? Scar: You see, I simply don’t give a fuck.

Grian, holding a box of Lunchables: Ah, I loved these when I was your age… fine dining. Scar: Fix yourself.

Scar: Okay, help me, please! Grian: Got two words for you. Scar: I bet they won't be helpful. Grian: Your problem. Scar: I was right.

Grian: Can I borrow five dollars? Scar: If you’re only borrowing it, does that mean you’ll pay me back? Grian: Of course. Grian: Not directly, but with my love and affection. Scar: So that’s a no.

Grian: Wow, did you hear that voice crack? Scar: That wasn't a voice crack, that was a whole voice meth.

Scar: …My man Grian just killed a goldfish. Grian: licking their lips Yup. Delicious.

Scar: I just got the best idea I've ever had in my entire life! Later Grian, to Scar: That was the worst idea you’ve ever had in your entire life.

Scar: Grian, you need to calm down. Grian, slamming their fists on the table: BUT HOW CAN IT BE "BIRTHDAY CAKE" FLAVOR IF A BIRTHDAY CAKE CAN BE ANY FLAVOR?!

Scar: I’m proud to say I’ve come over my fear of ghosts! Grian: Eyy, that’s the spirit! Scar: gasps whErE???!!!??

Scar: So you're looking for information on this thing, huh? Well, I feel like it must be from far away. Grian: What makes you say that? Scar: If it's something even I don't know about, then I'm sure nobody else must have a clue. So it's gotta be from some faraway place. Impeccable reasoning, isn't it? Grian: Scar… You don't have a clue about this thing, do you? Scar: screams in anger

Grian: Scar, you look deep in thought. What’s wrong? Scar: Did you know you can look at any object and know what it’s like to lick it? Even if you’ve never touched it before? Grian: I’m never asking you anything ever again.

Grian, looking at their reflection: Now, that's rubbish. Who's that supposed to be? Scar: Well, that's you. Grian: Me?! Is that what I look like? Scar: You don't know? Grian: Busy day.

Grian: Good morning! Scar: Is it? Is it really?

Grian: Urrrgh…I’ve never felt so sick in my entire life… Scar: Ouch. Shit sucks, man. Grian: I feel like I’m dying… Whyyyy… Scar, under their breath: Because I want to go back to some peace and quiet in this house. Grian:,/b> …DID YOU FUCKING POISON ME-

Scar: Pick a card, any card. Grian: Fine. Scar: Wait, that's my credit card! Grian: You said any card.

Scar: I’m going to get so much done today. Grian: I’ll hold you to that. 8 hours later Grian: So how much did you get done? Scar: One thing. Grian: Well, that’s one more than usual.

Scar: I wouldn’t put it in those words exactly. Grian: Why not? Scar: Because I don't know what they mean.

Scar: When did you become a hero? Grian: Um… the moment I saved you from getting killed. Scar: You’re the last person on earth I wanted to rescue me. Grian: Well… sucks to be you, don’t it.

Grian: You’re a horrible person! Scar: Maybe. But I’m rich and I’m pretty, so it doesn’t really matter.

Grian: Pulls a glass a water from out of nowhere Scar: Where did you get that? Grian: My pocket. Scar: How do you keep a glass of water in your pocket? Grian: Skills.

Scar with a gun to Grian's head: What happens if I pull this trigger? Heaven? Grian: Bold of you to assume I'll go to Heaven.

Scar: That sounds super! Doesn’t that sound super, Grian? Grian: No. Scar: I think I speak for Grian when I say it sounds really super.

Scar: Are pigeons drones? Grian: What? No, I'm trying to sleep. Scar: Think about it. How come you've never seen a baby pigeon? And why do you never actually see a pigeon nest? Because they're DRONES! Grian: Crying Please let me sleep…

[helen-lucilfer]

dual ambivalence. - r. braun

do you love him or hate him? does he love you or hate you? well, neither of you know.

- not proofread -

———

the pressure of your entire body weight on one knee in front of Queen Historia is one that you have adapted to within the last 8 minutes. and yet, the pressure on your shoulders and the pressure of Reiner’s voice ringing in your ears is still something you haven’t—no, you can’t adapt to.

Historia’s graceful speech is like rambling in your ears, the temptation to clutch at your throbbing heart as tight as you can unbearable. if not to clutch, then why is your hand above your heart in the first place? especially not when your heart has been feeling like exploding for the past 2 weeks.

was it all really just casual? was it all nothing to him? was it all really just pretend to him? were the late night talks, the hand holdings, the eyes that softened when they looked at me, the “i’ll marry you one day, i swear it”, the “i’d protect you with my life” just casual?

maybe it was.

“hey, kid, hey.” Levi’s hushed voice brings you out of your trance. “it’s your turn.” oh, shit. Historia, Armin, Mikasa, and Hange look at you with concerned faces, Eren just furrows his eyebrows and looks at you sadly. the room is dead silent, you notice. and yet, unlike usual, your face doesn’t flush and you don’t stammer out a hesitant apology. you only stand up with a hunched back and walk to Historia before kneeling down on one knee once again, waiting to receive your badge of honor.

you can tell that Historia wants to console you, just not in a room full of officials and military police members. everyone wanted to console you, actually. everyone knew about how close you and Reiner were, how in love you were with him, how “in love” he seemed to be with you too. even Levi knew—he’ll, even Zachary knew.

maybe that’s why no one’s smiled at you ever since the battle of Shinganshina.

Reiner. are you just another kid who’s really just confused? are you also someone who really just doesn’t know what he’s doing? because if that’s the case, please, just come back to me. i hate it, but i’ve forgiven you already. i’m sure that everyone else will eventually forgive you too. please, just…

come back to me.

but you shook those thoughts out of your head just as quickly as they came.

———

the silence was a bit too much for Reiner to handle.

he looked around at his family members, Gabi and his mother looking especially interested in what he was about to say. about those island devils, that is. what was he supposed to say? something bad, well of course. but what things were particularly bad about them?

“all of them were cruel and barbarous,” he began. “like the time during our introduction ceremony. when the instructor had questioned why she had stolen the potato, she said it was because it looked tasty. maybe it was then when she realized that she was in a bad spot, and yet she proceeded to break off a small portion of the potato and consider it as ‘half.’

“they were all hopeless. an idiot who went to the bathroom and forgot what he went there for. an irresponsible jerk who only thought about himself. a way too responsible jerk who only thought about others. someone who only thought about revenge and the two who followed him mindlessly.” Reiner didn’t realize that he was beginning to slow down as he rambled as his mind drifted to a thought—a person.

you.

“and someone who…believed that anyone who she loved would never betray her, who idiotically believed that anyone who told her ‘i love you’ meant it wholeheartedly even when it didn’t. she believed completely that i loved her even though i didn’t. they were all hopeless, especially the girl i mentioned last.” Reiner explained, his eyes drifting downwards before eventually closing. no, no. you weren’t hopeless. if anything, he was the hopeless one. lying through his teeth that he didn’t love you even though he might as well worship you.

he loves you, he really does. and he’s sorry. sorry that it had to come down to this.

———

Reiner isn’t one to be easily speechless.

there were occasional moments when someone said something so stupid that Reiner didn’t even know what to say anymore, but right now wasn’t one of them. in front of him was Gabi, Falco, Armin, Mikasa, Connie, Annie, and…

there you were.

all in your beautiful glory. you cut your hair, Reiner noticed. they were now barely past your chin—not tho at he cared, of course. you were still breathtaking either way. you weren’t looking at him either—you were turned to the side. Reiner could only see your side profile, although much of your hair hid your face. Reiner could see how your fists were clenched much too tightly to the point where it trembled.

“Connie, w-what—what are we doing-?”

“to save the world.”

Connie’s one liner almost drew out a laugh from you, but you kept composure. no, no, nope, you weren’t going to show even a hint of positive emotion in front of Reiner. you saw Annie side eyeing you with a “seriously?” look, which you tried your best to ignore.

Reiner’s stare felt like bricks on your shoulders, and you felt the temptation to clutch your heart again, something that you’ve been doing for the past few years anytime you felt heartbreak from Reiner. you always felt better afterwards; but you weren’t a kid anymore—you were 20 now, for fuck’s sake. you had to face it.

———

was it casual?

well, now you can confidently answer your 16 year old self with your current 23 year old self that no, it wasn’t casual. having his head on your shoulder and both of your daughters laying in your laps wasn’t causal in the least. the golden bands adorned with encrusted diamonds on your left ring fingers wasn’t casual. sleeping in the same bed every night with his hands on your baby bump wasn’t casual. being married to each other wasn’t casual.

you still weren’t used to it, life in Marley and all. what do you mean eating such luxurious food daily like seafood and ice cream was normal? what do you mean receiving unnecessary kindness and gifts just because you were pregnant is normal? the perplexed look on your face when you were first receiving a gift while pregnant with your first daughter, Riley, was priceless. Reiner couldn’t help but laugh at just how confused you looked when the kind young lady who ran the bakery gave you some extra bread, saying to take care of your body more.

“what’s wrong?” your husband’s voice brings you out of your trance. Reiner looks up at you with soft golden eyes. both of your daughters were snoring softly on your lap, mumbling incoherent things here and there. “im surprised you’re not asleep. usually when you’re pregnant, the one who’s always sleeping.”

“nothing, just…thinking.” you mutter. “don’t worry too much about it. plus, i should be asking you. usually you snore a lot, but you haven’t let out a sound when you slept earlier. what’s that about? too scared to wake up Riley and Remy?” Reiner’s lips press into a thin line, but you know he’s playing. “alright, alright. just thinking about my venomous thoughts about you back when we were still teenagers.”

Reiner huffed and rolled his eyes. “well, at least you don’t have them anymore, love.” at your lack of response, Reiner gasped. “what? you still have rude thoughts about me even in this day and age? we literally have two daughters and another child in your stomach right now!”

“okay, okay, im just playing with you.” you replied. “i don’t, alright?” you pinched his cheek. “now go back to sleep, you idiot.”

———

FIN.

[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

December 15 - Desk | Jegulus | word count: 852 | @taylorswiftmicrofic

Across from Sirius’ bedroom, there is another door. One that Sirius had forbidden anybody from entering when he had inhabited the house. Then, with the stress of war and Voldemort bearing down on his shoulders, Harry hadn’t been too concerned. But now, with only ghosts of what could have been haunting this dreaded house, he finds his curiosity piqued.

Distantly, he wonders if he should firecall Ron and Hermione over to investigate with him—Regulus was a Death Eater, even if he did end up defecting. This room could contain any number of dark curses or objects, probably why Sirius had forbidden anybody from entering his brother’s room. However, there is a nagging feeling in his gut that makes him open the door alone.

The room is coated in layers of dust, even with the cleaning charms the house once had, making it clear the room had fallen into disuse years ago. There are footsteps leading a couple of feet into the room before they stop and turn back for the door again. Other than that, there are no signs the room has been touched since the younger Black died. If Sirius hated his brother even half as much as he spouted, then why preserve his room like he is waiting for him to return to it?

Slowly, Harry shuffles into the room, only standing where the old footsteps had. Everything is neat and orderly. The bed is made and free of wrinkles; there is a dusty stack of classics on the bedside table; the doors of the armoire are closed fully, no clothes sticking out the edges; there is a quill standing in an ink pot on the desk, a sheet of parchment beside it, waiting for its author to return and finish.

Two strides take him from where the footsteps stopped to the desk. Brushing away the dust, Harry reads the looping script on the page. It’s a poem. A dark and morbid poem—something about an ocean in the lungs and a porcelain mask fused to one’s skin—but hauntingly beautiful all the same.

He’s about to turn away, when something else catches his eye. The top of the desk has an inlay, which appears to have been removed at some point, with a piece of parchment now sticking out the edge. Carefully, Harry lifts the edge of the inlay, revealing there is indeed a hidden inner compartment. Stacked inside, there are dozens upon dozens of letters, all addressed to Regulus. A Black.

They all appear to be personal letters—and they must be such if they are hidden away from prying eyes—so Harry goes to place the top of the desk back, when something else catches his eye. A name signed at the top of one of these papers. James F. Potter.

As far as Sirius and Remus made it seem, his father hadn’t talked with Regulus much, so why does Regulus have a hidden compartment full of letters from him?

Mi corazón,

I know you said it was too risky to send letters, but I can’t wait until September to talk to you again. And I know you are probably screaming at me in your head right now, but risk taking is half my charm, don’t you think?

Anyway, my parents and I went to a muggle museum yesterday, and I saw this painting I’m sure you would love. You might have heard of him already, Ivan Kostantovich or something like that. Either way, he has all these paintings of the ocean, though this one I think you would enjoy the most. I enclosed a picture I took of it, but you have to go see it yourself.

You would probably have something profound to say about it. Like the beauty of water and how he managed to capture it. All I can say, is that it reminds me of your eyes. Most of the time, they are dark like a storm. But sometimes, you can see a glimmer of blue in there, like hope is on the horizon. I think that’s what the painting means, at least, to me. This painting is you.

I’ve missed your poems—I’ve been rereading the ones I have, but it isn’t the same. If you feel comfortable, maybe send some back with Owliver?

I’ll be eagerly patiently waiting for your response. Love, Jamie.

Harry is surprised he gets to the end of the letter before his arms give out under him and the letter falls back to join the rest. Dozens upon dozens of letters, all of them in the same half cursive half script handwriting he now knows belongs to his father. Who apparently was conversing with Sirius’ little brother in secret?

While it might be an invasion of Regulus’ privacy, these letters were sent by his father. He hardly has anything from his father, and knows even less. These letters could be a glimpse into the kind of person his father had been before Voldemort so carelessly killed him. So, Harry takes the letters with a mental promise to return them in the same condition he found them.

[amazinglystay]

Shattered Reflections

Hyunjin x Y/N

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:·

Summary:

When Y/N discovers suspicious texts on Hyunjin’s phone, their relationship is thrown into turmoil as love, trust, and betrayal collide. Faced with heartbreak and doubt, Y/N walks away, leaving Hyunjin to grapple with his mistakes and a desperate promise to wait for her.

T/W:Angst-heavy themes-Emotional arguments and tension between characters-Mentions of potential betrayal (emotional cheating implied)-Emotional distress and trust issues-Themes of heartbreak and self-doubt

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:·

The rain poured relentlessly outside, tapping against the windows like a frantic heartbeat. Y/N stood in the middle of the dimly lit living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Across from her, Hyunjin leaned against the doorframe, his sharp features shadowed by the soft glow of the overhead light.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” Hyunjin’s voice was low, almost defeated, but there was an edge to it one that sent a chill down her spine.

“I want you to be honest with me,” Y/N shot back, her voice trembling but resolute. “Was it worth it? Was she worth it?”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing. “Don’t do that. Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

“Oh, so I’m twisting things now?” Y/N let out a bitter laugh, her hands falling to her sides. “Hyunjin, I saw the texts. You can’t tell me they didn’t mean anything!”

“They didn’t! She’s just a friend, Y/N. I’ve told you that a hundred times.” His voice rose slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Y/N shook her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Friends don’t send those kinds of messages, Hyunjin. Friends don’t talk about ‘missing each other’s presence’ or how ‘they can’t wait to see each other again.’”

Hyunjin sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. His usual composed demeanor was cracking, revealing the storm raging beneath. “You don’t trust me. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me,” Y/N snapped, her voice breaking. “I trusted you. I gave you everything, Hyunjin. And now, I don’t even recognize the person standing in front of me.”

Hyunjin flinched at her words, his expression softening for a moment before hardening again. “You think I don’t feel the same way? Do you think it doesn’t kill me to see you like this, to know I’ve hurt you?”

“Then why?” Y/N’s voice cracked, a single tear escaping down her cheek. “Why did you let it get to this point? Why didn’t you just—”

“I don’t know, okay?” Hyunjin interrupted, his voice raw. “I don’t know why I said the things I did to her. Maybe I was lonely, maybe I was stupid. But I swear to you, it didn’t mean anything. You’re the one I love, Y/N.”

Y/N stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to process his words. The sincerity in his eyes tugged at her heart, but the pain was too fresh, too sharp.

“Love isn’t supposed to feel like this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Hyunjin took a step toward her, his hand reaching out hesitantly. “Y/N…”

She took a step back, shaking her head. “I can’t, Hyunjin. I can’t keep doing this. I need time to think. To figure out if I can ever trust you again.”

His hand fell to his side, and the distance between them felt insurmountable. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of the rain pounding against the glass.

“I’ll wait for you,” Hyunjin said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his eyes. “No matter how long it takes. I’ll wait.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and walked to the door, her steps slow and heavy.

As the door closed behind her, Hyunjin stood alone in the dim room, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him like the storm outside. And as the rain continued to fall, he whispered into the empty air, “I’m sorry.”

·:¨⛦𓆩♡𓆪⛦¨:·

A/n: ⚠️this is ment to be no hate towards hyunjin or anything just an fanfic i wrote a few days ago!⚠️ but that’s it for today 🤗 hope ur doing well and we’ll make sure to eat drink and sleep loads ok?

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Bonus Chapter Part 1

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

Enough people asked for an epilogue that I decided to come back for one more chapter. I have two more scenes after this, but I didn't want this post to be 7,000 words long, so I broke it into 2 parts. I hope you like it!

“For the last time, Parker,” Eliot said through gritted teeth. “I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“J.B. said I shouldn’t let you walk without your crutch,” Parker said.

Eliot threw a hand toward the door. “I’m going twelve feet. I don’t need a crutch.”

“J.B. says you do.”

“J.B.’s a medic. He has to say that. But I’ve done a lot worse on a damaged leg than walk across a hall, all right? I’ll be fine.”

Parker’s eyes widened. “Did you remember something?”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to bring that up, but it was too late to take it back, and he couldn’t lie to her. The truth was bad, but somehow, to her, a lie would be worse.

Time to change the subject.

“Give me that,” he grumbled, gently jerking the crutch out of her extended hand. He limped to the bathroom, barely resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. It had been three days since the explosion—the latest explosion, anyway—and his patience decreased with every passing hour. Rest, they kept telling him, and he was trying, but he couldn’t just lie in bed all day until J.B. decided he was well enough to be a person again.

He set his hands on the bathroom counter, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. No, that wasn’t the problem—not the whole problem, anyway. If he was going to get through this, he had to be honest with himself. Recovery was irritating, but he’d been through worse, and he did enjoy the quiet moments when Sophie came to sit with him, or when Nate gave him summaries of their previous jobs, or when Hardison worked silently at the desk in his room while he dozed, or when Parker napped curled up at the foot of his bed like a cat.

The problem was the memories.

Most of them came to him in his dreams: fragments of images stitched together with bursts of fear, of anger, of pain. He woke in a panic most nights, hour after hour, not sure if he was in an interrogation cell or a South American jungle or a frozen, lonely cave. 

If the blood he imagined on his hands was his own, or someone else’s.

Hardison and Parker had taken to sleeping on an air mattress beside his bed, and he tried his best not to wake them, but the night before he’d jolted awake in the early hours of the morning to find Hardison tapping on his computer with his back against the bed. He didn’t say anything—didn’t even look Eliot’s way—but he was sure Hardison had heard him.

He’d already put them through so much. He didn’t want to add this burden as well.

Sighing, he turned on the faucet and washed his face in cold water, savoring the sharper sensation against the warmth and comfort he’d been wallowing in. A deep-rooted, unconscious instinct warned him that he couldn’t afford to get soft, that it was dangerous to get complacent, and it chafed at him every time someone told him he should be relaxing. He wanted to—wanted to ease their worries and prove that he was getting better, that he could pull his own weight—but each new memory made him withdraw further into himself, afraid to show his vulnerability.

Eliot ran his left hand through his hair, being careful to avoid the still-healing cut in his scalp. This couldn’t continue. He needed to get a hold of himself, figure out how to process his issues, and move on. He needed to be useful again.

First: a good night’s sleep. He’d tried to be on his feet as much as possible today, hoping to wear himself out before bed, and he was feeling the strain in his muscles. He finished washing up and changed into a new pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt—Hardison had gone to buy him extra clothes, and to replace the ones he’d ruined of Sunny’s—and stumped back to his room.

Parker was already tucked into the space between the air mattress and the bed, submerged beneath a pile of blankets Sunny had crocheted the winter she’d slipped on the ice and broken her foot. “Took up every new hobby I could find to keep myself from goin’ stir crazy,” she’d told Eliot the day before. “I still have my hooks and yarn in the basement if you want to give it a try.”

He wasn’t quite that desperate, but it was getting close.

Carefully, he turned off the light and leaned his crutch against the end of the bed. Maneuvering into it without stepping on Parker was a little tricky, but he managed, letting out a little sigh as his sore muscles relaxed against the mattress.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Parker said, her voice muffled beneath the blankets. “Was it?”

“Why sleep on the floor when you’ve got an air mattress right there?” Eliot countered.

“I don’t like how it dips when Hardison isn’t there.”

Hardison was still downstairs, but he’d be up in a few hours, if the last few nights were any pattern. Whether or not he slept on the air mattress was another matter. He had the first night, but the second, he’d spent as much time at the desk as the mattress. The night before, Eliot wasn’t sure he’d slept at all.

“You sure you’re comfortable?” Eliot asked, peering doubtfully over the side of the bed.

Parker poked her face out of the covers. “Yep. It’s cozy.”

Eliot laid back, closing his eyes against the light from the open door. “You don’t have to go to bed now,” he said. “Everyone else is still awake downstairs. I can handle a few hours on my own.”

“I’m tired,” Parker said.

He considered that. She’d been sleeping almost as much as he had over the last few days, and he had no idea whether that was normal for her. Her voice had been cheerful enough, and there was nothing to make him think she was lying—but he did, suddenly, inexplicably. Or maybe not lying, but... withholding.

Like he was.

“Parker?” he said, quietly, and was rewarded by the sound of her shuffling the blankets again.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

She hesitated just a second too long. “Yeah.”

“Because if you’re not...”

“I am,” she said. “Are you?”

“...Yeah.”

“There you go, then.” She settled back into her burrow of yarn, and he let her. He had no right to force her to talk, and he preferred to leave the offer open rather than keep digging on his own. He wanted to think she’d come to him eventually, if something was bothering her. 

He laid back, resting his right hand on his stomach and folding the other behind his head. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

The hours passed in stretches of restless dozing, punctuated by bursts of wakefulness when the dreams started. They weren’t as disturbing tonight—no faces in his crosshairs, no bones breaking under his hands—but several times he woke and had to check to make see which injuries he still had and which had healed long ago. Hardison came in sometime after the fourth nightmare, and he sat with his back to the desk and the glow of his laptop lighting his face as he worked on who knew what. Eliot rolled to his side, then his stomach, then his back again, finding he slept better when the faint computer light touched his eyelids. Hardison hummed a few times, the melody low and soothing, and Eliot found himself listening for it each time he woke. 

He’d just faded off to a wordless rendition of “Imagine” when a sharp cry ripped him awake. He shot upright, swinging his legs for the side of the bed before he remembered his healing gunshot wound, and pain knifed up his thigh and down to his foot. He froze on the edge of the mattress, hissing in a breath through his teeth, listening.

“Parker,” Hardison said softly. “Parker, look at me.”

Eliot blinked in the laptop light until he could make out the shape of Hardison kneeling on the air mattress. Parker was still bundled under her blankets, and the whole pile trembled as she shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless. “I’m sorry, Eliot. Go back to sleep.”

Eliot relaxed his grip on the bed, breathing out through his nose to soothe the pain still pinching his leg. “What happened?”

“Nothing—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

A frown pulled at his eyebrows. Already regretting the movement, he slid to the end of the bed and eased over the side, settling onto the air mattress as carefully as he could without showing how much he hurt. Parker was still buried in her blankets between the air mattress and the bed, but she lifted her head when Eliot sat beside her.

“Move,” he said, pushing her gently with one hand.

She did, shuffling her entire crocheted mountain out of the way so Eliot could push the mattress against the bed. Then he sat, clenching his teeth together to hold in his pain as he bent his right leg, and patted the space beside him.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” he said, without preamble, without emotion. “Memories. Some of them are—a lot. It’s all a lot. I wake up sometimes and don’t know where I am.”

Somewhere under the blankets, Parker sat in the space he’d indicated and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. Hardison, still crouched on the ground beside her, settled on her other side. “I’ve been afraid to sleep,” he admitted softly. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up back at the hotel, after we talked to the medical examiner. If I wake up and you’re not there...” He cleared his throat and tipped his head back against the bed. “So I’ve been coming in here and working on stuff, just... keeping an eye on you. Making sure you’re still here.” He tilted his head to look at Eliot and flashed a wan smile. “Is that creepy?”

“Yes,” Eliot deadpanned, and Hardison’s smile got wider.

Parker leaned forward to put her chin on her arms. “I know they’re just dreams. I don’t need you to tell me it’s not real.”

“It is real,” Eliot said, his voice low. He didn’t look at her, but when he saw her turning toward him in his peripherals, he leaned his shoulder against hers. “Whatever you dreamed about might not be real, but the feelings are. You still have to deal with them.”

She pulled a blanket tighter around her back. “How?”

He shrugged, his shoulder lifting hers. “Dunno. ‘M still working on it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hardison asked.

Eliot turned, not sure if the offer was for him or Parker. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to open up the wounds he was still trying to understand himself, but he could hardly encourage Parker to share her problems if he wasn’t willing to do the same. All he had to bargain with was himself, but if the last few days were any indication… that was all she wanted.

He opened his mouth, but Parker shifted against his arm and let out a long, loud sigh. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she said. “I want to go back to just feeling happy when I’m with you, instead of being afraid something will take you away. Is that... will that ever go away?”

He looked over her head at Hardison, who reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “Come here, girl,” he said, but pressed himself closer instead of pulling her toward him. “This all... this is a wound. Fresh. Bleeding, still.” His eyes were on Eliot, and he lifted the hand on Parker’s shoulder to touch Eliot’s as he went on. “It’s gonna hurt for a while. All we can do is keep it covered while it heals.”

“Covered with what?” Parker asked.

“New memories,” Hardison said. “Good ones. Ones to go over the hurt, until it doesn’t hurt so much.”

Eliot closed his eyes. Most of his memories were new, right now, so he had the benefit of extra perspective. And as much as he appreciated—and agreed with—Hardison’s suggestion, he wondered if maybe something familiar might work just as well.

“I remember meeting you,” Eliot said. He kept his eyes closed, but he could feel their gazes on his face. “That first job we all did. I remember... Nate set up the meeting, and I thought... I was... curious. I wanted to know what you two could offer that I couldn’t do on my own.”

“You mean besides your nonexistent computer skills?” Hardison asked.

Eliot let out a huff of laughter. “The geek stuff, yeah. The thieving. But Nate was right, about us being able to do more together. About being better together.” He tilted his head and opened his eyes. “It isn’t just during jobs.”

Parker bumped her arm against his. She didn’t say anything, but he could hear her meaning as clearly as if she’d spoken out loud, as clearly as he’d heard her when he’d thought she was gone.

He pressed against her, passing the message back and knowing she’d understand just as easily.

He woke an hour later, still sitting on the air mattress, with Parker’s head on his shoulder and Hardison lying across their feet. His back ached from the awkward position, but Parker and Hardison were breathing softly, and he wasn’t about to risk waking them just to get more comfortable. With a sigh, he stretched out his neck, settled his cheek against Parker’s hair, and went back to sleep.

***

It was pain that pulled him out of sleep this time; he’d slept almost dreamlessly for the first time in a week, and he felt rested even as he registered how early it must be. The sky outside his window was dark, and Hardison was still snoring on the air mattress. Parker was curled around his head, her face relaxed in sleep, and something warm and fond worked its way through Eliot’s chest. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t had any nightmares either.

It seemed they were all healing.

Eliot rolled to the edge of the bed, careful not to step on the air mattress as he stood and crept from the room. His crutch leaned against the wall beside the door, and he was sore enough to use it as he made his way into the hall. The house was quiet, but he didn’t want to lie in bed any longer. His hands itched to do something productive, something other than resting and recovering and talking about his feelings.

Slowly, keeping near the wall and avoiding the squeaky spots he’d learned over the last week, Eliot eased down the stairs and limped into the kitchen. Sunny had left the light over the sink on, and it was plenty bright enough to find a wash cloth and soap. He started with the obvious surfaces—the table, counters, stove—but Sunny kept a clean kitchen, and only ten minutes had passed by the time he finished. A tougher job, then. He moved on to the oven, pulling out the racks, scrubbing off the baked-on messes, the grease stains, the spills. That took a while longer, and by the time he finished, it was after 6.

Eliot brushed his hair out of his face and surveyed the kitchen. Cleaning was numbing, methodical, almost compulsory—but it wasn’t enough. He needed to fix something, build something... create something.

He looked down at his unbandaged hand. Old scars covered the knuckles, and he could see the evidence of poorly healed breaks in some of the fingers. They were tools of violence. What could he make with such hands?

Teach me to like stuff.

Eliot’s fingers twitched. Parker’s voice preceded the full memory, echoing in his head the way he’d come to hope for, to rely on, and he let it play through his mind as he stared at the scars on his hand.

He pushed a plate toward her, but she looked up at him and shook her head. “It’s just food.”

“It’s not just food, all right? Some people could look at it and see just food, but not me. I see art. When I’m in the kitchen, I’m—I’m creating something out of nothing.”

He opened his eyes. There was no recipe, but he’d done this before, hadn’t he? Hardison had said he could cook. If his body could remember how to destroy, couldn’t it remember how to make?

A quick search of the kitchen yielded a few promising results—flour, sugar, eggs—and he found a mixing bowl and spoon in the cupboards and drawers. The measurements came to him as he worked: 2 cups of flour, 1/2 cup of sugar, 2 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp salt. He mixed them with eggs and butter and vanilla extract, and then, when he couldn’t find any heavy cream in the refrigerator, made a buttermilk substitute from milk and vinegar. The steady motion of mixing felt familiar, even with his left hand, and he let himself fall into the rhythm as his mind drifted back through his newly recovered memories.

“What are you doing?”

Eliot flinched. He registered the voice as Miguel’s half a second after he reacted, which was half a second too late. He took a moment to compose his expression before he turned, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Cooking.”

Miguel stood in the doorway, and the quirk of his lips said he’d noticed Eliot’s response. “Why?”

“You don’t eat?” Eliot said, making a vague gesture with his spoon.

Miguel’s face twitched, and Eliot got the impression he was repressing a smile. “Why are you cooking so early?”

“I was up.”

Miguel moved to the counter beside him and took the empty pot from the coffee maker. “I guess that thing about 90 minutes was true, then. Hate to see what you could do when you’re fully rested.”

“Didn’t figure you’d want to see me at all after this,” Eliot said.

“Hmm.” Miguel glanced at the brace on his wrist and then back to the coffee pot. “I don’t. But I think maybe Sunny wouldn’t mind if you came to visit.”

“Not sure I’ll be going anywhere for a few days yet,” Eliot muttered. He spread some flour on a cutting board and pressed the dough over it, shaping it into a rough circle. Miguel watched him, filling the pot at the sink and scooping coffee grounds into the filter. When the coffee maker started bubbling, he leaned his back against the counter and nodded at the mixing bowl.

“What are you making?”

Eliot made a cut through the middle of his dough and answered without looking up. “Scones.”

“Where’d you learn to make those?”

The question was innocent, just casual conversation, and Eliot was relieved to feel nothing worse than impatience when he didn’t have an answer. He fell back on J.B.’s line: “Picked it up a ways back.”

Miguel snorted. “You two should put that on t-shirts.”

When the coffee was finished, Miguel poured two cups and set one on Eliot’s left side, then took a sugar bowl out of the cupboard and poured some milk into a creamer. “I have been here a while,” he said at last, dumping sugar into his mug without looking at Eliot. “The others come and go. Sunny helps the ones she can, the ones who can’t make it at the shelters. You notice patterns, after a while.”

Eliot set his scones on a baking sheet, listening with his eyes on his work.

“Some of them end up here when they’re between things,” Miguel went on. “Like J.B. He’ll move on once his job is done, and that will be that. And then others… some of them just make bad choices.”

“That you?” Eliot asked.

Miguel flashed him a grin. “I’ve been told I have trouble with authority. I don’t think that’s true. I have trouble with people who think they’re better than others. Sunny... she doesn’t think that way. She doesn’t care where you come from, what you did, long as you do what you can to help out.”

“You been with her long?”

Miguel took a drink, finally turning to look at Eliot while he spoke. “On and off since I was a kid. She never turned me away, no matter what I did. Always welcomed me back, put me to work fixing something—the railing, or the sink, or whatever. Sometimes I think she broke stuff just to give me something to fix. Something good to do, instead of whatever trouble I got myself into.” He shot a shrewd look at Eliot as he opened the oven door and slid the scones inside. “With that money your friends helped her find, she won’t have to worry about that no more. She’ll be able to help a lot of people.”

“And you?” Eliot asked, straightening carefully to keep his weight on his left leg.

Now that he’d unleashed it, Miguel’s smile was quick and genuine. “Who knows? I suppose I’ll keep busy.”

“Sunny will need some help herself,” Eliot said, keeping his voice casual. “A lot of people will want a piece of what she’s got now.”

“They’ll have to go through me.”

Eliot grinned and picked up the coffee Miguel had poured him. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

They were silent then, drinking their coffee and enjoying the smell of the baking scones. Eliot limped over to the little table after a while so he could sit, and Miguel waved him down when the timer went off and pulled the scones out of the oven himself. “Some of those people Sunny helps,” Miguel said, tossing the dish towel he’d used as an oven mitt onto the counter. “They come to her when they’re lost. Sunny has a way of orienting people, putting their problems in perspective.”

“She did for me,” Eliot said, meeting Miguel’s gaze across the table. “And I won’t forget it.”

Miguel picked a hot scone off the stove and blew on it. “You better not. She seems to like you, for some reason.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Eliot said.

Miguel grinned. “She likes me, too.”

“Like I said.”

With a short laugh, Miguel took another scone and sauntered out of the kitchen. “You better make more,” he said over his shoulder. “I like a big breakfast.”

Eliot drained his coffee, got up, and started another batch.

[triptychgrip]

So sorry to ask @arom-antix but do you think you (or someone else, if you see this first) could send me screenshots of thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai’s post? I am now blocked, so can’t see their analysis for myself 🙃🙃🙃

The topic of plagiarism reminds me of something I’d refrained from including in my earlier post which, in my opinion, is a tendency as damaging to fandom as their trying to dictate how others enjoy the source media: their preference for competition over fostering community

…even when they have posted very openly about wanting to feel like a more rooted part of the fandom.

This actually gets at something you already touched upon @arom-antix and I love how you framed it:

“And considering Samurai believes their interpretations are the most correct according to canon and that anyone who doesn't share those views is illiterate (I can't find that screenshot rn, you're free to doubt my claim), shouldn't it be good that Vic came to the same conclusions? Doesn't that mean that Samurai's analysis is being backed up and that Vic is not illiterate? But Vic's analysis gained more traction and that's apparently enough to accuse the fandom of being a waste of time and energy (Fig. 22).”

I’ll mention a similarly telling example of the focus on traction/ the tendency towards competition: thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai made a post during the past summer, I believe that (paraphrasing) said something to the effect of: “when you plan to post something only to discover that someone has already gone ahead and posted nearly the exact same thing, it makes you wonder why you even bother, sometimes”

I’ll be honest, I found this line of thinking very bizarre, and even more bizarre to readily admit.

Because if you profess to care so much about canon compliance while also feeling that nobody is capable of presenting the kind of intellectually based discourse you really want to see more of, why is someone else posting about something you share interpretations around such a bad thing?

Might it be because they did it first?

I think this honestly goes beyond “well I spent a lot of time developing the post and now that’s all a waste”. Because here’s the thing: it doesn’t have to be a waste, depending on your attitude.

Shouldn’t you feel happy that someone else is analyzing things the way you do? Can’t that be a platform to foster a connection and maybe even a friendship (i.e. “I noticed your analysis really resonates with my own headcanons, would you be open to talking about them?”)?

Now, maybe they in fact did reach out to that person via DM’s or a non-public forum, but given the things I’ve already seen people bring up, I highly doubt they did. Because as has become increasingly clear to me, their main drive seems to be to preference appearing relevant over cultivating connection.

And before I get accused of speaking in absolutes, I’ll say that it’s likely true that thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai was indeed genuine on the occasions they’ve said they want more fandom friends/community.

However, it has always read to me that those statements were extremely conditional, and left many things unspoken like: “I want community, as long as I am perceived as the most relevant. Community, but only if I am the foremost authority figure, the person who posts first, and comes out looking like I have the most unique thing to say.”

(If you can’t already tell, I have some long-harbored frustration around this…mostly due to my making excuses for them for far too long.)

I remember a post they made shortly before going on a social media hiatus in which they mentioned (again, paraphrasing) feeling like they are the antipode of fun.

I can’t remember the exact wording, but it was essentially a very vulnerable post about feeling like the odd one out in the fandom, and a general struggle to make friends. I believe I had commented to them with something sympathetic — if anyone who they haven’t blocked wants to look this up and verify, feel free.

But what I wish I would have added had I been more brave is that a really valuable opportunity for making friends could be to engage in conversations with people from a place of curiosity. It’s like you’ve said so well already, @arom-antix : come at things not from a desire to prove anyone wrong — nor in order to come out looking like you’re the only one with something worth saying — but because you genuinely value the opportunity to connect with others around something you’re both so passionate about

Hey, just wanted to reach out to say that I found you pointing out and calling this person was really great and you shouldn't have apologized. It was incredibly true what you said, and to be honest it seems out of touch with the reality of a great deal of the japanese fandom, the nuances and their culture. Also, it was as you pointed out, extreme and may I say rude. I want to mention too that the way it was written, as if entitled of the knowledge and the 'explanation' made it all worse in context of the 'fucked up'. The original poster always gets away by using the 'well-written academic'' statement of their 'metas' as an excuse to do or say and make everyone else agree and if not, uses victim narrative and discourses exactly selecting wording for people to agree on it or feel bad.

I don't know if they tagging you in the way they did made you reblog and apologizing/backing up, but no one thought bad about you pointing it out. On the contrary, a lot of people had been bullied and discriminated by this person when they called them out/disagreed going onto lenghts of sending their friends to harass people, and the other persons can't even defend themselves because they are effectively blocked. To quite a few people in the fandom has been done, even accusing them as 'acephobes' (when they're not) or even Nazis by spreading lies. So yeah, I just wanted to say that. I think you were right to call them out publicly.

Thank you very much for this ask. To be completely honest I agree with everything you said here and don't actually feel bad about pointing anything out. I mainly apologised because I didn't want any potentially poor phrasing from my side to cause unnecessary hostility and because I myself have gripes with this person's behaviour but didn't want to cause a scene.

My honest opinion is that they have a serious issue with taking accountability for their own mistakes and highly overestimate their own intellect. If you're reading this, @thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai, sorry if I seem harsh, but it's true. I saw your post lamenting how you're the only academic meta writer / fan in the fandom and I didn't interact then because I honestly do not care enough to start that drama but with the information Blonndiec has just given me, I think it's necessary that someone calls you out.

You're not an academic. You're not beyond the mental capabilities of other fans. You're actually incredibly childish in your metas and analyses and I am not kidding when I say that I was halfheartedly writing essays more academic than every analysis I've seen from you when I was barely a teenager. I don't know how old you are and I frankly don't care. You're not as clever as you think you are.

Also, don't think I didn't notice that you didn't reblog my correction (link here to my correction and here to their "response" for those who didn't see that exchange) of your post so that you could control what your followers saw of the exchange. You're the opposite of an academic. You control information to tailor the narrative, you don't cite your sources properly if at all, you don't format your posts in anything close to how an academic analysis would be, you make unbased claims, you reference posts and canon material without in any way indicating where that information is from, you reference your own (equally unacademic) metas and your conclusions from them without indicating what post it's from or that it's your own theory this new one is based on and instead present it as a common fact, and I could go on and on and on. Your posts are also riddled with logical fallacies and you talk in absolutes and opinions when there's no canon basis to claim such things. I'm sorry, but that's not academic in the slightest.

To be clear, you don't have to be an academic to post on the Internet. You don't have to be anything at all. You could up front be a genuine idiot with no remorse and that's fine. But when you claim to be an academic and also put down the rest of the fandom for not being on your level, you have to be able to back that up. It'd still make you sound like a prick but at least your arrogance would have a basis. It currently does not.

I haven't personally seen the discussions that Blonndiec is referencing and I'm not going to claim anything definitive (because that would be unacademic of me, take notes) but if what they're saying is true and did happen as described, which I have empirical, if anecdotal, evidence to believe could very well be (a friend of mine has personally been blocked by you after they criticised you without actually mentioning your name which I of course can't prove is the reason for the block but the timing is awfully convenient), you should know that you should be ashamed of yourself.

If there's context missing, feel free to enlighten me and call out any incorrect accusations. You have every right to defend yourself. However, I encourage you to cite your sources since you're such an academic. If you don't, then it's just your word against Blonndiec and anyone else who might comment's word and that doesn't prove anything. Don't misunderstand, acephobia and nazi rhetoric should absolutely be called out but only if it's actually happening. False accusations can ruin lives. I hope you know that.

I'm not a fan of calling people out publicly and, again, thank you for this ask, Blonndiec. But considering many of the issues I've personally seen and those I've been informed of by second hand sources were posted publically, I don't really feel bad about calling this out. I could do a full breakdown of just the insulting "academic" comments alone and how there's no academia to be found in said academic metas and, Samurai, if you give me reason to, I will show exactly what I mean point by point (and academically just to give you an example of even low level academia).

If you respond to this, do it in a reblog. That's what a real academic would do. If I'm wrong and you can prove it, you'd have no reason to not show my post in your rebuttal. If I'm right, you'd have every reason to be upfront about your mistakes and how you intend to rectify them. There's nothing wrong with being wrong but there's a lot wrong with refusing to admit to it in a way that lets others peer review you (academic thing, look it up) and come to their own conclusions about the situation. That's what you did when you just @'ed me instead of reblogging my response. A true academic wouldn't hide a peer review. You'd know that if you were one.

I swing in many academic spaces and yet that doesn't make me any kind of expert and I don't claim to be one because I'm not. But since you want to be one so badly, reblog this with a response and show us all how smart you are. I'm dying to know what your academic take on this is.

[sunlightmurdock]

hi hollywood, pls cast them as twins who just go ☹️ a lot soon pls that’s my only idea

[fiiiiin]

Excuse me, followers of other fandoms, as I wax poetic about Interview With The Vampire for a second.

I don’t even know where to begin. My thoughts are everywhere, but I really think that THIS show would be the result if every Hannibal fan’s dream about their favorite murder husbands came true. It’s like AU fanfiction that I read for other pairings, but instead of an indulgent author catering to our whims the way mainstream media often refuses to, this is actual big budget mainstream media doing what every fan has wanted for ages. Like I can barely believe this is a real show, with every person on board with how horny and gay and romantic and dysfunctional and indulgent it is. I was living out dreams that fan fiction has filled for ages, except this time I’m witnessing it in visual form on the television. And, I say this only as a theoretical, but IWTV is so immaculate in its delivering of a twisted gay love story that I don’t even feel the urge to read fanfic to fill in the void, because there is simply no void that needs filling (I am still reading the fics do not fret). Tender touches, pining and loving, an actual found family with two fathers and a daughter, so many kisses, messy love triangles and jealous and possessive behavior, utter desire between two leading men (and everyone else), fallouts and crawling back and groveling. Like I can’t make this shit up, it was all done for us in canon mainstream media form.

And this isn’t even accounting for all the elements that make this a great show from a technical standpoint. Production value, cast and chemistry (don’t even get me started on Jam Reiderson), narrative and narration and writing and pacing. It’s a very good show, and I don’t tend to get stuck into television shows like this (my primary fandoms are from film franchises, not TV).

And I guess it’s not the first of its kind; queer shows are happily becoming more and more mainstream, but something about this one ticks all my boxes and scratches that itch I never really got from shows like Hannibal, Our Flag Means Death, etc. That’s very much a matter of personal preference, but anyways. I’m very happy IWTV exists.

[vinnyandthephenomena]

i can’t think about jam for too long or i start to get sad